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Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-03-2023 The rabbit eyed the figure standing in the clearing and deliberated in its own fundemental way of whether it was a danger or not. The distance between them assured that the nose-twitching sentry could find safety in the small bolt-hole hidden beneath the roots of the nearby tree, but still... you can never be too-attentive when it came to those who walk on their hind legs. Feeling a movement within her stomach, the grey doe determined her pregnancy was more important than her scrutiny of the stationary shape wearing a large hat on its head and with a flick of her tail, vanished into the sanctuary of excavated sandy-soil and straw. The sedate object of the rabbit's surveillance merely adjusted the strap of her satchel and continued her amble towards the grove of contorted Mangle trees. A solitary soaring gull told the bare-footed trespasser of the rabbit's world that she was close to her goal and doffing the floppy item that the female bunny had found so strange, the wearer wiped her brow and smiled up at the clear-azure sky. It was still early morning in mid-summer and the dew-kissed grass was welcoming to the little Witch from Underhill as she passed beneath the salt-covered leaves of the Mangles and followed the faint track towards her destination. If this waddling interloper in the grubby poncho had looked back from her trek, she would've seen where the briny waters of the shallow bay ahead had slowed in its marination of the sabulous soil and the standard timber of Elms and Oaks found on the Witch's usual wanderings waited like annoyed customers to take advantage of any change. Mangle trees held sway here due to their ability to exude the salts from the seawater and hence, the shallow cove that separated the mainland from this visitor's main objective was known as Alkali Bight. Considering her last adventure in the cold mountains to the north, Peggy Powler felt a great relief as the dappled shade guided the visitor through the maze of gnarled thicket to the blissfully-quiet inlet where warm calm waters lapped at the sandy shores close to Finley Bucca's home. It was due to Myrddin the Great Wizard's assurance that the Elf would help Peggy in obtaining the long-ago stolen book of Majick and considering the ancient tome's alleged location, the sauntering sorceress believed she would need such assistance. "Careful of the carrots" a small mousy voice advised jocularly as Peggy arrived at a Witch-high barrier of woven Hazel twigs and rising up on her tip-toes to see where the cautioning articulation had come from, the unshod caller observed a small being sitting on a stool smoking a spindle-stemmed pipe. The ears and traditional waistcoat gave it away, but from the cheerful smile behind the puffs of smoke, Peggy believed her wander through the woods had finished and now she could get down to business. The retrieval of the Glamour Grimoire. .................................................. Armed with a huge human-sized mug of chicory, Finley's guest watched the middle-aged Fae till the dark earth around the vegetables he held in high regard. Peggy's query about the different soil was remedied with an explanation of hard work and Finley pointing towards the vehicle involved, a cracked and sagging wheelbarrow. "It took me a whole Spring to lug this stuff in..." Finley said as his makeshift hoe re-cached the carrots back into their neat rows. "...My old back took another season to recover from the task" he added absently and offered a grin to the listening necromancer. Studying the Elf's willow-trellis of cucumbers, well-developed beans and the obligatory bundles of tomatoes, Peggy could see why the fencing was needed. The furry bunnies may be an quaint additive to a whimsical rural scene, but their voracious appetites can test the patience of even the most compassionate of gardeners. "Yon lapins are sure te' keep yer' busy..." Peggy proposed when Finley finally finished his tending. "...A bugger te' yer' greens, but a fine meal for a enterprisin' Elf as yer'self?" she murmured and went back to enjoying her brew. The amiable Elf nodded without looking up from his chore and breathed agreement in his guest's opinion on the nose-wiggling enemy beyond the hazel fence. However, a short wander away from the interlaced hurdle would have provided the sorceress with a clue to why Finley didn't adhere to the wrath of those who cultivate succulent salad crops and an explanation to her supper later. With a good eye, a transient may notice there were at least three rabbit snares just near his gate. .................................................. The dog-day sun had just passed its apogee and the pair had enjoyed a meal together in the house that Finley built. A subterranean structure that held all the niceties of a home and the ingenuity of a craftsman to exist in such sandy conditions. A sturdy-looking door led a visitor into a shadowy corridor that heralded a large domed room ribbed with wooden supports that wouldn't look out of place on a sailing ship. Positioned only a stone's throw from the narrow beach where the daily tidal waters vacate the half-moon channel, Mister Bucca's hidden residence held the ability to not only rebuff any possible seawater absorption of the surrounding terrain, but kept out the sand that it squatted in. Peggy had guessed the walls of the large dwelling once belonged to massive wooden barrels that were used to transport commodities by sea and maybe the Finley had acquired such containers due to a past storm. Nonetheless, when seeking cooperation from someone who is kind enough to not only provide food and lodging, but to also involve themselves in something potentially dangerous to himself and his home, the Last Witch of Underhill felt it prudent to not press her assumption further. "Yer' a lucky Fae fur' havin' such a lovely place" was all she had commented in regard of her host's abode during their fine supper of rabbit pie and boiled potatoes. The rest of their conversation was about her mission to recapture the book. .................................................. It was dusk when Peggy and Finley crept quietly down through the Mangles and stepped into one of the many thin gullies of water that perforated this end of Alkali Bight. The crouching couple waded between the tide-heaped banks where only the hardiest of distorted trees clung on for dear-life and sought meagre nourishment through their long flexuous roots. "Can yer' see the island frum' here, Fin?" the shape at the rear of the single file whispered and attempted to peek through the gaps between the saline-dripping branches as they made their way to the mouth of the culvert and the deeper waters beyond.  Finley remained silent until they neared the end of the sandy embankment that had hidden them from anyone wishing to surveil this end of Alkali Bight. "Keep yourself low, Peggy..." the Elf advised and put a hand on her shoulder as she arrived next to the little figure leaning on the granular breakwater. "...The island is just in front of us and if you look closely, you can see the Guard-house" Finley hissed as he gazed alongside the famous Witch at the high archipelago that protected the beach from the foulest of weather and bordered the crescent-shaped bay that the same spellbinder would have to traverse. "Bugger me" Peggy exclaimed and to make light of his fellow-wader's incertitude, Finley jokingly replied "What... in here?!" RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-04-2023 Ignoring the circular stain from Peggy Powler's late-night cup of chamomile tea, the rough rendering Finley Bucca had laid out across his kitchen table displayed the entire terrain the Elf's guest would have to traverse in order to reacquire the long-lost Glamour Grimoire bible. As the little Witch and her genial host examined the crudely-drawn cartography of the home-made map and occasionally discussed the obstacles ahead, Peggy mused on how and why she'd arrived at Finley's underground home in the first place. It had all started when she'd left Thurston's Gate and headed south along Calder's Way, the main sea-cobbled road that seemed to lead everywhere and a regular companion for the Last Witch of Underhill. The remains of the winter winds had helped and -at times, hindered Peggy's passage, with infrequent rain-spattered gusts to seemingly hustle her along the well-trodden highway and sometimes obstructing her pace when Calder's Way turned eastwards. With the meagre damp daylight slipping away, she'd decided to make her overnight shelter behind one of the dry-stone walls that bordered the lonely thoroughfare and seek out a place to hang her satchel. Peggy's faithful carryall had been at her side for a long time and usually during her many romps, had doubled as a bed. Displaying her bare-bottom as she clambered over the neatly-set boulders, she saw that the deserted field on the other side offered no evidence that sheep had grazed there for some time. Accepting her poor fortune that no manger would be available to at least get out of the weather, the spirited sorceress ambled across the wet grass towards a small copse of trees that seemed out of place in such a barren landscape. Maybe here, a low stout branch would allow Miss Powler a chance to wait-out the waterlogged climate of the moors and a night's sleep to place more distance between her memories of the Abominable Snowman and her encounter with a quite unique Werewolf. But just like many things in the bantam-sized augurer's nomadic life, the clump of alders were not what they seemed. The growing gloom within the tightly-packed batch of deciduous giants offered nothing from the outside and it was only until Peggy carefully ventured beneath the remains of last Autumn's catkins that she could see what the trees had been hiding. The arrangement