Peggy Powler nodded during Arthur Thurgood's exposition of why it might be prudent for him not to accompany his little
guest this morning, although the retired business-owner could have shortened his excuse by just saying wife had ordered
him to stay at home. Peggy didn't mind -in fact, she preferred being on her own during her wanderings, the Last Witch of
Underhill held the rarity of being able to bridge the world Arthur and his family appreciated and the realm of the Fae.
Now leaving the snow-free path of Arthur's home and the fidgety owner of walkway, Peggy wondered if today would see
her stepping over to that domain of those who avoided the state where she currently resided. Everything that she had seen
pointed to the Willowsgate killer being a demon-possessed individual known from her time with Myrddin as a Wulpos.
The taunting signs, the planned comportment of a astute calculator and an area Peggy had been reluctant to ponder on,
the manner of the slayings what the inner-meaning she still needed to winkle out. Nobody in Willowsgate had seen a
stranger, a shadowy figure roaming the night or even heard a rustle in a hedgerow.
Not one of the few people she'd spoken in the prosperous hamlet to had asked why the victims' organs had been removed
or whether the scenes of the murders had any bearing, nothing. If there'd been one of those gossipy-type editorial sheets
available in Willowsgate, the meditative sorceress would find it easier to believe the presumably-frightened residents were
obtaining their updates from that.
.................................................................
Arriving in the neatly-designer square, the bare-footed woman toting a weathered satchel immediately felt eyes on her
from a window below a gaudy placard announcing that this was where fine earthenware could be purchased. Most of
the communities Peggy had visited offered a boarding-house, a Post office, a Blacksmiths and sometimes a Bank, but
little Witch squinting through the smudge-free glass believed this was her first the Pot-Shop.
"Er... no vagrants here, if you please..." a voice advised from the shadow of the open doorway, "...Clementine's is not an
establishment that retails to the average passer-by" the female's utterance informed the scruffy-looking drifter in the big
hat with a tone that reinforced what Peggy had initially believed how all who lived in Willowsgate would perceive her.
She was an outsider for many reasons, she sported attire that implied she carried little numma, her raw accent belonged
with those who scythed hay in the Summer and tutted at a plough-horse's backside in the Autumn. Even the odd tinker
who might stumble upon the secluded village and chanced their wares managed to wear shoes. But Peggy's life had
always carried that cognomen and she'd learned to lug it with her like the magic bag hanging from her shoulder.
Although -the clay bowl curious conjurer of charms thought, if the voice wanted to move her on this morning, the shadowy
owner of the damning words just might discover her target isn't as average as she believes. "Ah've got te' say Ma'am, yer'
vendibles look quite nice" Peggy offered lamely and seeing a hefty shape step out into the grey light, she chided herself
for not coming-up with a better comment.
To say Clementine Holt was fat would be an understatement, even her large pendulous breasts failed to hang properly
over a sagging stomach that stretched Clementine's flowery dress. Wispy straw-coloured hair struggled to hide the
woman's scalp and what really caught Peggy's amazed eyes, were the sketched eyebrows badly drawn on her forehead.
The little Witch gazing up at the colossal body of flesh and blubber wondered if Clementine Holt was married and on the
heels of that speculation, pondered if she and her man had produced children, how they could've made them.
"All of the wares at Clementine's are for a refined taste and I would suggest the likes of yourself should seek a style of
art that caters for -shall we say, a lesser pallet?" the Holt-woman said without peering down at the threadbare outremer.
It would reflect poorly on herself and her business if any of her Willowsgate neighbours caught her talking to a passing
ruffian. "Again, move along..." the mammoth merchant began, when the objective of her dismissal wiggled her little finger.
.................................................................
"...So why didn't yer' tell the Constables from Gaynestown of what yer' saw?" Peggy asked as she browsed the glazed
pots and figurines. Clementine Holt stood beside the closed door of her boutique with the fluttering eyes of an unwitting
victim of glamour. The store was quiet and nobody had descended down the narrow staircase at the rear of the building
the bantam-sized diviner took the lack of intrusion as a sign that the fat woman had never taken a husband.
