"Go away, we're closed," a scratchy, two-toned voice coughed from the backroom. The pair of changelings entered the building regardless. Handy looked around. It seemed to be a store dedicated to selling pottery. Stacks and stacks of strange pots of varying sizes and shapes stood stacked in neat little pyramids or held in racks along the walls, all uniformly black and all also possessing the tiniest, infinitesimal latticework of random cracks only visible thanks to whatever magic was within them. Dull, pulsating reds and blues and greens and yellows hummed from within. Not enough to illuminate the darkness, but enough to reduce it merely to a ghostly, multi-hued gloom.