was all wrong for a Druid circle the cautious Witch thought, the lanky monoliths leaned inwards as if attempting to touch each other and gingerly caressing the surface of the nearest block, Peggy could feel the runes of an older prestidigitation, she guessed it was the ancestor of her own faith, Majickery. "I can state with untroubled conviction that these old eyes will never tire of seeing your inquisitive face and your unclad buttocks..." the great and powerful Wizard-of-Wizards said softly as he stepped out from the shadows of the gang of stone columns. "...An enchantress of all walks of life as Peggy Powler will always catch my breath and slow my pace" Myrddin quipped with a grin as he arrived in front of -what he considered, his best pupil. After all that had occurred up in Wide Baxter, Peggy was surprised she didn't release a small amount of water at the shock of seeing her favourite spellbinder, later -during their conversation, she may have admitted to herself it was a close-call. .................................................. Legend as it that centuries ago a certain set of spells were put down on parchment and when uttered alongside some particular instruments of majick, would bestow the sayer of these special words with unbridled sovereignty over all of humanity and Fae. Since humans had been pursuing such a goal by all other means possible for the same amount of time, it was eventually agreed by all Warlocks that these pages would be bound together and must remain hidden from a world greedy enough to harness such power. And so the so-called Pyxis of The Pact was constructed. This casket to house the scrolls of jeopardy was made of Wytch-willow, cursed with hexes to ensure no mortal could open it and buried at midnight by only the noblest of Wizards. A covenant was sworn upon and the Glamour Grimoire was never spoken of again. However, just like most important articles and secrets, the location was forgotten and the world that the Magicians worried about continued with its journey through the stars. Nice tale, but a number of years before Madame Powler screamed blue-murder and birthed her only daughter onto a blanket provided by her tattooed fire-breathing midwife called 'Mister Volcano', Myrddin the wisest of Wizards had heard a rumour of a strange unopenable box that had been unearthed and was being transported around the regions by a Carnival community using it as a curiosity for customers. The last Myrddin had heard about it was a year before meeting the bare-footed woman in a remote circle of stones and hence the reason for their chilly junction. "...I heard it said that the Pyxis was taken by ship to the western isles along with other objects and a terrible storm solved our dilemma by sinking the vessel and all who sailed in it" the long-bearded Mage said eagerly as he urged a small campfire to life. The coppice kept most of the wind out and together, the strange pair stood drawing paltry warmth from the struggling flames. Myrddin's detail of how the box containing a dangerous book continued and it was somewhere around the mentioning of a message from an Elf who witnessed flotsam strewn about a far-away beach far in the west, Peggy grasped the gist of why the Wizard had come to such a forlorn place. He needed her to investigate the claim. .................................................. "And there?" Peggy asked as she pointed to a scribble that ran down the elevated spine of the long island and silently lamented that her cup was empty. Finley leaned slightly forward into the drawing and his elfin-eyebrows narrowed for a moment before he recognised what his guest was indicating. "It's a line of runt-trees that grow along the ridgeline, they're the only plants -aside from the grass, that grow there" he replied and traced his finger on the map hand-drawn chart. "They begin at the nearest end to here and stop just above her house" Finley added and peered at Peggy for any more questions. With a nod of agreement, the little Witch sighed and asked about sleeping arrangements. It had gone midnight and Peggy needed some sleep to digest what she'd been informed on. As Finley led her into a room with supports made of some behemoth's bones, she forego the usual queries regarding the strange abutments and prepared her satchel for a night of drowsing introspective. Ma Vittie's home was going to be a bugger to get into and with that wolf-dog roaming the island, the sorceress who shuffled for comfort in her suspended crib seriously wondered if she could fufil Myrddin's request to look for the box or even that bloomin' book. RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-05-2023 For the next couple of days, Peggy Powler strolled the garden with her good-natured host and reworked the small details of the maraud onto Ma Vittie's island. In the evenings, the little Witch would bathe in the steeply-banked narrow channel of seawater that Finley had first shown her and ruminate on how she would cross the tide-controlled bay that isolated Ma Vittie's home. It was during one of these relaxing moments that Peggy spied the huge animal that the Elf had mentioned the day before, whether it it could be defined as a wolf was another story. After wading to the mouth of the sandy gouge that allowed water to soak the protruding roots of the Mangle trees, the ever-curious sorceress spotted a large shape bounding along a narrow grass-less track that led to the tip of the island closest to Finley's home. Arriving at the point where any further movement demanded a reverse of travel or continuation along the side of the island where the old woman was reported to live, the brute slowed its pace and began to sniff the air. Peggy shrank back a little way as she scrutinised the suspicious creature and was careful not to cause a splash or ripple in her slight retreat. But the sound of disturbed water halted her movement when she believed the beast had dived into the lagoon and gasping in dread, she squinted in the dying light towards the end of the island to see the furry sentry still standing post on the flat shore and staring past where Peggy was hiding. If put on the spot and required to explain the breed of the animal, she'd have to accept that this large furry canine was a cross between a Fire Mastiff and possibly a Cave Wolf. The grey pelt was thick and gave the animal a look of a powerful body and heavy shoulders. The aristate snout was long and suggested a full set of flesh-ripping teeth waited within. All-in-all, the wary Warlock reckoned the vigilant Wolf-Dog would be one of her major obstacles in getting to the island. .................................................. Finley had informed his guest that the big man who lived in the stone guardhouse beside the shingle link to the mainland never ventured around the island. Once in a while, Ma Vittie would harness the huge dog to a small two-wheeled carriage and leave when the tide was low and the causeway was passable. The observant Fae had guessed the journey was for provisions and on returning, she would drop off what seemed like groceries to the guardian of her refuge. Only once had Finley seen the final part of these expeditions, it was during a period when he'd been collecting the bones Peggy had noticed in the room where she slept. At some time or other, a dead leviathan was washed ashore not far from where the chary Wolf-Dog currently stood. Not wishing to waste the rare blubber-oil of the gigantic monster of the deep, the daring Elf had swam across in the dead of night and partaken of what he could for his own ends. Apparently, this became a routine and it was only when he knew the hermit would be leaving on one of her trips, Finley's bravery demanded another voyage in broad daylight across the shallow cove and claim what few remains were left. Whilst Ma Vittie was away that afternoon, he had performed this strange salvage three times and on the last visit, the Elf believed he'd pushed his gamble too far. Standing beside the Great Sea, Finley happened to glance down towards the upturned boat that doubled as the recluse's dwelling when he saw the ferocious canine vaulting towards him. In his panic, the terrified Fae dropped the rib-bone he was confident would make a fine adornment to his spare bedroom and made his escape in haste. It turned out that the sentry's overgrown pet was on an entirely different mission than chomping on Elf meat, the brute was merely running back to the watch-house to be fed. Looking back as he paddled into the safety of the sandy culvert, Finley realised two things. One was the dog never ran up and over the steep ridge of the island and two, the route which Ma Vittie used to take her small cart to the causeway -a pebbled-track that skirted the far-end of the isle, was also not preferred by the nasty mutt. Information that Finley had passed along to Peggy and was happy to see her relieved at his words. Yet, the scheme to acquire the container that housed the Glamour Grimoire was still not polished enough to ease Peggy's mind. The Wolf-Dog was still watching from its roost at the end of the island and the tide-controlled shingle road was only available at a particular time, regardless of the giant Watchman. Sighing as she sought her poncho hanging on a branch, the Last Witch of Underhill took some small solace that there wasn't a time-limit to her mission. It had taken her a whole season to travel this far west and to locate her current host who she hoped was making supper around now. "I hope I haven't intruded?" the familiar voice asked from the shadows and the usually-cheerful Elf suddenly appeared from a thick barrier of Mangle trees at the other end of the channel. Finley Bucca was aware of his disturbing emergence from the gloom and his pose showed his embarrassment. However, what hung over his shoulder and the item in his hands didn't improve the scene either. Peggy initially thought the