[R5, Early Evening, The Turtle] The Way Things Are [Shai'Zara]

unwanderinggirl

When it came to hosting skills, Iyoas was rather limited in his abilities. He was kind enough when pressed, genuine even, perhaps almost comfortable around Lidya and her daughter because traditionalist imbali were supposed to be his people (even if the reality was they were not). He was somewhat shy to admit that he enjoyed children and babies, especially when he knew he could give them back and when no one was trying to hide them from him in superstitious fear.

The half-blooded printmaker even went out of his way to make sure Shai'zara felt comfortable enough, at least while in the presence of the liar merchant who had brought her to his workplace and his home. He forced himself to keep back questions and made very real efforts to skim along the surface of conversation, letting Tendaji be a welcome interruption once he finally stumbled down the stairs with tea and stuffed dates, all awkward teenaged limbs and obvious field. The boy quickly fled the presence of the women to go back to printing, as was Iyoas’ expectation of him, not wanting to leave expensive, hand-mixed ink to dry on the glass or to waste any precious houses paid for by politicians’ deep pockets. That left the older man to make everyone feel comfortable and carry the burden of social pleasantries. He was friendly and much more willing to let his guard down from within the safety of his own print shop, though he had his limits, especially when pressed for time and starved for sleep. However, he was also used to being very limited in his social engagements in general and often found them exhausting.

At least until the imbala woman was gone and all three of the oshoori were left to themselves, a magical oasis in the island-shaped desert of the Turtle.

Iyoas had other things to say to his guest after bidding farewell to Lidya and Wubay and closing the door of his shop behind them, barely containing the urge to lock it for the day, dirty fingers lingering for a moment on the handle. He refrained with a scowl, shoving inked hands into his apron pockets instead, turning to face the painted woman and drawing himself up to his full, lanky height with an unbidden yawn,

“Well,” his slightly slanted lagoon blue eyes searched her face as if trying to see beyond the purposeful mask of makeup Shai’zara wore. He motioned with a tilt of his head toward the stairs that led up from his workshop to his residence on the second floor, “I suppose we can speak in truths now that the imbali lie merchant is gone, don’t you think? There’s only so much they are willing to see past and to understand.”

His voice was somewhat quiet, as if he worried his words traveled through the open windows of his shop and down his narrow alley of a street for all to hear. He began to remove his apron as he led the way upstairs, pausing to hang it on a peg in the wall before he ascended, leaving Tendaji alone to finish printing the run of posters the two women had interrupted. The narrow stairway led up to an archway that opened into a large common room, which Iyoas had more or less turned into his own version of a study, irreverant of how it may have insulted any actually studious arati (who would never see it anyway). The walls were filled with bookshelves, which in turn were laden heavily with books, grimoires, tomes, and scrolls, which were--should the painted oshoor pause to study them--mostly illegal and magical in nature. What books the half-blooded printmaker had not printed and bound himself, he’d spent a fortune in collecting over the past 13 years since the plague claimed his father and the business became his alone.

The rest of the room had a low, circular wooden table currently covered in Poster Day proofs, newsprint papers with empty slogans and smiling, equally empty arati faces. He was unwrapping his headscarf and wiping his face, kicking off his sandals and crossing the room to where a small seating area was half-heartedly thrown together next to the table, casually addressing Shai’zara as if he’d known her for longer than a handful of moments, reluctantly shedding the cautious pretenses he’d held up before like a sweaty garment. There was no point, really. It only made him more tired to be offended or afraid, and his energy was a precious resource needed for posters.

“Pe’a, make yourself at home here. But, first, tell me why you are lost on the Turtle. Tell me why Lidya Keziah felt it necessary to bring you here instead of leave you alone on the street.” Iyoas was afraid to sit in fear he’d get sleepy, so he searched his bookshelves for his other pair of glasses instead, waiting to hear what the woman had to say for herself.

Aussiemum

Shai'zara stood watching the man, standing to his full height and yawning wearily. He was taller than most mugrobi, taller certainly than herself. His eyes searched her face, and hers searched his in return. There were no others to be pleasant around now, no others to pretend they weren't who they were. Nodding at his words, the young woman followed Iyoas up the stairs and into what could be only called a study. The walls were lined with all sorts of books and tomes, some of which had marks she recognised. A lot of which, in fact. Shai'zara slowed to allow her fingers to run ever so lightly across the spine of a grimore, her lips moving as she read with no sound. Another, a scroll sitting unsealed. She could see the words, the scrawling scratched marks of the mona in written form. These...were not allowed in print anymore. Lowering her hand, the oshoor stepped back to look over the books carefully. Illegal, magical printed works.

