During the ride to Willowsgate, Peggy Powler had juggled with an idea that there may have been a design between the
killing of the farmer's livestock and the servant girl called Agnes. The bumped-about little Witch hanging on for dear-life
to Canny Culpepper's waist had always enjoyed a penchant for searching for a significance of two different events having
a link that other may deem tenuous.
Madame Powler had often reminded her growing daughter that attempting to think as those around you think, can bring
rewards others fail to even excavate for. It was schooling entirely different form the style most children experienced, the
Carnival was young Peggy's academy and the lessons -at times, could be harsh. The men and women who travelled the
dusty trails from one village to another were strange to an outsider, they were wrongly-shaped, behaved in manners that
disproportionate to those who purchased a ticket and yet beneath those billowing marquees, visitors wallowed in a world
where magical moments breathed their trembling flame of wonder back to life.
Now sitting back in Arthur Thurgood's rocking-chair as another cold dawn awaited to break, the Last Witch of Underhill's
sleepy mind returned to those teachings and browsed the recitations of a drunken fortune-teller who was cursed to see
the futures of others for every moment of her life.
If someone performed a deed, one can be certain that it was carried out for a reason and it was this motive that would
unlock the mystery of what she'd spoken to Arthur about when they'd returned to his darkened house and its tower of
his making. Elsa Thurgood had not stayed up to wait for her husband and Peggy knew there'd be a price to pay for the
man who's spouse steered him with love and the hopes of betterment.
Happy to be in out of the cold night, Arthur had revived the dying fire below his lofty haven and disappeared to the kitchen
to boil some hot coffee, whilst the tired necromancer had plodded up the stairs and practically collapsed into the rocker she
currently resided in.
Midnight had just struck on a clock somewhere in the Thurgood household when Peggy began to tell her tale regarding
Wulpos and Werewolves. It would only be after her listener had retired to bed and she -herself, had willingly fell into the
embrace of the Sandman and carried with her the question of connections.
.................................................................
It's an old tale known by those who exist in the realms of majick. But like most yarns, it got lost along the way.
Before man had made his first mistake and crawled out of the subterranean cavern that had protected them from all that
stalks the night and gibbers from the darkness, there'd been entirely different races of semi-humans that abided together
known as the Fae, the Wose, Phalladan and the Anakim. There were giants in the earth then and somewould later call
them the Nephilim, although this title was mainly for those Anakim who dwelt in the barren lands to the south.
The Anakim tended to steer clear of the other races due to their inability to access certain mental forces that others who
shared the land with them could utilise. They were tall, tree-tops brushed their waists as they walked and the wild animals
of the forests fled in terror from their all-crushing strides.
The greatest of these giants was Mellifor, a brave warrior and the supposed father of countless children from the Anakim
females he had acquired during a century-long inter-tribal war that almost devastated the world. Yet all he had, the famous
necklaces they wore, the heads of his enemies adorning his tent and the females who served him, it just wasn't enough.
Crying out to the Gods, Mellifor demanded he should have the powers the Fae possess, the keen senses of the Wose and
the wisdom the Phalladan enjoyed. So for forty days and forty nights he raged at the heavens for his needs, until the giant
-of-giants eventually misjudged his position in the order of life. Mellifor threatened the Old Ones that if such exigencies were
not given before the night stole his notorious shadow from the soil, he would gather his powerful forces, bring the Gods low
and rule in their place.
When the darkness came and no gifts were given, a great wailing was heard from the tents around his Mellifor's palatial
home. Forest creatures and those who reside with them shivered in fear from the cries and running to see what pathosis
had stricken his kin, Mellifor carried the famous Lantern of Emim, which was fashioned from the skull of the Kraken.
Rending the first canvas apart, he saw that his fellow-champions had compressed down to Wose-size and bore fur liken
to the beasts of the wood. The scurrying blighted of nature bayed in terror at the illumination from the lamp and Mellifor
realised whatever fearlessness his warriors were renown for had left them with the daylight he had aggrandised in.
The next marquee held his harem and his children, again the harrowing sight the Giant gazed upon was of misery and
despair, wolf-like faces stared morosely at their master and Mellifor could see through tears of wretchedness that his
family and people had paid the price for his portentous howling to the Gods.
With one more glance at his ill-fated results, an ashamed Mellifor fled and left the cursed of his rantings to their destiny.