shiny dangling thing was a snake, although she'd later find out she was wrong. But to be fair, the half-dressed spell-worker's guess about what Finley clutched was half-correct. It was a duck, but a wooden one. RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-06-2023 "By-gum, that was summit' Ah've never eaten before..." Peggy Powler reciprocated to her busy friend plucking the washed plates from a sawn-off wooden barrel in his kitchen. Wiping her mouth with a hand and stifling a burp, the contented Witch added "...Horse-eels are not a regular on me-menus durin' me-travels". How Finley Bucca had acquired such fare was partly made clearer as the two ambling Fae slowly made their back to the Elf's hidden home. Whatever difficult quest might lay ahead for the Last Witch of Underhill would have to wait, right now was more important to her and what the similar-sized man sporting a large dead fish over his shoulder and a wooden duck under his arm had to say about his unusual hobby. The remains of the day had all-but gone and the feeling of prosaic tranquillity that Peggy had become appreciative of had settled nicely into the forgotten coastline and the little haven Finley had carved out for himself. Birds were clearing their throats in the nearby forest to begin their warblings of territoriality and possibly boasting of the natural serenity that summer evenings can sometimes deliver. Somewhere beneath the rows of intertwined Mangle trees, skittering Dabble Crabs jeopardised their safety and had left the shallows of the bay to forage for a late meal in the boundaries where the land yields to the Great Sea. Sleepy rabbits chewed their last blades of grass close to their burrows with a twinkling unblinking eye always vigilant for any snout-licking fox amongst the shadows. "I'll further my explanation over supper..." Finley quietly announced as -being a gentleman as well as being reared by a good woman, he opened the gate of his property and let Peggy step through. "...but how I found the trick came on the day I discovered how to get the blubber back from the island". The smells from the garden in the mid-summer's evening added to the easy companionship of the amiable Elf and for a moment, the little Witch pondered if their friendship would blossom into something more. Her unshod feet would always wish to wander, but time has a way of hobbling such desires. Just as the couple reached the small oak door of his own type of burrow, the faint sound of a barking dog could be heard and seeing Peggy's quizzical look, Finley smiled back and assured his guest that his tale would allay her questions. .................................................. The term 'Horse-eels' became a joke a few years back after it was ascertained that some in the equine-trading business took to the unusual task of inserting live eels into horses anuses to produce an enthusiasm which could fool a buyer into believing he was procuring a lively animal. Whether such practices continue cannot be verified and certainly not relevant to Finley's account. But the real Horse-eel, the snake-like fish that sports a type of mane behind its head and regularly visits the calm cove next to Ma Vittie's island, this was the true name for the creature Finley had learned to catch and for Peggy to eat. Long, black and sinewy, these nocturnal scroungers can grow to the height of Peggy with her new friend balanced on her shoulders. Finley had even seen one of these slithering beasts travel across the causeway when the tide was low and estimated it to be around the length of his garden, but we're getting off track a little here and should really stick to the Elf's story. It had all started with the gasping. .................................................. It was during Finley's nightly forays to collect the greasy blubber from the carcase of the leviathan- a must for anyone who uses oil-lanterns, that he thought he heard a strange wheezing sound from somewhere in the water behind him. Carefully climbing out onto the small flat area where the dead underwater beast lay rotting beneath a full moon, the sopping-wet Elf saw a dark shape breaking the surface of the calm waters of the cove and realised it was some sort of animal. In a rare eureka moment, Finley had come up with an idea to attach a small barrel he'd use to capture the malleable fat in to his own body by a length of twine. When arriving at his goal, he could simply pull the water-tight cask over and then reverse the procedure when making his way back to the mainland. However, it was this stout string that had come to the attention of the shape in the water. It was a Horse-eel and intrigued by the cord and the bobbing object being pulled by it, this granted Finley with another stroke of genuis, when he tugged the line... the filament-strewn curious animal followed it. The Elf's evening continued just as his other twilight sorties and his usual volume of the viscous substance was obtained. The next day found Finley creating a large net from the stripped bark of the Mangle trees and soon after -with a wooden duck as a floating lure, the resourceful Fae went fishing for a delicacy. It wasn't difficult and if the tall sentry had peered out of his stone-built refuge from near the causeway, all he would see is a drifting waterfowl unknowingly being tracked by a hungry Horse-eel close to the shoreline. In the case of the Wolf-Dog, just like the sounds Peggy and Finley had heard when entry the subterranean home, the shaggy beast would bark and bark until it became tired with the sibilating fish and the cold-shouldered bird and romp off to do whatever nasty canines do on remote isles. .................................................. Oddly enough, Finley's first day as a fisherman turned out to be the same day Ma Vittie left for her provisions on her little cart and keeping track of the date, the wily Elf realised a schedule the old hermit always cleaved to. The first night of a full moon always preceded a trip by Ma Vittie across the causeway. Nothing too-interesting to the average person, but a pattern he'd seen and something that may come in handy one day. Igniting the Elf's pipe with her thumb as the pair relaxed beside the crackling fire after their supper of eel and potatoes, Peggy Powler agreed that such information had finally become advantageous. Tomorrow night was the birth of such a lunar phase. RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-08-2023 Finley Bucca opened his eyes into the darkness of his bedroom and listened to the soft snoring beside him. Dawn was still a good way off and the self-reliant Elf felt a mild panic due to what occurred last night and its possible repercussions. He savoured his solitary life and any variation in his daily activities due to external reasons had never brought a sense of trepidation or a feeling that he couldn't adjust to any change life threw at him. But this latest occurrence of a naked Witch entering his room last night and climbing into his bed... well, it could be said that this event may put a knot in his string. Finley stared up at the ceiling of his little underground home and deliberated on his immediate circumstances. Usually these thoughts ranged from getting around to repairing the roof of his outhouse or beginning to dig out a ditch to allow water from the nearby spring for easy access, wondering about another's opinions and desires on maintaining a home had never been something he'd ever juggled with. Peggy Powler grunted in her sleep and turned over, a possible sign that her famous mother's clairvoyancy was just coming out of its slumber and Finley mused this as he resisted the need to scratch an itchy buttock. He knew that he should begin to arrange his thoughts on how to discuss their recent bedchamber-encounter or if he was that weak -spirited Fae he always believed himself to be when it came to relationships, prepare breakfast. A moment later, the perturbed Elf quietly slipped on his clothes and checking that he hadn't woken his unplanned lover, left to put the kettle on the embers of last night's fire. .................................................. The Last Witch of Underhill scraped the last of the unsalted porridge from her bowl and sighed in her contentment of the morning meal. Sipping her Birch-leaf tea, Peggy watched her host busying himself with the useless act of refilling a sawn-off barrel next to the hearth with chopped lumber from outside and seemingly evading the need for any blather. The full moon would be out tonight and she would be going to the island. With that nasty-looking Wolf-Dog on the prowl, the sorceress sitting at the Elf's table believed that discussing timing and any possible variables in their agreed plan may be more eminent than stacking fuel for a fireplace in the middle of summer. In her heart, the leg-swinging Witch grasped Finley's possible dilemma and believed it had nothing to do with acquiring the crate-bound book of Myrddin's request. This brought a smile to her lips as the little man re-entered his subterranean home and failed to avert his eyes from the monitoring necromancer. "Are yer' okay there, Finley?" Peggy asked easily as he nervously breezed past with another armful of hewn logs and dropped them in the cask. She could see how is whole body was wildly sending out signals of his abashment from her midnight visit to his bedroom and the subsequent development. A sufferance a good person would wish to continue and so climbing off the chair, the spellbinder decided to soothe Finley's self-constructed angst. "About last night..." Peggy said as she grabbed the Elf's shoulder, "...Ah' needed company cos' me-travels tek's me on roads where few nice folk like yersel' tend te' tread" the warm-hearted Witch added and felt Finley's tense body ease. "All Ah' ask in the favour yer' did and what we're goin' te' do tonight, is have permission te' visit yer' if Ah' ever pass