Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

Magtok sighs in exasperation. He's been fixing this place up for months and months. How in the world was this thing hunting on the lower levels for so long without him noticing? How did she go so long without noticing hi-

-oh right, of course, she can just pop in and out of places, like she did when she appeared here a moment ago. I bet you she hasn't even looked at the first three floors of this place in years. She's not beholden to telewarp beacons or walking around on foot like some kind of lowly mortal, and if Needs had any rituals in place to ward off fae from the floors we actually use, they were probably shut off today because of all the stuff getting moved around. Bluh, every single little thing always has to have some absurdly disproportionate consequence, doesn't it?

"I'm not going to try to shake that hand or pronounce that name, but at the same time, I can't justifiably complain about someone killing stray monsters in the sub-basements, either," he admits, though he certainly sounds like he wishes he had a case against Escher Gummi Mucky or whatever the hell her name is. If he could prove she was deliberately turning some of the escaped lab experiments into bigger, badder, candy-flavored abominations against the gods, maybe, but that would require venturing down into the sub-basements and running tests on the very monstrosities he prefers to pretend do not exist. Not worth it. What would he even do with the proof, wave it in her face and scowl as she poofs out of the room with a mischievous, mint-flavored giggle?

"There's a talking cat I've been hoping would just fade out of existence on his own for years, and he hasn't been courteous enough to let it happen. He's also got too many spare clone bodies, so going after him myself would just be a frustrating mess with needless collateral damage, like trying to use a jackhammer to deal with a termite infestation. It's not a drastic issue, nothing to sell my firstborn child over, just a mild headache I'd rather live without, a piece of food stuck in my teeth that refuses to budge. The devils didn't understand that, thought they had a lot more leverage than they actually did. I suppose most people willing to ask them their rates are that desperate, but they should've known I'm not most people." Honestly, with the turnover rate on Magtoks, and the wild inconsistencies in their deeds and sins, they must have at least a couple clones in their particular plane of eternal torment and agony. Not knowing anything about negotiating with MagClones was a frankly embarrassing unforced error, and why that holy deluge was absolutely necessary, and not us just being petty and cruel for the sake of being petty and cruel.