Paperback Writer [Open]

A journalist and a printmaker meet to talk shop.

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Adam Spencer
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Tue Apr 23, 2019 9:56 pm

The Turtle • Mugroba/Thul Ka
On the 24th of Intas, 2718 • Afternoon
Three days in Mugroba, and Adam still hadn't learned much of the language. What he had learned was that Mugroba was wildly different than Anaxas. Most of the people were as human as he, not a lick of a field around them. In a way, he was grateful for that. Not having to keep the presence of galdori constantly in mind was liberating, in a way.

Nothing would happen much in Vienda while he was away. The languid heat of the summer slowed everything to a crawl, and he wasn't much worried about any particular incidents.

But he hadn't come here on a vacation. He'd come here to take the measure of the White City. Thul Ka was a city of walls atop walls, each one built in succession. There were city walls in Vienda, obviously -- ones he was well aware of -- but the array of them over here was enough to be almost baffling.

He braced himself on the side of the cable car, fearing the winds shaking the car to and fro -- but it glided to a surprisingly smooth landing close to one of the gates. People who looked little like him thronged the market. Remembering the locale's history, he wondered how many were passives. It would be impossible to tell, unlike a galdor or a wick, but he'd find out nonetheless, somehow.

Whatever this gate was called, it was the one he'd intended to land at. The maps had been drawn up for illiterate humans, and even a journalist like he had to admit he qualified in Mugrobi. Still, the roughly drawn sketch of a book was impossible to mistake, and so was the dizzying array of books for sale in the market, pages and covers fluttering in the Yaris wind. For a moment, he was back in the Vienda Library, but there was someone telling him in Mugrobi to move it; the cable car was about to depart. He didn't have to speak the language to understand the sentiment.

Giving the cable car operator a quick smile that he hoped seemed apologetic enough, he plunged into the Way of the Book, looking for nothing in particular, but waiting to see who might take notice of him, a human visitor from another land. A few skeptical glances were cast his way, but nobody spoke, yet.

He paused in front of one of the booksellers, getting his bearings. Surely there would be something written in Estuan, worth taking a look at -- or a glossary of Mugrobi, if nothing else. It always paid to pick up knowledge, and his command of the language hadn't come very far at all, so far.
Last edited by Adam Spencer on Fri Apr 26, 2019 5:08 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Ioyas Esef pez Roh
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Fri Apr 26, 2019 3:55 pm

​​
24th of Yaris, 2718
​​The LIAR'S MARKET
Early AFTERNOON
​​
​​Ioyas hadn't bothered to sleep the night before, having been unwilling to quit sewing the spine of yet another book at sunset and eventually unable to retire once he knew the morning was on its way. One book turned into two and eventually morning had come and gone. Finally, afternoon crept up on him and he realized he had work to do. Reluctantly, he gathered his few Market deliveries for the day into a worn leather bag with the all of the intention of beating the late summer sun and the crowds. He'd managed to remember to remove his apron and made an actual effort to smudge glue from his fingertips before slipping out the door of his shop, locking it carefully, and winding through his familiar alley to the Way that eventually ended at the caravanserai.

One of the advantages of actually getting out of his narrow home and workshop for Ioyas was the opportunity to eat the delicious treats from any number of little eateries that tucked themselves in between the stores on the Way of the Book and on the outskirts of the Liar’s Market. Today felt like a good day for fresh-off-the-stone flat bread, slathered in goat cheese, topped with stuffed dates, and drizzled in honey. It was perhaps an admitted favorite for the oshoor and while the slightly younger, attractive imbala lady who ran the hole-in-the-wall bakery hardly gave the bookbinder the time of day under the shadow of his field, she at least knew his name and smiled at him on occasion when handing over his very obscenely late breakfast. Something was better than nothing.

Heat was settling its heavy weight onto the Market by the time Ioyas passed through one of the clay tunnel-like entrances, meandering now, still licking honey from one hand as he tried to remember the location of his deliveries: one small stack of gilt-edged false certificates; a new binding for an old, rather saucy but somewhat rambling treatise on techniques necessary to maintain more than one mistress; and a handful of folded, stitched pamphlets on cheating your customers with hollow weights.

