#Brass Fuse Contacts

[saryuindustries]

Choosing the Right Brass Cable Gland: A Guide to Performance and Durability

Selecting the right Brass Cable Gland is critical for preserving the safety, performance, and lifespan of electrical systems. Known for their strength, corrosion resistance, and precision, Brass Electrical Parts, including cable glands, are essential in both residential and industrial applications. At Saryu Industries, we provide premium Brass Electrical Components that fulfill a variety of project requirements.

Factors to Consider When Choosing Brass Cable Glands

Durability and Material Quality

High-quality Brass Cable Glands resist corrosion and wear make them appropriate for severe settings.

Precision in manufacturing ensures secure and long-lasting cable connections.

Compatibility

Ensure the gland fits your specific cable type and size for maximum performance.

Components like Brass Nut, Brass Screw, and Brass Terminals complement cable glands for a seamless installation.

Application Requirements

For high-load systems, pair glands with Brass Neutral Links and Brass Fuse Contacts to ensure safety.

Customizable solutions such as Brass Strip and Brass Sheet Cutting Socket Parts cater to specialized needs.

Benefits of Choosing Saryu Industries

Comprehensive Solutions: Beyond cable glands, we provide a wide range of Brass Electrical Parts like Brass Ceiling Roses and terminals.

Precision Engineering: Every component is designed for reliability and performance, ensuring flawless integration into your systems.

Trusted Expertise: As industry leaders, we prioritize durability and innovation in all our brass products.

Trust Saryu Industries for high-performance Brass Cable Glands and components, ensuring reliable and durable connections in every application.

[clonedchaos]

𝔐𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔐𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰- 𝔇𝔞𝔶 14: 𝔖𝔱𝔢𝔞𝔪

Summary:

What's hiding in the steam?

Rating: G/PG

<- Previous Part Next Part ->

You pause. Sweat beaded at the top of your brow. It was miserable in the boiler room. Steam puffed out of one of the cylindrical vessels, illuminated by the flashlight you had brought with you.

Just what was the purpose of having a boiler room in this studio anyways? They didn’t have any water. Heat and electricity were the only plus, which is why you had decided to venture out of your hideout. The lights had blinked out, and the closest fuse box was stationed somewhere in this room— according to a map you had stolen from the city.

You take a step. The wood creaked. Steam screamed out of the pipes like a tea kettle. You jump.

You need to be on guard. Who knows what was lurking down here? You angle your flashlight to get a better look at the path in front of you. Several boilers were lined up in a row, wires and tubes snaking across the ground.

You head forward, eyes scanning the walls for the breaker. Time was ticking. The longer you stay out, the greater chance you’ll get caught.

Steam hissed out of a pipe to your left. Gears clicked in the darkness. Something shuffled at the edge of the light. You quickly direct the flashlight towards its direction. Nothing.

You swallow down your growing unease and kept going. The fuse box was just up ahead. All you had to do was fix it... however long that would take.

A chitter and scuttle sounded to your left. You turn the flashlight. Again, nothing.

When you turned back around, a spider with sharpened daggers for legs and a wide, gaping maw sat perched across the fuse box. One of its feet dug into the metal, sparks leaping out of the exposed wires underneath.

Your grip slipped and you dropped the flashlight. The sound of glass shattering was deafening. The lights went out, plunging your world into darkness.

The arachnid chittered, making your skin crawl. You turn on your heel and run, fighting your way through the darkness. Your shoulder rammed into a boiler, heat racing up your upper arm. You scream and stagger to the side, wrapping your hand around the throbbing burn.

A rapid succession of taps hit the grated floor. Something sharp jabbed you in the side, followed by ominous chirrups.

Your adrenaline pushed you forward, ignoring the now bleeding laceration on your rib cage. You fought past obstacles, never missing a beat as you felt around for the exit. At this point you had bruised your shins and singed your fingers more than once. The pain hadn’t quite registered yet, or at the very least it wasn’t at the forefront of your mind. 

You rammed into a wall. The impact had you slightly seeing stars, while your fingers grazed past its surface. There was a gap to your right and you could just barely make out what could be a door frame. Aha, finally!

The spider hissed. One of its knife-like feet caught you in the leg. Well, it was now or never.

You unhook the axe attached to your waist and bring it down in an arc. The weapon made contact with something thick, like bone. The spider screamed.

Heart pounding in your chest, you lunged for the door and felt around for its handle. The moment your fingers grazed the brass handle, you pushed it closed. A weight pushed back on the other side, stalling you. In the dim light, you could see one of the spider’s legs sticking out into the hall. It didn’t seem to get the hint, hmm?

You dug in your heels and fought to keep the spider at bay as you sliced again with the axe. The spider retreated with another mournful cry as you slam the door shut.

Finally, you sank to the floor. Your heart gradually began to ease as your body ached with pain and exhaustion. Well, that plan was a bust. There’s no way in hell you were going back in there just to flick on some lights.

You would have to head to one of the lower levels if you wanted proper shelter and power. Perhaps you could rummage around for some gauze and bandages. Injuries in this studio were practically a death sentence. And you weren’t ready to die.

[kaashusa1]

The Perfect Accessory: How Gold Plated Rings Add Glamour to Any Outfit

Are you tired of the same old boring accessories that do nothing to elevate your style? Well, it's time to add a touch of glamour and opulence to your outfits with the perfect accessory - gold plated rings! These stunning pieces not only exude an air of luxury, but they also have the power to transform any outfit from ordinary to extraordinary.

Whether you're dressing up for a special occasion or simply want to add some sparkle to your everyday look, join us as we dive into the world of gold rings and discover how they can effortlessly amp up your fashion game.

Introduction to Gold Plated Rings 

Gold plated rings stand as shimmering symbols of elegance and versatility in the world of gold plated jewelry. These exquisite pieces fuse the luxurious allure of gold with affordability, offering a brilliant alternative to solid gold rings. Created by bonding a thin layer of gold onto a base metal, such as sterling silver or brass, rings boast the radiant charm of gold while catering to a variety of styles and budgets. 

Whether adorned with intricate designs, set with dazzling gemstones, or crafted in minimalist elegance, these rings encapsulate a balance between opulence and practicality. Join us in exploring the enchanting world of gold rings, where sophistication meets accessibility, and each piece tells a story of grace and glamour.

Benefits of Choosing Gold Plated Rings over Solid Gold Rings

Opting for gold plated rings present a host of advantages that resonate with both style-conscious individuals and savvy shoppers. Beyond the undeniable allure of their golden sheen, gold rings offer an affordable yet equally stunning alternative to solid gold. Their cost-effectiveness allows for access to luxurious designs without compromising on quality. 

Additionally, these rings offer versatility, as they can be fashioned in various intricate designs, adorned with gemstones, or crafted into unique styles, catering to diverse tastes. Moreover, their composition, with a base metal coated in a thin layer of gold, ensures durability and resistance to tarnishing, making them ideal for everyday wear. 

How to Care for Rings

Preserving the lustrous beauty of gold rings requires gentle care and attention. To maintain their brilliance, avoid exposing these delicate pieces to harsh chemicals, such as perfumes or household cleaners, which can cause the gold plating to deteriorate. When not worn, store your rings separately in a soft pouch or lined box to prevent scratches and minimize contact with other gold plated jewelry. 

Clean them regularly with a soft cloth, lightly dampened with mild soap and water, to remove dirt or oils accumulated from daily wear. Remember to pat them dry thoroughly to prevent water spots or tarnishing. With proper care and a little attention, your rings will retain their captivating shine and beauty for years to come.

Styling Tips: How to Wear Gold Plated Rings with Different Outfits

Elevating your ensemble with the charm of gold rings involves a subtle art of accessorizing. For a casual daytime look, opt for a single delicate gold-plated ring paired with jeans and a simple blouse, adding a touch of understated elegance. To accentuate an evening outfit, stack multiple thin gold-plated bands or statement rings for a bold yet sophisticated statement. 

Experiment with mixing metals or combining your gold plated rings with other gold plated jewelry pieces for a trendy, eclectic flair. When accessorizing formal attire, choose a standout gold-plated cocktail ring to complement an elegant dress or evening gown. Remember, versatility is key—these rings effortlessly transition from everyday chic to glamorous evenings, adding a touch of shimmer and sophistication to any outfit.

Popular Types of Rings (Stackable, Statement, etc.)

Gold rings come in a delightful array of styles, each adding its own distinct charm to accessorizing. Stackable rings, with their slender bands and minimalist designs, offer versatility and the freedom to mix and match, creating personalized combinations. 

Statement rings captivate attention with their bold presence, adorned with intricate details or embellished with eye-catching gemstones, making them perfect for adding a touch of glamour to any outfit. Signet rings, with their timeless appeal, boast classic designs often adorned with engraved motifs or personalized initials, adding a touch of sophistication to both casual and formal looks. 

Affordable Options: Where to Buy Quality Rings

When it comes to finding quality yet affordable rings, several options abound for the discerning shopper. Trusted online jewelry retailers often feature a wide selection of these elegant pieces at competitive prices. Platforms like Etsy, Amazon, or dedicated jewelry websites offer a range of designs, allowing you to explore various styles and prices from the comfort of your home. Additionally, consider local jewelry stores or boutique shops that specialize in affordable fashion accessories. 

Conclusion:

Gold plated rings are stunning and affordable gold plated jewelry. They blend elegance with everyday wear. You can find different styles—from simple bands to fancy designs—perfect for any outfit. Take care of them, and they'll keep shining for ages, adding a timeless touch to your look. You can get these beautiful rings online, at local stores, or at artisan markets. They're not just budget-friendly; they add a special charm to your style effortlessly. Embrace these radiant accessories and make them your go-to for everyday grace.

Follow-Up Questions

Q: What types of bracelets are popular in the wholesale market?

A: Popular wholesale bracelet categories include beaded bracelets, leather cuffs, charm bracelets, and those with religious or spiritual themes. Trends may vary, so it's essential to stay updated on current styles.

Q: Are religious bracelets just for adults, or can children wear them too?

A: Religious bracelets are suitable for all ages! They can be adapted for children with kid-friendly designs, serving as gentle reminders of faith and values.

[readerbookclub]

Foodie - September Book List

This month’s list is all about food! In all of these novels, food plays a central role in the story or character’s lives. As a foodie myself, I’m really excited about these books! I hope you like them too :)

As always, please vote for which of these books we should read. Link is at the bottom of this post. 

And on to the books...

Cinnamon and Gunpowder, by Eli Brown

The year is 1819, and the renowned chef Owen Wedgwood has been kidnapped by the ruthless pirate Mad Hannah Mabbot. He will be spared, she tells him, as long as he puts exquisite food in front of her every Sunday without fail. To appease the red-haired captain, Wedgwood gets cracking with the meager supplies on board. His first triumph at sea is actual bread, made from a sourdough starter that he leavens in a tin under his shirt throughout a roaring battle, as men are cutlassed all around him. Soon he’s making tea-smoked eel and brewing pineapple-banana cider. But Mabbot—who exerts a curious draw on the chef—is under siege. Hunted by a deadly privateer and plagued by a saboteur hidden on her ship, she pushes her crew past exhaustion in her search for the notorious Brass Fox. As Wedgwood begins to sense a method to Mabbot’s madness, he must rely on the bizarre crewmembers he once feared: Mr. Apples, the fearsome giant who loves to knit; Feng and Bai, martial arts masters sworn to defend their captain; and Joshua, the deaf cabin boy who becomes the son Wedgwood never had.

Quentins, by Maeve Binchy

Is it possible to tell the story of a generation and a city through the history of a restaurant? Ella Brady thinks so. She wants to film a documentary about Quentins that will capture the spirit of Dublin from the 1970s to the present day. And Quentins has a thousand stories to tell: tales of love, of betrayal, of revenge; of times when it looked ready for success and times when it seemed as if it must close in failure. But as Ella uncovers more of what has gone on at Quentins, she begins to wonder whether some secrets should be kept that way...

Sourdough, by Robin Sloan

Lois Clary is a software engineer at General Dexterity, a San Francisco robotics company with world-changing ambitions. She codes all day and collapses at night, her human contact limited to the two brothers who run the neighborhood hole-in-the-wall from which she orders dinner every evening. Then, disaster! Visa issues. The brothers close up shop, and fast. But they have one last delivery for Lois: their culture, the sourdough starter used to bake their bread. She must keep it alive, they tell her—feed it daily, play it music, and learn to bake with it. Lois is no baker, but she could use a roommate, even if it is a needy colony of microorganisms. Soon, not only is she eating her own homemade bread, she’s providing loaves daily to the General Dexterity cafeteria. The company chef urges her to take her product to the farmer’s market, and a whole new world opens up. When Lois comes before the jury that decides who sells what at Bay Area markets, she encounters a close-knit club with no appetite for new members. But then, an alternative emerges: a secret market that aims to fuse food and technology. But who are these people, exactly?

The Kitchen Daughter, by Jael McHenry

After the unexpected death of her parents, painfully shy and sheltered 26-year-old Ginny Selvaggio seeks comfort in cooking from family recipes. But the rich, peppery scent of her Nonna’s soup draws an unexpected visitor into the kitchen: the ghost of Nonna herself, dead for twenty years, who appears with a cryptic warning (“do no let her…”) before vanishing like steam from a cooling dish. A haunted kitchen isn’t Ginny’s only challenge. Her domineering sister, Amanda, (aka “Demanda”) insists on selling their parents’ house, the only home Ginny has ever known. As she packs up her parents’ belongings, Ginny finds evidence of family secrets she isn’t sure how to unravel. She knows how to turn milk into cheese and cream into butter, but she doesn’t know why her mother hid a letter in the bedroom chimney, or the identity of the woman in her father’s photographs. The more she learns, the more she realizes the keys to these riddles lie with the dead, and there’s only one way to get answers: cook from dead people’s recipes, raise their ghosts, and ask them.

Five Quarters of the Orange, by Joanne Harris

When Framboise Simon returns to a small village on the banks of the Loire, the locals do not recognize her as the daughter of the infamous Mirabelle Dartigen - the woman they still hold responsible for a terrible tragedy that took place during the German occupation decades before. Although Framboise hopes for a new beginning she quickly discovers that past and present are inextricably intertwined. Nowhere is this truth more apparent than in the scrapbook of recipes she has inherited from her dead mother. With this book, Framboise re-creates her mother's dishes, which she serves in her small creperie. And yet as she studies the scrapbook - searching for clues to unlock the contradiction between her mother's sensuous love of food and often cruel demeanor - she begins to recognize a deeper meaning behind Mirabelle's cryptic scribbles. Within the journal's tattered pages lies the key to what actually transpired the summer Framboise was nine years old.

Please vote for our next read here.

[jawllines]

“You’re really gonna go in there?” Y/N queries gently, and Harry only nods his head in response, reaching for the door handle. An urgent, delicate touch of Y/N’s hand startles him, looping around his wrist and dragging his attention toward her, “Shouldn’t we have a game plan if something is behind the door?” She asks, her hold on him tightening just a little, and Harry notes how soft her palm feels against his skin, “Like, let’s say we open the door and a behemoth is standing there, what do we do?”

“The only behemoth that could fit in this tiny room is the band from Poland, Babe, and I reckon they have better things to do on a Thursday night,” he retorts, clenching around the knob and tilting it down, “Now unless you want to hold hands in there. . .”

She lets go before he can finish, and he doesn’t have to look back at her face to know she’s irate. A small smile quirks at his mouth as he pushes his shoulder against the heavy door to aid him opening it, bracing himself to see something potentially horrid. . .

And there’s nothing.

or

Harry and Y/N are witches, they hate each other, and something’s coming

19K+ words

(A/N: Hiii!! So, I’ll be honest I know absolutely nothing about real witches at all, so what is in this story is not fact! it’s just an AU and doesn’t speak toward any of my real witches out there unless i accidentally got some things right. Happy reading, I really liked writing these guys I hope you like them just as much!!)

i.

It was dark. 

Both in the state of the sky and the feeling that slithered through Y/N’s body while she tended to the Brugmansia finally flowering in her garden. The shift in the air could have easily been inculpated by the cool breeze that blew past her face, shepherding clouds thick and heavy with autumn rain, but Y/N knew better than that. Those feelings typically bring her peace; the rattle of thunder soothes her aching bones while fat drops paint the pavement, wet the dirt to mud, and feed the drying grass.

This feeling made her bones rattle. It crawled beneath her skin like billions of tiny beetles unearthed within her vessels; her stomach churned, her shoulders were weighed down, there was a gnawing pain at her temples, so fierce she held her hand to them. The cold brass of her ring cools her heated skin. This feeling was vile, it was awful, for fuck sake what was causing it? 

She stood from her crouched position and slid back into her store. Technically, she’d closed about three hours prior so she should have been home well by now, but when she’d finally gathered her things in her duffle at 12, she looked out the back window and noticed some of her moonflowers had begun to bloom. There was a small part of her that had been reluctant to step outside at all, but she needed to greet them and water them, no matter the odd, unfamiliar troubling sense that had initially confused her. She ignored it -- she thought maybe she was just nervous to say hi to them, sometimes she was. 

(Flowers and plants hold a special connection with their caretaker, from a tiny seed to a flourishing garden, they place their lives in the care of the earth or a human. If not properly nursed, their wilted petals appear so quickly, a silent plea for water, or sun, or even a little attention -- Y/N found that plants liked a little attention. That’s why she spoke to them, she cooed and gave them well-wishes when she left them alone. They felt just a part of her family as any blood relative had, from the moment she had sliced the tip of her finger in a torn brush and the petal she’d touched afterward fused together her tiny wound. Her nan had always told her that maybe she was a bit closer to plants than others were, so she probably shouldn’t share this with kids in her class because they might be jealous of her (Y/N knows now her nan just didn’t want her getting picked on.) 

It was clear to her now that this feeling was a bit more than that when her goose pimples sunk back into her skin after stepping into the warmth of her store. Though it was not just because she had been keeping her shop pleasantly warm as the nights grow colder and longer; she kept herself protected in here. In between these walls lied a sanctitude that kept all evil out, in all manners, of all species, besides two. 

One of which is her bunny, Thumper, who in all ways but emotionally was her familiar. He was a ghostly white Holland lop, with big dopey ears that she slid her fingers beneath and flipped up and down in spare moments. She accuses him of being evil because he’s always nipping at her fingertips, demanding food with a stomp of his foot, and gives the silent threat that he’ll nibble on her plants if she really pisses him off (he stands by them, twitches his little nose and shows his two front teeth until she gives him what he wants -- it’s usually more hay). He’s nothing but a little, greedy nuisance that showed up on her step one day and hadn’t left since.

The other. . .well, the other was Harry Styles. 

Y/N liked most witches, no matter their point of interest. She knew that there could be a certain level of distrust amongst the syndicate -- hexes, and curses placed upon one another, but she tried to stay out of that -- she held no disfavor toward most of the others either. Everyone connected with things very differently, what she may connect with might not be that of what her neighbor connected with and that was okay. Her nan’s emotions had been in accord with the sea, and even though Y/N spent most of her life fearing water, she bore no judgment. 

What she does is done in the mind of good favor, of bettering oneself with the world around them in a way that would beneficial to not only them but the people in their lives. Open up otherwise closed eyes to the beauty of the spirit and soul they possess, and the beauty and soul that the world around them held. The town she had moved to at 20 was so rich in natural beauty, ponderosa pine and hemlock trees grew tall in an extensive, juniper green forest almost always clouded with thick fog, the soil was soft and fertile, the air was crisp and clean. She felt happy here and wanted the others around her to recognize how lucky they were to be in an area so free of sordidity. 

There was an empty shop up the brick road of the older part of town, that had been crowded in cobwebs, leaves that had blown in from the broken window, and animal droppings. Her nan came to help her clean it up (her mum had too, but she was dog tired after her workweek so spent most of the visit asleep on Y/N’s couch), and did something short of absolving the land so that she could grow a garden behind the store, in the clearing of 200 or so meters before it meets the mouth of the forest. She sold herbs, people came to her for intricate, meaningful bouquets with flowers that could not be found in just any store (and she was good to her plants, so if she asked very kindly, and sent them with a packet that produced a very special brew when dumped in the water, they would live very, very, suspiciously long), plants that would liberate people of their aches and pains so long as they tended to them, journals of reused paper, scrubs, oils. . .there were many things. She offered classes too, to help people learn how to better cater to their flowers.

That had been a year ago, so she was still finding her footing, but not six months into this happy reality she had created for herself, Harry Styles had come to town. It took nothing but a few minutes of coming to contact with him that he was a bad apple, and when the once sweet-tempered town had begun mottling with dark splotches, she knew for sure. Harry was like her, but his book of shadows had pages filled with wicked words of revenge, conjuring demons and letting them wreak havoc. His business was more under the cuff -- he posed as a writer who needed a scenery change for his work, but Y/N knew it had to be more than that -- but he did his bidding in the night, seeding through clubs, in alleyways, in the forest. . .if someone knew about Harry, it was because they knew a guy who knows a guy. 

And for some reason, unbeknownst to her, he refused to leave her be. 

This is why it almost makes sense that the bell of her store would jingle brightly no matter the fact she’d locked the doors hours ago, and her attention would be brought to the pest himself. He wore a sweater that threatened to swallow him whole, and baggy, holey jeans he rolled at the cuff showing off his bat printed socks, stuffed into grandpa-Esque loafers. The necklace he always wears around his neck (a small pendant that she had never gotten close enough to make out) is sat atop of his sweater today rather than hidden beneath it as it usually is. His hair is getting longer, more unruly with his warm brown curls than it had been when she first met him -- she really hadn’t known he’d had curly hair until the more recent months when it had started growing out. 

His eyes were always the same soft, crystal green that matched his character none, and a pawky smirk on his mouth as he dragged his fingers along the lavender jars placed on her shelves, “Shouldn’t you be home by now? I figure it’s past your bedtime.” He leans down like he is about to pick something up, and when Y/N peers over the counter, she sees him slide his hand beneath Thumper’s soft white belly and pull him up to his chest. That was another indicator that Harry was just no good -- he was the only human that he liked, and the little creatine didn’t even like her. 

“Shouldn’t you?” She flips it, continuing to gather her things so she could head home for the night.

“You know these are my typical hours, Babe -- everyone wants to curse someone at 1 AM, there was a study done in the east end.” He pets between Thumper’s ears as he sets him down on the counter beside the cash register, before he reaches out for the wooden crafted incense burners, “Have these cheap little things been selling any?” 

“Piss off,” she stuffs her phone into her purse, then flips through her things to make sure her wallet was tucked in there as well, “What do you want, Harry? I’m about to go home, if you wanted to come around to bother me you should have hours ago.”

Harry feigns a gasp like he does any time she curses, “Thought good little witches didn’t have such foul tongues?” He flicks the candle jar on her counter, an apple scent had been melting around the wick for the better half of the day, “I don’t want anything in particular, just passing through. You know you’re right in the way of the forest, don’t you? S’kinda of obnoxious when you’re trying to summon imps at the cave -- they hate the bloody “stench” of the flowers.” 

“Good,” she retorts, “You shouldn’t be summoning around here anyway, this area’s off-limits.”

It was barely an agreement but still an agreement nonetheless -- if Harry left her be, she would leave him be because Y/N wasn’t an idiot. If he wanted a fight, Harry could start one and he would fight dirty. All she asks him is to stay away from her store and her flat, and to keep away from certain areas of the forest where the soil was always soft -- in return, he would do his activities, sometimes he would need her flowers for different spells and she would turn a blind eye to what he was doing. She does a few gentle protection spells here and there but otherwise, he’s a free man to do as he pleases, just so long as he respects her request. He’d seemed perturbed by the conditions none -- had even chuckled and said as long as he let her keep her “pretty little flowers” he could get away with murder. 

A heavy, weary sigh leaves him, “Yes, I’m well aware,” he rolled his eyes before crossing his arms on top of the counter and tucking his face in his elbow,  “Gimme a moment though, it’s warm in here and I was freezing outside.” He muffles into his sweater. 

Y/N had almost forgotten what she had felt prior to coming back inside, but his words bring it clearly to the forefront of her mind once more. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, hearing the floorboards creak beneath her as she wondered if he’d felt it too. It couldn’t have been him -- no, he was powerful but by no means powerful enough to conjure up something like that. And she’d like to ask him, but Harry has never been someone who took her seriously -- he would just make a joke of it, probably, or tease her. It wouldn’t be worth asking. 

But the feeling that she’d gotten is chewing on her memory, so she asks anyway, “Hey,” she began and the only indication that he was listening to her is the fact his fingers stopped tapping against the wood beneath them, “Did you. . .when you were outside, did you feel that?” 

He picks his head up from the crevice of his arm, “You’re gonna have to be a bit more descriptive than ‘that’,” his brows are raised as he continues, “Are you talking about the new pleasant but cold breeze we’ve gained for autumn, or the gut-twisting odious one?” 

