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.
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.
Read The TV Guide, yer' don't need a TV.