The illustrious colossus went on to create more tales that mothers -both human and Fae, would tell their children around
the fire-hearth and some may recall that the giant now lays asleep not far from the Isle of Murdigon.
But the deific-donated poison he had given to his children would cause them to shun those they shared the forests with
and only roam the land at night. Over time, they became the coarse beasts they resembled and due to another part of
their affliction cast down on them in payment of their leader's pride, the ability to reproduce left them.
However, the Old Ones were not entirely absent of mercy. These 'were-people' who had become 'we-are-wolves' carried
with them the a different type of bane to continue their ilk. A single bite from a Werewolf can transfer the lupine-penalty
that a certain giant called down from those who know better. That is the tale of the Werewolf.
.................................................................
When it comes chronicling the Wulpos, the story is thankfully a little shorter. Other tales of Peggy Powler mentions the
little woman's tutor, Myrddin. One dare not suggest how old the great magician is, but even he will not have been around
when the first Wulpos was formed. Yet it was within the same service of spell-making and potion-fabricating that Myrddin
would later venture, such a being was born.
His name was Francis Wulpos and was what they call in the business a Nagial, a talented magician who avidly sought
the faculty to change animal forms. This odd classification of majick had been rarely investigated by those of note in the
invocation community and outright shunned by Witches and Magicians alike. Yet Wulpos strove to find the elusive key
to transform one creature into another and hence, we get the name.
Some respected Magi later said it was due to combining evil charms and poor syllabary that caused the well-esteemed
alchemist to conjure up the thing that later escaped his funded-establishment. This added with the fact that he foolishly
and regularly tested his cutting edge elixirs before reviews from his peers, could be seen as a recipe where something
was certain to go wrong.
Others leaned on Wulpos' wish to drag the arcane hermetic disciplines of wizardry into a marriage with an unusual and
novel practice labeled 'the state of knowing', a method Wulpos vulgarised with the word 'science'. And maybe this is a
truth, those who believe their place is at the prow of the ship rarely look to the tiller and certainly take little notice of their
wake.
For many years, he toiled on the terminator of white majick and the difficult work of therianthropy. His costly industry
required monies and this was provided by a wealthy benefactor who's name faded lost in time. Shapeshifting -the essence
of therianthropy, can be preformed with certain charms and rare minerals and under very strict conditions, but this type
of spell-working is dangerous as it calls to the mystic realms where a researcher can find what he hopes for is not quite
what he actually acquires.
For Francis Wulpos, the night that Father Theodore Martin annually prepares for with holly and good tidings, would find
a avant-garde academic sweating in a room of a roaring kiln and discarded books took a large stride of experimentation
that would forever change the rules regarding the esoteric voyage into the Dark Arts and set loose a disorder that even
the best of Wizards would struggle to later contain.
The same priest who would ask his congregation to sing carols on that chilly winter solstice morning would brand the
creature that appeared in Wulpos' large glass flask a Demon. The dark-blue stone it sat on was a Lupis lazulia, a rare
aggregate Francis' donor had brought him from a distant land. The experiment had failed twice and it was only when
he'd angrily tossed two grapes from a nearby bowl into the corked demijohn and chant his charms, did the alchemy
begin to function.
Needless to say in his euphoria, Wulpos raced out to announce his discovery of a ethereal being that showed the signs
of awareness and leaving the gaseous malignant imp trapped behind the glass beaker, footprints of an elated sorcerer
tracked across the snow-covered square from his room to the Halls of Thaumaturgy and could be seen by those who
heard his jubilation.
However, when those elderly pedagogues of prestidigitation arrived to observe his findings, the Demon was gone and
the only evidence something occurred in Francis' chamber of disarray was a cracked container rolling slowly back and
forth on the floor with a strange emblem engraved on its fractured surface.
No spiteful phantasm and no cerulean pebble of unknown origin.
By the time the first birthday of Wulpos' uncalculated creation came around, his escaped effervescent courier of evil
and the stone that had given it existence, had found a new home and the story continues from there.
But the tale ends -Peggy Powler would initially believe, when Myrddin's Elders destroyed the blue stone and cast the
grains to the four winds. The vindictive translucent Demon...? it was presumed to be lost to the same gusts until the
same poncho-wearing Witch saw peculiar gouges on a fence post and mentally frowned at the long-dead magician
called Francis Wulpos.
killing of the farmer's livestock and the servant girl called Agnes. The bumped-about little Witch hanging on for dear-life
to Canny Culpepper's waist had always enjoyed a penchant for searching for a significance of two different events having
a link that other may deem tenuous.