Light work, really, but it was work nonetheless.

The sun's face had finally peeked over the tall walls of the Turtle, but the caravanserai of the Liar's Market had been a bustling place full of imbali merchants setting up their booths, tables, and wares for another hot day of selling the untruth for a well-bargained price since well before dawn in the cooler shadows of early morning. Rivals had jostled loudly but ceremoniously for their favorite spots. Tents were decorated. Displays arranged. The last illusionary vestiges of any hint of shade and relief from the Mugrobi desert heat still stubbornly clung to the long shadows cast by the walls and the dark clay buildings, but it had already been well over a house and a half since the baking heat had taken over.

It was as he passed under the baked clay and stone archway that led into the Liar’s Market proper that he breathed quietly the words in Monite that had the opposite effect that most had come to expect from magic. Like scorpions skittering away into the darkness, all of Ioyas’ field swiftly and thoroughly disappeared, pulled so tightly against his person like a second skin. Intangible. Invisible. Unnoticeable. For as long as he could endure to maintain the spell, he was just another imbala and nothing more.

He’d just spotted the first of his clients—one grumpy, loud Jaffe Yobe—unloading goods off of his overfed, flighty moa and into his stall when the man's own moa squawked at some small child passing by, spooking with a flap of flightless wings. The toddler squealed loudly in fear, her mother snatching her up in her arms with a hiss of surprise while a flurry of papers assaulted the tall oshoor printmaker and immediately littered the ground at his feet while dust swirled in the bright sun and a few other vendors began to laugh. It was only with a bit of ungraceful stumbling that he avoided stepping on any of them and only with a bit of pure dumb luck that he further avoided crashing into the blur of a pale for Mugroba sort of man casually meandering curiously through the stalls.

"For flood’s sake!" The tall bookbinder grumbled loudly in Mugrobi at the impending disaster—complete with some hand gesture of disapproval— despite the fact that he immediately began snatching parchment from the air and collecting them into a neat stack out of ingrained habit instead of an actual desire to be helpful, perhaps sticking an elbow into the closest stranger in the process, "Jaffa! Your damn moa's about to cost you this book I've brought you—"

The rest of his words were drown out by a crash and some more unwelcome cursing, his client the bookseller's moa backing into a stall in its panic, sending scrolls and boxes tumbling into the narrow footpath between other vendors. More laughter. More cursing. More squawking until finally the the portly brown bird of burden yanked himself free of the lie merchant’s hands and took off into aisles of the caravanserai, knocking over people and goods and stands alike.

Ioyas was stuck holding fistfuls of paper, amber eyes narrowing first at the flushed, furious face of one squat, round Jaffa before he glanced around at the other bodies stuck there in the settling dust.

"It's not my old bird's fault that every woman thinks to bring her child out in Yaris. But now you're to help me before I pay you—" The old, gnarled liar merchant's voice was like hot coals, gravely and full of fury, "—stay with my stall, Ioyas."

"YakaNo—"

"If you want your coin, you'll just keep my things safe."

"Fine."

With that, the imbala took off after his moa, the laughter and taunting of strangers following him, much to the old man's chagrin. Ioyas paused and dusted sand off the top of one of the shelves covered by the canvas of the vendor's booth and set the book he'd bound for him on top. In gilded Estuan letters, the title read:


Into Madness and Ruin: Fall of the Sky Queen
The Biography of Angel Aribeth (Firehair)


A book touted to be non-fiction, but the oshoor printmaker was dubious at best.

