They usually aren't. The ritual talks about "this space" and "here," and whether you're in a broom closet or a throne room it's generally unambiguous. The practical limits are that anything unusually large will have more people contest it and for higher stakes, and that a large demesne is harder to hold on to when called upon to defend it. The theoretical upper limit is that it does have to be close enough for everyone in the demesne-to-be to hear the challenge in your own voice, but the other two are the relevant limits.

Hmmmmm! Does the book say much more about who's notified about it and how exactly they get the notification?

Interested parties, as defined by whatever the spirits happen to think. The closer someone is the more likely they are to count, have a demesne themselves counts in their favor, and a Lord if there is one always counts. If you participate in practitioner society, like by attending council meetings or local equivalent, you can be farther away before the spirits don't bother. What matters is whether the spirits think of you as a person whose business this is. Others can also hear, but the book is geared toward practitioners and has a bias toward information on when they will hear.

The notification is speculated to have originally been a magical boost to how far the claimant's voice carries, but with everyone doing the same ritual for centuries it got improved. Now the prospective neighbors on the outside hear an echo of the claim and see a brief illusion showing where the claimant is. "Find me here" would be unactionable otherwise.

"Father away"? So, they don't need to live closer to count, they need to be closer, at the time the demesne is declared? And, relatedly, if you're relatively anonymous it's easier to claim a demesne than otherwise, hmm. Innnnteresting. Is there anything more she'll find relevant about this? And can she find information on the Others as they relate to claiming a demesne somewhere?

Living closer helps determine how hard the spirits will try to tell them, the book anthropomorphizes, but distance at the time affects how successful the attempt will be. Theoretically you could pick a place with no one there, and not have to worry about any challenges, but that almost by definition means no important spirits nearby either. The demense would be almost useless and unwilling to improve.

Sentient Others are in about the same position a practitioner would be. They're about as likely to be magically informed and have just as much right (or lack of right, depending) to contest the demesne whether they get told or just happen to be there. They cannot claim a demesne themselves. Non-sentient Others can usually understand what a demesne ritual means. Even if they're otherwise no more intelligent than an ordinary animal, "someone is claiming a demesne" has become a fundamental enough concept that it doesn't take much brain power for an Other to know how to get involved. But it's more often the sentient ones and the practitioners that make the challenges.

Hmm, alright. Why can't Others have demesnes?

The ability to practice is a human thing. The awakening ritual was all about the relation between the human and the spirits; Others are already in that world. Others can get places where the spirits listen and are loyal to them, but the demesne ritual can only be done by practitioners.

That makes sense.

Next: implements?

(She might just stay up all night, it's a Friday after all.)

An implement is a badge almost as much as it is a tool. Essentials references a longer and more boring text for lists of examples, but it goes through what the meanings are. The Declarative, is the term for what this choice of object says about the practitioner. Decoration and appearance go here. The Authoritative, how it is used and what message it sends—is it displayed or brandished? And the Socio-cultural, what groups of people use this? Accidentally claiming identity with or membership in a people group is unlikely, but it's a risk.

The implement can be nearly any object. It should ideally be infused with some kind of power, whether by having a spirit attached or by being given an elemental charge or whatever, but some practitioners just go with something personally significant to them.

Like with the demesne, there's a permanent connection to the implement. Unlike with the demesne, this means it will always find its way to its owner. Some chain of coincidences will conspire to bring it back even if someone steals it and throws it in a river; the universe considers it right that the owner have their implement. The flip side is that someone with an implement should expect to have it with them at almost all times. This can be embarrassing if it's a sword and it probably shouldn't be furniture.

Hmm. Does it have to be an object? Could it be, perhaps, her own body instead?

Whoever wrote Essentials did not consider that question. It's certainly assuming the implement something that can be held in the hand, but the rituals could be done (if awkwardly) standing inside a magic circle instead of outside.

Extrapolating from what's in the chapter, the main risks would be that either nothing happens at all and she re-tries the ritual with something else or that it technically works but doesn't gain her anything. She does already have complete ownership of any power in her body, after all, and it is already an extension of herself more literally than any implement.

Well. She'll keep this in mind. Anything else about implements? What kind of information does the other book have, does this book say?

Mostly examples. Pages and pages of them. There's a matching tome for each ritual; Implementum lists off common tools and describes their messages.

