#Clay Language

[loveandbeyoung]

There are days when I cannot bear softness. Not because I am hard, but because I am real. And reality, at times, grows thorns. Not to wound — but to hold its shape. Sculptural spikes entered my work without asking. They didn’t knock. They appeared — unapologetic, elemental. They came knowing something I hadn’t yet learned: that form can protect without hiding, resist without anger, exist without permission. I don’t create spikes to shock. I shape them because smoothness sometimes lies. Because beauty isn’t always what flatters — sometimes, it’s what confronts you and refuses to explain. There is a deep sensuality in sharpness. Not the erotic kind, not the sentimental kind — but the kind that says: I feel everything, and I will not collapse under the weight of that feeling. Sculptural spikes are not armor. They are language. They are punctuation marks in clay and breath. They say: Here I am. And yes, I might pierce — but only if you come too fast, too careless, too entitled. I don’t need to be soft to be kind. I need to be real. Each spike is a point where I stopped apologizing for my shape. — Natalia #SculpturalSpikes #ContemporarySculpture #OrganicForms #TactileArt #ZurichArtScene #ModernSculpture #TextureMatters #ArtCollectorsWorld #ArtGalleryCurator #AbstractArt #BiomorphicForms

[james-bucky]

Hayden Christensen as Clay Beresford — Awake (2007) dir. Joby Harold

[ijwsgg]

[sandflakedraws]

i hope all hickdory fans out there know that german dub JD is absolutely excellent, one of my favs

here. have a dub highlight reel i made just for y'all

[c-kiddo]

heres my new and fun projection: cad getting very into birding when he's alone but he doesnt know any of the common names and either called them descriptive names (small speckled brown) or something in sylvan his parents call them

[iveseenthatlovebefore]

So I absolutely was NOT going to continue this but then I spiraled because I saw @knine-nights-loves-ac comment of:

"I desperately want to know how Leonardo would try to translate 'skibidi'. Just, what unholy conclusions would this man draw?"

and I—being the deeply cursed and spiritually feral individual that I am—took that as a challenge. A summons. A prophecy.

What followed was not a short answer. It was not even a reasonable answer. (It was, in fact, a tangent of the highest order.) 

And so, I present to you this little blurb of: What Happens When You Say Skibidi in Renaissance Italy

A yet another continuation to my wholly unhinged Assassin's Creed alternate timeline where Desmond, emotionally repressed and cosplaying as Altair in what he assumes is a postmortem death dream, accidentally becomes the cool cryptid stepmom to a flock of murder ducklings. Also, he uses gen alpha slang such as skibidi unironically in field op notes, and now Leonardo da Vinci is trying to linguistically reverse engineer its divine meaning.

There's mentorship. There's an unholy tax-deductible therapy horse. There's emotional support nibbling.

This is my apology (if you're not into this shit.) And also my gift (if you are into this shit.)

See Part 1 here and Part 2 here if you are new to my unhinged fantasies.

-------

Forli smelled. Desmond hadn't expected it to be this bad. It was sharp and wet and sour, like someone had spilled alcohol, barfed on it, and then let it marinate in shame. Ezio hadn't mentioned it in his memories, which now felt deeply suspicious because if this hadn't warranted a comment, then Venezia was going to be a goddamn nightmare.

Desmond wrinkled his nose and muttered, "Maybe I'll just send the kids. They've got stronger lungs."

Still, the city was decent for laying low, and—most importantly—it had good rooftops. Rooftops meant pigeons. Pigeons meant contracts. And contracts meant... well, technically murder.

But also training. Mostly training.

Desmond had already swiped a few light assassination requests from the local coop—nothing high profile. Just the sort of low risk jobs that could be repackaged as 'field experience' for his rapidly growing crew of baby bird recruits. They'd never know he'd nicked them from Ezio's actual network. As far as they were concerned, these were official Brotherhood sanctioned missions.

Which, technically… they kind of were.

Sure, Desmond's forged version of Ezio's handwriting was a little off kilter (writing left handed wasn't doing him any favors) but it got the job done. Lorenzo de' Medici might be a little confused how Ezio was completing Forli missions while in Venezia, but… details.

Right now, though, he had a new recruit to introduce.

"Alright." Desmond said, gesturing toward the little cluster of novices waiting behind the ruined bakery. "This is Isotta. She's fast, quiet, and got a better sense of balance than I do when I'm half-asleep, so treat her well. She's one of you now."

