Could there be a link between a milker of cows being killed and the two oxen found disemboweled behind Percy Pumice's
barn? This was the question Peggy Powler juggled under her wide-brimmed hat as she clung to the body of Canny Culpepper
during their bumpy ride through the night. Both involved bovine, but the victims were of different species.
The jostled conjurer arrived at the outcome that outdoor availability was a major factor that joined the three deaths an
this consequence would need to be visited again.
Another less-intriguing poser was why the Midnight Mail Rider carried no official satchels attached to his saddle. Culpepper's
hurried journey had no reason without packages and letters to deliver unless there was someone powerful enough to overide
the normal authority of the postal service. Keeping her low breathing in cadence with the mare's hooves on the snow-slushed
sea-stones of Calder's Way, the little spell-weaver wondered if rich folks were involved and that could mean another interplay
with the cult some call the new religion.
Turning off the acclaimed thoroughfare for a snow-covered track between two lines of neatly-clipped Hornbeam hedge, Peggy
could just make out in the darkness large houses set away from the route they were taking. Soaring shingled towers pointed
to the early-morning winter sky with decorative dormer windows reflecting the last stars of the night.
Long snow-cleared paths of gravel snaked from high gates of iron to tall porchways guarded with stone pillars. A thatched
structure that resembled a yeoman's cottage loomed through the topiaried-bushes and gave Peggy a moment of hope, but
she glimpsed large extended rooms on its flanks and her initial assumptions returned.
Peeking around the elbow of her driver, the little weary Witch spotted illumination up ahead and considering the hour, her
belief strengthened. Lanterns being kept burning through the sleeping hours meant affluence and that equated to people
who believed were above her station. "Bugger" Peggy hissed into the rush of air and holding tightly to her hat, went back
to her make-believe cubbyhole of Culpepper's back.
.................................................................
Main street had made an effort to emulate the surfaces of Calder's Way and standing alone beneath the oil-lamps, Peggy
Powler's breath smoked in the silence of the cobbled square Canny Culpepper had informed her was called Willowsgate.
The receding sounds of the Midnight Mail Rider's mount had gone and surveying her surroundings, she could see that the
snow was still here in some parts, but traffic of both feet and carriage had pushed it to the stone gutters.
This particular service of draining liquid away from the street enforced the solitary sorceress' conclusion that wealth was
abundant in this village, an aspect that Peggy knew would have a bearing on how she conducted whatever casting-out
was required.
It was still early enough that farmers would be still scratching their hairy backsides beneath their quilts and hell-bent on not
opening their eyes. No robins had begun their winter ballads or initiated their quiet rustling of leaves for that unlucky grub.
Just for these few flickers of a candle's flame, Willowsgate and its latest guest were sisters. One had a tricky killer prowling
its arteries, the other carried the medicine to dissolve the poison. The next step was to find what kind of venom it was.
.................................................................
Although the adjustment of light only slightly improved as the morning moved along, Peggy abandoned the streets of
Willowsgate for the shadows she knew best. The woodland around the village offered little in the manner of Fae, but it
didn't take too long before she recognised the secret signs left by those her unknown father belonged to. Humans merely
saw snapped twigs and vague scuffs in leaf-litter, the Last Witch of Underhill saw covert directions and advice signals.
Noon came and with it, the ambling spell-worker identified a faint snow-spattered disorderly track disappearing beneath
a large bramble bush and continuing towards a large raised mound embellished with rotted logs from a long ago storm.
"Whey, it's about time" Peggy muttered to herself and beagn to follow the trail.
.................................................................
Tully Knapweed leaned closer to his eminent guest across the table from the old Elf and dramatically moved the candlestick
to one side. "Thee should take notice of what I say, warlock..." he said in his slow deep tone, "...yon village is no place for
such as thee and a shrewd lady like yourself would do better by leaving them to their own devices".
The burrow beneath the fallen timber had none of the trappings of Elf homes Peggy had recently encountered. the smell of
cold damp soil was everywhere and only the basics of fae-living in underground abodes were the table and two chairs they
currently used. Tully Knapweed seemed to believe any form of comfort tainted one's character and from his earlier diatribe,
Peggy deduced mixing with humans would also produce such failings.
