Raam slipped into a meditative position upon the brightly colored rug resting on the floor of his tent. He was finding it hard to focus on the trance-like state he required to fuel his arcane power. Too many thoughts weighed heavily upon his mind.
The swarms of craftsmen, the logistics of the construction, the finances, the settlers, not to mention creating a consensus amongst such a disparate group of individuals…. all worked against his struggle to find a point of inner tranquility. He shifted uncomfortably as he remembered that he still had to respond to that official correspondence from Brevoy.
Gone were the long locks of golden hair, now trimmed short and rimmed with the magical headband he had acquired on his trip to the elven district with Fizz. He had purchased the band and the fine elven cloak with his portion of the riches acquired from their conquests. He allowed his hand to slide up to his brow and felt his fingertips run across the finely wrought elven gold. The band amplified his growing powers while the cloak allowed him to disappear into the wilds without a trace. His heart beamed with pride at the notion of spending money earned from slaying bandit lords and looted from troll carcasses. He was alive. He enjoyed every new day as he never had before in his sheltered estate. No bottle of wine had ever tasted as sweet pulled from his father’s wine cellar as it did from a crude earthen mug atop the ramparts of their fort. He relished the new experiences, the mysterious places, the dangerous beasts and the scores of fascinating people he had met in his short time as an exiled adventurer.
The first time he had been addressed as Baron, the words struck him even more sharply than the slap from the puppet noble fool in Restov. Baron Raam Corso. He inhaled sharply as if he would suffocate at the thought. Was he put into this position because he was the easiest choice amongst the group? Was he meant to be a public target or a puppet? He was of noble birth and despite his young age, was the least ‘objectionable’ of the group to bear the title. He was not cursed with unfair expectations of race, which plagued his friend Chase. Nor was he as eccentric as his elven companion Fizz. He wasn’t an imposing foreigner like Zuhair.
What about Balian, he mused? What had happened to Balian to steal from him his love for life? What had made him so dour and brooding? Was it the fey curse placed upon him in the days before they met? Or did the wound stem from the exile from his family? Raam knew enough of the cavaliers to know that the crest of the dragon denoted an order, which cherished teamwork and companionship. Yet Balian was distant and aloof. Such an enigma of a man thought Raam.
Regardless of why he was chosen, he would make the most of this opportunity. With that thought he was relaxed enough to slip into the embrace of his meditative state.
As his eyes slowly fell closed they shot open again at what sounded like the cavalier falling from his horse in a great crash.
