With the enlightened realization that Maridah was playing some sort of prank on him, Liam took the executive decision to take Wolf’s advice and enjoy his stay in Doeta a little more than originally intended. Granted, there was a Goddess on the loose who may or may not be plotting to kill him without alerting her brethren in the pantheon, but all things considered, it wasn’t like he could actively do anything about it right now.
Once the meteor fell, though... But that was not going to happen until mid to late autumn.
Thus, he chose to focus on what really mattered: getting a good grasp of the lingering festive spirit. Lunch hour had passed not that long ago, and people were starting to get back to work, hurrying along the final odds and ends of preparation for the celebration that was to start tomorrow (and last for several days).
It was easy to tell which among the stall owners had chosen to wait until the last minute, as regardless of what language they spoke or what species they were, they would always be the ones buzzing around like caffeinated ants.
Guards and citizens wore little beak-like insignias and traipsed about the place, hanging banners and colorful cloth around the main streets. Winged races helped raise ropes to rooftops and high beams, where those of smaller races would help tie things up, while centaur-like or larger ones would find heavy-looking things to move around. Most called out to one another by name, working in small groups, but there was a happy atmosphere about the place, with a fair share of strangers offering a hand when otherwise unoccupied.
By the looks of it, the main road would become the center of the chaos, with the various plazas along its path heavily guarded as some merchants and craftsmen brought in fully loaded wagons. There were too many scents for him to pick up or recognize, and too many tastes teasing his palate.
Here and there he would stumble upon small groups that had secluded themselves into some corner or another away from the hubbub, with mantles or wood planks set down for dancers and musicians to practice their performances. Each of these secret little spaces would draw in children and exhausted parents, finding amusement and cheer in the miniaturized acts, doubly so if someone stumbled and fell.
Maridah’s translation blessing was working overtime.
Everyone shared that Bellemian-adjacent tongue, yet Liam had stumbled onto no less than a dozen others within a few hours. The people here liked to speak in their mother tongue with their fellows, turning to the shared one whenever a stranger showed up. It was easy to recognize the groups this way, and easier still for them to spot newcomers.
A peaceful rhythm had quickly fallen over the city, one that covered a barely contained excitement. The sense of community was obvious, and the way they were collectively looking forward to the events of this year was impossible to miss. Liam’s ears were abuzz with gossip about who might invite whom to dance, or who they thought would win the claw-climb (Liam mentally corrected it to “beak-climb” and refused to bend on that), some shared opinions about politics, but most arguments were over whether this year the Emir would make as grand of a finale as the last.
Although Liam could have just let the blessing rest, he kept rubbing little bits of aether against the back of his neck to supercharge it instead (with his left hand, if he used his right, then his guests would gobble the mana up). There was a bit of a downside in that he was getting a mild headache that was steadily getting worse, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.
And not a drunk in sight, which was a mixed blessing in Liam’s book.
As much as he had created the Caliphate’s culture as a translation and adaptation of something plucked out of “Arabian Nights”, he did feel a little bit of regret at not being able to get some wine or beer to loosen his nerves once he got back to the Amil’s estate. Earth’s religions didn’t exist here, what with the literal pantheon of Gods hanging overhead, but throughout the Caliphate’s history, alcohol never took root like in other parts of the world. The drugs of choice were of other varieties, mostly the sort you could use through a hookah or a pipe, and he was sure he could find that variety easily enough if he looked for it, but he’d never been one for smoking.
On the plus side, the juices were freaking amazing.
Liam homed in on one specific fruit, one shaped between an avocado and a banana, with the coloration of a watermelon. It was called the falovar, and he’d sought out the nearest vendor. The result was something that, despite not having milk, had a creamy texture, with a taste that was made in heaven by melding bacon and maple syrup.
The vendor, a very wise dwarf woman with a scruffy long black beard, had charged him more for the juice as she’d also sold him a very convenient wooden cup. According to the lady, it was customary for people to carry their own cups when buying juices, ones they could quickly wash at the nearest available fountain if necessary. But she’d happily given him the cup when he’d shown the Amil’s token.
Liam suspected she’d likely bloat the receipt, but frankly, he was too happy with his falovar juice to care. Even if she’d charged a whole damn gold coin, he would’ve found it to be a fair trade.
It was just that good.
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In this and this alone did Liam think himself God of this world; it was the one thing that he would proudly claim to be his creation no matter what Maridah might have claimed.
The juice was not just a mere sweet beverage but an experience contained within a cup.
Nay, a revelation that transcended time and space.
It was the answer, the very reason why animators in his world would portray the most divine-looking food to have ever existed. Because it is only when you are starving that you can create the most wickedly mouth-watering creations.
And Liam, trapped as a starving college student, had spent months’ worth of daydreaming and furious typing to create countless menus for the world of Crystal Skylight. Because why limit the cuisine to only a couple of thousand fruits when you had millions of years of selective breeding and literal divine intervention to play around with?
