#hattle

@davidhatter

The cold was their cousin Nimble’s world. Ordinarily, the dry winter air sucked the power from Thistle, but with the artificial heat from inside the tea shoppe running, condensation had collected in the corners of the glass. Just enough for Thistle’s powers to be able to reach out and turn it into fog. It slipped under the door and began to fill the space.

It was dark again. Night. Almost closing time. Thistle had been watching and waiting from the bookshoppe across the street. The last thing he needed was to be caught by Nimble or one of his spies paying attention to what was going on there. But--this had gone on too long. Toby was worthless. He didn’t know enough of what was going on to be any use. All he had reported was that Nimble had come to the shoppe. More than once.

That was enough for Thistle.

When he entered, his glamour dropped and his telekinesis locked the door behind him. Now that he was inside, the fog covered the windows.

“What have you done?” Thistle growled. This was, after all, in their opinion Hatter’s fault. How else would all of their hard work begun to unravel?

@davidhatter

Thistle had not stepped foot in the Mad Hatter’s Tea Shoppe since first returning to Swynlake in February. It was not a place he liked to visit often. He knew that it was possible that not going was more suspicious than going, considering everyone loved Hatter’s. Thistle simply couldn’t bring himself. 

This, however, was important. The success of his mission would determine the success of his and Hatter’s...future partnership. After all, if Slightly did not bring back what Thistle had suggested: he would have no more leverage over the sorcerer who played at teamaker. 

So, Thistle waited until night fell. The streets of Swynlake quiet after the disaster of the past few days. There was a single light on in Hatter’s, though, like a beacon on a dark street, just ten minutes before they closed. Thistle stood in the shadow of the bookshoppe across the street, watching carefully. Seeing only one shadow, the shadow of a wiry man, moving back and forth through the large window with uneven, ungraceful movements.

When Thistle was satisfied that Hatter was alone, he took a breath--feeling the moisture in the air. Letting out that breath, he let the air condense, turning into a soft fog, grey-white in the darkness. It flowed from across the street and slipped under the door of the tea shoppe, until it filled the place. 

The door bell jingled as Thistle stepped in. The mist thinned, but still swirled, creating heavy condensation on the window, so that no one could see in. 

“David Hatter,” Thistle greeted the familiar man. “You have something I need.”