Asmidul
—Asmidushka, come to the table!
His mother's voice made the young Asuguhian put down his worn book and, with a disgruntled grunt like old Bradzail, descend from his gloomy lair to the festive table. In the comfortably furnished living room, filled with appetizing dishes, the young man was greeted by his mother and father, his younger sister, the aforementioned white-bearded general, Uncle Zisimud with his latest, perhaps wife, perhaps concubine, and a man of unknown origin sitting next to his father.
Forcing a polite smile, Asmidul sat closer to his mother, who quickly and lovingly served her favorite son one of the family's signature dishes.
—Here, eat, my sweet, margel stew. —placing a large spoonful of an incomprehensible mixture, barely resembling edible food "allegedly" from the northern continent, the woman turned to her younger relative. —Oh, what a wonderful day it is!
Smiling to himself, Asmidul noted that there was absolutely nothing special about today. His birthday had passed two weeks ago, but since his father, who was always traveling at sea, was not in the capital on that memorable date, the celebration was postponed. The weary traveler had returned with lavish gifts – tattered volumes of children's fairy tales that Asmidul had read a dozen years ago, as well as an enigmatic guest who was now sharing their family table with them.
Clinking glasses, the celebrants soon began to devour the prepared dishes. The birthday boy was not given any alcoholic beverage: his mother's firm hand quickly snatched the poisonous concoction from the young man's grasp. But soon, he would be living on his own, and then, as his mother had always liked to lecture him, he would "decide for himself what and how to do."
The thoughts of an independent life made Asmidul shudder slightly: over the years, he could only boast of rich life experience from the fantastic books he had read, and from his own "adventures" he could only tell about an unsuccessful trip to the city market and the subsequent wandering in search of his lost home. Sometimes, he imagined himself in the place of the main character in heroic stories, skillfully beating sense into toothless thugs, but he always reminded himself that a highly intellectual nature should not indulge in such foolish fantasies.
Having quickly finished the festive meal, the young man tried to discreetly slip away from the hated table, but his father's stern gaze pinned him to his seat, awaiting the official end of this pointless event.
Having eaten his fill, old Bradzail became engrossed in tales of the celestial princess Naria, who was brainwashing the southerners through sand worms, and so, by unanimous silent decision, the white-bearded elder was escorted to rest in the guest rooms. Uncle Zisimud, after bowing, went to visit his harem, and his mother, after patting her beloved son's gaunt cheeks, went to put his sister to bed.
—You write to me about everything, Asmidushka! Do you want me to come and cook your meals? Make friends with the guild members, and we'll write you a good recommendation! And don't associate with any hooligans, remember: ignore them, and they'll leave you alone!
Obediently nodding to his mother, the young man stared expectantly at the men who were talking animatedly about something. Finally, his father patted the unknown man on the shoulder and turned to his eldest son with a hopeful look:
—Look how you've grown, a true southerner! Don't listen to your mother; what do women know about raising children? If someone insults you, immediately punch them in the face. You need to make a name for yourself in the guild, understand? When I was your age...
Keeping his thoughts to himself, Asmidul did not argue with his absent father. His pale skin, pale from a lack of sunlight, clearly indicated his ability to defend himself. He had also not made any friends or acquaintances in recent years, and his peers had only given him the nickname "Asmudil."
—Well, do you have a girl in mind? —his relative grinned.
—Well... um... —the young man blushed, ostentatiously filling his mouth with margel stew. —Girls these days are too demanding... They only want handsome men with square jaws and bags of gold. Natural selection and unequal competition in the women's market, basically...
—What? —his father didn't understand. —Well, never mind. That's okay. My brother, that good-for-nothing, didn't blossom until he was thirty, but now he has a whole brood of heirs, like a northern aristocrat!
—I see... Are you staying to visit? —Asmidul decided to change the subject, mentally cursing the day for the thousandth time.
—Me? No, sorry, As. I'll be leaving tomorrow with the goods. Someone has to work for the good of the family, ha-ha! —having lost all interest in the educational conversation, his father got up from the table and, scratching his thick black beard, went to the cellar for another portion of the festive drink.
Taking advantage of the moment, the young man was about to finally retreat to his room, but he was stopped by the voice of the stranger, who was sitting alone at the dining table:
—Don't be angry with your father, young man. He's an honest man, and he works hard for you from morning till night. Thank your southern gods that you're not living on sand cakes.
More annoyed than ever by the unsolicited advice of a stranger who had decided to teach him about life, Asmidul gritted his teeth:
—Real fathers don't go to sea every time it comes to raising children! —he hissed, barely restraining his resentment. —And besides, what do you know about it?
The piercing gaze of the stranger's clear eyes made the young man blush and sniffle.
—Your father was eager to be here for your coming-of-age? He only talks about you on his voyages, he's so proud. And I, for example, found out on my coming-of-age that my father, being a bandit, had an affair with my mother against her will, and in the end, he died ingloriously. That's why I say: appreciate what you have.
The cool story of the tipsy young man did not impress the young man, so he left this instructive monologue without comment.
—Well, are you going to follow in your father's footsteps? —the stranger returned to the topic.
—"Work hard from morning till night"? —Asmidul smiled, adjusting his glasses. —My future is scientific research and great scientific discoveries! Let those who are mentally incapable of flexing their brain muscles do the dirty manual labor.
—I see. —his interlocutor smiled with a slight touch of sadness. —Well, then I wish you to find yourself in this future and not find the disappointment that I found. —having uttered this wise conclusion, he reached for his glass again.
Mentally rolling his eyes at this clownish display of a limited laborer, the young man returned to his bedroom. His hand instinctively reached for the bookshelf, but the ruined evening had killed any desire to study. He walked around the room for a dozen times and defeated all opponents in imaginary intellectual debates, the young man put the last notes in the carefully collected travel bag that his mother had prepared and went to bed, preparing for his imminent departure and the upcoming move.
M, Sizki
there will be very little activity
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Arandor
