While Babathiel, the Old Witch of the North Woods, was on her extended trip around the world with her old coven, the various and sundry objects she had enchanted to sentience were found with time on their hands. Metaphorically speaking, of course, since none of them had hands except her old enchanted clock.

Babathiel’s broom had flown to Los Angeles to try its hand at acting. Her cauldron had taken on a side job with a farm-to-table co-op. And her black cat familiar, Yagnider, had found a suburban cul-de-sac to mooch off of, having convinced no less than four families that he was their sole and only cat and collecting four dinners a day.

With the enchanted clock happy to sit around and waste time, that left only Babathiel’s hat. While it had many powers—increasing spell slots, acting as a bag of holding, and being able to sort people into broad personality types when placed on their heads—the hat was not satisfied to merely exercise them.

No, Babathiel’s hat had grander ambitions.

It was up to no good.

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