The other recruits—Tommaso, Leonello, Carlo, and Matteo—nodded solemnly.

"Got it, boss." Carlo said, puffing out his chest. "She's fam now."

"Absolutely bussin'." Leonello murmured under his breath.

Desmond blinked. "What?"

"Nothing." The boy beamed. "Welcome, Isotta!"

Isotta gave him a sharp nod, eyes wide with focus—clearly committing every bizarre word and gesture to memory. 

Desmond patted her shoulder, fixed Tommaso's half-buckled belt, and nudged Leonello's hood forward like a mildly exasperated parent trying to get everyone out the door on time. Then he stepped back and gave them a onceover—quiet and methodical. He straightened a sash here, tugged a blade strap tighter there.

They didn't know it yet, but they were going to be Ezio's future crew—part of his future Brotherhood and Desmond wasn't about to hand over a bunch of scruffy, lopsided disaster gremlins who looked like they'd die tripping over a fruit cart.

They needed to look sharp. Capable. Impressive.

(And, well—alive. Preferably alive.)

Only once he was satisfied that no one looked like a walking liability did he nod, stepping back with a hum of approval.

"Alright." Desmond straightened. "I'm going to scout for a location for our base. Somewhere Caterina won't notice a pack of hooded teenagers doing parkour over her olives."

He tossed a heavy coin pouch to Matteo, who caught it with both hands. 

"Allowance." Desmond said dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards from beneath his hood. "Don't spend it all on throwing knives. Or do. Just make sure everyone gets something decent. And make sure Isotta is properly geared up, yeah? I'll check in before dusk."

The irony of it all wasn't lost on him—handing out allowance money and field assignments like a medieval soccer mom, all while cosplaying as Altair like it was a Comic-Con for trauma victims.

Desmond stepped forward, slow and deliberate, making his way down the line of recruits—half inspection, half farewell—and really looked at them.

Matteo clutched the pouch like it was sacred, eyes wide with the solemn weight of command. When Desmond gave him a nod of approval, the man straightened like he'd just been knighted.

Tommaso glanced up, shy and hopeful, then looked away fast like he'd been caught wanting praise. As Desmond passed, he let his good hand brush the kid's shoulder—casual, grounding—and Tommaso immediately went pink. Desmond hid a grin. Even as the most senior of the bunch, the kid was still bashful. It was kind of adorable.

Leonello was still fussing with his bracer, muttering to himself as he practiced the flick of his hidden blade. He'd nearly lost a finger last time, but the motion came smoother now. He cast a quick glance Desmond's way, just a flicker of a look and promptly lit up when Desmond gave an approving hum.

Carlo—taller than Desmond by a head—held his gaze like a soldier waiting for orders. Desmond clapped him lightly on the arm, a brief but grounding gesture, and Carlo exhaled, shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

And then there was Isotta. Chin up and posture straight, she was practically vibrating with the need to prove herself. Young, but not reckless. Raw, but watchful. There was something solid in her—if someone just took the time to hone it.

"You'll do fine." He said to her quietly when he passed.

(He always made sure to say it, at least once, to the ones who showed promise. Not because he was sentimental, but because sometimes, they needed that half-muttered vote of confidence. Something to carry into the next rooftop, the next fight, the next brush with death.)

She blinked, caught off guard. Her stance didn't change, but her expression shifted—eyes warming, mouth parting just slightly, like she'd been seen for the first time.

Desmond stepped back then, surveying the group as a whole—quietly proud, unexpectedly fond, and already regretting it.

He wasn't built for legacy, not like Altair was. Or like Ezio. Desmond was built for survival. 

But these kids? 

He could see it—the way they looked at him. Like he was legacy. Like he knew what the hell he was doing.

Which was ridiculous.

Truthfully, Desmond was just winging it. Half of what he said and did was pulled from vague memories of how an older Ezio trained his recruits in Rome and Constantinople. He wasn't sure he was getting it right. He was mostly playing it by ear and praying Ezio would fine tune the chaos later once he handed the kids off.

He could only do his best, but still—they looked at him like he was someone worth remembering and looking up to and—

Desmond swallowed, looking away.

Great. Now the damn dream wanted him to care. Next it'd be asking him to do taxes or something.

He gave a short nod—half farewell, half please don't die stupidly—and turned to walk Clay toward the street, leading the horse by the reins until they were a safe distance from novice ears and idolizing eyes.

