Ermos
Never in his life had Ermos been so uncomfortable. His hair had been cut and washed and scented with mint and lavender oils. It felt horribly soft. He didn't like it one bit.
And then there were his clothes too. They were all ceremonial, with a fan tucked into his cloth belt and sleeves that were the perfect length, all green and blue. It was too nice for the likes of him. He liked his clothes rough and itchy. Coin was to be spent on days of idleness, not fancy dress.
That wasn't the worst part either. Even worse than stuffy clothes was the stuffy atmosphere. There were far too many people, and all of them were in a class far above Ermos'. He was born a peasant, after all. His chevalar title was something he had given himself – for felt that he'd more than earned it, after defeating so many chevalar warriors in duels.
