The ojaria, or oja bar, doesn't see as much use as it once did. Native Muskaptilians are fewer, and immigrants do not always care for oja. But it remains, for the ones who still want it, for the ones who are old enough or have a bit of coin to spare.

    Oja is a gourd, native to Muskaptilo. It is a drink, it is a tea, it is something to burn or something to chew. The gourd can be dried and dyed, turned into a vessel out which the tea can be enjoyed; or else it can be shaved off, turned thin or brittle or into a paste to be consumed. In its natural state, it is extraordinarily bitter; tea is graded on the amount of honey a person prefers to be added to theirs, some enjoying theirs so thick it can barely be sipped through the filtered straw.

    It is not a hallucinogen and it is not addictive, except perhaps in the way that all pleasant things can be addictive. It is relaxing, can be used as a sleep aid or a pain reliever, and some say it makes food taste better. This may only be because the oja itself tastes so awful. Tea from a gourd is common in evenings, and when it is smoked it is usually through a waterpipe, all blown glass and silver. More delicate constitutions prefer it as incense, but that is much less common.

    Fatima Anoja was a dancer, when she was young. She and her mishtara did poetry readings at the ojaria, and they were a marvel to watch. She is older, now, and her mishtara is dead, and she will not dance nor recite without him.

    A gourd of tea is three coppers, a full pipe five, and honey trifles can be had for a copper apiece. There are stools at the counter, but most sit at the short-legged tables that fill the room, embroidered cushions on which to sit that may be rearranged at a whim. There are other kinds of tea, and it was once the most popular way to while away the long and rainy nights, to order a pot of tea and a pipe for the table to chat about nothing for hours.

    A few still do. But the ojaria is as much a hobby as a business, these days, and Fatima is always happy to see her regulars.

    The island is Muskaptilo. The people are Muskaptilians.

    It is pronounced, properly, as Moo-skop-tea-yo.

    It is a rocky island, and rocks in the surrounding ocean make it impossible for a ship of any great size to reach the shores. The only way to bring a large number of people to Muskaptilo is with an airship - and there is only one person known who has one of those. The Pirate Queen Circe is, for most people, the only way in and out of Muskaptilo. For those who don't care to ride aboard the Dragonstar, there are always smaller ships going in and out, usually filled with scholars or diplomats.

    Muskaptilo is an island nation founded by intellectual refugees who will not speak of the country which cast them out. Witches and sorcerers, they were called, and now the native population - South Asian, primarily - is dwindling. Circe is doing her best to bring in new blood, but an island which rains 75% of the time can be a hard sell.

    The current King of Muskaptilo is also the Royal Librarian. He misses the days when he was only the latter. On an island that built itself on intellect and spite, the library is the grandest feature, and is held as its greatest prize. The Royal Library is open to everyone, and makes up the majority of the floorspace in the castle, though it is mostly underground.

    The agriculture of Muskaptilo is based mostly around a unique local variant of breadfruit, and goats. There are more goats on Muskaptilo than people, climbing goats with curling ram's horns and itchy wool, and their meat and milk are staples of the local diet. Clams and urchins are a popular snack, and dinner is usually some form of curry hot enough to chase away the chill.

    Some say there are mermaids in the waters of Muskaptilo. Others say there are only sharks. The answer may be somewhere in between, with women grey-skinned and sharp-toothed, women whose songs are screeched and hissed.