Beside him, Clay—still chewing on someone's abandoned glove like a nihilist with unresolved grudges—sensed Desmond's rising emotional spiral with the uncanny precision of a beast born from pure spite and affection. 

So, he did what any patron saint of unholy emotion support beasts did.

He intervened.

With all the subtlety of a thrown brick, the horse yanked Desmond's hood down, exposing curls and neck like he was revealing a plot twist.

"Clay—" Desmond warned, already bracing but it was too late.

The horse leaned in and exhaled—long, warm, and obnoxiously close to Desmond's now bared skin like a horse who knew exactly where the ticklish bits were—

Desmond twitched, violently. "Don't you—"

—and nibbled.

"Dude!" Desmond yelped, jerking sideways. "That's my neck! You can't just—"

Clay snorted like a creature deeply satisfied with his life choices—and did it again.

"Oh my god, stop!" Desmond half-laughed, half-shouted, twisting away. "Stop, you absolute menace, I'm trying to emotionally repress over here!"

Clay ignored him and began nosing through his curls like an aggressively maternal aunt armed with a trauma radar and zero respect for personal space.

Desmond burst into laughter—real, gasping, undignified laughter. "Okay, okay! I get it." He wheezed, squirming sideways, and swatted him weakly. "Emotions. Bonding. Fine! Just—just stop trying to physically tickle the trauma out of me."

Clay gave a mighty snort, dropped the glove like a mic, and nudged Desmond firmly in the ribs as if to say, I helped! Now say you love me back, coward.

"You're the neediest horse I've ever met." Desmond said, still breathless with leftover laughter. "Okay, okay, fine. Love you too, Clay. You unholy tax-deductible therapy beast."

Clay sneezed and resumed gnawing the glove, smug and satisfied.

Desmond shook his head, grinning helplessly as he tugged his hood back into place. The smile lingered—small, reluctant, and stupidly fond. He was about to mount up when a voice called out—

"Wait!"

He looked over his shoulder.

Isotta had jogged forward, breathless but clearly determined. "Um, Master Spettro? Before you leave, I just wanted to ask, ah…" 

Behind her, the rest of the ducklings were catching up, trailing at a totally casual distance with the guilty coordination of teens who were definitely not eavesdropping. 

Desmond waited until she collected her thoughts. 

She hesitated, clearly unsure how to phrase it, before blurting, "What's… skibidi?"

Desmond blinked once. Then again as if he hadn't heard right. "Huh?"

"I found one of your notes." She said, sheepish. "It said, Skibidi if heat hits. Prophet's got eyes."

The rest of the novices immediately straightened, looking at Desmond like baby ducks watching their mother cross a river.

"Oh, that." Desmond scratched the back of his neck. "It means… y'know." He waved his good hand vaguely. "To, uh. Skedaddle. Get out of dodge. Move fast. Evade. Flourish, if you're fancy about it."

Which, to be fair, was probably wrong. He'd only heard it once—muttered by a half-drunk college kid back at the Bad Weather just before they tripped over a curb and in Desmond's brain, the term had slotted itself right next to 'skedaddle.' It sounded right. So he used it. Liberally.

(If he was wrong, well… too late now.)

"You'll figure it out." Desmond added, back turned and already climbing into the saddle. "Just make it sound cool. I guess."

(Behind him, the recruits exchanged reverent nods like disciples receiving a parable.

"So that's what that means." Carlo whispered. 

"He's so goated." Leonello breathed as Tommaso frantically scribbled down definitions in their rapidly expanding Codex: 

"bussin" - exceptionally good, elite, possibly food-related, outfits "heat" - incoming danger, possibly literal fire?? (note: to test later) "skibidi" - flee, flourish, dramatically escape with flair (urgency implied)

Isotta leaned over Tommaso's shoulder, eyes wide with awe, mouthing the words as he wrote them. She didn't know what 'goated' meant just yet, but if that was what Spettro was, then she would. She had to.)

Desmond leaned down from the saddle to check Clay's reins—then paused, sweeping his gaze one last time over the little cluster of hooded chaos gremlins he'd somehow adopted.

"Stay sharp." He said finally. "Watch each other's backs and…please don't set anything on fire." Desmond grimaced. "Again." 

The novices—all except Isotta—winced in unison.