A small weight lifted of her shoulders, and she relaxed, field almost sighing in relief. The bag around her shoulders didn't feel heavy with guilt or trepidation anymore. Shai'zara hadn't even realized it had been.

Turning away from the books at the sound of Iyoas' voice, the painted woman looked at the low table covered in the false smiles of politicians and the sort, before noticing the seating. With a small nod she moved to sit, removing her bag to place it in her lap, along with her brown linen shawl.

"Where does one begin in such a misadventure?" She said with a glance at the printmakers back as he rummaged through his bookshelves. Indeed, where should she start? It wasn't in her nature to give up information to just anyone. People used information to hurt you, or bind you to them. Picking up the shawl in her hands, Shai'zara toyed with the fabric before she began to wipe at the paint on her face. It had become soft under the fine sweat that had beaded on her mocha skin, and as such wiped off easily. As she cleaned her face, the writer spoke, finding it easier to talk when she wasn't looking at him.

"I was raised in the Turtle, as a young girl. My parents owned a spice shop somewhere in the city, I do not know where, I was too young to understand." Taking the linen away from her face, now smeared with cream and black paint, Shai'zara touched with her bare hands to ensure she couldn't feel anything left behind. It felt clean enough. It would do. If they were to speak honestly, she would face him honestly.

"My father liked books too. He collected them from everywhere so I could read them, he..." Looking up at the man, she paused. Some things were too raw even now.

"I read one, it was not like the others. The words came to me, and they spoke through me." Raising her hands, the young woman looked at them with hard blue eyes.

"Hot burning embers...just like that." He knew what she meant, he had to. The mona singing through the crude scratches on the paper, lending their touch to do bidding unrealised.

"I was taken then, that night. Stolen." Shai'zara felt the word burn like a hot coal in her mouth, spitting it out with venom. Jaw twitching, the writer stared past Iyoas, her mind elsewhere for a moment. For that second she was back in the League's private school, wishing her days away with thoughts of freedom and hate. Blinking, she refocused on the man.

"Do you know of The League?" Her question was guarded, as though his response would set the tone for the rest of their discussion.

unwanderinggirl

Iyoas gave up searching for his glasses with a hiss of disappointment; they were most likely buried somewhere under his pile of printed proofs instead of on his bookshelf. Or maybe they were upstairs. He was too tired to remember much of anything that wasn't vital to printing until sometime after the blur of Roalis passed, after he allowed himself to actually rest instead of just pretend. He paused to watch Shai’zara peruse his library, some of which he’d printed with his jura. While it was physically, genetically, and legally impossible for imbali to practice magic, that birthright made them somehow more trustworthy to print and handle illegal spells they couldn't cast. This had, over the years, opened up a small, lively, but somewhat volatile market for illegal spellcraft in secret, undiscussed corners of the Turtle, many of which were down side streets on the Way of the Book. He knew a few, and was in business with a handful.

While on the surface the printing business his jura ran and left to him after his death by the plague over a decade ago looked just as respectable as any other on the isolated traditionalist imbali island, there was plenty that went on under the surface that was not at all respectable. There was much more profit to be had with illegal dealings than with legal ones. One only needed the proper connections. The problem for the half-Mug’s jura had been that Iyoas broke the floodgates instead of bolstering them, changing everything: he was oshoor. He was able to use the magic he learned to read and write, the spells he learned to set in hand-cast lead Monite. The words weren’t empty for him, and it was a terrifying risk. His monic pathways functioned just fine, regardless of the law surrounding what imbali could and could not do.

The tall printmaker turned away from the shelves of his personal library in time to watch the woman begin to wipe her face. She spoke once she couldn't see him, and he took the moment to study her features while she wasn’t looking. She said she was from the Turtle, but her hair was dark like an islander instead of blonde. One could throw a rock in this isolated island enclave of imbali he called home and hit a spice merchant, so her chances of finding her parents were slim unless she knew her family’s name. He listened, looking away to his posters on the table before she could notice he was watching her, knowing well enough some of her brief story as his own.

His own discovery of his magical nature had been less dangerous, mundane really, and would, in his opinion, only be worth telling out of empathy, not out of comparison. He certainly hadn't set anything on fire, which was a blessing in a print shop full of flammable objects of all kinds.