It's ultimately a personal decision as much as a practical one. How she wants to represent herself, what she wants practitioners to think when they see her. But the boundaries of what can count as an implement are flexible. Like with the demesne, most of the limits are soft ones.

Very well. And the familiar?

Something between an ally, a servant, and a lifelong companion. It does not strictly guarantee loyalty; the Other and the practitioner keep their own interests and there are cases of one dominating the other. Cooperation is preferred. A typical form of the exchange is an Other more powerful than a human allowing the practitioner to draw on that power in exchange for whatever sustenance they need: an anchored place in the universe, often, and seeing the world from a human's point of view. Humanity can be a precious commodity. Other arrangements are possible: maybe the practitioner is offering power in exchange for knowledge or some skill, or there's an agreement between some group of Others and a family of practitioners.

The Other usually takes an animal form at the end of the ritual. The Other does have to be at least intelligent enough to agree to statements during the ritual, and should have compatible personalities and goals with the practitioner. Violating that is perfectly possible, but tends to result in the equivalent of an unhappy marriage with no possibility of divorce.

And what happens if either the practitioner or the familiar dies?

(...for that matter, does this book mention an afterlife?)

Familiars can't ordinarily die as long as the practitioner is alive. Anything that would otherwise kill them will feel like a painful blow to their human, and power will be sent along the bond to keep them alive. What happens when the practitioner dies depends on the Other. Its animal form dies, but this usually does not kill it.It was stably alive beforehand, after all.

There is an afterlife, but little is known about it. Afterlife quality probably depends on karma. There are Others and even practitioners who can work with souls and presumably affect it, but to be fair no one's positive whether that's changing the destination or creating a fork.

Huh. Well, what do the souls say about this afterlife?

Nothing. Souls don't come back from there (if there is a there; practitioners in general could theoretically be wrong). The relevant magic, usually done by practitioners called valkyries, prevents them from going there in the first place.

'Course. Nothing's ever easy. And it's getting pretty late, and her father might get angry if he remembers she exists the next morning and she's not there. Of course, he'll also get angry if he remembers she exists the next morning and she is there, but it's a different sort of angry.

She decides she'd better actually catch some sleep before doing anything. She's not sure whether Johannes thought it was obvious or was just that disconnected from the real world, but it so happens that the council meeting is tomorrow, so. She'd better be well-rested. She sleeps.

She wakes up much later than she'd expected to (fuck! stupid alarm clock, stupid batteries), puts on clothes, and eyes her door. The familiar dread fills her stomach, and she has to steel herself to potentially face Tobias' cold ire, orders that promise retribution if disobeyed. She inhales deeply, and opens the door, tiptoeing downstairs towards the kitchen in socked feet. Tobias is nowhere in sight, but her step-mother is there, doing the dishes. "Your father missed you at dinner last night," she says, not taking her eyes off what she's doing. "He's going to be very cross with you when he returns, tonight."

That information mixes with the dread like molten lead. "Where—where did he go?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Right. Is there breakfast?"

"Some. You slept in, so you missed it and prayer."

She acknowledges this information with a nod, and decides she will have breakfast somewhere else. Not at home. "I'm gonna eat out, and go to work," she says, to no reaction from Beth. Another sigh, and she goes back upstairs. She brushes her teeth, returns to her room, and puts her shoes on. Her eyes scan her bedside table, sliding over the dead alarm clock (must replace batteries), the book she's been reading (need to finish it by tomorrow to return it to the library), the vial with blood, okay nothing useful there—wait. Look again: alarm clock, book, blood—blood—right. The blood. She needed to name it. "You'll be called Bob," she says, and giggles at her own silliness. "I wonder what I can do with you?"

She grabs her backpack with the books, then the blood, and looks at it. She opens the vial and inserts her index finger into it. "What do I do with this..." She closes the vial again, shoves it into a side pocket of her backpack, and goes to the bathroom, then stands in front of the mirror. "By the power of Bob," she murmurs softly, "my eyes shall be gold coloured today," and she smears both eyelids with the blood.

She opens her eyes.

It doesn't do anything obnoxious like turning them into the metal, or changing the color of anything outside the irises. She sees exactly what she was picturing ahead of time: gold-colored eyes.

That is the coolest thing. But she won't keep it, so she washes her face, willing the glamour to wear off.

It feels like it's peeling off, but once it's off it disappears. No used glamour.

There is now slightly less in the flask than there was before.

What, less than just the original amount minus the amount of blood she actually put on her face?

No, just less than she started with.