Finally, awkwardly, the tall oshoor was left alone in front of Jaffa's disorganized stacks of books and certificates. Turning to the lone customer—a pale thing from quite far away by the looks of him—he offered what could only be described as a very well-practiced false smile of concern,

"Epa'maMy apologies for the chaos. Yaris has this effect on everyone in the desert, I assure you. Ma'ralioPleased to meet you—can I help you find something here among Jaffa Yobe's half-rate lies and paper goods?" His voice was melodic and thickly accented with the lilt of Mugroba's native language even when speaking Estuan, but clearly he was down-selling his absent client's wares because the man wasn't there to argue.
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Adam Spencer
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Fri Apr 26, 2019 5:03 pm

The Turtle • Mugroba/Thul Ka
On the 24th of Intas, 2718 • Afternoon
Not a galdor, speaking to him -- not a wick, either. Nothing other than human, as far as he could tell. Different. But then again, so many things seemed different here that he couldn't be entirely sure. Adam had watched the whole disastrous fracas unfold, nearly stepped into by the bookbinder to whom he was currently speaking to, and then having had to squeeze himself against one of the stalls to avoid being impacted by a runaway, fat moa. Crashing; cursing -- were things always this disorganized? How could a place like this produce more books a day than Vienda did in at least a week? It couldn't even seem to hold proverbial body and soul together, let alone put itself towards any more deliberate process. But Adam was a man of focus. Perhaps Mugroba was different than his own inclination.

He managed a polite smile back at the bookbinder, with an element of what he hoped looked like reassurance and apology in it. Some of the words flew past him, but he got the gist of what the man was saying in Estuan, at least, and shook his head, giving the universal signal for Ioyas not to worry. "Just browsing. You do a good job selling his wares," he noted dryly, but not unkindly.

A hand reached out, moving to tap at the book in Estuan. "You didn't write this. Bound it?" He hadn't understood the conversation in Mugrobi, but the man had arrived with book in hand, and as much as the sun was frying his brains, Adam wasn't too fatigued not to notice that. Nor, as it turned out, the glue on the darker fellow's fingertips. "Sorry, I don't speak a word of Mugrobi, or I'd make the effort." He mimed the gesture he'd seen on the goggles-adorned Mugrobi, touching that same hand to his eyes as if removing goggles he wasn't wearing. It had to be a greeting of some sort. It was an effort, at least.

Squinting in the sharp sunlight, he picked up and studied the book, ignoring the text itself -- rather well-known throughout Vita, stuff he'd read years ago -- to look at the binding. No amateur, this man. He knew his trade, clearly more than Adam knew about the physical construction of books. Adam only knew enough to tell what it was, not to make it himself. The book was cloth boards covered in leather and leather-spine binding, a dark red with a stamped border on the outside, with a vignette of fire in the center. The papers inside were marbled, clearly printed. It was work well worth the effort, if put towards a rather disappointing purpose.

Maybe this fellow, whatever his name was, could be helpful. He put a little more punch into his own smile, less of a social gambit and something a little warmer. "You'd be a help at the Vienda Weekly, where I work." He set the book down, careful and respectful of the bookbinder's work. "What sort of operations do you have?"
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Ioyas Esef pez Roh
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Tue May 07, 2019 3:20 pm

​​
24th of Yaris, 2718
​​The LIAR'S MARKET
Early AFTERNOON
​​
​​Foreigners who made their way into the Turtle and toward the Liar's Market were always so flooding clueless. Ioyas smirked almost coyly at the sarcastic compliment, pressing his palms together, nails smudged with yesterday's ink, and opening them again in a gesture of humorous helplessness, "He doesn't tip well, ol' Jaffa, so let's just say I'm doing us both a favor by being more honest than you'd normally be treated by imbali like myself."

The tall printmaker was aware of what he wasn't, his field pulled so close about his person like a second skin—intangible to everyone but himself—and yet here, standing before a stranger who didn't know him and didn't know the difference, Ioyas chose to play the part. No harm done as far as he could tell,

"Ea—yes—I did. I'm a printmaker by trade and a bookbinder by necessity." He chuckled at the motion of hastily-learned greeting, echoing it in return almost out of habit, his own goggles tucked against the brightly colored wrap he'd covered his close-shaven head with against the sun. Amber eyes flicked from the pale human's face to the book he held, to his book, looking over his own gilded handiwork with a sucking in of a breath through straight, white teeth, "Lucky for you, my Estuan is fluent enough for an Anaxi to understand."

