That very night after meeting with retired Judge, Peggy Powler had consulted with Arthur Thurgood in his warm turret of
safety and produced of what she considered was her first failure of that day. That shortcoming came in the shape of not
being able to convince her cordial -but adamant host to remain home whilst she prowled the woods behind the affluent
houses of his neighbours.
After a welcomed hot mug of tea and a sandwich delivered by a smiling woman in an apron, the first servant the grateful
magician had seen in the Thurgood household, spoke of her concerns regarding Arthur's reputation during and after her
time in Willowsgate. "...Ah'm just thinkin' of yer' position in yer' community, Mister Thurgood..." the little Witch continued
with all the seriousness she could muster. "...The verity is that these folks expect me te' do what Ah' do because of the
way they see me. You and yer' family belong te' this crowd and it could bring a blemish that might stay wiv' yer' for some
time" she explained.
With the heat from the embers in the fireplace below, the candle-lit room seemed to endorse the necromancer's words with
its own alluring amenity to stay and yet, Arthur's steel of resolute stood unyielding against the woman's advice. "Look, I
don't care about that now, my money and my wife's need to better our child's future brought us here, but me as a person
still harks from where I came from" he answered without taking his eyes from Peggy's earnest face. The candle flickered
once and the man with the creaking knees rose from his seat to look out into the darkness at the window added "and please...
call me Arthur".
The Last Witch of Underhill sighed and felt she had trampled on the man's tenaciousness enough, her chosen calling
was to expel the unnatural things that prowled the night and she knew no set of rules would assist in such supernatural
missions. If Arthur was willing to threaten his own safety and add anguish to his kin in order to bring this Wulpos down,
who was she to demand she held a monopoly on such a quest. "Whey, yer' a stubbon bugger, Ah'll giver yer' that" she
replied with a tone that lightened the air in the room.
Settling herself in the rocking-chair she'd fallen asleep in the night before, the Last Witch of Underhill moved onto the
what she'd observed at the Cutler murder-scene. With old Ben Stoddard's tiresomeness condescendence alluding that
the short female in his company may not being capable in understanding the ghastly effects of such a butchering beast
visiting the temperate bailiwick of Willowsgate, Peggy had almost missed the clue.
Maybe it was due to her height that she saw it or maybe it was that she'd concluded there was little requirement to focus
on the retired Judge's bombastic blather, but standing there in the chilly orchard, Peggy's eyes had covertly scoured the
tree's surface on the off-chance her earlier hunch had been correct. Nodding along to Stoddard's valueless rhetoric, she
stared down at the crude emblem scratched into the bark where the apple tree met the exposed soil. Feigning the need
to ease an itch on her bare ankle, Peggy leaned slightly and examined her find.
The design was the same as the scrapes on Percy Pumice's corral post and resisting the urge to caress the cold skin of
the tree, Peggy surmised the clawed motif was an ancient one that she strove to recall from her time of reading Myrddin's
books. However, no image of her earlier education surfaced, but she felt confident that at some point in the breakdown of
the Werewolf's elusive practices, it would be meaningful.
"What would a wild animal know about old calligraphy?..." Arthur asked now that his guest's attention was focused on
something more constructive the situation. Peggy lifted the brim of her hat and raised her highbrows, "That's a grand
question me-lad..." she whispered huskily, "... Maybe yon beast went te' one of yer' schools" she added enigmatically.
.................................................................
"Well Arthur..." the small shadow standing beside the man blowing warmth into his hands asked, "are yer' havin' second
thoughts on comin' out tonight?" The denuded backwoods that encompassed most of Willowsgate still held the ability
to halt any light to enter their vicinity and even though a pale moon occasionally poked through the high clouds, Arthur's
wide eyes still toiled to vaguely make out where he and his inquiring companion were. Before he was to relate his belief
of their location, he felt the little Witch's question should be answered in a manner she'd appreciate.
