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Radaam had never experienced such an exhausting evening in his life.

He’d done just about every odd job on the Chenziri Strip thrice over, everything from hauling bricks and bags of plaster to whitewashing houses, tiling rooves, and all manner of heavy lifting, and while those jobs would leave him falling into bed like a dead man at the end of the day, he’d never been quite so eager for something to just [i]end.[/i] But that was the prevailing theme of his night of entertainment courtesy of Khaemtir: a pervasive exhaustion so potent it even had Toruk nosing at him in concern. 

He couldn’t blame Khaemtir, though. By all accounts, he’d been more welcoming than Radaam would have ever expected from an aristocrat hosting a peasant, and his mother had been similarly eager to make him and his family feel at ease, both in the Dijat and at the Maryatum estate. But—and Radaam could possibly entertain the idea that this was just him being overly cautious—between their families’ meeting at the Dijat and Khaemtir’s strangely fascinated digging into the life and times of commoners, every single moment had felt like he’d been treading a razor’s edge of uncharted social expectations. Not to mention that Zahra waving around her flaming gift when he got home hadn’t helped much to ease his mind. 

More and more it seemed like he really should consider taking the unspoken advice Khaemtir seemed to be constantly hinting at and try to [i]relax.[/i] But how could he? He was probably the first peasant—and the first [i]Chenzira[/i] at that—that these people had ever meaningfully spoken to, and for all he knew, one misstep would colour their opinion of his entire community. It wasn’t that he and his neighbours had any issues with the greater Photep population or anything, but he certainly didn’t want to be the one to get any started!

But, he’d begrudgingly admit it wasn’t all bad. Khaemtir’s interest in his life and family had initially been strange, but he couldn’t deny that there was something kind of nice about capturing someone’s interest. Ishara also had some intriguing news to share, a story about some Pesedjet prodigy of a Novitiate (mentored by the White Seer, no less) and his ‘Cabal’, a study group of sorts by the sound of it. She seemed strangely nervous about it, despite describing the encounter with great enthusiasm, leaving Radaam a little uncertain of exactly where she stood on the matter—or why she accepted the offer in the first place. Then again, she did come across a little eccentric in general. Maybe it was a quirk of a ‘prodigy’. 

In any case, Radaam had no intention of clouding his mind with the previous evening’s worries and confusions. Instead, he took a deep breath of cool morning air, watching a new sun rise over the Dijat, himself and his fellow novitiates gleaming like limestone in their white cloaks as they awaited further instruction. Khaemtir did sniff him out, of course, but Radaam didn’t mind; it didn’t take long to recognize that the boy was harmless, and without a bunch of other nobles prowling around the Dijat like yesterday, he was feeling a little more at ease. The gossip and tittering could be satisfied with just a word or two of response before Khaemtir would fly off with the conversation once again, and that worked for Radaam just fine. 

The gossip was mostly silenced when their group was collected and guided into the pyramid by Practicus Menes, and just like the others, Radaam couldn’t help but stare around in abject wonder at the grand displays of history and artifacts adorning the walls. He couldn’t even pretend to understand it—Divination had never been a particular focus of his in school—but to see them there, physical manifestations of some vastly important contribution to Photep, he was quite sure anyone would be helpless to curiosity. Maybe he’d take Menes’ advice and look into the events further in the library; in light of recent days, a nice quiet place to read certainly had its appeal.

Poor Khaemtir was floundering in the silence, but it was a welcome change for Radaam. He was happy to let Menes lead as curtly as he’d like, offering little more than a half-sympathetic glance to Khaemtir and a nod when he was addressed. Arriving at Magus Dagon’s chambers shot that familiar jolt of awkward nervousness back into his chest, he’d not deny, but the dim lighting and fragrant air did help to take the edge off. With the air still, the tables low, and the pyramid generally quiet—a marked difference from the loud, colourful extravagance of commencement—it was becoming easier to picture himself as a student rather than an intruder. 

Dagon’s welcoming reception did more of the same, and Radaam respectfully obliged, less self-conscious about his rough, rust-coloured tunic in the relative dark. He had no sandals to leave at the door, though, so his cloak hung alone; easier to keep distinguished from the others, he supposed, as if the considerable difference in length didn’t accomplish that already. Much less skittish than the day before, he sat where indicated, legs tucked beneath him, but politely shook his head at the offer. [color=437D99]“I’ll go without, Magus, if that’s alright. Thank you.”[/color]
[right][sub][@Dead Cruiser][@Achronum][@Crusader Lord][/sub][/right]