"Catching," she snarls, giving it a look that promises hurt after the hour is up if it doesn't hurry up.

(And she has just had an idea...)

Anyway, what was the piece of clothing this one had been holding?

It sprints off, leaving a shirt behind. In the sort of condition implied by having been recently possessed by a goblin.

"THE BITCH SAYS DROP THE CLOTHES AND I DON'T HAVE TO TRY TO CATCH YOU!" This prompts any of the smaller goblins who managed to get their hands on an item to leave it behind.

She growls and calls, "Now help me catch all goblins that put their hands on my clothes and that are not currently under my orders," and darts after the strongest spiritual connection between her clothes and whatever moving thing there is.

(She's certain she couldn't see connections that clearly before.)

The goblin is so completely not listening. He's just aiming to make sure Sadde has everything back in less than forty minutes without ever being in earshot of her.

The strongest connections are between paired objects. The shoe that matches the one a goblin dropped. Other items have connections by virtue of belonging to the same owner, but if she's looking hard enough to see connections that tenuous she won't be able to see much else.

And she will smack her forehead against a branch and fall on her back. Ow. Fuck. Whatever. She doesn't even want her stuff back, she has a better idea.

She returns to the meeting point where her backpack is and reaches inside it for Bob. "Hello, Bob," she greets the vial of blood.

Bob doesn't answer.

Good, she'd be spooked if it did.

And it looks—weird. Real and not real, at the same time shouting its existence and trying to hide it. Whenever she's paying attention it's obvious it's not just blood, but as soon as she looks away it's plain and without magic. Well. Anyway, she tries to deactivate the Sight.

Nope.

Bob glints in exactly the same way as before she tried, and the spirits are still dancing in the background.

Er.

 She tries again.

Nope.

She closes her eyes, then opens them again.

Nothing continues to happen.

...okay. Okay, this is terrible. She'll—worry about that later. One thing at a time.

She dabs her fingertips into the vial of blood and starts tracing lines on her torso and her legs and her feet, and she pushes the image she has in her mind of herself wearing clothes through the blood.

At least that works. It takes some effort to push it, and the change is gradual, but the end result works exactly as well as she thought it would. Which is pretty well.

Good. They're different clothes than the ones she'd been wearing, too. She pets Bob, looking at it intently (you are important, Bob, I will never overlook you), then stashes it back into her backpack, which she wears around her shoulders. She waits for the goblins.

Nothing happens, for long enough that they might have just run. It's really cold here, especially with only glamour for insulation.

Eventually there's still no sign of the goblins, until a pile of beaten up and disgusting clothes falls from a branch and narrowly misses her. It's wrapped around a rock because of course it is. The perpetrating goblin, smaller than either of the two she captured, flees from branch to branch.

...motherducker, she'll—

No. She will not chase it. She has won, this was a victory, even if she ended up not strictly needing her clothes. She needs to return home for a shower and she'll be late for work but that's not nearly her biggest problem. She thought she was good at precise wording but apparently not enough, now that she reruns the stuff she said in her head. Ugh.

She gets her stuff and starts making her way back.

The goblins don't interfere. Maybe they consider this a loss.

She does still smell like she fought goblins in close quarters. A shower might not be enough; this is more of a job for boiling oil or possibly a thermonuclear inferno.

Unfortunately she's short on those, so a shower will have to do.

She leaves her clothes there and returns home, and as the rush from running and adrenaline wears off she realises glamour is most definitely not sufficiently insulating for April in Canada. She starts running again to try and keep warm, and eventually arrives.

"Oh my God, did you fall into a sewer?" her step mother calls after her as she runs upstairs, two steps at a time.

She gets under the shower and starts scrubbing herself as strongly as she can, trying to get rid of both glamour and stench.

Glamour comes off easily. Goblin stench doesn't. But it isn't very magical; a long enough shower will do it.

So a long enough shower she will take, eugh, she's totally late for work.

She grabs new clothes, grabs Bob again and coos softly at it, makes sure her can of pepper spray is around...

...grabs a knife, surreptitiously, when Beth isn't there, and puts it into her backpack.

Then goes to work. She gets chewed down, this is retail, but she points out this is only the second time this has happened and the first time was when she broke her arm, and she promises to make up for it by coming tomorrow, which should be her day off, so she gets off the hook.

(She doesn't really promise. She suggests that as a way for her to make up for it, and her boss says it's good enough, but she never actually says she'll do it. Enforced honesty, yeaugh.)

The afternoon passes. She unsuccessfully tries deactivating the Sight many times, to her growing panic and frustration. She fears she may have ducked up royally. But okay, that's cool, she'll—deal. Somehow. She'll deal.

(She really needs to talk to Johannes.)

And then the time for the council meeting approaches, and she makes her way to the park with the church.

The meeting is being conducted by the head Duchamp. Whether Sadde recognizes her in particular depends on how much attention she pays to the local important people, but Duchamps all look nearly identical anyway. Especially to Sadde's current vision.

In the pews near the front row on the opposite side of the church are representatives of the Behaim family, or at least similar-looking but not identical people in a group containing some Behaims from the school. Other attendees are less identifiable: two intimidating-looking women being avoided by everyone including each other, three implausibly good-looking people almost more remeniscent of living statues than flesh-and-blood humans, a ghost or two, a bogeyman or two, and some goblins. The humans are toward the front, predictably enough.

A Behaim recognizes her and looks twice. "Sadde?"

Interchangeable Duchamp Number One speaks up from her position at the front. "Welcome to the Jacob's Bell council, Sadde. I'm Nicole Duchamp."

Sadde waves at the Behaim and bobs her head up and down when addressed by Nicole. "Hello. To, er, people who don't know me, I'm Sadde—" Pause. "Woods."

(And are the goblins ones who were there earlier, she wonders.)

None of them look familiar, but that's not a no.

"If you're new to the local practitioner society you probably aren't familiar with the current, ah, situation," she smiles toward but visibly not at the lead Behaim, "so coming here is a good move. Am I right that you aren't new to Jacob's Bell?"

"I believe I am very likely unfamiliar with the situation you're alluding to, and I am in fact native to Jacob's Bell, although I spent a few years living in Toronto during my childhood."