Peggy Powler & The Willowsgate Werewolf

[BIAD]

When the residents of Willowsgate finally superseded Father Martin's advice and agreed that when the next Midnight Mail
Rider came to their little piece of heaven, any message for a particular type of assistance must hold the caveat that funding
would only be provided after positive results.

The gaunt balding man in the dog-collar had dramatically raised his arms in the act of exacerbated capitulation and warned
his twenty-or-so flock that answers to their current woes will draw all sorts of charlatans to their snowed-in quiet village of
wealthy citizens. Although, the reverend hadn't quite worded that way.

But to inspirit the despondent preacher, the small group of men, women and children did allow that benediction would still
be warranted, but added whatever had killed young Joshua Cutler, Miles Brandreth's milkmaid and two of Percy Pumice's
best oxen needed something a little more trenchant than mere praying.

In his candle-lit nave smelling of freshly-sawn wood, Father Martin finally renounced his remonstrations, blessed his sated
parishioners and watched them file out into the dark graveyard. It seemed to the priest that even though he'd hadn't given
it utterance during their after-prayers discussion -to the adherents of the new religion, the old ways still contained the more
appropriate ordnance of solving matters they believed were supernatural.

On that chilly snowy winter's night of their shared decision, the tiny affluent hamlet of twelve families collectively sighed
with relief as they left the newly-built church and made their way to their respective homes. A smiling Arthur Thurgood
wished his fellow pious followers a safe evening and went about herding his wife and boy towards their recently renovated
cottage.

With a vigilant gaze and a hope that things would get better around here, the grey-haired retired businessman returned to
the introspections that had fluttered quietly in the back of his mind whilst the preacher and his gathering had talked. It had
taken Arthur a long time before fully buying into Elsa's idea of a tranquil lifestyle in such hedonistic a place to see out their
days, but he'd accepted her wisdom and quickly learned that his wife's wants for her man would require him to step up in
the area of social etiquette.

Willowsgate was certainly different from the unpolished thorps where he'd made his money and those he'd just wished an
easy sleep to would never positively appreciate the blue-collar demeanour of the men who'd worked under him. They were
his sort, they spoke his language and he always felt comfortable in their presence. But he'd found that here in the village,
such people of the labouring classes were articulated to in a certain aspect that always rankled Arthur and if it hadn't been
for his better-half's dream of bettering their family, he'd have used a particular dialect that his fellow-proletarians would've
appreciated.

The old Lamplighter appeared from the gloomy alleyway between Martha's Fabric Emporium and one of the two Dry-Goods
Store in Willowsgate and with all of his might, Arthur steeled his heart and only afforded a nod to acknowledge the fellow's
tug of his cap. Apparently, there were borders now and he needed to learn them.

Under the swaying flickering oil-lanterns adorning the stone-surfaced road leading towards the far-end of the village's square,
the once-owner of four large saw-mill companies -and a major contributor to their new chapel, continued his ponderance of
his family's choice to live here among the well-to-do. It was Elsa who had steered the Good Ship Thurgood to where he and
his loved ones currently compressed the drifting results of this morning's blizzard and if it hadn't been for the slayings, Arthur
would have to concede it was his wife's fortitude that had brought them to this would-be safe harbour.

Peering into the silent darkness as they walked, the narrow-shouldered man wondered if the maritime metaphor would stretch
to the term 'Here There Be Monsters'. Fondly patting his son on the shoulder, Arthur decided to change his stream of thought
to a less unnerving theme and wander in the subject that had bothered him since moving here from Bootle Mills.

Thurgood had sworn to himself that if asked, he'd admit he had come from a working-class background -although he'd never
dare to openly confess this to his neighbours without the correct provocation. He'd worked hard to better himself in the purse
and in his deportment with a verve he'd acquired from his late-father.

He'd become -what he guessed his peers would deem successful and if it hadn't been for the woman swishing snow from the
hem of her long dress ahead of him, Arthur knew he would only be rich instead of rich and happy. He also knew now which
eating-irons to use and with assistance from Elsa, his cussing had been curbed to nothing more than a gasp of exasperation.

The snow-covered lane to their restored abode held no such illumination afforded to the main boulevard in Willowsgate and
as the Thurgood family blemished the white surface between the borders of bough-heavy rhododendrons, Arthur continued his
leery watchfulness of the silent shadows. Something was out there picking off the rich people of the fairly-remote community
and hurrying on home, Arthur wondered who these well-heeled notables would acquire to fix their dilemma.

[BIAD]

It had been almost a month before the snowstorm and Father Martin's church debate, when the eminent ex-magistrate
Benjamin Stoddard found the stale remains of Joshua Cutler. A mild winter's day and a hopefully milder walk through
his leafless orchard with his dog Banjo had been his morning agenda preceding a hearty breakfast and then an quiet
afternoon of writing his memoirs.

Alas, the former Judge -who'd moved to Willowsgate from Gaynestown five summers ago, would discover a different
type of authority that performs its own style of chastisement for unsaid transgressions. After vomiting up last night's
supper onto the frost-kissed grass of his fruit grove, the aged adjudicator had realised through a kaleidoscope of tears
that the torn-up offspring of Miles Cutler must have sought escape from his attacker by attempting to climb one of the
apple trees.

With ribs and spine exposed within the ice-sprinkled dried gore, Ben Stoddard could see that the unknown assailant had
reached its victim before such an ascent had occurred. Wiping his mouth and forcing his heaving to ease, Ben recalled
what he knew about the dead body on his property.

Joshua Cutler had been an impatient lad, enjoyed the trappings of his father's wealth and was known for being one for the
ladies when he went messing around in the fishing village of Durridge. Judge Stoddard had seen the rebellious teenager
several times there when he and his wife enjoyed a few days on the coast at his sister's place. A large manor set away
from the boorish inhabitants and an ideal overlook of the quaint littoral.

Calling Banjo to heel, the eighty year-old hurried back to his home to alert his fellow Willowsgate neighbours. Maybe this
time they'd listen to him and form a committee to generate some sort of official enforcement of law. However, during his
rushed mission beneath the undraped branches of the Druidic legend, he bridled his wish to delight in dark thoughts that
faintly called to the usually well-principled side of his brain.

Young Cutler's habit of spooning with uncultured damsels of the quayside had been in a manner not promotive with his
mother's part-time vocation. Margot Cutler was the sexton of their newly-constructed church and breathed religion like air.
Now, her once-boastful and libertine son was just an excavated tatterdemalion scarecrow alone in an orchard without fruit.
Was this the outcome of delinquent reprehensible behaviour and an extreme form of punishment...? Benjamin Stoddard
sucked down cold air and left the latent cold courtroom of a killer and the question unanswered
.................................................................

In a more everyday cogent account of an incident, it would be accepted that when the discovery of Agnes Campion's body
was made, it would be by one of her peers, maybe a stable-hand or the supervisor of the small farmstead. So when the
middle son of Giles Brandreth -Saul, spotted in the dying light of the day, a strange shape lying next to the horse trough,
any narrative often fixates on the impact of trauma on the seventeen year-old and the reason why he was out there near
the servants quarters gets lost among in the emotive cascade that customarily follows.

Saul Brandreth is a likeable juvenile and his parents believed his future would be a rosy-one if steered correctly. Giles had
already spoken to some acclaimed solicitors out at West Wansford with intent that the lad would move to the large town
and learn the practice of attorney-at-law. Jessica Brandreth had often mused that in this proper environment, her son would
take a wife suitable of her family's standing and the Brandreth dynasty would be fortified.

However, there was an unchartered variable that the confident squire of many small-holdings and his pretentious Missus
were unaware of, that being the lustful relationship his son and a milkmaid employed at the Brandreth's extravagant villa
were pursuing most evenings. Usually in the loft above where the cows were relieved.

One might suggest some of the fortunate denizens of Willowsgate would find it hard to believe Miles Brandreth was big
on homegrown foods, but it's true. During his early years and in his travels around his many properties, those who leased
or rented from him had always been surprised when he showed his gratitude to being asked in sitting down to a meal with
them and accepting whatever they gave him.

When it came time to retire from his field of trade due to a heart complaint, one of Miles' first wishes was to have a small
farm where he could procure such eatables. This included a small herd of milking cows and someone to gather their dairy.

With his libidinous yearnings ghosting away in the fading light, Saul now stared down at his first love and couldn't believe
such a gentle and affectionate girl could produce so much blood. A more detached person may have suggested this was
due to Agnes Campion's major organs being violently ripped out. Constables from Gaynestown were dispatched and had
scoured the surroundings of the Brandreth estate for a killer without success. A Doctor emerita from Willowsgate arrived
not long after and had treated the anguished teenager.

As the dawn had broken over the landscaped setting of the Brandreth home, Doctor Sawyer -still in his pyjamas under
his coat, advised plenty of peace and quiet for Saul to a red-eyed mother who'd recently discovered her son liked to romp
with the help. Tonight, as the husband's horse-drawn cart trundled along the snow-covered from the church to her imposing
home, a chary Jessica Brandreth stared out into the cold darkness and wondered who would come to make all this badness
go away.

[BIAD]

From where Piggs Wheeler often chopped his firewood and occasionally dispatched one of the many hogs he kept,
a small woman in a big hat stood beside the block of hard maple and resisted the need to caress the handle of the
axe embedded into it. Peggy Powler felt a little awkward as she theatrically surveyed the clearing in the forest and
ignored the naked humming man washing in a metal tub that had once been a feeding-trough for his pigs.

At last, Sarah Wheeler appeared from the door of their ramshackle home with a mug of something steaming and
showing the faux features of exasperation for husband in the dented bath, she approached the little Witch who'd
used her man's assistance to rid the section of Calder's Way that led to the nearby village of Ridley Mill.

"He's over the moon with yer' gift, Miss Powler..." the red-cheeked young girl murmured softly as she handed over
the hot stoup of acorn coffee. "...It takes me all me-time to get him to wash his neck, never mind his whole body"
she added and straightened her apron that had seen better days.

Peggy grinned back and glanced at the happy fellow sloshing about in his dirty water. A large brick of wood ash
and buttercup-oil soap was his wife's suggested reward for helping her fight the phenomena known by the locals
as 'The Hairy Hands' and Piggs Wheeler had been an integral part of succeeding in the operation. The owner and
sole stockman of the county's largest herd of domesticated swine had earned it, even if his foaming accolade had
been proposed by the frizzy-haired woman who birthed his five children.

"Ah gotta' thank yer' fur' this..." Piggs called to the Last Witch of Underhill and for a moment, it looked like the
sinewy man was about to stand up in the tub, but Sarah quickly moved to block Peggy's view and to urge her
man to stay in his grey-water stew. "...Me-Missus won't be able te' keep her hands off me now Ah'm shiny as
a babby's backside" he joked and then the merriment left his face as his wife scolded him for being too forward.

With a bucket of water poured over his head to rinse the lather and dowse his buffoonery, Piggs Wheeler went
back to poorly-humming a melody of his childhood and purging the gunk from between his toes. Oh, and by the
way, since meeting the amiable hog-breeder, Peggy never got to know what Piggs' real first-name was and that
was fine by her. It was the actions of the man, not the man -himself that counts, the bare-footed spellbinder had
always held as a credo. Something the great Wizard Myrddin had ingrained into his pupil from the very start.

Sarah returned to stand beside the chopping-block and gave their guest nervous looks and supported her agitation
with a case of fidgets. Peggy adjusted the strap of her satchel on her shoulder and knew what the young mother
was bothered about. "Eh, if yer' have chores te' do lass, Ah'm about te' get me-self away and Ah think yer' fella's
happy as a pig in shi -in mud..." the necromancer said and looked towards the dirt-track that would take her from
the forest and find Calder's Way. "...And Ah' think there's dark tasks waitin' fur' me up the road" she appended
-perhaps to herself more than the woman in the dirt-smudged lace bonnet.

The little Witch was about to bring her attention back to the strange family living in the tree-cleared glade when
something caught her eye. The shadow was big as a horse, but wider and as it stepped closer, Peggy noticed
two huge tusks jutting from either side of its head. Branches and saplings cracked loudly in its lumbering passage
and for a moment, the wide-eyed sorceress lifted her hand to cast a spell.

