"I came to this world in my youth," Nazarchtharin says as he leads Inric below the ground, winding through caverns festooned with stalactites and lit by a light source which Inric can't identify. "The people here are curious and inventive." He pauses at the lip of a pit, and peering over, Inric can see it is lined with books resting on shelves carved from the walls. The crevice extends further than he can see, and reluctantly, he is impressed. "In order to improve my hoard, I have established printing presses in their cities. They send me copies of everything they print." He huffs out a breath. "I visit the presses occasionally, in another guise, and in one city, I discovered a recipe book I did not own. A recipe book responsible for the best confectionery in the city. And yet its owner refuses to share the book, for any price."