Jackaby was not having a very good day at all. Considering he often did not entirely have the best time most of the time as there was just so many things happening all at once that were less than the most fun things in the world. He'd planned to get at least a nap that night but instead he was called on around 2am because somebody happened to decide that was the perfect time to get publically mauled by something with wings. There was, in fact, nothing with wings apart from a perfectly ordinary bat that just happened to have gotten close enough to start a brief vampire scare, which made things slightly harder to settle down the MUNDUS NONSTER crowd of frankly dreadful people that decided this was the perfect chance to swarm en masse to share their ludicrous propaganda points. They could have almost had a point if the Seer did not readily prove that not only was there no inhuman causes for the murder, but also that there was no murder at all.

That said it did get very close to there being a murder once he revealed that the whole thing was a publicity stunt to try and demonise the citizens that weren't human. But Jackaby had a surprising amount of luck when it came to only getting very close to being murdered without actually getting murdered. It did help that he had not taken out a little pouch of stun spores in one of his pockets that he managed to distribute upon them so he could get away with nothing more significant than a bloody lip. Poor formerly-agent-now-officer Kit had almost been able to have a normal day before he was sent out to drag the offenders to brood in a cage for a while, and worse, the poor man had to deal with Jackaby's ranting about the ridiculous rashness of the uninformed and their readiness to cry monster so they could justify attacking anything they didn't understand so they did not have to have their ignorance challenged.

So, even with the sunlight streaming its cheery patterns across the city, Jackaby was not in the best of moods when he trudged his way back to his house, the edge of a headache just beginning to tug at his temples and his injured bottom lip throbbing uncomfortably.

It was with this frankly unfair reminder that he had the weight of worlds resting upon his shoulders that he practically flung himself inside. Even when he was not feeling his best he still had a sort of twitchy manic energy about him, in fact if the notes that Abigail made and shared with Charlie were to be believed, the worse he was feeling the more twitchy and manic he would get, pacing and moving about until one final inconvenience sent him to a total collapse for a while. Abigail only had the misfortune of dealing with when it got that bad once, but Hank Hudson, who knew him for a lot longer, had told her it used to happen a lot more often when they were younger.

In the mood he was in, one would have to forgive him for just wanting to make himself a nice cup of tea, retreat away to his workspace and do something marvelously repetitive and intricate enough to keep himself occupied for a while. But he barely got beyond the entrance and into the lounge room before he found himself needing to do things again. Or still, technically, as he hadn't really had the chance to stop doing things enough to restart them.

Thistle had perched himself upon the lightly scorched table that had once been a church pew before being very thoroughly repurposed, looking very intently at whatever it was he was working on in that moment. It was nice to see that he was doing things, as there had been a time where it had seemed impossible, but it had gotten to the point where he had managed to develop exactly two new desires. The first was a small one, but that was okay because the first one was always going to be a bit weird and tricky to develop, and had happened quite by accident. He'd taken a sip from Jackaby's teacup by mistake and promptly declared to all present that he wanted to only ever drink good tea from that moment on. The second was more abstract, though largely more wholesome. It was that he wanted to earn his place among the others in the house.

As he worked, the elf was busy mouthing something silently, though it was clear that it was a spell from the way he shined, glowing with the light that he drew inwards and out to what he was working on. Jackaby had been content to leave him to his work, but unfortunately he had the eyes of the Mad Mage upon him a moment before he's planned to move off on his way again. Tragically, his gaze landed directly upon the Seer's bloody lip and bruised jaw, two things that he had intended to sneak off and treat before anyone saw him.

"What happened?" Thistle asked, a creeping anger that, while not quite able to reach the same intensity it once had, crackled with an unrefined intensity, reaching out as if he was going to bring a hand to Jackaby's injured face, "Who did this to you? How dare they do this to you? Tell me who it was, I'll-"

"You'll show me what you're working on right now perhaps," Jackaby interrupted, "None of this is anything you need to worry about."

"But-"

"It's fine, really, some people are just very stupid and if you did something rash they will find a way to claim that it justified their even more stupid ideologies," the Seer dismissed, "Anyhow, I dare say they're having a worse time right now than I am so at this point I think I ended up slightly better off."

"I can heal it for you at least, it looks bad."

"It's not bad enough to bother with all that. It looks worse than it really is. It'll heal on its own before too long anyhow," returned he, "What was it that you're making?"