Madame Powler had often reminded her growing daughter that attempting to think as those around you think, can bring
rewards others fail to even excavate for. It was schooling entirely different form the style most children experienced, the
Carnival was young Peggy's academy and the lessons -at times, could be harsh. The men and women who travelled the
dusty trails from one village to another were strange to an outsider, they were wrongly-shaped, behaved in manners that
disproportionate to those who purchased a ticket and yet beneath those billowing marquees, visitors wallowed in a world
where magical moments breathed their trembling flame of wonder back to life.
Now sitting back in Arthur Thurgood's rocking-chair as another cold dawn awaited to break, the Last Witch of Underhill's
sleepy mind returned to those teachings and browsed the recitations of a drunken fortune-teller who was cursed to see
the futures of others for every moment of her life.
If someone performed a deed, one can be certain that it was carried out for a reason and it was this motive that would
unlock the mystery of what she'd spoken to Arthur about when they'd returned to his darkened house and its tower of
his making. Elsa Thurgood had not stayed up to wait for her husband and Peggy knew there'd be a price to pay for the
man who's spouse steered him with love and the hopes of betterment.
Happy to be in out of the cold night, Arthur had revived the dying fire below his lofty haven and disappeared to the kitchen
to boil some hot coffee, whilst the tired necromancer had plodded up the stairs and practically collapsed into the rocker she
currently resided in.
Midnight had just struck on a clock somewhere in the Thurgood household when Peggy began to tell her tale regarding
Wulpos and Werewolves. It would only be after her listener had retired to bed and she -herself, had willingly fell into the
embrace of the Sandman and carried with her the question of connections.
.................................................................
It's an old tale known by those who exist in the realms of majick. But like most yarns, it got lost along the way.
Before man had made his first mistake and crawled out of the subterranean cavern that had protected them from all that
stalks the night and gibbers from the darkness, there'd been entirely different races of semi-humans that abided together
known as the Fae, the Wose, Phalladan and the Anakim. There were giants in the earth then and somewould later call
them the Nephilim, although this title was mainly for those Anakim who dwelt in the barren lands to the south.
The Anakim tended to steer clear of the other races due to their inability to access certain mental forces that others who
shared the land with them could utilise. They were tall, tree-tops brushed their waists as they walked and the wild animals
of the forests fled in terror from their all-crushing strides.
The greatest of these giants was Mellifor, a brave warrior and the supposed father of countless children from the Anakim
females he had acquired during a century-long inter-tribal war that almost devastated the world. Yet all he had, the famous
necklaces they wore, the heads of his enemies adorning his tent and the females who served him, it just wasn't enough.
Crying out to the Gods, Mellifor demanded he should have the powers the Fae possess, the keen senses of the Wose and
the wisdom the Phalladan enjoyed. So for forty days and forty nights he raged at the heavens for his needs, until the giant
-of-giants eventually misjudged his position in the order of life. Mellifor threatened the Old Ones that if such exigencies were
not given before the night stole his notorious shadow from the soil, he would gather his powerful forces, bring the Gods low
and rule in their place.
When the darkness came and no gifts were given, a great wailing was heard from the tents around his Mellifor's palatial
home. Forest creatures and those who reside with them shivered in fear from the cries and running to see what pathosis
had stricken his kin, Mellifor carried the famous Lantern of Emim, which was fashioned from the skull of the Kraken.
Rending the first canvas apart, he saw that his fellow-champions had compressed down to Wose-size and bore fur liken
to the beasts of the wood. The scurrying blighted of nature bayed in terror at the illumination from the lamp and Mellifor
realised whatever fearlessness his warriors were renown for had left them with the daylight he had aggrandised in.
The next marquee held his harem and his children, again the harrowing sight the Giant gazed upon was of misery and
despair, wolf-like faces stared morosely at their master and Mellifor could see through tears of wretchedness that his
family and people had paid the price for his portentous howling to the Gods.
With one more glance at his ill-fated results, an ashamed Mellifor fled and left the cursed of his rantings to their destiny.
