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