"Eh Bugger-lugs!" Piggs Wheeler shouted and thankfully grabbing his greased-stained cap to hide his modesty,
jumped out of the tub and walked quickly to the massive hairy form snuffling beneath a tree-stump. "Now get yer
big ass back te' yer ladies..." the naked man warned and pointed back towards the trees with his freshly-acquired
bar of soap. The grizzled boar's eyes flickered and then the thick neck twisted its slab of a head in the vicinity of
the directing limb and it was then that Peggy Powler realised the pig-drover's mistake.
.................................................................

Canny Culpepper rode his horse into the clearing just as Piggs Wheeler apologised again for the male leader of
his forest-dwelling herd eating her present. It took a lot for Peggy not to burst out laughing as she nodded during
the nude-man's contrition and it was only due to the Midnight Mail Rider's appearance that saved her giggling
bursting forth.

"You'll be Peggy Powler?" Canny asked from his tall roan mare and somewhere on the other side of the veil,
the Witch's Fates tossed their dice. "Aye, that's me" the bantam spell-worker replied and waited for the usual
blather about her next undertaking.

[BIAD]

Could there be a link between a milker of cows being killed and the two oxen found disemboweled behind Percy Pumice's
barn? This was the question Peggy Powler juggled under her wide-brimmed hat as she clung to the body of Canny Culpepper
during their bumpy ride through the night. Both involved bovine, but the victims were of different species.

The jostled conjurer arrived at the outcome that outdoor availability was a major factor that joined the three deaths an
this consequence would need to be visited again.

Another less-intriguing poser was why the Midnight Mail Rider carried no official satchels attached to his saddle. Culpepper's
hurried journey had no reason without packages and letters to deliver unless there was someone powerful enough to overide
the normal authority of the postal service. Keeping her low breathing in cadence with the mare's hooves on the snow-slushed
sea-stones of Calder's Way, the little spell-weaver wondered if rich folks were involved and that could mean another interplay
with the cult some call the new religion.

Turning off the acclaimed thoroughfare for a snow-covered track between two lines of neatly-clipped Hornbeam hedge, Peggy
could just make out in the darkness large houses set away from the route they were taking. Soaring shingled towers pointed
to the early-morning winter sky with decorative dormer windows reflecting the last stars of the night.

Long snow-cleared paths of gravel snaked from high gates of iron to tall porchways guarded with stone pillars. A thatched
structure that resembled a yeoman's cottage loomed through the topiaried-bushes and gave Peggy a moment of hope, but
she glimpsed large extended rooms on its flanks and her initial assumptions returned.

Peeking around the elbow of her driver, the little weary Witch spotted illumination up ahead and considering the hour, her
belief strengthened. Lanterns being kept burning through the sleeping hours meant affluence and that equated to people
who believed were above her station. "Bugger" Peggy hissed into the rush of air and holding tightly to her hat, went back
to her make-believe cubbyhole of Culpepper's back.
.................................................................

Main street had made an effort to emulate the surfaces of Calder's Way and standing alone beneath the oil-lamps, Peggy
Powler's breath smoked in the silence of the cobbled square Canny Culpepper had informed her was called Willowsgate.
The receding sounds of the Midnight Mail Rider's mount had gone and surveying her surroundings, she could see that the
snow was still here in some parts, but traffic of both feet and carriage had pushed it to the stone gutters.

This particular service of draining liquid away from the street enforced the solitary sorceress' conclusion that wealth was
abundant in this village, an aspect that Peggy knew would have a bearing on how she conducted whatever casting-out
was required.

It was still early enough that farmers would be still scratching their hairy backsides beneath their quilts and hell-bent on not
opening their eyes. No robins had begun their winter ballads or initiated their quiet rustling of leaves for that unlucky grub.
Just for these few flickers of a candle's flame, Willowsgate and its latest guest were sisters. One had a tricky killer prowling
its arteries, the other carried the medicine to dissolve the poison. The next step was to find what kind of venom it was.
.................................................................

Although the adjustment of light only slightly improved as the morning moved along, Peggy abandoned the streets of
Willowsgate for the shadows she knew best. The woodland around the village offered little in the manner of Fae, but it
didn't take too long before she recognised the secret signs left by those her unknown father belonged to. Humans merely
saw snapped twigs and vague scuffs in leaf-litter, the Last Witch of Underhill saw covert directions and advice signals.

Noon came and with it, the ambling spell-worker identified a faint snow-spattered disorderly track disappearing beneath
a large bramble bush and continuing towards a large raised mound embellished with rotted logs from a long ago storm.
"Whey, it's about time" Peggy muttered to herself and beagn to follow the trail.
.................................................................

Tully Knapweed leaned closer to his eminent guest across the table from the old Elf and dramatically moved the candlestick
to one side. "Thee should take notice of what I say, warlock..." he said in his slow deep tone, "...yon village is no place for
such as thee and a shrewd lady like yourself would do better by leaving them to their own devices".

The burrow beneath the fallen timber had none of the trappings of Elf homes Peggy had recently encountered. the smell of
cold damp soil was everywhere and only the basics of fae-living in underground abodes were the table and two chairs they
currently used. Tully Knapweed seemed to believe any form of comfort tainted one's character and from his earlier diatribe,
Peggy deduced mixing with humans would also produce such failings.

With thick clumps of hair exploding from his large ears and complimented by eyebrows that gave Tully a perpetual mask of
churlishness, the Elf smouldered his narrow-eyed gaze towards the Witch who'd found his den. There was no clock to mark
the silence between them or a steaming kettle demanding to leave the flame, Peggy kept her voice low as her host as she
asked her question again. "So, do yer' knaw what's been doin' the killin' around here then?".

Tully Knapweed allowed a hiss of vexation to escape his lips as he slowly stood up in the small and gloomy excuse for a
home, the stone-faced sorceress knew what was coming next and wondered if her visit had been a total waste of time.
The majority of Fae tended to avoid the humans and looked on them as a species that had strayed from the natural path.
But outright acrimony was exceptional due to almost non-existent interactions with them.

Peggy sized-up the situation and gambled that an anecdote from Knapweed was waiting in the wings, a narrative where the
injured party was an Elf and those who looked like the people of Willowsgate were the transgressors. It was then when the
little Witch's imaginary croupier called her a winner.

"When I was just a..." Tully began and stopped when he saw Peggy get up and walked towards the door. Her unshod gait
told more of her opinion on the veteran Elf than words could purvey and for evidence, his usual angry features melted away
instantly. "Now eh, lass... all I'm saying is you should stay with your own, that's all" he reiterated weakly and saw daylight
suddenly flood into his home from the open door.

The woman in the poncho was almost at where she'd first found the path to Tully Knapweed's underground home before his
voice came again. "It's... it's a Wulpos..." he croaked begrudgingly in the cold air "...and a sly one too" the Elf added. A slight
movement of the Witch's hat indicated she'd heard the old grouch, but she moved off without another word.

Wulpos was old high-speak of the venerable Fae Elders and was rarely spoken anymore, but Peggy had heard the ancient
language uttered before. Her time with Myrddin hadn't been fully taken up with learning spells and performing majick, the
history of how the world had been created, what swam in the Great Sea and what walked on the land had also been told
by the distinguished Wizard.

Wulpos meant Werewolf.

[BIAD]

With the warmth from the crackling fire below radiating into the strange eight-sided room above -added with the large
cushion she currently sat on, Peggy Powler slid easily down into a slumber she sorely required. The man called Arthur
Thurgood was no longer with her, he had seen the tired features of his guest and used the weak excuse of taking some
empty crockery away, a task he could've performed at any time.

The large rat-cheese sandwich and tankard of beer had been well received and the few suggestions that Arthur Thurgood
had offered also had been taken onboard. This invader had left no clues that the Gaynestown Police could find and there
own recommendation was that a mad dog might be at large and the wealthy residents should just stay indoors until the
spring arrives. Mister Thurgood -who asked Peggy if she would call him Arthur, believed the killings held a retaliatory-type
of modus operandi, a reason behind the mayhem -as he had put it.

"I'll take it that your journey here left you with little time to sleep..." Arthur had said as he peered out of the window facing
the stark copse at the side of his property. This lookout-like room seemed out of place for a well-born gent and his family
to spend their sunset days, but Peggy's host wasn't cut from such cloth and even though he attempted to hide his roots,
the little woman soaking in the warmth and her recent meal knew he was a man who was at home with those of a lower
class. "Aye, yer' reet there Mister... Arthur, that Calder's Way can take it out of yer' not just by bruisin' yer' backside, but
by keepin' yer awake" the spell-worker agreed and resisted to wipe crumbs form her poncho onto the wooden floor.

There was a comfortable silence between them for a while before the man with the workman's hands walked to one of
the shelves between the windows and told his guest he needed to see to some chores. Peggy smiled and accepted his
real reason was that her red-rimmed eyes told him she was exhausted and picking up the plate and flagon, he quietly
left down the narrow staircase in the centre of the octagonal room. Breathing slowly in her comfortable position, the
little Witch fell asleep.
.................................................................

After leaving the partisan Tully Knapweed to his own devices, the Last Witch of Underhill had found the track back into
Willowsgate and instead of heading for the church or the village square to announce her arrival, the sight of the renovated
cottage through the tall hedgerow tickled her thoughts as she pondered how to set about solving this mystery.

All the other homes looked a little too pretentious for Peggy's liking and she believed the sight of a bare-footed woman
carrying a bag and ambling up any of these fancy entryways would not help in seeking relevant information and probably
result in a hurried spell to deter ravenous dogs released from their kennels. No, the plain path to the bonnie cottage was
the answer -she abdicated and maybe a chat with some of the help that worked there

The wide wings that had been added onto the once-homestead building were identical except for the stretch of rooms that
faced the forest that threatened to seep into the spaces between the respective properties. Peggy realised it was one of
these wooded avenues she had sauntered into when she'd discovered Knapweed's home and possibly one the corridors
of travel for whatever had shaken the affluent neighbourhood of Willowsgate.

To all intents and purposes, this pretty cottage had a guard tower. A multi-sided belfry with windows and designed so that
it didn't look to out of place with the rest of the residence. The shingles matched those on the roof of the main house along
with the walls and approaching the high oak door of the home, this wooden minaret disappeared from Peggy's view.
It was only after a cautious lady in a long gown of expensive material had answered the necromancer's knock and the fast
appearance of her husband to allay his wife's doubts on who the scruffy visitor was, did the full understanding of why such
a strange add-on to the home had been constructed.

Arthur Thurgood had seen his new guest when the little figure had first stepped onto the road from the woodlot across from
his house. Eating her fare, Peggy had listened as the easy-going fellow in attire that seemed to struggle to look comfortable
on him, offered his reason why he'd built such a turret. Some might say that Arthur should've curbed his private perception
of how he and Willowsgate were not quite on the same page in regards of societal-settings and others could've suggested
it was possibly too-adventurous for intimate revelations to be so easily to a stranger. But like-finds-like says Peggy Powler
and Arthur's confession was from the heart, another factor that warmed her as she snoozed.
.................................................................

It was dark outside when Peggy's eyes opened, but the wavering flame of a candlestick on one of the shelves gave enough
illumination to show that Arthur Thurgood had returned during her repose. A large bowl of warm water and a some cloths
lay on the floor close to where the stairs descended. The Witch corrected herself as she smacked her dry lips from her
sleep. The materials were towels, people in homes like this one used towels to dry themselves and hence, the reason for
the small cousin of Piggs Wheeler's metal porringer.

If what Tully Knapweed had said was true, a fiendish Wulpos might be -at that very moment in a tall tree nearby, gazing
over at an undressed figure washing herself in a weird tower stuck on a cottage. But briskly drying herself and donning her
weathered poncho, that now-refreshed warlock would strongly advise said-voyeur to be on its guard for a nemesis has come
to Willowsgate and she didn't give a bugger about its feelings.