The illustrious colossus went on to create more tales that mothers -both human and Fae, would tell their children around
the fire-hearth and some may recall that the giant now lays asleep not far from the Isle of Murdigon.
But the deific-donated poison he had given to his children would cause them to shun those they shared the forests with
and only roam the land at night. Over time, they became the coarse beasts they resembled and due to another part of
their affliction cast down on them in payment of their leader's pride, the ability to reproduce left them.
However, the Old Ones were not entirely absent of mercy. These 'were-people' who had become 'we-are-wolves' carried
with them the a different type of bane to continue their ilk. A single bite from a Werewolf can transfer the lupine-penalty
that a certain giant called down from those who know better. That is the tale of the Werewolf.
.................................................................
When it comes chronicling the Wulpos, the story is thankfully a little shorter. Other tales of Peggy Powler mentions the
little woman's tutor, Myrddin. One dare not suggest how old the great magician is, but even he will not have been around
when the first Wulpos was formed. Yet it was within the same service of spell-making and potion-fabricating that Myrddin
would later venture, such a being was born.
His name was Francis Wulpos and was what they call in the business a Nagial, a talented magician who avidly sought
the faculty to change animal forms. This odd classification of majick had been rarely investigated by those of note in the
invocation community and outright shunned by Witches and Magicians alike. Yet Wulpos strove to find the elusive key
to transform one creature into another and hence, we get the name.
Some respected Magi later said it was due to combining evil charms and poor syllabary that caused the well-esteemed
alchemist to conjure up the thing that later escaped his funded-establishment. This added with the fact that he foolishly
and regularly tested his cutting edge elixirs before reviews from his peers, could be seen as a recipe where something
was certain to go wrong.
Others leaned on Wulpos' wish to drag the arcane hermetic disciplines of wizardry into a marriage with an unusual and
novel practice labeled 'the state of knowing', a method Wulpos vulgarised with the word 'science'. And maybe this is a
truth, those who believe their place is at the prow of the ship rarely look to the tiller and certainly take little notice of their
wake.
For many years, he toiled on the terminator of white majick and the difficult work of therianthropy. His costly industry
required monies and this was provided by a wealthy benefactor who's name faded lost in time. Shapeshifting -the essence
of therianthropy, can be preformed with certain charms and rare minerals and under very strict conditions, but this type
of spell-working is dangerous as it calls to the mystic realms where a researcher can find what he hopes for is not quite
what he actually acquires.
For Francis Wulpos, the night that Father Theodore Martin annually prepares for with holly and good tidings, would find
a avant-garde academic sweating in a room of a roaring kiln and discarded books took a large stride of experimentation
that would forever change the rules regarding the esoteric voyage into the Dark Arts and set loose a disorder that even
the best of Wizards would struggle to later contain.
The same priest who would ask his congregation to sing carols on that chilly winter solstice morning would brand the
creature that appeared in Wulpos' large glass flask a Demon. The dark-blue stone it sat on was a Lupis lazulia, a rare
aggregate Francis' donor had brought him from a distant land. The experiment had failed twice and it was only when
he'd angrily tossed two grapes from a nearby bowl into the corked demijohn and chant his charms, did the alchemy
begin to function.
Needless to say in his euphoria, Wulpos raced out to announce his discovery of a ethereal being that showed the signs
of awareness and leaving the gaseous malignant imp trapped behind the glass beaker, footprints of an elated sorcerer
tracked across the snow-covered square from his room to the Halls of Thaumaturgy and could be seen by those who
heard his jubilation.
However, when those elderly pedagogues of prestidigitation arrived to observe his findings, the Demon was gone and
the only evidence something occurred in Francis' chamber of disarray was a cracked container rolling slowly back and
forth on the floor with a strange emblem engraved on its fractured surface.
No spiteful phantasm and no cerulean pebble of unknown origin.
By the time the first birthday of Wulpos' uncalculated creation came around, his escaped effervescent courier of evil
and the stone that had given it existence, had found a new home and the story continues from there.
But the tale ends -Peggy Powler would initially believe, when Myrddin's Elders destroyed the blue stone and cast the
grains to the four winds. The vindictive translucent Demon...? it was presumed to be lost to the same gusts until the
same poncho-wearing Witch saw peculiar gouges on a fence post and mentally frowned at the long-dead magician
called Francis Wulpos.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.