"Do you have a physical reminder of the memories I have extracted?" Zhytln asked.

I didn't exactly feel drunk, but the aftereffects of Zhytln's memory meddling were definitely something in that zone. "The fuck would I want a reminder of that shit for? Do I look like I kept a souvenir from that—that—" I tried to recall what, exactly, it was that I had come to The Whispered Secret running from, but it was like scrabbling at an oil-slicked slope. If I concentrated on it, I could feel the perfectly normal and unobtrusive area where Zhytln's magic had done absolutely nothing worth thinking about. The completely ordinary way my memories had always been. The smooth, linear, and uninterrupted experience of an unmodified life.

The way my thoughts swerved away from the weeks where nothing traumatic or painful had occurred was mildly disturbing, but... I could think without jagged shards of memory digging into my soul. I didn't freeze up or flinch at the thought of casting another spell.

"Thank you," I muttered. "You—You—You're not so bad after all."

Zhytln gave me a bland look. "As much as I appreciate the compliment, that is not an answer to my question."

Oh, right, Zhytln had a... a thing... about questions. I poked at the blurriness in my brain, but that wasn't something Zhytln had wiped or fucked with, as far as I could tell—I was just exhausted and quasi-drunk and really didn't care what Zhytln's deal was. "Why? Do you want a souvenir?"

"In a way." Zhytln held up an empty palm; in soulspace, one of the memories she'd extracted glimmered like freshly fallen snow. "The memories I've taken from you will seek to form a body to match their mind. The simplest way to mitigate this is to store them within a physical token that a sapient mind perceives as connected tightly enough to that memory that it serves as a body. So yes, in a word: I request a souvenir."

I squinted at her. "Want a chunk of my flesh?"

She tilted her head, and I got the sense she was scanning something beyond what my eyes could see. "...I believe you have misunderstood what I have meant by 'body.' Are you not an academy-trained witch?"

"You've dug through my memories; you know I am."

"It is often polite to pretend that I do not have awareness of the sum life experience of my clients," Zhytln replied. "By a body, I mean a vessel capable of holding memories, whether that be in a metaphorical capacity—as I would like it to remain—or a physical one."

Though my mind was still swimming through mud, I managed to look down at the bar stool I sat at. At the boots I was wearing that had... that had crushed a man to gore beneath them.

I had requested that that memory be kept, so that I would never repeat those mistakes again. At the nausea that swelled through me, I almost wanted to vomit that memory out too.

But I unlaced my boots and handed them to her. Their soles were heavy and bloodied. "...Take them."

She stared at my boots, then swept them beneath the counter with a single, fluid motion, slipping the memories inside. "A fitting vessel. Unless you have further business with me, I believe I have other clients to see to."

I hesitated. There was... more. More that she could do for me.

But not now. I shouldn't decide while I was still addled and dizzy-souled from her magics.

I stood, my bare feet scraping against the stone of her bar floor, and nodded once towards Zhytln. Bartender, witch, soul manipulator.

Then I stumbled out the door, mind muddled and clear all at once.