"YOU GET BACK HERE YOU NONPAYING SCOUNDREL!"
The flutter and squawks of birds were followed by the exit of a young man of 20 years, with his pants nearly on and the shirt still being worked on as he dashed through the open alleys. An old woman with a broom, short and stout, followed out the door, screaming swears. However, the young man had the advantage of age and the knowledge of town. Taking a detour, the sun-haired elf rose to the rooftops, around 10 feet high (being 5 of Gons, the local measurement). He thought about his training, the days in the courtyard fencing. Light on your toes, ready for anything. He dashed and jumped from rooftop to rooftop, most adapted to be a garden or a porch for inhabitants.
The bustle of the town were at his feet as the noble dashed through the market district. People of all kinds, all colors, buying from (Mostly Savian) merchants. He grinned. His city to be so bustling was so happy to him. At least, he considered it to be his city. His family owning all of the largest markets, and his dad ruling the country, definitely helped. The market district soon passed, the buildings and rooftops growing bigger, and the gaps to jump becoming smaller. He was upon the senators' abodes, and must be even more fleet of foot. He started slowing, every step becoming focused on the foot. As he looked up, the senate house approached, it's dome conquering his city's skyline. Sanctions were passed that no building must block its view or be higher than it. The spires rising around it were all inhabited, all diplomats, chieftains, governors visiting. It was packed because today He was aiming for a specific one: The Consul's Spire, pointing south towards the city. He stopped at the edge of the building before the spire. He judged the distance. 10, 15 Gon maybe? He backed up, and threw his whole weight into it. Lifting his legs and reaching his arms out, he brought the best of Savian athleticism into play. He hit the wall, hands grasping the sill. As he pulled himself up with great effort, a voice way too familiar to be good called.
"Well, isn't it a pleasure seeing you here." Nimbus stuck out his head and grinned. The man smiled back. "Come in my son! It's hot outside, and I wouldn't you want to hurt your royal skin!" Nimbus and his bleach blonde hair reentered the spire, laughing with all the heart of a drunkard. The man, Cumulus, pulled himself into the second floor, dropping to the floor. He panted.
"Hello Consul Nimbus. I would like to request some..." He panted a few seconds. "...Amnesty."
Nimbus burst out laughing again and pulled his son to his small elven feet. "Amnesty granted, my good boy. Let me get you some drink. You must be exhausted running from the brothel here." He pulled one string of many that were on the wall, and the resistance showed that somewhere, a servant was notified by a bell. "How hard is it to pay for a whore?"
"I pay her with my love. I understand the idea of paying for pleasure, yes, but... I love her. It's different." Cumulus responded, flopping himself into a chair of woven wood. "How do you know?"
"One: You are my son, and I know you." Nimbus threw Cumulus something more regal: a toga, to contrast his peasants clothing, a blouse loosely stringed. "Two: I was the same way." He smirked and sat, while he heard the servant climb the stairs. Cumulus threw the shirt into the corner of the floor, as the servant, a young female adolescent elf, climbed up. Her head emerged from the spiral staircase, and immediately turned away and blushed, still walking. Cumulus smirked and looked down at his toned body.
"Come, nothing worse than what some of your older peers have seen." She giggled nervously and placed the water upon the coffee table. She turned and looked at his form again before rushing down the stairs normally.
"Please, put something on. We're going to the senate house soon. Meeting on the future of trade companies." Nimbus finally responded. He was stern, but the memories of his young adulthood shined in his eyes. "You cannot be young forever. Your whore chasing and free sailing days will come to an end as my eventual heir. It may be a republic, but you are assured a throne. No doubt." He looked down and said it again. "No doubt."
"I understand your worry." He threw on the toga and clapped his dad on the shoulder. "I'll get there. Sometime." They both smile, a familial connection known only between fathers and sons. "Let's go. You are never late."
"And I am constant." He rose and clapped his son's shoulder back. They, together, walked down toward the senate house, not politicians, but family.