Y/N looks at him impassively, “The latter, idiot.” 

“Yeah, I felt it,” he ignores her insult, “What about it?” 

The skin between her brows pinches, “Are you not concerned? It felt. . .bad,” she couldn’t think of a better word to describe it, “I didn’t like it at all.” 

“Are you scared?” There is delight swimming in Harry’s gaze as he stands up straighter, “Don’t tell me Glinda the Good Witch herself is scared of a little frightening feeling? I thought you were tough as nails and all that, hm?” 

“Never mind, forget I even brought it up,” she tried to dismiss it, as she slings her purse over her shoulder and plucks Thumper up to sit him in the cradle of her arms -- she knew better than to ask him like she might get any comfort at all from his words. 

He steps up and in front of her before she could start toward the door, “Oi, listen scaredy-cat, I don’t know if you’re aware but I deal with shite like this all the time, which means I’ve got a few banishments spells up my sleeve. If it’s really something that awful, I’ll cast it back to hell, easy as that.” Harry follows close behind her as she exits the door, feeling the same shiver of fear slither through her body, “I do want to see what it wants first though.” 

“Of course you do,” she utters in disappointment, “Just keep it away from my garden, please.” 

“I’ll try,” he tells her just as she reaches her car before he dips into his pocket and reveals that he’d stolen a baggy of chamomile, “If I didn’t keep your precious garden safe, then I wouldn’t have anywhere to get enchanted chamomile, and it works lovely in a sleepy time tea, I’ll tell you that -- your lavender is shit though. Never puts me to sleep like it ought to.” 

She pops open her car door, “Stop taking stuff from the store, or I’ll start lacing it with laxatives.” 

“While you’re doing that, won’t you plant them Clathrus mushrooms? I reckon the imps would prefer them way more than the mums.” He looks serious -- not a trace of a joke laced in his features and somehow that leaves Y/N more irritated than if he were laughing at her as he spoke. 

Her response is blunt, “No.” 

“Listen --”

“Harry, I’m not going to plant mushrooms for the damn imps!” 

                                                         .                             .                          .

When Y/N had met Harry, she was angry. 

She had never been a very angry person. Seldom has someone or something truly has gotten so deeply beneath her skin that she felt the need to yell or grump about it -- mild irritation was never off the table, but true, unadulterated wrath and resentment? It was rare she ever felt the need to even make a snide comment. And that wasn’t to say she was better than anyone else, she was just mild-tempered and forbearing. . .it took a little more than a remark or two to make her angry.

But when she was angry, she was an amalgamation of vexation and fire, and there was no surer way to disrupt her peaceful demeanor than to compromise her flowers. 

The day had been uneventful up to that point. It’d been a week since Harry had moved into town and Y/N was surely feeling the negativity that followed in his wake, but she was focusing on maintaining the tranquil, idyllic environment that she had around her previous. As much as she would have loved to seek him out, ready to squabble, tell him off for bringing any dark energy into such a calm place -- she had to come at it pragmatically. She and her friend Niall (who wasn’t a witch but knew about her) had both agreed that while it was aggravating, they didn’t know him. They did not understand the depth of his power, or what he was here for, nor had they understood wholly what he was capable of. Y/N had felt his presence, but Niall had confirmed it after hearing the underground chatter of a dark witch who made promises to turn glitter to gold. 

She was on her way to her store. Though she was closed on weekends, she always went by to check on the flowers, water them, tell them about her day, and with her was Thumper who would be hopping around the grassy field and gnawing on the blades. It was very peaceful -- the time she spent with her plants -- so she always looked forward to it, but that day she was filled with trepidation as she parked her car. Something was off. . .not in the air, but with her flowers -- she could feel it deep in her marrow that they were in pain. 

So she huffed it to the back of the store, and there she found Harry, two of her purple vervains nestled against his palm. He noticed her before she could even think to say anything, and something short of relief had flushed through him, “Oh thank fuck, you’re here,” he sighs, referencing her garden with a wave of his hands, “I cannot for the life of me remember what hazel looks like.” 

“What the hell are you doing?” Y/N demanded, stomping toward him, but instead of shoving him to the ground like she wanted to, she dropped to her knees and caressed the remaining vervain, “Why would you pluck them like that? They aren’t ready!” 

“Ready? They’ve flowered haven’t they?” His brows had been tilted while his mouth dipped in a frown, “I need them for an incantation, figured you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed these two. Aren’t we meant to help each other out?”

 “You should have asked, you prick,” she pointed up at him, “And even if you had, I would have said no. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’re really disturbing an otherwise pleasant place. I wish you would leave.’ 

Harry feigned hurt, placing a hand to his chest, “You wound me,” he mocks her, “Listen Glinda Good Witch, we all gotta get by somehow, yeah? Not all of us talk to plants or whatever it is you do. So do you want me to pay or --” 

“Those won’t work for whatever it is you’re trying to do,” she cut him off, “If it’s something with cruel intent, it won’t happen -- they were grown to do good.” 

“Which is exactly why I needed them from you,” he wiggles them in her direction, “Well, I need to get going. You’re awful in particular about a garden that is subpar at best. Wish you well, see you later.” 

Then he left. No guilt, no apology -- he just up and left, and Y/N was livid. 

(Later that night when she had explained the situation to Niall, he was nothing short of outraged, so they had tried to find out more about Harry. Anything about him, really, but he leaves a very little paper trail in his endeavors -- from public records they find that he’s 25 and from Holmes Chapel, and from a google search they find he has two books out, published online, and doing decently well. There was nothing else apart from that, he kept his socials pretty dry, and what he did post was nonsensical drivel.)

Y/N thinks about this, as she sinks into her tub, the burning water scalding against her skin. Harry had always driven her mad but he has never seemed half as angry as she was -- hell if anything he always seemed like he enjoyed it. 

He was just absolutely rotten. 

                                                           .                                  .                           .

Harry thinks Y/N is just absolutely rotten. 

There were many reasons that he had classified her as such, but namely what he was concerned about now was how she kept her shop closed on the weekends. 

Who kept their store closed the entire bloody weekend?

It wasn’t so much that he wanted to see her -- Harry actually found the girl quite plaguy. Her opinions on his practice were priggish, not unlike the others like them he had met in the past. There has always been an unfaltering stigma that was carried with what he did, one that was quite hard to shake within the factions of other witches that are sprinkled across the world. He’s seen as careless, cruel, greedy, and selfish -- he doesn’t practice magic for the love of the world around him, to feel a deeper, spiritual connection with the fecund soil that covered the earth, or with the water gently slipping past rocks along a stream bank. They look at him and see someone who shakes hands with the devil and ruins lives for a cookie. 

Harry lets them think as they wish, he has no patience to attempt correcting them. If they’d bothered to learn an inch about him at all before passing their judgment then they would have a clue about his true character, but the jury had already made the decision before Harry even realized he was on trial. They never really wanted to give Harry a chance, so he knew he would be hated no matter where he decided to reside. The pack mentality that they carry is the reason he has to move around so often though (more than any 25 years old was typically doing) he gets run out of a lot of areas because a group of soft witches decides he’s no good. 

That’s what drew him to this place -- there was practically nobody. He could sense when there were more like him loitering around an area, and made an effort to keep a decently low profile so that he could stay around longer (but they always managed to find him), but here, he only sensed one. That had been good enough for him to know this was the right move -- the beautiful scenery surrounding them; the soft bed of dirt that Harry’s feet would sink into easily; the dense, damp fog that covered the forest floor in the early mornings; the lush, green trees and how life seemed to remain there when it was meant to be waning in the colder months -- all of that, had only been a plus. 

When he’d met Y/N, he knew that she disliked him, but Harry had expected as much so it disturbed him none. If anything, he was delighted to have a purer witch than himself around, all things considered. There were no others that she could develop a hive mind with to drive him out of town, but she was no competition to the businesses that he provided, and when a decoction called for an obscure plant or an unsullied petal -- well, a Garden witch was not the worst kind to have nearby. She may be devout in her notions that Harry was a disagreeable, repugnant being, but she was good at what she did. Anything done with her plants was twice as effective as any other person’s flowers he’d used in the past, so it was necessary he bothered her often. 

She refused to sell to him -- something about her doing business with a demon, or whatever she’d said -- but so long as he doesn’t go and cut them from the stem himself, she helps him out. Will give him the plants he needs, and in return, he doesn’t taint certain areas of the town and the forest that she declared were off-limits. It was a spoken commercial agreement that both of them went by and because of it, their lives near to one another were comparatively peaceful to any other situation Harry has found him in prior. 

That didn’t come without its faults. They butt heads often, their bickering is nonstop, and Harry could think of many things he would rather do than have to stay in a room with her for longer than the ten minutes it takes him to get what he needs. It was fun to fluster her -- getting beneath her skin was an easy feat that he found a lot of joy in, and sometimes she gave him a run for his money. He always kind of liked making a normally mild-tempered person grump at him a little, if not for his impish ways, then so he could get to know them as their full self. 

So he wasn’t mad that she was closed because he particularly wanted to see her, no, he was mad because he was exhausted. Absolutely drained. The business was incredible when you’re the only dark witch willing to do some questionable, immoral things, but that also meant long nights and incredible emotional toil -- it wasn’t a walk in the park to conjure up a bloody demon! 

Ever since Harry had started this path, he’d had immense trouble sleeping at appropriate times, if he could fall asleep at all. He guesses this was what he gets in return for what he practices, and it could be worse so he doesn’t mind it too much, but it was still a hassle. It had been a good four years since Harry just had a good, peaceful night of sleep. 

Up until he had moved here, of course, because the same little garden witch that thought he was the devil incarnate, made a tea he could brew that set him right to sleep. Kept him asleep the entire night too, which had always been an impossible endeavor spanning back to when he was a child, but there was something about her chamomile -- hell, it really knocked him out. 

He tested his theory -- part of him thought that maybe chamomile was suddenly working for him, but no matter the brand that he tried, or the amount of tea he drank, none of it could compare to what Y/N’s did. When he visited her store, he took what he could to hold him off to the next time he came by. He hadn’t realized how low he was though when he had seen her last and she threatened to lace it with laxatives -- he should have taken two because he used his last bit the night prior to the one he’s suffering through right now. 

And he could have gotten more this morning if she didn’t close her stupid shop on weekends!

If Harry were not positive that he needed to rest, he wouldn’t bother to be trying. There was nothing worse to him than the laying in his bed and waiting for sleep that refused to come...it felt like he was being stood up by a date. It hasn’t happened often, but enough that Harry could match the feeling low in his stomach, indicative of discontent and sadness while he waited. . . . .and waited. . . .and waited. . . .and waited. 

It was useless -- the universe’s retribution for summoning spirits to the living world left him with what a doctor might diagnose as chronic insomnia, but none of the treatments did him any good. No mortal medicinal could soothe him of this ailment. So one would think he would be smarter about keeping a hearty stock of it at his disposal rather than one at a time, but Harry never claimed to be the best at planning ahead. 

And now here he was, staring at his ceiling fan whirl, his cat at his side while he contemplated if breaking and entering her shop was against his morals (he had a few left, surprisingly). 

God, she was so rotten! 

                                               .                                     .                                 .

“Have you felt weird lately?” 

“Hm?” Niall’s face scrunches up in confusion, his mouth stuffed full of noodles he just slurpped into his mouth, “Wha’ d’ya mean?” He muffles out, reaching over to her side of the table for a napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth.

The record store that Niall worked at wasn’t too far from Y/N’s shop so if her day wasn’t too busy, she would step away from the store for her lunch break and seek him out. It was never a planned ordeal; Y/N would stop off somewhere to get them something to eat and appear at his storefront, the sharp ding of the bell knotted on the door alerted him of her presence. He was always one of two places: in the back, tuning the old guitars the owner would bid on different websites, or he was in the front thumbing through the record baskets, organizing and reorganizing them by name. Sometimes he would be sat behind the counter, with his feet kicked up just beside the register but Y/N scolds him for that (he’s always wearing a dingy, scuffed pair of shoes that have no business seeing the light of day, let alone be shown off to others). 

His head would perk up, he would look toward the door, and his face would bloom into one of sheer delight as he would call over to her, “Oh, thank fuck! Thought I would go crazy if I had to listen to myself think for one more second.” 

Today was no different. She brought him ramen from the place three buildings down from his own, where she bends down a street that feels more like an alleyway and the door is hidden beneath a brassy fire escape. The owners were always very kind to her, and since she came often and tipped well, they would give her free bowls if they were in the mood. Y/N never liked the idea of a one-sided relationship with a business, so she always brought them herbs, and gardenias to plant at home (they were the husband’s favorite). She takes their fliers and posts them up in high traffic areas too, and when they have their business cards made and an extra hundred or so, she slips them in the paper baggies that she gathers her customer’s things in before sending them on their way. 

Niall was grateful. He did a little cheer, left his spot from behind the counter, and urged her to follow him to the back where the break room was located (if a customer came around he would hear the bell and duck his head out to greet them, but for the most part their Tuesdays were pretty uneventful). He told her he had sensed her coming so he already had two stools set out for them to sit on, and napkins placed in the middle of the table, but she’s almost a hundred percent sure they had been left like that last time she was here. 

Try as she might to let her mind flee from the dark, hazed feeling that had overcome her last week, she couldn’t. Even as she listened to Niall prattle about some Gibson Les Paul custom that the owner purchased a while back, she struggled not to wonder what it was that was worming itself into her brain; slick tendrils of dismay overcame her. The true, unadulterated, execrable feeling only truly hits her in the night if she is outside the safety of her home or her shop, but otherwise, it was memories of this haunting aura that struck her throughout the day.

She couldn’t place her finger on it though, what it could be. There are feelings she garners when Harry summons certain spirits, but she can typically tell when he’s doing that, and they’ve never felt so. . .evil, before. What Harry deals with is evil, sure, but this was so smothered in turpitude that she couldn’t make it out. Like spilling black ink over a letter written in blue. 

That’s why she asks Niall -- it feels too strong for it to be something only felt by her and Harry. It would also soothe her mind if someone had felt it as horribly and heavily as she did, considering it wasn’t affecting Harry enough that he would try to banish the damn thing before things went sour. 

“Like, do things just not feel. . .off, to you?” She didn’t want to feed him any impressions of what she might be speaking about -- she would like to know if it were true to him. Niall is sweet as he could be, but not always when it was appropriate; he would tell her he did just to spare her from feeling foolish. It’s why she thought berets were her thing for about a month when really she looked like a washed-up indie artist trying too hard (Niall had agreed they weren’t her best fashion venture, but he certainly didn’t think they were that bad). 

His face contorts in a pout as he mulls it over in his head, stabbing his fork into the noodles and catching a bit of pork on two of the pronks, “Hm, let’s see. . .” he looks like he’s spinning through a Rolodex, “I have not for the life of me mustered enough energy to have a wank in about a week, that’s some cause for concern,” when she responds with a blank stare, he holds his hands up, “Okay, fine -- Butternut was biting at the air when I took him on his walk the other night -- like. . .chomping at it, I was actually gonna ask you what that might be about.”  

Now, don’t get Y/N wrong, any other time Niall would have told her that his great Pyrenees puppy was yapping and chomping at the wind, she would have brushed it off. “Niall, you’re just going to have to accept that he’s going to be a big, sweet dummy when he’s older.” But she was so desperate for something, anything -- because if something felt it other than she and Harry, then she wouldn’t feel quite as crazy. 

“Sometimes it feels a bit like something’s watching me,” he tacks on at the end, taking the brown napkin from the stack in between them and dabs roughly at his mouth, “At night, when I’m walking Butternut, I get these chills but there’s no wind around.” 

Y/N leans forward, thankful, “Yeah?” she presses, “Is it like -- describe it. What does it feel like?” 

“Y’know, I do forget you’re a witch until times like these,” he leans back in his chair, a heavy sigh slides from his lips before he closes his eyes like he’s trying to place himself back at the moment, “I’ll tell ya what, it’s fuckin’ -- it’s a bit like I feel it right down to my bones, but then --” he opens his eyes, raises his closed fists and flicks his fingers out at her, “Poof, s’gone as quick as it came and I forget about it. My nan used to tell me that was the devil patting your shoulder, but if it went away quick s’because an angel kicked his arse out of there.” 

It’s enough, Y/N decides, so she nods and relaxes back in her seat, “Okay, good.” 

“Good?” His brows furrow, as he reaches for his can of soda and the aluminum can crinkles beneath his fingers, “Tell you that I get chills and you’re relieved? Should I be relieved too, or worried?” 

“It isn’t anything to concern over, I don’t think,” she explains to him, “If anything changes I’ll let you know.” 

Niall uses one of his fingernails to dig the dirt from beneath the other, “Did that Harry bloke muster some horrible demon up again?” His voice is laced with vexation. Niall wasn’t a hard guy to get along with -- he was loud and Irish, could chat up a storm about anything and everything, and while he could be scrappy at times, it was for all the right reasons. He was equanimous in most situations, even-tempered to a fair degree; if Y/N were in a situation where a cool, calm collected head would be the best approach then Niall was definitely the person she wanted on her side. 

(Like when they had to drive home from a day trip to the massive lake just north of them, but the roads hadn’t been pretreated for the icy sleet that gripped the pavement. He drove them the whole way on the windy roads with little traction from the tires to the road, and was still bobbing his head and singing along to Ed Sheeran on the radio). 

But Harry Styles? Oh, the mention of his name could dig right beneath Niall’s skin. Y/N would like to think that it was because he was so cruel to her, but she knows that there are two main reasons Niall is not too fond of him nor his craft. One of which is the fact that he slept with Liana (she happened to be one of Niall’s flings at the time -- there were plenty, but Y/N only remembered this one’s name because she shared it with a woody stem rooted to the forest soil that made for easy climbing), and the other, the fact that he had helped the captain of the opposing summer footie team with one of his enchantments to make them win. There are few things Niall cares for so deeply that he would dislike someone, but his sex life and his footie were two things a person just couldn’t mess up for him. 

“No, it wasn’t him this time,” she clears her throat, pushing the rest of her ramen around idly, “It’s a bit too strong to be his doing -- more sinister too. He conjures mostly petty demons; the little ones that don’t have much better to do anyway. This is something. . .I don’t know, it just feels different.” 

Niall sighs heavily, “Well, thanks for that, reckon I won’t be sleeping tonight,” he pushes the container away from himself to signify he’s done and when she takes a peek inside and sees nothing but a few noodles limp along the sides, “I like that you keep me in the loop, but sometimes I wish you would let me live in ignorance.” 

“You know, I would apologize, but you’ve gone into an in-depth description of your arsehole to me so I thought any boundaries and forms of secrecy were long gone by now.” 

His brows furrow features contorting into that of the same desperation he had come to her with two months ago, “Ugh, c’mon! You’re practically like a witch doctor or somethin’, I thought you would have a cream or something for it.” 

“You had a hemorrhoid, Niall, for fuck sake! Even if I were a “witch doctor” then I would never let you put anything that came from my plants on your filthy bum.” 

Niall stands, gathering their trash from the break room table but using his free hand as he passes her, he swats her shoulder, “You better be nice to me, or you’re gonna have to start eating lunch with Styles.” He steps on the level for the waste bin, throwing the trash in the bag, “Though I think you two would just end up hate fucking and the food would go cold.” 

“No,” she rolls her eyes, “I would never let that Gremlin near my naked body.” 

“Listen, I’m not saying I want the guy anywhere near your naked body,” he plops back down in his seat, “What I am saying is that you lot have such unbridled sexual tension it is practically palpable when I’m at the shop with the both of you. Maybe it’s ‘cos the two of you are the only witches, and opposites at that.” 

Y/N snorts, “Maybe if we were in some enemies to lovers film, sure.” 

   After they finish their break, and Y/N realizes that she’s been with him for a little over an hour, they make plans to meet up tomorrow for a movie and she heads out. The air was cool -- when she had made her way over here the sun had been glittering rays down that bathed the world in gold, but it was now hidden beneath an overcast of thick clouds. Rain always carried a familiar scent just before it started to pour and Y/N had forgone a jacket, so she huffed her way back, breathless by the time she made it up the hill and saw Harry leaning against her door. 

The sight of him makes her exhausted, but not in the usual way it does. He looks awful -- and typically he doesn’t! Y/N could admit that Harry was gorgeous; his hair always appeared soft, loose curls dispersed along the brunette strands, his eyes are a sea green, tender in his gaze when he wasn’t being an absolute prick and always bright (even when he was). His lips were pink, shaped perfectly, and his skin is typically smooth but even when he grows out his facial hair it still manages to look good. He had dimples. . .hell, Y/N would place a bet that he’d made a deal with the devil to look like that. 

But today, he just looked worn down, and exhausted, like he might not have slept the entire weekend. His eyes were closed, his hands were in his pockets and his chin was tilted down towards his chest. If not for the way his head perked up immediately when her foot crunched into the gravel pathway leading up to her store from the small parking area (that was more so a beaten down, once grassy area now just dirt with tire tracks in it), she would have thought he was asleep standing up. There’s relief in his eyes when they meet her own, which she isn’t used to seeing from him, “Thank fuck.” 

“You look horrible,” Y/N slides her hand into her pocket, pulling out her keys so she could unlock the door, “Budge over.” 

“I feel it,” he rubs tiredly at his eyes, “Go on and open up quickly then. Why the hell do you keep your store closed on weekends?” 

Y/N fits her hand over the knob, twisting it and shoving the door open with her shoulder. Thumper greets them at the door, nudging the top of his head against her ankle, “Do you work every night?” 

“No --” 

“I keep it closed on weekends for the same reason why you don’t work every night,” she heads toward the counter, settling her things down and reaching in for Thumper’s hay stash so that she could give him some, “What’re you here for? You usually come around to bother me later.” She chances petting at Thumper’s head for a moment, and since he was preoccupied with his hay he would allow it.

“Fuck!” Y/N startles, popping up from behind the counter, looking back up only to see Harry with wide, disgruntled eyes, “Where’s your chamomile?” 

Her brows dip, “I’m out right now, so --” 

“How the hell did you run out? Shit, what am I going to do now, hm? Shouldn’t you keep up with shite like this?” He’s going a mile a minute, he’s walking closer to her, distress was written all over his face and Y/N is alarmed to a fair degree -- Harry’s always seemed very collected and calm, it was seldom she ever seen him have more emotion than pure elation to fuck with her or displeased with her presence. 

“ -- so I’m going to make more today. What’s going on with you? Why are you so pissy over it?” She finishes her previous thought, watching as he leans against the counter, propping his face up with his hand and she could now more clearly make out the bags beneath his eyes.

He rubs at his temple with the finger closest to it, “The only way I can sleep is with your bloody tea,” he grumbled, “That’s why I come around all the time -- well, that and to fuck with you, but mostly the tea.” 

“Oh?” She reaches down, plucking Thumper from where he’d been positioned by her feet and setting him on the counter. He thumps his foot at her once but eventually makes his way over to Harry, sniffing at his chin before resting right before him. Y/N wasn’t necessarily doing it to be nice, but the energy he was exuding could really dampen the growth rate of her plants, and Thumper had a soothing way about him that drew all that negativity out. It was one of those odd little familiar powers that went unexplained for the most part. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” 

“Dunno,” he shrugged his shoulders, but the tension in them begins to dissipate as Thumper snuggles beneath his chin, “Reckon I pissed off some demon or summat -- usually it isn’t this bad. Without your tea, I can at least get to bed for three hours before waking up and catch cat naps during the day, but nothing was working this weekend. I think I’ve slept a total of two hours?” 

“Christ,” she tuts her tongue, but her brain starts churning, “Do you think it has anything to do with that. . .with that thing, that’s around? That feeling?” 

Harry huffs a sigh, “Fuck, here you go again -- Babe, listen, I can barely keep a coherent thought, so why don’t I just give you some money and you make that tea for me, alright?” 

“That’s no way to ask,” Y/N chastises him, and though she is already beginning to gather the supplies she needs so she could go out and harvest her leaves, she taunts him, “You’ll have to say please, or I might just decide to wait on this batch.” 

“Please,” he wastes no time in saying, “Pretty please harvest the chamomile so that I can sleep and I promise I’ll sit and theorize with you over whatever the fuck thing you’re feeling.” 

Y/N could go through the trouble of doing a blood binding with him to ensure that he wasn’t lying to her, but she felt that was a little on the extreme side so she took his word for it. She could easily harvest her chamomile here at the shop -- she had two doors behind the counter, one that led to her garden, the field, and the forest outside while the other led to a backroom that was made into a little kitchen area. It was easier for her to do things here rather than at home and have to risk tainting them in transport; for the best results to any enchanted item, one has to seal it immediately and it should only be reopened prior to use. 