He made a decision while he leaned against his bookshelves, ignoring the nagging feeling that he would regret it later, and moved to the seating area that made up the other half of his study. He reluctantly folded his lanky self into a seated position, almost crumpling, leaning back on his palms with a quiet sigh.

Oh, sleep. Not yet.

He blinked heavily at her question, “Ea, my jura spoke of the League, but it was more as a threat to keep me in obedience as a boy. He was never serious.”

Iyoas didn't like talking about his family life (possibly any more than Shai'zara did, really), and his discomfort was obvious on his freckled, inked features. His narrow shoulders slumped a little as he put his weight on his dirty hands, battling against another yawn, though he felt the expectation in her field now that they sat across from each other. It was a strange feeling, the field of another oshoor instead of an arata, and the half-Mugrobi relaxed in it as if basking in a cool breeze despite understanding the subtle hints of fear that hung in it as she revealed some of her story, “I believe now, looking back, he worked very hard to keep me away from such things, no matter how much he loathed that I was not imbala.”

He knew very little about the League, other than he was told they happily received oshoori children to re-integrate them into arati society. He always assumed they just found arati families for imbali children who turned out to have magical abilities. That’s what he would have done, anyway.

“You were stolen? I thought that what happened in the League was … voluntary.”

Aussiemum

Shai'zara snorted in disgust, shaking her head. Voluntary...is that the lie they circulated here, to justify their actions? Self righteous fools, caught up in their own lies and good intentions. Glancing away from the lagoon eyed oshoor, the woman stared at the books, past the books, her own sky blue eyes hard.

"Maybe there are voluntary...admissions...but where I was, no one had come willingly. I came by caravan with two others. All taken from our families by force, or secreted away in the night." The memory of the caravan, waking up with the other children frightened and tied together, it was one she didn't care to remember. Not yet. Forcefully, she skipped forwards in her tale.

"I was taken to some sort of...private school. They are galdori, mostly. Some from Anaxas, all full of themselves. They believe that they are doing good, that they are teaching us how to integrate into society. Into their kind. That we could pass as galdori?" Looking at Iyoas, she smirked in self-mockery, turning her soft voice into the throbbing timbre of those who looked down from their high moa's.

"Do you feel it, Iyoas? You're true bloodright? You are galdori my good man, born to sip tea and wear all the finery and learn to teach at the University in Thul' Ka, or maybe the once great Brunnhold!" Her hand was raised in a fist at her chest, as though she was speaking with genuine passion. Sitting back with a soft laugh, she sighed and lowered her hand to rest on the table.

"They were so intent on making us into them. They taught us how to be proper, how to read the monite and speak the words. How to communicate with the mona. How to...write." Her blue eyes searched his for a moment, gauging how much was too much to tell. Glancing at the books again, she tilted her head casually.

"Seems like your not a stranger to...writing." Her gaze swung back to him, head tilted, hand tapping very softly on the wood of the table in a slight habit of nervousness. Her field mingled with his at this range, and if he felt her nervousness, the young woman only hoped he understood it for such and not an attempt at deceit. There was nothing to lie about, if he didn't lie to her.

unwanderinggirl

And this was why Iyoas lived like a hermit crab among turtles, why much of his world existed within the confines of his home, and why he preferred machines and ink to people. He was safer without them. His life was less complicated. He'd learned to channel loneliness elsewhere, mostly into simply staying awake when he allowed impossible deadlines to crush him on purpose for the thrill of it.

Surely, no matter how much he hated it as a boy, his jura had kept him isolated for a reason. While he had grown up convinced it was fear and superstitious stigma, perhaps there had been a protective side to his jura’s decisions that the half-Mugrobi printmaker had simply not chosen to see. For all the effort his father put into being involved in imbali grassroots politics, he may have actually had more of his son’s interests in mind than he ever expressed. That line of thinking was disturbing, as if he’d missed some opportunity to connect on a whole other level with the man that passed down his printing business to him decades too soon.