"Bugger off" he hissed jocularly from the side of his mouth and jammed his hands into the pockets of the stout coat his
wife had bought him at Yuletide. Peggy smiled in the darkness and went back to ruminating on the etched character
the Wulpos had left for them. An imprecise three-sided outline with a V-shape pointing downwards in the centre of
the diagram, she'd seen it somewhere, but the answer gibbered mockingly away from her recall and left her feeling
perplexed. Breathing out her mental exasperation, Peggy mused on the title that Tully Knapweed had branded the
creature when she'd first came to Willowsgate.
The term Wulpos derived from the old high-speak of 'wolf-skinned' or 'furred-wolf', a name that severed any connection
to the real animal that still inhabited most the land. Peggy knew of the so-called legends surrounding the origins of a
Werewolf and these village-stemmed fragments of superstitious nonsense usually leaned on explaining the lineage
of such a creature. An imprudent man or woman is bitten by a Werewolf and transforms into the based beast their
parents had warned them about. Under a full-moon, these cursed outcasts would wander the forests and watch warily
for a hunter bearing a silver-tipped bolt on his crossbow.
But a Wulpos was different, such metamorphosis stemmed from a compliance from a victim. Peggy recalled that some
of the old Wizard's tomes had referred to particular rituals and rites to summon such evil upon oneself and even though
the majority of the residents of Willowsgate certainly held the financial means to seek out these long-forgotten esoteric
sacraments, the little Witch seriously doubted they would place their comfortable lifestyles in such jeopardy.
No, the Witch thought as she and Arthur arrived close to Miles Brandreth's large estate, who-or-whatever had purposely
left the gouged sign at Pumice's small-holding and Stoddard's orchard was not only aware of the dread it was creating
in the village, it was enjoying itself with the daring tactic of advertising its essence to whomever could read its discreetly
camouflaged signature.
"The Campion lassie was killed here" Arthur said softly in the cold air and watched Peggy pass by him to look for the
teasing Wulpos' trademark. Eyeing the lanternlight in the many windows of Brandreth's big house, the nervous and
chilled man followed in his plucky preacher of the old ways.
safety and produced of what she considered was her first failure of that day. That shortcoming came in the shape of not
being able to convince her cordial -but adamant host to remain home whilst she prowled the woods behind the affluent
houses of his neighbours.
After a welcomed hot mug of tea and a sandwich delivered by a smiling woman in an apron, the first servant the grateful
magician had seen in the Thurgood household, spoke of her concerns regarding Arthur's reputation during and after her
time in Willowsgate. "...Ah'm just thinkin' of yer' position in yer' community, Mister Thurgood..." the little Witch continued
with all the seriousness she could muster. "...The verity is that these folks expect me te' do what Ah' do because of the
way they see me. You and yer' family belong te' this crowd and it could bring a blemish that might stay wiv' yer' for some
time" she explained.
With the heat from the embers in the fireplace below, the candle-lit room seemed to endorse the necromancer's words with
its own alluring amenity to stay and yet, Arthur's steel of resolute stood unyielding against the woman's advice. "Look, I
don't care about that now, my money and my wife's need to better our child's future brought us here, but me as a person
still harks from where I came from" he answered without taking his eyes from Peggy's earnest face. The candle flickered
once and the man with the creaking knees rose from his seat to look out into the darkness at the window added "and please...
call me Arthur".
The Last Witch of Underhill sighed and felt she had trampled on the man's tenaciousness enough, her chosen calling
was to expel the unnatural things that prowled the night and she knew no set of rules would assist in such supernatural
missions. If Arthur was willing to threaten his own safety and add anguish to his kin in order to bring this Wulpos down,
who was she to demand she held a monopoly on such a quest. "Whey, yer' a stubbon bugger, Ah'll giver yer' that" she
replied with a tone that lightened the air in the room.
Settling herself in the rocking-chair she'd fallen asleep in the night before, the Last Witch of Underhill moved onto the
what she'd observed at the Cutler murder-scene. With old Ben Stoddard's tiresomeness condescendence alluding that
the short female in his company may not being capable in understanding the ghastly effects of such a butchering beast
visiting the temperate bailiwick of Willowsgate, Peggy had almost missed the clue.