[BIAD]

Arthur Thurgood looked down at the woman beside him and cupped his hands to blow warm air onto his chilled fingers.
"I was stood here when Percy Pumice found the pair of dead bullocks" he murmured as he came to the conclusion that
his pockets would be better for his numbed digits. He and Peggy had enjoyed a slightly hurried -but hearty breakfast at
the table of the Thurgood household and this was where Peggy Powler had discovered Arthur's spouse's name.

Elsa Thurgood was a prim-and-proper woman, who was hesitant to have such a strange commoner under her roof as a
guest, but deep down she knew the little female sitting on a chair to big for her was one of her husband's kind. It was
obvious to the once-dark-haired lady in the high-collared dress during the meal and could see this in the manner they
chatted about the latest murders. Arthur would pose a question without his usual emasculated tone -a style that he
had slowly picked-up since coming to Willowsgate, and the dowdy-looking chewing woman would respond without
looking up from her plate of eggs and bacon.

After hearing that Miss Powler would be visiting the site of the cattle killings, her husband had merely mentioned that
he would accompany the little Witch and the strength of character she'd married fifteen summers ago was blatant for
her to see.

At first, Elsa would admit that she felt slightly left out of her husband's macabre interest in the slayings, but her fellow
citizens of Willowsgate had agreed that such terrible -seemingly supernatural crimes, required someone who swam
those types of waters. The ravenous woman scoffing down her breakfast across the table seemed to be that kind as
well as a person with similar breeding to her husband. If the culprit could be found and the village could get back to
normal again, then it was a small price to pay if Arthur consorted with a wandering specimen of the people they'd
left behind.
.................................................................

"I can tell you Miss Powler, I've never seen anything like it my life" Arthur added and watched the little female stoop
under one of the corral fence boards. Peggy hunkered down on the frost-infused blood-dark soil and carefully tugged
her poncho down to save Arthur's blushes. It was an old death scene and the analytical augurer guessed the maladroit
constabulary of Gaynestown had already ransacked the area for clues. Large boot prints abound the setting and here
and there, earth had been disturbed by their investigations.

The Last Witch of Underhill twisted her features in frustration and was about to rise from the wintry site when her eyes
caught sight of the wooden post where her kind host was standing. To even the most inquisitive of humans, it would've
been neglected as mere weathered scratches in the gnarled upright, but for the kneeling spell-binder, she recognised a
signature when she saw one.

"Ah' think yer' got yer'self a Werewolf..." Peggy croaked and looked up at the man who struggled with his social standing,
"...And Ah' think he's a crafty bugger -at that" she continued and stood to her full height. Arthur Thurgood's Adam's-apple
bobbed and as his new-found friend traversed the corral's fence, he began to warily survey the snow-scudded landscape
around him.
.................................................................

A parliament of rooks noisily made their way to whatever feeding grounds they'd agreed upon above the uneven couple
as they walked towards the church on the edge of Willowsgate. The new day was still young, but had matured enough
that the title of 'mid-morning' would be a fair eponym to call it in this neck-of-the-woods. Absently noticing there was
no lychgate to check for twisted sixpences, Witch-bottles or other superstitious trinkets to rebuff supposedly-baneful
wizards and warlocks, the unshod thaumaturge stepped onto the gravel path that lead to her Arthur Thurgood's place
of prayer.

It seemed to be traditional in the new religion to have dead people decorate the premises of where they worshipped
and as Peggy peered about the clipped-grassed area slowly ousting the last of the blizzard's snow, there were only
six grave markers and one of them was recently erected. The stoic sorceress said nothing, but she wondered where
the milkmaid had been buried. Elm trees flanked the open lawn where the deceased slept and the woman under the
big hat could imagine that in warmer weather, it would be a nice place for children to frolic. Of course, adoration to
to a divine being requires sedate huddling and not squealing young scions running around and being happy with their
world.

A round face peeked from the little window of the half-brick-half-wooden building and with past interactions with the
priests of this persuasion, Peggy wagered whoever it was watching their approach was in a room known as a vestry.
Smooth cemented boulders made up the skirt of the church and -though he hadn't mentioned it yet, Arthur Thurgood's
donation of prepared spruce and pine had brought the structure to a reasonable height. Last summer, the congregation
had enthusiastically agreed a spire was required to enhance the chapel and now a wooden tower pointed up to where
the rooks passed over.

Arriving at the tall door of oak, a balding figure suddenly appeared and in black garments decked with a white collar.
With a quick audit of the man's attire, the little Witch waited for the usual acerbic reception she received when she
encountered the Elders of this faith in the past. Father Theodore Martin stopped the couple in their tracks and offered
the smaller of his morning visitors a glare of fairly-composed revulsion. "Here now..." he growled "...we cannot have
the likes of her setting foot into a holy place, Mister Thurgood. This is consecrated ground and such unprincipled folk
sully the very tenets of our religion".

Peggy slowly removed her wide-brimmed hat, smiled up at the vainglorious vicar and replied "Can Ah' ask yer' summit'
Mister Priest,  does yer' congregation know about yer' takin' sup of the magic wine yer' keep in yer' vestry?"
If it hadn't been for the distant caws of the hungry rooks, the graveyard of the elite would've been silent.

[BIAD]

A brooding Father Theodore Martin grudgingly handed two metal goblets of cold water over to his pair of unwanted guests
and prepared his statement regarding the strange deaths in Willowsgate and his dubiousness of having one of the lowborn
superstitious kind look into the murders. Just having this Powler woman sitting here on the recently-purchased benches of
the nave -he believed, was not only disrespectful of the Lord's house, but could even tarnish the confidence of those who
worshipped here if news got out that he was actually entertaining the prudence of someone who still clung to the old ways.

The chagrined priest straightened his smock whilst silently conjured with the idea of washing that particular part of the pew
when the couple left. Arthur Thurgood toted nondescript features on his face as he waited for the clergyman's rendition, but
Father Martin knew that beneath that lank hair of the scruffy barefooted heathen sitting beside him, an unpleasant vein of
cogitation swam in black waters of paganistic maliciousness. Keeping his smouldering gaze firmly on Arthur Thurgood, the
piqued priest related what he knew about the killings and hopefully, rendered an outline of how adhering to his faith would
bring about a positive outcome.

"There is -we all know, an evil still running amok in the land..." Father Martin began, "...but beasts that our gracious Lord
gave us to dwell in the forests often portray such heinous acts that we consider as evil, but in fact are nothing more than
their natural way of living. But there are times when man will deliberately dip his hands into the diverse pools of sinfulness
and wallow in a depravity often endorsed by so-called faiths of those we inherited this world from".

With an impassive glance towards Peggy Powler, he continued. "I believe that a simple animal of the field and woodland
has been sullied by its instinctive hunger-lust during the fallow season and took to attacking these two poor unfortunates.
However, when the Lord delivers our summer, I dare postulate such abhorrent deeds will vanish and the good people of
Willowsgate can once again return to our worship and mode of alimentation that we all enjoy".

With that, Father Martin breathed out slowly and surveyed his two-person audience for any signs of influence. He knew
words delivered with great ardor and with the correct amount of self-possession, could douse the fears of a congregation
and create a parental-style of trust between a deficient-believer and his church.

Arthur Thurgood nodded and was about to say something when the little head-shaking Witch placed the untouched cup
of water on the seat, discreetly dropped to the herringbone tiles of the nave and prepared to leave. "Ah thank yer' fur' the
drink, Mister Martin, but yer' divna' ken what yer' talkin' about..." Peggy said without looking up at the puffed-up balding
preacher.

Ignoring the dried drips of wine on his shoes that had informed her of his private imbibing, the bantam-sized necromancer
stepped out onto the centre aisle and sullenly ambled to where she believed the atmosphere was less pretentious. "...Ah' can
tell thee fella, out there is a beastie that disna' fall into yer' convenient nooks of simple animals and yer' can be sure nay
amount of yer' prayin' or grape-watter will sate this fiend's hunger" she called as she approached the door and fished a
large floppy hat from her shoulder-borne satchel.

Father Martin feigned a gasp and spat the words he'd been wanting to say since setting eyes on the unpolished wench.
He enjoyed the way it raced from his tongue and if any of his adherents had ceded to such a craving, he'd have called a
sin. "Heathen Witch!" and the words echoed in the empty hall, the crass disbelieving visitor had been named, the harlot
of transgress was branded for all to see. However, Father Martin's limelight suddenly dulled when Arthur Thurgood stood
up and turned towards where the priest's assumed-nemesis waited. "I'll get the door, Peggy" he said and swiftly left the
bench and the misanthropic shepherd of Willowsgate's flock.
.................................................................

"It isn't going too well, is it?" Arthur said despondently as he eyed the irked necromancer amble over to the corner of the
church. With the pair leaving the recent inflamed temperature inside the house of worship, it seemed the late-morning
was attempting to emulate the fevered altercation by warming up the field that doubled as a cemetery. With a lonesome
robin warbling its forlorn aria, Peggy scanned the elm and elderberry bush-lined perimeter until her eyes landed upon a
single carved piece of timber sunk into the ground near the end of the chapel's property.

Agnes Campion had been laid to rest in what the Last Witch of Underhill would consider to be Potter's Corner, a place
where those who serve the more-powerful are interred separately from their pecunious employers. Slowly shaking her
head, Peggy decided that the best fashion of getting away from this association of difference was to run the Wulpos
to ground as quickly as possible and get back on the sea-cobbled highway she knew well.

"The Cutler kid... where was he found?" she asked the tolerant man waiting on the damp path to his church and was
surprised when his calloused finger pointed towards the grave of the dead milkmaid. "Judge Stoddard's orchard is just
beyond those bushes" Arthur replied and countered the spell-binder's mild nonplus when he saw her walk towards him
instead of the direction he had indicated.

"Yer' a good man, Arthur Thurgood , but bein' here wiv' me could unsettle yer' standing in Willowsgate..." Peggy said
softly. "...Maybe a canny fella would think of his family at this time and let me crack-on wiv'out yer help? Remember,
you live here and Ah'll be on me-way whe..." But before the pint-sized theurgist could finish her sympathetic warning,
the Arthur suddenly set-off on a trajectory he'd early pointed to. "There's a gap in the bushes just this way and if we're
quick, we might catch the Judge during his morning constitutional" he said eagerly over his shoulder.

"Yer a bugger, Arthur Thurgood..." the grinning wizard said under her breath, "...but the reet-sort of bugger" and hurried
to catch up with one of her kind.

[BIAD]

Well yes, it was technically a gap in the bushes at the rear of Willowsgate's church premises. But due to infrequent use,
poncho-snarling bramble vines demanded Arthur Thurgood to find something more captivating with his eyes as Peggy
Powler wrestled through the thorny tentacles. "Gerroff yer' blasted bast... yer' buggers!" the writhing spell-worker cursed
to herself as she eventually pulled away from the tangled brier and reset her snagged apparel. "Sorry about that" the Last
Witch of Underhill murmured humbly in her receding fluster and followed the retired saw-mill owner's current undertaking
of surveying their next area of investigation.

The orchard was of course barren of leaves and fruit at this time of the year, yet the little necromancer couldn't help but
immediately think that man-made fruit plantations didn't count as true orchards. Neat rows of stark, pared-down trees
standing in a sheep or goat-grazed grove had always felt contradictory to Peggy as her wanderings would occasionally
allow her to discover hidden wild fruit groves with abundant yields that contained the true taste of nature.

Still, we all have our opinions and so standing beside the only man in Willowsgate the bare-footed outremer believed
was close to her social-caste, she forgo mentioning her pessimistic thoughts of drupe-farming born from involuntarily
showing her lack of underwear and just asked where Joshua Cutler's body had been discovered.

Arthur narrowed his eyelids for a moment and then sighed softly. He hadn't actually seen the young man's torn-up torso
after it was discovered, but later had visited Judge Stoddard and the old man had vaguely pointed to where he and his
dog Banjo had found Cutler's remains. "I think it was over that way" Arthur said into the cold air of noon and copied the
action of the honourable owner of the orchard and indicated the general location of the killing.

Known as the fruit that were fed to the Gods grew old and a remedy to colour the cheeks of the dead when a blossom
is placed in their coffins, the strict rows of apple trees seemed more sentry-like than the affectionate craobhs legends
often painted them as. Peggy's mind idly recalled the titles of the various types of apple that counties would use and to
boost her spirits from her recent encounter with the pompous priest and the barbed octopus of the bushes, the ambling
augurer genially wondered when 'Powler's Pom' would be sold in marketplaces.