Shai’zara’s imitation of the League indoctrination she was apparently raised with made him visibly uncomfortable, indignant frustration tangible in his already feral sort of field, a field heavy with living magic and frayed at the edges by hints of poster-induced addiction. Internally, it made him angry. The idea of anyone stealing children from their families was horrifying, though not as horrifying as how imbali had come to live on the Turtle in the first place, all those hundreds of years ago. He was tired of feeling displaced in a country that had offered reluctant freedom to their imbali population for generations now, if only because they had proven themselves more than capable of not only existing, but capable of thriving. Rich on spices and trade, the non-magical rejected children of arati society defied those in power from this little high-walled island that was once meant to be their prison. Not only that, but they propagated their own supposedly deficient genes right under arati noses, if only to rub their faces in it. And the only time such a marvelous plan of society went wrong was when children like himself were born, when oshoori children reminded imbali of their heritage and reminded arati of their blindness. The truth made everyone uncomfortable, and that is why it was so easy to make a living selling lies.

Of course he was a galdor. It was like asking if he breathed. For flood's sake, why was that simple truth such a thorn in arati sides, anyway?

He was no less a galdor in the genetic sense (an arata in what he considered his native language, no matter how much Estuan was pandered to in Thul’Ka proper) than he was a passive (and a traditionalist imbala at that) in the cultural sense. He didn't need to be (and didn't want to be) re-integrated into a society that couldn't see past his cultural heritage and simply accept the truth of his genetics. All he really wanted was for the society that held him in denial and contempt to finally accept that he existed. Even godsbedamned duri could take the Telling and go on to study at Thul'Amat, and yet ... it was illegal for his kind to not only study magic, but to practice it as well? Something had to change.

Was there a school for that? 

A political party? 

A lie he could purchase?

No. 

Drown the whole circle, there flooding should be.

Iyoas shifted, scowling, still leaning on his ink-smeared hands, happy to change the subject from the League despite lingering questions and talk of something he was a bit more passionate about, allbeit in secret, “Yaka, I'm no stranger to spellcraft. To writing spells, if that's what you mean.” He smirked, aware of her caution and discomfort as it hung in the mona between them, the tone of his voice dismissing any reason for it, reiterating that she was not only free from judgement in his presence, but that she was, as far as he was concerned, safe from persecution and safe to do as she wished when it came to magic so long as no bodily harm came to his person or his shop or his home in the process, “You can say that out loud in my house. You can see for yourself that I’m no stranger to what could perhaps be called the dark arts when magic is left to the uneducated hands of our kind.”

He willed himself to sit up, feeling the weight of exhaustion like a pile of lithography stones on his chest, turning to reach a book from the shelves behind him, “In fact, I have spent the past decade attempting to not only simply write Monite, but to print it. To mass produce it, so to speak.”

The tall bookbinder set the small hand-bound book on the table between them, aware that both the book and his words were not only illegal, but obvious heresies. He seemed utterly unconcerned about any of it, smug even. This was, as far as he could tell, his legacy, his life’s work contribution still in progress to be left to the oshoori population and any arati willing to look past the stigma and see the truth. He'd resigned himself to one day passing on his print shop to an apprentice, to break the four-generations of family ownership because no imbala would want children with an oshoor and his sister wanted nothing to do with the print shop now that their father was dead. If he had nothing to leave in his wake, then it would be this. Printed Monite. And all the arati were welcome to come spit on his grave if they dared set foot on the Turtle.

“Though, I will admit, those educated amati purists would most likely be horrified at my attempt to create lead type out of their precious language. So far, I don’t feel as though the mona resent me for my current version of the typeface. I am, quite frankly, still alive and undamaged.”

Mostly.

He grinned his crooked grin, all freckles and white teeth, a willing, admitted magical heretic in a sea of traditionalist non-magicals, “I have a lot of refining to do, though. Lithography is another option should metal type prove too cumbersome for the process I have in mind, but that’s a small compilation of written spells printed in my Monite. I've been asked to write a few spells in my time, but I prefer to print the work of others. I have printed ten editions, mostly for my protection, and the other nine are in the hands of oshoori. There are a few of us who … stay in touch.”

Not even oshoori seemed to like to be seen around other oshoori most of the time.

Aussiemum

Shai'zara held her gaze on the man, jaw twitching ever so slightly. Externally to an onlooker, his admission and even his approval, seemed to have no effect on the mocha skinned woman. Internally though, she was grinning from ear to ear. She was laughing and whooping with relief. Her field practically sang with delight. Sitting back, Shai'zara finally smiled a small genuine smile.

"Who are you calling uneducated?" She said softly, watching him reach for a book. As the grimore was placed on the table, Shai'zara reached for it, glancing up at Iyoas as he spoke with a raised eyebrow and incredulous grin.

