[h2]Chapter 2: The Reunion[/h2]

The generally-accepted term for a grouping of witches is referred to as, contrary to the populace's belief that beings of immense magical power enjoy each other's company, a conflict. True to the implications of this name, this conflict of witches was brewing up a tempest in a teapot. 

Conflicts generally don't reveal themselves in their immediate area. Previously, an analogy was drawn to the eye of a hurricane, and it still remains appropriate. Witches are notorious for their ability to effect calamities, but their effective range is inversely proportionate to the number of witches in their conflict. In most cases, the best power-to-range ratio for a conflict is three, hence the widespread fables of the three-witch coven and the ever-present Rule of Three. Right now, this conflict had [i]nine[/i] witches in it. The room--except for a small portion of land approximately two yards of the conflict, taking into account ambient temperature changes and other environmental conditions--teemed with raw magic, the old kind of magic that people like to spell with 'y's and 'k's. Much like a riptide waiting just below the surface of a beautiful lagoon, it was wholly imperceptible beyond inflicting a general sense of foreboding that tickled the hindbrain like a thread of gossamer on the wind.

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Abdul cheerily argued with the rest of the conflict. He didn't understand a word they were saying, and neither did they, but that wasn't the [i]point[/i] of arguing. If you didn't ignore your partner, why bother starting an argument with them? Though each witch maintained a cheerful smile and a pleasant demeanor, determining their [i]actual[/i] mood would be impossible to anyone but a veteran witch. Prohibited from demonstrating their powers by those few people strong enough to stop them, witches promptly shifted their focus to a new target: their opponents' social standing. Bitter rumors and hissed conversations would follow this party for years to come, and would shape the state of Floor Thirteen forever.

Abdul was a champion conversation-haver, and could soundly argue with the conflict without even paying attention. It's easy to infuriate a witch, and Abdul knew [i]exactly[/i] how to do it and, most importantly, [i]survive[/i]. Bored already with the ever-changing realpolitik of witchcraft, Abdul let his eyes wander.

The room was smattered with people of marginal interest. Fine young men and women, each with their own stories that were of no consequence for Abdul. He'd be glad to hold a conversation with them, but unless they had any business to conduct, he wouldn't have much else to do with them. None of these people looked like fans of [i]any[/i] of his works, much less capable of holding a conversation on the merits and personalities of the Ousted Beings of the Ninth Plane.

However, one being stood out in particular. Events like these held dozens of Glamored monsters. Trolls, ghouls, ghuls, and demons of all sorts. Most of them were either antisocial thugs or genuinely regretful people. This person, however... This shabby-looking fellow in the middle of a formal event. This man who brings his own alcohol to a party that includes a complimentary bar. This Boogeyman...

He was also an antisocial thug. As a matter of fact, he was probably the worst possible example of a Fabletownie in this room. However, Abdul very dimly recognized him.

Abdul was, despite his haggard appearance, quite astute for his time. A Glamor can cover up a lot of someone's true form, but it can't cover up anything. Their smell, the way they hold themselves, their eyes, all of them can be handily cross-referenced to the [i]original[/i]. Abdul had been around for quite a long time, and knew quite a number of the world's spooks and monsters. The Boogeyman was no exception.

[hr]

Grinning widely and toothlessly, Abdul broke away from the conflict and made his way over to Boogie. Old people have an amazing knack for crossing areas without actually moving into them, and the sight of Abdul inexplicably appearing next to Boogie would boggle the mind of anyone not familiar with this principle. Abdul placed a shaky claw on Boogie's shoulder, looked him straight in the eye, and cackled breathlessly.

"Hoi, I know [i]you[/i]!" wheezed Abdul, a mad glint shining in his eyes. "How've you been, Bogey? You look like you've let yerself go!"