One saving grace was Stoddard's design of the orchard and it met the scrutinising sorceress' approval. The old ways of
planting fruit trees involved the quincunx method, where one sapling is planted in the centre of four others. Even though
the retired Judge's orchard looked regimental and in a line, Peggy could see that with every step across the snow-melted
turf, the rows of apple trees seemed to be radiating away from the viewer.

"This Judge-fella knows his apples" the small woman under the wide-brimmed hat quipped to her taller partner and then
noticed the falter in his step. Old-man Stoddard might be able to set the odd-looking trespassers to the correct location
for Wassailing, but Arthur Thurgood wasn't sure of the locale of where the wealthy young rascal had met his end. Luckily
for the man who liked to work with his wood and had backed Peggy earlier at Father Martin's church, the approaching
shambling shape and his dog might hold the answer.
.................................................................

If Peggy Powler's prior mood was still with around from her encounter at Father Martin's domain, the little spellbinder
may have caustically remarked that Miles and Margot Cutler's son endured a style of crucifixion on the lower boughs
of the stunted apple tree. However, she didn't believe her small audience of the old magistrate, his constant-roving,
grass-sniffing hound and her nervous companion would appreciate such dark commentary. Instead, Peggy listened
to the conservative umpire of justice's account of his grisly discovery and eyed the scene of the crime.

"The boys-in-blue from Gaynestown -after examining the whole orchard, initially suggested the culprit was Banjo..." he
said in his thick low monotone and an ambiguous wave towards his restless dog. If the respectable Benjamin Stoddard
had emotions, he kept them deep in his his barrel chest and the thick overcoat he wore. "...They found paw prints almost
everywhere and it wasn't until I reminded them that this orchard belonged to myself and a place where I regularly walked
my trusty-tyke, did they come to their conclusion a hungry wolf had somehow penetrated the environs of Willowsgate"
he appended with a subdued chortle.

Arthur Thurgood peered up into the bare sprigs of the apple tree and the dirty-grey sky. It had been some time since the
murder had taken place and the recent blizzard had taken care of most of the blood-soaked soil. But still, his tower of
solitude felt awful tempting to be at right now than here in this forsaken grove of an atrocity. "Maybe their proposed wolf
has moved on?" Arthur suggested and just before Peggy was to toss her consort a glance of surprised puzzlement, she
realised he was attempting to draw other clues from the old man wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"My boy, I recall from previous judicial cases in my past that a wolf wouldn't dissect a body in such an upright position
and allow itself to be so vulnerable in such an open place..." Stoddard growled with smoky incredulity. The sequestered
referee held a habit of assuming everybody he interacted with were aware of what he believed were facts. "...It became
obvious to me later that the Cutler-boy's arms were jammed between the branches -not because his executioner caught
him in the act of climbing the tree, but because such a gruesome pose would spawn a greater preponderance of fear"
he advised his fellow resident of Willowsgate and the pocket-sized peasant who seemingly couldn't afford shoes.

Peggy peered into the red-rimmed eyes of the orchard-owner with the runny-nose and attempted to pick his brains.
If Benjamin Stoddard knew that whatever had performed these slayings had the acumen to propagate dread from the
herd it was preying on, he must be aware that such a verdict would severely limit what that 'whatever' might be. It was
at that moment when the ex-Judge leaned over to the presumed-provincial in the shoddy poncho and acrimoniously
whispered "You've got yourself a monster, my dear-girl".

[BIAD]

That very night after meeting with retired Judge, Peggy Powler had consulted with Arthur Thurgood in his warm turret of
safety and produced of what she considered was her first failure of that day. That shortcoming came in the shape of not
being able to convince her cordial -but adamant host to remain home whilst she prowled the woods behind the affluent
houses of his neighbours.

After a welcomed hot mug of tea and a sandwich delivered by a smiling woman in an apron, the first servant the grateful
magician had seen in the Thurgood household, spoke of her concerns regarding Arthur's reputation during and after her
time in Willowsgate. "...Ah'm just thinkin' of yer' position in yer' community, Mister Thurgood..." the little Witch continued
with all the seriousness she could muster. "...The verity is that these folks expect me te' do what Ah' do because of the
way they see me. You and yer' family belong te' this crowd and it could bring a blemish that might stay wiv' yer' for some
time" she explained.

With the heat from the embers in the fireplace below, the candle-lit room seemed to endorse the necromancer's words with
its own alluring amenity to stay and yet, Arthur's steel of resolute stood unyielding against the woman's advice. "Look, I
don't care about that now, my money and my wife's need to better our child's future brought us here, but me as a person
still harks from where I came from" he answered without taking his eyes from Peggy's earnest face. The candle flickered
once and the man with the creaking knees rose from his seat to look out into the darkness at the window added "and please...
call me Arthur".

The Last Witch of Underhill sighed and felt she had trampled on the man's tenaciousness enough, her chosen calling
was to expel the unnatural things that prowled the night and she knew no set of rules would assist in such supernatural
missions. If Arthur was willing to threaten his own safety and add anguish to his kin in order to bring this Wulpos down,
who was she to demand she held a monopoly on such a quest. "Whey, yer' a stubbon bugger, Ah'll giver yer' that" she
replied with a tone that lightened the air in the room.

Settling herself in the rocking-chair she'd fallen asleep in the night before, the Last Witch of Underhill moved onto the
what she'd observed at the Cutler murder-scene. With old Ben Stoddard's tiresomeness condescendence alluding that
the short female in his company may not being capable in understanding the ghastly effects of such a butchering beast
visiting the temperate bailiwick of Willowsgate, Peggy had almost missed the clue.

Maybe it was due to her height that she saw it or maybe it was that she'd concluded there was little requirement to focus
on the retired Judge's bombastic blather, but standing there in the chilly orchard, Peggy's eyes had covertly scoured the
tree's surface on the off-chance her earlier hunch had been correct. Nodding along to Stoddard's valueless rhetoric, she
stared down at the crude emblem scratched into the bark where the apple tree met the exposed soil. Feigning the need
to ease an itch on her bare ankle, Peggy leaned slightly and examined her find.

The design was the same as the scrapes on Percy Pumice's corral post and resisting the urge to caress the cold  skin of
the tree, Peggy surmised the clawed motif was an ancient one that she strove to recall from her time of reading Myrddin's
books. However, no image of her earlier education surfaced, but she felt confident that at some point in the breakdown of
the Werewolf's elusive practices, it would be meaningful.

"What would a wild animal know about old calligraphy?..." Arthur asked now that his guest's attention was focused on
something more constructive the situation. Peggy lifted the brim of her hat and raised her highbrows, "That's a grand
question me-lad..." she whispered huskily, "... Maybe yon beast went te' one of yer' schools" she added enigmatically.
.................................................................

"Well Arthur..." the small shadow standing beside the man blowing warmth into his hands asked, "are yer' havin' second
thoughts on comin' out tonight?" The denuded backwoods that encompassed most of Willowsgate still held the ability
to halt any light to enter their vicinity and even though a pale moon occasionally poked through the high clouds, Arthur's
wide eyes still toiled to vaguely make out where he and his inquiring companion were. Before he was to relate his belief
of their location, he felt the little Witch's question should be answered in a manner she'd appreciate.

"Bugger off" he hissed jocularly from the side of his mouth and jammed his hands into the pockets of the stout coat his
wife had bought him at Yuletide. Peggy smiled in the darkness and went back to ruminating on the etched character
the Wulpos had left for them. An imprecise three-sided outline with a V-shape pointing downwards in the centre of
the diagram, she'd seen it somewhere, but the answer gibbered mockingly away from her recall and left her feeling
perplexed. Breathing out her mental exasperation, Peggy mused on the title that Tully Knapweed had branded the
creature when she'd first came to Willowsgate.

The term Wulpos derived from the old high-speak of 'wolf-skinned' or 'furred-wolf', a name that severed any connection
to the real animal that still inhabited most the land. Peggy knew of the so-called legends surrounding the origins of a
Werewolf and these village-stemmed fragments of superstitious nonsense usually leaned on explaining the lineage
of such a creature. An imprudent man or woman is bitten by a Werewolf and transforms into the based beast their
parents had warned them about. Under a full-moon, these cursed outcasts would wander the forests and watch warily
for a hunter bearing a silver-tipped bolt on his crossbow.

But a Wulpos was different, such metamorphosis stemmed from a compliance from a victim. Peggy recalled that some
of the old Wizard's tomes had referred to particular rituals and rites to summon such evil upon oneself and even though
the majority of the residents of Willowsgate certainly held the financial means to seek out these long-forgotten esoteric
sacraments, the little Witch seriously doubted they would place their comfortable lifestyles in such jeopardy.

No, the Witch thought as she and Arthur arrived close to Miles Brandreth's large estate, who-or-whatever had purposely
left the gouged sign at Pumice's small-holding and Stoddard's orchard was not only aware of the dread it was creating
in the village, it was enjoying itself with the daring tactic of advertising its essence to whomever could read its discreetly
camouflaged signature.

"The Campion lassie was killed here" Arthur said softly in the cold air and watched Peggy pass by him to look for the
teasing Wulpos' trademark. Eyeing the lanternlight in the many windows of Brandreth's big house, the nervous and
chilled man followed in his plucky preacher of the old ways.

[BIAD]

With the ever-faithful flame flickering from her thumb, Peggy Powler examined the area where Agnes Campion had met
her death. Arthur Thurgood marvelled at the strange trick until the crouching conjurer warned him to keep an eye on the
mansion and the servant's quarters. The Last Witch of Underhill envisioned the affluent owner had dogs on the property
and though a couple of savage hounds racing towards her wouldn't be a problem, but for the shivering man standing on
the other side of the roughly-shaped rectangular trough, it might augment to circumstances she could do without at the
moment.

With a quick scan of the immediate vicinity, the eye-squinting sorceress failed to locate a place where -if her theory was
to hold true, any Wulpos-orientated graffiti could be displayed. There was a shape some distance away from where the
milkmaid had unwittingly donated her major organs and stepping across the snow-slushed grass, Peggy realised the
dark lump were some prone fenceposts laid forgotten and rotting. With a dubious browse, the snooping shaman came
to the conclusion the crumbling timber wouldn't be appropriate for the Werewolf to leave its mysterious mark.

Returning to her original place of investigation, Peggy stepped over a couple of discarded lengths of well-worn carved
wood and focused her observations on the walls of the milking-shed. They were of old over-baked brick and hadn't been
afforded a mortar-veneer. The water-manger had been constructed from hewn stone and metal bands, another craggy
surface that offered a difficult medium to discreetly display any scratched brand.

Peggy's twisted mouth hinted at her thought-process as she sought the large volumes of multifarious behaviours humans
often attempted to keep hidden for numerous reasons. In this case, a milkmaid had been eviscerated between her usual
place of work and a trough. Wiping the smeared dirt from her knees as the shadowed sorceress stood to her full height,
none of this was making sense unless Agnes Campion was here on this spot for a reason.

Why would yer' be here...? Peggy mentally asked the dead girl and hearing no response in the cold darkness, she closed
the space between herself and her jumpy sentinel watching everything with wide eyes. "Tell me Arthur, who found the poor
lassie?" the wily Witch whispered as she peeked around the corner of the milking parlour. There were two lights glowing
from the large mansion and due to the position of one of them, the pair of sneaky investigators knew the Brandreths were
retiring for the night. Arthur didn't comment on the land-owner's wise choice of slumber, but instead, answered the little
woman's question.

"It was Miles' son who discovered the milkmaid..." Arthur replied and peered down at the impassive shadow beneath the
large hat. "...he said he was going for an evening stroll when he inadvertently came across the horrible sight of one of his
father's servants" he added quickly. It seemed to Peggy that her shivering sidekick was more interested in an imaginary
torch-carrying search party coming their way than their current fact-finding foray.