She wouldn’t allow Harry to hover over her while she worked, so she sat him behind the counter and told him to not speak to any customers if they come through (“Wasn’t planning to,”) while she went to work. Y/N gave Thumper a look when he had started to follow her, and with a small thump of his foot (his way of saying Fine!) he hops himself into Harry’s lap and settles there. The tension once again eases from Harry’s features, soothing the pinch in his brow and the way his lips had been pursed in a frown. 

It was silent as she set to work, and save for a few customers who filtered in and out (at least a dozen of them, only eight purchased something but her Mondays were always pretty slow so that was expected), there wasn’t much to disturb what appeared to be a dozing Harry. He looked much more peaceful than she’s ever seen him, and for a brief moment she contemplates sending Thumper back home with him, but she shakes her head physically as if to expel the thought from her brain. What was she going on about? She would give him his tea and send the heathen on his way. No matter how empathetic she felt for him (she had struggled with issues sleeping when she was a lot younger), there was no need to go out of her way. . .even if she could admit that the sight of him cuddling with a bunny was a little too sweet not to be documented somewhere. 

She’s finished drying the leaves and carefully stirring them in the fine powder that she still had leftover from her last batch (there were many flowers from her garden ground up and enchanted with an incantation, which sounds like a simple enough task but the entire process took a little over a week -- the magic had to be purified several times, and the potential adverse effects had to be mollified. . . if she didn’t, instead of pleasant dreams of floating in clouds, her customers would be in an unsolicited astral projection) in a little over an hour. Y/N takes care to bag them delicately, adding a little extra in the two bags she would be giving Harry so that he would bother her less over it. 

By the time she’s retreated from the back preparation room, she finds that Harry is awake now, eyeballing her Intimacy and Romance section. When he sees that she’s returned to the front, he holds up the small, cardboard parcel, “I didn’t know you doubled as a Pulse and Cocktails.” 

“That’s a natural aphrodisiac,” she tells him, walking over to her empty chamomile shelf before she begins to fill it,  “You might want to take some so your partners will actually desire you for once.” 

“Oh, Honey,” he shakes his head, a look on his face almost like he pities her, “Don’ know a thing about how people desire me. Barely have to take my cock out for them to be gagging for it -- kind of how you are, but won’t admit it to yourself.” 

Y/N kisses her teeth, “Alright lecher, come and get your chamomile then,” she plucks the two remaining bags from the box she brought them in and holds them out for him, “You should look into some spells to combat that though -- if a demon is purloining your sleep, then it’s probably still hanging around and like deluging your flat with negative energy.” 

“Dunno’ if you know this, but I work with demons often, I’m always surrounded by negative energy,” he plucks the chamomile from her grasp, before reaching in his pocket and producing a small wad of cash that he places in her palm-- Y/N opens her mouth to decline it (she felt that his money was earned in a dishonest way and would not accept it for her flowers, because it felt as if she were disrespecting them. . .she would much rather give it to him for free), but he cuts her off, “Oh, hush and take the money. This is from a care package my Nan sent me, so it wasn’t earned in any rotten way, you spoiled brat.” 

She sighs, clutching the money in her hands, “You still better keep your end of the deal,” Y/N tells him, “I want to talk about this. . .whatever that feeling is, around here lately. And I want you to be serious about it!” 

Harry was already retreating, waving his hand up at her, “Yeah, sure thing, I’ll have my secretary get in contact with you --” 

“Harry --” 

“M’only joking. I’ll come around Friday.” 

                                                                     .                       .                         .

Later that night, with Thumper snuggled in her lap snoozing, Y/N looks into purging a home of sleep stealing spirits. 

She’s only curious. 

                                                             .                         .                        . 

Sleep comes gradually, then all at once, like the shift between summer and fall. 

Wind whistles past window sills singing shallow songs of change, while red apples ripen on their branches in the orchard during harvest season. The air grows colder in the mornings and at night, the day is still steeped in the sun’s benevolent kisses of heat at first until even that begins to wane. An aesthetic of reds, oranges, forest greens and golden hues occupy the minds of many as the leaves start to stain with color. Everyone waits with bated breath for true autumn to come around the corner. 

And when it does, it’s with a cold slap of air against the face when they step outside. The air carries that distinct autumn smell, the world is chilly enough for thicker jackets and long socks, rain comes in sheets during the evenings, and the colorful leaves that had drooped from the trees adhere to the concrete, or in matted piles on the forest floor.  Suddenly, the warm drink in everyone’s hand is a little less for the excitement and impatience for fall to begin, and more so to warm their cold palms from the onslaught of biting wind. 

It isn’t autumn, and then it is -- just like sleep. Harry’s awake one minute, and then he’s passed right out. 

Well, with Y/N’s help, bless her. Sure, she had been rotten before, but she made him a new batch and sent him off with two hearty bags full of tea that would soothe his worries and put his arse to bed. Plus, he had cuddled with her sweet little bunny Thumper for a while and he had a feeling the little bugger was exuding some sort of her soft magic unto him in the form of calming waves. When the rabbit sat in his lap, all the tension eased from his muscles and he sank into an otherwise uncomfortable chair like it was the softest mattress he’d ever been privy to. So by the time he came home, started the kettle, drank a mug full, and hot tailed it to his bed, he was asleep before his head could even quite hit the pillow. 

It was so good. His dreams were pleasant, his sleep was heavy, and deep, and lasted around fifteen hours -- which in the grand scheme of things, made him feel a bit like a sloth, but he knew he needed it. He still couldn’t quite pinpoint what had happened that he just couldn’t sleep even a little bit, but he has no interest in investigating now that he had a full night’s (and partially day’s) rest. Plus, there was no time to do any exploring when he needed to make up for the work he’d missed in his time exhausted -- his powers are nowhere near as strong if he is tired, and it’s incredibly dangerous to be working with little sleep. He could mess up, and a mess-up could mean someone would likely end up possessed and -- albeit how interesting they are -- Harry’s intrigue with exorcisms ended after the seventh one he performed. 

After he woke up, showered off, and ate brekkie, he sat down with his kitten and they cleaned his crystals and a few amulets before he set on preparing some of his finer elixirs, that he always waited until he was down to the last drop to begin making more canisters of considering how extensive the process was. It would be easier if he had someone else to help out, but the only other witch within 160 kilometers of him, he wouldn’t label as the type all too willing to help him break into a blood bank. 

But he did have his kitten Oat. He was his little miracle -- Harry had been so sad when he learned that witches could have familiars, but the animal would come to him and he was supposed to just know. At that point, he’d been practicing for three years and the only feelings he could sense from any animal around him were fear and disdain, so he had thought that maybe he just wasn’t meant to have one. Which felt horrible. . .he loved animals. 

One day, when the chill in the air rosied his cheeks and the cardigan he sported did little to shield him from the cold, he was taking a walk in the forest nearby. He’d left the trail, but not because he was working. . .if he were honest, he thought that the garden that Y/N kept out there was quite magnificent. It flourished even in the winter, a meadow of flowers that’s petals never frost, and the ground never grew hard. There was an air around it that made him feel warm and pleasant, so he visited often without letting her know. Which was what he was doing, walking through the small path that she had created so that she could tend to them (he’d seen her water them once when he’d come unknowing that she was there to cater to them). 

And one moment he was looking at what he believed to be an oat grass, he heard a rustle from the bushes to his left that he looked toward (it was a bird flying away), and when his gaze returned to where it had once been, there a small kitten was laying. She was the kind of small that made his heart ache, with her eyes barely open as she yawned and stretched very wide -- she wasn’t there, and then she was. Harry always liked to say she was born from the soft soil of Y/N’s garden which was why her grey fur felt like clouds and she always smelled sweet as heliotrope. . .and, well, she smelled a lot like Y/N too. He may not be all too fond of the girl, but she did always smell nice. 

She hadn’t grown bigger than one of his boots, the tiny little thing, but not because she was malnourished in any way (Harry always made sure she was well-fed), he just thinks she’s finished growing. He couldn’t tell her breed, but if he had to guess she was some mix between a munchkin and a ragamuffin cat. Harry knows all familiars have their duties and special abilities, but he wasn’t quite sure what hers was -- he just knew that he loved her to bits and pieces, and couldn’t ask for a better little ball of fur to sit on his shoulder while he made coffee in the morning. 

What Harry did know, was that none of the demon’s he had ever conjured had ever bothered her, and she loved to be rubbed behind her ears. 

So Thursday night, when the town grew quiet and the air was still, Harry ventured out with his tote bag slung over his shoulder. It was easy to move about relatively unseen in a place like this, that wasn’t so big there were people constantly looming around the corners of every nook and cranny, but wasn’t so small that everybody knew everyone’s business. It was a pleasant in between, where he could snake through the mouth of the forest, walk a trail and end up on the other side of town without having been seen by more than a few critters. He typically made this journey relatively late, without a worry or stressor in sight -- it only took him about an hour and a half to get everything done. 

Today though -- today, he felt off. It hadn’t been immediately when he’d stepped outside, but after some time in his walk, goosebumps prickled his skin and the hair at the back of his neck stood on end. He couldn’t quite decipher what was making him feel like this when the wind hadn’t rustled the trees in a few minutes, but it put him on guard. He disliked the feeling and had only truly sensed it to this degree that night Y/N had originally questioned him about it. It was an unsavory sensation, and for it to even make him feel uneasy was saying something tremendous. 

He attempts to ignore it, even though it only grew stronger the closer he was to his destination. He weaves through the trees, stepping over the thick roots, crunching over fallen leaves, and appreciating the scent of autumn as he goes. It was a nice night, despite the chill that ran just beneath his skin. . .it was the kind of night that he might go out on his balcony and sip on his tea until he grew weary enough to step inside. Oat liked to sit outside with him, curled peacefully in his lap and resting without a care in the world (she made him feel not so lonely all the time, which he appreciated immensely). 

Harry was thinking about how that was precisely what he was going to do as soon as he returned home after he had emerged from the trees and walked through an expansive field, toward an old road that led him back into town and entered the blood bank (after melting the lock with one of his crystals). Though he sensed something strong when he was walking down the cold, dark hall. . .or someone that is, who --  before he could register their presence -- ran straight into him as they were peeling around the corner and nearly knocked him on his arse (but definitely knocked them on theirs). 

“Fuck sake!” He cried out, steadying himself, looking down at the assailant, “Watch where you’re going, mate, or you’ll -- oh, Y/N?” He pauses, confusion laces through his brain as he recognizes her, “What’re you doing here so late?” 

Y/N was on her bum, scowling at him as she gathered herself before flattening her palms to the cold, white tiled floor and pressing up to a stand, “I could ask you the same question.” 

“It would be a silly one if you did, ‘cos you and I both know what I’m doing for a living,” he watches as she swipes her bum of the dust adhering to her sweatpants -- he had never seen her so dressed down before, in a dark-colored hoodie that just about swallowed her whole. She appeared much less ferocious this way -- not that she appeared very ferocious before, but he is always intrigued to see typically put together people in their sleep clothes. . .he thinks it says a lot about a person. From Y/N’s choice of pajamas, he could tell that she probably kept her flat on the side of too cold because she liked to bundle up. . .she felt safe that way, he would guess, and he would bet 50 quid that there was bunny hair all over it because -- despite his grumpy tendencies -- Thumper loved a good cuddle.

“I felt it again,” she says after a moment, her voice only above a whisper, though there was no security here -- or anyone, for that matter since the place closes at 7 PM, but her eyes still shift around like she’s a high schooler ditching class and the headmaster's down the hall, “. . .that thing, y’know, while I was getting ready for bed, so I followed where it felt grossest and came to check it out to see if it led me anywhere.” 

Harry’s brows furrowed, “Well that was stupid,” he derides her, fixing the tote around his shoulder and shifting weight from one heel to the other, “What were you going to do if you found something, hm? Fight it off with your bunny and rose petals?”

Her scowl returns, “Piss off,” she utters before her gaze flickers to his tote and the reason he’s here becomes clearer to her than it had been before, “You shouldn’t be stealing blood. Isn’t that unethical?” 

“It’s either this or siphoning it from a live vein, Babe, and while I’m aces at plenty of things, I have not been properly trained to set up an IV. I only take the blood that’s about to expire anyway,” He nods down the hallway, toward the refrigeration where they kept all of the baggies, “You might as well continue investigating while we’re here because it’s coming from that way -- plus you can make yourself useful by keeping the door propped open for me.”

In all honesty, Harry expects more fight than he was given considering how often she seems to object to every move he makes, but she merely rolls her eyes and starts ahead of him. The feeling does grow stronger the further they descend into the hallway and he knows Y/N can feel it too, from the way she shuffles just a little closer to him, and he can hear her breathing hitch to a small halt as they stood before the door and it felt like it had all been focused just behind the door. As strong as the taste of frozen orange juice concentrate, it made his face pucker just slightly as he raised his fingers toward the keypad and began punching in the code. 

“You’re really gonna go in there?” Y/N queries gently, and Harry only nods his head in response, reaching for the door handle. An urgent, delicate touch of Y/N’s hand startles him, looping around his wrist and dragging his attention toward her, “Shouldn’t we have a game plan if something is behind the door?” She asks, her hold on him tightening just a little, and Harry notes how soft her palm feels against his skin, “Like, let’s say we open the door and a behemoth is standing there, what do we do?” 

“The only behemoth that could fit in this tiny room is the band from Poland, Babe, and I reckon they have better things to do on a Thursday night,” he retorts, clenching around the knob and tilting it down, “Now unless you want to hold hands in there. . .” 

She lets go before he can finish, and he doesn’t have to look back at her face to know she’s irate. A small smile quirks at his mouth as he pushes his shoulder against the heavy door to aid him opening it, bracing himself to see something potentially horrid. . .

And there’s nothing. 

Actually, as soon as they open the door, the dark, odious feeling that had been encompassing both of them disappears entirely. “Whoa,” Y/N pushes her hand against the door and keeps it open, taking one step inside of the room, “There’s a lot of blood in here.” His gaze flickers back at her, as she looks around, looking more intrigued than disgusted -- there was a lot of blood, 8 by 5-meter room just filled with it, so he could understand some of the awe. The more he returns, the less awe he feels, but he reckons that was to be expected. 

“There are about five other refrigerators in this building too,” he tells her as he lowers to his knees, cracking open his tote, “This one’s computers are easier to get into though, and doesn’t say the date and time the amount was changed so nobody knows anything is missing. Easy peasy.” 

Y/N nods, “Right. Stealing blood -- easy peasy,” she leans against the door, “What is it that you use it for?” 

“It really depends,” he murmurs as he pulls out a rack, counting out the baggies he needed, “Some demons like blood more than ash, so they come when called and are more willing to help you out when given a little gift. There are a few spells that call for it, and elixirs are twice as potent — sometimes I have to drink it, which is...unpleasant,” he hears her shiver, “—but it makes the outcome better. All in a day's work.”

“Oh wow,” Y/N hummed, “That’s...different. I think the weirdest thing I’ve had to drink for a spell was doe milk and I felt guilty the whole time. Like I was taking it from a fawn that needed it.”

Harry huffed out a laugh — Y/N was a soft little thing, comparing drinking blood to milk — sometimes he forgets how sheltered her world of magic is compared to his own.  It was easy to forget with all the spiteful words she could throw his way, but to see her out of her comfort zone. . .it’s refreshing. Not because she is less confident in her surroundings, but because she is more open to his own If someone would have told Harry they would be even remotely civil with one another in a room full of blood, he would have snorted before asking what they were snorting. 

“I oughta call you Bambi then.” 

He was on his last baggy of blood, checking the expiration date, and logging it into the computer when the dreadful feeling returned. Like a fly to rotting meat, it clings back to the room they were in tenfold. From behind him, a sharp clatter and Y/N’s squeal startles him to look back at her, “Harry!” She cried, pointing ahead of her, “The walls! L-look at the walls!”  

Harry follows her finger, watching as a thick, black substance oozes from the wall’s coving. When Y/N had noticed as much, she knocked down a stray IV pole that had been left in here, and it lay at her feet where the same black ooze had begun seeping up from the trim of the floors. In all his time doing what he does, Harry had never seen something so odd, nor had he ever felt something this grotesque overcome his being. It makes him act quickly, and while he doesn’t speak, he does fix his tote over his shoulder and practically jog the short distance to Y/N, knocking her out of the room, grabbing the door by the handle, and swinging it shut. He had hoped to seal it in there, whatever it was, but when they look down at the floor, the goo bleeds beneath the door and they both take a startled step back, “Oh fuck me,” Harry mutters to himself, shaking his head. 

“What the hell is this?” Y/N is panicked -- it’s very clear in her voice, and while Harry was a tad thankful not to be dealing with this alone, he can’t say that a soft which, who planted pretty flowers and made sleepy time tea was necessarily the backing he wanted in the event he had to exorcise a demon. He didn’t even have the proper tools for it. . .he didn’t know what he was exorcising, fuck sake --  “Harry, shouldn’t we --” 

“We need to leave,” he states, pivoting on his heel and hustling down the hall, Y/N was quick to scurry behind him, though she still murmurs some protest. 

“We shouldn’t just --” 

“Listen, unless you have any idea what that is and how to clean it, let alone banish it to hell, I saw we have a better chance through those doors than we do staying in here for even a second more,” he told her, holding out his hands to the crash bar, shoving the heavy door open, only looking back to make sure that Y/N had made it through, seeing that the black ooze had been following them before he promptly slammed the door shut. 

This was one of the back doors, so it spits them out to the graveled employee parking lot that dances along one of the many mouths of the forest that surrounded them. They’re both out of breath, adrenalin zipping through their veins in a tidal wave as their chests heave and they stare at the door. They wait for it to crawl beneath these doors. . .they wait for the building to either be overcome by sludge or combust from whatever sinister being had decided to preoccupy this space. 

But nothing happens. 

The wind picks up, the leaves rustle against the branches, and as if it were a gift from the Earth, the sordid feeling blew right away with it. 

“What the hell was that?” Y/N asks for the second time. 

Harry straightens out from where he’d been crouched, inhaling the cool air, appreciative to be in it. 

“Do you think for a second, with my reaction, that I have any fucking clue?” 

                                                        .                             .                              .

Y/N doesn’t have people at her flat often. 

Actually, apart from Niall and a few maintenance men, nobody had ever really come over. Not for any particular reason, really, and not because she didn’t want them to necessarily -- the opportunity just rarely arose, or more so, she didn’t often allow it to. If she were going to meet someone then she would meet them somewhere else, and they would part ways after they were finished (again, apart from Niall, who would simply follow her home, kick his trainers off, and head toward her couch which he had told her was simply the comfiest he’d ever been on). Her home was her humble abode. . .it was where she came to destress after a long day, and where Thumper sometimes waited for her debating whether or not he wanted to nibble her bathroom rug to shreds.

Not to mention she had plants growing here too, and flowers that she held dear to her, and while people are more reluctant to go touching what isn’t their business at a store, they are much less disinclined to give that same respect to her plants. Once Y/N had a maintenance man over to fix her faucet and she’d walked out from her room to see that he was caressing her snake plant’s leaves. She couldn’t blame him -- the plant had a very encompassing presence about it and had a way of drawing people in if they weren’t careful. . .hypnotized by the way it made them feel. All of Y/N’s soil and seeds are charmed with special incantations and concoctions that took her years to perfect, she would be disappointed if they weren’t causing people to leave all semblance of professionalism to even for a moment feel as if they were in a room with such clear air, their lungs felt renewed and they deemed it necessary to get closer. 

But then she had to apologize to her snake plant for nearly two days after! It had been so upset with her, she could feel it, so she started being even more careful about who she let in.  If she was going to go out of her way to have someone over, then there was a good reason for it. . .or it was Niall. 

And a demonic, gooey substance sweating from the walls of a blood bank, was well enough a good reason to have Harry over. 

It took some coaxing on her part -- he was convinced that they needed to just go back to their respective flats and go to bed, but Y/N was adamant in vetoing the idea. “We’re supposed to talk tomorrow anyway, so we might as well just go ahead and do it tonight -- and you are not leaving me alone after whatever the fuck that was!” 

After a good ten minutes, he finally relented as long as they could stop by his flat so he could get his kitten. Y/N hadn’t known that he had a kitten and thought maybe he would bring out some ragged-looking thing, but she was surprised to see through her windshield window that Harry was approaching her car with a small grey kitten. Her face contorts in the way everyone’s face might when they see something small and cute, “Look at her,” she coos once Harry opens his door, “What’s her name?” 

“This is Oat,” he answered, holding her out for Y/N to pet, “Be careful, she’s vicious.” 

Y/N pet at her head and Oat’s eyes shut as she nuzzled into her palm, “Oh yeah, what a panther.”

 Apart from the nerves that had already materialized from what they had seen in the blood bank, she was a little worried about inviting him into her home. When she visualized her safe space, Harry was not typically who she saw sitting on her couch when she came in from the kitchen, holding mugs of warm tea. Yet there he was, introducing Thumper and Oat to one another (who merely sniffed each other, then immediately cozied against her olive throw blanket on the end of the couch), and Y/N is handing him his steamy mug. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, immediately nursing the mug between his palms and lifting it up to his mouth for a small sip -- the steam disperses around his face in plumes, “And it wouldn’t make sense for. . .for whatever that is to just be a demon.” 

“What?” She inquires, taking her seat beside him on the couch, her body twisted so she was facing him entirely. Y/N had adjusted the temperature to something that would be a bit more suited toward having a guest -- when she’s alone, she keeps it ungodly cold so she has an excuse to bundle up in her clothes and blankets. There’s nothing like feeling safe in a cocoon of various fabrics with Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the telly. 

Harry strategically places the mug between his knitted socked feet, steadying it there as he begins to play with the thick, brassy tiger ring on his index finger, “Demons are strong, sure, but if they’re gonna be that strong there’s typically two reasons for it: they have already inhabited that area, or someone is controlling them behind the scenes. I would be more inclined to believe the prior, but I’ve been going to this blood blank for about a year now and unless there were some pentagrams I’ve missed or a gruesome ordeal that never made the papers in the past two weeks -- then there’s no reason for that to have happened at the hands of a spirit. Even a blood demon isn’t strong enough to make what happened in there happen, and they literally feed off the substance in the room.” 

“So you think someone summoned it or something? I thought you were the only one around here that did that?” Y/N probes, trying to look in his eyes but she keeps getting distracted by his rings -- how many did he have? She thinks he nearly has one on each finger, and he’s plucking them off and placing them on different knuckles as he speaks. Y/N wonders if it’s something he does in response to a stressor, like how she picks at her nails. 

“I’m the only witch that summons things around here, but not even I could conjure something that feels that vile.” He explained, fitting the last ring against his knuckle before he pops the bones in his fingers, and Y/N watches as the skin stretches and moves around the muscles in his hands,  “I think someone is trying to manifest something without the proper safeguards in place. . .the lack of protection charms, crystals, and spells can invite much more heinous creatures to the living world. They feed off shite like that -- naivety. . .thinking that any person could decide they’ll have a demon carry out a job for them. It’s easier for them to take advantage of them that way.” Harry exhales, running the pad of his thumb around the rim of the mug— she’s given him the one that has intricate, realistic drawings of beluga whales on it, not for any other reason apart from that one was her favorite and she liked to see it in use, “And with a full moon coming up? Recipe for disaster.”

“Oh shit,” Y/N holds her tea closer to her being, “That’s why the feeling is so profuse and disagreeable in the air then, ‘cos they aren’t containing it right? When I was looking into a little bit of what you do, I read that there are containment spells so the demon or spirit doesn’t have free range to do as it pleases, but the spell is dependent on the demon in question and the severity of its power.” 

Harry looked pleasantly surprised, “Yeah, that’s right -- what’re ya looking up what I’m doing for?” He settles into her couch, “Have you got a crush on me or summat?” 

If Y/N rolled her eyes any further back, she thinks they would have done a 360 in her eye sockets, “I fell down a rabbit hole the other night when I was trying to figure out why you couldn’t sleep,” an impish grin slides onto his mouth, “And not because I’m “in love with you” -- I just thought it would be interesting to know if your insomnia was the reason of a demon because that would mean one of my items combats against that and wins. My. . .most of my magic is based on prevention when it comes to dark things like that, not really to fight what’s already there.” 

“So your flowers don’t like -- I dunno, Little Shop of Horrors it?” He teases, motioning to her Hoya plant that had just begun to bloom for her, “I reckon when I think of plant magic, I think of you snapping your fingers and thorned ivy whipping around to slow assailants.” 

“No, none of that,” she laughs lightly, shaking her head, “They’re much too nice and gentle. . .they only want to help. And I’m rarely in a situation where I would need thorned ivy whipping around.” Y/N locks eyes with Oat for a moment, whose eyes close nice and slow before she reopens them and Y/N thinks she might just melt, “What do we do then? How do we stop it?” 

