Mibbet sat staring at the many pieces of her broom, then, one by one, she started to piece them together. As the pieces took their place she started to feel something from them, kind of a spark, as the spell-craft around it started to pull together.

Hestia and Hagatha were there with her the whole way, teaching and encouraging her. Until at last, after hours of work it was ready.

“No stabilisers on this one mind you.” Hes said, “so you ready?”

Mibbet hesitated for a moment before giving a nervous nod, then was dragged outside to the practice area.

As Mibbet stepped astraddle the broom it quickly became apparent to her how very different from ol’ Bessie this new broom really was. Bessie had the feeling of a tired old workhorse, happy and content to just plod along, and clearly geared towards getting a little old lady down the street to the shops. The new broom? It felt like sitting on top of a giant hyperactive puppy. Trying to hold her still long enough to even get situated and take a proper grip was nigh on impossible. It felt like holding back a leash on a Warg or something. The illusion was completed a moment later when she glanced back and noticed the bristles on the back end were actually WAGGING.

“Think I’m going to call you puppy,” she said, patting the broom affectionately.

“Be careful when you jump start this one” Hes snickered, “she won’t need a run up and from the looks of things if you jump too hard you’ll end up miles up before she settles down.”

Mibbet was inclined to agree, and gave a weak nod before it was time for takeoff.

“Remember first flight is a little wild, grip with your legs, and whatever you do do not let go. If you must then be sure to land on your head.” Hes added, Mibbet really had to bite her tongue so as not to say how very helpful that was (see also not at all.) Then it was time for takeoff. in 3.....2.....1....... Mibbet gave a little hop, and she was in the air, OK so maybe that wasn’t so baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaadddddddddddddddd.

Apparently she had spoken too soon, as puppy decided to live up to their namesake and go off at a dash. Mibbet hung on as if her life depended on it as the world around her blurred past.

“Pull your goggles down” Hes instructed, “and if you’re gonna scream tip your head back unless you want flies in your tonsils.”

Mibbet took the advice of course, given that not screaming while travelling at the gods alone know what miles per hour was really not an option. She wrapped her legs tight, and tried to pull the broom back so as not to take the fast way down. (If that had been a safe option then believe me by now she would have gotten off and walked home by now, but for understandable reasons that really wasn’t an option here.)

Puppy meanwhile seemed determined to fly past everything, and would take a hammer to steer. Mibbet began to suspect that 50 to 750 PP may have been a bit of a jump, as the scenery whirred past.

A passing bird was happily minding its own business, when it narrowly missed becoming a case of Broomstick Bird Strike, but Mibbet wouldn’t even have noticed that if not for the protesting squawk as before her eyes even got a good look it was past and gone.

She tightened her grip even further, and tried steering once again, apparently doing so a tad too fast as the drag from the bristles transformed the turn into a spin.

“Ohhh SPINOUT” shouted Hes, “Hang on tight and lean out of it, or lean into it and have fun she cackled.”

Mibbet opted of course for the option least likely to cause her to be launched off hat first like some kind of pointy hatted sling-stone, opting to lean against the spin and drag it out. Finally succeeding in slowing down enough to physically recover, (though she feared her stomach never would, she felt as green as her froggy form right now,) Deciding that if her broom was going to act like a puppy there was only one solution, she had to tire it out. So survival instincts buried under tonnes of Adrenaline, and Rosalind screaming at her in her head she pointed upwards and gave an encouraging nudge.

The next two hours, the less said about them the better, but gradually she realised that the broom would fight back hard against a forceful steering attempt, but would take a suggestive lean to one side as if it was a solid command. They didn’t like slowing down properly, but if you leaned back they would do a sick, (and sick inducing) skidding halt on the spot. Really the best way to describe the broom was they just wanted to play. If Mibbet played along then they got on great, but if she tried too hard to control it? Then she let her disapproval be known, and you ended up on your head.

Eventually through little understandings like this, and a proper brushing (brooms like it when you tidy up their bristles apparently,) an accord was reached, and they realised they got along just fine.

It was reassuring to Mibbet to learn that although brooms were technically constructs they had enough of a mind of their own that if they were not respected a broom would actively abandon their creator. (In fact up in the mountains there were several roosts of feral brooms, that were apparently magically tagged to prevent poaching, and carefully looked after by several witches who didn’t like riding, they just liked brooms.) So Mibbet didn’t need to worry about coercion, which was a relief to Mibbet who would feel like rather a hypocrite were she to fall foul of a law she’d helped to write.

After that eventually it was time to move on, as they agreed to accompany The Cacklers to The Wand Prix.