Xaviers!

A long conversation with Sam and Robin had convinced Wyll to at least check out their new potential accommodations, the Wyldclay entered the dorm room of Sam, Miriam, and the blob.

"Entered" was the right word -- they didn't knock or allow themselves to be let in or anything like that. After all, if they were supposed to be integrated into the...well, into the whatever it was...they belonged here too, right? Naturally. And so they just waltzed right in and made a beeline for the gently bubbling cauldron in the corner. A normal part of any home, presumbaly.

"So this is where you hide, is it?" they said, leaning against the lip. "Not quite as magical and intriguing as what the blunt instrument broke, but I suppose you don't mind, do you?"

"Surprised you didn't sneak in when everyone's asleep." Miriam comments dryly, stepping out of her room under the guise of carrying a gripful of mugs to the small kitchen space.

"Are you suggesting that the fae are predictable in their habits, then?" Wyldclay said without turning around.

"I'm just familiar with pride and the swallowing thereof. I know jack shit about fairies."

"There's quite a bit to know, and quite a bit that it looks like you should know, but really is there just to obfuscate and confuse. The rules have stood since time immemorial, except for the ones that haven't and the times they've changed," the Wyldclay said leaning back against the cauldron as the turned around. "It's all really very straightforward."

"Thanks, I hate it. You really want Sam for all that non-sense. But I'm guessing you're here for the melting pot and I suppose I'm as much of an expert on it as anybody, which is to say I have a vague sense of how it works." she says, walking back over to Wyll and the cauldron. "Wills go in, Wills come out. Couldn't tell you if they have little control over it or if it's just Will being Will when people call on one or the other, but as far as I can tell particular ones come and go as they please otherwise."

"You've never bothered to find out?" the Wyldclay said, raising an eyebrow. "Interesting. I suppose he keeps his own council, however. Or is too ditzy to hold a decent conversation with."

"I know the mirror worked like that. We've been somewhat busy ever since somebody decided to sic some kind of sentient knife's edge on it. But it's not ditzy; more at peace really."

"Head empty, no worries. I'm familiar with the concept. Very Violet.

And I'm sure we could get a more classic ditz if we knocked three times and spit, or whatever it is you do to conjure up your hob."

"Violet? Is this some kind of 80s slang I'm too millenial to understand?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry your head about that. I'm sure Sam is much more interested in all that non-sense," the Wyldclay grinned back.

Miriam rolls her eyes dramatically in response.

"So, are you going to keep stalling or actually see what happens when you add your sass to the himbo soup?"

"What's that sme-" Sam ponders as she walks in.

"Oh, it's them."

"And top of the morning to you, too," Wyll grinned, showing teeth. "By yourself at the moment? No more surprise offspring waiting in the wings that I have to be aware of?"

They pointedly were not answering Miriam's last question, taking the opportunity of the distraction.

"No, you showed an uncanny knack for surprising them first."

"I'd be more concerned about fairies showing up to demand alimony in dew-drop booze and moonlight."

"If the portal between the worlds is as tightly closed as you think, perhaps we can avoid that for some time," the Wyldclay said, their smile faltering just a tad. "And besides, I have proper allies on my side now, yes?"

"Wouldn't be the first time I've tangled with the Grey Council."

"A grey council, did you say? How intriguing, for multiple reasons," the Wyldclay grinned. "It's fascinating how different universes can create their own rules. A word here, an alliance there. Or perhaps it's just different timelines?

Either way, I'm sure you'd find my courts to be slightly more... well, slightly more," they added. "More numerous. More belligerent. More finessable. But, as you say, you've tangled with the best before."

"I sure hope you actually know what you're doing, Sam."

"If anything, that lot tromping up would probably start a turf war with the locals, wouldn't you think?"

"Yes. Exactly." Miriam says, throwing her arms up before adding muttered "Not everyone's as fond of slugging it out as you are."

"I meant the local fae, not us per se."

"Gives us time to figure it out, at the least."