He winked, hardly apologetic for his blow to the other man's Kingdom of origin. Shifting to stand more in the shade as the morning sun gnawed at his dark, freckled skin, he listened to the crashing panic of a moa gone awry still echoing above the normal din of the Market, "Have you got poor job men on your presses? That's a shame. It's because your arata—your galdori government can't get their heads out of their erses and educate the right people."

Ioyas laughed as if that was a joke, but his expression gave away how much he believed in what he said, "Me? I own my own shop—a lithograph, a couple of letterpress machines, linotype, and a bit of papermaking and bookbinding setups on the side. Just me and my apprentice, really, but we stay busy." The oshoor clearly held himself back from carrying on, tilting his head to glance through the market, finally catching a glimpse of a huffing, disheveled Jaffa Yobe dragging an equally disheveled, panting fat moa through the laughing crowds, making his way back to his booth,

"Are you a printmaker, too? You're pretty far from home if you're looking for some story for a newspaper."
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Adam Spencer
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Sun May 12, 2019 2:19 pm

The Turtle • Mugroba/Thul Ka
On the 24th of Intas, 2718 • Afternoon
T“rust me, I’d know if you were giving me a bad deal,” Adam countered, smiling easily. Having held onto the book, he set it down gently, careful not to disturb the other man’s handiwork, folding his arms as he listened. He lifted his brows at the political talk, letting out a sharp breath at the mention of education. “I don’t know,” he allowed; “I seem to have done all right despite never going to Brunnhold.”

Though, as ever, the denial of a real education nagged at him. He knew he was intelligent. He was confident in his own abilities. But Brunnhold seemed forever closed to him, absent any real change – change that the Resistance wanted, but never could seem to achieve. The Gadfly would change things, though. The newspaper he’d been thinking of would be a news source that the galdori government couldn’t control and hopefully would be unable to trace. Once it was published, then the galdori would have a real force to reckon with. Not a brute-strength military one, but one which posed questions, demanded answers, and made clear that the time of mute agreement or pushback was over. Humanity would have a voice. He’d make damned sure of it.

All that, he couldn’t possibly say to the passive across from him, since the man had used the word. Not a human, then, but not a passive like those in Adam’s home city. The fellow lived a different life than those locked up at the university. His goals were different; his rights were different. His paper, thus far, had to remain an Anaxi matter. He couldn’t push it too far, too fast, because if the paper spread too far beyond his control, he’d stop being able to keep the message his own.

He bit down hard on his lip, considering. “I’d like to see your shop if you would let me. It’d be worth a sight. I’m not really a printmaker, but I dabble. Can’t help it, being in journalism.”

Adam too turned his head to study the returning man and his moa, grinning despite himself at the laughter of the crowd. He wondered – would passives in Brunnhold or in Anaxas over all be allowed to laugh? Humans like him could, sure, but they were always thought to be laughing at crude jokes or dumb shows. Always lesser somehow. This was a dumb show, to be sure, this bird and his owner trudging their way back to the book display, but it felt different somehow.

Maybe the heat was getting to him. Mugroba wasn’t the most hospitable place. Why, in the name of the gods he didn’t believe in for a second, and the other one he wasn’t entirely sure he believed in either, had people chosen to set up a city in a place like this? He blinked, wiping some sweat off his face, and then added, a bit wanly, “Is it always this hot here? I feel like my skin’s about to melt away in all this. I don’t know how people put up with it. I’d be in an ice-water bath for weeks on end.”

He stepped aside as Jaffa returned, looking rather put out at the not-so-merry chase he’d had after the moa, and raised his brows at Ioyas, waiting for the passive – imbali was the word he’d used, although Adam was pretty sure imbala was the singular from the research he’d done.

