Rasaad Bg1 - Blog Posts
Incredibly self-indulgent and questionably canonical drabble time! Set not long before Rasaad's admittance to the Sun Soul monastery.
(This was gonna be short but it got out of hand as usual whoops. XD )
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Rasaad: "You are familiar with Calimport then?" Khalid: "Oh y-yes! I spent many a h-happy hour at the Jet Jambiya. Wonderful ale." Rasaad: "I remember it well. My brother and I would often linger outside the better taverns, looking for inebriated patrons to, ah, relieve of their valuables." Khalid: "I can't say it didn't happen to me from t-time to time. Perhaps you picked my pocket!" Rasaad: "Oh. Yes. Forgive me, my friend. I feel great shame for much of what I did before finding Selune." Khalid: "I'm sorry, Rasaad. Making you uncomfortable was the l-last thing I wanted. Please, think nothing of it." Rasaad: "I shall try to do so. I suppose I have not entirely put those days behind me. Even now they find a way to disrupt my serenity." - Baldur's Gate: Siege of Dragonspear
The air of the khanduq market is hazy with late afternoon heat. Rasaad, at seven years old, is by now hardened to Calimport's desert landscape; he knows the heat will pass, but more than that, he knows how to operate within it, keeping to shadows in between his 'fishing' expeditions with Gamaz.
His older brother is the better thief of the two of them. Rasaad is quick and clever but a poor liar, and not as practiced at spotting a good mark in the ever-shifting city crowds. Today, though, Gamaz is busy fishing in the inner market, so Rasaad is left to his own devices, drifting aimlessly among the taverns that surround the khanduq like a blanket.
The taverns are rather hit-or-miss when it comes to pickpocketing. Most of the time, the bar patrons of this district have only as much coin as will buy them a night's ale. Gamaz has little compunction in stealing even from those just as destitute, but even at his young age Rasaad finds it disquieting in some way he doesn't yet have the words to define.
But every now and then, the drudach plays host to someone more important, some visitor from the rich districts come to sample the stronger (and cheaper) ale of the markets. And today, Rasaad spots one such - a merchant by his clothes, trotting on horseback down the street with his family behind him.
The man is tall, good-looking but with his looks offset by a haughty sneer that twists his mouth up at one corner. His wife, dressed the same gaudy and gold-embroidered style, bears a matching expression, as do his two young sons, each astride their own pony and marching in lockstep behind him. Behind them is a younger boy about Rasaad's age, equally well-dressed but not on horseback, trudging along wearily behind.
A good mark, Rasaad thinks. His little face twists in concentrated thought as he tries to consider what Gamaz (two years older and much wiser in the ways of thievery) would think. The two younger men are the best target; each carries a fat purse on his belt and neither seems to have much of an attentive eye, as they are both arguing with each other as their ponies trot along the street.
He watches as they dismount at a tavern door, all swinging from their horses with practiced grace and making an ostentatious show of sweeping the dust from their fine clothes. Each of them hands the reins to the boy that was following behind, leaving him with the four creatures to manage as they disappear into the tavern's dark and noisy interior.
Good, Rasaad thinks. They will get drunk, and perhaps their sons too, and the gold and silver and copper fish in their pockets will jump to the hook. In the meantime, he examines the boy with the horses, who is awkwardly fumbling with the various sets of reins to tie them all off to the hitching posts. A servant, presumably - and a rather nervous one too, as he jumps when Rasaad approaches.
"I can hold them for you," Rasaad says gravely. It is strategic, of course; if he can fall into talk with the servant boy, it will be easier to get close to his rich patrons when they come wobbling back out of the bar. It has, of course, nothing to do with the fact that the boy looks a little overwhelmed trying to hold all four creatures in place long enough to tie them off.
The boy flinches, squinting at Rasaad warily. "Y-you will not steal them?" he stammers doubtfully. "F-father says there's n-nothing but thieves up this d-district..."
Rasaad is not a very good liar, but luckily at this moment he can tell the truth. "I won't steal the horses," he says honestly, and holds his hand out. The boy relaxes, and then grins, placing two of the sets of reins into Rasaad's palm.
"Th-thank you," he mumbles. His voice is high and earnest, touched with a stammer that thickens the occasional syllable. "I'll have it all d-done in a moment. I'm b-better with the horses than Ayaan and Jamari."
Rasaad, who has never had occasion to ride a horse ever in his life, finds that they are rather stronger than he expected; one of them tosses its head and nearly yanks him sideways off his feet. But he sets his legs hard and holds on, not wanting to look like a fool in front of the other boy. "Who're they?" he asks, trying to sound nonchalant.
"My b-brothers," the boy explains. He jerks his head towards the tavern, and Rasaad blinks.