by this way in the future" she whispered and hoped he understood the full meaning of her words. Finley's relieved features signified the message had been received and with a shy blinking of his long Elfin eyelashes, he nodded once and huskily asked if she would like another mug of tea. Peggy quickly hugged him the way a friend does and ceded to his suggestion of more Birch tea, the atmosphere in the timbered-burrow changed and all was well once more. Hearing the upbeat Elf humming to himself as he prepared another brew, the little Witch went to the open doorway and breathed in the morning air. Tonight wasn't going to be as elementary as alleviating a Fellow-Fae's perplexities in the matters of bed-warming and any wrong move held far-worse ramifications than just post-romp shyness. .................................................. The stream that Finley had contemplated introducing a tributary to babbled its secret language of where it had been and its regrets of finding its final destination. The seated Witch looked on from the small grassy bank as the Elf scooped up water with his wooden bucket from the chalk-bed creek and offered a shoal of blue-sided tiddlers some interest during their eternal campaign with the current to not be washed into the saltwater cove. "Tis a boon te' have watter se' close te' yer' home..." Peggy said absently in her act to support the accord of moving on from this morning's awkward chat and sliding her foot into the cool flow, added "...Aye, yer' own private tap of Adam's ale". Finley grunted as he poured his final pail of water into the barrel resting in the wheelbarrow and gingerly touched the nape of his spine. "Not really, that big sentry I told you about sometimes comes over for his own fill when the tide is low" the Elf muttered and prepared his aching back to endure some more toil. The rising Witch showed her curiosity at his words by means of her arching eyebrows, but Finley smiled and waved a hand to indicate calm. "Don't worry, he's never left his post whilst Ma Vittie is off the island" he assured his friend and with that, grabbed the handles of the one-wheeled tumbrel. Peggy followed behind as her host pushed his aqueous burden back to the little house under the sand. .................................................. It was chilly and peering back into the shadows of Mangle trees, Peggy pulled open the mouth of the waterproof sack that Finley had provided. The thick material had an oily sheen to it and during her undressing, the heedful shaman wondered if it was eel skin or the dermis of the washed-ashore behemoth the Elf had pillaged. Now beneath the full moon, Peggy shrugged such trivial thoughts away and focused on her enterprise. Acquiring the container of the Glamour Grimoire. "Oh Bugger, yer' in it now" was all the nude necromancer murmured as she fastened the twine to the bag and cautiously began to wade  along the shallow channel. RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-09-2023 Swimming wasn't one of Peggy Powler's best aptitudes and considering what some puritans of the new religion in the future may design to castigate those of the ancient art, dealing confidently with being immersed in water should be a discipline all those who seek herbal remedies and vanquish hauntings could benefit from. It could be argued that the strong twine attached to the little Witch's ankle was a contributory factor in her slightly graceless method of traversing the dark waters between Finley Bucca's residence and the tall lump of land where Ma Vittie now slept, but when weighed on the scales of candour, Peggy simply wasn't a good swimmer. The candle still burned in the window of the sentry's stone-built domicile and softly spitting out the saltwater from her voyage across the half-a-league-wide bay, Peggy kept an eye on any movement from that area and especially for a loping shape suddenly racing in her direction. Still, if the scheme devised by the Last Witch of Underhill and her fellow-Elf had any merit, what was contained in the watertight tote tied to the other end of the cordage would certainly assist the quietly paddling shadow moving closer to the island's shore. The summer night didn't hold the same nostalgic warmth of those who wander under the moonlight with whimsical thoughts and a tunic on as Peggy scrambled onto the flat shore of mixed shingle and sand, her bare skin bristled in protest and possible went towards urging its wearer to pull the waterproof sack over as quickly as possible. With her breath stuttering from between her lips, the little Fae untied the string from her leg and got to work on bringing what she'd need to accomplish the agreed task. The steepness of the marooned hill -for really that was what the island was, hindered Peggy's quick glances towards the guard-house as she finally plucked the shiny bag from the stygian waters of Alkali Bight. Slipping her hand into the tied opening of the sack, the shivering Witch resisted the need to pull out her hat and instead, felt for the small wooden ornate object that Finley had handed her across his kitchen table when they'd adapted their daring ambition of retreiving the sealed sarcophagus containing the primeval tome known as the Glamour Grimoire. With the little home-carved box placed to one side, the damp-haired silhouette quickly dressed in her usual attire and after winding the twine into a ball, neatly folding the oil-skinned sack and shoving it into her satchel, Peggy breathed easier with a confidence that hadn't accompanied her during her dip in the chilly lagoon. Checking once more that no huge salivating Wolf-Dog was charging towards her, she picked up the hand-sized cask and untied the small ribbon that held it closed. The dark granular contents brought a small smile to the Witch's lips and with haste, she began to sprinkle the particles onto the shore as she began her ascent up the incline of the island. .................................................. If the panting necromancer brushing the last specks of pepper from her hands owned a timepiece, she would wager its face held the hour past midnight. Distributing the sneeze-powder had sapped Peggy of most of her energy during her climb to the line of stunted trees squatting on the grassy summit and now catching her breath, she knew it had stolen some time too. Not that it was an issue now, any urgency had only been important on Peggy's immediate arrival to the island and armed with the knowledge that the free-roaming canine never scaled the banks of the natural tor, the wary Witch now took stock of her elevated surroundings with a small measure of tenacity. Hopefully, the the nose-itching spice would hide her landing and her passage up the hill, now all Peggy had to do was wait. Wait for the time when the tide ebbed and Ma Vittie would strike out on her dog-pulled cart to the village of Frostmeadow or maybe even as far as Canning Chase. From up there, the view of the moonlit landscape was impressive. Gazing towards the mainland, Peggy could see how the island had been formed and where it had originated. At some point in the past, the far-end had been joined to the southern coastline, but being a mixture of chalk and sandstone, the every-moving waters of the Great Sea had found the soft minerals an easy gudgeon to work upon. Not being one for geological enthusiasm, Peggy would have to idly guess the wide belt of pebbles around the island at saved it from being washed away over time. The forests around Finley's home offered little in the poor illumination and so the sorceress brought her focus onto the dark hump where Peggy judged Ma Vittie's lonely abode waited. She knew a better reconnaissance would be needed when the dawn came, but for now, she had -at least, her bearings of where her task awaited. Checking once more that no Fae-hungry hound was patrolling the night, Peggy Powler hunkered down among the low-lying foliage of the wind-bent trees and began her long tarry. RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-10-2023 With the twinkle of stars and the ashen pumpkin-faced moon as company, the little shadow amongst the obscurity of the windswept line of yew trees dozed in and out of consciousness. Not trusting to use her faithful satchel, Peggy Powler had opted to just see the night through by leaning against the rough bark of one of the weathered evergreens and occasionally peeking out from beneath her wide-rimmed headwear at the stagnant setting that surrounded the island of Alkali Bight. Time became treacle as the Last Witch of Underhill sluggishly pondered on how and why she'd arrived at this desolate location, Myrddin's words came back to her as Peggy groggily checked once more on whether the dawn was not too far away. The atramentous forest near to Finley Bucca's buried abode seemed to go on forever and being the doormat for where the sun would arrive, it lay within its blackness and offered little to cheer the bare-footed sentinel's sleepy musings. Now with her legs tucked up beneath her poncho and her arms resting on her knees, the would-be thief of a cursed book dropped her head and her hat became the cap of Peggy's light dreaming. With hazy contemplation on how the Wizard and Finley Bucca were connected and why a hermit-like Elf would be on the lookout for such a secretive object, who exactly is this Ma Vittie and why does she hide herself away on this cloistered isle, the woman who once enjoyed the intrigue of a travelling carnival community fell into the comfort of memory-quilted repose. .................................................. "...You see, the key to this situation is subtlety..." the white-bearded magician had continued in his explanation to the smaller spell-worker walking with him towards Calder's Way. "...The world has forgotten about the Glamour Grimoire and for all involved, that is a good thing" he added as he allowed Peggy to help him over the stone