He had come here to find whatever semblance of a Resistance he could, set out feelers for people who thought the same as he, but he’d take looking at a fellow’s printing press, all the same. It might not have been the prize he’d wanted, but if the passive’s politics were what Adam suspected they were, he might have just found a way in to Thul Ka from a country far away.
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Ioyas Esef pez Roh
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Fri May 24, 2019 4:06 pm

​​
24th of Yaris, 2718
​​The LIAR'S MARKET
Early AFTERNOON
​​
​​"Would you, now? Well, then." He couldn't help but return the Anaxi human's smile, unable to help keep the expression from turning into a much more knowing sort of grin as the other man made comments on his homeland's education system. Aware that humanity wasn't awarded that much more freedom here in Mugroba—no humans attended the glorious Thul'Amat, but that didn't mean they couldn't teach themselves should they so desire—he appreciated the humor, none the less. As an oshoor, his own life was limited in ways that a non-magical Anaxi certainly couldn't even begin to understand here in the hot sun of the Liars' Market, and so Ioyas didn't bother making his own thoughts known on the matter.

He was no less self-taught, after all.

The printmaker inhaled through his teeth as if he had to consider the other man's request, glancing over at Jaffe's approach, offering a few smug smirks to other vendors and merchants who he was far more friendly with before returning his attention back on the dark-haired, pale thing probably already very tired of the oppressive afternoon sun here in the desert, "I have a few more deliveries this afternoon, but you're welcome for a tour of the Market if you've got nothing better to do, adamefriend. The Way of the Book isn't far from here—"

One ink-smudged index finger pointed toward one of the many archways that made the walls of the largest marketplace on the Turtle. He then grinned broadly once Jaffe was close enough, pausing in his conversation with Adam by placing his other hand on the man's shoulder lightly and gracefully, speaking to the merchant in fluid Mugrobi, musical and lilting in his baritone. Yobe was huffing, soaked through with sweat, and his rotund moa's tongue was hanging out of its dark beak. Without fluency, the Anaxi was left to guess at context, but Ioyas simply arranged for the forger and falsehood salesman to pay him later, squeezing Adam's shoulder before releasing it and shifting on his feet to indicate that he was walking again,

"I'm Ioyas, by the way. Ioyas Esef pez Roh if you'd like my full name. Printmaker, bookbinder, and professional liar." He winked, bobbing in an informal flourish of a Mugrobi-expected bow, guessing that Adam had very little insight into imbali culture or galdori opinions here in the desert kingdom.

Jaffe grumbled a few choice words at his back, all of them in breathless, panting Mugrobi and none of them sounding particularly generous.

"Bheeeeh, it's cold at night, I guess. Especially in your, uh, winter. We don't really have one of those with snow or anything, if that's what you're asking." The taller man shrugged, rubbing his chin with a calloused palm, "But, no, Hulali has blessed us with this glorious heat in order that we may depend on water for life. You just need to learn how to dress here—that and stay in the damn shade."

Ioyas laughed, loudly, shaking his head and steering them more under the shadows of the many tents and stands set up in the market. Vendors hawked their wares loudly, whistling, catcalling, and singing their advertising over the din of each other. Adam would note that with a few rare exceptions, mostly of customers perusing the so-called lies on sale, almost everyone was passive—or imbali as they were known in the Mugrobi language.

The tall printmaker would pause at a couple of other vendors, emptying his satchel of books, scrolls, a stack of printed papers bordered with fancy filigree: certificates waiting for forging. He wasn't shy to introduce Adam to them, either, titling him the Anaxi newspaperman and garnering plenty of smiles. Once his deliveries were through, however, he made sure his final stop wasn't another lie vendor but a little cart under the last of the heavy shade provided by the dizzyingly tall walls of the Turtle itself, a young girl with a bejeweled ring in her nose and bare feet serving thick paper cups full of crushed, frozen fruit drowned in just a touch of sweetened cream and meant to be eaten with a spoon,

"You look like you could use a bit of stamina for our walk to the Way of the Book and my shop." The oshoor sniggered, tongue between his teeth for a moment before he insisted on paying for them both, the imbali child's eyes wide and staring at Adam as if she'd never seen anyone so pale her entire life.

