Nic enjoyed the fragile peace for as long as it lasted. And steadfastly ignored everything that indicated otherwise and especially who and what had led to the situation in the first place. He really wasn't ready to think about it. So he had taken to wandering around the city again and had for once even been somewhat lucky, if he dared saying so.
In a small alley he had found a merchant specialising in various potions and obscure medicine. There he had found something that would help him with his language problem. The potion he had gotten was supposed to help him with learning. Not instantly speak the language, that wasn't possible. Or rather, if he understood that correctly it wasn't something he wanted to try and might involve a quite literal tongue of someone fluid in the specific language. And a slew of other problems with that method he just got a general gist of it.
In any case, the potion he had should be taken before going to bed and involved mixing a drop of blood in it and placing a book underneath his pillow. As he had recently gotten a few from that merchant he was positive that would help. Though why the merchant had been so hush-hush about the blood was a bit mystifying to him.
One might have an inkling how this one would be playing out though.
He would not be using that book from the ruins, that much was sure. So, finally marginally happy he downed the foul-tasting thing in one go and went to sleep.
Nic probably should have made sure that the book he chose was the one that stayed under his pillow, but well. One might now say it was his own fault for not making sure he wasn't disturbed or at least stayed alone the whole night. Well, even if he had, there were things which you could hardly prepare for.
Especially beings that could appear by their master's side at any moment they so choose.
If we follow this line of thought, well, then one might notice as well that the grimoire itself was of Nics targeted language, if an ancient version of it and practically had long since been revised or some parts having fallen out of use completely. With the books now changing places it was a bit like mixing together roman Latin you'd hear in debates in senate sessions with rapper slang French and a bit of Gaulish for good measure.
Not all that far off, as the first book had been a bit of a fictional thing you'd read your children for bedtime. And wondered why they weren't sleeping and having nightmares, as it was full of old local folklore that was a bit more gruesome than the watered-down version that was used today.
So, while Nic was snoring away in the arms of Morpheus the books were exchanged. And not even immediately afterwards, but rather a good few hours into the potion doing its work. And though the grimoire seemed rather benign on the surface it was nonetheless a dark book and had gathered enough energy on its own. That it mostly contained helpful spirits to never be dependent on of any kind and was for the extremely paranoid, well, that was another matter altogether. But if one thought about it, if you had no servants that you had to pay, it was for one cheaper and there was less chance of a spy trying to replace one of them. Or a hero, for that matter.
For whatever reason, it happened what was bound to happen. Kwez exchanged the books and observed the ensuing events with vigilant eyes. In his sleep the master was a bit more liberal with letting the tightly bound energy run wild, the slight shining aura around him a phenomenon he wasn't even aware of. And being the ever helpful servant that he was, Kwez helped with his own talents to make it a bit more impressive.
What an excellent opportunity, indeed.
The potion itself wasn't all that innocuous either. In theory it was a rather simple thing, the ingredients themselves though made it a bit questionable. And Nic had done with the blood something that he had been warned of not doing as that might lead to unexpected results. Or something. And bleeding walls would be a favorable occurrence.
Yes, he had mistaken a warning as an instruction. There had been a reason the merchant had been that frantic at that point in their conversation.
In our case, one might be happy it was a little less spectacular. Nic in his nightly stupor just called upon seven creatures that were mirroring his baser desires with unknown energy and in a way that they were not supposed to be evoked.
The first thing appearing was plain as could be, insignificant to a fault, comparable how humans took note of ants. It looked like a small mouse. Tiny, twitchy nose, proportionally huge round eyes and a fluffy tail. The fur looked incredibly plushy as well, a really cute little thing. The similarities to mice ended there, as this little thing was made up entirely of house-dust. Now everyone had surely heard of dust bunnies once in a while. This little critter was supposed to run around the house and collect any dust it could find, absorb it and took its energy from it. Not unlike food but leaving no dust nor droppings behind. A Dust Mouse, if you will, who was hastily making its exit.
