Love Crafted

Abigail and Daphne decided that their time in the dank basement was over, and that even if you were less than presentable, whatever that meant, it was time for you to leave the room and be shown around.

Learning that Abigail was in no way a powerful monarch, or a sort of god queen of her people was disappointing, but that was the kind of thing that could be fixed in due time. For now, you followed the girl up a rickety staircase and out of storm door that lead into an alleyway of sorts.

The moment you exit the little room you start to feel the bite of cold nipping at your many, many extremities. This is easily ignored, but perhaps not before Abigail notices you shivering.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she says. “I’m so sorry. Wait, wait, you can have my jacket.” That said, she removes the simple brown coat she is wearing to reveal an equally simple beige blouse underneath. Bending forwards, she tries to wrap you in the jacket, but your tentacles are in the way. At least, until you retract them a little.

The jacket is nice. It is warm. It smells like your summoner, and even if the material is a little coarse on your back it isn’t a bad kind of rough. It is like a small, feeble hug. You wrap the jacket closer around your frame and stare around the alley.

“Seriously Abi, we didn’t think of bringing a blanket or something?”

“I didn’t expect to summon someone so... you know,” Abigail says. “It’s okay, we live right across the street.” So saying, Abigail points out of the alleyway and across a cobbled street.

The roads here are wide, with tall sidewalks on either side where mortals in strange garb are minding their own business. There buildings here are tall, all of them at least three storeys high and with gabled roofs covered in brightly coloured shingles.

A cart rumbles by, pulled not by animals but by a strange wheeled contraption like a bicycle crossed with a water-heater.

“That one over there,” Abigail says, her face twisting back into that expression with her teeth showing as she notices you looking around. She is pointing to one shop in particular.

It’s a squat building, wider by some margin than its neighbours and with large windows at its front. Madam Morrigan's Artifices, Tinctures and Ingredients, reads the scrolling letters across the top.

“I work there, and Madam Morrigan lets me stay in the apartment above for cheap. She has her own house a little ways into the city,” Abigail explains. Before you know to react, she reaches down and grabs you by the hand, your soft, new flesh held firm in a calloused grip. “Be careful when crossing the street,” she says. “Look both ways and let the carts go by first. The drivers can be very rude.”

“Very well,” you conceded as she pulls you along.

“We’re going to need to buy Dreamer here some clothes,” Daphne says. “And some shoes. Her feet are going to get torn up walking on the cobbles like that.”

“Oh no,” Abigail says as she stops, and therefore makes you stop as well. “Did you want me to carry you so that your feet don’t hurt?”

You think upon this. On the one tentacle, being carried is similar to a cuddle, and is therefore the greatest method of transportation. On the other tentacle, it would be demeaning in front of all these mortals. You must prove that you are superior and need no shoes to protect the tiny tentacles stuck to the ends of your feet. How will they grow long and wiggly if you confine them within leather and cloth?

“I will attempt walking,” you say to her, and her face splits into another one of those strange expressions of joy.

“All right then,” she says. “Come, I’ll show you to our home. You’re going to love it, I’m sure.”

The girls wait by the roadside until the traffic clears up, then you scurry across the road, hand still in Abigail’s own in order to keep your balance. Walking is still tricky, but there are plenty of walking mortals around to copy from.

The door to Madam Morrigan’s is locked until Abigail fishes a key out from the pocket of the jacket you are wearing, it opens with the tinkle of a bell and you all move into the dimly lit room.

Shelves tower above you, filled with jars and dishes and strange dried husks of once-living things. There’s not one scent in the air, but millions of them, all mixed together in a way that makes it hard to pin-point which is which. Abigail lets go of your hand to press her palm over a circle carved into one wall.

There’s a... shift, in reality, a tiny nudge. Not a scream as physics is rent, but a sigh as it allows something to happen that shouldn’t be.

The room lights up as curved elements in glass cases, all stuck to the ceiling, start to glow. “Going to need to change the oil,” Abigail mutters as she looks at a jar next to the circle she pressed. “Anyway, welcome to where I work! The staircase is just in the back. Our house isn’t big, but it’s ours.”

Now that there is light enough to see, you allow yourself to explore with hungry eyes. There are jars with brains and delicate flowers marinating in amber liquids. Bins of dusts and powders are neatly lined up near a far wall next to little measuring bags made of course cloth and there are colourful advertisements posted ton every free space of wall.

At the back rests a tall counter on which a complex brass scale waits to be used.

“Hey, Abi, can we talk?” Daphne says. She gestures towards a door leading even deeper into the store, then looks at you. “Alone?”