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Taliuma’s library was not particularly impressive.

But then, overall, very little in Taliuma was particularly impressive, except perhaps its crime rates and propensity for racial violence. A perfect cesspool of all the races forced into begrudging interaction for the sake of a common port and workable trade and — for the unfortunate souls who actually lived there — a perpetual, shifting ‘adventure’ of activity born from the ebb and flow of foreign traffic alone. Not, to say the least, a safe haven for the learned or even, necessarily, the literate.

Unfortunately, Ataya’s options were limited. After having exhausted his adoptive uncle’s library by the sea and running through the few spellbooks he actually had the pleasure of owning so many times the corners of the pages grew soft and worn, his range of availability for new sources of reading material was distinctly stretched. The Celestial Plane only permitted he and his sister into it for the stretch of one day on special leave from Lord Ysaride in honor of his mother’s accomplishments in battle, and that ‘permission’ had been strained at best and barely enough to get him through the portal in. Needless to say, he had not had the opportunity to appreciate their library. The other two capital cities were far out of reach for even the most ambitious of landlocked and parentally controlled thirteen year olds, and even if he could have reached one, he expected it was far more likely that he’d be spit on than permitted in.

Tukyere, of course, was a dream, but one for the future.

For now, while under his parents’ — particularly his father’s — thumb and roof, the small, poorly-kept-up and dusty excuse for a ‘library’ that Taliuma sported was the closest thing he got to a source of accessible, free, new reading material. So, on this particular afternoon, that was where he waited: through the old wooden doors, past the main first floor lobby, up the rickety set of railed plank steps that lead to the smaller second floor, and tucked between the histories of the period of the First Siege and General Lorana Mirewyn and a fat text on kiandri shock therapy remedies for poison. In his lap, a book no longer quite twice the breadth of his folded legs, detailing the raid of Vallanar from the perspective of one of its orderite citizens.

To this particular library’s credit, the one thing Ataya did appreciate was the sheer mess of perspectives that it accumulated, as well as bizarre oddities that likely wouldn’t make it into the shelves of any other place. It was ever amusing to him to read, side-by-side, history books on the same subject, told by parallel races. If anything could convince a thinking individual that all the purebloods and their convoluted fairy tales spun out as ‘facts’ were exactly that — wild, twisted fairy tales — then comparing their lies to each other side by side would do the trick.

Or, it should have, but of course, no one seemed to pay attention to that.

The soft tap of footsteps and exchanged words drew his attention, and Ataya lifted his gaze from the pages of his book, observing the newcomer from over its upper edge. And she was that: a newcomer. Small as the library was and often as he had come to visit it, Ataya was decently familiar with those who came and went at any regular frequency (which was, surprise surprise, an incredibly limited number), and this girl was certainly new. Too pale to be a native, either. And clean.

Of course, some of the city’s residence kept themselves tidy, but the numbers were frustratingly small, and this one simply had the air of an outsider, as though they carried their inexperience with the landscape — their unease with its grit and heat and underbelly — in an invisible shroud around themselves. Ataya shifted his weight against the floorboards where he’d perched, back to a bookcase, and tilted his head.

“Lost?” he quipped. “The Celestial Plane is about three hundred and fifty paces north to the mid docks and then a day and night’s ship ride east. I hear the libraries are better there anyway. You might have more luck finding what you’re looking for.”

Ataya eyed his unasked for companion. Either she hadn’t appreciated that he’d just none-too-kindly suggested that she remove herself from the library — and the continent — with all due haste, or she had appreciated it and chosen not to take offense. Though the latter seemed more likely given the full contents of her response and the surrounding circumstances, it was a distinctly unusual reaction given virtually all his experiences with fellow Magescians to date. Most leapt at the opportunity to take offense to him even without being provided a reason.

Perhaps her vision was poor and she hadn’t seen him properly yet?

Ataya slipped a thin marker of paper into the section he had read to, closed his book, and shifted it off of his lap before pushing to a stand. After dusting his hands over himself — despite his use, many parts of the library managed to have gathered a seemingly perpetual layer of dust — he took several steps over to her, out of the shadows of the looming bookcases and into the light where there could be no mistaking exactly what he was.

No grimaces, yet. Or scowls. Or even surprise, which was new.

Ataya hummed and notched his head towards the shelf before her, tapping a finger to one of the fatter spines. “Sir Niras, the owner, does not believe in alphabetizing his selection. Or organizing it for that matter, for the most part. Partly because the ‘selection’ spans a great mess of languages, but also because he’s very lazy, and eccentric…and very few come by actually wanting to find anything, regardless.” He assessed the outsider again, and the faint heat to his cheeks informed him that she was very pretty. All smooth edges and rolling blonde hair. He pursed his lips and diverted his gaze. “The selection may be less ‘restricted,’ but that doesn’t make anything more convenient to locate…were you looking for something specific? Or did you come gawk at the more obscure of Taliuma’s residents and hope that any holed up in a library would be less likely to pick your pockets in the process?”

“Mm. I’m fairly certain that he at least thinks he has a system,” Ataya said. “It’s simply executed in a way that makes it a puzzlebox for anyone else to try to find anything…but yes, I do know it. And I might be willing…” He tilted his head. “That would be why I asked if you were looking for anything specific. Though you should know I don’t make a habit of trading favors for nothing. If I’m to spend my time helping you to save yours, I’ll want something in exchange for my efforts.” He eyed her. “Your name, for a start…and one fact that I wasn’t previously aware of, I think, would suffice for now. Knowledge is a valuable thing, after all, and you look like a girl who might know something I don’t…”

“I suspect he doesn’t,” Ataya said. “Likely misplaced the key along with most of his memories over the years, but such is the price of too many years on this earth, I suppose…not that it makes the end result any less tedious for the rest of us.”