(Last week, they'd taken 'low-key fire' as a literal instruction. They were still arrest-on-sight and banned from the tailor stand. And the bakery. And technically, most of the western side of Florence.) 

Desmond sighed through his nose—long-suffering, yes, but fond. His little murder ducklings were sharp. Focused. Surprisingly coordinated, considering two of them had tried to poison each other last week just to see who would pass out first, but they were improving. They'd survive. Maybe even thrive. 

His eyes lingered on his ragtag group of baby assassins a second longer than necessary.

They'd come far.

(Not far enough to stop lighting things on fire, apparently, but still. Far.)

He exhaled, a bit of tension bleeding off his shoulders and then he tapped Clay into motion. 

Behind him, the novices waved with varying degrees of enthusiasm—some with both hands, others already vaulting up walls, disappearing onto rooftops like caffeinated squirrels on a time sensitive mission. Someone whooped. Someone else immediately told them to shut up and be stealthy. It was unclear who was winning the race to the blacksmithy, but yelling about it probably wasn't helping.

Desmond smiled, shaking his head like an exasperated PTA parent who knew the next parent-teacher conference would include arson charges and encouraged Clay into a trot, heading deeper into Forli. Spirits high, hopes cautiously intact, and with the vague, desperate wish that somewhere in this town was a potential assassin's den no one had pissed in yet, Desmond rode off, blissfully unaware that several regions and one very bad idea away, Leonardo da Vinci was in the process of rewriting his entire understanding of language around the sacred word, skibidi.

----------

The note had been written in a shaky scrawl with splotchy ink. The words were slanted slightly wrong and the strokes jagged, like the writer had been in a rush... or possibly concussed. Ezio had lifted it off one of Spettro's newest recruits the moment he spotted the familiar style—uneven spacing, odd cadence, and just enough cryptic nonsense to make it feel intentional. Almost as if the writer had gone out of their way to be untraceable. It just screamed Spettro. 

Or maybe it was the pigeon that gave it away.

Ugly thing—one eye, crooked wing, waddling like it'd taken an arrow to the foot, but Ezio had seen it before. Wherever that cursed bird went, Spettro's notes (and his rotating band of unhinged rugrats) weren't too far behind.

So when he burst into Leonardo's workshop, note in hand, he slapped it onto the worktable with all the might of a man bringing proof of the divine.

"Leonardo." Ezio said gravely, voice low. "I require a translation."

Leonardo looked up from his latest design of a flying cart, completely unfazed by Ezio's arrival. "Another Codex page?"

Ezio didn't respond.

Leonardo perked up. "Wonderful!" He snatched up the parchment with the enthusiasm of a man unbothered by context. "Let's see—"

He unfolded the note.

skibidi off the rooftops @ dusk. real op incoming. ur 4v4 on thin ice. don't fumble. Prophet watching.

There was a long beat of silence. Leonardo's expression shifted from bright expectation, flattening into confusion, and then furrowing concern.

He read it again.

And again, slower this time.

Then he looked up, cautious. "...Skibidi." He echoed, mouth twisting. "That term again. I remember seeing it once before—but this usage feels different. Is the author escalating… or deteriorating?"

"It's from Spettro." Ezio said, as if that explained everything. 

Which, of course, it did.

Leonardo's concern deepened instantly. "Ah. Of course." He turned the note slightly, squinting. "The script is shaky. Spaced erratically. This could be a distress signal. A cipher, perhaps. Or a regional dialect?"

Ezio watched as Leonardo pulled a spare parchment paper, quill moving erratically as he began testing variations:

Schi biddi? – Venetian? Sciabidi? – Rural Turkish diminutive? Skibi di? – Possible abbreviation for secret rendezvous?

"Or perhaps an onomatopoeic expression." Leonardo murmured, tapping the table with a finger in rhythm. "'Ski-bi-di.' It has a cadence. Like a chant—or perhaps a song?" He hummed it experimentally, half under his breath, as if testing for tonal patterns before he nodded slowly, then rapidly. "Yes… yes, I can hear it." 

Ezio gave him a tired look. "You think they're singing battle orders?"

"I wouldn't rule it out. You've said this Spettro is…" Leonardo searched for the phrase. "...unconventional."

The assassin dropped into a nearby chair with a sigh. "They describe threats as 'mid' and call each other 'bussin.' I do not know if these are insults or terms of endearment."