With thick clumps of hair exploding from his large ears and complimented by eyebrows that gave Tully a perpetual mask of
churlishness, the Elf smouldered his narrow-eyed gaze towards the Witch who'd found his den. There was no clock to mark
the silence between them or a steaming kettle demanding to leave the flame, Peggy kept her voice low as her host as she
asked her question again. "So, do yer' knaw what's been doin' the killin' around here then?".
Tully Knapweed allowed a hiss of vexation to escape his lips as he slowly stood up in the small and gloomy excuse for a
home, the stone-faced sorceress knew what was coming next and wondered if her visit had been a total waste of time.
The majority of Fae tended to avoid the humans and looked on them as a species that had strayed from the natural path.
But outright acrimony was exceptional due to almost non-existent interactions with them.
Peggy sized-up the situation and gambled that an anecdote from Knapweed was waiting in the wings, a narrative where the
injured party was an Elf and those who looked like the people of Willowsgate were the transgressors. It was then when the
little Witch's imaginary croupier called her a winner.
"When I was just a..." Tully began and stopped when he saw Peggy get up and walked towards the door. Her unshod gait
told more of her opinion on the veteran Elf than words could purvey and for evidence, his usual angry features melted away
instantly. "Now eh, lass... all I'm saying is you should stay with your own, that's all" he reiterated weakly and saw daylight
suddenly flood into his home from the open door.
The woman in the poncho was almost at where she'd first found the path to Tully Knapweed's underground home before his
voice came again. "It's... it's a Wulpos..." he croaked begrudgingly in the cold air "...and a sly one too" the Elf added. A slight
movement of the Witch's hat indicated she'd heard the old grouch, but she moved off without another word.
Wulpos was old high-speak of the venerable Fae Elders and was rarely spoken anymore, but Peggy had heard the ancient
language uttered before. Her time with Myrddin hadn't been fully taken up with learning spells and performing majick, the
history of how the world had been created, what swam in the Great Sea and what walked on the land had also been told
by the distinguished Wizard.
Wulpos meant Werewolf.
barn? This was the question Peggy Powler juggled under her wide-brimmed hat as she clung to the body of Canny Culpepper
during their bumpy ride through the night. Both involved bovine, but the victims were of different species.
The jostled conjurer arrived at the outcome that outdoor availability was a major factor that joined the three deaths an
this consequence would need to be visited again.
Another less-intriguing poser was why the Midnight Mail Rider carried no official satchels attached to his saddle. Culpepper's
hurried journey had no reason without packages and letters to deliver unless there was someone powerful enough to overide
the normal authority of the postal service. Keeping her low breathing in cadence with the mare's hooves on the snow-slushed
sea-stones of Calder's Way, the little spell-weaver wondered if rich folks were involved and that could mean another interplay
with the cult some call the new religion.
Turning off the acclaimed thoroughfare for a snow-covered track between two lines of neatly-clipped Hornbeam hedge, Peggy
could just make out in the darkness large houses set away from the route they were taking. Soaring shingled towers pointed
to the early-morning winter sky with decorative dormer windows reflecting the last stars of the night.
Long snow-cleared paths of gravel snaked from high gates of iron to tall porchways guarded with stone pillars. A thatched
structure that resembled a yeoman's cottage loomed through the topiaried-bushes and gave Peggy a moment of hope, but
she glimpsed large extended rooms on its flanks and her initial assumptions returned.
Peeking around the elbow of her driver, the little weary Witch spotted illumination up ahead and considering the hour, her
belief strengthened. Lanterns being kept burning through the sleeping hours meant affluence and that equated to people
who believed were above her station. "Bugger" Peggy hissed into the rush of air and holding tightly to her hat, went back
to her make-believe cubbyhole of Culpepper's back.
.................................................................
Main street had made an effort to emulate the surfaces of Calder's Way and standing alone beneath the oil-lamps, Peggy
Powler's breath smoked in the silence of the cobbled square Canny Culpepper had informed her was called Willowsgate.