Clementine softly breathed her response and Peggy asked her to repeat it, the diminutive Witch's wiggle had been with
more verve than usual and hence, the lady who sold vases had drank deeply from the tributary of trance. "I... I thought
nobody would believe me" she said again and stared blankly at a porcelain urn bearing a blue iris on its side. Peggy
nodded and rifled through the information she had just received from the pudgy pot-seller. It wasn't much, but it added
to her small pile of clues to find the Wulpos and its vehicle.
The Holt-woman had described a hairy upright animal who -she muttered without expression, seemed to shed its coat
as it lumbered across her lawn at the back of the store. When pressed, Clementine had suddenly giggled and said that
the fleeing thing's bedraggled pelt fell down around its ankles just as the creature reached the wood-line. Once more,
Peggy nodded and without responding, left the front of the vase-emporium and searched for a door that would lead her
into Clementine's garden.
.................................................................
Bedraggled was the correct word, the hunkered-down necromancer agreed. Even though the snow had come and gone,
good fortune had remained and with it, thin bundles of a wool-like substance lay lank on the grass near the forest edge.
Clementine had suggested her late-night lawn-invader exhibited a muzzle of a dog and loped in a manner unlike any
person she'd ever seen, but this latest find brought a facet Peggy found intriguing. Her cold fingers caressed the damp
strands and a vague theory bubbled-up from her precarious pondering. This stuff is sheep's wool and that meant what
the obese trader of ceramic flower-holders observed a dog-faced human dressed in a fleece.
Standing up, Peggy's eyes narrowed as she peered into the gloom of the surrounding trees. Maybe the discarded wool
was part of a disguise and maybe the elongated snout was also a component of this veneer? Ambling back to where
the mesmerised harridan waited for her wake-up call, the meditative magician mused that the game this foxy Wulpos
was playing may have shown its hand for the first time.
guest this morning, although the retired business-owner could have shortened his excuse by just saying wife had ordered
him to stay at home. Peggy didn't mind -in fact, she preferred being on her own during her wanderings, the Last Witch of
Underhill held the rarity of being able to bridge the world Arthur and his family appreciated and the realm of the Fae.
Now leaving the snow-free path of Arthur's home and the fidgety owner of walkway, Peggy wondered if today would see
her stepping over to that domain of those who avoided the state where she currently resided. Everything that she had seen
pointed to the Willowsgate killer being a demon-possessed individual known from her time with Myrddin as a Wulpos.
The taunting signs, the planned comportment of a astute calculator and an area Peggy had been reluctant to ponder on,
the manner of the slayings what the inner-meaning she still needed to winkle out. Nobody in Willowsgate had seen a
stranger, a shadowy figure roaming the night or even heard a rustle in a hedgerow.
Not one of the few people she'd spoken in the prosperous hamlet to had asked why the victims' organs had been removed
or whether the scenes of the murders had any bearing, nothing. If there'd been one of those gossipy-type editorial sheets
available in Willowsgate, the meditative sorceress would find it easier to believe the presumably-frightened residents were
obtaining their updates from that.
.................................................................
Arriving in the neatly-designer square, the bare-footed woman toting a weathered satchel immediately felt eyes on her
from a window below a gaudy placard announcing that this was where fine earthenware could be purchased. Most of
the communities Peggy had visited offered a boarding-house, a Post office, a Blacksmiths and sometimes a Bank, but
little Witch squinting through the smudge-free glass believed this was her first the Pot-Shop.
"Er... no vagrants here, if you please..." a voice advised from the shadow of the open doorway, "...Clementine's is not an
establishment that retails to the average passer-by" the female's utterance informed the scruffy-looking drifter in the big
hat with a tone that reinforced what Peggy had initially believed how all who lived in Willowsgate would perceive her.