"Why en't you in there with them?" he asks, perplexed enough to break his thin veneer of disinterest. "That was your father?"
"My b-brothers are their mother's sons," the boy says glumly. "I am not. So they care little for me, and I walk b-behind, and wait here." Then he brightens a little. "B-but the horses are nicer than b-brothers, anyhow. They don't kick me."
Rasaad frowns. His memories of his own father are muddled, and all too dominated by the smear of red with which he ended. But he knows about brothers; he has Gamaz, and would not trade him for anything, as it is the two of them against all the hard world of the Calimport streets. It is hard to imagine a life with brothers where that bond is not everpresent and unspoken.
"Your brothers kick you? You should kick them back," he says matter-of-factly, hopping up on a nearby crate, his dark eyes suddenly smoldering with mild indignation on behalf of this stranger. He doesn't usually like the rich boys he's encountered, but this one doesn't make a show of it. He seems quiet - kind, even, judging by the way he's petting each horse's nose as he Rasaad wonders if he sees much of his father's coin. "Or I could kick them for you."
The boy looks alarmed. "N-no! They would have the amlakkar on you," he says, shaking his head. "It's-- it's all right. J-just the way of things." Then he smiles, just a little, leaning against the tavern wall. "But th-thank you," he adds with a sheepish chuckle.
Rasaad grunts, folding his arms across his chest. "Why did you come around here?" he asked.
"F-father has a new business deal," the boy explains. "We-- they-- are celebrating." He frowns, not quite meeting Rasaad's eyes. "He likes t-to come this way when he wants to feel important," he adds in a low voice.
Rasaad scowls. Yes, he knows many merchants from the rich districts like this; they come to the less ostentatious corners of the city just to enjoy the way all eyes turn to them when they walk through. They make good marks, usually - but that doesn't make Rasaad like them. "Think a lot of themselves, do they?"
The boy blinks, then glances furtively over his shoulder to check that no one is listening. Then he grins a little, and nods, and hops up on the crate next to Rasaad. Rasaad grins back; he's starting to get an idea.
They've been sitting half an hour or so in cautious conversation when they're interrupted abruptly by a shout from inside the door.
"Khalid!" The boy jumps at the word - his name, evidently - and then scrambles to his feet hastily as the two brothers come staggering back out of the bar. They smell not of ale but of expensive Moonshae whiskey, which they have evidently downed with significant rapidity.
One of them claps a hand none-too-kindly on Khalid's shoulder. "Ready th' horses again," he slurs. "Th' proprietor here was not - properly - respectful, so we'll not be stayin'--" he breaks off, squints at Rasaad. "What're you looking at, boy?" he snaps abruptly.
Rasaad slides slowly off the crate, peering up at the young man and not bothering to conceal his dislike. With exaggerated politeness, he bows, backpedaling a few steps. "Nothing, saer," he says. "I was admiring your garments. If you'd step this way, I should like to see them a little better in the sunlight..."
He trails off, takes a few steps back out into the street, and his eyes narrow in sudden focus as he gathers up everything Gamaz ever taught him to the front of his mind. The two rich young men - too drunk to question the idea that someone might wish to admire them - follow him agreeably towards the shaft of sunlight painting the thoroughfare... and he strikes.
It is, perhaps, one of the deftest bits of fishing he has ever managed, and he is only sorry Gamaz isn't here to see it. He manages to make it look entirely accidental, but shifts his body as he comes off the curb as if he has tripped, and strikes his full weight into one of the boys. At the same time, he lets his opposite leg catch the other boy at the back of the knee. The dual impacts send both boys sprawling out into the street, a cloud of dust rising up around them, and as they fall, his fingers flick across their belts, lifting both heavy purses from beneath their tunics and into the wide hidden pocket in his own.
"You impudent little cur!" The older of the young men comes up off the street, and Rasaad is pleased to see that a measure of horse dung is liberally mixed with the dirt now painting the front of his finery.
"Clumsy fool!" snaps the other, who has climbed to his knees and is wiping fruitlessly at a damp bit of mud that has smeared across his face.
Rasaad lets his dark eyes go very wide, and backpedals a few steps away, holding his arms out to the side in a placating gesture. "I'm so sorry, saers. So sorry!"
"Get out of here right now, if you know what's good for you!" snaps the eldest, raising a hand. Rasaad darts backwards with practiced ease to avoid the blow, and looks past the two disheveled men to the young boy still standing by the horses. Khalid, out of his brothers' line of sight, has a wide, delighted grin on his face, his eyebrows lifted to his hairline.
Rasaad grins back, then turns and bolts, disappearing into the crowd and down a nearby alley into the shadows.