She hadn't. Her facial expression revealed her pity at his lack of melanin as she handed him his cup first, overflowing with all the rich tropical goodness of the Muluku Isles. Ioyas made sure to sprinkle his with spices, grinning and thanking the girl before he began to lead them back out into the glaring, burning sun and toward his home,

"What brings you to Mugroba, anyway? You're not here to buy lies, are you? Your Kingdom is probably full of plenty as it is."
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Adam Spencer
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Fri Jun 07, 2019 5:12 pm

The Turtle • Mugroba/Thul Ka
On the 24th of Intas, 2718 • Afternoon
The foreign word was uncomfortably close to Adam’s name. He had watched the consideration, knowing it was false, waiting patiently, but the near-miss on his name made him blink. He shrugged in casual acceptance of the offer of a tour, waiting, listening to the lilting explanation. If he ever had occasion to need to learn the language, he guessed it wouldn’t be too difficult – the words fit together with a logic not quite found in Estuan.

“Adam Spencer,” he replied easily to the bookbinder. “I’m a journalist, so we don’t quite lie, but we certainly have varied opinions on the truth.” The bow that the passive offered him was met with one of his own, and he added, “Though I don’t think it’s a lie to say that your friend with the bird isn’t entirely happy with you.”

Grinning at the advice to stay in the shade, he countered briefly, “Then Thul Ka should make more shade.” He watched the press of the customers, feeling like nothing more than some sort of carnival exhibit as he was paraded around from tent to tent. The little girl’s reaction confirmed it, staring at him as if he had two heads. So he pulled a face back at the girl, mimicking her staring, taking his cup. “I’d say ‘keep staring that way and your face will freeze like that’,” he deadpanned to Ioyas, “but I don’t think that freezing is remotely possible here.”

Following the other man’s actions, putting at least some spices in his fruit dessert, he took a careful bite of it, feeling the heat beat down on him as the pair left the refreshment tent. The question made him tilt his head, and he shrugged. “Not necessarily, not really,” he demurred at first to the other man’s questions. “Like I said, we journalists don’t really lie.” But he considered for another moment, thinking over what he should say – what he could say. A hand moved up to scrub his face from sweat.

“I was trying to get a sense of the culture here. Maybe write a report back home, some sort of traveling journalist’s report.” It wasn’t a lie, either. Not really. The truth just included a little more information than that, and he didn’t need to share that with the man. He had come to shore up some Resistance efforts over here, or to see what Resistance efforts there even were – but the way passives were treated here was interesting enough, all the same. He’d have to get Ioyas’ opinion on that, as one.

“As a man of letters,” he began, “what do you think about Thul Ka? Is there anything you’d like to see Anaxas do? Anything we should avoid? Give me the lay of the land from your perspective, if you would. Besides the lying – I’ve already gathered that much.”
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Ioyas Esef pez Roh
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Tue Jun 11, 2019 3:42 pm

​​
24th of Yaris, 2718
​​The LIAR'S MARKET
Early AFTERNOON
​​
​​"Mma'ralio, Adam." The similarities between the Mugrobi word for friend and the man's name weren't lost on the printmaker and he smiled, bowing in casual introduction before he actually giggled—the deep sound one of soft humor, "Yaka. Of course the press never lies—at least if it's run by arata, er, galdori."

Ioyas chuckled at the Anaxi's observation of Jaffa Yobe, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the stall and the chaos the moa had left in its wake all throughout the Liar's Market, "That man isn't my friend. Just a client."

The girl kept staring and the printmaker hissed some words in Mugrobi at her, startling her to blink and finally look away. She still was clearly not embarrassed by her actions so much as suddenly made aware that she'd been so obvious, unable to help but roll her eyes with a grin at the journalist's riposte at her rudeness.