Thistle drew his attention back down to what he was tinkering with so that Jackaby could see the makeshift creature. From appearance alone, it resembled a small dragon made of greyish red clay. But usually clay creations were more incapable of moving than the little beast in his hands were, which stretched its wings before taking flight, flittering about like a moth around Jackaby before landing landing on a hatrack that held everything but actual hats.

"It's a familiar," the elf explained, "It used to be a little easier to make them before but I've made worse." He paused, flickering his fingers towards the makeshift dragon, who stretched its wings out to show off its functioning. "I remember the first time I made one that was able to move properly. It was a terrible, goofy looking little thing and I couldn't get it to move without having to put my whole body into it so I was hopping about the room flapping my arms like a fool. I'm sure if anyone were to have seen me, they'd have thought I was trying out a new routine, but," a soft, wistful grin crossed his features, "Delgal was so impressed that I'd managed to make one fly about the room that I wondered if he was going to cry over it."

Jackaby tilted his head as much as his present state allowed for, considering not just the fellow's story but also the bubbly softness that accompanied this statement.

"You were very fond of him, weren't you?" the man remarked with the airiness that made it clear he would not mind if he did not get an answer.

Jackaby plonked himself down on the ground, tucking one leg beneath him and drawing the other up, lacing his fingers to rest upon his knee. Ordinarily he'd rest his chin on his hands but he was still was feeling awful and did not want to make himself feel worse.

"He's wonderful, I'm sure you would have liked him too." As he spoke, the elf fidgeted with his hair, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the other.

"Was he why you-"

"Yes," came the preemptive reply, the fidgeting progressing to him tugging at his hair enough to be undeniably uncomfortable at the very least, "And I'm not sorry for it, if that's what you're wondering."

The hair tugging was starting to get alarming, and so the Seer rocked forward enough to be able to catch his hand with one of his own. Disentangling things was part of his job so it was almost embarrassingly easy for him to uncurl the hair from his hand without snagging it with any of the rings or the like that encrusted his fingers. He was sure there'd be little use in trying to dissuade him from this, so he just simply did not acknowledge it at all beyond this.

"How do they work? The familiars you make, I mean," Jackaby asked, "I've seen them created as a form of elemental spirit of sorts before but I haven't seen them like this before."

"They need a basic organic starting point to build off, for this one I asked Tilde if he had anything on hand and he let me use a few bones he had spare-"

"Which sounds like a terrible idea, but do continue."

"So this was made using the marrow of the bone, which is then infused with mana even before the enchantment. Usually it'd need to be said out loud but," he looked very smug about it all, "If it's this small and just one of them I can still get by just mouthing it. Depending on what I need it for, I can either have total control over it or a more passive control."

"Passive?"

"Yes, I give it set commands and it can complete its tasks while I can do other things as it goes."

The two continued on in the conversation for a little while longer, and it seemed very much that Thistle was glad for a space to be able to show off what he was able to do. Of course, one would hope that over a thousand years of refinement would mean that he would end up very good at what he does because it would be a little embarrassing if not, a fact that Tilde had stated on more than one occasion, usually more in general than directing it towards the resident elf.

"Morning, I- oh!" came the sleepy, yawn-heavy greeting of one Abigail Rook, still in her pajamas and hair yet to be managed, "I didn't realise you were home yet, sir. Was there-"

"There wasn't any vampires at all, but there was some guy in a large coat who tried to pretend to be a vampire." Jackaby paused. "Very badly, might I add. It was clear he had no understanding of typical vampiric conventions so I'm sure even you would have realised it was a very living person pretending to be a vampire."

"Thank you, sir." Abigail deadpanned, deciding there was no use in trying to work out whether she ought to be offended or not.

"I just mean that you've had very little experience in dealing with vampires," a beat, "In fact, unless you've been out there galavanting with creatures of the night without me knowing about it, you've only really directly interacted with Pavel, and like all of Mr. Tilde's former coworkers, he is frankly awful and not a good representative of the species as he makes them all look bad."

"Somebody punched you then?" the woman stated as she made her way through the room to the kitchen so she could make herself some tea. There was nothing worse than having to deal with people saying inevitably frustrating things before even having the chance to have some tea first. Tea and a perfectly okay at best apple, as long as the barrel was still producing okay at best apples, though she couldn't remember when it started being okay at best apples and not the okay at best star fruits which were a lot harder to do things with to keep their numbers manageable.

"He's not even letting me heal it for him." Thistle called after her, clasping at his ankles when he leaned back to call out without falling over.

"Of course he isn't, he's an idiot."

"Who is an idiot?" asked Jenny as she drifted in through the far wall as she made her way to the front door.

