VHALAR 68-9, 717
Late evening to early morning at the Rynmere Gazette
Late evening to early morning at the Rynmere Gazette
The origin of the term printer’s diri was not definitively known. There were several competing theories of the phrase’s origin, most of which were centered around the dark associations between magic and the printed word, or the thin line between alchemy and mixing perfect ink, though no one who worked near a printing press across Idalos questioned its use. The most popular origin story was linked to the fanciful belief among printers that a special spirit haunted every print shop, performing mischief such as inverting type, misspelling words, and removing entire lines of completed type. These occurrences were often blamed on a restless spirit, and as time wore on, to a diri of mischief or something worse. The printmaker’s apprentice became an easier scapegoat and substitute source of blame instead of the spiritual plane, and thus came to be called a printer’s diri by association."The second class of spirits, the Diri are far more self-determining and sentient … Familiars and other strange sentient spiritual creatures which prowl Idalos occupy this class … These spirits do not seem to possess a Concept. They have a Charge or Purpose … what ties spirits in this tier is that each has a Purpose for existing. This is not to be confused for the way Diri tend to their domain. While similar on the surface, a Charge or Purpose involves a number of tasks and one goal."
A Spiritual Hierarchy: The Beginner’s Compendium Volume I (First Edition) by Umberto Rios
There was, perhaps, some truth to it all, but most mortals preferred to stay ignorant of the realm beyond what they could feel and what they could touch.
Caius considered the term amusing, and when Basilius Moad, the Gazette’s Master Printer, shouted for him during the pre-dawn breaks while the pair sweat in the stuffy but impressively lit print room of the Rynmere Gazette, he really didn’t mind the short older human calling him that Fates-be-damned worthless diri on occasion. After class and dinner, he’d barely had time for a short walk for Smudge, changing into his stained print clothes and wandering through the familiar, maze-like alleys through mid-town to the Gazette just as the sun was setting. The air was chilly, but for the young Gawyne, an Andaris Vhalar was mild in comparison to home. He didn’t even bring a jacket, though he’d probably be walking home at dawn with frost on the roofs of buildings to greet him.
Flashing a smirk at Reed, Caius noted that Abby and Fern weren’t in the office—either they’d left to find a late evening meal or were chasing a story, he couldn’t tell.
"You’ve got keys, Keys." The dour receptionist replied as if he’d been waiting breaks for the young noble to appear, using his own nickname for the man he didn't bother respecting, though he really just sounded like he was sighing instead of talking. Standing, he nodded a curt farewell and tugged on a long black coat that matched the rest of his all black attire, "Good night, you two."
Abby or Fern would most likely be back sometime in the night with something fresh, something that would need to be set by hand as fast as possible to squeeze into some corner of the Gazette’s pages. The delicacies of making every piece fit together typographically and visually were to Caius the most delicious and yet the most stressful—tiny pieces of metal type coming together one lead bit at a time until an entire page was made readable and perfect.
It toed the line between a masterpiece and a newspaper.
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