Get Me Out of Here

The sun rose over the the Elven capital, its gentle golden light scattering through enchanted trees and glimmering wooden bridges. 

Birds chirped in haunting harmony.

A cool breeze carried the scent of starroot and moonberries.

Arthur hated every second of it.

He sat cross-legged on the mossy stone path outside the Elven Transportation Registry Office.

His clothes were rumpled, his boots scuffed, and his hair—usually the pride of his battle-ready image—was now wild and sticking out like a disgruntled hedgehog.

He held a clipboard in his lap, filled with absurd checkboxes, official stamps, and a line titled "Affirmation of Humility."

"I am not signing that," he muttered to himself.

A passing elf gave him a polite bow. "Still not approved, Sir Arthur?"

Arthur shot him a glare. "Apparently I need a permit to apply for a travel permit."