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Onja arati upa chiji liera ... began the joke in his mind as Iyoas polished off his bowl of spiced stewed goat, watching the three galdori settle into the table closest to his own, wine, glasses, lizard and all the weight of their fields. It had the beginnings of a good joke, indeed, especially once the tallest one announced himself a Councilor.
He raised his spoon quickly to attract Umbida's attention before she made her way back to the bar in the hopes of procuring a second mug of coffee, dragging his curious gaze away from the trio to the human woman. There was still ink under his fingernails as he offered the mug in her direction with the hint of a crooked smile,
"A bit more coffee here, pe'a?"
It tasted better outside the Turtle, anyway.
"Is it odd?" He considered Richard gravely. He didn't, if one were to ask, actually know what the name meant or where it had come from. He had read it in a book of Anaxi history, but hadn't really connected the name to any particular figure. He never did do very well in classes that didn't have any equations in them. Richard returned his regard, her beady lizard eyes fixing on him in what he hoped was an affectionate way. You never really could tell, with lizards-- they were terribly unlike other mammals. He'd thought that might make her an easier pet to keep, but it seemed to be having the opposite effect. Kato was fond of her though, even if she was ill behaved.
The half-blooded bookbinder slid his bowl away and leaned back in his chair, fiddling absently with his spoon as he waited for the return of his coffee. Iyoas was content to listen, to eavesdrop, on the three arati and the strangely endearing lizard for the moment.
It wasn’t often he left the Turtle for an entire day, and if he was going to make the most of it, he might as well catch the last cableway back for the night. They were usually less crowded at that hour, anyway. Nothing stuck out more than an arata walking the wrong way over the Bridge of Discernment at some odd hour of the night ...
Not that he considered himself the same—
A crooked smirk smugly crept its way across his freckled features at the toast, lagoon blue eyes curiously lingering on the Councilor as if trying to discern his political leaning, before washing over the other faces at the table he sat so close to.
Then—distracted and perhaps already full of too much coffee—his spoon slipped from his fingers toward the floor and as he reached for it, he only managed to knock his empty bowl off the table and make an awkward, noisy fool of himself instead.
Well, that was that. Maybe no one would notice.
Whether it was the lack of a fresh cup of coffee or the word printer rolling off the jovial politician’s lips, Iyoas ceased his somewhat clumsy, jittery fumbling over the mess he’d made of his own table. It was probably an unspoken kindness of Umbida to cut him off so soon, as if the human woman somehow was privy to knowing more of himself than he did by the sheer volume of her experience with so many customers. Still, his face fell for a moment, like pulp poured into a mould before it became paper, soft at its freckled edges. He shifted in his seat, knees scraping against the underside of the tabletop, long hands folding together so he could rest his chin on them, staring openly now, lagoon blue eyes filled with far less shame than Kato's brief glance in his direction had been previously.
He’d speak up, sure, in a breath or two--volunteer even--considering Poster Day was but a handful of sleepless nights away and such work tended to sustain his financial needs for almost a third of the year. Whatever blather they wanted, he’d carefully craft the typography by hand and press ink into paper. It didn’t matter. None of the half-empty words to get more votes under the sheets of those in power ever concerned his cause, not really. He wasn’t getting any of his own skin-warmed nights as a reward.
The half-blooded printmaker was reputable enough, as long as his own well-weighted field didn’t tangle him up in any racial slurs or flooding superstitions, arati who found themselves piecing the parts of his genetic history together tended to get themselves tangled over their various oveka opinions. He was already aware of being a frog among turtles, so to speak. At least until his tongue gave him away. Once he spoke, there was little he could do to hide his subtle differences in annunciation from his more authentic-bred peers.
But first, he wanted to hear their suggestions, if any. What were the names of his competitors this year? Were they of any true consequence?
Once satisfied, he’d happily slide his own chair over with a long leg and an easy stride, wordlessly finding his fingers on the three arati’s own wine bottle to help himself with a straight-toothed grin, the ink under his fingernails his own prelude as he prepared an introduction.
Suddenly made aware of his immediate necessity in actual conversation, Iyoas inhaled sharply at the sound of his name on Umbida’s lips. No listening in on competition now, the oshoor offered a friendly, lopsided smile even as he traced his fingers over the worn wood of his table, gestures without words that simply looked like more fidgeting instead of anything of meaning. From his current distance, that little party of arati surely hadn’t been paying attention to any more of him than his twitchy foolishness, and so as he sucked in the warm, spice- and coffee-laden air of the cafe, he also sucked in his field, mona gathering tightly against his lanky person in almost lazy compliance to the motions of his hands. The sensation was not unlike trying to squeeze oneself into pants that were too small or taking that last bite of food at the end of a ten course meal in order to not offend your generous host.
It was uncomfortable, but at the same time, it was perhaps the better part of valor given the new course of his evening, given that conversation would eventually turn to his shop location. Or at least, he hoped it would. He was much more interested in the potential for business instead of the potential for disgust over his heritage, though some days the truth went over better than others. He hadn’t had enough that wasn’t caffeinated for drink to make that even remotely enjoyable. Yet.
By the time Umbida was at his table, he was just another imbala, eager for a bit more coffee and all a freckle-cheeked flash of straight white teeth at the arati who now knew his full name,
“Ea, you’re most correct, Umbida Oba. Domea for the kindness of thinking of me.” His head bobbed deeply with somewhat obligatory humility, offering a broad smile as he sat up straighter in his seat, knees brushing the underside of the table, “Ma’ralio, esteemed gentlemen.”