Watching the other man sprinkle a few cautionary spices onto his fruit and chewing his cheek to keep from warning him of the heat level they might bring to his insides instead of just his outsides, the tall Mugrobi chose instead to watch with disguised curiosity the results while they walked, "Well, you can tell your home kingdom the truth then—it's hot here." He spoke between a few spicy bites of fruit, pausing to chew, flashing a grin, "The culture of the Turtle and among the imbali as a people is much different than the rest of Thul'Ka, so if you're really here for that, you'll be in for a surprise."

Ioyas led them from the Liars Market, making efforts to stick to the shaded side of the street as he walked toward the Way of the Book. A large plaquard, quite obvious in its symbolism, marked the main thoroughfare that was full of papermakers, bookbinders, writers, calligraphers, printers, and other artists involved in book-craft. A pair of young women wearing bright yellow sashes and carrying long polearms with curved blades passed by them, Saffron Runners on duty, keeping the streets of the Turtle safe.

One of them waved, recognizing Ioyas, and the tall oshoor waggled fingers back after shoving his spoon into what was left of his quickly melting frozen treat with a dull crunch. He couldn't help but chuckle at Adam's question, however, amber eyes shifting back to study the Anaxi's pale features with the arching of an eyebrow while sweat ran down the side of his face,

"Those are some serious questions, adame, and some are better discussed in the cool of the evening over spiced, honeyed wine and grilled meats. What do I think of Thul'ka—" He snorted, turning them down a side street that wasn't much more narrow than the one they'd been on but it was given shade by the buildings next to it. Above them, awnings stretched between a few of the homes and laundry on shared lines dried in the baking sun,

"—I've lived here my whole life, here on the Turtle to be specific, and I was raised traditionalist imbali. I'd like to see Anaxas flooding stay out of our politics, by Hulali's waters. We don't need any of your backwards gating of perfectly capable passives here." He grumbled almost by instinct, the first knee-jerk reaction to such a series of questions immediately turning to his family, of which he was the only galdor, the stained oshoor, the cursed of the cursed. And yet he defended their rights with the kind of passion he wished to see returned in his own favor.

He stopped at the door to his shop. Above their heads hung a modest sign that read:

Between the Houses of the Moons Press
Est. 2621 DT

Ioyas gripped his now-empty cup in his teeth and fumbled for his keys, speaking around the already soft paper, "It is the Mugrobi belief that passive children are born without souls, and therefore are just as incapable of understanding truth as we are communicating with the mona. We are without ohante, or honor, hence places like the Liar's Market. That said, I have no room to talk about such things—"

He swept the journalist toward the open door, inviting him to pass through the beaded curtain that served as a deterrent to flies and other insects while still allowing for the breeze. Propping the door open behind him, the foyer was a small greeting space for customers with a little stove for cool nights, a bench, and a counter separating the entryway from the printroom proper. Stairs disappeared upward on one side, and from the ceiling hung several long cords which Ioyas had strung up to hang prints to dry from.

Once he entered his shop, he sighed, relaxing, and as he did so, his dampened field seemed to expand from his person like the breath he exhaled. Did he reveal himself as dishonest because he'd attempted to pass himself off as a passive? Or did he make his choice to hide his true nature for his own protection? He supposed he'd have to answer those questions eventually, but for now, he was direct and very much to the point.

"—as I'm not truly imbali. I'm oshoor. This is where it gets complicated, and I'm sure I'm about to turn your Anaxi mind in circles considering we allow imbali to marry and reproduce here in our Kingdom, but, anyway, I'm the galdor son of two passives. Write that up as an article for fun and see what kind of horrified letters your poor paper receives."

The tall printmaker laughed again, the heat of his spiced fruit lingering on his tongue and the smoldering of his own opinions burning in his lungs, aware that he revealed just how full of obvious assumptions about Adam's homeland he was. He raised the counter to allow them both to step into the workshop proper while he tossed his paper cup and reached for a towel to dry his face on, handing one to his guest first.
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