The receding sounds of the Midnight Mail Rider's mount had gone and surveying her surroundings, she could see that the
snow was still here in some parts, but traffic of both feet and carriage had pushed it to the stone gutters.
This particular service of draining liquid away from the street enforced the solitary sorceress' conclusion that wealth was
abundant in this village, an aspect that Peggy knew would have a bearing on how she conducted whatever casting-out
was required.
It was still early enough that farmers would be still scratching their hairy backsides beneath their quilts and hell-bent on not
opening their eyes. No robins had begun their winter ballads or initiated their quiet rustling of leaves for that unlucky grub.
Just for these few flickers of a candle's flame, Willowsgate and its latest guest were sisters. One had a tricky killer prowling
its arteries, the other carried the medicine to dissolve the poison. The next step was to find what kind of venom it was.
.................................................................
Although the adjustment of light only slightly improved as the morning moved along, Peggy abandoned the streets of
Willowsgate for the shadows she knew best. The woodland around the village offered little in the manner of Fae, but it
didn't take too long before she recognised the secret signs left by those her unknown father belonged to. Humans merely
saw snapped twigs and vague scuffs in leaf-litter, the Last Witch of Underhill saw covert directions and advice signals.
Noon came and with it, the ambling spell-worker identified a faint snow-spattered disorderly track disappearing beneath
a large bramble bush and continuing towards a large raised mound embellished with rotted logs from a long ago storm.
"Whey, it's about time" Peggy muttered to herself and beagn to follow the trail.
.................................................................
Tully Knapweed leaned closer to his eminent guest across the table from the old Elf and dramatically moved the candlestick
to one side. "Thee should take notice of what I say, warlock..." he said in his slow deep tone, "...yon village is no place for
such as thee and a shrewd lady like yourself would do better by leaving them to their own devices".
The burrow beneath the fallen timber had none of the trappings of Elf homes Peggy had recently encountered. the smell of
cold damp soil was everywhere and only the basics of fae-living in underground abodes were the table and two chairs they
currently used. Tully Knapweed seemed to believe any form of comfort tainted one's character and from his earlier diatribe,
Peggy deduced mixing with humans would also produce such failings.
With thick clumps of hair exploding from his large ears and complimented by eyebrows that gave Tully a perpetual mask of
churlishness, the Elf smouldered his narrow-eyed gaze towards the Witch who'd found his den. There was no clock to mark
the silence between them or a steaming kettle demanding to leave the flame, Peggy kept her voice low as her host as she
asked her question again. "So, do yer' knaw what's been doin' the killin' around here then?".
Tully Knapweed allowed a hiss of vexation to escape his lips as he slowly stood up in the small and gloomy excuse for a
home, the stone-faced sorceress knew what was coming next and wondered if her visit had been a total waste of time.
The majority of Fae tended to avoid the humans and looked on them as a species that had strayed from the natural path.
But outright acrimony was exceptional due to almost non-existent interactions with them.
Peggy sized-up the situation and gambled that an anecdote from Knapweed was waiting in the wings, a narrative where the
injured party was an Elf and those who looked like the people of Willowsgate were the transgressors. It was then when the
little Witch's imaginary croupier called her a winner.
"When I was just a..." Tully began and stopped when he saw Peggy get up and walked towards the door. Her unshod gait
told more of her opinion on the veteran Elf than words could purvey and for evidence, his usual angry features melted away
instantly. "Now eh, lass... all I'm saying is you should stay with your own, that's all" he reiterated weakly and saw daylight
suddenly flood into his home from the open door.
The woman in the poncho was almost at where she'd first found the path to Tully Knapweed's underground home before his
voice came again. "It's... it's a Wulpos..." he croaked begrudgingly in the cold air "...and a sly one too" the Elf added. A slight
movement of the Witch's hat indicated she'd heard the old grouch, but she moved off without another word.
Wulpos was old high-speak of the venerable Fae Elders and was rarely spoken anymore, but Peggy had heard the ancient
language uttered before. Her time with Myrddin hadn't been fully taken up with learning spells and performing majick, the
history of how the world had been created, what swam in the Great Sea and what walked on the land had also been told
by the distinguished Wizard.
Wulpos meant Werewolf.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.