He slides a ring with teddy bears from his pinky and spins it between his forefinger and thumb, “There’s nothing to do -- if we don’t know who the problem is, then we can’t fix anything.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, and the action makes his already loose cardigan slide down his arms, revealing more of the cream-colored shirt he wore with Smokey the Bear on the front reading Only YOU! can prevent forest fires, “All we can do is wait for the next fucked feeling and hopefully run into the person causing -- oh,” Harry pauses, motioning toward her, “You’ve got a new friend.” 

Y/N’s confused, brows knitted until she feels a paw press against her shoulder and the telltale purr of a happy kitty. When she turns her head, she finds that Oat has snuck her way up to her, and is now attempting to perch on Y/N’s shoulder. She presses closer to the back of the couch so that she had a better footing, and in return Oat bumps at her cheek with the top of her head, “You’re so cute, stop it,” she murmurs, and when she takes a breath through her nose, she smiles, “She smells like my heliotrope flowers too! How are you the familiar of such a grumpy, cruel lug, huh?” 

“Oi,” Harry mutters, “I resent that. I’m not grumpy or cruel, you’re just rotten.” 

A retort plays at Y/N’s mouth but her phone screen lights up from where it’s sat on the coffee table and strays her attention. She’s confused -- the only person who would be messaging her this late was Niall but she’s almost a hundred percent certain that he was supposed to be out at the bar tonight. It is him though. 

Fuck me, have ya looked at the news? Is this that thing we were talkin bout? 

Harry is a nosy bugger, and after reading the message with her he reaches for her remote, “You told him about it?” He turns on her telly, quick to open her TV guide, “So he knows about you?” 

“Yeah, he knows -- turn to 3,” she tells him, and soon enough the local news is playing out, big bold letters on the blue band stretched across the bottom of the screen. 

MAN TO BE CHARGED WITH ATTEMPTED MURDER ON GIRLFRIEND 

He turned the volume up, so they could hear the news reporter who was on site. There was yellow caution tape stripped around a house, police lights, cops walking around in the back, and frightened neighbors who had left the comfort of their homes to investigate what was happening. The woman on screen had long blonde hair that whipped when the wind blew and muffled her microphone feed, her face set stony as she recounted the events as the police had told her, “. . .has no recollection of the event, and is claiming the “walls” were dripping in blood and demanding that he do it. Jacobs is being taken in for further questioning and pending a psychiatric evaluation -- his girlfriend Amanda Wilson is being rushed to hospital that’s all anyone knows right now. Back to you Tom...” 

“Oh, fuck sake,” Harry groaned, shaking his head, “Now this is a problem, problem innit?” 

“Was it not before?” Y/N takes the remote from him, turning the volume down, “Do you -- does that sound like anything you’ve dealt with? That would try hurting someone like that?” 

He presses his knuckles to his eyes, sighing, “Not that I remember -- I’ll have to do some digging. . .this is bollocks, you know how bad this is for business? Nobody wants to mess with dark magic when shit like this is going on.”

“Aish, don’t think so selfishly. People are in danger,” she tsks at him, “And we’ll need to -- what are you doing?” She asks as he removes his feet from where they had been on the couch, reaching down for his loafers like he was about to put them on. 

“S’getting late,” he responded, “I was g’na head home --” 

“No you’re not,” she told him, her face dropping in borderline disgust as he seemed genuinely confused with her, his face twisting, “We experience something like that, then see the news, and you not only want to separate, but you want to walk all the way home, alone, in the dark? No way, that’s too stupid, you’re staying here.” 

Harry’s brows dipped in, irritated, however, he did stop reaching for his loafers,  “But --” 

“Listen, we may not be fond of each other but I’m not letting you put yourself in danger,” she tells him, before adding quickly, “And you are fucking not going to leave me alone after that! Are you mad?” 

“I’m sorry, I thought I’d be doing you a favor without bothering ya with my presence. Never thought Miss. Good Witch of the North would want me breathing her air for too long.” He ripostes and it reinvigorates any distaste for Harry that had been easing throughout the night the more they spoke. He always did that -- always made her feel like she was some stuck up prick who never gave him a chance, but she would have if he hadn’t started out being such an arse to her. Sure, the circumstances they had met under weren’t fantastic. . .she snapped at him for taking her flowers without asking, but he could have just apologized -- could have said sorry, and they could have started over but he was immediately put off by her she presumes, because ever since he’d been nothing but cruel to her. His knocking her out of the room in the blood bank was probably the first kind thing he’d ever done for her, and she isn’t a hundred percent certain that she wasn’t just in his way while he was trying to get out. 

So she glowers at him as she pushes from her couch, “Sod off. I’ll get you some blankets.”

He almost immediately replaces the spot that her body had been with his legs, stretching out as far as he could and his feet flop on the arm of the sofa, “Reckon you should make me some of that tea though, so I can sleep.” He called after her. Thumper hops off and follows after her, while Oat finds her spot at Harry’s side and cuddles into where his cardigan’s extra fabric bundles. Y/N goes to the closet in the hall that leads to her bedroom, pries it open, and reaches to the top shelf where she keeps her extra blankets and pillows. Despite how irritated he makes her, she grabs him one of her heavier quilts, because even with her heat kicked up higher than normal her flat has very poor insulation, and the night’s into early mornings get pretty cold. She’s about to grumble at him that he better thank her for this and the bloody tea, but when she returns to the living room. . .he’s asleep. 

Harry just fell right to sleep. 

She’s confused -- understandably, she thinks, because she remembers how much of a fit he’d thrown about her tea and how she was closed on weekends so he couldn’t have any of it. Had whined how he wasn’t able to sleep without the tea, and she had only given him peppermint tea tonight, so there was no reason that should have put him to bed. 

Yet there he was, fast asleep with his arms crossed over his chest. 

 Tutting her tongue quietly, she unrolls the blanket she had chosen for him and strategically places it over his legs. She is careful to move Oat so that she doesn’t suffocate under the covers as she pulls them over, up to Harry’s chest before replacing her in the spot she had snuggled prior. She pauses for a moment before she leaves them, taking in a completely relaxed Harry -- not that he doesn’t seem relaxed all the time, but he’s just. . .calm. His muscles have melted against her couch cushions, his brow has soothed and his amaranth pink lips are soft and parted. Gentle, easy breaths slip through his mouth. . .Y/N thinks that she likes him like this. Not spiteful, or crass -- this Harry doesn’t seem to hate her. This Harry is warm and comfortable enough to just fall asleep on her couch. 

Thumper thumps his foot against the floor, his not-so-silent request that they go to bed and Y/N snaps out of whatever hypnotic state she’d been in watching him rest. She feels creepy but shakes it off, reaching down to pick up Thumper by his belly and cradling him to her chest as she leaves the living room, keeping her lamp on for him in case he wakes up to have a wee or anything. 

It’s when she goes to the kitchen to grab him a bottle of water to leave at the coffee table for him, that she can feel Thumper judging her. This is only confirmed by the way he is looking up at her when she looks down at him, his small, pink nose twitching, and she can just sense him repeating Harry’s tease of have you got a crush on me or summat? -- it’s not like he hasn’t questioned her before. She reckons if Thumper could actually speak and not just implant little thoughts of his in her head through whatever little bond they have, he would be very free with his accusations about who she might have feelings for. 

Y/N rolls her eyes. 

“No, I don’t,” she disagrees with him quietly, “What do you know about crushes, hm? You’re just a bunny.” 

                                                         .                               .                              .

It had been a while since Harry had worked. 

Though he was always hesitant to call it work, all things considered. Y/N had once described to him that what he did was lurk around seedy clubs and wait to be recognized by a sorry sap that wanted something they didn’t want to put much effort towards, and Harry can’t necessarily say she’s wrong.  He preyed on the lazy; men and women who couldn’t be arsed to obtain a goal without the help of a little magic no matter how negative, and Harry couldn’t really fault them for it. One, because sometimes goals are unattainable with literally anything other than a demon's help, and two because he gets a hefty wad of cash in his pocket for his trouble. How hypocritical could he be to deprecate their usage of dark magic when he is doing the same thing. . .when he relies on that more than anything, even the silly little romance novels he writes so that nobody questions where his money’s coming from. 

It was a Friday night, and since he was no longer tied to the commitment of meeting Y/N to discuss the horrible, no good, terrible thing that was slithering its way through town and apparently spurring bouts of attempted murder -- he was able to visit a club. Though Y/N had made him lock pinkies with her that morning, telling him to keep his eye out for anything suspicious that may or may not have led to the events from the night prior. 

Promise me that you’ll keep informed on what’s going on there, okay? And promise me that you’ll tell me about it. 

The club he’d visited was one of the more popular of the four he frequented, and within the walls, amongst the gyrating bodies in scant clothing and sweat-drenched skin, were many of his regular clients. One of which had been blowing up his phone for the past week telling him how he desperately needed help, and he needed it ASAP. Harry finally replied to his message with a simple time that he would meet him, and that they would discuss the cost once he’s explained what is being asked of him. This guy, in particular, wanted many frivolous things, and typically his requests revolved around wealth, though Harry thought he had more than enough. And while Harry could do a few simple spells that would bring the money gradually and don’t come with the dangers that a demon will, he refuses. Harry has always told each of his clients that a spell and a demon could do the same thing, but demons brought faster results, albeit potentially precarious consequences.

And when it comes to summoning, things can get a bit tricky. If the person who is summoning is the person who will benefit from the demon’s will directly, then it may come with a price, and that price may or may not be hidden between the lines. Especially when it is someone who has no clue about the actual process, offerings that could be made without including their soul for the taking, and spells that could be done that would protect them. After doing this for so long, Harry had developed and harnessed enough power that it was rare a spell every backfired or a demon ever bested him, but if Bradley Evans tried this himself, he’d be good as dead. 

This is why, no matter how this man grates every open end of his nerves with a dull blade, he continues to help him. Again, Harry gets paid an obscene amount of money for what he does, so he sucks it right up -- and it’s not as if this money is just for him. He has people to take care of, his own personal gripes with the smarmy, rich, meat-headed pricks that want him to summon Clauneck for a trip to the Bahamas matter very little in the grand scheme of things. 

He’s leaning against the far back corner, at a table that he’d claimed for the night and a cherry mango cocktail that wets his lips and stains them red. He really isn’t scouting for suspicious behavior like he had promised to, only because his mind had floated elsewhere entirely. Like how, after so long of only ever being able to rest with help of Y/N’s chamomile, he was able to fall asleep without the help of anything. He had asked her about the tea that she and he drank prior to him passing out unprompted on her couch, but she told him it was just a store-bought strawberry tea that was a guilty pleasure. 

It perplexed him greatly. He only remembers her demanding him to stay the night because she didn’t want to be alone (and if he’s honest, neither had he after the night they had), he remembers her standing and him stretching out on her couch, and he remembers asking her for the tea that would help him sleep. 

And then he remembers waking, feeling refreshed, and renewed. Confused, but reinvigorated, he had a wee before poking around in her kitchen for something to satiate his grumbly stomach. Y/N was still asleep -- he’d peeked his head into her cracked open door only to find her dreaming peacefully, relaxed, and content. As creepy as it felt to stare at her as she slept, he did watch for a moment. It was different to see her without the accompanied scowl he usually coaxed upon her face -- the blissful gleam that exudes from her now is the same that he sees when she’s tending to one of her gardens. 

He brewed two chai lattes in her Keurig with Oat on his shoulder like a bird and she woke as he was taking the second mug, setting it on her kitchen counter, “G’morning,” she yawned, Thumper hopping behind her, looking just as sleepy, “Did you sleep through the night? I made you a cuppa and kept it in the microwave in case you woke up.” 

His heart had lurched. . .a genuine clench that Harry had not felt in a while.

“Oh,” he blinked at her owlishly, “I slept just fine, but thank you.” 

“Mm, good,” she was so sleepy still, Harry remembers wondering if she was even fully awake speaking to him, “I  have sliced fruit in the fridge if you want, for brekkie.” 

It was a domesticated scenario that Harry had not been privy to.  

Had it been her flat? Maybe the plants that she had strewn about the room were all enchanted, singing sweet songs of sleep that lulled him to sleep without him knowing. All he could recall was feeling so unbelievably comforted and no matter how cold it was in that damn flat, he felt so warm. . .so warm, and it smelled so good, and Oat was snoozing happily at his side. Plus she had wrapped him in this quilt that was heavy and smelled nice -- he thinks, in that moment, he finally understood why babies liked feeling contained in a swaddle blanket. Regardless of what happened at the blood bank, and what they found out on the news, Harry felt safe in her flat. And he probably wouldn’t have left either, if he didn’t have to work. 

He’s so caught in his reverie, that Bradley’s arrival truly startled him. A clearing of his throat catches his attention, dragging his unfocused gaze from the crowd of dancers to Bradly, dressed in a Lacoste polo that thought was ugly but he would never say it aloud, “Oh,” he straightened up, bringing the rim of his glass to his mouth and taking a small sip of it, “Right then, what can I do for you? Another trip to Barbados?” 

Bradley shakes his head a little frantically, and it's only then that Harry takes in the actual appearance of him, that surpasses the Lacoste and zeros in on the panic that decorates his face, “I need like -- like a demon protector or some kinda spell or -- I don’t fucking know, or something.” 

“Oh --” his brows dip, “What’s wrong? Is something bothering you?” 

He starts to nod, then switches it to a shake of his head, and that morphs into a shrug of his shoulders, “I don’t know man, I just don’t feel -- I don’t feel safe. I wondered if one of those demons from before were like. . .after my soul or summat.” 

“Not possible,” Harry dismisses the idea, setting his glass down on the high round table, “When I work with them we make a spiritual, contractual agreement that they are bound to. If your soul was not on the table, then it will never be on the table -- it must be something else,” he thinks for a moment before a slither of realization stokes the fire in his brain, that sets the coals aflame and heats the cogs to a churn, “What -- explain to me what you’re feeling?” 

“Like something is watching me,” he blinked, crossing his arms on top of the table and leaning most of his weight onto it, the scent of liquor wafts over Harry’s face when Bradly breathes, “It’s heavy and. . .it’s like swimming in ink. It’s horrible and frightening, and I’ve never -- I’ve never been one to rely on vibes, but mate, they were bad. . .they were like -- vile. Vile vibes, man.” 

Harry thinks, while his description is repugnant, he knows exactly what he’s talking about, but there wasn’t much he could do. Harry can make protection spells that are generalized but he doesn’t believe that any of them are strong enough to fend off whatever this thing is. In cases like this one, sometimes dark magic is not good to fight dark magic, it can only make it grow and fester like a nasty, infected wound. He really did not want to try that out on Bradley. . .he may not be fond of the guy, but he didn’t wish anything ill on him. 

“You wouldn’t come to me for a protection spell, for something like that,” Harry begins, “You would need --” You would need Y/N -- is what is about to leave his lips, but it drops away. As much as it’s true -- as much as Harry knows that the reason he felt the safest he’s ever had in Y/N’s presence was whatever protection spells she had put in place and strengthened -- he couldn’t. The thought of sending someone like Bradley to someone like Y/N, makes him feel sick. “Give me one second, yeah? Stay here.” 

Y/N gave him her number that morning, telling him that it was silly for them to be unable to contact one another. Harry saved it into his phone and sent her a picture of Oat so that she would have his, but left it at that -- he had assumed, until this moment, that he would never have a reason to have her number. If he ever wanted anything from her he would just show up at her store. 

But here he was, scrolling through his contact list to find her, pressing her number and holding his phone up to his ear. It only rings twice before she’s answered it, “Hello? Is everything okay Harry, did you get a lead?” 

Harry laughs in disbelief, “What’re you, a detective?” He cleared his throat so he could speak over the music clearly, “I need you for something, and I’ll give you half. And before you get all high and mighty, it isn’t for anything bad -- one of my regulars is experiencing the same fucked thing we have only it’s more vile vibes opposed to blood seeping from the walls. Need a protection spell -- whatever you use for your flat and store.” 

She’s quiet for a moment, long enough that Harry questions if his service dropped, but her voice reappears.

 “Where are you?” 

Fifteen minutes later, Harry is flagging Y/N down to his spot in the club where he stood next to Bradley whose friends kept coming around wondering if Harry was his pull for the night. Her jumper with a printed bunny right in the center made him chuckle to himself -- it was more than clear that she had not planned on coming out tonight, and if not for Harry, he thinks she would have spent three more hours at her store tending to the garden there if not for him. When she sees him, noticeable relief makes her shoulders slump, and as she gets closer, she reaches into her pocket, “Thank god,” she called over the music, “I’ve been in here for three minutes and if I got knocked into one more time I was going to lose it.” 

She produces two things -- one is a tiny vial, with an unidentified green liquid, and the other is a small baggie of her tea. Harry takes both from her hand, “Thank you,” he murmurs, before dipping down closer to her ear, “Go over to that empty table near the bar, I don’t want this guy seeing you clear enough that he could ask you for anything ever again.” 

Though she was confused, she listened to him, slinking her way over to the table while Harry turned to Bradley who had been looking at his phone, before both were placed in front of them, “Thank you,” he tells him, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. How much?” 

“850,” Harry says without batting an eyelash. Typically his business runs closer to the thousands but he cuts the guy a break since he’s scared.

“Each or what?” Bradley asks as he fishes his wallet from his pocket, flipping the leather open and beginning to thumb through his bills. 

“No, just 850,” he takes the bills from him, folding it between his fingers, “I shipped your crystals last week, did they come?” 

Bradley nods, a big grin on his face, “Oh, fuck yeah dude, I almost forgot! I already transferred you the money for them right?” 

Harry thinks it’s a shame that he doesn’t keep track -- he could really scam him if he wanted to, with these black crystals bathed in the water of Asmodeus (they increases stamina and aids them in not being shit in bed; it was a fucking full-day event to get Asmodeus to recognize the clear stream water, in an incubator that he checks every 15 minutes or so to see if the water has been touched red)  “Yeah, you sent double the amount ‘cos your buddy wanted some too, right?” 

“He loved them, mate,  he’s way less narky too now that he’s getting his dick wet.” 

Harry holds back a grimace, “Alright then, stay safe. You know how to contact me if you need anything.” 

Bradley bids his goodbye and Harry seeks out Y/N, who is picking idly at her fingernails and bobbing her head slightly to the music. When he gets close enough to her, he starts on his spiel as he waves the money toward her,

“Listen, Babe, you used your plants to help him, honestly you deserve way more than this -- a fucking Nobel Prize probably,” he holds it out to her, “Here.” 

She shakes her head, but not in the way she would if she were refusing it because she was disgusted by him -- no, instead she closes his hand around it again and presses it closer to his body, “No, no, you keep it, he’s your guy or whatever.” 

Harry tilts his head, brows knitted, “But they’re your plants.” 

“Yeah, but I would just feel guilty taking it from you so --” 

He sighs, counting out 450 of it, taking her hand, opening her fingers, and sliding the bills into her palm, “Even split then. If you’re going to utilize something precious to you to help someone like that fucker, you deserve a little compensation for it. “ 

Y/N must realize that he wasn’t going to let it go, because she finally folds it in her hands, slipping it into her pocket, “What’s with that guy then? Why do you not like him?” 

Harry can see it clearly; the image of his childhood self, his family struggling to make ends meet but going to primary school with the wealthier kids. The ones who laughed at his faded shirts, and holed winter coats -- who would ask him to their birthday parties and talk shit about the gift he’d scraped up coins for doing miscellaneous work around the neighborhood. He thinks about how he knew they would go home to kitchens full of food, and bountiful dinners that they would never appreciate, while Harry never took seconds because no matter how hungry he was, he made sure their bellies were as full as they could be. And Harry remembers how the headmaster did nothing to quell his worries because those kid’s parents could buy out the school if they wanted to. 

He sees it all, and he hears it all, and for a moment -- selfishly -- it makes Harry wish he had never given Bradley the protection spell at all. 

But he only shakes his head, “He’s just a prick,” he answers simply, before nodding his head toward the door, “Reckon we should get out of here, it smells like piss.” 

It’s always a little easier to leave the club than it is to enter it, so they’re out in the cool air soon enough. A small line had formed outside since Harry had been in there last, and as they step out, a group of three is let in through the rope chain that the bouncer is policing. This part of town is always bustling late into the night, so neither feel the cold brush of fear they have been when they’re out in the dark -- or at least the relaxed way Y/N is looking around tells him that she’s pretty content. 

“Do you want to get something to eat?” She asks him, pointing at the 24-hour diner right across the street, that had been strategically placed there because people who are drunk and high who just sweat out half their body weight love greasy food, “I skipped dinner today.” 

“What a coincidence -- so did I.” 

They got a booth in the far back corner, where the white and maroon tilted floor glistened wet from a recent scrub from the mop, and the air smells of lemon pine-sol. This along with the fact that the black leather seats were dusted of the crumbs that usually mottles them, Harry would assume that they had come just in time for their 12 AM clean up, where the first batch of besotted clubbers had left a mess and they were waiting for the second wave to come through. He didn’t miss the eye that the waitress had given them, looking them up and down like she was trying to decipher what state they were both in, but when neither of them wobbles in their stance, or slur through their words asking for a table, she relaxes and asks them where they’d like to sit. 

After they get settled and order their food (Harry convinces her to get one of their malted milkshakes with him -- his favorite was strawberry and after she confessed that she never had their strawberry malt, he was insistent on her trying it), Harry’s curiosity is suddenly piqued as he thinks of something he hadn’t thought of before, “How did you make it over to the club so fast, hm? Do you just have jars of this stuff made laying around?” 

Y/N sticks her clear straw in the icy glass of water she’d been poured, stirring it like there was anything to mix, and the ice cubes clink together soundly, “No, no, I actually don’t make protection spells unless I’m asked directly -- or usually that’s the case, but I was already in the middle of making some for you and me, so I had a little leftover.” 

“For me too?” Harry inquires, genuinely surprised by the concept that she would make him something to keep him safe. She nods though, like it was silly that he thought she wouldn’t have, only this time she reaches into her purse and retrieves two much larger vials with little cork tops, and one bigger bag of the dried leaves, accompanied by a smaller one tied with red ribbon. 

“I was doing some research while I was at work --” 

“You do a lot of research, don’t you?” He cuts her off and she nods. 

“Mhm -- and there’s this like. . .there’s this elder witch who lives an hour or so drive away from us who I think might be immortal, but that’s beside the point. She has this blog that I was scrolling through and she linked her email, so I messaged her and she sent me her number and told me to call her immediately.” She slides one of the vials over to him, along with the tree leaves, “When I did, she told us that we were in a little more danger than everyone else ‘cos like -- whatever this thing is could start trying to feed off of us, especially you. Said that we needed a potent protection spell, and I told her about mine. You feel safe in my store and in my flat right? Like -- like whatever that thing is couldn’t get to us?” He nodded, eyes fixed on hers, “So this is a version of that suitable for our bodies. The tea leaves are for your flat, and then this little bag here --” she points at the one tied closed with the small strip of red ribbon, “-- this is a tea version of it safe for Oat to drink.” 

Not only had she made him some, but she also made Oat some too? As much as he disliked her before, he can’t help how this warms his heart, zipping through his body and makes him feel just as safe as he did when he was wrapped in her quilt snug on her couch. Harry wonders if this is what she’s like all the time with her friends. . .he wonders if this side of her, that researches and makes protection goodies, brews him a cuppa just in case he woke up in the middle of the night and comes out in the depth of night to the seedy clubs she despises just because he called and asked -- if that’s what they get to see. If that’s what he would have seen had their meeting been any different. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking the vial and the bags, looking at them against his palm, “A lot. You didn’t have to do this for me.” 

“I did though,” she takes a drink of the water through her straw, “I may not agree with what you do but we’re the only two witches here and there is power in unity, even if our versions of magic are different. We have to be there for each other -- Thumper agrees, and that’s a lot coming from him because he doesn’t like much of anybody. . .he barely likes me,” she holds her hand up, the index finger of her other going from finger to finger as she lists off the ingredients, “So we’ve got fern, anise, leaves from the ash tree in the forest, fennel -- the nice old woman told me to hold off on the mugwort unless we’re planning on astral projecting or doing anything with divination, but if we felt that it was necessary we could wear a wreath of it around her necks. That’s an old wives tale though, I’m pretty sure.” She wiggles her fingers, “All that and a little bit of moon water, and we have ourselves a little protection spell! I dipped my finger in for a taste test and I’ll be honest, it’s awful and plant-y but I reckon we can toss them back like a shot and chase it with a sweet drink like juice or something.” 