"I am, apparently." Jackaby deadpanned.

"Well yes, we know that already, what did you do this time?" questioned the resident ghost.

"I got punched in the face by one of the Mundous Nonster crowd this morning."

"You're an idiot."

"I also punched one of the Mundous Nonster crowd in the face this morning."

"Oh," Jenny stated before shrugging, "Okay, that's alright then. Anyhow, I'm going to for a stroll, it seems like a lovely day outside, not that it really means all that much for me, and I'd rather not waste it. I feel I've got far too many lovely days outside to catch up on."

"Be safe, if something does happen, do try to not destroy anything that would mean we have anyone come knocking. As you said, it is a lovely day outside and I would rather like to avoid annoying people trying to make me do paperwork."

"You've exploded far too many things to have any say in the matter." Jenny remarked, and with this hanging in the air, she was gone. In her defence, she had been stuck in the house ever since she was murdered and it had taken a great deal of working on herself to be able to set foot outside again, and she rather promptly used it as a chance to throw a bathtub at the nixie who had killed her, which she felt was not only fair, but also if anything, a kindness on her end.

"Do... people punch you in the face so often that nobody questions it?" asked Thistle when they were alone.

Jackaby waved his hand in a so-so gesture.

"Not by choice, certainly, and I do try to avoid it when I can," the Seer replied in a decidedly less than reassuring fashion, "But yes, I suppose so. I'm not entirely sure what the standard amount of face punches people usually have to compare my own experiences to however."

"It's usually zero, sir," Abigail declared as she poked her head around the door, "Anyways, I'm making tea, would anyone else like tea?" A beat. "I know you would, sir, how about you, Thistle?"

Having confirmed she was going to just bring in a pot of tea rather than just making individual cups of tea, she vanished away again.

"Well," Thistle mused, "I don't want you to get punched too often, so luckily for you, I'm here so I can do something about it," a beat, "And if they so much as try, I shall make sure they regret it." A flash of something less than pleasant shone in the purple of the elf's eyes.

"Or you could not do that," protested Jackaby, "But I do appreciate the sentiment. I'd rather like to avoid you getting injured so I suppose we will just have to keep an eye out for each other when we can, won't we?"

"Yeah," the elf replied, almost bashful, "I suppose we will."

Before too long, Abigail joined the pair with a tray of tea and the various bits and pieces that went with it. Jackaby's cup, which had been used and was forever a slightly odd colour as a result, was a little further away from the others because it a little bit frightened her and she wasn't sure if the odd combination of things could contaminate everything else. She had also taken the time to include a few apple sliced, a little pot of jam and the fresh bread that somebody had given Jackaby when he stopped their windows from turning sideways every third Saturday of the month. Which was a very specific issue that she was sure he would not have the faintest notion of how to begin, or even would have realised was a problem anyone could have until she walked into Jackaby's house and just straight up refused to leave again.

Of course, things were not perfect, perfection was a subjective and ever changing state that could never be truly achieved after all, but there was something comfortable about it all. The three of them sitting around the coffee table, with all its scratches and burns and signs of use, in a way felt like it was a start. They'd all found their way there in some way or another, piecing the little family together when there was nowhere else in the world that they could quite fit into without having to refine those edges that made them themselves.

There was something about sharing a meal with his family that tugged a string of nostalgia in Thistle's heart, raw and uncomfortable at first - this wasn't how they were supposed to do it, there was no structure, they weren't the right people - but had grown on him alarmingly fast. It was this very reason that they made sure that regardless of whatever else was going on, they'd take the time out of the morning to share a meal. Sometimes it was just the three of them, sometimes more, Jenny could not eat but she was there for the social aspect, Charlie made sure to join them on the weekends, and while Tilde would rather die than be awake in the morning if he hadn't slept the night before he'd join them. And it was nice. Clumsy and odd, just like the group itself was, but it was nice and it was necessary. Not just for Thistle, but for all of them in one way or another.

It would not be a perfect, immediate fix and yet with each day that went by it was more and more possible that Thistle was going to be okay. Some days were better than others, but even on the worse days he did not really have the chance to dwell on all that was lost, in both his self and the world he had previously been a part of. After all, he had made a promise to himself that he would look after his family, properly this time and with none of the trapping them in an eternity of gilded nothingness within a dungeon as he went more and more insane, and he was not going to let them down. No, he'd found his purpose for now, and one day he might be able to find something for just himself, but until then, anything was significantly better than nothing, and that was what was important at that moment.