Leonardo blinked. Then… something shifted. His frown was replaced by a spark of interest. "So it is a code. Brief. Emotive. Improvised. A linguistic evolution."

Ezio squinted. "It is… nonsense."

Leonardo ignored him entirely, now scribbling furiously. "And the '4v4'—a challenge of some kind? Like four against four? An encoded call to arms. Or…or a structured format—an assignment style, even. It's remarkable."

"That or a metaphor. Spettro's people speak almost entirely in riddles." Ezio muttered. "And now they are everywhere. I caught one cartwheeling across rooftops yesterday."

"Yes! Yes, of course they would. It's a performative language. Ritualistic. Almost liturgical in structure. See how it builds? Skibidi—a flourish. Real op incoming—a declaration. Don't fumble—a directive. And all of it under surveillance. The 'Prophet' watching—perhaps Specttro himself? Or a commander. Ezio, this is brilliant!"

"Brilliant." Ezio echoed dully.

Leonardo nodded enthusiastically, already pulling spare parchment toward himself with manic glee. "This Spettro isn't merely collecting assassins—he's constructing a dialect. No, a linguistic system. Alive. Elastic. Capable of abstraction and emotional nuance. This note is shorthand, Ezio. Shorthand for an entire culture!"

Ezio blinked. "It's five lines."

"Five perfect lines." Leonardo was scribbling furiously now, underlining 'skibidi' again and again, testing spellings and phonetic variations in the margins. "Look at it! 'Skibidi'—what does it sound like? A percussive burst! Three syllables. Staccato. Performative! Not just a word—an act. An energy. Repeated use may suggest ritual or emphasis. Or even a rallying cry."

"Rallying cry." Ezio deadpanned. 

"It fits their patterns. Brief. Rhythmic. Possibly humiliating to their enemies." Leonardo clapped for emphasis. "Ski. Bi. Di. You hear it, yes?"

Ezio did not, but Leonardo was already pacing.

"It could be an imperative—Skibidi! Like 'Go!' Or a signal—Skibidi off the rooftops—like a military code, only more elegant. It's fluid. It implies motion. Could be a dodge. Could be a dance." 

"Could be made up." Ezio muttered.

Leonardo didn't even hear him. "And if it's made-up? That makes it better! It means it was invented! Forged for purpose!"

Ezio stared, horrified, as Leonardo drew an entire branching diagram with skibidi in the center.

"I'll need a few more samples." Leonardo muttered, eyes darting, a wild light in his eyes. "We'll categorize them. Establish a lexicon." 

He shuffled through the mess on his table, then lit up. "Wait—didn't you bring another one last week? The one that said, 'skibidi'd too hard. had to dip. stay goated.'"

Ezio winced. "I tried to forget it."

Leonardo slapped the table. "You see?! There—right there! The verb form—skibidi'd. Past tense. It's already evolving, Ezio! We're witnessing it in real time!"

Ezio blinked. "You're saying the nonsense is… contagious?"

"I'm saying it's alive!" Leonardo declared, grabbing another sheet and writing: 

 skibidi (verb?): to depart swiftly / to act with flair / to embarrass authority?? Perhaps synonymous to 'slay' (see pg. 4)

in frantic script. 

"It adapts depending on context. It shifts. What meant 'move' yesterday might mean 'strike' tomorrow!" He paused, wide-eyed. "This language is faster than Latin. It could replace it."

Ezio buried his face in his hands. "You cannot be serious."

Leonardo returned to his parchment, now completely possessed. "We must document this. Before it evolves again. The next note—please bring it immediately. I need to chart semantic drift."

Ezio stared, defeated.

Leonardo just beamed. "Isn't it fascinating?"

"No." Ezio said flatly. "It's exhausting."

He took the scroll back with a sigh and left the workshop, muttering something about rabid pigeons and the slow death of written Italian.

Behind him, Leonardo called out from the door, "If he uses 'skibidi' again, tell him I'm willing to correspond directly! There is much to learn!"

Ezio didn't answer, but later that night, when he passed the merchant quarter and heard two children yelling "Skibidi!" while chasing each other in circles, he frowned… and wrote it down. 

Just in case.