"I bet they're gonna love that. I'm just putting it out there so I can say later that I told you so."

"Saying 'I told you so' is, of course, a time-honored tradition, and an important role in the court of any minor deity," the Wyldclay nodded, solemnly. Or mock solemnly. Or somewhere in between.

"And yes, turf wars are, of course, somewhat inevitable. If, that is, anyone actually finds me; I didn't exactly leave the traditional trail of breadcrumbs and pebbles to mark my way home."

"We're talking about some fairly untraditional sorts."

"Do anything twice, and you can call it a tradition, but I take your point.

Still! No sense crying over un-spilt milk. They will come if they come, and there's very little we can do to change that. We just will have to go where the waters lead us if and when it happens."

"Mm-hmm. Are we done stalling then?" Miriam asks, head tilted vaguely towards the cauldron.

"Stalling? Moi?" Wyll said, their hands going to their chest in outrage. "I'll have you know, madam, that I would never stall. And that reminds me of a series of anecdotes..."

"Okay, this is getting tedious and I have class in thirty minutes. Can't you just... reach out and scoop them in?" she asks, turning towards the Cauldron.

A pause. And then a hand reached it's way out of the cauldron, grabbing Wyll's arm.

The Wyldclay shook it off with a yank and a tug, adjusting their sleeve to try to look impeccable once again. But then another hand reached out and grabbed their other arm. And a second one. And a third. And now a tentacle of some kind, wrapping around his torso, and squeezing him like a toothpaste tube from the middle, causing the fae to bulge and deform.

A massive paw of some kind swiped at the top of Wyldclay's head, mussing their hair up and sending them leaning backwards over the rim, bending unnaturally in the middle as they were pulled and tugged.

"You overgrown Stobhach Gaelach! I am an emissary of the High Summer Court, and don't deserve to be treated this mmmph!"

A strange, eight-fingered hand clamped it's way over the Wyldclay's mouth as it tried to drag him into the cauldron proper. Wyll squirmed and shifted, flipping themselves head-to-tail and top-to toe so they were pointed away from the churning mass inside the pot. They reached out and grabbed a nearby floor lamp for stability -- only for the lamp to melt away in their hands, wrap around their wrists, and dive towards the cauldron itself. Betrayed by the very furniture!

"You talk too much, fae." a voice burbled out of the cauldron, pulling the Wyldclay towards it with one final tug. For a moment, Wyll attempted to tread clay, but they were firmly and forcibly pulled under. The last thing above the surface was one hand, curled into a fist...and then with middle finger extended, as it sank beneath the churning clay.

The cauldron continued to boil and simmer, faster and more furious than it had before; the color changing slightly as it went. A slightly different shade of green.

"...well, that was a bit more antagonistic than I expected."

"Better than spending weeks watching them hem and haw." Miriam says, walking closer to the cauldron to peer inside at the bubbling clay. "I just hope they do actually mix. They should." she adds, seeing how this was at least to some extent her idea. "But who knows how all this fairy non-sense plays into it. No offense to any Fae Royalty present." she adds with just a bit of a smirk.

"Of course that means a few of them might end up... Wyldclay-esque."

"It's just a little spice in the stew. Probably."

The churning began to die down some -- the frothing mixture approaching some level of calmness, returning to the low simmer that was it's normal, default state. Whatever violence or conflict that had been going on under the surface had seemed to calm down -- an accord having been reached, perhaps?

"At least doesn't look like it's about to spill, aye?"

"That's probably good." Miriam agrees, continuing to peer into the cauldron. "Hey, Will, you doing okay in there?" she asks, placing a hand into the moving clay.

A hand grabbed on to Miriam's for stability. She could feel it shifting and warping in her grip, under the surface, like it hadn't fully formed into a thing yet. A potential hand, waiting to pick its shape until it was necessary.

"Great, I'm shaking hands with the vague notion of 'hand'." she gives it a slight tug to see if she can coax it out into being a real boy limb.