wall. Grunting with the aches from his centuries-long age, Myrddin gathered his thoughts as the little Witch unceremoniously dropped from the lichen-coated boulders and gathered her modesty by straightening her short poncho. "Sorry about that" Peggy mumbled and ignored the Wizard's smirk, but her prickly gaze quickly reminded him that he should hurry to give his reason for why they were stuck out here on a forsaken moor. The old man nodded and went on with his explanation. "Since the Elf's message came to me some time in late-summer and we can assume Ma Vittie hasn't invoked the correct spell to open the box, I think it can be safely said the hexes are intact and the Grimoire is still undisturbed" Myrddin said in almost a whisper. The old necromancer's narrative rolled on explaining how certain trusted folk -who lived happy and mundane lives around the regions, were occasionally approached over the years and asked to keep a secret vigil for anything they believed was suspicious in the manner of 'supernatural'. Sighing through her nose at the needless rhetoric, Peggy took it that the Elf Myrddin had named as Finley Bucca, was one of these loyal ears-and-eyes. Casually ambling slowly along Calder's Way, the smaller of the odd-sized pair listened to a story about a disgraced pupil of Edatore, a spell-worker from the deserts who's forte was drawing sandstorms from the ground and beguiling serpents. Deemed by the echelon of ancient and revered craft, an excellent teacher of allurement, a red-haired girl of sixteen titled Martha Vittie was issued to his charge along with a few more students in the seeking of greater thaumaturgy. Like any good potboiler gossiped around a fire hearth, -a warmth that Peggy could appreciate as she listened to the Sage's docket of yesteryear in the chilly bleakness of the evening, backstairs romance from under the bed covers was never too-far away. Edatore was severely reprimanded for his shortcomings by his peers and Miss Vittie -now of nineteen summers, was shunned from any future education of the Order. To the bored unshod necromancer walking beside her own tutor, it seemed Edatore's coquettishness of reptiles reached to the allurement of young colleens too, But now, a forgotten book of unspeakable spells had washed ashore and also magically drawn two strings of the past back into the present. A banished woman, a dangerous bible and a potential scandal waited on a remote island. Peggy sighed once more as she realised that once again, when there's a bad smell in the air, they send for the old rat-catcher. Straightening his own robes, the usually stoic warlock glanced around in the gloom and then leaned forward with features of a kindly Elder. Peggy had seen this act before and her mind raced with what cunning Myrddin was poorly attempting to suppress. "If any news arrives to say otherwise, your journey there will also add to the confidence that the Pyxis is still in one piece and maybe we can again, all sleep in our beds without concern..." he softly purveyed with a wink. "...Now my fine lady, I must be off and you have a great service to perform for the preservers of Majick". And that was it. Standing alone on the sea-cobbled surface of a road far away from her newly-announced destination, the little Witch had been given a quest and left discarded by the teller of something that really didn't concern her. The great Wizard Myrddin had suddenly vanished in a puff of off-yellow smoke and the solitary figure in the big hat and with her feet facing westwards, was now supposed to concoct a scheme to steal this sealed casket that may-or -may-not be the desired object. Yes, Peggy did mutter the word 'Bugger' into the emptiness of the surrounding moor, but in her heart she was content that she'd been left to her own devices on the matter. "Whey, let's get movin' I suppose" she said to her bare toes and that was how her odyssey had commenced. RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-11-2023 It could've been a passing gull on its way to Fairchurch's fishing quay for an easy breakfast or even just Peggy Powler's natural inner-clock reminding her that the sun had arrived at Alkali Bight, but whatever the cause of her wakening, a very tired-looking Witch raised her head and took in her brightly-lit surroundings. The dawn had broken and seeing that the sneaking spell-worker was still busy making soft snoring sounds, moved on to bring better illumination to the western coast and help any scrounging seagull to take full advantage of those who disgorge their night-fishing payload onto the docks along these shores. Resisting the impulse to uncoil herself from her backside-numbing position, Peggy smacked her lips as she peered down at the building next to the submerged causeway The grey stones of the structure offered nothing to indicate its tenant or his dangerous dog were up and about and so, rubbing her eyes, the Last Witch of Underhill turned her head seawards and to the strange home of Ma Vittie. There was smoke coming from the bent stovepipe that jutted from the upturned hull of the ship, but scanning the oddly -built abode, Peggy recalled a faint whiff of burnt timber last night when she'd settled down in her current hiding place. Maybe Ma Vittie was a night-owl or maybe she was an early-riser...? But either of these wasn't really germane to Peggy and Finley's plan, what was important was the time the hermit left for her procurement of food. Glancing again towards the immersed causeway, the kinked conjurer hoped the tide would begin its act soon and reveal the path from the island. With the line of runtish yew trees along the ridge hindering any chance of viewing the place of her own late-night crossing, Peggy smiled audaciously at her situation as she imagined the friendly Elf standing amongst the jungle of Mangle trees with a steaming mug of chicory to rouse her lethargic spirit. Alas, all she had was her canteen of cold water in her satchel and carefully reaching for it during her reverie, her grin widened. Feeling the warmth emanating from the battered flask, the stiff-jointed necromancer whispered her gratitude to her majick knapsack that had never failed her. Guardedly sipping the hot sugary analeptic from the neck of her leather-bound container, Peggy reflected that for all the years the canvas pouch had been with her, its faithfulness was never been in doubt. With the toasty brew slowly assisting to rouse her body, the hat-wearing figure hunkered in the middle of two antagonists slowly stretched her body as she continued her vigil for the for an opportunity to redeem the book all Magicians feared. .................................................. Martha Vittie stared out of her makeshift window and wondered if the tusked-beast would come a-calling today. The fat brute had stayed out at sea all-day yesterday and she'd wager it was something to do with the drunken trawlermen who cast their nets in the waters a few leagues from her solitary home. To pass the time -she secretly reckoned, those boozy fishermen would toss unwanted catch to the stupid-looking toothy mer-devil that watched from a safe distance. That was one thing about men, they could never be trusted to do the right thing, Martha thought. Taking her eyes from the glare of the Great Sea, the red-haired round woman in her remaining best-garment pondered on whether to use the final scoop of water from her almost-empty bucket. It was the day she had to leave the island to acquire provisions and today was when Grissom delivered her replenishment of fresh water. Shaking the depleted clay pot where she kept her coffee grounds, Martha's decision to have another brew arrived on its own. Rubbing her flabby face with both hands in frustration, she mentally blamed the old merchant who took her money over in Frostmeadow. She was in no doubt that the sneaky bastard short-changed her on some of the goods Martha had purchased and just like any man, probably stared with lustful eyes at her rump when she left his store. Was Grissom the same...? Martha idly thought as she straightened her 'go-to-town' smock and eyed the odd stain on her massive bosom. He was a dullard for sure and rarely offered any discourse -unless you believe a grunt is a type of communication. The huge man and his cur ensured no visitors would trespass on her island and he provided a limited service of bringing water to her home. But he would always be cursed with what he is and his low acumen provided more proof that men are a burden to those who seek a higher calling. Those last words made her stiffen as she reached for the door sneck, she had sought a loftier pursuit once. Somewhere back in the past, a flame-haired head-turner had disavowed her beauty and desired the knowledge of white wizardry. Yet it was a man who chicaned her and took advantage of her purity, a wanton pedagogue of prestidigitation in knee-high britches packed with baseness.  "They're all the same..." she hissed and always hid their discretions with monetary compensation, a fact she knew from the large chest of coins resting next to the old box she'd found on the seashore a couple of winters ago. "...All of them" she huskily reiterated and opening the door, let the sunlight into her dark world of resentment. Rolling these dice of flawed-thoughts around in her head, the plump woman who still held a grudge shambled out of her defective home and prepared the cart for when the Grissom's only friend came to be harnessed. But for the tusked-one... the giant walrus that liked to bask on the empty beach and feel the warmth of the summer sun before he struck out for colder climes, well he would wait until the angry two-legs went around the other side of the island before venturing onto dry-land. For some reason beyond the pinniped's animal-understanding, that two-legs didn't like him. RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-12-2023 If there was a time when someone would have the opportunity to observe a natural cadence take place without any sign of organised control or deliberate internal-management, the huge Wolf-Dog walking along the pebbled shore towards Ma Vittie's home and the woman -herself, standing beside a battered cart whilst holding a harness, was one of these moments. From Peggy Powler's vantage point on the ridge, she had watched as the shaggy creature had stopped sniffing and occasionally sneezing around the area of the little Witch's advent onto the island and without a signal of any kind, began to trot easily along the fine line where the Great Sea's soft waves met the water-smoothed stones. It seemed the pepper had performed its task at masking Peggy's presence due to the dog's lack of barking and now the lupine -like mongrel seemed to understand it would be needed as a beast of burden. At the same time, larger stones washed by the tidal anomaly that passed between the mainland and the grassy lump being annexed so long-ago, now broke the surface of the receding water as Alkali Bight produced its daily exhibit of an uneven boulevard between the two shores. Peggy saw the changing of the water level and realising her time of cramped waiting was almost over, began to get her aching limbs to move once more. No shrill whistle from the bovine hermit full of misandry, no mewling to the feral animal with use of an affectionate name and no trick with food, the Wolf-Dog just wandered towards the upside-down boat-home much as it had last week. The only difference that the bantam onlooker wouldn't be aware of was that dog's snout didn't drip with mucus on its last trip to Frostmeadow. "What have you been up to...?" Martha snapped in a slightly ribald tone as the tongue-lolling canine approached the cart. "...I hope you haven't been fighting with that sea-monster" she added accusingly as the snot-snorting animal sidled into its position to accept the slim wooden traces. The Wolf-Dog didn't reply -maybe because of an inborn loyalty to humans, maybe because it was a male under the influence of a masculine-hating woman or more probable was that the only canid known to have mastered human language was said to have died some time ago. But instead, the furry brute remained silent as the well-worn leather straps were secured around his shoulders. After a careful mistrusting examination to ensure her fleshy body wouldn't be tipped out during the trek across the causeway Ma Vittie clambered into the creaking cart at the same moment, the Last Witch of Underhill prepared another type of journey. .................................................. The climb down had been fairly uneventful in regard of Peggy not tumbling ass-over-tit, but reaching the track that the Wolf-Dog often used when patrolling the island, the watchful sorceress noticed a dark lump sticking out of the water some way off from the beach. After Ma Vittie had steered her carriage off along the shingle track at the nearer end of the isle, Peggy had shuffled down on her belly part of the way until she was sure the upside-down hull that doubled as a roof, hid her from getting to her feet. Arriving at the shingled base, Peggy glanced once more towards the floating shape she'd spotted, but whatever the object was, had sank. "Keep yer eye on the ball, lassie" she whispered to herself and resetting her hat, went back to scrutinising her current predicament. Being an occasional benevolent soul, the bare-footed necromancer could push herself to call the structure a shack, but the walls of wooden fragments, the door made of a oblong slab of driftwood and even the cracked piece of glass embedded in the planks... told Peggy that Ma Vittie's lifestyle was designed by a inner need not to seek external assistance. Pushing the draughty-excuse for a door open, the apprehensive invader peered into the gloom of the home and wrinkled her nose from what she had inadvertently released. The aroma was of tired age, of bitter transudation and blathered a lot more than any eves-dropping gossip from a General Store in Frostmeadow. Slowly stepping inside, the bright sun apologised for not following and Peggy's eyes squinted to make out the sparse shapes that endured Ma Vittie's nightly hatred of her past. The woman's bed was a large flattened sack with all kinds of pliable stuffed material hanging out of holes the Witch would suggest were done by mice. A grubby hand-sewn quilt lay mangled upon this wannabe-mattress and a bundle of rags doubled as a pillow. Relieved that she could move her eyes elsewhere, Peggy's gaze passed over a stained and gouged wooden door-less cupboard and aimed at a dresser with one of its drawers missing. The Elf-high chunk of furniture leaned desperately on its three legs next to large black metal stove and offered the idea that at some time in its past, it had donated part of itself to the furnace beside it. Moving on, Peggy saw a splintered shelf that would always have a penchant to roll any of its contents onto the filthy -planked floor or even behind the previous semi-cannibalised bureau. The whole shadowy room displayed well-matured hebetude and a hefty dollop of self-induced tedium. If it hadn't been for a conscientious ray of sunlight slipping through one of the many damaged roof boards and glistening onto something metallic at the back of the cabinet, the concentrating clairvoyant may have missed her goal. Using that void caused by the missing drawer, Peggy unceremoniously clambered up on top of the dresser and peered into the darkness at the rear of the small home. There was two rectangular objects there, the larger had once boasted a hinged-lid, but now just sat broken and agape with a fair amount of gold numma piled inside it. Keeping her breathing shallow in order to not disturb the layer of dust everywhere, Peggy mused that this cask of money would've been the 'keep-yer-gob-shut' payment to Martha Vittie from the echelon who dislike hanky-panky amongst their ranks. The other container was a smaller scuffed box with well-rubbed ambiguous symbols upon its surface and at a glance, one might wonder how it functioned as a caisson. But there was an aura of its exterior, a hint to those who appreciate the real power of sorcery and a feeling that something very parlous waited within. On closer inspection, a viewer would experience something mentally unobtainable from the strange runes scrawled across the dried-out Wytch-willow, but somewhere in a spectator's dim corridors of the subliminal, a faint voice warned of slumbering menace. Maybe for a few of us, this would be a moment of conscious celebration of even emotive relief that an arduous quest had been fulfilled. But for the squatting diminutive half-Fae with a too-big hat and her bare-buttocks on full view, such an occasion passed her by due to her surprise. "Whey, Ah'll be buggered... it's tiny" she hushed and gingerly reaching for the box, beheld the similarities between Finley's empty pepper box and the old ligneous keeper of the Glamour Grimoire. RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-14-2023 Grissom stood up from his many-times-repaired stool at the window, hitched up the rear of his heavily-stained moleskin breeches and prepared for his trek to the freshwater stream across the bay. The huge sullen man was alone again and without the nameless dog that lodged with him here in the only place he could've ever called a home, it was a time when that skulking beetle called Alice in his brain would commence with its seductive scampering and bewitching pitches. When the Wolf-Dog was around, that scurrilous insect rarely whispered its beguile and Grissom's daily chores would be visited by merely a faint enticing echo and nothing more than a fleeting gasping note at times. But when the stony path rose from Alkali Bight, the hulking middle-aged man knew the bug of temptation would skitter out of the shadows in his mind and begin its song of allurement once more. It had been a long road from his time at Finnegan's Store. Grissom had grown up believing the stoic bald man in the apron was his father and drunken woman who occasionally vented her intoxicated hatred of getting old, had -on one of the scant moments away from the jug, somehow disgorged him into the world and set the wide-shouldered youngster onto his path of drudgery. For the quickly-growing boy, his parents had always seemed distant and not having the standard in-house schooling from the silent man and his eternally-stewed wife, Grissom had turned inwards and with this act, brought any chance of intellectually furthering himself to a halt. A life of lifting boxes in the back room of Kersham's only dry goods store and then sweeping it hadn't really afforded the growing young inerudite lad an opportunity to learn much of the outside world. There was a day of mundane toil and there was a night where dreams offered stunted versions of a reality imprisoned in the Store. Grissom took his environment as it was, daily work, silence at the dinner table and sleep on a cot beside his broom. Yet it was that one bright sunny morning when he'd been noticed by a curious girl in a calico dress as he tossed the eternal debris perpetually found in an establishment that sold produce down into the small heavily-wooded gully at the rear of the shop. If Grissom had retained any of the natural mental and emotional state most teenagers machete through at his age, his very core would've be focused on the simple fact a young female had singled him out. In the world of the adolescent, there's a special feeling that that we all crave for in our later years. However, that stomach-tingling emotion of simply talking to a girl never arrived for Grissom as she approached the taller figure in the dishevelled clothes and asked him what he was doing. With an empty wooden crate in his arms, he'd merely stared back at her without any affirmation that he'd heard Alice's light-hearted