It hits Harry that he gave Y/N very little credit for what she did, but now as he’s looking at something that she’d made specifically with him in mind, that wasn’t just a glorified sleepy time tea, it puts some things in perspective for him. Sure, she’s been a dick to him in the past, but he was a dick too, about her magic. While he isn’t going to start kissing the ground she walks on, he decides then that he’ll be more mindful of her craft. Plus, from the amount of time that they’ve had to spend together in the past two days, she’s tolerable when she isn’t on her high horse about him summoning spirits and ruining the town. She’s even helpful. 

“Thank you,” he repeats, “I really mean it, I appreciate this a lot.” 

Y/N smiles at him and it’s a smile that he’s never been gifted before. A smile that makes him smile back, as she places her elbow on the table and holds out her pinky toward him -- she’s big on pinky swears, he’s finding. 

“We’re looking out for each other, okay? I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine. . .I swear it.” 

Harry locks his pinky with hers without a second thought. 

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 37: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A blue steel mask that resembles a face at rest, emotionless and cold to the touch when not worn.

A small silver orb with the word "McGuffin" acid etched into its surface. It is coveted by all who look upon it.

A jar filled with potpourri that smells like their childhood home to each person who smells it.

A charm made from small pieces of whale bone fastened together by metal and leather and etched with strange sigils. The object has been treated with mixtures of rare herbs and other substances and the entire bonecharm hums with power, creating a faint but distinctive ‘song’ that the spiritually perceptive can hear.

A small, polished, fossilized cross-section of wood. The interior cracks have filled with some opalescent material in shimmering blues and green. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as opalized wood.

A double recorder hewn from a strange, pale ivory not of this earth.

An iron pocket watch with the chain extruding from an eagle's mouth mounted into the top of the watch. The clasp at the end of the chain is a talon.

A small, handheld harp made from the wishbone of a celestial griffin. It was alchemically treated with elemental fire, laminated with entsap, and enameled with scenes from myth and legend. The instrument is translucent and slightly opalescent in coloration and strung with mithril wire.

A dozen glass roses are arranged in a lovely bouquet. A ribbon of purple silk around one of them has an ivory card attached. The words on the card say, “Glass thorns cut more deeply, my dear.”

A glass bauble with no visible means of opening it contains blue sand and white insects that resemble ants but have iridescent wings. When they fly, a pleasant and soothing song emanates from the bauble.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A blue steel mask that resembles a face at rest, emotionless and cold to the touch when not worn.

A small silver orb with the word "McGuffin" acid etched into its surface. It is coveted by all who look upon it.

A jar filled with potpourri that smells like their childhood home to each person who smells it.

A charm made from small pieces of whale bone fastened together by metal and leather and etched with strange sigils. The object has been treated with mixtures of rare herbs and other substances and the entire bonecharm hums with power, creating a faint but distinctive ‘song’ that the spiritually perceptive can hear.

A small, polished, fossilized cross-section of wood. The interior cracks have filled with some opalescent material in shimmering blues and green. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as opalized wood.

A double recorder hewn from a strange, pale ivory not of this earth.

An iron pocket watch with the chain extruding from an eagle's mouth mounted into the top of the watch. The clasp at the end of the chain is a talon.

A small, handheld harp made from the wishbone of a celestial griffin. It was alchemically treated with elemental fire, laminated with entsap, and enameled with scenes from myth and legend. The instrument is translucent and slightly opalescent in coloration and strung with mithril wire.

A dozen glass roses are arranged in a lovely bouquet. A ribbon of purple silk around one of them has an ivory card attached. The words on the card say, “Glass thorns cut more deeply, my dear.”

A glass bauble with no visible means of opening it contains blue sand and white insects that resemble ants but have iridescent wings. When they fly, a pleasant and soothing song emanates from the bauble.

A white ceramic mug with an unknown substance or creature that has excess of writhing gray tendrils coming out of it.

A dartboard that has a picture of the local regent on it. The eyes currently have darts sticking out of them.

A dark, mahogany box roughly the size of a dozen coins. The box does not appear to have any obvious hinges or opening mechanisms. A perceptive PC will discover a tiny hidden latch that opens the box. Inside and laid together are a matching set of ten gold coins. Each coin is ornately crafted, but slight variations in the coins suggest that they may have been individually handmade.

A smoky black precious stone. When held up to the light you can see the back of a devil pressed against the gem, but no matter how you turn it, you can never see its face.

A small pouch with a moist eye within it. When you bring it into the light, you see the pupil quickly constrict. A PC well versed in religion can tell that this is the living eye of a dedicated follower of the god of orcs. The original owner can still see from this eye.

An ink dip pen made entirely of tiny bones, complete with matching ink pot.

A mummified baby wrapped in funerary wrappings with a solid silver and gold scarab on its neck on a very tight dried leather thong.

A basilisk egg, tightly bound within a leather pouch and swaddled in a bundle of furs.

A small sack filled with eight gears and springs of incremental sizes that appear to be of the same make or set.

A Gnome’s skull that possesses a distinct odour of wine and gnome blood, faint to a human, but strong to a race with keen noses, like elves or kobolds. Rough garnets the color of clotted blood have been pounded into the skull, along with nails of silver and gold. Around lower edges of the brain-case, the tails of giant weasels have been attached, giving the item a furry fringe. The jaw has been wired to the skull with silver wire and a wispy fringe of beard and mustache cling to the bits of dried skin around the skull’s mouth. Runes of foul power have been chiselled into the bone.

A small bag made of chainmail, tightly tied closed and locked. Found inside is a heart made of glass.

A grossly oversized fist-shaped gauntlet that is a fused amalgamation of plates, spurs, gears, and rivets. It smells of grease and machinery.

A child’s toy chariot with the face made from a stuffed growling dog.

An unsettling ceramic figurine of a whale with a mouth full of victims.

A pair of repulsive metal bells designed like bloated women eating fish.

A drum, set with stretched gargoyle hide and woven with choker sinews. It requires a strong arm to pound the instrument but the sound is unique, like a deep thumping of stone.

A black fan made of kobold skin with graphic images of kobold torment.

A worn-looking box of dark wood, fitted with simple hinges of brass, is roughly the size of a man’s head, and rattles when moved. The interior contains a collection of tiny humanoid bones. The underside of the lid bears writing that appears in the primary language of anyone reading it, and states that the most recent reader is attuned with the box. No further explanation is to be found within.

A masterwork steel lute with a triangular body and a headstock that resembles a carved demon’s skull.

A strand of ten flat black stones on a knotted leather thong, each carved with the “Yr” rune and roughly the size of a typical gold piece.

A gleaming crystal shard that shifts its coloration every few seconds, hurting the eyes of witnesses as it does so.

An eel-hide leather pouch filled with an unspeakably foul-tasting coarse salt.

A grey leather vest is made of the rough, tanned hide of a goblin shark.

Orb of forgetfulness. When touched the orb you will remember the last thing you tried to think about but forgot. You will however forget why you wanted to remember it.

A small silk pillow has split open here to reveal that it has been stuffed entirely with brilliant golden hair.

A handwritten note which reads, in part: “She keeps it in the vanity. Without it, there’s no proof.”

A porcelain mask resembles a skull with its mouth sowed shut.

A box made to resemble a heavily pregnant woman with fangs instead of teeth. Her copious belly contains a rather grotesque image of an infant with three heads, each with an open mouth like a key-hole.

A large hourglass labelled "The World Entire." There isn't much sand left in the top bulb.

A clay pipe with the name "Underhill" inscribed on the side.

A copy of Playdrake magazines. Its pages are filled with lewd images and salacious stories of draconic females. It is not suitable for minors.

A small wooden bowl engraved with the heads of a snarling lion, bear, a screaming eagle, and a fish's face.

A vial of scented oil that can be burned as incense of worn as a perfume. Everyone smells something different but, always something nostalgic and a bit sad.

A cube three inches across, made of thin glass of six different colors, one on each face. When it is placed on a side, the colors shift until they finally settle with one color on top (sometimes the same color that was placed, often a different one). There doesn't seem to be a pattern to which colour ends up where.  

A leather vest with one hundred pockets, divided between the outside inside and a number of secret hidden ones. One of the pockets contains a four leaf clover.

A guitar that, regardless of what string is plucked, will always produce the same set of notes in the same order. Only the speed at which these notes are produced can be changed.

An iron orb that always rolls against gravity, but only while in contact with a solid surface. If not in contact with a solid surface, it has no unusual properties.

A gemstone that takes on the appearance of the birth stone of the last person to touch it.

A chess set that animates and attacks people who attempt to cheat at the game.

A vivid, deep purple crystal that appears to consist of a random assortment of thousands of tiny cubes bound together. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as fluorite.

A small hood for a trained falcon. Any bird wearing the hood does not need to eat or drink as long as the hood remains on.

A pair of small metal rods, each about five inches long and a half inch wide, with bulbs at one end. When held, the bulb transmutes into the proper utensil needed for the current meal.  

A glass jar that automatically separates any liquid poured into it into multiple layers of individual substances, as though a centrifuge had been employed.  

A braided lanyard bearing the words "BEST FRINEDS". When the wearer of this braided lanyard closes their eyes, they experience the sensations of having warm sun shining on their face and a gentle breeze tousling their hair. The scent of campfire smoke can be smelled, and the laughter of children can be heard.

A pen of exquisite craftsmanship with a body like smooth, polished marble and gold trimming. The pen has a small golden leaver where in the tip of the pen can be touched to the shadow of an individual's head and enough ink for a full sheet of paper is extracted.

A leather wallet stamped with the symbol of a mousetrap, containing a full set of certified identification papers denoting that the bearer is a member of the ratcatcher's guild. The section containing the member's physical description (Height, weight, sex, race, eye, skin and hair colour) is completely blank and could be filled in by anyone with half decent handwriting.

Mirror of Self-Interest: A small steel mirror that doesn't reflect anything but the face of the person holding it. However, this image of the person is perfect, devoid of any flaws or incongruities with the holder's appearance as though they were the most attractive person in the province. This image is also only visible to the bearer.

A black and purple scale of some enormous horror of the far realm.

A velvet coin purse containing half a dozen egg-sized polished stones in various natural hues.

A skull carved out of charcoal. When burned, the skull will turn into a pile of ash. Within an hour, the skull reforms into charcoal.

A thick caribou skin frontier jacket covered in mythological scenes.

A perfectly preserved human brain, encased in a large dome of clear glass.

Apple of Doubt: A fruit that looks like an apple, it tastes like an apple, it smells like an apple, for all intents and purposes it appears to be an apple, but you are certain it is not an apple.

A blood red mask made from carefully sculpted bone, shaped to look like the face of a grinning demon. The eyes of the mask are the only parts that are open, with the eyes of the bearer appearing bright crimson while looking through it.

A suncatcher in the shape of an evil deity literally catches the light of the sun, forming a hazy space of shadows around it.

A large, round-bottomed flask containing a faintly golden liquid which smells sweet, but overwhelmingly of alcohol.

A deck of cards carefully organized within a small box. The card faces are beautiful but contain a great deal of seemingly meaningless text beneath hand-painted pictures.

A set of windchimes that move though no wind is present. The mellow sounds of their chimes bring back memories that make you ache with anguish and despair.

A scroll that repeats these words endlessly; “Seek out the Gilded Glade and place me upon the pedestal.”

A large painting portraying the wonders of underwater life. The viewer see merfolk, sea elves, and all manner of aquatic creatures going about their lives. The edges of the driftwood frame around the canvas is dripping seawater.

A simple silver fork. Embossed into the handle are the letters “JA.” The tines of the eating implement give off a slight green glow. A crowded inscription on the back of the fork reads: “To King Ragnis, may venom never touch thine lips.”

A small envelope sealed with a wax sigil. If unsealed the letter inside reads: “Meet me at the Red Rose at 7 in the eve. Kill the bearer of this note.”

A tightly rolled cloth that unfurls into a solid black banner, with a faint, hard-to-look-at pattern shimmering in the weave.

A rough-hewn, rust-colored stone filled with half-buried flakes of dark blue crystals forming the semblance of a rose. Knowledgeable PC's can identify the mineral as azurite.

A statuette of a six armed man, holding shields in each hand. With a ring-loop for a head, which is looped onto a necklace.  

A large obsidian sphere with jutting shapes carved in and sticking out.  Each surface is intricately carved with a complex script composed of squares.  It is wrapped several times and held inside a smooth pottery sphere.  

A squat metal cylinder of brass that resembles a small compass. When opened, it reveals a dull blue gem.

Neverspill Mug: Any drink poured into this mug can never be spilled accidentally. Someone can be struck upside the head with it, without a single drop escaping.

Unending Chalk: A stick of chalk can be used to draw, but never gets shorter or breaks.

A rolled up canvas painting of a dreary field with dark uninviting woods beyond. The leaves of the trees in the background of the painting seem to sway and there appears to be something moving through the field.

A hilt of what once must have been a magnificent sword but the blade has been removed. When the hilt is picked up, the wielder feels the weight of a whole sword and when the hilt is whipped around, the wielder can hear a blade slicing through the air. But it is just a hilt...

An apple that is the most mouth-watering, beautiful apple you have ever seen...but when you approach within three feet of it you begin to see it rot and spoil right in front of your eyes and even touching it and smelling it confirms that it is indeed rotted. As you back away you see the apple's rot and decay reverse and it becomes the same beautiful apple you saw seconds earlier.

A set of sky blue robes made from a high quality cotton with the Order of Deacons symbol sewn into the chest.

A set of bagpipes made from a rich mahogany wood, artfully carved and well balanced.

A hooded lantern with an adjustable iris to control the light level. Its adamantine casing is covered in stars and concentric circles, as well as text no one seems able to read.

A set of robes primarily red in colour, with subtle green highlights, as well as silver thread embroidery and grey fur lining around the collar, hood and sleeves. Overall it seems to border a fine line between looks and utility, given that the sleeves feature each a strap allowing them to be rolled up and secured, and several leather belts attached to the inside of the robe fill in the role of pockets or holsters. Under direct sunlight, the robes have a very faint, barely noticeable iridescent sheen to them.

A large obsidian sphere with jutting shapes carved in and sticking out.  Each surface is intricately carved with a complex script composed of squares.  It is wrapped several times and held inside a smooth pottery sphere.  

A long and pale wand engraved with several horizontal slits,

A bleached white jawbone once belonging to a dwarf. It shouts insults in dwarven whenever it is touched by an elf.

A pair of golden earrings, with sapphires set in the center. The sapphires always appear to be as if they are catching light, no matter the light condition, giving them a false, glowing appearance.

A marble statuette of a scowling woman with octopus tentacles for arms emerging from dark ocean waves.

A well-made holy symbol of the minor God of Random Domain that when carried or worn by a bearer who is not a devout follower of that God, fills its owner with a sense of dread

A pair of war drum clubs whose handles are made of a dark brown wood with human skulls bound with leather strips on the ends.

A heavy iron mask, intricately carved patterns and runes.

A white porcelain mask, smooth and beautiful, except for the tears of blood coming from the eye sockets.

A small, palm-sized mass of interlocking carvings. The carvings on closer examination resemble five interlocking crescents. The icon is fashioned from what looks to be ancient bone and knowledgeable PC's can determine that the object was fashioned from the knuckles of five different dragons.

Coin of Indecision: A gold coin with the word "YES" on one side and the word "NO" on the other. If it is flipped while asking a question, the coin always lands on edge.

A thin chisel wrought in the shape of a stylized finger, with a perpetually flaking lacquer of dark green.

A leather wallet acid etched with the symbol of an alembic, containing a full set of certified identification papers denoting that the bearer is a member of the alchemists and apothecaries guild. The section containing the member's physical description (Height, weight, sex, race, eye, skin and hair colour) is completely blank and could be filled in by anyone with half decent handwriting.

Wand of False Life: An elm wand that if set down on a solid surface, will sprout tiny legs and arms, and move around like a living thing, spontaneously wandering around in a small area and sometimes dancing, particularly if there is music being played. It isn't actually alive and will not move more than three feet from where it was placed. The arms and legs will fold away if the wand is picked up, but it always seems to have an elongated face as part of the grain of the wood at one end.

[five-rivers]

Adoption

Based on a prompt by @fabnamessuggestedbytumbler for the Phic Phight! An excuse for Lost Time fluff? Don't mind if I do...

.

.

.

The Ghost Zone had a legal system. A court system. A prison system. A police system. A set of established rules. There were even lawyers.

In theory.

In reality the courts (Observants) refused to look at anything that wasn't world ending. Every group had their own, private prison. The police made up their own rules and, even then, broke them regularly. The actual rules had gone several hundred years without an update and referred to places, organizations, and customs that no longer existed. The lawyers were all clinically depressed. That's what happens when there's no active, unifying head of state for hundreds of years.

Still. Every so often a sufficiently foolish ghost, possessed of a brave purpose, would attempt to navigate the ruins of the legal system. Few made it out alive.

(True, being ghosts, they didn't necessarily go into it alive, but it's the thought that counts.)

But those who did make it out (metaphorically) alive, did so with prizes... well, not great enough, but something enough to convince others to make the attempt. Hence Clockwork's current location and headache.

"Sign the paper, Walker," snapped Clockwork.

"That would be against the rules," said Walker, leaning back in his stupid chair. Clockwork's nonexistent spine hurt just from looking at it.

Maybe he should give himself a spine, just so he'd have a reason to feel this way.

"How," he began, "would it be against the rules? This form needs to be signed by a law enforcement official that has seen or witnessed conclusive evidence the child in question being abused by their natural parents. That is you."

"Yes, but the law enforcement officer must first get a warrant approved by an appropriate court in order to collect such evidence," countered Walker.

"Not if the official came across the evidence or act of abuse while pursuing a different case or simply following standard operating procedure. You saw them shoot at him. His mother put a gun to his head. Have mercy, Walker. I know you don't like him, but he is a child who needs guidance. Not a criminal."

"He's a criminal in my books," said Walker.

"What he did was hardly a crime."

"Jailbreak is a crime!"

"Not if one is unjustly imprisoned," said Clockwork. "He was attempting to remove the foreign object." No matter that possessing material-plane items wasn't an actual crime.

"He let others escape!"

"And what were they imprisoned for?"

Walker grumbled. "Some of them are dangerous, and even he knew that," said Walker, nodding at the file spread over his desk.

"Consider it a cry for help. While you were watching him," stalking him, Clockwork did not say, "on the material plane, did he really strike you as criminally inclined? Or perhaps he was simply confused and scared? One thousand years is a very long time in human terms. The targets of his Obsession would have died. Even if he did commit a misdemeanor, he would have rightly been granted clemency, or at least had his sentence deferred."

Walker frowned.

"That's not what this is about, is it? You covering up a mistake?"

"No," said Walker.

Clockwork blinked, quickly running through potential futures. "No one will care that you crossed the veil without authorization. No one who can do anything about it, in any case."

"There'll be an investigation if I sign that there piece of paper. What's the big deal, anyway? Like you said, humans don't live that long. Just wait fifty years."

"They almost ended him," said Clockwork. "He's a child. Do you really want that on your conscience? With the knowledge that you could have stopped it?"

Sighing, Walker picked up his pen.

.

Danny went to school. Mainly, he went because he didn't know what else to do. He needed the routine, even if the routine was a lie and he felt like trash.

"You could have stayed," whispered Sam, as his hand inched towards the bandages on his chest for the fifth time that morning. "They wouldn't have noticed you."

Danny shook his head. His hand shook more. He put it back in his lap. "It wouldn't have been right. Besides, I need a passing grade in this class, right?" He couldn't get another F, or his parents would kill him, except- except- except-

They had already tried to kill him.

Everything had gone so much worse than he had ever imagined- No. That wasn't quite right. It had gone- It had...

At least he hadn't been cut open.

(Much.)

"Mr. Fenton?"

Danny jumped, banging his knees painfully on the underside of his desk. He looked up, wildly, tensing himself to flee, only the fact that he was currently human keeping his powers from activating.

(Well, that and... what had been done to him.)

When had Mr. Lancer gotten there?

"What?" he asked, breathlessly.

"Are- Are you alright, Mr. Fenton?"

"I'm fine," Danny said. He wasn't. His ghost half was urging him to go find a nice, dark, quiet, safe corner to hide in, preferably one in the Ghost Zone, his heart was hammering out of his chest, he'd spent the night not-sleeping in one of the guestrooms in Sam's house, and that was before even touching on his injuries.

He forced a smile. Mr. Lancer was one of the few teachers who hadn't given up on him, which was alternately touching and frustrating.

"You look sick," said Mr. Lancer. "Are you sure you don't want to call home?"

Danny's heart stuttered, his core painfully cold. "I'm sure," he said.

"Today is a project day," said Mr. Lancer. "You wouldn't be missing anything in this class, and I can talk to your other teachers."

"No, I'm fine."

.

The legal clerk for the family court was the kind of ghost who seemed to have fused with her role. The sleeves and collar of her shirt melded seamlessly with her skin. Her nails were brass pen nibs. The lenses of her glasses were part of her face.

She lived in either the basement or the attic of this particular building, depending on how one oriented themselves, among barely-organized stacks of books and papers. There were parchment scrolls and stone tablets, too, the later often re-purposed as elements of the room's furniture. Green-marbled filing cabinets grew out of the walls, and electronic somethings glittered out of the shadows.

The clerk had been reviewing Clockwork's paperwork for literal days. Rather, she would have been, if Clockwork hadn't surreptitiously dropped a time medallion around her neck and stopped time.

She hummed, thoughtfully. "In this document, you are using the pronoun tsai to refer to the adoptee. Are you certain you don't mean tusui? Or perhaps chahe?"

"Absolutely," said Clockwork. The intimation that he wasn't fluent in nchabhatsi was insulting. On the other hand, the requirement for that particular piece of paperwork to be in the language was also, in his opinion, rather ridiculous. Many ghosts, especially the recently dead, did not know nchabhatsi.

"The adoptee is liminal?"

"Yes," said Clockwork.

"Hmm." She stood up and flew from her desk to an inverted bookshelf anchored to the ceiling. From a box she took a huge sheaf of papers, and blew an amount of dust from them that was unhealthy even to a ghost. "It has been a while since we used these," she said, giving Clockwork a faded-ivory smile. "You'll need to fill these out and have them notarized by the proper officials before you can proceed. Liminal spirits are so rare, after all! They require special care. Oh!" Her hands fluttered. "And I'll have to get in contact with our liminality expert. That may take some time."

"If you can give me their name," said Clockwork, "I will take care of it." He gingerly took the stack of slightly-decayed paper. Had it really been so long since a partly-human child had been adopted? Probably.

"Oh, you're such a dear," said the clerk, not noticing the sudden absence of the medallion around her neck. "But that paperwork won't do itself, and-"

"It's done," said Clockwork. Fulfilling some of the new requirements had been more challenging than others and avoiding a paradox had taken considerable self-control, but what good were his temporal abilities if he couldn't use them for personal gain now and again? None at all.

"Ah," said the clerk.

.

Familiar, and very loud, voices spilled from the hallway near the office. Danny, one hand on his locker, trying to remember his combination, froze like a deer in headlights. His heartbeat picked up, his core buzzed frantically. He couldn't move. Grey crept in along the edges of his vision.

"... not him. It was never him! He's dead-"

"Mrs. Fenton, Mr. Fenton, I'm not sure what you're getting at, here, but your son has been at school all day, and we-"

"A ghost killed him and took his place! It's been playing a sick game with us this whole time!"

"Danny would never have gotten grades like this. We should have noticed the lower intellect right away, if nothing else."

"That's-" spluttered Mr. Lancer. "You- Daniel's work is exemplary, what little of it he turns in. I'm going to have to ask you to go back to the office-"

"No! Not until that piece of ectoplasmic scum is wiped from the face of the Earth!"

"Danny," said Tucker, much closer. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Right. Ghostly super hearing. Tucker and Sam, staring at him with concern, couldn't know.

"They're here," he managed, the words like sandpaper in his throat.

Sam uttered a word that would have sent her mother into a screeching fit. "We need to get you out of here," she said putting a hand on his back and pushing him down the hall.

"I'll run interference," said Tucker. "Make sure they can't follow you in the GAV."

"Good thinking," said Sam.

"Call me when you're safe," said Tucker, peeling off, presumably to hack the GAV.

"Danny, breathe," ordered Sam, as she propelled him through the double doors at the back of the school. "We're going to get you through this."

.

Clockwork had resorted to trapping the legal complex in a massive temporal bubble. Not the neatest solution, true, and it seemed to encourage the various functionaries, regulators, and bureaucrats to take even more time to process even the simplest request, but at least it would keep Daniel's suffering in the meantime to a minimum.

However, that didn't change the fact that he had been bouncing back and forth between the various floors of the building like a ping-pong ball, never getting closer to the solitary family court judge, for well over a subjective year. He was exhausted, frustrated, and he missed Daniel.

"You will be able to provide steady, stable access to the adoptee's preferred haunt?" asked his present interviewer.

"Yes," said Clockwork, dully. The room was ringed with runes that prevented deception of any kind.