"An evenin' walk on a cold night...? Divn' yer' think that's a bit queer?" she asked as she snuffed out her thumb-flame and
glanced back to survey the immediate scene of the crime. Arthur shrugged -although whether the perturbed conveyor of
spells saw his physical feedback, he didn't know. "She was a bonnie... she was a pretty young lady too..." he offered as
apology for his lack of out-of-the-box speculation.

Peggy sighed and then her lips tightened slightly in a knowing smile as her own cerebral cogitation of human practices
bubbled-up the idea that the location would be an ideal spot where someone -for unknown reasons, could meet another
without without a concern of being seen by both the occupants of the main house and the servant's quarters too. So now
we have a teenage boy, a young woman and a secluded haunt where nobody could observe such a rendezvous.

The smirking sorceress patted Arthur Thurgood on the arm and felt him flinch at the movement, "The young couple were
courtin' -if yer' get me-drift" Peggy hissed softly and though the wide brim of her headwear hid her features, she winked
at her taller companion and stepped forward to walk around the corner of the milk-parlour.
.................................................................

"You can't be sure they came in here..." Arthur whispered as he peered around in the animal-smelling building. "...It's
a bit of a leap to suggest Saul was having a... a dalliance with one the servants and think this place would be their
kissing-location" he added as he unknowingly avoided a shovel-missed assemblage of dung. Peggy Powler afired her
thumb once more and ignoring the tipped-over wooden bucket and three-legged milking stool, she went to examining
the muck-marks on the wooden stairs that led to above.

"Aye, Ah' get where' yer' comin' from, Arthur..." she responded softly, "...but Ah' think these young'uns' were doin' more
than just kissin'" the little Witch joshed as she ascended into the pitch-black escalier. The loft's shadows fled from the
creeping conjurer's flame as she stepped onto the old floorboards of the attic and even though it would seem an unusual
site to display one's affections, a large flattened pile of hay on the far-side of the dusty garret hinted that maybe the milk
-heavy cows below often waited to be emptied as their female attendant focused on a more urgent need.

Above the spider-webbed eaves, cracked clay-cooked tiles displayed an eerie pantomime of shadow-creatures as the
bare-footed intruder moved the flickering beacon on her thumb around in the crepuscular confines of the loft. Apart
from the stack of compacted straw, there was nothing else that told of use.

"They were up here..." Peggy said to herself more than the man who was now moving off the creaking staircase. "...The
pair of 'em would greet each other near the water-trough, check that no bugger was watchin' for an upper-cruster meetin'
a commoner and then sneak up here te' vent their love" she appended as she scoured the floor and walls for the mark of
the Wulpos.

Once more, she almost missed it and it was only due to a faint draught of air emanating through a narrow slit that farm
pigeons often use to nest in a place out of the weather. Ignoring the cold night-waft endeavouring to extinguish Peggy's
magical candle, the nosy necromancer leaned close to web-strewn channel and there on the left-hand side wall of this
dove-opening, a trinity of gashes formed the same shape the little warlock had seen at the other crime scenes.

However, the two earthward lines rendered in the earlier Wulpos insignia were missing and this sent Peggy's ruminations
into further bouts of study. "It looks like yer' Mister Werewolf didn't get te' write his stamp on his murder-ground properly"
she remarked mockingly and pulled back to where Arthur stood looking wistfully down at the depressed hay. "They were
lovers" he sighed and moved his sad eyes to the small poncho-wearing woman inspecting his demeanour.

Peggy nodded and touched his arm as she walked back towards the stairs. "Either the spoor as changed or the bugger
was interrupted in his scrawl" she murmured and heard Arthur's heavier footfalls on the steps behind her. Descending
back to the cow byre, her melancholy partner mumbled something she didn't hear and it was only when they'd stealthily
made it back to the trough, did he expound on his question.
.................................................................

"When I was just a child, I got hear all the usual yarns about Bogeymen, Bloodsuckers and Werewolves..." Arthur said.
"...My good mother used to tell me that out there in the big-bad-dark, men could become wild animals and scour the night
looking for reprehensible kids to devour" he added with a nostalgic smile. Peggy's attention was again on the outbuilding
and by the tilt of her hat, her questioning cohort could see her interest now lay above them where the dark pigeon-hole
appeared in the wall.

"Aye, Yer' Ma had more sense than most, Arthur" she said absently and began to take a couple of paces backwards from
where the narrator was standing. Ignoring her weird actions, Arthur continued with his long-winded query. "Well, I was told
that the Werewolf was a savage, wild, barbarous thing that shunned human-thinking and adhered to the deficient deceit of
the creatures from the forest" he stated and then delivered his challenge for his misunderstanding. "So how is it you think
such a feral wolf-man would consciously leave obscure clues at the scenes of its crimes?"

Peggy's shoulders began to quiver and in the gloom before the Witching hour and Arthur couldn't see that she was stifling
a gust of laughter as she held a piece of wood she'd picked up. It would be only later when they'd warmed themselves with
a midnight brew of coffee and disturbed the dying embers of the fire hearth below the Thurgood rampart, did she explain
the differences between the stereotypical view of a Werewolf and their current quarry, a Wulpos.

But for now, the little sorceress' mirth captured Arthur's attention and hitching back her giggles between the words, Peggy
snickered "Don't yer' see...? Oh Herne... the ladder broke...! He never had the time to scribble his daub!" and with that,
grabbed her friend's hands and began to jig.

[BIAD]

During the ride to Willowsgate, Peggy Powler had juggled with an idea that there may have been a design between the
killing of the farmer's livestock and the servant girl called Agnes. The bumped-about little Witch hanging on for dear-life
to Canny Culpepper's waist had always enjoyed a penchant for searching for a significance of two different events having
a link that other may deem tenuous.

Madame Powler had often reminded her growing daughter that attempting to think as those around you think, can bring
rewards others fail to even excavate for. It was schooling entirely different form the style most children experienced, the
Carnival was young Peggy's academy and the lessons -at times, could be harsh. The men and women who travelled the
dusty trails from one village to another were strange to an outsider, they were wrongly-shaped, behaved in manners that
disproportionate to those who purchased a ticket and yet beneath those billowing marquees, visitors wallowed in a world
where magical moments breathed their trembling flame of wonder back to life.

Now sitting back in Arthur Thurgood's rocking-chair as another cold dawn awaited to break, the Last Witch of Underhill's
sleepy mind returned to those teachings and browsed the recitations of a drunken fortune-teller who was cursed to see
the futures of others for every moment of her life.

If someone performed a deed, one can be certain that it was carried out for a reason and it was this motive that would
unlock the mystery of what she'd spoken to Arthur about when they'd returned to his darkened house and its tower of
his making. Elsa Thurgood had not stayed up to wait for her husband and Peggy knew there'd be a price to pay for the
man who's spouse steered him with love and the hopes of betterment.

Happy to be in out of the cold night, Arthur had revived the dying fire below his lofty haven and disappeared to the kitchen
to boil some hot coffee, whilst the tired necromancer had plodded up the stairs and practically collapsed into the rocker she
currently resided in.

Midnight had just struck on a clock somewhere in the Thurgood household when Peggy began to tell her tale regarding
Wulpos and Werewolves. It would only be after her listener had retired to bed and she -herself, had willingly fell into the
embrace of the Sandman and carried with her the question of connections.
.................................................................

It's an old tale known by those who exist in the realms of majick. But like most yarns, it got lost along the way.

Before man had made his first mistake and crawled out of the subterranean cavern that had protected them from all that
stalks the night and gibbers from the darkness, there'd been entirely different races of semi-humans that abided together
known as the Fae, the Wose, Phalladan and the Anakim. There were giants in the earth then and somewould later call
them the Nephilim, although this title was mainly for those Anakim who dwelt in the barren lands to the south.

The Anakim tended to steer clear of the other races due to their inability to access certain mental forces that others who
shared the land with them could utilise. They were tall, tree-tops brushed their waists as they walked and the wild animals
of the forests fled in terror from their all-crushing strides.

The greatest of these giants was Mellifor, a brave warrior and the supposed father of countless children from the Anakim
females he had acquired during a century-long inter-tribal war that almost devastated the world. Yet all he had, the famous
necklaces they wore, the heads of his enemies adorning his tent and the females who served him, it just wasn't enough.

Crying out to the Gods, Mellifor demanded he should have the powers the Fae possess, the keen senses of the Wose and
the wisdom the Phalladan enjoyed. So for forty days and forty nights he raged at the heavens for his needs, until the giant
-of-giants eventually misjudged his position in the order of life. Mellifor threatened the Old Ones that if such exigencies were
not given before the night stole his notorious shadow from the soil, he would gather his powerful forces, bring the Gods low
and rule in their place.

When the darkness came and no gifts were given, a great wailing was heard from the tents around his Mellifor's palatial
home. Forest creatures and those who reside with them shivered in fear from the cries and running to see what pathosis
had stricken his kin, Mellifor carried the famous Lantern of Emim, which was fashioned from the skull of the Kraken.

Rending the first canvas apart, he saw that his fellow-champions had compressed down to Wose-size and bore fur liken
to the beasts of the wood. The scurrying blighted of nature bayed in terror at the illumination from the lamp and Mellifor
realised whatever fearlessness his warriors were renown for had left them with the daylight he had aggrandised in.

The next marquee held his harem and his children, again the harrowing sight the Giant gazed upon was of misery and
despair, wolf-like faces stared morosely at their master and Mellifor could see through tears of wretchedness that his
family and people had paid the price for his portentous howling to the Gods.

With one more glance at his ill-fated results, an ashamed Mellifor fled and left the cursed of his rantings to their destiny.
The illustrious colossus went on to create more tales that mothers -both human and Fae, would tell their children around
the fire-hearth and some may recall that the giant now lays asleep not far from the Isle of Murdigon.

But the deific-donated poison he had given to his children would cause them to shun those they shared the forests with
and only roam the land at night. Over time, they became the coarse beasts they resembled and due to another part of
their affliction cast down on them in payment of their leader's pride, the ability to reproduce left them.

However, the Old Ones were not entirely absent of mercy. These 'were-people' who had become 'we-are-wolves' carried
with them the a different type of bane to continue their ilk. A single bite from a Werewolf can transfer the lupine-penalty
that a certain giant called down from those who know better. That is the tale of the Werewolf.
.................................................................

When it comes chronicling the Wulpos, the story is thankfully a little shorter. Other tales of Peggy Powler mentions the
little woman's tutor, Myrddin. One dare not suggest how old the great magician is, but even he will not have been around
when the first Wulpos was formed. Yet it was within the same service of spell-making and potion-fabricating that Myrddin
would later venture, such a being was born.

His name was Francis Wulpos and was what they call in the business a Nagial, a talented magician who avidly sought
the faculty to change animal forms. This odd classification of majick had been rarely investigated by those of note in the
invocation community and outright shunned by Witches and Magicians alike. Yet Wulpos strove to find the elusive key
to transform one creature into another and hence, we get the name.

Some respected Magi later said it was due to combining evil charms and poor syllabary that caused the well-esteemed
alchemist to conjure up the thing that later escaped his funded-establishment. This added with the fact that he foolishly
and regularly tested his cutting edge elixirs before reviews from his peers, could be seen as a recipe where something
was certain to go wrong.

Others leaned on Wulpos' wish to drag the arcane hermetic disciplines of wizardry into a marriage with an unusual and
novel practice labeled 'the state of knowing', a method Wulpos vulgarised with the word 'science'. And maybe this is a
truth, those who believe their place is at the prow of the ship rarely look to the tiller and certainly take little notice of their
wake.

For many years, he toiled on the terminator of white majick and the difficult work of therianthropy. His costly industry
required monies and this was provided by a wealthy benefactor who's name faded lost in time. Shapeshifting -the essence
of therianthropy, can be preformed with certain charms and rare minerals and under very strict conditions, but this type
of spell-working is dangerous as it calls to the mystic realms where a researcher can find what he hopes for is not quite
what he actually acquires.

For Francis Wulpos, the night that Father Theodore Martin annually prepares for with holly and good tidings, would find
a avant-garde academic sweating in a room of a roaring kiln and discarded books took a large stride of experimentation
that would forever change the rules regarding the esoteric voyage into the Dark Arts and set loose a disorder that even
the best of Wizards would struggle to later contain.

