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