[highbrasshighkass]

caduceus to his dad: yeah you'll like my friends, they're really weird

also caduceus: i hope i get to bury them in our graveyard, they would make good tea :)

[bucephaly]

Love having the desire to Do Shit but just no motivation or drive so im sitting here switching apps instead of doing anything meaningful

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

oh, so when ai wei wei breaks an old ass urn he's a "bold conceptual artist," but when I, hegemon king xiang yu--

[quietwingsinthesky]

thinks about transfem desmond figuring that out while in her animus coma + thinks about 'what if desmond did let clay take a ride out in her body in revelations' + thinks about desmond fresh with the knowledge of who she is but barely in a situation to be that person, because when she's in the animus, he's someone else, and when she's out of the animus, she's treated more like bill's son than she is like desmond miles. and thinks about clay in her head being the only person she's really got on her side. flawed about it, sure, but never faltering. sometimes the only voice in her head that can remind her of who she is.

[claitea]

ZA MENTIONED

[racke7]

A non-historian weighing in on the wine-dark sea

I think one of the things often overlooked in "the wine-dark sea"-discussions is that it's not just about language, I feel like it might also be about wine.

I'm not exactly an expert on these things, but like... wine being stored in glass bottles? New invention. Wine-glasses? Even newer.

Looking into it briefly, there were basically two ways to store wine. Either in pottery, or in barrels. I'd guess that pottery was the favored option, but it's hard to say for sure (barrels are more likely to decompose than pottery).

(Clay is probably cheaper than good wood for barrel-making. But clay needs to be burnt in furnaces, so wood-fuel would still be a problem.)

The main reason I bring this up is because it wouldn't at all be surprising to me for almost everyone at the time to have access to a barrel of wine somewhere.

(But even a clay-vessel would probably have... if not entirely the same experience, similar enough not to be entirely disjointed.)

And the thing about a barrel like that? You can't really expect it to be anything fancy, with a spigot or anything. It'd be easier and more efficient to simply open it up from the top.

(Especially if you're an army, filled with a great many men who can plausibly drink an entire barrel in a single evening.)

Combine that knowledge with the likelihood that most such barrels would be kept in the shade (putting your drinking-liquid in the sun is just going to stop you from having drinking-liquid), and you'll quickly realize that any wine in that barrel? Dark.

As in, not just "dark red" but rather "I can only see that there is liquid in there because it's moving". Because barrels don't let light through, and that much non-water liquid in one place will already be making it incredibly opaque.

So now you have a mysterious, dark liquid sloshing around in your barrel, and part of why you might see it is that it superimposes a darkness over the slightly brighter edges of the barrel.

Then you look out towards the dark sea, so black that it steals away any light the night might give you. And ask yourself, is wine-dark not an excellent descriptor?

[nevilles-insinuations]

Down bad for Clay Spenser once more. Might to start writing for him again

[phantom-of-notre-dame]

After years of searching I finally found the Kazakh production of Notre Dame de Paris on YouTube yesterday. Six languages down, three to go (I still need to find Flemish, Korean, and Polish).

[blueiscoool]

3,800-Year-Old Cuneiform Clay Tablet Found in Turkey

Archeologists have discovered a 3,800-year-old cuneiform clay tablet in southern Turkiye during restoration work after the massive earthquakes in the region earlier this year, Anadolu reported today.

Murat Akar, an archeology professor at Hatay Mustafa Kemal University, said a 25-member team found the clay tablet with cuneiform inscription in Akkadian language in nearly 4,000-year-old Accana tumulus in the southern Hatay province.

The Kahramanmaras-centred twin earthquakes on 6 February, which caused great destruction in Hatay, also affected the historical site, which was determined to be the location of Alalakh, the capital of the Mukish Kingdom during the Middle and Late Bronze Age periods.

Restoration and protection work have started with the leadership of the Turkish Culture and Tourism Ministry to repair the damages on some parts of the ruins of palace walls, Akar said.

As part of the study, the team that removed the rubble of the walls found a clay tablet among the ruins.

The first examination of the tablet in Akkadian language revealed information containing an agreement made by Yarim-Lim, the first known king of Alalakh, to purchase another city.

Akar said the tablet is not damaged and the finding was “so exciting.”

“It proves to us that those kings had the economic power and potential to buy another city in those times. There is also the name of the important people of the city who witnessed this sale on the tablet, most likely,” he added.

“The work came out as an extremely unique example, especially to decipher the economic structure of that period, the relationship between cities, the economic and political model,” Akar said.

The tablet will be transferred to a museum after the examinations, the head of the restoration team said.

[crescentmp3]

worldbuilding. building the world. spinning it in my mind, if you will