query or that she required any formal synergy. Repeating her question in a friendly tone and introducing herself, the girl with braided pigtails of shining wheat studied the big statue of a lad and audaciously closed the space between them. Grissom merely eyed the visitor to Jacob Finnegan's backyard without any of the usual cerebration that most young men undertook when confronted with a fairly-pretty damsel of similar generation. "Is there something wrong with you?" Alice asked with a light hint of anxiousness and again, the target of her cheerful challenge remained silent. Displaying her best 'oh-well-never-mind'-smile, the effervescent girl stood before the muted giant slowly placing the battered trash-box onto the dusty ground and surveying the top of the young man's head, absently wondered who cut his hair. Returning to his full height, whatever may have remained of the boilerplate-level of humanity that we all believe dwells within a fair society, fled with its bags fully-packed and during his future wanderings, Grissom would occasionally visit the memory of that day and struggle to understand why he did what he did under that cloudless sky and in that deserted yard so long ago. As the summer sun had reached its summit and reminded the boy -who'd been left on Finnegan's doorstep when he had been nought-but a baby, that food became available at this time of the day, Grissom had covered the lifeless body of Alice with the unwanted rubbish of the place he called home and climbed back out of the arboraceous culvert. You see, he was hungry. .................................................. Even the crunching sounds of the wet settling stones of the causeway failed to abrogate the beetle's repining voice in his head and as Grissom dolefully carried the two large empty pails across the narrow aisle dividing Alkali Bight, the question reverberated once more. To his left, dark shapes squirmed in the shallow waters and just like the slimy Horse-eels that revel in the trifling tidal changes, the wriggling bug called Alice haunted his own kind of mental anchorage. Grissom now ceded that he'd he'd violated a universal standard, a pact that forbids such behaviour. But -he'd sometimes offer to the buzzing utterance in his head, it was merely a societal-contract he hadn't understood at the time. So was it the Finnegans' fault or a dark unknown inheritance from a woman who laid a sleeping baby on a doorstep? Who can say. Reaching the shore of the mainland and aiming his slovenly gait towards the little stream among the Mangle trees, Grissom somehow took a strange type of solace that Ma Vittie had never asked that question currently quarrying in the godforsaken void above his dull eyes. "Is there something wrong with you?" RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-15-2023 All-in-all and considering Peggy Powler's solitary overnight stay and eventual clandestine incursion onto Ma Vittie's house, the sight of a huge beast bearing two long teeth sticking out of each side of its mouth and wallowing on the beach only ten Fae steps away from where the Witch stood, wasn't such a wonderment as some might think. The Pyxis was safely in her satchel and Finley Bucca's pepper box was now sitting in the dusty footprint where the sacred box had been neglected since it washed ashore. Now a flabby giant of the depths had decided to subvert a perfectly-designed plan of allowing Peggy to get back to the mainland and considering she hadn't eaten for a whole day, this seemed a perfect time to release a spell of majick or two. "Get yersel' back in the watter, yer' big daft bugger'..." the focus of the walrus' interest sharply advised as she pulled her big hat lower to avoid the sun's glare from the Great Sea. Peggy had become accustomed to the dark umbra in Ma Vittie's ramshackle abode and now the world seem all-too bright. "...Me-time is limited and Ah'm in nay mood te' caper wiv' a whiskered monster" she growled and slowly lifted her finger to prepare the charm. But as the leather-skinned monstrosity offered a strangely articulated bark, Peggy stayed her motion and suddenly had an idea. Glancing down at her lengthening shadow, the Last Witch of Underhill approximated that the big man would be returning from his ritual of water-gathering and it wouldn't be long before he appeared at Ma Vittie's home to fill her barrel. Licking her lips with qualms of her idea, Peggy closed her eyes and slowly reached into her bag. .................................................. Slipping off her poncho and stuffing it into the donated waterproof bag, the stripped sorceress glanced over into the shadowy Mangle trees and hoped the owner of the sack hadn't arrived early. Being without clothes in bed was one thing, standing in the daylight without a stitch was another. Peering back from where she'd ran, Peggy chided herself for not saving the last of the pepper. The leather-skinned tusked brute was still slumped where he'd been when she first saw it, but would the friendly galoot delay the sentry? Granted, Finley's reconnaissance had persuaded them both that the big man from the causeway never wandered on this side of the island, but what about the Wolf-Dog? What if it picked up her spoor and Ma Vittie came to investigate what all the brouhaha was about? With the tepid waters of Alkali Bight waiting for her entry, all Peggy could do was offer a prayer to Herne that they would never find the peaceful home of the amiable Elf. The plan had been to reverse last night's actions and whilst the tide was low -a situation that Peggy could see was becoming rapidly unstable, she'd swim back across and then tow her belongings over when she reached the safety of the tree-shrouded shore. But with every moment passing, this scheme -along with the appearance of the tusked creature outside the house, was also quickly unravelling. With a hiss of her favourite word, the nude warlock placed a foot into the out-flowing waters and began to paddle. .................................................. Martha Vittie knew this part of her journey to and from the frollis-pinching grocer was the most difficult. It seemed that one of the parents of Grissom's dog -probably the male, was part-fish due to the stupid mutt's predilection to pull her and her cart into the water of either side of the causeway. Seeing its tongue-lolling head twist right in the frayed bridle, the rotund woman yanked hard on the reins and cussed a volley of insults to remind the cur who was in charge. What possible interest the shaggy mongrel could have with contents of the quickly-filling bay, she just couldn't fathom. A far as she knew, Grissom didn't even feed it fish. As the wet stones of the causeway yielded once more to the eternal tide, Grissom's mundane task of Aquarius had taken an unusual turn. In order to furnish the bombastic woman -who fed him he had to remind himself, with fresh water, the reserved man who's solitary life had always been more than just simple, had now rediscovered external factors can -and will, disrupt such a unruffled continuance. The particular element of Grissom's faltering to execute his chore had long teeth on either side of its mouth and barked. "Can't you do one thing I tell you to do?" Martha Vittie shouted as she drew her carriage to a halt and lumbered from her creaking perch to enlighten the dullard standing in her way on the turn of the shingled track. However, just as she reached the larger man holding two buckets in order to ingeminate her beliefs regarding the males of her species, Ma Vittie caught sight of the possible reason Grissom had failed to undertake his duty. .................................................. The taste of salt was beginning to get to her and the tiring Witch could see that for every stroke she took towards the mainland, the cursed tide was quietly moving her out into the Great Sea. Peggy felt the cord bound to her ankle pull and she knew she had to make a decision on whether to release the string and possibly recover the bag on the other end at another time or pull it in and hope it remains buoyant. The former would mean she would be without her clothes, satchel and the item she'd first came to the west coast for, the latter could mean a lethal anchor that would drag her down into the dark-green water she was now floating in. Spluttering against the waves, the little bobbing necromancer spotted Finley's impermeable pouch slowly lean over and drop into the rapidly-filling bay. Flicking her wet hair away from her face, Peggy chanced a smile for the Fates who solved her selection. "Ah'... Ah thank thee" she whispered with briny lips and wondered if the same gamblers of circumstance would provide her with a friendly fish to carry her to safety, not a dead one like she'd earlier lobbed towards the chunky critter with the big tusks. With her aching arms beginning to flail instead of dragging water behind her, Peggy's mirth was becoming diluted and feeling the immense power of being in the Great Sea, she wondered when panic would come seeping into her mind. This didn't look good. RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-16-2023 Ma Vittie took control of the situation, just like like all those who could handle command and strode forward to banish the humongous brute from her island. After coldly instructing the doltish-looking Grissom to calm his thrashing frenzied furry Wolf-Dog before the howling hound crashed her only mode of travel into her precariously-built house, the big woman waddled forward to deliver her mettled malediction on the goofy overweight leviathan who'd chosen her beach as a place to procrastinate. The sun caused the beastie's large shadow to darken the shingle where Ma Vittie stood defiant and after a long locution involving slurs of the animal's gender, questioning its acumen and suggesting possible hazards of the flabby intruder if it remained on the pebbled-beach, the