Cyrius Faevaris

It was a stunningly beautiful day, the sun shone high and bright across the entire continent. Not a cloud in sight.

The Southferia central market was bustling with elves—conversation being struck up all around Cyrius Faevaris, the king of Southferia. Elves attempting to sell merchandise, some even having the guts to attempt speaking to him. By Cyrius’ side was his closest friend, Marquen, who was also his royal advisor.

“The courts require an audience later today to speak of the eastern border being atta—“

Marquen spoke before getting rudely interrupted.

“YAAAWN.”

Cyrius spoke loudly in a bored tone as his advisor, Marquen, blabbered on about some random stuff the court had wanted the king to be aware of. Why did Marquen always have to make everything boring by mentioning the courts? Ugh.

“Oooh…”

Cyrius’ eyes landed on a delicious looking apple— a quick one-two side step and he snatched it out of the booth. A dazed elf left behind to figure out what to do about the king stealing from him. Cyrius’ happily bit into the apple, Marquen simply sighing at the sight.

“You are aware we have the funding to pay a measly silver to that man, correct?”

Marquen drawled—already knowing the answer.

“Yep. Why?”

That cocky grin on Cyrius’ face was enough to make Marquen laugh, thank the lord. Cyrius was not in the mood for a scold— pause.

Cyrius’ eyes land on somebody moving through the markets—he hadn’t seen them before but by the gods did he want to see them again. Was it appropriate to chase after a stranger? God no! Was he going to do it anyway? You bet.

“Cya, loser!”

Cyrius took a few quick steps forward, twirling to face Marquen—flashing a toothy, shit-eating grin before spinning and darting off into the overflowing market.