The same priest who would ask his congregation to sing carols on that chilly winter solstice morning would brand the
creature that appeared in Wulpos' large glass flask a Demon. The dark-blue stone it sat on was a Lupis lazulia, a rare
aggregate Francis' donor had brought him from a distant land. The experiment had failed twice and it was only when
he'd angrily tossed two grapes from a nearby bowl into the corked demijohn and chant his charms, did the alchemy
begin to function.

Needless to say in his euphoria, Wulpos raced out to announce his discovery of a ethereal being that showed the signs
of awareness and leaving the gaseous malignant imp trapped behind the glass beaker, footprints of an elated sorcerer
tracked across the snow-covered square from his room to the Halls of Thaumaturgy and could be seen by those who
heard his jubilation.

However, when those elderly pedagogues of prestidigitation arrived to observe his findings, the Demon was gone and
the only evidence something occurred in Francis' chamber of disarray was a cracked container rolling slowly back and
forth on the floor with a strange emblem engraved on its fractured surface.
No spiteful phantasm and no cerulean pebble of unknown origin.

By the time the first birthday of Wulpos' uncalculated creation came around, his escaped effervescent courier of evil
and the stone that had given it existence, had found a new home and the story continues from there.

But the tale ends -Peggy Powler would initially believe, when Myrddin's Elders destroyed the blue stone and cast the
grains to the four winds. The vindictive translucent Demon...? it was presumed to be lost to the same gusts until the
same poncho-wearing Witch saw peculiar gouges on a fence post and mentally frowned at the long-dead magician
called Francis Wulpos.

[BIAD]

Peggy Powler nodded during Arthur Thurgood's exposition of why it might be prudent for him not to accompany his little
guest this morning, although the retired business-owner could have shortened his excuse by just saying wife had ordered
him to stay at home. Peggy didn't mind -in fact, she preferred being on her own during her wanderings, the Last Witch of
Underhill held the rarity of being able to bridge the world Arthur and his family appreciated and the realm of the Fae.

Now leaving the snow-free path of Arthur's home and the fidgety owner of walkway, Peggy wondered if today would see
her stepping over to that domain of those who avoided the state where she currently resided. Everything that she had seen
pointed to the Willowsgate killer being a demon-possessed individual known from her time with Myrddin as a Wulpos.

The taunting signs, the planned comportment of a astute calculator and an area Peggy had been reluctant to ponder on,
the manner of the slayings what the inner-meaning she still needed to winkle out. Nobody in Willowsgate had seen a
stranger, a shadowy figure roaming the night or even heard a rustle in a hedgerow.

Not one of the few people she'd spoken in the prosperous hamlet to had asked why the victims' organs had been removed
or whether the scenes of the murders had any bearing, nothing. If there'd been one of those gossipy-type editorial sheets
available in Willowsgate, the meditative sorceress would find it easier to believe the presumably-frightened residents were
obtaining their updates from that.
.................................................................

Arriving in the neatly-designer square, the bare-footed woman toting a weathered satchel immediately felt eyes on her
from a window below a gaudy placard announcing that this was where fine earthenware could be purchased. Most of
the communities Peggy had visited offered a boarding-house, a Post office, a Blacksmiths and sometimes a Bank, but
little Witch squinting through the smudge-free glass believed this was her first the Pot-Shop.

"Er... no vagrants here, if you please..." a voice advised from the shadow of the open doorway, "...Clementine's is not an
establishment that retails to the average passer-by" the female's utterance informed the scruffy-looking drifter in the big
hat with a tone that reinforced what Peggy had initially believed how all who lived in Willowsgate would perceive her.

She was an outsider for many reasons, she sported attire that implied she carried little numma, her raw accent belonged
with those who scythed hay in the Summer and tutted at a plough-horse's backside in the Autumn. Even the odd tinker
who might stumble upon the secluded village and chanced their wares managed to wear shoes. But Peggy's life had
always carried that cognomen and she'd learned to lug it with her like the magic bag hanging from her shoulder.

Although -the clay bowl curious conjurer of charms thought, if the voice wanted to move her on this morning, the shadowy
owner of the damning words just might discover her target isn't as average as she believes. "Ah've got te' say Ma'am, yer'
vendibles look quite nice" Peggy offered lamely and seeing a hefty shape step out into the grey light, she chided herself
for not coming-up with a better comment.

To say Clementine Holt was fat would be an understatement, even her large pendulous breasts failed to hang properly
over a sagging stomach that stretched Clementine's flowery dress. Wispy straw-coloured hair struggled to hide the
woman's scalp and what really caught Peggy's amazed eyes, were the sketched eyebrows badly drawn on her forehead.
The little Witch gazing up at the colossal body of flesh and blubber wondered if Clementine Holt was married and on the
heels of that speculation, pondered if she and her man had produced children, how they could've made them.

"All of the wares at Clementine's are for a refined taste and I would suggest the likes of yourself should seek a style of
art that caters for -shall we say, a lesser pallet?" the Holt-woman said without peering down at the threadbare outremer.
It would reflect poorly on herself and her business if any of her Willowsgate neighbours caught her talking to a passing
ruffian. "Again, move along..." the mammoth merchant began, when the objective of her dismissal wiggled her little finger.
.................................................................

"...So why didn't yer' tell the Constables from Gaynestown of what yer' saw?" Peggy asked as she browsed the glazed
pots and figurines. Clementine Holt stood beside the closed door of her boutique with the fluttering eyes of an unwitting
victim of glamour. The store was quiet and nobody had descended down the narrow staircase at the rear of the building
the bantam-sized diviner took the lack of intrusion as a sign that the fat woman had never taken a husband.

Clementine softly breathed her response and Peggy asked her to repeat it, the diminutive Witch's wiggle had been with
more verve than usual and hence, the lady who sold vases had drank deeply from the tributary of trance. "I... I thought
nobody would believe me" she said again and stared blankly at a porcelain urn bearing a blue iris on its side. Peggy
nodded and rifled through the information she had just received from the pudgy pot-seller. It wasn't much, but it added
to her small pile of clues to find the Wulpos and its vehicle.

The Holt-woman had described a hairy upright animal who -she muttered without expression, seemed to shed its coat
as it lumbered across her lawn at the back of the store. When pressed, Clementine had suddenly giggled and said that
the fleeing thing's bedraggled pelt fell down around its ankles just as the creature reached the wood-line. Once more,
Peggy nodded and without responding, left the front of the vase-emporium and searched for a door that would lead her
into Clementine's garden.
.................................................................

Bedraggled was the correct word, the hunkered-down necromancer agreed. Even though the snow had come and gone,
good fortune had remained and with it, thin bundles of a wool-like substance lay lank on the grass near the forest edge.
Clementine had suggested her late-night lawn-invader exhibited a muzzle of a dog and loped in a manner unlike any
person she'd ever seen, but this latest find brought a facet Peggy found intriguing. Her cold fingers caressed the damp
strands and a vague theory bubbled-up from her precarious pondering. This stuff is sheep's wool and that meant what
the obese trader of ceramic flower-holders observed a dog-faced human dressed in a fleece.

Standing up, Peggy's eyes narrowed as she peered into the gloom of the surrounding trees. Maybe the discarded wool
was part of a disguise and maybe the elongated snout was also a component of this veneer? Ambling back to where
the mesmerised harridan waited for her wake-up call, the meditative magician mused that the game this foxy Wulpos
was playing may have shown its hand for the first time.

[BIAD]

Following her hypnotic release of bewildered Clementine Holt, Peggy Powler left the rotund woman's establishment of
clay porringers and vases and quietly ambled down a corridor of leaf-shorn beech and alder that bordered her property.
The leaf-strewn ground showed signs of rabbit, a workman's boot and the small paw-marks of an inquisitive fox, but
no larger imprint of a fleeing upright wolf who'd lost his woollen tunic. A lonesome crow complained of the picayune
spell-worker invading his roosting place and leaving his perch still swaying, he flew off to see what smaller creatures
may have taken the option of being carrion instead of enduring the stark season around Willowsgate.

It wasn't long before Peggy passed close to Percy Pumice's farm and took the belief that he and his family may have
been the original settlers of the forest-cleared acreages that would eventually welcome a retired affluent community
wishing to find tranquility in their twilight years. The dark stain where his oxen were butchered could still be seen as
the little peripatetic sorceress neared the fence around the corral and with it, a fellow securing a loose rail with the
aid of some nails.

"Fair travels, Missie..." Farmer Pumice said around the mouthful of rusty tacks and continuing his toil, added "...If yer'
looking for work, I'm sorry to say I'm all out of frollis to pay a fair wage". The Last Witch of Underhill installed her best
greeting smile and with a straightening of her hat, stepped nearer to the man coming dangerously close to bruising his
thumb with the hammer.

"Nay me-good man, Ah' was curious of yon spatter near the post..." Peggy remarked and rubbed her hands together
to indicate the current temperature was also a subject they could blather about. "...Ah'm not from around here, but it
looks like summit' came te' a dark end there in the mud" she perked with a  glance towards his farmhouse. Farmer
Pumice's words were true in regards of low income, the cordial conjurer could see that his family home had seen
better days and she guessed the eudemonia his well-heeled neighbours daily experienced hadn't quite leaked over
to the hammering man's mode of living.

"Whey, Ah'd have thought the good-people of Willowsgate would've found it canny te' have a meat and vegetable
outlet such as yer'self te' favour their bill of fare" the poncho-attired onlooker commented and hope she'd expunged
all the mordant implications out of her words. Peggy wanted the farmer to spill his tattle to his visitor, but certainly
didn't wish indicate she was mocking him. Percy sighed, spat the few fasteners into his hand and raised a single
eyebrow to show he found one of his kind.

"Yep, there's plenty of numma over there, but it's old-money... a type of wealth that comes through from ancestors
and havin' powerful friends" he rasped tacitly. The lined face of the homesteader showed the winters that came to
Willowsgate had taken their toll and for a moment, Peggy wondered if her clue-searching guile was tasteless to
use on a regular salt-of-the-earth. However, Percy put her mind at ease when he extended his opinion on the rich
folks along the way.

"It used to be nice around here, a couple of cottages and people you could relate to..." he reminisced, "...people
who would help each other and stuck together when bad things came around to spoil this little nook of Eden".
The farmer snorted and repeated his last word, "Eden... I'm startin' to sound like pompous priest they all run to"
he hissed blackly and turned back to finish his chore. Silence sat between them for a few clobbers of Percy's
hammer before he related the information regarding the bloodstain next to the corral post.

"Before all the awful carry-on with the two kids gettin' killed, something broke into me-paddock and slaughtered
two of me-best bullocks..." Percy said miserably. "...Oh, they were all bleeding-heart from the village and that
fella' who moved his family into the old Blacksmith's cottage even told me he would help me if I needed it.
Heck, I can't recall his name, but he seemed the only decent one among them" he muttered -more to himself,
Peggy was sure, than his one-person audience listening near the scene of the ghastly crime.

Absently reaching into her enchanted satchel, Peggy listened as the farmer continued, the long sandwich she
fished out of her bag was broken in half and without halting his account, Percy Pumice took it with a nod and
spoke about the day he'd discovered more bad luck had called at his home.

"Whatever it was, ripped the cattle's livers out after it had slit their throats and then made off that way..." Percy
advised and chewing on his cheese hoagie, pointed a gnarled finger in the direction of the now-repaired fencing
and beyond that, the three-leagues away town of West Wansford. "...My best guess is it lives out somewhere
at the back of the forest, maybe even..." but at that point, Peggy resisted wiggling her finger and instead held
the hand up it was attached to.

"Hang on Mister Pumice, did yer' say the bullocks had their throats cut?" she asked and faltered in her mid-day
meal, she tugged a sloshing canteen from her majick tote. Percy enjoyed the way the bare-footed woman had
addressed him and gratefully taking the flask of water from the transient theurgist, he nodded vigorously. "Yep
Ma'am, the Gaynestown flatfoots took no notice of what I told them and just passed on their own opinions to
the mouthpiece of Willowsgate" he scorned and took a long gulp of liquid.