Maybe it was due to her height that she saw it or maybe it was that she'd concluded there was little requirement to focus
on the retired Judge's bombastic blather, but standing there in the chilly orchard, Peggy's eyes had covertly scoured the
tree's surface on the off-chance her earlier hunch had been correct. Nodding along to Stoddard's valueless rhetoric, she
stared down at the crude emblem scratched into the bark where the apple tree met the exposed soil. Feigning the need
to ease an itch on her bare ankle, Peggy leaned slightly and examined her find.
The design was the same as the scrapes on Percy Pumice's corral post and resisting the urge to caress the cold skin of
the tree, Peggy surmised the clawed motif was an ancient one that she strove to recall from her time of reading Myrddin's
books. However, no image of her earlier education surfaced, but she felt confident that at some point in the breakdown of
the Werewolf's elusive practices, it would be meaningful.
"What would a wild animal know about old calligraphy?..." Arthur asked now that his guest's attention was focused on
something more constructive the situation. Peggy lifted the brim of her hat and raised her highbrows, "That's a grand
question me-lad..." she whispered huskily, "... Maybe yon beast went te' one of yer' schools" she added enigmatically.
.................................................................
"Well Arthur..." the small shadow standing beside the man blowing warmth into his hands asked, "are yer' havin' second
thoughts on comin' out tonight?" The denuded backwoods that encompassed most of Willowsgate still held the ability
to halt any light to enter their vicinity and even though a pale moon occasionally poked through the high clouds, Arthur's
wide eyes still toiled to vaguely make out where he and his inquiring companion were. Before he was to relate his belief
of their location, he felt the little Witch's question should be answered in a manner she'd appreciate.
"Bugger off" he hissed jocularly from the side of his mouth and jammed his hands into the pockets of the stout coat his
wife had bought him at Yuletide. Peggy smiled in the darkness and went back to ruminating on the etched character
the Wulpos had left for them. An imprecise three-sided outline with a V-shape pointing downwards in the centre of
the diagram, she'd seen it somewhere, but the answer gibbered mockingly away from her recall and left her feeling
perplexed. Breathing out her mental exasperation, Peggy mused on the title that Tully Knapweed had branded the
creature when she'd first came to Willowsgate.
The term Wulpos derived from the old high-speak of 'wolf-skinned' or 'furred-wolf', a name that severed any connection
to the real animal that still inhabited most the land. Peggy knew of the so-called legends surrounding the origins of a
Werewolf and these village-stemmed fragments of superstitious nonsense usually leaned on explaining the lineage
of such a creature. An imprudent man or woman is bitten by a Werewolf and transforms into the based beast their
parents had warned them about. Under a full-moon, these cursed outcasts would wander the forests and watch warily
for a hunter bearing a silver-tipped bolt on his crossbow.
But a Wulpos was different, such metamorphosis stemmed from a compliance from a victim. Peggy recalled that some
of the old Wizard's tomes had referred to particular rituals and rites to summon such evil upon oneself and even though
the majority of the residents of Willowsgate certainly held the financial means to seek out these long-forgotten esoteric
sacraments, the little Witch seriously doubted they would place their comfortable lifestyles in such jeopardy.
No, the Witch thought as she and Arthur arrived close to Miles Brandreth's large estate, who-or-whatever had purposely
left the gouged sign at Pumice's small-holding and Stoddard's orchard was not only aware of the dread it was creating
in the village, it was enjoying itself with the daring tactic of advertising its essence to whomever could read its discreetly
camouflaged signature.
"The Campion lassie was killed here" Arthur said softly in the cold air and watched Peggy pass by him to look for the
teasing Wulpos' trademark. Eyeing the lanternlight in the many windows of Brandreth's big house, the nervous and
chilled man followed in his plucky preacher of the old ways.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.