"You will be able to provide shelter adequate for both his ghostly and human form?"

"Yes," said Clockwork. He had answered these questions so many times before.

"You have taken the mandated class on liminality?"

"Yes," said Clockwork. He was beginning to understand why other ghosts just gave up and sought extralegal solutions.

"You are aware of a liminal spirit's developmental and emotional needs?"

"Yes," said Clockwork. This was just so boring.

"And are you able to satisfy those needs?"

"Yes," said Clockwork. If only it would end.

The interviewer nodded. "Then we're done here," he said.

"Ye- What? Does that mean I can see the judge?" asked Clockwork, hopefully.

"No. That means that your adoption motion can move on to the next stage," said the interviewer. "Our liminality expert will examine your arrangements and determine whether or not they are sufficient, and we will contact law enforcement to follow up on your claim that the adoptee is being abused."

Clockwork bit back a groan. At least he was making progress.

.

They cut through the empty field behind the school, angling back toward the surrounding neighborhood. The grass came up to their chests, except where there were holes, mounds, and gouges from ghost fights. When there was one in the school, Danny tried to bring it out here, so people wouldn't get hurt.

He wasn't often successful.

Sam led the way. Danny felt- He felt ashamed. If his powers were working, he would be able to fly them away, or at least turn them invisible. This would all be so much easier. He could have taken care of himself, and Sam and Tucker wouldn't get in trouble, because they would definitely get in trouble for this. But he couldn't.

He couldn't even convince his parents that he was himself. He had to screw that up, too.

Before, he had thought, worse case scenario would be that they'd try to 'fix' him, to remove his ghost half, or maybe they'd think he was overshadowed. At least, he'd convinced himself of that, convinced himself that dissection would be off the table if he ever told them, that they would still love him. Maybe they might still want to do tests, but they'd love him. They wouldn't want to hurt him.

But he had been so, so wrong. They didn't believe him. They thought he had killed himself, replaced himself.

They had tried to cut him open.

(They succeeded.)

His core shuddered at the memory.

At least, though, there hadn't been any ghost attacks today. He wouldn't have been able to fight anything stronger than the Box Ghost. Heck, he might have lost to the Box Ghost. Like this, he would have to leave the ghosts to his parents, Valerie, or the GIW, none of which were particularly good options for the hunters, the ghosts, or the innocent bystanders of Amity Park.

His core pulsed uncomfortably at the thought of any of them getting hurt, including his parents.

He flinched. His core had been very jumpy, very active ever since... it... happened. Usually it only did this while he was in ghost form, and was otherwise almost dormant.

"Are you okay?" asked Sam. "Is it hurting?" She was the one who had bandaged him up last night.

"We can't stop now," said Danny.

Sam flattened her lips. "That isn't an answer. As soon as we get somewhere quiet, I'm checking you out, okay?"

"Yeah," said Danny.

When they reached the short fence, Sam gave him a boost to get over and they made their way into the suburb. There was a small library branch down the road a ways. It had a small family bathroom that Sam and Tucker had patched Danny up in before. It would be a good place to regroup before trying to put as much distance between them and Danny's parents as possible.

"We could take the city bus, I think," said Sam. "There's a stop outside the library. Maybe we could go to Elmerton?"

"Maybe," said Danny.

"Any ETA on Jazz since last night?"

Danny shook his head. "She couldn't get a flight. She's taking a Greyhound. Won't be here 'til-"

There was a beep. Danny stopped breathing. That could have been anything, a phone, a watch, a car, something from a building, but something about it tickled at Danny's brain as wrong.

"There is a ghost twenty feet in front of you."

The whine of a charging ectogun-

Sam slammed into his side, and they both fell. Danny felt the cut on his chest begin to bleed again, and he curled around it protectively. It hurt so much more than it should, and Danny wondered if that was because ghosts were ultimately shaped by their minds and his was in so much pain right now.

His parents had just shot at him. From behind. Not ghost him, Phantom him, either. Human him.

They hated him. All of him. Not just half of him.

His ghost sense went off. Because things could always get worse for Danny and the universe apparently hated him.

He struggled into a sitting position and blinked, confused. There were people surrounding him, protecting him, standing between him and his parents. Sam was shouting. Danny couldn't make out what she was saying, what anyone was saying, not with his heart pounding in his ears.

"Kid," said one man, shaking his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Danny considered that. "No," he said, finally.

The man pulled a phone from his pocket and began saying something about calling the hospital. Normally, Danny would be worried about that, but he was looking for the ghosts. It was possible one of the more benevolent spirits that haunted Amity Park had happened across the scene, but, somehow, Danny doubted it.

His ghost sense went off again. He whimpered.

His people were in danger.

Ghosts usually came for him (he was leading them here, an evil ghost, causing all this trouble, murderer), or at least attacked him first, to get rid of him as a threat. He staggered to his feet. He had to get away. Still clutching his chest, he turned and bolted.

Almost at once, he was surrounded by ghosts in police gear. Walker's goons. Definitely stronger than the Box Ghost. Still, he was going to at least try to fight. He put his fists up. Maybe some of them would be dumb enough not to phase out of the way of his stupid human punches.

Then Walker himself descended from the sky.

"Daniel," he said, stiffly.

"Walker," returned Danny. A small part of him was grateful that Walker hadn't called him Phantom and spilled his secret. It was strange, but no ghost had ever seemed particularly inclined to do that, despite how easy it would have been.

"We have a court order to take you into custody," said Walker. "Someone wants to ask you a few questions."

Danny decided today's mood was 'pointless bravado and defiance.' "And why would I want to come with- whoa."

As Danny talked, Walker had taken a piece of paper with strange symbols written on it in green ink out from the inside pocket of his jacket. The symbols made his head spin... Or maybe that was just his injuries catching up with him. His left leg was trembling, and he wasn't sure how much longer it would hold out.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, and focused on Walker. "I have no idea what that says."

Walker sighed. "Just come quietly, son. Make it easier on yourself."

Danny swallowed his discomfort at being called 'son.' "You won't hurt anyone else?" he asked.

"I'm just here for you."

There really wasn't much of a choice. Whether he went quietly or got himself beaten up even more, Walker would win and carry him off. Anyone could see that. Besides, ghost prison might be a better alternative than getting dissected by his parents.

He raised his hands in front of him, wrists together. "Go ahead, then," said Danny, flatly.

Walker nodded, and the goons converged on him. The cuffs they put around his wrists glowed green, but they had weight in a way most purely ghostly things didn't. Danny doubted that he'd be able to phase his way out of them, human or ghost. Then they picked him up and the whole swarm started to fly away.

.

"Yes, this is my lair," said Clockwork. "I can, however, duplicate and be both here and at the secondary residence I acquired expressly for the purpose of ensuring continuity of Daniel's human life."

The 'liminality expert' grunted. "He's still been here, though, hasn't he?"

"Yes," said Clockwork. "He has."

"And he might be here again in the future."

"Yes. I do plan to have him here, for short periods of time."

"And later, when he sheds his human life?"

"Perhaps."

"Then I need to know, are these up to OSHA standards? Your entire lair needs to be up to OSHA standards."

"They're time viewers and tools for unraveling paradoxes. OSHA, even the OSHA of the far future, does not regulate these items," said Clockwork. "Why, in the name of time, do you even need to know? Surely, OSHA didn't even exist the last time a liminal child was adopted."

"Well," said the expert, slightly sheepish. "No. But regulations state that all residences must be safe for children by both human and ghost standards."

"Then OSHA is not what you should be using," said Clockwork. "OSHA is the set of rules for occupational health and safety."

"Ah," said the expert. "Then we can move right along to the next check mark, shall we?"

.

"Hi," said a cheerful voice.

Danny looked up from his contemplation of the examination room table and glared balefully at the ghost who had just entered the door. They didn't seem to be affected. But then, why would they be? Danny was handcuffed to the table and clearly not a threat.

"I'm the interviewer," said the featureless ghost. "Do you know why you're here?"

"No," said Danny.

"Well," said the interviewer, "I work for the eighth authorized family court of the Infinite Realms, we're actually the only one right now, but there used to be more, and a little while ago, an adoption request was filed on your behalf."

Danny blinked and made a face. "You mean, someone stole my identity in ghost court?"

"No, no," said the interviewer, waving one amorphous hand. "Not at all. I mean to say, I ghost filed a request to legally adopt you."

"Who?" asked Danny. "Not Vlad?" Vlad was the only ghost he could think of who had demonstrated any interest in adopting him.

"No, that's not the name listed here."

"Plasmius?" asked Danny, still cringing internally.

"No."

"Then who?"

"Clockwork."

"What, seriously?" Danny liked Clockwork, and he liked to think that Clockwork liked him back, that they were friends, but the older ghost always seemed somewhat aloof.

"Yes, he was very serious. Now. I have a number of questions I need to ask you." They took out a small, glowing crystal, and set it on the table. "Do you know what this is?"

"No?" said Danny.

"It's a record crystal," said the ghost. "But one of its other functions is that it can sense deception, and record when in an interview it is being used. Go ahead, say something you know is false."

"I... like toast?"

The crystal's glow dimmed slightly before returning to its previous level.

"There, see? Very useful, don't you think?"

"I guess," said Danny. He didn't know how to feel about this. Any of this. What would ghost adoption even mean? He trusted Clockwork, but this felt like too much, too fast. He hadn't even properly processed what had happened with his parents a few hours ago.

"Right. So. We'll start with an easy one, then. Is your name Daniel Janus James Fenton-Phantom, also known as Danny Phantom, or simply Danny or Phantom?"

"Yes," said Danny, eyeing the crystal warily.

"And what would you prefer to go by, for the purposes of this interview?"

"Phantom," said Danny.

"Alright then, Phantom," said the interviewer, "could you please tell me where you primarily reside?"

"Fentonworks," said Danny, "in Amity Park." So far, he hadn't really had a reason to lie. All of this was common knowledge for both his human and ghostly acquaintances.

"And what would you consider to be your haunt?"

"My what?"

"Your haunt. The territory that you have metaphysically claimed."

"I- I don't really understand."

"Is there an area that you feel compelled to defend against hostile persons? An area in which non-hostile ghosts defer to you?"

"I- Yeah. I guess. Amity Park. And some of the bits around it, too."

"The entire city?"

"I guess? I don't know," said Danny. "Is that weird?"

"It would be unusual," said the interviewer.

Danny really wished the interviewer had an expression he could read. Or even just something approximating a face.

"Now, do you feel safe in your home? In 'Fentonworks?'"

The correct answer to that question would be no, but he wasn't sure he should answer. What if this was some kind of elaborate trick?

"We can come back to that," said the interviewer. "Are there any other places where you do feel safe?"

"I mean, sure?" said Danny. He fidgeted.

"Would you please share some of those places?"

"School, I guess?" Except that he got beaten up there all the time and his parents had hunted him down there and he had to escape and... Yeah.

The crystal dimmed. Danny grimaced.

"Ah," said the interviewer. "Anywhere else?"

"My friends houses," said Danny. "And the Far Frozen." To his relief, this time, the crystal stayed bright.

"Have you ever been to Clockwork's lair?"

"Yeah," said Danny. He slouched in the chair as much as possible. He wasn't sure he should be answering these questions, but he was. Maybe he should stop.

"Do you feel safe there?"

"Not at first, but now I do."

"I see. Why not at first?"

"Clockwork and I didn't meet on great terms and we sort of got into a fight." Maybe that would get the interviewer to stop. They'd decide Clockwork couldn't adopt him and leave. Did Danny want that? He wasn't sure.

"That's more common than one might expect. But you feel safe with him now?"

"Yes."

"Alright, moving on. How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

There was a long, drawn out silence that managed to be skeptical despite the interviewer's lack of a face.

"I know I'm small," said Danny, insulted, "but I am sixteen."

"Excuse my indelicacy, but... how old were you when you died?"

Danny flushed. "Fourteen," he bit out.

"Then you're fourteen."

"It was two years ago. I'm sixteen."

"Fourteen is your natural age," said the ghost. "A ghost's natural age is the age they died at."

"Yeah, but I'm still half human. I'm still aging. So I'm sixteen."

The interviewer shook their head. "As a liminal spirit, your apparant age range is likely larger than a normal child's would be, but your natural age, your true age, is still fourteen. Based on records of liminals, the highest extent of your age range is most likely to be either twenty-one or twenty-eight. That's part of the reason we investigate official adoption request so thoroughly. The relationship may very well last for thousands of years, if not forever."

"Wait, are you saying I could live forever?" asked Danny, incredulous. This was not how he wanted to find out he was immortal. Heck, he didn't want to be immortal.

"I'll admit, my understanding of liminality isn't perfect, but I believe that is the case. Why? Is that problematic?"

.

"The results of the law enforcement investigation have come back," said the bureaucrat to whom Clockwork was currently assigned. "As well as an inquiry as to the opinion of the mortal law enforcement arm."

"And?" asked Clockwork. "Their findings?"

The bureaucrat, who had up until that point not displayed evidence that xe possessed any emotions whatsoever, made a face of extreme disgust. "When the officers found the child, the human parents were openly shooting at him. Other humans intervened for long enough for law enforcement to pick him up. Of course, they then felt the need to arrest him and carry him away in handcuffs... I have no idea why I keep at this job, really I don't."

Clockwork's core shifted in worry. His first impulse was to leap up and go comfort Daniel, but he suppressed it. If he left now, he would lose his place in line and have to start over.

"The public nature of the event means that the human police are now investigating the child's circumstances and may recommend that the child be removed from his human parents' custody. If you have a human identity and you are able to gain custody of him there, it will aid your case here."

"I am aware," said Clockwork.

"Well, then," xe said. "I believe this is all in order. Here is your ticket to see the judge. Just show it to the door. You know where it is?"

"I do," said Clockwork, rising.

He had walked by the door several times in his dealings with the various clerks and notaries. The room behind it lay directly in the heart of the family court building, all the other rooms and residents armor for this one.

The door itself was made of dark wood full of eye-shaped knots. As Clockwork approached the door, the eyes opened, watching him. He held up the ticket and the doors swung inward.

Inside was a courtroom, complete with benches, tables, a witness stand, a courtroom recorder, a judge's box, and a judge.

The judge was a one-eyed ghost in pale purple robes. She examined Clockwork.

"We had not foreseen this," she said. "Not until you filed the first motion."

"You were never able to see me clearly," said Clockwork, hoping this would not turn into a power play between himself and the Observants. "Did you receive the relevant paper work, your honor?"

"Yes," she said. "Take a seat, Lord Clockwork."

Clockwork flew to the front of the courtroom and settled himself in the applicant's chair.

The judge leaned forward. "Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Because I love Daniel, and I believe he deserves more care and protection than he is currently receiving from his biological parents."

The judge waved a clawed hand. "Yes, yes. But you didn't have to go through all of this and get to me in order to do that. You could have just taken him. That's what most people do, nowadays. Ever since the King was sealed and our systems of governance began to decay."

"I believe it is the only way Daniel will truly be safe," said Clockwork, meeting her one eye calmly.

"You want to prevent us from 'interfering.'"

"That would be nice, yes," agreed Clockwork.

"You want this to be binding," accused the judge.

"You say that like it is a bad thing," said Clockwork. "But what else could induce him to fully remove himself from that situation? You see how they treat him. Have you looked at the medical report, yet?"

"I have," said the judge, looking at her desk. "Very well. All the paperwork is in order. I am approving you for a one-month trial period. At the end of the trial period, the status of the child will be assessed. If his state is found to be acceptable, the adoption will be approved and bound. If it is not, this court will take custody of him until such a time as an appropriate guardian can be found." She scribbled something on a piece of paper and then hit it with a stamp. "The probationary bond should be active. You may go."

"Thank you, your honor."

.

After the end of the interview, which had become much more distressing than Danny wanted to admit, one of Walker's goons showed up and took him away, to another room.

This room was different than any of the other rooms he had seen in Walker's prison. For one, the walls were a soft, pastel green with purple accents, not the harsh, neon pink of elsewhere in the facility. The chairs looked soft, and were arranged almost randomly, clustered in little groups, or around tables. There were colored pencils and crayons on and occasionally floating over the tables. A large basket sat in one corner, overflowing with toys of various sizes.

Alright. Danny was confused.

He let the goon- the... officer?- guide him into one of the chairs and put a stuffed rabbit on his lap.

"I- I don't understand," said Danny. "What's going on?"

"Didn't that interviewer guy tell you?"

"He said I was being adopted," said Danny, who still hadn't wrapped his head around that particular tidbit of information. "But I thought- I was under arrest?" He raised his cuffed hands. "You arrested me?"

"Those're just so you don't run away," said the ghost. He ruffled Danny's hair. "You're not under arrest. We're just waiting for the court to decide what to do with you."

"And what if they don't do anything with me?"

"Then it's up to the boss."

"Oh," said Danny, not liking the sound of that at all.

"But, if it helps, I think that the court probably will decide to do something with you."

It didn't really help, no.

"Do you want a lollipop?"

"Sure," said Danny. It wasn't like this day could get much weirder.

The ghost handed him a lime dumdum. Yeah. That was about what he expected there, honestly.

The sensation of a thick, weighted blanket being draped over his mind hit him with such intensity that he looked around, trying to see if someone had just wrapped him up in a blanket without him noticing. Tension bled out of his muscles, and his core finally stopped the angry/depressed/frightened/pained dance it was doing in his chest.

He felt... protected. Which was wrong, because he was in Walker's prison, and Walker would use any excuse he had to keep Danny imprisoned for a thousand years. Danny was not safe here. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

And yet, that feeling remained.

He brushed his fingers over the bandages over his chest. What was wrong with him? His parents hadn't even cut all the way through, but he was so messed up. He didn't understand.

This feeling... This 'safety'... It felt like a cruel joke more than anything else, only it was one he couldn't escape from because it was coming from inside him and he was calm but he was also crying.

"Oh, heck, do you not like lime? I think I have some green apples-?"

The door to the room opened, and Danny looked up. Before he could register who had come in, he was swept up into a hug.

He blinked into silky purple cloth. "Clockwork?" he croaked.

"I'm here," said Clockwork. "It's fine. You're safe now, Daniel."

Danny pushed away. Clockwork let him. "You're adopting me?" asked Danny.

"Yes," said Clockwork. "Unless you don't want me to."

"Why?" asked Danny. "I don't understand. I didn't think you liked me that much."

"I like you very much," reassured Clockwork. "I want you to be my family."

Danny sniffed. "Okay," he said. It wasn't as if he really had anywhere else to go. "Okay. But what about," he made an awkward gesture with his cuffed hands, "Amity Park?" The idea of leaving hurt, even worse than the cut on his chest.

"You won't have to leave," said Clockwork, soothingly. "You can still have your life there."

"I'll have to go back?" asked Danny, in alarm. Back to Fentonworks, where even the walls had it out for him with how much anti-ghost weaponry they had packed into them? He couldn't. Not after what his parents had done.

(A small part of him knew that wasn't what Clockwork had said, and that he was being irrational. That part of him was ignored.)

"No, no," said Clockwork. "I have a new place, just for you. If you'll let me show you?"

Very hesitantly, Danny nodded.

"Alright, good," said Clockwork. He turned to the police ghost. "Do you have the key for these? We really must be going."

"Yeah," said the ghost, producing the item. "The boss says that he expects you to teach the kid how to respect the law."

"Appropriately," said Clockwork, neutrally, unlocking the cuffs.

Danny felt an urge to hug Clockwork. So he did. Clockwork hugged him back, and rocked him back and forth, gently.

"Are you ready to go?" asked Clockwork.

"Yeah," said Danny.

With a gesture of his staff, Clockwork opened a portal.

.

Clockwork wanted custody of Danny. He wanted full custody of Danny. Legally. In both worlds.

This posed a bit of a challenge, as he did not legally exist on one of those two worlds. Thus, Clockwork had to establish a legal presence in the human world.

On the surface of it, this did not seem too difficult. Between his temporal powers, his minor shapeshifting abilities, and overshadowing, simply creating an identity was easy. The hard part was creating an identity that Daniel would not have encountered before, in order to avoid a paradox, while making it plausible that Daniel had encountered the identity before, for the purposes of dealing with mortal law.

In one timeline, the hill to the west of town stood empty of habitation, owned by the county but rendered unusable due to a dangerous failed mine on the site. In this timeline, however, the mine had never been built, and the property was instead owned by a reclusive hermit who went by the name of Charles Worth. The property had passed through many hands in the years before Mr. Worth had purchased it in his youth, and a stately, if somewhat faded, mansion sat at the hill's crest, overlooking Amity Park.

Charles Worth went to Amity Park only rarely, and for good reason. He was an albino, with red eyes, white hair, and even whiter skin, and superstitious people often thought the worst of him. In recent days, he had even been mistaken for a ghost.

'Mistaken.'

He rubbed Daniel's shoulders, and the child startled, pulling away from him again. Daniel had missed Clockwork's, admittedly minor, transformation, and now blinked up at his newly pale face, confused.

"Do you like my disguise?" asked Clockwork.

Daniel's eyes flicked up and down Clockwork, assessing, processing. He gave a tiny nod, and reattached himself. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Hickory Hill," said Clockwork.

Danny frowned, mouthing the words. "Isn't that owned by... Charles Worth. Charles- Oh. I get it."

Clockwork gave Danny a little squeeze. "Would you like to see inside?"

"Okay," said Danny.

.

The house, Danny had to acknowledge, as they approached the front door, looked haunted. As if some pale, frail, spirit might look out one of the lace-draped windows on the upper floor at any moment. As if there was a Gothic mystery just waiting to unfold. A murder mystery, maybe, full of forbid love and jealous lovers. Or the tale of a sickly heir to a great fortune.

Or that of an ancient ghost and his adopted half-living son.

Even before they stepped inside, Danny's ghost half had decided it loved the building.

The door, as Clockwork opened it, creaked in a loving sort of way, the tone low enough to be comforting instead of annoying. The entrance hall's floorboards did not creak under the weight of the ghosts, but Danny could tell that if a human tried to cross them, they would. He hoped the rest of the floors were like that.

He padded forward, daringly leaving the protection of Clockwork's cloak, examining all the dark nooks and crannies, the odd architectural choices arising from generations of additions, smiling at cold spots. Clockwork shut the door. Even then, there was a draft, curling around his ankles, cool and refreshing.

Danny smiled. It was small and strained, but it was a smile. "It's perfect," he said.

"Don't you want to see your room before you say that?" teased Clockwork.

"Yes," said Danny.

Clockwork led Danny to a staircase with an elaborately carved banister and began to climb. Danny followed eagerly. He had never thought his core would be so happy simply to have somewhere safe to exist.

It almost was enough to let him forget what his parents had done to him. He stopped, hand on his chest.

"Daniel?" said Clockwork. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," said Danny, automatically.

Clockwork frowned, the expression both familiar and foreign on Clockwork's falsely-human face. "Why don't we take a look at that, once we get to your room, alright?"

Danny nodded, swallowing back his irrational fear.

They went up, and Clockwork opened the door to a large room, much larger than the one he had back at Fentonworks. The bed was similarly large and equipped with curtains and enough blankets and pillows to turn it into a nest at a moment's notice. The walls and ceiling were painted a deep blue, with tiny green-white dots picking out a star map. The room also contained a number of carefully curated hiding places, areas where the dressers wardrobe or desk created blind spots and deep shadows. The floor was carpeted, but still icy.

It was an excellent room for a ghost (or half-ghost) like Danny.

He was too nervous to enjoy it.

Clockwork pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down. It was a little strange to see Clockwork actually sitting and not floating or coiling. Actually-

"Can you have legs in ghost form?" asked Danny.

"I can," said Clockwork. "But typically I don't bother." He patted the bed. "Let's take a look at you."

Danny hesitated, holding his hands clasped in front of his chest. Clockwork's face went soft.

"I just want to make sure you are healing. I know this is difficult, but neither you nor I want things to get worse."

"I'm fine," said Danny. "I heal fast. It was just- It should be gone now. I've gotten worse."

"Is it?" asked Clockwork.

Danny could still feel it. "I don't know," said Danny.

Clockwork patted the bed again. Danny sat down and started fumbling with the hem of his shirt.

"Would you like help?" asked Clockwork.

"No," said Danny. He pulled his sweater off. Taking off his t-shirt was harder. Then there were just Sam's bandages. He bit his lip a the red and brown blotches staining them.

"Would you like to talk about it?" asked Clockwork, taking one end of the bandage and starting to unwind it.

"I don't know," said Danny. "I just- It's so stupid. I shouldn't have- They saw me walk through a door and- They don't even know I'm Phantom. They just-" Danny hiccuped. "They tried to cut me open. They pretended."

Clockwork pulled free the last layer of bandages. The long, shallow cut was still there, straight along his breast bone until the end, where it curved sharply right and tapered off. That was when Danny had jerked free of the restraints and ran.