Then something materialized that looked like a crossbreed of a branched dowsing rod and a headless mantis with too many legs. It was used to search for water, also called fittingly a Water Searcher. Though, what exactly counted as water, well, that was something that this being was a bit peculiar about. Who knew of the things tended to be a bit cautious in drinking anything it found, as a puddle in a back alley usually was not water per se. And should really not be drank for various reasons. It climbed out of the open window.
The next to enter this plane was a small figure, no bigger than a hand's breath. What could be seen of the leathery skin was brown, but the small guy was coated with dark soil and humus, sprouts and moss growing there. His face seemed to be made up of just a big mouth, button nose and beady small eyes somewhere above the broad lips. It was a Gnome, another subservient little helper with the clear task of making a part of the ground it found arable and grow edible plants. That worked about anywhere, speculatively even in frozen wastelands, if there just was the tiniest bit of soil, no matter the condition. The only place it would decidedly not work were around active volcanos for obvious reasons. The Gnome looked around for a moment then scuttled of the rug onto the wooden floor. Like a crazed mole it suddenly started digging, vanishing into the night.
The next one announced his arrival with a clattering clingclang, as if one was knocking on hard rock with a metallic rod of some kind. Out of a cloud of red smoke stepped in his golden-red splendor – a big Cauldron. Made of copper. His legs were moving on their own though and on his side were handles in which you could see big rings which were moving quite similar to hands. Now why would a warlock have need for such a thing? Well, no servants meant one would have to cook themselves which took time away for the important things. So, this Cauldron could create something edible and nutricious out of every possible – and impossible – ingredients. Plus, the risk of an assassination attempt via poison was minimal and if you were simply untalented around the kitchen it prevented poisoning oneself on accident. But from time to time one should really use normal ingredients for actually cooking, as wood, leather and rock weren't that easily changeable and are a bit heavy on the stomach, even with the magical processing. With a clanging that sounded like a sigh it left – opening the door in the process.
With a hearty yawn the fifth being signaled his arrival. A soft shhhh resounded in the room, just a bit sideways to the hole the Gnome had left behind. A small manlike shape formed, about double in size compared to the Gnome. It was entirely made up of sand. A part of it that seemed to be clothing turned ruby red, it had a grey long beard and wore a pointed cap, equally red as its cloak; glittering sand was swirling around it.
Nic started murmuring in his slumber and seemed on the verge of waking. Swiftly it rose up into the air, carried by a small cloud of sand, sprinkling glittering dust on his eyelids. He calmed down instantly, snoring filled the air.
The Sandman nodded, yawned himself and floated away into the night.
As quiet as the Sandman had appeared, so thundering was the Washboard. Yes, yes, a washboard, no joking. Exactly the thing you heard about in songs about washerwomen. Chrchrochr, clothes going up and down on it, that kind of thing. A necessary evil and a time-consuming one at that. How such a thing moves? Let's not think too deeply about it and just accept the fact that it did. The still swinging door would agree with that, if it could, that is.
Last but not least the result of an evocation that always appeared in a pair. Wherever clutter occurred or chaos ran rampant in a household these two were your ever friendly little helper. Whatever would end up as an unnecessary distraction and annoy their master, they would dispel any disorder and clean it up, just to their master's image of order and do so in perfectly. White, no extra frills or other unneeded amendments. The Gloves.
Some might claim this as absolutely wacky, but whatever would you expect from the magically talented? There was a saying pertaining magicians. The greater the talent, the more challenged of mind. Though this kind of helpers might also indicate a high – and in this situation specifically even healthy – level of paranoia that usually was one of the reasons one such magically talented person even grew old in the first place and died of a natural death in the second one.
Irrespective of that these two tidied up the room before leaving through the door, closing it gently. Each and every one of them went their merry way, none really wise, but carrying with them a wish and an order from their master. Whatever the master desired, they would make it so.