Location: Still stubbornly foothills-adjacent. No unexpected relocations overnight, which is nice. Small favors.
Right. Deep breath. Today was the day. The day I finally tackled… The Shelf. Capital letters entirely appropriate, possibly deserving of dramatic, ominous background music. My main potion ingredient storage shelf hasn't seen proper organization since, conservatively estimating, the time we were parked beside that perpetually misty fjord three decades ago. It had gone beyond 'charmingly cluttered' and ventured deep into 'potentially hazardous magical ecosystem' territory. Looking at it this morning, I could almost feel the conflicting magical energies jostling for space – the cold prickle of necromantic residue from the powdered ghoul finger (for emergencies, obviously) warring with the cheerful, humming warmth radiating from the sun-dried Pixie wings. Dust motes the size of bumblebees danced lazily in the sunbeams hitting it, possibly energized by stray enchantment leakage. Jars were labeled with faded ink only decipherable under divination light, and some weren’t labeled at all, relying on my increasingly fallible memory of ‘that weird lumpy thing I got from the bog merchant in Year 312’. And I was still fairly certain that murky jar three shelves up on the left occasionally pulsated with sullen resentment. Intervention was long overdue.
First, a ritual glance at yesterday's mystery arrival. The obsidian sphere remains on its temporary display shelf, a perfect void radiating palpable coldness. Hasn't done anything remotely interesting. Hasn't hatched, exploded, whispered ancient secrets, or even attracted dust at the same rate as everything else. The Hair still avoids that entire corner of the room, which is perhaps the sphere’s only useful function to date. Fine. Let it be enigmatic. I had tangible, potentially explosive, disorganization to confront.
Clearing the main worktable was the first battle – relocating half-finished notes on local flora, three self-stirring crucibles that needed cleaning, a worrying collection of empty tea mugs, and the Hair’s latest artistic endeavor involving shed scales and dried leaves arranged in what might be a rudimentary map or possibly just a mess. Finally achieved something resembling usable workspace. Then, the Great Unloading began.
Jar by meticulous, often sticky, jar. Pouch by dusty, occasionally rustling, pouch. Box by suspiciously light or unexpectedly heavy box. Dried Nightshade, looking far too vibrant for something supposedly desiccated – need to check that for rogue animation later. Powdered Moonstone, definitely running low, must remember to replenish next time we’re near a lunar quarry or a sufficiently gullible Moon-cultist. A jar simply labeled '??? - DO NOT OPEN INDOORS' in my own, slightly frantic-looking handwriting from at least a century ago. Wisdom of the past-me suggests leaving that one well the fuck alone. Three different pouches of dried Mandrake root, varying vintages – the oldest still faintly screaming when handled. A desiccated tentacle of unknown, possibly eldritch, origin – kept for sentimental reasons, don't ask. Essence of Willow-bark, thankfully still stable. Petrified Pixie Sneeze, surprisingly useful for short-term invisibility draughts if you can stand the lingering smell of ozone and suppressed giggles. Spider silk that had gone oddly… effervescent? Definitely bin that before it achieves carbonated sentience. Jar of collected whispers – handle with care, still potent enough to cause gossip-induced migraines. A bag of 'Genuine Wyvern Scales (Slightly Singed)' – must have bought that during my brief, ill-advised 'Dragon-adjacent Alchemy' phase. Gods, the sheer volume of accumulated crap. Each item trailing memories, failed experiments, or vague intentions I likely forgot centuries ago.
My organizational system, when I bother, is less ‘system’ and more ‘controlled chaos born of bitter experience’. The primary categories remain: 'Things That Might Explode If They Touch' (kept on widely spaced shelves, preferably lead-lined), 'Things That Spoil/Decay/Develop Opinions' (needs regular checking and reinforced stasis charms), 'Things That Smell Vaguely Similar' (a catch-all for miscellaneous herbs and powders that aren't actively dangerous), 'Things I Use Often (Theoretically)', and the ever-expanding 'Weird Shit I Forgot I Had Which Might Be Useful Someday Probably Not'. Attempting actual order – alphabetical? Elemental affinity? Colour-coded? – felt like trying to catalogue clouds. But I dutifully wiped down jars, reapplied preservation runes, and attempted to write new, legible labels using Archival Ink (which is supposed to last millennia, but probably won't survive the house’s next trip through a high-humidity dimension).