The sky was the limit and by all the Gods, he had soared.
“I think I’m at risk of exploding tomorrow,” he muttered upon drinking his fourth cup.
Mentally, he was already building a catalog of spots of interest, specifically vendors stocking up on fruits, veggies, and meats he couldn’t recognize. He wanted to taste it all, even if it might mean his own demise.
It would be a glorious battle.
“Why would that be?” The voice had whispered right into his ear, and Liam jumped with a shriek, spinning around to face a stranger. A woman, perhaps human, who immediately took a step back, dazzling with an impish smile and a mean grin. “Sorry, I overheard your muttering and couldn’t resist.”
In the moment Liam took to compose himself, he took the chance to glance at the stranger. She looked like something you’d pluck out of a Middle-Eastern fantasy market, with a large black turban that covered the sides of her head and hid her hair, adorned with tiny amber jewelry that tinkled under the moss-light. The rest of her clothes were a strange mix between turban and tunic, with a cinnamon-colored vest adorned in thin silver chains, and white harem pants. But it was her face that caught his attention; it was a mix of features that made it impossible to properly pin down an ethnicity, with skin almost as black as the turban itself and thick brows that might have fit right in with Sub-Saharan Africa, yet creased eyelids that made her eyes appear slanted in an almost Korean-like fashion, and a sharp Greek profile for a nose.
The very first thought that came to mind was that he was looking at a face made up from a composite of faces, smoothed out to fit together. The second one was that her amber eyes likely meant she wasn’t actually human.
“I am Tabrin Ybnu,” she said, clapping her slim hands together and dipping her head slightly in a greeting not customary for the Caliphate but common further south, the smile returning. “You don’t seem to be from around here. I could be your guide if you’d like.”
He tried to form words, but his gaze had fixed on those amber eyes, a sense of familiarity that- “Bunny!?”
The woman’s smile froze in place, immediately turning into a pout. “Just thirty-two words? Really? That’s all it took? This is just not fair, Wolf’s going to hold this one over my head for the next millennium,” she whined, switching to plain English, one with a marginal southern accent.
Bunny didn’t wait an instant to snatch his hand and begin marching down the road, yanking him with far more strength than a human her size had any right to have.
“A bet… wait. Tabrin Ybnu… Bunny rabbit?” He stared at the back of her turban, the shape she’d taken that of a woman almost a full foot shorter than him. “You know you’re still missing a-” He blinked again. “You know English!?”
“Origin knows it; she just stuffed the dumb language into my head, now I know it.”
“How did she…?”
“Ageless old deity with countless years of experience, Goddess of secrets, perfect memory, yada yada.” Bunny spoke in a droll tone, waving her hand around. “Origin was really super smart and took the few hundred words and grammar you taught her for your ‘coded messages’ and worked most of it out.” She grumbled. “There’s also some component that involves psychic intent and mild telepathy to fill in the gaps, but whatever, it’s dumb, because English is dumb, and I will not apologize for botching a few letters in an anagram.”
She made it sound simple, but Liam knew it wasn't the case. Translation needed to get its information from somewhere, you couldn't just magic a spell and call it a "universal translator" and then look at text in an unknown language and suddenly understand it. Psychic-based translators were built around the participants throwing around the intention and impressions of what they meant, and for the receptor to turn that into something intelligible. Meanwhile, Liam's blessing was sourced on Maridah herself, each time he wanted to translate something, he was getting information packets from the deity, with his mind being the one doing the heavy lifting to integrate it. This was a one-way transaction, however, and though she could know what information he was plucking out, she wasn't getting much else out of it.
For Bunny to know enough English to be able to do word-play, the Goddess would have had to use the meager scraps of the language Liam had provided as an easy tool for coded messages and spun it into an entire functional knowledge-base. No doubt, she would use any interactions they had to further expand on it, until there was no need for a psychic component to fill in the gaps.
Liam just blinked. “I’m surprised you even know what an anagram is.”
“I’m older than you! By a lot! I’m old enough I could’ve been the ancestor that spawned your whole species! Of course, I know things.” Bunny let out an irritated squeak.
“Yeah, well, growing older is unavoidable, but maturing and learning is not.”
“I will forgive you for blaspheming against a divine aspect, just this once.” She grumbled, increasing her pace, sandals slapping angrily against the road. “Let’s go get a snack, I found a good place.” She immediately added with a happy bird-like chirping sound.
“But-”
“It’s work-related; otherwise, I wouldn’t be allowed to be anything other than a mug-sized ball of fur. Because Origin says I’m not allowed to have fun during this trip, because it’s all work work work.” She stuck her tongue out at him as she sped up, a spring in her step as she coerced him to either follow or lose his arm. “Spend a few million years in a jungle doing nothing and suddenly now I’m not even allowed to pretend I need sleep.” She tugged him along. “Come on, I got a surprise!”