The little Witch stared off in deep thought to where the farmer had pointed earlier and unintentionally replied
"Aw aye, Miss Holt sure looked like a bit of a blubber-mouth". Wiping his mouth and placing the stopper into
the canteen, Percy drew his eyebrows down in a confused frown.

"Clementine Holt?!" he scoffed a little too loudly in the empty corral as he handed back the leather-swathed
container, "Heck no, her posh gob is only for stuffing food into..." he crowed and Peggy's eyes moved to where
the farmer's hand had come to rest on the cross-member he had just nailed up. As Percy Pumice unknowingly
plucked at tufts of wool from the splintered surface of the wooden plank, he corrected the little necromancer's
assumption. "...Heck, it's that fancy-pants preacher, he's the fella' who doubles as a town-crier" he informed
the woman staring wide-eyed at his recent repair.

[BIAD]

Ambling back along the way she'd arrived at the Pumice property, the denuded trees around Willowsgate offered a cheval
glass of the bantam-sized Witch's review of village's predicament. Just like the surrounding bleak weald, Peggy Powler's
sweeping surmise was fragmented due to scant facts that would help her determine a logical trail. The sorceress gazed
down at the dried leaves scattered along the path before her and reluctantly arrived at the conclusion her theory was a
flimsy theory to go with -to say the least.

The ensorcelled store-owner had earlier remarked she'd observed a woollen vestment fall onto her lawn during her cursory
night time sighting of what Clementine Holt believed was the miscreant committing these dire crimes. The damaged railing
of Percy Pumice held fibres of the same material and to Peggy, this nebulous link was more vital than just moving the
suspicion away from a Werewolf being active around Willowsgate.

Breathing her annoyance through her nose, the Last Witch of Underhill tried again to negotiate her way around the riddle
of the relevance of sporting a sheep's fleece when prowling around at night? Committing violent acts would ensure any
splash of blood would undoubtedly be absorbed by such bibulous pelage and certainly could be a tell-tale of one's route
when departing from the scene. So why wear it?

Heading vaguely towards Arthur Thurgood's home, Peggy's mind ferreted around in her mind for the answer to all of this.
The first query to ponder on would be if her main line of evidence was a Wulpos had bedevilled someone in the vicinity
and encouraged that unknown to wear a woollen covering, then where did such a lanate garment come from?

Farmer Pumice didn't keep sheep and she hadn't seen any flocks of the animals on her way to Willowsgate. The damp
tufts on Clementine's lawn still held their waxy lanolin and that meant the wool had to come directly from either a ewe
or shrubbery that may have snagged it. But that would need a lot of gathering and the reason for such strange apparel
was still elusive.

Peggy's next puzzler was the order of the killings. Joshua Cutler was the first and then the milkmaid, but if it were a
starving animal as the preacher had stated, it would all be reversed. The oxen would be the obvious initial target as
they would be deemed more accessible and offer less danger of reprisals. Progressive audaciousness was the norm
for a wolf, not this descending advance of victim-choosing.

The twinkling of the lanterns from Willowsgate's square could be seen through the black fingers of the desolate trees
and so the perturbed spell-worker aimed her bare feet away from any opportunity of confronting those who would only
becloud her decipherment. The Gordian knot of the Wulpos awaited up ahead in the gloom of the late-afternoon and
Peggy's need to untangle it was a bewitchment in itself.

So the sequence of murders had to be relevant, the young man died for an unknown reason. Peggy was willing to
believe Agnes Campion's secret liaisons with her employer's son may be a factor in her killing, but the conundrum
of the cattle carnage still waited to solved. Arriving on the road across from Judge Stoddard's cultured mansion, the
brainstorming Half-Fae wondered if the aloof umpire of law could tender a clue. A clue and a hot cup of chicory.
.................................................................

Father Martin swallowed again and dragged his blank gaze from at the half-empty bottle on the little table in his vestry
and peered at the grey sky sitting outside of the only window to his private room. He would resist it again tonight and
maybe a couple more sips of wine would help him avoid the distressing dreams that had been visiting him since the
beginning of Autumn.

To see the fairly-new grave of the Cutler, the priest knew he would have to leave his rickety chair for a better viewing.
But he knew that if he did approach that little round window, his focus would be on the corner where the great elms
turned to parallel Willowsgate main artery and in that shaded junction, the root-encased old mound where he'd found
the jar. The thought begged to expand to the other corner of the cemetery where the milkmaid lay and sucking in a
gout of air, he quickly expelled that hamper of anxiety immediately with another swig of wine.

Defying the need to behold the resting place of his victims, Theodore Martin's bottom lip trembled in his damnation.
How could he continue with this execrable hypocrisy...? How could he maintain this falsehood to his congregation?
The vessel containing the blue grains whispered from the cupboard it brooded in and the priest felt the urge to visit
once more. "Oh my Saviour..." he breathed "...not again".

[BIAD]

During the many homes that Peggy Powler had been invited into, she'd seen ornate furniture that would make one gasp
and some that might turn a person's stomach. But in the library of Judge Benjamin Stoddard, it was the carving of the
woodwork that really caught the little Witch's eye.

With a chisel of a true carpenter, a spiral staircase made from the finest of oak corkscrewed up to where the vast shelves
of books waited and each spindle of the balustrade held a drama that one could follow when viewed from bottom-to-top.
Serpents and well-endowed maidens raced around the highly-polished stems with gallant knights on mane-flared steeds
waiting to slay the beast and take the beautiful token. The right-hand newel post was a hunched wizard ruminating at a
perfectly hewn sphere of rare Wistman's oak and on the left side, a brooding horned-Devil waiting to tempt  anyone who
ascended the carpeted steps with the gift of knowledge.

The Last Witch of Underhill's fingers caressed the smooth glossy surfaces of each sentinel whilst the retired magistrate
hailed his servant to bring his guest and himself hot drinks. The high doors made from wood matching the athenaeum
opened and dressing-gown-wearing Ben Stoddard found a sorceress beguiled by the high quality of a great craftsman.

"I know..." he agreed, "it catches my breath from time-to-time" and moved slowly over to where a roaring fire painted
shifting shapes on the far wall. "Alas, the fine woodworking was here when I bought the house..." he informed the
marvelling Mage, "...this finery was of the previous owner's aspirations".

Accepting the polite offer to sit in a chair surely built for a giant, Peggy glanced back at the pair of guardians of Judge
Stoddard's tomes and saw how the flames also caused the wooden wizard's eyebrows to sink deeper in his study of
the orb in his possession and Old Scratch's villainous lips seem to curl with a inner-knowing of those who gazed upon
him.

"Ah' tell thee yer' Honour, that's one canny staircase..." the Last Witch of Underhill exclaimed softly "...me-hearts says
yon diviner looks the spitting-image of Myrddin" she appended as she was almost consumed by the softest cushion she
had ever plonked her backside on. "Whey, yer' bug..." she began and caught herself as a tall narrow-face man entered
the room with a silver tray bearing two large mugs. "Sir, your nightcaps" he stated primly and cast a glance of disfavour
towards his master's guest.

His name was Flagg and if it hadn't been for a chance passing of Mr Stoddard in his baroque hallway, the Judge's man
wouldn't have let her in. Smiling nicely as she accepted the steaming brew -a look that failed to reach her eyes, Peggy
recalled she benn only a moment away from wiggling her little finger when they had first met and having the conceited
drudge cluck like a chicken. However, for good measure she'd murmured "Thank yer' Flagg" and watched him squirm
as he left.
.................................................................

Peggy had another gratefulness to offer and that was to her host who entertained her with genuine curious questions on
how her search was going and who she believed Willowsgate's executioner was. Ben's interview not only brought new
ideas to the table, but also kept the eyelids of the weary Witch from becoming heavy. But it was during her explanation
of her riddle that really shooed any idea of nodding off in front of the cosy fire and it came of a simple comment from
the genial ex-adjudicator.

"From my past dealings, I and many others realised that foul-play often came from an escalation of events before the
actual act of killing..." the Judge announced. "...Usually, we would discover a trait of cruelty to a animal as the crucial
indicator that a latent murderer was evolving" he added and sipped his frothy-toddy whilst watching the little woman
in the too-big armchair.

A clock that would put the famous timepiece in Bootle Mills to shame, ticked between them as they enjoyed their
drinks and just to keep their parley alive, Stoddard remarked "In your case, you have the antithetical, almost like the
taking of human life wasn't enough for this reprobate to drive its thrill of killing". It was there... like a fly caught in a
spider's web, it fidgeted to avoid Peggy's arrest and finally grasping it in her mind, the awe-struck warlock almost
dropped her mug.

"Eeeeh!" she suddenly breathed loudly as the revelation hit home, "It's not a climb-down from human to oxen because
of excitement, this is about shame..." she hissed and precariously arranging her movements to climb down from the
more-than-comfortable seat with dignity and not pour the dregs of her toddy onto the Judge's fancy rug, Peggy felt
a rush of adrenaline she hadn't entertained in a long time. "This bugger can't help killin', but he can lower the verve
of those who want te' catch him" she said and was about to begin her goodnight blather when Stoddard's well-lined
hand was held up in the air.

"I can see it is possible you have glimpsed your prey's syllogism, Miss Powler..." the Judge asserted with the same
rich round tones he used to speak to the condemned with. "...But why would our crafty culprit take the lives of the
two youngsters in the first place?" he offered and left his gaze of officiousness waiting for an answer. His diminutive
guest's elation drooped a little and she stayed near the armchair. "Maybe they knew... maybe they saw..." Peggy
stumbled in her response and then surrendered to the logic the esteemed magistrate was displaying.

The sculptured chronograph's ticking wasn't tutting, but it certainly gave the flavour of also waiting for a reasonable
rejoinder. The befuddled sorceress gazed at the patterns on the fancy floor covering and scanned her mind for such
a report. "He doesn't want te' kill humans anymore..." Peggy mumbled in her mental foraging "...but then why tek'
Miles Cutler's life?".

Judge Stoddard frowned as a faint shouting came from another room, but as he rose to see what the problem was,
he absently tossed fuel onto his guest's percolating. "The Cutler-boy wasn't the innocent cherub many thought" he
said and hurried towards the tall door.

[BIAD]

"Curses!" Judge Stoddard wheezed as he reached the wrecked hen house and stared at the calamitous destruction of
his prized-poultry. Banjo was still growling out into the darkness and pulling at Flagg's hold of his collar. "Easy boy" the
usually-reserved butler whispered and followed the dog's gaze out into the blackness of the orchard. Peggy Powler
arrived moments later and cast an eye of disgust at the gore and feathers that were once roosting chickens.

The panting necromancer decided to remain quiet whilst her host vented his vexation at the slaughter of the hens, the
wooden hut they'd been kept in was oddly still intact, but the netted-cage had been shredded on the side facing away
from the magistrate's home. This aspect of the sad scene wasn't lost on the little Witch standing beneath a winter's
moon, but she knew this wasn't the time to discuss it.

"My best pullets...why?" Benjamin Stoddard fumed quietly and again, his faithful hound tugged to be released from
the uncomfortable Flagg. The calignosity of the orchard peered back at its small audience and that pale orb in the
sky offered none of its cold effulgence to assist in revealing what Banjo undoubtedly could smell. "He's out there"
the Last Witch of Underhill whispered to herself and wished there was a spell to help dogs talk.

With a great deal of tutting in his disgust, the old Judge ambled back indoors and occasionally hissed for Banjo to
follow him. Flagg laboured to keep his master's mutt from escaping as he too returned to the mansion and ignoring
the scruffy woman staring out into the obscurity of the barren fruit grove, he wondered if the Willowsgate killer had
struck again. For a few moments, the cold air of the late evening was the wary warlock's only companion and with
another peruse of the carnage, Peggy made her way along the stone-slabbed patio and processed her thoughts.
.................................................................

The old clock continued its marking of time as Judge Stoddard stared into the embers of his fire hearth and the
Witch sitting across from him reckoned his thoughts burned there too. Maybe tonight's incident would help in
surfacing some of the retired referee of Justice's recollections regarding the past, she mused, but waited to find
the moment to press him. Flagg entered and asked his employer if needed anything, Banjo appeared from behind
the steward's legs and headed for a large cushion on the floor that rivalled the one Peggy currently enjoyed.

