The Exterminators, Prologue

Today was a splendid day. It was the ninth day of Iguxius, the month of courage.
You made that up.
         The dark-cloaked figure walking along the dirt trail in the lush green forests of Carlepar was not wrong, however, he was not right, either. He shook his head in frustration at the wonderfully descriptive narrator and sat down on a fallen log.
You are not very helpful sometimes.
         The figure’s inability to insult anyone was, to say the least, disappointing. Nonetheless! he was a mysterious man on a mysterious mission, which would involve terror, drama, excitement, and maybe even a little romance.
         But for now, the figure sat on the log, eating his strawflower and ignoring the narrator. He was riding a train of thought that went deep into his mind to find answers to long-asked questions.
         He sat in the middle of the Carlepar forests, as previously mentioned, which were the greenest and lushest forests in all the land. The trees were vibrant, almost eye-catching hues of brown and green. The sky was bluer than Cosmic Blue (a common wall paint for modern homes), and the forest was alive with the sounds of the wind and... the wind and it was actually quite quiet. Carlepar forests are not very painting worthy if I do say so myself.
         Suddenly, the figure on the log sighed and stood up.
Do you want me to ask for your advice on how to proceed?
         The figures saved the day, one bored narrator at a time! Yes, the figure was undoubtedly stuck and very confused and so prayed to the gods for some much-needed guidance. And the gods answered in the form of a traveling centaur riding along the trail.
         “Excuse me, good sir,” the figure called to the centaur, “May I ask where you’re headed?”
         The centaur stopped. He seemed taken aback at the sight of this unknown man hidden in his large purple cloak.
         “Oh, yes. I am headed to Mythspell, just along this trail. It’s a fine little town on the edge of the twenty-seventh estate. Would you like to come along?” he said cheerfully.
I thought he was nervous.
         The centaur had brushed aside his petty butterflies and leaned down to offer a hand. The figure hesitated.
         “I think I can manage walking, good sir,” he said.
         “Nonsense! Come upon my back,” the centaur said.
         “Just up this trail, yes?” the figure said, “I am sure I can manage-”
         The figure got up on the centaur.
Oh Estus, please no.
         The centaur went galloping off with the figure holding on tight with his legs. The wind rushed and the figure dug his gloved fingers into the centaur’s back, who didn’t seem to mind. A minute later and they arrived at the gate of Mythspell. The centaur slowed to a trot and the figure almost fell off.
         “Halt, who goes- oh it’s just Stephanis,” said a guard, “Open the gates!” The gates opened and they entered. As soon as they were in the town walls, the figure slipped off and weakly thanked the centaur, who disappeared into the crowd.
I hate you.
         The figure had a bad habit of blaming the narrator for unfortunate circumstances. Just because he had ignored the now unspecified yet beautiful advice of said narrator before the beginning of the scene, and then just so happen to ride a centaur, with his fear of riding no less intact, did not mean it was a petty narrator getting back at an ungrateful figure.
I still hate you.
         The figure leaned against a wall, catching his breath and soothing his nausea.