Ataya listened as the other prattled off various pieces of information, mentally tucking away those that seemed relevant for future reference. At the mention of a meal, however, he bristled. What did she think he was? A poor mutt, waiting around to exchange favors for scraps? He wasn’t that destitute and he wasn’t looking for pity favors. He didn’t need her coin, either, though — admittedly — the concept of having a few pieces of his own to spend in the market on spell scrolls or perhaps at one of the local bookstores was appealing.

He opened his mouth to argue, but was cut off by her—his final statement. Ataya blinked at his companion, irritation momentarily forgotten and replaced by a mixture of surprise and an undercurrent of vague amusement.

“Male,” he repeated, gaze flicking down the other. “Ismiril.” The name rolled nicely off the tongue, he supposed. Different. Unusual. Likely a dovaa name, but not one he’d ever heard before. “I am Ataya,” he said, after a healthy pause. “Also male, if that happened to be in question, as it often enough seems to be. I’ve managed to survive thirteen winters, since you seemed to find worthy of note, and I was born to a dovaa mother and oblivionite father, just in case you managed to miss that. Despite all appearances, I am well fed and do not trade favors for treats. If you do happen to be passing through tomorrow, however, I might be prone to being helpful again, should the mood strike me, if your company is entertaining and insightful this time around. You will have to be a good bit more specific than that topic wise, however…”

His eyes trailed down the shelves.

“On dragons, what clan? And were you hoping for information on mating, breeding, growth, diet, and pack dynamics? Biology, genetics, skeletal structures, wing builds and role in their given ecosystem? Magic in its application and energy patterns, and the effects of a crushed soul on a body temporarily acquiring its power? Or perhaps histories of dragon raids, hunting, and the cultural significance long standing relevance of dragon souls and the ritual of bringing them before racial leaders as a coming of age ceremony? So far as dovaa are concerned, a time frame would be most helpful…opinions have shifted, over the centuries. At first, of course, you were just strange scaled aliens that brought wild earthen magic with you into a world which had no want, or — in its opinion — need of you at the time. Over the span of the great war, though…”

Ataya shrugged, gaze flicking back to the girl—boy. The boy. Ismiril, he reminded himself.

“I can’t pretend to be an expert on anyone’s opinion but my own, but Sir Niras does love to collect a great…variety of things, if nothing else. One of the library’s few perks. So…” He tapped his fingers to the railing leading down to the lower level, “…where would you like to start? Or shall we play a game where I pick out a book I like somewhere in the vast topic area you presented to me, we fetch it, and you tell me if it pleases you…I have until two hours before sundown.”

Ataya blinked, raising an eyebrow in mild surprise at the heat of the other boy’s first answer — a little more fervent than he expected from him due to his his otherwise, thus far, complacent and largely soft-spoken attitude — but by the end, Atay let it sit, turning his attention instead to the more to-the-point matters that followed. When the dovaa finished speaking, he shrugged.

“It depends to some degree on the text in question,” Ataya answered in response to the ‘borrowing’ query. “Sir Niras is very particular about a select few rarer books in stock, but for the most part the more common ones are free to be taken out and returned on a ‘good faith’ basis — much like with everything else I am fairly certain he does not keep track, but book stealing is not a particularly lucrative business to begin with, and certainly not for most of the volumes gathered here. It helps his cause that a good portion of the residents in Taliuma are illiterate. That said, I have never been here past sundown, so I couldn’t tell you when he locks up for the night.”

He notched his head, silently suggesting the other to follow before starting off past him and down the creaking wooden steps to the main level. There, he started in, scanning the shelves before darting down an aisle beneath a line of scrolls quite literally held in mesh nets overhead. Pausing a quarter of the way in, Ataya squinted and then fetched a stool, climbing atop it to pluck down a sizable but not grossly heavy text, leather bound and still in fairly good condition by comparison to its comrades on either side of it.

“Aliens of the New World: A General History of the Dovaa Ingression is a collaborative work between an oblivionite noble and dovaa scribe. It gives a fairly broad look over the years of the cultural reactions to dovaa with a strong focus on the period when they first arrived with supplements of the centuries to follow, and…” Ataya stepped down, eyeing the middle range shelves, “…The Elementalists is written by an orderite scholar…it’s about a half-century out of date now, but she did her research and provides a fairly solid reference for at least the shifting attitudes of fellow Serenites. What do you typically eat for lunch?”

Ataya watched, passive amusement building silently with each twitch and anxious noise that his companion made on their walk over, apparently fearing for too much interaction between his horns and the netting above. The resulting sight was, in Ataya’s opinion, nothing short of ridiculous. And, as a result, hilarious. Almost enough to encourage a laugh. Instead, something of slanted half-smile edged up onto his mouth and he shook his head.

“Practical, I suppose,” Ataya noted, returning to scanning the shelves passively as he spoke and musing on his own eating habits — or lack thereof, as the case may be, particularly when it came to taking time out for lunch, which always seemed a bother unless forced. “It sounds like a habit my mother would fondly approve of and wish upon me readily. And you are welcome…” His eyes flit to Ismiril, curious. “What would you say is, in your opinion, the most interesting thing you have learned thus far in the study you have set out to do? Or are you only just now embarking…”

However little he wanted to come off as personally ignorant, there was rarely ever any harm, Ataya thought, in asking questions, particularly of strangers. Those of different backgrounds and origins often came with more information than even they realized and answers to questions most conversationalists unfamiliar with said backgrounds wouldn’t think to ask. Not that Ataya thought he knew those questions either, but little was learned if one did not at least begin trying.