It is about 45/bF(7C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Foxglove and Oakwood/span

Sebastian casually sips his cappucino while holding a book in his other hand.

The Inkwell is starting to get busy; It’s a sunday, and thus a good deal of the student body are beginning to roll out of bed, slip into what ever they have to hand (mostly clean) and with the proximity to the Windermere university, this makes this coffee locale the premier for morning libation.

It was mostly quiet, with the odd person entering and exiting for takeout beverages, and though Sebastian may not have noticed it previously, one of the other small groups who had taken a seat appears to have left something behind.

It’s not a large object, far from it. It’s quite small, about the size of an apple, and from where it has ended up– Just beside Sebastian’s chair, it must have been dropped with no one seeing it.

Small as it is, this object is wrapped up tightly in a cloth, possibly hinting that it is delicate. No one has seen it yet, which may allow for Sebastian to take it to keep or inspect at his leasure.

As Sebastian enjoys his book, he takes a short break at the end of a chapter to look around the coffee shop. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices something beside him. He looks around again, and then sets his book down to pick up the object carefully, giving it a cursory examination.

What Sebastian picks up isn’t physically heavy, though it has a hint of the other about it, a curious metaphysical weight, more felt spiritually than physically.

It appears to be a cloth bag. Tied with a ribbon, the object within shifts, proving that there is space within, and to tactile inspection, Sebastian can identify that one end is flat, round, a solid something with a curved top, possibly domed.

The most curious thing however isn’t that it’s out of place, or even that it’s here, but it is warm to the touch, incongruous in this weather, even in doors.

He furrows his brows as he examines the object, very curious. He takes another casual sip of his cappuccino, moving the object over to the window side, out of sight of most everyone in Inkwell, and slowly begins to fiddle with it until Sebastian opens the cloth bag and gently dumps whatever is inside on the seat.

With a soft thunk of something not too heavy on fabric, the item spills from its bag, rolling for a moment, rocking until its centrifugal motion stills, giving Sebastian a good look.

It isn’t something out of the bounds of thrift store junk, or from the bargain bin at a Dollar General or Target. It’s a simple snow globe– Or at least, that’s how it appears.

The glass is oh-so-slightly frosted, making observation of exactly what lays within somewhat of an exercise. Still, there is something suspended within, and it appears to move of its own volition, though this has every chance of being the work of an active mind, or a curious trick of the early morning light.

The base itself has no decoration. It’s perfectly average, a thing of polystone carved to form a cradle for what is evidently this small globe filled with glittering motes.

He looks over the object with increasing curiousity, and no lack of caution as Sebastian attempts to figure out what the apparent snow globe is, picking it up in a hand and leaning over for a discrete closer examination.

Warm to the touch, the globe appears at first glance to be just that; A snow globe with frosted glass– Appropriate for winter, of course, but in hand there is obviously something less of the blase about it and more quite literally other, as though it were itself of the Other, which Sebastian can tell at a glance, possibly attributed to the Fairchild bloodline and its affinity with the fae, if not the proximity to all of the gates and ambiant magic around the city-between.

It almost vibrates at Sebastian’s touch, the slightest suggestion of arcana within, a hint of the harrowing and the note that niggles at the back of the neck that suggests that -something- is wrong. Indeed, there is an unseen, but not unfelt pulse, the world rendered in shades of grey for a single heartbeat, and in that single solitary moment, the book that Sebastian was reading vanishes from where he set it down, only to appear again beside his other elbow.

It’s possible that there is more obvious to a more educated mind, or one more specialized in New Haven, but contextually, what is prodominantly realised is that this thing ain’t right in multiple ways.

“Hmmm…” He continues to examine the object, glancing suspiciously, trying not to look too shocked when his book disappears and reappears. Sebastian quickly texts someone on his phone.

Sebastian furrows his brows, looking around, holding his phone up to try and get signal.

As Sebastian looks up, he realises that the world has slowed to a crawl.

The world outside is curiously serene, with stilled rain and flutters of snow dancing independently, now stilled to a slow that allows onlookers to observe the decline.

The grandfather clock lets out its hourly tone, the dolores tone resonent, all too long, and for the most brief of seconds, Sebastian can see the face of something pressing up against the glass of the snow globe- Or is it a figment?

takes a deep breath, staving off panic with experienced and natural calm. Sebastian holds up the object, close to his face.

It isn’t easy, the frosted glass of the globe itself obscures the shifting shadows and glowing motes within.

Even reality appears to be fighting Sebastian, with subtle changes, curious omitions and abstract happenings distorting the Inkwell outside Sebastian’s field of view.

People become two dimensional, vanishing when they turn, the glass of the windows bulges and contracts, the walls shift as though breathing, but Sebastian is able to see it after a few turns.

Within the frosted globe– No, the outside is perfectly smooth. What ever frosts it is from within- Is moving. It’s a person of some kind, hammering against the walls of what has become their prison, face pressed to the glass, expression anguished.

peers cautiously around the shop at everything happening. He holds up the object openly now after checking his phone again and finding no connection, Sebastian looks deeply into the snow globe, holding it right up to his eye, saying. “Who are you in there…?”

A whispering begins– There is no source, no origin. It’s all around Sebastian, growing steadily in volume from a buzz to a murmer.

The figure within the snow globe continues to pound, seeking its release, and with each pounding, each violent outburst from within, causality begins to unravel at its core, rendering the coffee shop— And assumedly the city in kaleidoscopic, fractured shards as though shattered glass forged the foundations of the universe and even they were struggling to maintain a sense of norm.

Another pulse bursts forth as Sebastian asks his question though there is no answer– Either it cant reply, or it cant be heard, though the figure, clouded by frost from within as it is, shrouded by motes of glowing glitter-like -something- that falls around it like shimmering embers is listening. Its shadowed form turns at Sebastian’s words, and the air grows cold.

You get the sense that this person– This creature wants its freedom.

takes some deep breaths, his chest rising and falling as the supernatural nature of events begins to wear on his will. Sebastian suddenly just stands up and throws the object on the floor with all his might, but not before sipping his cappuccino.

The toss might not have been overly powerful, Sebastian isn’t supernaturally strong, and yet….

The snow globe ascribes an arc through the air, a downward decline to the floor that never the less telegraphs its intent, the earth-shattering impact of contact to come.

Everything begins to warp– Reality twists, forms and reforms, constructs itself around Sebastian, rendering the curious happenings null.

Patrons still to nothing. The rain and snow outside stops moving, allowing Sebastian an unfettered view of the beauty of nature and cold, whisps of swirling chill air, almost as though breath or fast motion had disrupted the weather, forcing itself to be seen.

And then, in that single moment where one breath ends and another begins, where the pause remains between one heartbeat and the next, contact is made. The snow globe bounces, rolls, then shatters, the glass not spreading as one might suspect, but gathering, drawn in as that -something- within it bursts free, the shadow spreading, growing, chilling the air, its existance not made for here.

Snow begins to fall. Ice gathers on every surface and in a blur, Sebastian witnesses a maelstrom pick up, sweeping mugs, glasses, sugar and spoons into its epecenter as it spreads, growing into a funnel cloud which picks up speed, momentum and passes through the ceiling as though it did not exist.

Sebastian succeeded in what ever this was, the thing within freed to go about its business unfettered, a single “Thank you” on the wind before all returns to normality.