"Why isn't it healing?" asked Danny.

"It isn't just a physical wound, Daniel. Ghosts are spiritual creatures."

"Oh," said Danny. It made a sick kind of sense. "So my core is really hurt? I thought I was just... That it was in my head."

Clockwork raised a hand to touch the bottom of the cut. "Your parents are important to you, and to your Obsession, your existence as a ghost. Of course their rejection would affect you." The cut began to knit itself together underneath Clockwork's fingers. Danny's core thrummed strangely at the touch. "I can heal your physical injuries."

"But not the mental ones, huh?" said Danny.

"You need time for that," said Clockwork, reaching the top of the cut.

"Good thing I have you, then."

"It is," said Clockwork. He leaned forward and kissed Danny on top of his head.

Danny ran his fingers up and down the newly healed cut. "So my powers aren't going to work until, what, I get over this?"

"That is one possibility," said Clockwork. "But everyone heals differently."

"Can't you tell?" asked Danny, reaching for his shirt.

"The more involved I am in an event, the more difficult it becomes for me to see its future," said Clockwork. "The timeline branches and splinters as I look at it. Also, it may surprise you, but you are fairly difficult to predict on your own."

"Oh," said Danny. He pulled his shirt on, ignoring how it caught on the dried blood on his skin. "So, what now? Should I just, I don't know, hide out here? I mean," he shifted, uncomfortably, "It's fine if I can't let anyone know I'm here, I get that, but I'd like to, um..."

"Live your life?"

Danny flinched. "As much as I can, yeah." He licked his lips. "Sam and Tucker didn't get in trouble, did they? They're fine?" He'd been so wrapped up in how miserable he was, he'd barely spared his friends a second thought, and now that guilt from that rained down on his head.

"They're fine. Due to the circumstances, they haven't gotten in any trouble at all, so stop that."

"What?"

"Feeling guilty. I know for a fact that the safety of others was your first consideration." Clockwork patted his shoulder. "As for your continued presence here on the mortal plane," Clockwork smiled, "would it surprise you to learn that I am in fact registered as a foster parent? I have even had a few children here, although not many stay for long."

"Really?" said Danny. "But... Wait, um. What about- What about Mom and Dad?"

"They were seen shooting at you in public after insisting that you were a ghost. They've been arrested."

Danny swallowed. "Are they going to be alright?"

Clockwork sighed and shifted so that he was sitting on the bed next to Danny. He put an arm around Danny's shoulders. "They'll be fine," he said. "But we should come up with a story about how you wound up here, hm? For the social workers."

.

During Daniel's periodic visits to Clockwork's lair, Clockwork had noted how tactile he was, how much he enjoyed hugs and other physical expressions of affection. After Daniel got past his initial hesitation concerning his new situation, that particular personality trait multiplied.

Clockwork suspected the Fentons were ultimately to blame. Their hostility towards Daniel's ghostly identity and their tendency to carry objects that could hurt Daniel precluded him from seeking comfort from them, and his friends and sister, while very remarkable, were children themselves. Their relationship with Daniel was different.

This meant that Daniel could and would spend long periods of time laying against Clockwork. Usually, he would be doing homework during those moments or talking to Clockwork about various ghostly things that he had never had a chance to learn about before.

Today, however, he was just sitting there, quietly, almost dozing.

"I'm not keeping you from doing things?" asked Daniel, abruptly. "Am I?"

"No," said Clockwork.

"You don't have to do time stuff?"

"I can make duplicates and also time travel. I can be wherever I need to be. But if you want space-"

"No," said Daniel. "This is good." He snuggled closer and startled as a ring of light flashed around his waist. He was, for the first time since before his parents had attacked him, a ghost. Clockwork, in turn, shed his human guise.

Daniel was blinking down at his gloved hands.

"What?" he asked.

"I think you finally relaxed," said Clockwork, ruffling Daniel's hair. The smaller ghost leaned into the touch, purring. "Your transformations might be a bit unpredictable for the next few days."

"Good thing it's a weekend, then, huh?"

.

Danny jittered nervously as he and Clockwork passed through the large, eye-covered doors. This time last week, strange ghosts had been in and out of Clockwork's house, asking questions, poking things, and staring. Clockwork said they were checking to see if everything was in order, if the adoption could become official.

Danny didn't really see why it being official mattered. The Ghost Zone didn't really have a government to speak of. Families that Danny had seen just sort of decided that they were families, and that was that. It seemed important to Clockwork, though, and Clockwork claimed that there were certain benefits, like strengthening connections... Danny didn't get it. Wouldn't their connections be strengthened anyway?

Clockwork guided Danny with small nudges, directing him to a seat in front of the judge, who stared down at them with her one enormous eye.

"I have decided to approve the adoption request regarding Daniel Janus James Fenton-Phantom," she said.

Danny felt Clockwork relax incrementally beside him. He smiled. The judge's pronouncement felt a little anticlimactic to him, but, well, whatever.

But the judge wasn't done speaking. "The child's familial bond with his biological parents will be severed. The familial bond will be established with his current guardian, known as Clockwork. On all levels legal, physical, metaphysical, metaphorical, emotional, mental, and spiritual, Clockwork will be the sole parent of Daniel Janus James Fenton-Phantom. Due to the child's status as a liminal spirit, the memories and associations stored in his human brain will not be altered, and he may still experience feelings, especially those of nostalgia, towards his former parents, however, this is expected to fade with time. Questions?"

Danny had rather a lot, actually. Clockwork hadn't quite explained it like this. "Wait, are you saying I'll forget my parents?"

"No," said the judge, in a rather condescending tone.

"You won't forget them," said Clockwork. "But your core won't recognize them as your parents anymore. It's so you'll be able to defend yourself." His tone was almost pleading. "Your relationship with your sister will, of course, be unaffected."

"Okay," said Danny. They clearly didn't see him as their son anymore, so... It wouldn't really change anything. He didn't like the idea of ghosts he didn't know messing around with his core, but he trusted Clockwork. Even if he was apparently really bad at explaining ghost adoption. "What about the other stuff? The physical, metaphysical part?"

"The severed bonds in your core are replaced with ones to your new parent. Similarly, new bonds will be established in your parent's core," explained the judge. "Are you satisfied?"

Clockwork gave Danny an encouraging smile.

"I- Yes. I'm satisfied," said Danny.

"Very well." The judge waved forward a seven armed bailiff who had been waiting in the corner of the room.

The bailiff carried two tall glasses and a large, covered pitcher. He set one glass each in front of Clockwork and Danny and poured a thick, white, faintly glowing liquid into each of them.

"What is it?" asked Danny.

"It is a potion designed to stop our cores from fighting the changes that are about to happen," said Clockwork.

Danny looked at the potion dubiously. "Like an anesthetic?"

"Like an anesthetic," agreed Clockwork. He had already picked up his cup. "Together?"

"Okay," said Danny, still doubtful.

He picked up the cup and brought it to his lips, watching Clockwork carefully over the rim. Clockwork tipped his cup back, and so did Danny.

The potion reminded him a lot of eggnog, except that it was thicker, heavier, sweeter, like it had been mixed with honey. Almost at once, that heaviness settled into Danny's bones, weighing him down, a sensation just to the left of sleep settled over him. He lowered the cup from his face, his grip on it going gentle. The bailiff caught it as it tipped over.

Clockwork reached over and gently, slowly, pulled him close. Then he went as limp as Danny.

Inside, Danny's core became open. Not open, as in vulnerable, but as in receptive. Listening. He felt soft. Malleable. Like someone could press their thumb into him, and it would leave an impression when he hardened again. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation.

The judge sighed with something like disapproval. "So mote it be." She raised a stamp up off her desk, brought it down, and things changed.

Or, at least, Danny did.

.

Clockwork, being the elder ghost, recovered faster from the potion than Daniel. There was no reason to stay at the court, so, after bidding a goodbye to the judge, he picked Daniel up and left, flying a polite distance before opening a portal back to their home outside Amity Park.

He settled Daniel down in his bed, phasing him beneath his covers and tucking him in. Daniel would need to sleep off the potion, as well as take time to adjust to the changes to his psyche, however minor they might be.

"I love you so much," said Clockwork, brushing Daniel's hair out of his face. Getting here had taken subjective years of work and planning but it was worth it, because now Daniel was his child, in every way that mattered.

Forever.

.

.

.

Yes, that ending line was a little bit ominous, but they're ghosts. They wouldn't be happy if it wasn't ominous!

[ziracona]

I like your villain Blight more cause his story becomes far more entertaining especially looking at it from Killers perspective. Just, some guy you never did anything to came out of nowhere into your territory, beat the shit out of you, mutilated and infected you with god knows what, left you chained to a wall and you later found out he did the same to your co-killers. Then it happens again one year later. And an year after. And then you have to work alongside him.

Thank you! : D

Man, if Hallowed Blight was before your time, or it’s been a while, check it out again because it’s such a wild ride. Dude shows up, ducks trials, fucks off to god knows where, tears through Vigo’s old lab and his stuff and starts experimenting, and then when the Entity sends a killer to retrieve him, he’s so hopped up on blight he kicks the Trapper’s ass?? Then does some torture experiments on him??? On EVAN? On Entity’s Employee of the conch circa whatever year pre-Kenneth?? Entity sends more killers, Grimes beats them too. Starts going wild adding shit to blight because...he thinks maybe something will happen? He’s losin it a little? Why not? But poor fuckin Anna ends up part rat tissue, and Philip is so overcome with plant tissue and vines twisting through his muscles and organs he’s almost dead? Doctor gets a taste of his own medicine, Hillbilly gets so over-injected he’s a mass of puss tumours that make me want to help him or put him out of his misery? Like. It’s so /batshit/ insane this happened and the man actually successfully did this. Evan gets free and is like “Fuck this noise” and he angy, finally the Entity is like “fuck that guy specifically” and throws him to the void. Maybe after some trials—very unclear the exact timeline. But like, you’re a normal killer. You’re Evan. You remember all this wild shit going down, right? Sipping a mimosa on your home turf between trials. And then...THERE GOES THE MOTHERFUCKER WHO DID IT??? Up and alive again? In the realm next door??? The bitch human who chained you up and injected you with multan metal to see what would happen is setting up shop and walking around bold as brass?? And he’s scanning Legion next door through a set of binoculars and circling the adrenal gland on an anatomy chart with blood lust in his eyes so you contact HR like “UUUuuuuh quick question: ‘What the /fuck/?’” —You’re the ‘What the fuck. Is that allowed? The fuck. Is that allowed???’ vine, but boss just says “Sorry but yeah he works for me now, and you can’t do jack about it, so you’re just stuck really mad and kind of in shock, making eye contact with Wraith who you haven’t spoken to in ages because you all for pretty understandable reasons don’t see very eye to eye, and you’re just like *mouths* “What the fuck??” And he just shakes his head and it’s the first and last moment of kinship this year, but in that instant you truly understand “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”. And for the next several months when someone fucks up, you hear screams from Blight’s place in killer voices you know, and the injustice of it all, right? Evan’s a mass murderer great at inflicting pain and serial torturing too and been here way longer. Why does the new guy get perks? That’s not fair. Also, fuck that guy.

But there’s a fear now too, because you remember what that molten metal seeping into your bones felt like. So the rage and bitterness and fear fuse and stay low. And you wait for a chance that may someday come to make him pay. But you wait carefully. Really, really carefully. Because you remember.

[flamingfoundry]

Different Types of Alloys That are Used in Die Casting

It can be quite difficult to die cast sturdier metals such as certain variations of steel but you will see there are many other types of well-suited metals available for die casting methods.

The construction of alloy die casting molds is usually done from hardened steel and in a die casting machine, they are often the most expensive component. By these molds, various alloy families with different results are handled but on metals having low fusing temperatures, the process of die casting is most effective. The common die casting alloys are of various categories for this specific reason and as per their composition as well as properties of the material.

Alloy Die Casting: Its Types and Uses

Lead Alloys

For their corrosion resistance, Lead-based materials are used by alloy die casting supplier. Fire-safety equipment, bearings, and various decorative metal goods are the common applications that are included. For the production of castings under 15 pounds, these are quite inexpensive, but lead alloys are not used for products that need to be in contact with food. The composition of a typical lead alloy can be 90 percent lead and 10 percent antimony.

Zinc Alloys

Compared to other materials it becomes quite easy to die-cast and responds well to the die molding process of zinc-based materials. These materials consist of multiple metals in specific ratios. With slightly higher proportions of tin, the workpiece becomes more flexible while with increased copper levels, rigidity is improved.

In place of cast iron or brass, zinc dies castings are more often used by alloy die casting manufacturer, but compared to other sturdier counterparts it has lower tensile strength. Zinc-based material can never increase approximately 17,000 pounds per square inch of force unless it is specially reinforced during the alloying process. Because of this die-cast, zinc products are not used in applications that involve high mechanical loads. By alkaline substances or salt-water corrosion, zinc castings can take place, and are they are even plated to preserve their luster despite atmospheric conditions.

Original source: https://flamingfoundry.blogspot.com/

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Epigraphs - Rhythm of War (all 5 parts)

My notes are in square brackets.

Part 1 - Fabrial Mechanics

Lecture on fabrial mechanics presented by Navani Kholin to the coalition of monarchs, Urithiru, Jesevan, 1175

First, you must get a spren to approach.

The type of gemstone is relevant; some spren are naturally more intrigued by certain gemstones. In addition, it is essential to calm the spren with something it knows and loves. A good fire for a flamespren, for example, is a must.

Next, let the spren inspect your trap. The gemstone must not be fully infused, but also cannot be fully dun. Experiments have concluded that seventy percent of maximum Stormlight capacity works best.

If you have done your work correctly, the spren will become fascinated by its soon-to-be prison. It will dance around the stone, peek at it, float around it.

The final step in capturing spren is the most tricky, as you must remove the Stormlight from the gemstone. The specific techniques employed by each artifabrian guild are closely guarded secrets, entrusted only to their most senior members.

The easiest method would be to use a larkin - a type of cremling that feasts on Stormlight. That would be wonderful and convenient if the creatures weren’t now almost entirely extinct. The wars in Aimia were in part over these seemingly innocent little creatures.

To draw Stormlight out of a gemstone, I use the Arnist Method. Several large empty gemstones are brought close to the infused one while the spren is inspecting it. Stormlight is slowly absorbed from a small gemstone by a very large gemstone of the same type - and several together can draw the Light out quickly. The method’s limitation is, of course, the fact that you need not merely acquire one gemstone for your fabrial, but several larger ones to withdraw the Stormlight.

Other methods must exist, as proven by the extremely large gemstone fabrials created by the Vriztl Guild out of Thaylenah. If Her Majesty would please repeat my request to the guild, this secret is of vital importance to the war effort.

If the Stormlight in a gemstone is withdrawn quickly enough, a nearby spren can be sucked into the gemstone. This is caused by a similar effect to a pressure differential, created by the sudden withdrawal of Stormlight, though the science of the two phenomena are not identical.

You will be left with a captured spren, to be manipulated as you see fit.

With a captured spren, you may begin designing a proper fabrial. It is a closely guarded secret of artifabrians that spren, when trapped, respond to different types of metals in different ways. A wire housing for the fabrial, called a “cage,” is essential to controlling the device.

The two metals of primary significance are zinc and brass, which allow you to control expression strength. Zinc wires touching the gemstone will cause the spren inside to more strongly manifest, while brass will cause the spren to withdraw and its power to dim.

Remember that a gemstone must be properly infused following the spren’s capture. Drilled holes in the gemstone are ideal for proper use of the cage wires, so long as you don’t crack the structure and risk releasing the spren.

A bronze cage can create a warning fabrial, alerting one to objects or entities nearby. Heliodors are being used for this currently, and there is some good reasoning for this - but other gemstones should be viable.

A pewter cage will cause the spren of your fabrial to express its attribute in force - a flamespren, for example, will create heat. We call these augmenters. They tend to use Stormlight more quickly than other fabrials.

A tin cage will cause the fabrial to diminish nearby attributes. A painrial, for example, can numb pain. [Hey, if they captured a gloomspren - granted, tricky because they’re rare - could this be used to make a antidepressant fabrial for Kaladin?] Note that advanced designs of cages can use both steel and iron as well, changing the fabrial’s polarity depending on which metals are pushed to touch the gemstone.

An iron cage will create an attractor - a fabrial that draws specific elements to itself. A properly create smoke fabrial, for example, can gather the smoke of a fire and hold it close.

New discoveries lead us to believe it is possible to create a repeller fabrial, but we don’t yet know the metal to use to achieve this feat.

One of my pleas is for artifabrians to stop shrouding fabrial techniques with so much mystery. Many decoy metals are used in cages, and wires are often plated to look like a different metal, with the express intent of confusing those who might try to learn the process through personal study. This might enrich the artifabrian, but it impoverishes us all.

Advanced fabrials are created using several different techniques. Conjoined fabrials require a careful division of the gemstone - and the spren inside. If performed correctly, the two halves will continue to behave as a single gemstone. Note that rubies and flamespren are traditional for thus purpose - as they have proven the easiest to divide, and the quickest in response times. Other types of spren do not split as easily, or at all.

All gemstones leak Stormlight at a slow rate - but so long as the crystal structure remains mostly intact, the spren cannot escape. Managing this leakage is important, as many fabrials also lose Stormlight through operation. All of this is tied up in the intricacies of the art. As is understanding one last vital kind of spren: logicspren.

Logicspren react curiously to imprisonment. Unlike other spren, they do not manifest some attribute - you cannot use them to make heat, or warn of nearby danger., or conjoin gemstones. For years, artifabrians considered them useless - indeed, experimenting eith them was uncommon, since logicspren are rare and difficult to capture.

A breakthrough has come in discovering that logicspren will vary the light they radiate based on certain stimuli. For example, if you make the Light leak from the gemstone at a controlled rate, the spren will alternate dimming and brightening in a regular pattern. This has led to fabrial clocks. When the gemstone is tapped with certainmetals, the light will also change state from bright to dim. This is leading to some very interesting and complex mechanisms.

My final point this evening is a discussion of Fused weapons. The Fused use a variety of fabrial devices to fight Radiants. It is obvious from how quickly they’ve fabricated and employed these countermeasures that they have used in the past.

The simplest Fused weapon against us isn’t truly a fabrial, but instead a metal that is extremely light and can withstand the blows of a Shardblade. This metal resists being Soulcast as well; it interferes with a great number of Radian powers. Fortunately, the Fused seem unable to create in in great quantities - for they equip only themselves, and not their average so,diers, with these wonders. [Aluminum]

The Fused have a second metal I find fascinating - a metal that conducts Stormlight. The implications for this in the creation of fabrials are astounding. The Fused use this metal in conjunction with a rudimentary fabrial - a simole gemstone, but without a spren trapped inside. How they pull Stormlight out of a Radiant and into this sphere remains baffling. My scholars think they must be employing an Investiture differential. If a gemstone is full of Stormlight - or, I assume, Voidlight - and that Light is removed quickly, it creates a pressure differential (or a kind of vacuum) in the gemstone. This remains merely a theory.

The world becomes as increasingly dangerous place, and so I come to the crux of my argument. We cannot afford to keep secrets from one another any longer. The Thaylen artifabrians have private techniques relating to how they remove Stormlight from gems and create fabrials around extremely large stones. I beg the coalition and the good people of Thaylenah to acknowledge our collective need. I have taken the first step by opening my research to all scholars. I pray you will see the wisdom in doing the same.

[My Notes:

Zinc: manifest more strongly

Brass: withdraw (manifest less strongly)

Bronze: warning fabrial

Pewter: attribute expressed in force (e.g. flamespren —> heat; fabrial called augmenter)

Tin: diminish attribute nearby (e.g. painrial reduces pain). Use of steel and iron as well can allow fabrial’s polarity to be changed (e.g. make painrial cause pain)

Iron: draws element to itself (e.g. smoke fabrial gathers smoke)]

Part 2 - Harmony’s Letter

Dear Wanderer,

I did recieve your latest communication. Please forgive formality on my part, as we have not met in person. I feel new to this role, despite my years holding it. You will admit to my relative youth, I think.

I have been fascinated to discover how much you’ve accomplished on Scadrial without me noticing your presence. How is it that you hide from Shards so well?

I have reached put to the others as you requested, and have recieved a variety of responses. Muas you indicate, there is a division among the other Shards I would not have anticipated. Endowment at least responded to my overtures, though I have not been able to locate Invention again following our initial contact. Whimsy was not terribly useful, and Mercy worries me. I do think that Valor is reasonable, and suggest you approach her again. It has been too long, in her estimation, since your last conversation.

The deaths of both Devotion and Dominion trouble me greatly, as I had not realized this immense power we held was something that could be broken in such a way. On my world, the power was always gathered and sought a new Vessel.

That said, the most worrying thing I discovered in this was the wound upon the Spiritual Realm where Ambition, Mercy, and Odium clashed - and Ambition was destroyed. The effects on the planet Threnody have been...disturbing.

Other Shards I cannot identify, and are hidden to me. I fear that their influence encroaches upon my world, yet I am locked i to a strange inability because of the opposed powers I hold. I have begun searching for a pathway out of this conundrum by seeking the ideal person to act on my behalf. Someone who embodies both Preservation and Ruin. A...sword, you might say, who can both protect and kill.

But this does not get to the core of your letter. I have encouraged those who would speak to me to heed your warnings, but all seem content to ignore Odium for the time being. In their opinion, he is no threat as long as he remains confined in the Rosharan system. I do not share their attitude. If you can, as you suppose, maintain Odium’s prison for now, it would give us the necessary time to plan. This is a threat beyond the capacity of one Shard to face.

Unfortunately, as proven by my own situation, the combination of Shards is not always a path to greater power. We must assume that Odium has realized this, and is seeking a singular, terrible goal: the destruction - and somehow Splintering or otherwise making impotent - of all Shards other than him. To combine powers would change and distort who Odium is. So instead of absorbing others, he destroys them. Since we are all essentially infinite, he needs no more power. Destroying and Splintering the other Shards would leave Odium as the sole god, unchanged and uncorrupted by other influences.

You say that the power itself must be treated as separate in our minds from the Vessel who controls it. I find this difficult to do on an intrinsic level, as although I am neither Ruin nor Preservation, they make up me. Regardless, I will try to do as you suggest. However, you seem more afraid of the Vessel. I warn you that this is a flaw in your understanding. You have not felt what I have. You have not known what I have. You rejected that chance - and wisely, I think. However, though you think not as a mortal, you are their kin. The power of Odium’s Shard is more dangerous than the mind behind it. Particularly since any Investiture seems to gain a will of its own when not controlled. My instincts say that the power of Odium is not being controlled well. The Vessel will be adapted to the power’s will. And after this long, if Odium is still seeking to destroy, then it is because of the power.

Of course, I admit this is a small quibble. A difference of semantics more than anything. In truth, it would be a combination of a Vessel’s craftiness and the power’s Intent that we should fear most. [This is terrifying, given the ending of ROW.]

Regardless, please make yourself known to me when you travel my lands. It is distressing that you think you need to move in the shadows.

Part 3 - Excerpts from Rhythm of War

[By Navani and Raboniel. The entries vary in terms of which of them writes the main text and which writes the undertext.]

Page 1: I find this format most comfortable, as it is how I’ve collaborated in the past. I have never done it this way, and with this kind of partner. I approach this project with an equal mixture of trepidation and hope. And I know not which should rule. Undertext: I approach this project with inspiration renewed; the answers are all that should matter.

Page 3: In my fevered state, I worry I’m unable to focus on what is important. Undertext: When in such a state, detachment is enviable. I have learned that my greatest discoveries come when I abandon lesser connections.

Page 5: This song - this tone, this rhythm - sounds so familiar, in ways I cannot explain or express. Undertext: I am led to wonder, from experiences such as this, if we have been wrong. We call humans alien to Roshar, yet they have lived here for thousands of years now. Perhaps it is time to acknowledge that there are no aliens or interlopers. Only cousins.

Page 6: It would have been so easy if Voidlight and Stormlight destroyed one another. Such a simple answer. Undertext: We must not let our desires for a specific result cloud our perceptions. But how can we not, in searching, wish for a specific result? What scientist goes into a project without a hope for what they will find? I find this experience so odd. I work with a scholar from the abcient days, before modern scientific was theory was developed. I keep forgetting all the thousands of years of tradition you completely missed.

Page 10: This point regarding the Rhythm of War’s emotional influence will be of particular interest to El. Undertext: Who is this person? You used no title, so I assume they are not a Fused. Who, then, is El?

