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Brushbuddy was most pleased to be back in the atelier. The atelier was the best place, the one that smelled of sharp ink and warm things. It was not like the city and its loud, confusing hubbub. There had been so many witches there, drawing their great magic under the gleaming stars, but Brushbuddy liked his witches and their soft magic the best.
As the cart rumbled to a stop, he hopped down from the shoulders of one of the little witches and skittered up to the door, sniffing the frame to confirm no Interlopers had disturbed the place while they were gone. One of the bigger witches, warm-and-grumpy, as brushbuddy had deemed him, unlocked the door and began to lug in their supplies. Brushbuddy raced in to begin his checks.
The hearth first - cold but smelling pleasantly of old soot and fire-ink burned into the stones. Everything seemed in order. He rushed over to the activation stone and twee-d insistently until one of the young witches came over to activate it. She picked him up with a sigh and twisted the keystone. “Don't climb into the fireplace when we're trying to activate it. It's dangerous.” She set him down and rushed off to help carry in more baggage. Brushbuddy watched her curiously. That one had… changed during their time in the city. Her glow was softer, more gentle, her steps light where they had dragged. It was a good change. He was glad. Not all of the little witches had come back from the city with lighter steps.
“Ohhh! Brushbuddy! Don't stand in the middle of the floor like that! I almost dropped the component box!” The other big witch performed an impressive dodge, barely avoiding trampling on his fluffy tail, and caught himself against the counter with a grimace. Brushbuddy puffed out his cheeks and gave him a quick pfeh! of displeasure. No matter how interesting soft-lies-dressed-in-cold-branches smelled, he would not be fooled! The fiend had once tried to name him puff-puff of all things. The audacity! The insult could never be forgotten.
With a start, Brushbuddy realized he had spent far too much time distracted. His checks awaited! He skittered up the stairs, carefully poking his head into each of the rooms. All seemed well, though a bit dusty. His poor tail was getting ever so filthy as it left a trail across the floor. Last, of course, was the storeroom. He slipped inside as someone opened the door and skittered up the shelves, reaching the row of ink jars. Oh the ink jars! So shiny, so delicious! He peered into the first one, trying to see if the ink had gone bad in their absence. It would be tragic if such a thing occurred! But the glass was too thick and the glow lamp too dim for him to tell. He leaned a paw against the jar, rocking it. Was the consistency right? Was the smell, sharp-tar and good-dead-things right? Perhaps–
The jar sloshed a little too hard and with a rattle, it tipped over to smash against the stone floor. Brushbuddy peered down at it. It smelled quite alright actually, good for a nice bath to clean all the dust from his fur–
“What was– Brushbuddy!! No, bad brushbuddy, out of the ink jars!” Hands plucked him off the shelf until he was eye-to-eye with the fluffiest witch, whose hair had the best hiding places. He made a bid to dive into her frazzled curls, but she snatched him back with a frown. “You know you're not supposed to be in the storeroom… Go help Coco bring in the bedrolls, go on.”
Brushbuddy bristled as he caught a whiff of bad clinging to her as she set him down outside the door. It was the evil fiend! The one trying to steal his witches! Brushbuddy raced out into the living room, looking around frantically. Had that bully followed them back from the city? He thought they had been rid of him in the chaos! He bristled, trying to work out where his nemesis was hiding. He would defend the atelier no matter what! Spotting a likely hidey-hole, he dived into a nearby crate, ready to do battle. Alas, it was empty except for blankets. No matter. Perhaps the next one…
Some hours later, Brushbuddy yawned as his warm sleeping spot began to abruptly cool. He blinked blearily in the weak pre-dawn light as his favorite witch slipped out of bed and began to dress. Hands that once smoothed the heavy cloak with pride paused on the last few buttons for a long, aching moment. Brushbuddy scurried up her back and perched on her shoulder, peering at her cheek that was finally unbandaged. Some of his witches had come back from the city with a new kind of light, a better kind, and some had come back still tangled in the sucking, grasping maw of the horror they had battled.
He leaned a paw carefully on the unscarred part of her cheek and twee-d softly. She looked down with a half-smile.
“Thanks, Brushbuddy. I just… have an idea I need to try. Don’t go waking everyone up, I’ll be back soon.” She set him down on the bed and picked up her hat, creeping out of the room on soft feet.
Brushbuddy let out a dejected whistle. Something was wrong. Something more than ‘smell of a spell gone wrong’ or ‘spilled ink’ or even the times she hugged him far too tight in the dead of night. Something was wrong that he couldn’t fix.
He followed her fading footsteps up to the study room and froze as a familiar scent wafted over from her desk. The fiend! His nemesis! He was here! Brushbuddy paused, torn between following his witch and defending his home. Defending won out as an upturned book on the desk twitched, rustled, and oozed an unwelcome guest from under its spine. Brushbuddy puffed out all of his fur, standing tall even as his tail trembled. When his little witch came back, he would be victorious. He would stand over his vanquished foe and expel the interloper whose fur smelled of blood-ink and bad-dead-things. Then the atelier would be safe. His witches would be safe. The clinging horrors would be banished back to the depths of that night where they belonged.
The atelier should smell like conjuring ink, hearth smoke, and warm food, Brushbuddy decided as he pounced. There was no room for things that hurt his witches and weighed their steps. The dark brushbuddy had appeared with the strange boy, the one who smelled even more like blood and bad-death. He would spoil all the lovely ink in the storeroom and that would make his witches sad.
Brushbuddy stumbled back onto his paws after a particularly aggressive swat and lashed his tail. This is MY atelier and MY witches! You can’t have them! Go back to your oozing castle and the boy with sly-smiles and find your own spell-ink to sleep on!
He tussled with the other brushbuddy, knocking pens and quires across the desk. Like an ailing silverwood, left too long to rot, his witches had come back to an atelier with a few festering branches. No matter. He would prune them away, leaving nothing but lovely, sharp ink behind.