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Naturally, the Hair saw this monumental effort as prime time for 'supervision'. Stage one: the 'helpful nudge'. It started by gently pushing jars together on the table. My carefully separated piles of 'volatile powders' and 'inert minerals' quickly became one alarming pile of 'potential smoky disaster with irritating side effects'. Stage two: the 'personal dusting service'. Deciding the jars weren’t clean enough after my wipe-down, it proceeded to drag its ends through every speck of accumulated grime and magical residue it could find, transforming itself into a walking (slithering?) testament to poor magical hygiene and transferring said grime onto other, previously clean jars. Had to pause and hit it with a localized cleansing mist charm when it dipped its end directly into a pot of powdered Moon Sugar and then tried to 'taste' a jar of dried beetle husks. It recoiled, leaving a sticky, sugary residue on the beetle jar, then shook itself, sending fine powder drifting everywhere. Little bastard.
Stage three: 'aesthetic reorganization'. After being shooed away from the Moon Sugar, it retreated briefly before launching its colour-coded initiative. This culminated in the infamous attempt to snuggle the highly corrosive Void Salts next to the delicate, gossamer-thin preserved faerie wings simply because they were both 'sort of purple'.
"NO!" I yelled, lunging and grabbing the Void Salts just milliseconds before contact. The potential energy discharge could have taken out the whole damn shelf, possibly the wall behind it. "Bad! Very bad! Those two things touching could unravel reality in a localized but extremely inconvenient manner! Go lie down! Now!"
The Hair actually seemed startled by my volume. It drooped dramatically, feigning mortal injury (it’s learned melodrama over the centuries), and retreated to the furthest corner of the study. There, it began meticulously trying to preen the accumulated magical gunk, sticky moon sugar residue, and general filth off itself, occasionally shaking its ends vigorously and sending little puffs of grey, glittery, sugary dust motes drifting through the air like malevolent snowflakes. Progress? Maybe. At least it wasn't near the Void Salts.
Amidst the self-inflicted chaos, I did unearth those few gems. The vial of Quick-Silver pulsed with contained energy, gleaming even in the dim light – genuinely thought that was lost forever. The Griffin feather was still magnificent, iridescent and easily powerful enough to fletch a seeking-arrow if I ever felt the need. And then, the stones. Found them tucked behind a mislabeled jar of 'Definitely Not Cursed Eye of Newt'. Three identical, smooth, grey river stones. Picked them up. Cool to the touch, heavier than they looked. And then the pulse started, that slow, deep thump-thump-thump against my palm. Checked them over – no runes, no markings. Just stone. Tried a quick diagnostic pulse – slid right off, same as the obsidian sphere. But the internal pulse felt… directed? Focused? Definitely odd. Decided further investigation was required, but not today. Today was about shelf survival.
So, hours later, the shelf is… different. Things are roughly grouped according to potential hazard levels and vague utility. Most jars have legible labels. Nothing looks immediately ready to explode, achieve sentience, or leak corrosive sludge (except maybe the '???' jar, which I shoved even further back). The worktable, however, looks like an alchemist's battlefield – smeared powders, discarded labels, empty jars, mysterious sticky patches. And the Hair? Still in the corner, looking like a chimney sweep who tangoed with a faerie festival float. It’s going to take ages to clean.
Task accomplished? Let's call it 'Stage One Containment Achieved'. Energy levels? Non-existent. Need for industrial-strength tea? Overwhelming. Likelihood of this shelf staying even remotely organized past next week? Zero. Absolutely zero. Still, progress. Maybe. Now… about cleaning several pounds of magically-charged, residue-coated, extremely sulky hair… Gods, I need that tea first.