Page 13: In other circumstances, I would be fascinated by this sand to the point of abandoning all other rational pursuits. What is it? Where did it come from? Undertext: I am told that it is not the sand itself, but so ething that grows upon it, that exhibits strange properties. One can make more, with proper materials and a seed of the original. The sand originated offworld. It is only one of such amazing wonders that come from other lands - I have recently obtained a chain from the lands of the dead, said to be able to anchor a person through Cognitive anomalies. I fail to see what use it could be to me, as I am unable to leave the Rosharan system. But it is a priceless object nonetheless.

Page 21: As we dig further into this project, I am left questioning the very nature of God. How can a God exist in all things, yet have a substance that can be destroyed? Undertext: I am not convinced any of the gods can be destroyed, so perhaps I misspoke. They can change state however, like a spren - or like the various Lights. That is what we seek.

Page 27: Do not mourn for what has happened. This notebook was a dream we shared, which is itself a beautiful thing. Proof of the truth of my intent, even if the project was ultimately doomed. I leave you now to your own company.

Final page: Opposites. Opposites of sounds. Sound has no opposite. It’s merely overlapped vobration, the same sound, but sound has meaning. This sound does, at least. These sounds. The voices of gods. Voice of Lights. Voice of Lights. If I speak for the Lights, then I must express their desires. If Light is Investiture, and all Investiture is deity, and deity has Intent, then light must have Intent.

Endnotes: Intent matters. Intent is king. You cannot do what I attempt by accident. You must mean it. This seems a much greater law than we’ve ever before understood.

Part 4 - Kelek

Words. I used to be good with words, I used to be good at a lot of things. There was a time when others would approach me for help with a problem. A time when I was decisive. Capable. Even authoritative. Such skills, like my honor itself, are now lost to time. Weathered away, crushed to dust, and scattered to the ends of the cosmere. I am a barren tree of a human being. I am the hollow that was once a mighty peak. So, words. Why words, now? Why do I write?

Jezrien is gone. Despite being all the way out here in Lasting Integrity, I felt him being ripped away. The Oathpact was broken already, but the Connection remained. Each of us can sense the others, to an extent. And with further investigation, I know the truth of what happened to him. It felt like death at first, and I think that is what it ultimately became. The singers first put Jezrien in a gemstone. They think they are clever, discovering they can trap us in those. It only took seven thousand years.

Oh...Father...Seven thousand years. I remember so few of those centuries. I am a blur. A smear on the page. A gaunt stretch of ink, made all the more insubstantial with each passing day. Midius once told me...told me we could use Investiture...to enhance ourbminds, our memories, so we wouldn’t forget so much. Why would I want to remember?

Maybe if I remembered my life, I’d be capable of being confident like I once was. Maybe I’d stop vacillating when even the most simple of decisions is presented to me. Instead I think, if I were to remember my life in detail, I would become even worse. Paralyzed by my terrible actions. I should not like to remember all those I have failed.

Regardless, I write now. Because I know they are coming for me. They got Jezrien. They’ll inevitably claim me, even here in the honorspren stronghold. And so, I’ll die.

Yes, die. If you’re reading this and wondering what went wrong - why my soul evaporated soon after being claimed by the gemstone in your knife - then I name you idiot for playing with powers you only presume to understand. The bond is what keeps us alive. You sever that, and we will slowly decompose into ordinary souls - with no valid Connection to the Physical or Spiritual Realms. Capture one of us with your knives, and you won’t be left with a spren in a jar, follish ones. You’ll be left with a being that eventually fades away into the Beyond. I felt it happen to Jezrien. You think you captured him, but our god is Splintered, our Oathpact severed. He faded over the weeks, and is gone now. Beyond your touch at long last.

I should welcome the same. I do not. I fear you. Nevertheless, I’m writing answers for you here, because something glimmers deep within me. A fragment of a memory of what I once was.

I was there when Ba-Ado-Mishram was captured. I know the truth of the Radiants, the Recreance, and the Nahel spren. I tell you; I write it. You must release the captive Unmade. She will not fade as I will. If you leave her as she is, she will remain imprisoned for eternity. As one who has suffered for so many centuries...as one whom it broke...please find Mishram and release her. Not just for her own good. For the good of all spren.

For I believe that in confining her, we have caused a greater wound to Roshar than any ever realized.

Part 5 - Musings of El

Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days:

I look forward to ruling the humans. I had my title and my rhythms stripped from me for daring insist they should not be killed, but should instead be reconditioned. Repurposed.

Humans are weapons. We singers revere Passion, do we not? How can we throw away such an excellent channeling of it?

I love their art. The way they depict us is divine, all red shades and black lines. We appear demonic and fearsome; they project all fear and terror upon us. To humans, our very visages become symbols. You can find echoes of it even in the art from centuries before this Return.

Watch them struggle. Witness their writhing, their refusal to surrender. Humans cling to the rocks with the vigor of any Rosharan vine. Humans are a poem. A song. For ones so soft, they are somehow strong. For ones so varied, they are somehow intense. For ones so lost, they are somehow determined. For ones so confused, they are somehow brilliant. For ones so tarnished, they are somehow bright. Radiant.

And so I am not at all dissatisfied with recent events. Roshar will be united in its service of the greater war. And I will march proudly at the head of a human legion. They should not be discarded, but helped to their potential. Their final Passions.

Yes, I look forward to ruling the humans. Nearly as much as I look forward to serving you, newest Odium. Who was so recently one of them. You understand. And you are the one I’ve been waiting to worship.

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[guptacreations]

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[synthesis-music]

Gotta love it when people leave elastics on their instruments long enough for the rubber to get crunchy and start fusing to the brass.

As an emergency (”Fuck we’re on in five and one of my key springs just broke,”) short-term fix, rubber bands are fine, though hairbands with their fabric outer layer are better. It does need to be on there for months for something like what is pictured above to happen, but the best course of action is always to get it seen to and fixed properly ASAP. On silver-plate it is especially important because that shit tarnishes like nobody’s business when in prolonged contact with rubber bands.

[yesshreyablog-blog]

Why Phosphor Bronze Wires are special

hPhosphor bronze, is a bronze alloy that contains a mixture of copper, tin and phosphorous. This is also includes zinc and lead. Phosphor bronze alloys are primarily used for electrical products because they have superb spring qualities, high fatigue resistance, excellent formability, and high corrosion resistance.

There are three phases in the structure of Phosphor Bronze wires :

Alpha phase: A comparatively softmatrix of copper with tin in solid solution.

Delta phase: A tin rich delta phase which is hard and interspersed throughout the matrix.

A Brittle Mix: A hard constituent of copper phosphate associated with the delta constituent, which is also hard but brittle.

Usage of Phosphor Bronze

Phosphor bronze has all the exclusive and excellent characteristics. Therefore, this material can be used in many fields, mainly in parts for electrical and electronic devices.Phosphor Bronze is using by multiple industries. Some of the area where Phosphor Bronze is highly used:-

1. Industrial:– Some complex manufacturing like Bourdon tubes, bellows, perforated sheets, chemical hardware, truss wire, springs, sleeve bushing, diaphragms, clutch disks, pressure responsive elements, beater bar, textile machinery, welding rods require Phosphor Bronze.

2. Filtration:- Wire mesh is made with this alloy as it has high formidability and is durable. The mesh is used for various filtration applications in many indsutries. Notably to make currency notes, paper, RFID shielding equipment etc.

3. Electrical:– Phosphor Bronze is widely using inElectrical products like Various Relay contacts, rotary switch slides, circuit breaker contacts and fuse clips.

4. Electronics:– In the manufacturing of various Connectors, Lead frames, lead terminals and transistor terminals.

5. Automobiles:– Bearing Frames, Hydraulic Pressure caps, packing bearing, clutch plates or Electrical parts.

6. Musical Instruments:- Phosphor bronze is preferred over brass for cymbals because of its greater resilience, leading to broader tonal spectrum and greater sustain. 

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[teratoscope]

Repton

The inside of the dome is a hothouse; your optics fog the moment you cut inside. The ground shifts and gives slightly under your feet. Nothing is paved here, except with what you’re guessing is piles of chipped rubber strewn across a concrete foundation. The whole place feels like you’ve wandered into a nightmare version of a playground; a hopeless tangle of brightly-painted metal and plastic, some entirely abstract and some molded in crude imitation of jungle foliage, weaves around and above you. Featureless black domes break up the terrain, some the size of houses. And then there’s the noise, the inescapable wall of sound this place throws at you. Synthetic insect chirring, the hiss and hum of climate regulators, a distant rumble of turbines and churning coolant somewhere far below, and a repetitive, ear-splitting whoop. Which, you’re realizing, is almost certainly an alarm. Your hosts are well camouflaged against the terrain; bright, many-colored scales gleam under the half-light that catches in the heady atmosphere like insects in amber. They dangle from bars and false branches, then drop to the ground and pace tight circles around you, watching the graphics flit across the inner surface of the dusky orange domes fused over their eyes. Some break formation to get a closer look, then flee back into the labyrinthine reaches above. “Are they supposed to be cute?” says Dak. Weapon racks pop loose from hidden chambers in the floor and out of “trees,” clattering into place. The Reptons rush them, squabbling for the prime pickings before some unseen force goads them to break away and take the next gun down. “You tell me,” you say.

HD 1 MV 180’ climb AC 14 AT bite (d4+1) or by weapon Special network

Network—all Reptons are networked to each other and their devices. Unless their comms are jammed, a Repton soldier always has a precise understanding of their distance relative to their squadmates and all Repton-aligned tech, and can communicate with both. Furthermore, all Reptons have access to their network’s algorithmic assistance. If the Reptons in question are in combat with a target that has fought networked Reptons before, they gain +1 to attack and initiative rolls for every one of these prior encounters (up to 6).

1d6 Repton Weapons

1.     Lance caster. 3d3 kinetic, 90’ range, six-shot clip. Semi-automatic magnetic bolt-thrower. Individual bolts are about as long as a human forearm, brightly colored to stand out for easy recovery and reload. Reptons struggle with tracking ammunition in high-tension situations, and also with aiming; lance casters tend to be assigned to top-percentile fighters.

2.     Buddy gun. 1d4+3 heat, 240’ range, battery exhausts and needs to be re-cranked for 1d3 rounds on a max-damage roll. Onboard AI provides procedurally generated moral support. Weapon of choice for the average Repton grunt.

3.     Bughucker. Xd10 explosive, 400’ range, can house and fire up to three shells at once, dealing damage equal to shells fired. Launches a suicide drone resembling an overfed beetle that chases its target using impenetrable precognitive algorithms. The damage from a successful attack roll with a Bughucker “arrives” 2d3 rounds after the round is actually fired. It takes 1 round to arm and load a shell. The definition of a fire-and-forget weapon.

4.     Mega-cuffs. 2d6 kinetic, melee weapon. Allows an extra 60’ rocket-assisted charge in a straight line as part of an attack. Fuel explodes for 3d6 damage in a 15’ radius on a critical miss (Dex check for half for everyone but the Repton wearing it).

5.     Rad-hoser. 30’ cone, 2d4 Rads (Dex check for half). Sprays goopy, luminescent reactor discharge. Widely used to clear ground for development.

6.     Slough cannon. 60’ cone, 1d8+1 damage from abrasion and hemorrhaging (Con check for half). Damage die implodes each round: roll damage at the top of the round and apply if the damage is less than the damage dealt last round; otherwise the effect ends. Deals no damage to targets in airtight armor. Weapon reaches dangerous operating temperatures; on firing the wielder takes 1d3 heat damage. Fires an expanding cloud of nanoassemblers designed to revert living tissue to uncommitted stem cells and package it for future use.

1d8 Repton Devices

1.     Black cylinder the size of a coffee maker held aloft on a dirty yellow repulsor field. Synthesized voice squawks instructions in decidedly un-reptilian but still unrecognizable language in time with strobes of decorative light piping. Neural-network assisted targeting means that each consecutive missed shot grants a +1 to the next attack made by any Repton. AC 8, hp 12, MV 90’ hover

2.     Modular railgun. Takes three dedicated team members and a full round to assemble, aim & fire, hucks anything that fits in the barrel and can hold a charge for 10d10 kinetic damage in a 600’ straight line (Dex check to dodge). All pieces emblazoned with thorough visual aids that walk the user through the assembly process.

3.     Egg-shaped plastic housing the size of a football with a set of neural interface leads coiled around a magnetic support stand. When wired up, user enters a hypnagogic state for six hours, after which leads detach and user wakes with no memory of their state of unconsciousness. For the subsequent 48 hours, user has instantaneous and entirely subconscious grasp of Repton engineering, will service Repton devices without noticing if their hands are not kept otherwise occupied. Reptons will ignore anyone who sticks close to one of these things, and actively assist a user. Continuous use risks permanent nerve damage.

4.     Short brass rod ending in t-shaped prong. So long as it remains aimed at a single biological target, the target’s sensory faculties are greatly reduced (disadvantage to all tests of perception), and pain, fatigue, and sickness register only as a faint, pleasurable itch (so long as effect is sustained, player has no knowledge of their hit point total and is immune to penalties from distraction/pain/morale).

5.     Repton-sized metal pylon ringed with sturdy levers. Interface panel shows map of local terrain and best-fit route from current location to resource-rich zone. Requires a team of ten Reptons (or three to four reasonably strong humans) to open, revealing opalescent, filigreed structure, like a fossil basket star curled around a flickering, barely perceptible mote of solid black. Upon release, computronium seed begins to unfold and put down roots. Surrounding six-mile radius will become a fully functional and populated Repton habitat within a month.

6.     Amoeboid drone; flexile smart-matter body around hard-framed central storage armatures. Absorbs wounded Reptons and deposits them in “care spheres” where internal limbs mend/foam over wounds and dose the patient with combat amphetamines. One round to recover an incapacitated Repton, 2d3 rounds to redeploy with a rerolled hit die and +4 to hit and damage. MV 120’, AC 10, hp 14.

7.     Mobile terrarium. Looks like a Rainforest Café stapled to the back of a mechanical crab. Reptons stationed in one never flee; they defend their home to the death. “Trees” extrude clone mealworm paste and simulation fruit flesh in narcotic, mildly hallucinogenic, and blue raspberry flavors. Guided by competent but nonverbal AI. Personalities tend to be grudgingly servile to overseers, pleasantly exasperated with crew in a way that should be familiar to any cat owner. MV 90’, AC 16, hp 80

8.     Meta-Rover. Modular all-terrain vehicle, top operable combat speed of 300’/round. Like a pile of motorized, armored bigwheels bolted together into a single day-glo abomination, until it separates into a swarm of single-seaters. Vehicles can hypothetically link indefinitely, but for every unit after the 6th there’s a 1 in 10 chance at the end of each round that the drivers fall catastrophically out of sync and the assemblage spins out.

The Reptons were the first species we encountered in the Contact War, and if it had only ever been them, things might have been different.

The average individual Repton is about as canny as an especially dull chimp in most regards. They’re reasonably talented tool-users, but if you were to raise one from the egg, away from their infrastructure, their at-birth implants, and mainline Repton culture, it would take some serious goading to get them to so much as flint-knap.

And yet as a group, Reptons are deadly. They fight tactically, often making unexpected gambits, and they fight with little regard for their individual well-being. They communicate constantly, though no-one has yet been able to decipher Repton script or spoken language; Repton “writing” features six thousand plus distinct characters and counting and doesn’t seem to have any fixed direction you’re supposed to read it. And their war effort is driven by arms and manufacturing tech that is sometimes leagues ahead of what humanity is capable of, or founded on utterly inscrutable scientific principles, even if the interfaces often seem designed for preschoolers.

But nobody has a clear, substantiated explanation for how they wound up with their tech in the first place. A camp in Freestar One’s strategic research division theorizes that they are the leftovers of a species that lost its evolutionary pressures towards sapience; another argues that they are an uplifted species whose patrons abandoned them, died out, or supervise them from a distance. Stranger explanations exist.

What is known is that their computers are frighteningly powerful and all of their machines talk to each other. Their industrial society is kept afloat purely by the power of their algorithms and the constant influx of resources provided by their ongoing conquest of the planet—the Reptons themselves are merely the hands that authorize and facilitate the intricate automatic processes of invention and fabrication that build their domed cities, develop their food, medicine, entertainment, and weapons, grow and indoctrinate their children, and schedule their lives.

They are vestigial components in a vast machine with no capacity to recognize itself or any part within, operating on the sprawling organic logic of a dream instantiated by engineers lost to time.

Anyone who’s been deployed in Repton territory can attest to the uncanny atmosphere they carry with them. No individual part of a Repton crew behaves like a person. But there is something that emerges in the interplay, as they fumble with their devices and their devices fumble with them, that suggests an intellect inherent to neither. If you watch them from the right distance—not too far, not too close—they resolve into something distressingly like us.

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Sealed Glass Vials, 5: A sealed, four ounce, clear glass vial containing a suspicious liquid, powder, slime or gas, that no true adventurer would hesitate to loot. They contain anything from eye of newt, toe of frog, faulty potions, weak elixirs, alchemical supplies, spell components, ritual elements, enchanting materials and crafting ingredients. These can be found in mage towers, voodoo shacks, potion shops, enchanter’s workshops, witch’s hovels, alchemist’s pocket’s, wizard’s pouches and anywhere and everywhere a small vial could be stored. The DM can roll a d4 to determine what state the vials are found in, or choose one of the following based on how much you like your players: 1, The vial is incorrectly labeled. The DM invents something at random or roll again and the vial is labeled that result. 2, The vial has no label of any sort. 3, The vial’s label is correct but only in a general sense. For example, a vial of powdered unicorn horn could be labeled “Horn” or “Unicorn”. 4, The vial has a clear and accurate label describing exactly what it contains.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker's skin changes color to match the liquid and glows with the intensity of a candle. All both effects wear off harmlessly after one hour.

A sealed glass vial filled with magically preserved powdered mandrake root.

A sealed glass vial containing a few drops of pure magic. They glow constantly in an array of Random Colours and shine brightly when held by a creature capable of casting magical spells.

A sealed glass vial filled with magically preserved wildflower pollen.

A sealed glass vial containing a magically preserved humanoid eyeball that's been tattooed with the holy symbol of a god of a Random Evil Domain. It's impossible to determine if the tattoo was done before or after the eye was removed.

A sealed glass vial filled with finely ground ocean pearls.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker is unable to refer to themselves in the first person (Me, myself and I) for 24 hours.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered jasper.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker screams uncontrollably for the next minute.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker’s eyes become invisible for the next 1d4 hours. This does not affect his ability to see.

—Keep reading for 90 more sealed glass vials.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker's skin changes color to match the liquid and glows with the intensity of a candle. All both effects wear off harmlessly after one hour.

A sealed glass vial filled with magically preserved powdered mandrake root.

A sealed glass vial containing a few drops of pure magic. They glow constantly in an array of Random Colours and shine brightly when held by a creature capable of casting magical spells.

A sealed glass vial filled with magically preserved wildflower pollen.

A sealed glass vial containing a magically preserved humanoid eyeball that's been tattooed with the holy symbol of a god of a Random Evil Domain. It's impossible to determine if the tattoo was done before or after the eye was removed.

A sealed glass vial filled with finely ground ocean pearls.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker is unable to refer to themselves in the first person (Me, myself and I) for 24 hours.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered jasper.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker screams uncontrollably for the next minute.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker’s eyes become invisible for the next 1d4 hours. This does not affect his ability to see.

A sealed glass vial containing a reddish-coloured, vile-smelling fluid.

A sealed glass vial of nearly transparent powder that makes skin feel soft and smooth when applied.

A sealed glass vial containing a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker becomes completely deaf for the next hour.

A sealed glass vial filled with Randomly Coloured powder that makes any beverage taste like ale.

A sealed glass vial containing a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker becomes unable to taste for the next hour.

A sealed glass vial containing two rooster eyeballs preserved in embalming fluid.

A sealed glass vial containing a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker becomes unable to speak for the next hour.

A sealed glass vial filled with copper shavings.

A sealed glass vial containing a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker gains a significant stutter for the next hour.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered platinum.

A sealed glass vial filled with magically preserved maple syrup.

A sealed glass vial filled with magically preserved black truffle.

A sealed glass vial filled with a pair of non-mixing red and green liquids. It's quite sour if consumed and leaves the drinker an overwhelming aftertaste of watermelon for the next 1d4 hours.

A sealed glass vial filled with frankincense.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker feels an urgent call of nature and must immediately leave to relieve himself.

A sealed glass vial filled with pulverized pixie wings.

A sealed glass vial filled with psychoactive tobacco snuff.

A sealed glass vial filled with clove extract.

A sealed glass vial containing fragments of petrified lighting, created when the electricity courses through beach sand fusing it together into a solid glasslike object called fulgurite.

A sealed glass vial containing fragments of raw meteoric ore.

A sealed glass vial filled with unicorn tears.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered mithril.

A sealed glass vial filled with the magically preserved blood of virgin.

A sealed glass vial containing magically preserved cactus spines.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered zinc.

A sealed glass vial filled with olive oil.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured hair dye.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker belly laughs uncontrollably for the next minute.

A sealed glass vial filled with tallow.

A sealed glass vial containing magically preserved pine needles.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered lead.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker cackles uncontrollably for the next minute.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered pewter.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered tin.

A sealed glass vial containing a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker’s breath smells like fresh roses for the next eight hours.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered ivory.

A sealed glass vial filled with a lice and flea soap.

A sealed glass vial filled with a rash ointment.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker cries uncontrollably for the next minute.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered bronze.

A sealed glass vial filled with the magically preserved blood of a warlock.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered brass.

A sealed glass vial containing a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker’s breath smells like fresh manure for the next eight hours.

A sealed glass vial filled with alum.

A sealed glass vial containing the cremated remains of a mage.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered onyx.

A sealed glass vial filled with nutmeg.

A sealed glass vial containing a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker's breath smells like fresh mint for the next eight hours.

A sealed glass vial filled with camphor.

A sealed glass vial filled with a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker giggles uncontrollably for the next minute.

A sealed glass vial filled with dried ginseng.

A sealed glass vial filled with myrrh.

A sealed glass vial filled with paint flakes. The label states they're from a  famous painting. A knowledgeable PC will know the painting in question is missing paint from the face of one of the figures in it.

A sealed glass vial filled with dried powdered shark's fin.

A sealed glass vial filled with lemon extract.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered dragon bone.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered rhinoceros’ horn.

A sealed glass vial filled with ammonia.

A sealed glass vial filled with the magically preserved, silver blood of an angel.

A sealed glass vial containing a miniature water elemental. The elemental is conscious and aware of its surroundings and seems to be under a magical stasis allowing it to survive indefinitely if the vial remains sealed.

A sealed glass vial filled with magically preserved passionflower blossoms.

A sealed glass vial filled with the magically preserved griffon blood.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered malachite.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered dragon tooth.

A sealed glass vial containing crumbs rumored to be from an ancient king's wedding cake.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered quartz.

A sealed glass vial filled with a fine, bright orange powder. The label reads "Powdered Cheddar".

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered dragon claw.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered granite.

A sealed glass vial containing a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker becomes completely blind for the next hour.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered garnet.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered iron.

A sealed glass vial filled with fermented raccoon milk.

A sealed glass vial containing a bright yellow powder that induces happy tears when inhaled.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered nickel.

A sealed glass vial filled with a cobalt blue sap that smells of a forge. When it comes into contact with metal, it will make a small, heatless weld.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered emerald.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered sapphire.

A sealed glass vial containing a miniature fire elemental. The elemental is conscious and aware of its surroundings and seems to be under a magical stasis allowing it to survive indefinitely if the vial remains sealed.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered adamantine.

A sealed glass vial filled with gravesoil.

A sealed glass vial filled with powdered Randomly Coloured jade.

A sealed glass vial filled with old ratty hair. The label reads "Witch's Mane".

A sealed glass vial containing hummingbird feathers. 

A sealed glass vial filled with ground satyr horn.

A sealed glass vial containing a miniature earth elemental. The elemental is conscious and aware of its surroundings and seems to be under a magical stasis allowing it to survive indefinitely if the vial remains sealed.

A sealed glass vial filled with ground centaur hoof.

A sealed glass vial filled with magically preserved snow that fell under a full moon.

A sealed glass vial containing a shard of glass originating from the Abyss.

A sealed glass vial containing a Randomly Coloured liquid. If consumed, the drinker sees everything goes black for a few seconds. When he can see again, he is standing in a long 20 foot wide, 100 ft long corridor whose walls are lined with strange chairs. Every chair has a strangely clothed human in it, and there are 120 people in all. They all stare at the drinker, mouths wide open. He can see clouds though the small oval windows on the walls behind each human and can hear a distant humming sound. There is a strange door to his right but the drinker finds himself unable to move in any way as if completely paralyzed. After roughly twelve seconds, everything goes black again as the vision fades and he's back where he started.