target of her poison-dripping admonitory simply barked once and lumbered its vast body as it turned away from the situation. There was no fish on offer and so there was no reason to stick around. With smile of triumph, Martha Vittie placed her hands on her wide hips and copied the walrus' action. The only difference was that the elephantine monster of the deep had caught sight of something interesting some distance from the out-going bay, whilst the reclusive woman observed two buckets of spilled water reuniting with its saline progenitor and her overgrown scruffy sentinel standing beside the drooling mutt and holding the vestiges of a broken cartwheel. .................................................. With her body weakening against the increasingly strong waves, Peggy Powler clung to the floating sack attached to her ankle and seriously considered the next few moments may be her last. The exiting tide from Alkali Bight had done its job and pushed the little naked Witch out to sea, now that same cold and hungry enchantress waited for her many journeys to finally come to an end. It had been a long and telling road for the Last Witch of Underhill. From the days of growing up in the travelling Carnival and her teachings from her drunken fortune-telling mother relaying astute exhortations beneath the billowing canvas of her marquee to a quiet Elf's bed hidden beneath warm sands. The multitude of humans, Fae and heinous villains that Peggy had encountered during her strange adventures were too many to number, but the cloistered passage had woven an interesting tapestry. Had Accam Dey really survived his brawl with the Gandy-Padfoot for Puddledown's safety...? Would she ever get to see Sarah Bowe's daughter over in deserts around Fellowstone? Would Peggy's name ever be mentioned when the wealthy old-timers discuss the history of the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race? Myrddin will undoubtedly mourn her passing and Peggy mused sadly as her obstinate gaze began to sink beneath the waters that the greatest of Magicians might gaze out to sea when the light gets low and... A large cracked silhouette began to emanate from the depths immediately below the barely-conscious and bare-assed spell-binder. Feeling the leathery surface of whatever sea-monster had arrived to devour her, the little Witch's survival instincts awoke and seeing the huge body break the choppy surface, Peggy grabbed for the wrinkled peel and gathered one good breath before the unknown behemoth took her down into Davey Jones' locker. However, there wasn't to be a noble departing of Calder's Way's regular user, nor a dramatic last tragic glance towards the clear blue sky by a heroic champion and defender of peasantry under a caliginous boot-heel of the latest Demon. Nope... not today, not when the enormous saviour of buck-naked Witches reminded his rider of who he was. This stunted statement came in the form of a deformed bark and spitting out most of the Great Sea from her salt-puckered lips, Peggy answered with her usual comment. It began with 'B' too. RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - BIAD - 01-18-2023 It was a routine that Peggy Powler felt reluctant to foresake due to the contentment it brought to her on many levels. The little Witch's day would begin with draining the residue from the previous night's dreamless congress with the Sandman by shivering beneath a handcrafted contraption that poured seawater down on Peggy's body. But with a pull of a rope, this do-it-yourself cloudburst would cease and leave its latest customer feeling replenished ready for might lay ahead. Drying herself, Peggy would often smile to herself as she mused on how her innovative host had been busy during her convalescence and how rarely mentioned his inspirations during their late-evening suppers. After a hearty breakfast, she would sit near Finley Bucca's garden and absorb the natural healing of just allowing the world to move on around her. Industrious Rabbits would constantly scurry around the Elf's willow-palisade and look for ways of breaching the barrier between them and their herbaceous goal. Finley would sometimes sit with her and puffing his brume of tobacco into the late-summer air, he'd repeat his assurance that he had buried his twig-woven enclosure deep enough into the soil that the bunnies would never defile his vegetable patch. With a friendly warning from her occasional bed-warmer that noon would find a plate of his homegrown produce ready for consumption, the Last Witch of Underhill would test her aching muscles and amble down to the sandy beach where the huge tusked creature had deposited the naked unconscious theurgist a few days ago. Ma Vittie's island was still the same and no investigation had occurred since Peggy had retrieved the Pyxis of The Pact and escaped without being noticed. Sometimes, towards the end of the warm days, the Wolf-Dog could be seen doing its patrol and occasionally barking at a passing Horse-eel. But all-in-all, the little Witch's mission had gone off without exposure and Myrddin's request had been fulfilled. Keeping close to the Mangle trees that followed the beach northwards, Peggy would gaze out from beneath her wide -brimmed bonnet at the Great Sea and wonder what the capacious creature with the long tusks was doing right now. The sunset tainted the indifferent waves with its bloody incandescence as she mused on her craggy-vellumed saviour and recalling her current host's account, puzzled on why the walrus hadn't hung around. Finley had found her slumped in the sand with his waterproof sack attempting to further its adventures out among the waves. Only the length of twine tied to Peggy's leg prevented such an endeavour. Gathering the unconscious Witch's floating baggage, the little Elf had carried her over his shoulder and tended to her in his subterranean home until she'd roused in the early hours of the next morning. Finley was still at a loss on how his guest had travelled so far from the lagoon -even when taking into consideration the robust currents that regularly effected Alkali Bight, but the remark of a benign monster from the depths rescuing the floundering thaumaturge he'd simply put down to the mind struggling to deal with the harrowing situation. Preparing a supper of blackbird eggs, a helping of fried potatoes with a side-order of beans, the genial humming Sidhe came to the conclusion that he should just let it be. Some things are meant to be left alone. .................................................. Epilogue. That day came and was noted by a light scattering of leaves carried on the breeze from the forest. Peggy Powler sat in her usual place beneath the pocket-sized window of Finley's home and watched the first telling that Autumn was just around the corner. She knew her journey to the Wizard's home on the east coast would be dusted with odd events that surely would involve her interaction and breathing deeply through her nose, the cogitating Witch accepted that her road was constructed this way due to who she was. The small box holding the Glamour Grimoire was safe again and whatever diabolical spells lay within, would continue their dormancy and the world would continue to turn. The Elf's vegetable patch was looking a little sparse too, a sign that Finley had grasped the idea that the warmer days were behind them now. The blazing fire-hearth belonging to the amicable man with hairy ears and ash-smudge waistcoat would be a worthy memory to hang to -Peggy thought as she waited for the owner of that toe-warmer to appear from his morning chores, the cold places she would find be laying head will need such a comforting recollection the little half-Fae wagered as she adjusting her hat. Finley stepped out of the door and tapped the remains from his pipe on the window ledge. "The swallows are gathering on the branch, my friend and I've heard it said Witch's feet always itch to find another path" he said with a slightly-sad smile on his summer-tanned face. "It's not going to be same around here" was a more-mumbled comment that Peggy guessed was an affirmation to himself than the little woman getting up off the dried-out tree stump. "Aye, yon trail beckons, but yer' accommodation whispers just as loud fur' me te' hang about for a while longer" she parried with a note of genuine heartache. Peggy loved the place and had a soft-spot for its squire, nobody came here and in time, the wandering Witch would be forgotten. She and Finley could fade away and see out their years among the Mangle trees with nought but the rabbits to worry about. But what he'd said was inescapable, there would be a day when the un-shoed extremities Peggy peered down at would begin to yearn for a bramble-strewn lane or an overgrown willow grove to walk down and the lugubrious conjurer of charms wouldn't be able to resist their calls. Destiny-doomed Myrddin had once labelled it. They hugged for a long time and with a light kiss on her cheek, Finley whispered "Fair travels, Peggy... and watch yourself out there among the world" Stuttering a breath and feeling the need to weep, the poncho-wearing creditor of the warning turned away from a highly-ranked possibility for a home for weary witches and fed the feet that couldn't stay still. Somewhere out in choppy waters of the Great Sea, a walrus drifts towards whatever the tides and weather deem. Its fluidic course is rarely set and no compass can ensure a cherished destination. Resettling the strap of her satchel onto her shoulder, Peggy Powler nodded once to show her corroboration that the Fates of unfathomable sortilege moved many chess pieces for reasons beyond most folk's comprehension and on rare occasions, the buggers collide. The End. RE: Peggy Powler & The Ma Vittie Incident. - VioletDove - 01-18-2023 I enjoyed every second of this  Although you had me worried for a minute! Thank you for another amazing story