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"Mother, must I be promoted from my current school to the college?" The six year old boy pouted with his full lips.
"Ramza -- my dear -- of course. Why would you ask such a silly thing?"
He slouched into the bathwater he was soaking in, formulating an answer. The delicate hands washing over the young boy paused.
"Master Ramza, would you sit upright, please?" The question was offered softly by the young girl washing him.
The girl was just over twice his age, her dusky and flawless Rashemi features revealed by how her long, black hair was pulled back into neat braids to keep it from obstructing her work. Her hands were purposefully soft, product of being trained for the delicate tasks in the Xantheus house. Of the limited people Ramza freely spoke with, she was closest to his age; however, while forced conversations, manners, and feigned sympathy would fool most children, Ramza knew the relationship rang hollow. Ramza's pout doubled, but he scooted back into position.
As the young noble continued to work on an answer, his gaze idly wandered across the room's decor: wonderful tapestries from famed artists in Thay; golden candelabrum hosting magical candles that would never lose the glow of their orange flames, resting on finely crafted tables; spicy incense burning in an untarnished golden plate; brilliant orange carpets woven with fine golds and blacks to pay tribute to their Kossuthian faith, dressing flawless ceramic tiles; a silver trey resting on one side of the bath, hosting arranged bath salts; a golden trey on the other side of the bath, supporting Ramza's favorite tea in an ornate kettle; and most dominating of all, his mother, Aasiyah, who sat just opposite from him, receiving a bath in the same way from her most trusted servant.
Although middle aged, Aasiyah's noble upbringing spared her the cruel hand of aging, her womanly features youthful and her visage seemingly no older than twenty two. The personal servant worked dutifully at applying lotions and creams to the sallow skin on Aasiyah's face, ensuring the continuation of its youthfulness.
"Well, Ramza?" Her soft words were carried by a rich and relaxed voice, stealing Ramza's youthful gaze to her eyes. Her icy blue gaze held an intelligence that shot through subtlety and pierced through lies, yet coupled with her smile and demeanor, held a warmth that dared people to relax in her presence. He knew better than to tell her a lie.
"I do not wish to be picked on by the older kids; I do not fit in because of my age." Ramza breaks his gaze, defiantly keeping a straight posture.
A warm laughter lifts from Aasiyah's chest, spilling past her full lips painted in dark colors. "My dear Ramza, that is not true."
His mother wades across the bath intent on mending her wounded cub, breaking reach from her servant. She cups her hand around her son's soft, baby face, stroking his cheek bone with her well manicured thumb. "My sweet boy, they are envious of your power, your unprecedented intelligence. Your age has nothing to do with it; you are better than them."
"I do not feel better than them." Ramza breaks from his own servant, reaching to embrace his mother. His mother holds him dearly against her bosom, her painted fingernails tracing lightly across his scalp, combing Ramza's short, fuzzy, and dark brown hair.
"Oh, Ramza, but you are. Your blood, heritage, and power are testament to this. You are but six, yet you have accomplished what other wizards could not in decades. Do you not see how your colleagues struggle when you do not?"
"I guess. . ." Ramza replies halfheartedly, nestling more tightly against his mother. She kisses him on the head, stealing the chance to whisper lovingly into his ear.
"People whisper that you could be a power to rival Karthus, that you may be worthy of the title Zulkir. You are simply destined to rule over those beneath you; you cannot skirt this responsibility for mere feelings."
She cradles her son, his concern melting away in his mother's embrace.
"Do not concern yourself with friends, my sweet child, when you have a responsibility to pay to your people -- to all of Faerun. A true Thayan would not squander their inherited power and responsibility for trivial things like friendships."
"Ramza -- my dear -- of course. Why would you ask such a silly thing?"
He slouched into the bathwater he was soaking in, formulating an answer. The delicate hands washing over the young boy paused.
"Master Ramza, would you sit upright, please?" The question was offered softly by the young girl washing him.
The girl was just over twice his age, her dusky and flawless Rashemi features revealed by how her long, black hair was pulled back into neat braids to keep it from obstructing her work. Her hands were purposefully soft, product of being trained for the delicate tasks in the Xantheus house. Of the limited people Ramza freely spoke with, she was closest to his age; however, while forced conversations, manners, and feigned sympathy would fool most children, Ramza knew the relationship rang hollow. Ramza's pout doubled, but he scooted back into position.
As the young noble continued to work on an answer, his gaze idly wandered across the room's decor: wonderful tapestries from famed artists in Thay; golden candelabrum hosting magical candles that would never lose the glow of their orange flames, resting on finely crafted tables; spicy incense burning in an untarnished golden plate; brilliant orange carpets woven with fine golds and blacks to pay tribute to their Kossuthian faith, dressing flawless ceramic tiles; a silver trey resting on one side of the bath, hosting arranged bath salts; a golden trey on the other side of the bath, supporting Ramza's favorite tea in an ornate kettle; and most dominating of all, his mother, Aasiyah, who sat just opposite from him, receiving a bath in the same way from her most trusted servant.
Although middle aged, Aasiyah's noble upbringing spared her the cruel hand of aging, her womanly features youthful and her visage seemingly no older than twenty two. The personal servant worked dutifully at applying lotions and creams to the sallow skin on Aasiyah's face, ensuring the continuation of its youthfulness.
"Well, Ramza?" Her soft words were carried by a rich and relaxed voice, stealing Ramza's youthful gaze to her eyes. Her icy blue gaze held an intelligence that shot through subtlety and pierced through lies, yet coupled with her smile and demeanor, held a warmth that dared people to relax in her presence. He knew better than to tell her a lie.
"I do not wish to be picked on by the older kids; I do not fit in because of my age." Ramza breaks his gaze, defiantly keeping a straight posture.
A warm laughter lifts from Aasiyah's chest, spilling past her full lips painted in dark colors. "My dear Ramza, that is not true."
His mother wades across the bath intent on mending her wounded cub, breaking reach from her servant. She cups her hand around her son's soft, baby face, stroking his cheek bone with her well manicured thumb. "My sweet boy, they are envious of your power, your unprecedented intelligence. Your age has nothing to do with it; you are better than them."
"I do not feel better than them." Ramza breaks from his own servant, reaching to embrace his mother. His mother holds him dearly against her bosom, her painted fingernails tracing lightly across his scalp, combing Ramza's short, fuzzy, and dark brown hair.
"Oh, Ramza, but you are. Your blood, heritage, and power are testament to this. You are but six, yet you have accomplished what other wizards could not in decades. Do you not see how your colleagues struggle when you do not?"
"I guess. . ." Ramza replies halfheartedly, nestling more tightly against his mother. She kisses him on the head, stealing the chance to whisper lovingly into his ear.
"People whisper that you could be a power to rival Karthus, that you may be worthy of the title Zulkir. You are simply destined to rule over those beneath you; you cannot skirt this responsibility for mere feelings."
She cradles her son, his concern melting away in his mother's embrace.
"Do not concern yourself with friends, my sweet child, when you have a responsibility to pay to your people -- to all of Faerun. A true Thayan would not squander their inherited power and responsibility for trivial things like friendships."