She was an outsider for many reasons, she sported attire that implied she carried little numma, her raw accent belonged
with those who scythed hay in the Summer and tutted at a plough-horse's backside in the Autumn. Even the odd tinker
who might stumble upon the secluded village and chanced their wares managed to wear shoes. But Peggy's life had
always carried that cognomen and she'd learned to lug it with her like the magic bag hanging from her shoulder.
Although -the clay bowl curious conjurer of charms thought, if the voice wanted to move her on this morning, the shadowy
owner of the damning words just might discover her target isn't as average as she believes. "Ah've got te' say Ma'am, yer'
vendibles look quite nice" Peggy offered lamely and seeing a hefty shape step out into the grey light, she chided herself
for not coming-up with a better comment.
To say Clementine Holt was fat would be an understatement, even her large pendulous breasts failed to hang properly
over a sagging stomach that stretched Clementine's flowery dress. Wispy straw-coloured hair struggled to hide the
woman's scalp and what really caught Peggy's amazed eyes, were the sketched eyebrows badly drawn on her forehead.
The little Witch gazing up at the colossal body of flesh and blubber wondered if Clementine Holt was married and on the
heels of that speculation, pondered if she and her man had produced children, how they could've made them.
"All of the wares at Clementine's are for a refined taste and I would suggest the likes of yourself should seek a style of
art that caters for -shall we say, a lesser pallet?" the Holt-woman said without peering down at the threadbare outremer.
It would reflect poorly on herself and her business if any of her Willowsgate neighbours caught her talking to a passing
ruffian. "Again, move along..." the mammoth merchant began, when the objective of her dismissal wiggled her little finger.
.................................................................
"...So why didn't yer' tell the Constables from Gaynestown of what yer' saw?" Peggy asked as she browsed the glazed
pots and figurines. Clementine Holt stood beside the closed door of her boutique with the fluttering eyes of an unwitting
victim of glamour. The store was quiet and nobody had descended down the narrow staircase at the rear of the building
the bantam-sized diviner took the lack of intrusion as a sign that the fat woman had never taken a husband.
Clementine softly breathed her response and Peggy asked her to repeat it, the diminutive Witch's wiggle had been with
more verve than usual and hence, the lady who sold vases had drank deeply from the tributary of trance. "I... I thought
nobody would believe me" she said again and stared blankly at a porcelain urn bearing a blue iris on its side. Peggy
nodded and rifled through the information she had just received from the pudgy pot-seller. It wasn't much, but it added
to her small pile of clues to find the Wulpos and its vehicle.
The Holt-woman had described a hairy upright animal who -she muttered without expression, seemed to shed its coat
as it lumbered across her lawn at the back of the store. When pressed, Clementine had suddenly giggled and said that
the fleeing thing's bedraggled pelt fell down around its ankles just as the creature reached the wood-line. Once more,
Peggy nodded and without responding, left the front of the vase-emporium and searched for a door that would lead her
into Clementine's garden.
.................................................................
Bedraggled was the correct word, the hunkered-down necromancer agreed. Even though the snow had come and gone,
good fortune had remained and with it, thin bundles of a wool-like substance lay lank on the grass near the forest edge.
Clementine had suggested her late-night lawn-invader exhibited a muzzle of a dog and loped in a manner unlike any
person she'd ever seen, but this latest find brought a facet Peggy found intriguing. Her cold fingers caressed the damp
strands and a vague theory bubbled-up from her precarious pondering. This stuff is sheep's wool and that meant what
the obese trader of ceramic flower-holders observed a dog-faced human dressed in a fleece.
Standing up, Peggy's eyes narrowed as she peered into the gloom of the surrounding trees. Maybe the discarded wool
was part of a disguise and maybe the elongated snout was also a component of this veneer? Ambling back to where
the mesmerised harridan waited for her wake-up call, the meditative magician mused that the game this foxy Wulpos
was playing may have shown its hand for the first time.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.