I placed the plastic baggie on the shelf in my lair, next to Horatio’s skull. That the spirit cards came with me from the dream into the lair confirmed that this was not an isolated incident in Otherworld. The spirit’s hate felt like dry heat emanating from the plastic, but it was not anything to think about.
I turned my back to begin unpacking the rest of my coat pockets. I heard Horatio whisper to the spirit to constrain its temper if it wanted any peace from me. The spirit only hated hotter.
“No, really. She’s all soft and nice until you piss her off, and then things will get worse for you.”
The inanimate cards made no sound, but the indignation was easily sensed.
Thinking on my magus friend’s advice about glass containers, I stepped out to visit the outskirts of Djinn lands. I wanted sand from certain places there to make a desert glass container. I was successful, and the small glass vial with sealing stopper fit neatly in the palm of my hand. I returned to find the ambient temperature of the lair uncomfortably hot.
On the shelf, the plastic around the spirit cards had melted away. Horatio was alternating between telling my shadow minions where to place bowls of water to catch the melted plastic as it flowed off the stone shelves and telling the spirit about the fate that befell him when he crossed the line and allowed me to be assaulted.
The spirit was too busy trying to destroy the cardstock it had been transformed into to pay the Horatio, the minions, or me any mind.
As I approached, I heard Horatio begin to gloat over the spirit’s eventual punishment.
A quick command silenced the servant. I picked up the cards and pulled off what little plastic remained. If this was the waking world, the cards would have been charred from the heat and the plastic igniting as it dripped away. The 2 inch tall deck of 30 cards remained as I first saw them after the transformation. The images still ranged from disgustingly cheery to arrogantly offensive. Touching them with my bare hands allowed me to communicate with the spirit.
The spirit was not happy about its new form. It was demanding to be released. It was also demanding I make good on the promise of finding it a new home. If I wasn’t going to release it from the cardstock, then at least give it to a diviner that would make use of the cards. No way was I going to give this spirit to someone to unduly influence or outright possess.
The shadow minions declared the plastic dealt with and all surfaces cleaned of soot. I tasked them to fetching me a small funnel, one that ash would not stick to.
“I have your new home. After giving it some thought overnight and overday, I realize you can not be trusted among the general population. If I destroy you outright, that will be breaking my agreement.” I held up the small rose pink glass bottle so the images on the cards could see it. “So this is going to be your new home, and you will remain in my care until someone makes it worthwhile for you not to be.”
The spirit noted that the opening to the bottle was very small, and that the bottle itself could not possible contain the entire deck. It became excited at the possibility of being released from the cardstock and spoke many notions about having a genie bottle as its home.
“You are correct. As you are now, you are too large to even get into the bottle, much less fit.” The minions returned with a wee little funnel that fit the neck of the bottle perfectly. They held the bottle and funnel in place on the stone table. I cupped the spirit deck in the palm of one hand and held it so the images faced me. “That’s why you’re going to be burned to ashes first.” The images gestured violently as I covered them with my other hand.
Incinerating the small deck was a quick task. The hard part was making sure no ashes flew away when I opened my hand, so I had to stand there long enough for the ashes to cool. I was entertained by the continued verbal and emotional barragement from the spirit.
Once cool, the minions angled the funnel under my hands, and I relaxed my grip just enough for the ashes to flow. The minions picked off each and every speck of ash from my hands and made sure they were all captured in the glass bottle.
I stopped up the bottle with the fitting stopper, and to be sure the spirit did not escape, I rubbed a heated thumb about the exterior of the joint, sealing the stopper to the bottle.
“I’m sure you’re going to try that heat trick again, which is why I went to the Djinn lands for the source sand. Do you know why Weaver-made glass is valuable there? Because it is heat resistant to the point where even an ifrit will be hard tasked to melt it, much less warp it. Granted, it is trivial to carve and physically work as a consequence, but as far as you are concerned, it is an unbreakable prison. I can place this bottle in a crate full of strike-anywhere matchheads, and not a single one will ignite because of you.”
As long as I held the bottle, I could hear the spirit’s shrieks of anger. Once I placed the bottle back on the stone shelf, the lines of communication were broken and silence was restored to the room. I tapped Horatio’s skull between the eyes and reminded him there were worse fates than going to the Boneyard, so he’d be wise to remember his lessons. Horatio acknowledged my ownership of him once more and ceased his gloating.
The sun symbols turned slowly on the ceiling, reminding me of the passage of time, and of other shenanigans to wake up for.