"No, really?!" Opening the book with gentle hands, the blue eyed oshoor allowed her fingers to run over the neatly printed monite, laughing suddenly and shaking her head at the sheer concept of it. Flipping the page, she read on, feeling the stirring of the mona in the air around them. It didn't seem to be hostile, although the faint taste of copper and charcoal danced on the tip of her tongue.

Interesting.

Closing the printed tome, Shai'zara looked at Iyoas with something more than just a polite expression.

"Iyoas! This is amazing. Can you imagine their faces?! Ha! You are brilliant!" She was excited and impressed, her eyes bright as she suddenly reached for her bag.

"These are what brought me here. I showed Lidya, I thought a seller of Lies would be a buyer of spells. I was wrong." Pulling out the spell for Push that she had showed Lidya, the young oshoor put it to one side on the table. It was nothing. Reaching in, she pulled out other scrolls. Placing them on the table, Shai'zara looked up at him again with an eager grin. Biting her lip like a child in a sweet shop anticipating the biggest lolly, she broke the seal one one of the scrolls and opened it flat.

"These got me in all sorts of trouble, back there...but they've gotten me out of trouble too. This one see, I wrote in the physical Pull, but then here.....this part...this is Ignite...but when you add this mark it just burns, disintegrates! Roils in on itself see? You can watch bricks as thick as your pressing block contraption just sink in on themselves in smoke and coal, and they just disappear!" She crumpled her hands together in demonstration, eyes wide. Iyoas had his passion for printing, Shai'zara had her passion for creation. Spells, food...it all mattered to her. As long as it was creating, inventing.

"Of course, it takes some patience to cast. You have to sort of, convince the mona to change direction misspell and they don't always agree." Shrugging, she opened another.

"This one isn't as complicated, but I haven't tested it yet. More of a sensory deprivation spell, for the magically inclined." Pausing, she looked at the printer with a lopsided grin, giving him a chance to look over her work.

unwanderinggirl

His father had paid a price, not just in mere hard-earned coin but in social standing, that even Iyoas didn’t fully understand for his own magical education: secret and hidden from public view, whispered connections between other oshoori. What he hadn’t appreciated as a young man, he was grateful for now. What he lacked in what would be called prestige to a Thul’Amat graduate, he made up for in dangerous, often undocumented study no such graduate could ever understand. Formal education had rules and boundaries; oshoori magic only had a simple creed: don’t be seen, don’t get caught. There were no rules, no theoretical ceiling, and no legal boundaries for those who chose their own path in a relationship with the mona who were legally not allowed to do so. It was, of course, both a blessing and a curse, but the tall printmaker had come to accept the difficulties as worth the struggle and the stigma. 

He may not have considered himself a necessarily stronger magician than a legally recognized galdor, but he did consider himself a better one on the sheer merit that he took none of his studies for granted.

Shai’zara’s praise and excitement were difficult for Iyoas to process, not because he didn’t appreciate them (complements were a rare treasure in all aspects of life as an oshoor), not because he didn’t agree with them (humility was never going to be a strength for him), but because he simply wasn’t used to them (it was always easier to disrespect an oshoor). The smile that slowly dawned on his inky, press-greased face was not one of conceit: it was almost shy,

“Domea, domea, Shai’zara, but I’m wary to call it brilliance quite yet.” The half-Mugrobi yawned then, stretching with a groan. He’d already sat for too long, and his body begged for him to sleep. He fought the temptation to cast anything, field fluttering briefly in obvious indecision, gathering inward toward his lanky self purposefully with his yawn and then fading again as he chose to deny his poster-induced addictions for the moment. Living magic hung heavily around him in wordless testimony to his frequent use, "I’m not yet convinced it’s entirely safe or sustainable, but I’m willing to test the limitations.”

He felt the shift in the mona that filled the room as she read his own work from his small hand-bound book, and he considered taking notes. Sitting up, he occupied himself for a moment by shuffling the proof papers on the short, round table between them while she spoke. Everything was soon a ridiculously tidy stack, and there were his spectacles, stuck between half of Msrah Mi Mulugeta’s face and a sketch for a slogan for a Pipefitter. It would have been humorous, perhaps, had Iyoas been paying attention to the irony instead of to the enthusiastic oshoor woman in front of him.

“So, the League willingly taught you magic? Like any other galdori school? You studied … legally?” He let his listless hands put on his glasses before reaching for her work, pausing to read her spell though unable to contain his confusion over her status, “Did the League expel you for this sort of thing? This would only be acceptable on the black market here along the Way of the Book.”