If her attention had veered back to the owner of the hound, she'd have missed it, but leaning around the arm of
her chair, she saw the wispy strands of wool caught in Banjo's whiskers. "No, get yourself to bed" Ben Stoddard
muttered and waved a hand vaguely at his butler, Flagg left after a slight bow and the room was quiet once more.
Mainly because Peggy had forgotten to breathe. "Judge..." she anounced in hushed tones and snatching some air,
"...Ah' think yer' dog might've met whoever attacked yer' chickens".
.................................................................

Flagg concluded that he wasn't happy with a slumbering sorceress sleeping in her satchel dangling from one of his
employer's bannister support posts. But he didn't purvey his opinion on the woman who'd spent the night sleeping
beneath the gaze of Old Scratch as it somehow seemed fitting. Father Martin had always frowned at the oak effigy
when he visited his master and to Flagg, that was a condemnation he could currently agree with.

Quietly placing the pot of hot chicory and Judge Stoddard's regular breakfast of a bowl of steaming-hot porridge
down beside the snoring once-renown ombudsman in his usual armchair, the tired-eyed servant left without venting
his inclination of the bulge in the bottom of the suspended bag. But what the butler didn't see was the wiggling
finger sticking out from under the flap. It was time to find out what this haughty fellow knew.

"...Then when Sir Whitby Kipper died, the Notary instructed us to remove all of my master's belongings and dispose
of them" Flagg answered as he turned the fried-egg over. Miss Powler was certainly hungry as she was now eating
her second cook-made scone. "But he never expanded on where or how to get rid of his things..." the mesmerised
manservant continued "... Mrs Bell said we should bury them with him and so we did. I was just a Lower-House Boy
back then and was told to keep out of the way".

Peggy listened and mentally fitted the jigsaw of the previous owner of Judge Stoddard's palatial home, she thanked
Flagg for the breakfast and waited for the location of this unusual interment. Whitby Kipper had been a collector of
the cabalistic and the supernatural, from the butler's description this taciturn gatherer retained rare items and certain
paraphernalia that had been involved in forgotten rituals and questionable rites.

Chewing on her morning fare, the little Witch wondered if it could be that this titled scholar had somehow acquired
the means to draw a Wulpos into this existence...? unknowingly become a Nagial with access to the Lupis lazulia?
Flagg's droll comment regarding some of the his previous employer's materials was interesting to the now belly-full
spellbinder as one of the things listed was an alleged surcoat of invisibility.

When pressed on that particular item, the hypnotised hireling had believed it was acquired when Sir Whitby Kipper
had met a stranger on Calder's Way. Flagg admitted he wasn't sure, but he'd overheard it said by his older brethren
of service. Absently sliding her empty plate away, Peggy wagered such a tunic -if it had ever existed, was made of
untreated sheep's wool.

It had been written that the blue stone had been destroyed centuries ago and with it, the fiendish incubus known as
the Wulpos. But if the thing that was roaming the woods around Willowsgate was possessed with such a horror,
Kipper's hidden compilation of mystic curios may offer a lead how it rid the village of it.

Flagg stared out of the kitchen window at the mist-strewn orchard and waited for a different type of guidance. The
entranced domestic would answer, but only if the correct question was asked. It had been so long ago and there'd
been a girl who -but Peggy disrupted the butler's stroll down the florescent lane of nostalgia.

"So where did yer' put his stuff?" she asked and Flagg's almost immediate response was followed by the scrape
of chair legs on the smooth stone slabs of the kitchen. Walking quickly out into the chilly morning air of the fruit
plantation, Peggy believed if she was taller she'd be able to see the large elm tree where Whitby Kipper's trinkets
of the occult were buried.

[BIAD]

Where else to bury some occultist gourmet and his weird cherished bibelots, but a graveyard? This was the denouement
Peggy Powler coldly smiled at as she peered at the vague mound beneath the large elm. Considering Willowsgate had
only become into being after Sir Whitby Kipper's passing, the little thaumaturge was able to appreciate how some objects
and some places will always be seen in a particular light, no matter what may come. This wee stretch of secluded pasture
must have always held an intimate magic of its own and for humans, had always been seen as a place to rest their dead.

The morning mist was confident no warm sun was to burn it away and at another time of the year, would make a grand
backdrop for preparing a Samhain or Beltaine celebration. The dull achromatic surroundings and the giant tree whispered
of the smoky bonfires, practicing mumming and the occasional cautious look towards shadows in the hedgerows where
Fae-folk were believed to be watching, all painted an image of spookiness not lost on the Last Witch of Underhill.

The route from Judge Stoddard's also tickled at Peggy's musings, Miles Cutler had died in the orchard behind this very
cemetery. Miles Brandreth's lavish estate where Agnes Campion met her death was close by and could be easily reached
through the back-wood trails. Farmer Pumice's place is... Peggy paused in her arithmetic of reasoning, it was further out
for the environs of Willowsgate and might be taken as an unlikely daring journey for the sake of displaying a poor act of
terrorism.

A pair of bovine might be seen as a mere attack from a winter predator... unless, unless the need to kill had been doused
by conscience and that implied the Wulpos' host was resisting the demon's demands of taking human life. The little Witch
was still in the dark regarding the removal of organs and the strange motif discovered at the death scenes, but she felt sure
her past readings of Myrddin's books would bring some ideas to the surface. Still, the recent feathery foray into the retired
magistrate's hen-house backed-up the notion that some form of defiance could be taking place between the Wulpos and
its vehicle.

Leaving her threadbare contemplations to one side for now, Peggy returned to examining the old grave of Whitby Kipper.
It had been disturbed, that was obvious and inspecting the faint signs of footprints around the pile of soil, she saw that
some attempt had been made to hide the tracks. At first, the nosy necromancer wondered if claw-marks were the reason
for the thin gouges in the earth, maybe talons of an assumed-Werewolf and her theory had always been in error? But the
width of the gashes were too accurate and they paralleled perfectly in their traverse over the damp soil.

Checking that the Judge or any of his servants had not made their way through the tangle of bramble vines, Peggy slowly
kneeled down and disregarded concerns about her unveiled posterior. The mound was faintly darker in some areas than
others and gingerly moving closer to the odd blemishes, the tentative spell-worker detected the putrid aroma of spoiled
meat. Quickly getting to her feet, she knew this was where the macabre trophies of the Willowsgate killings had been
stored and who-or-whatever had hoarded them here was not below ground.

Peering around in the damp morning fog, Peggy's eyes alighted on the ideal target of whom may be involved and yet she
promptly steeled herself to not fall for the obvious choice. Using the distraction of wiping crumbs of soil from her knees and
composing the setting of her wide-brimmed headwear, she eventually looked again at the nearest building in the graveyard.
The sombre foreboding outline of Father Theodore Martin's church floated in the grey brume and seemed to be mockingly
yearning to be blamed.
.................................................................

Was it some honourable spectre of the cemetery that moved the dirty-white plume from its custody where the vestry's
stone step met the cornerstone of the church's north transept or was it merely an unusual breeze sneaking about on a
late-winter morning? The feather tried its best to take to flight, but just as its now-slain owner, soaring the mist-heavy
thermals belonged to a more streamlined member of its avian kin. Whichever was the reason, Peggy's breath was cut
short as she watched the tell-tale of who had visited Judge Stoddard's poultry last night.

The barefooted Augurer's respiration took another blow as a faint voice from the chapel's gravel-strewn path suspended
her fowl-related observation, the legatee of the utterance was careful to not alarm, but failed in its mission. "Miss Powler,
is everything alright?" asked Arthur Thurgood and apart from a sudden alert from her bowels, the startled destination of
his query, felt relieved to hear the familiar tone. The figure in the mist was to Peggy as a seaweed-sheathed mooring
post is a to a fog-bound trawlerman who'd become directionless on the Great Sea, a thing to be relied upon and a
pillar of strength when needed.

After getting Arthur up to speed with what she believed had been happening in Willowsgate, a little Witch and a uneasy
resident of that village approached vestry door and found it unlocked.

[BIAD]

The little high-ceiling room Father Martin used for the taking of his meals and changing into ceremonial vestments was
quiet as Peggy Powler and Arthur Thurgood carefully crept inside. Blandly carved wainscoting covered the lower-part of
the walls until disrupted by the door the wary pair were peeking from and entrance to the rest of the church.

Arthur had never been in here before and felt a little ashamed, just as he did when he was ten years-old and watched
a group of girls skinny-dipping in Trantor Pond back at Bootle Mills. Lewd was the word that he caught himself thinking
as he and the Last Witch of Underhill stood in the silence and surveyed their surroundings. "It'll be a container..." Peggy
whispered and returned the earlier fright the retired sawmill owner had delivered when they'd met outside. "...Somethin'
wiv' bits of blue dust in it" she added and slinked over to where a large leather-bound chest rested beside the Thurgood
-donated oak wooden door that led into the chancel.

There were three chasuble's neatly folded in the unlocked trunk and recognising them, Peggy's eye tarried a while and
then looked down at her own poncho. "Nah" she said confidently and not due any temptation of exchanging her own
single item of clothing for the richly-embroidered sleeveless garments, just a simple comment on who's devotional
attire she believed was better.

A well-worn cassock for Father Martin to wear when visiting his parishioners lay beside something that look like a
shoulder-covering or all-around bib and it took the snooping sorceress a few moments before recalling it was called
an amiss. Three books were stuffed down at one end of the Witch-size casket and with a careful hand, she plucked
the one bound in a dark goatskin laced with smudges of soil.

Peggy glanced at its first few pages and sniffed the faint odour of decayed offal before returning to re-read its title.
With a narrowing of her eyes, she also viewed the author, 'The Worship of Sun-Lizards & Other Gods By Whitby
Kipper'. Scowling now at what she'd believed at happened to the snooty clergyman, she saw on the inside of the
cover that this foul opus of Demons was dedicated to someone who'd spawned Willowsgate's problem so long ago.
Francis Wulpos.

Arthur had followed Peggy's cue and nervously approached a tall ebony-coloured cabinet with sprawling brass hinges
across it's daunting doors. Two handles of the same metal dared him to discover what may lay inside and glancing
at the woman leaning slightly over the open trunk, he thought it better to focus on his task rather than the reveal of
the backs of Peggy's upper-thighs. There was no haunting creak of the doors open, nor a loud click as the handles
ceded to Arthur's demands, just a slight waft of confined air announcing a jailbreak.

There were four shelves with the top one lined with unopened bottles of -what Arthur believed, was the Communion
wine. Two of the corks looked like they'd been tampered with and small dried stains of deep crimson tarnished the
hand-crafted labels advertising they were bought in Gaynestown. The next shelf held a number of stacked books he
recognised at once from he and his family's visits to the church. They were regular-looking song missals with gusto
hymns of reverence inside.

The third ledge was empty and just as Arthur's eyes moved down to examine the bottom mantle -where a bizarre
filth-coated fleece bodice or robe lay, he spied something waiting in the shadows beneath the second shelf. It was
a jar, one like Elsa uses when making preserves with their cook. That thought required his attention to scramble to
more hearty times, so he reluctantly pushed it away and peered at the glass tun. Initially, Arthur saw only dirt, but
as he leaned in closer, faltering sparkles of azure called from the grime and seemed to promise enchantment if
only the beholder loosened the vessel's twine-bound top.

Whether Arthur would've unleashed the esoteric power-unit that controlled the Wulpos' host, we'll never know as
the glimpse of something slumped up against the inside of the jar made him recoil from his survey and brought
Peggy's attention too. It was a dried liver, all mottled with bruised lumps, deflated veins and mummified pipes
of gristle. The Witch standing beside him, patted his arm with one hand whilst reaching for the jar with the other.
"Yer' a treasure, Mister Thurgood" she breathed softly, stuffing the grotesque cruet into her satchel and turning
to approach the area of the alter, she heard her wide-eyed companion reply "call me Arthur".
.................................................................

Some may argue that Father Theodore Martin was there in the reserved place for himself and the few residents
of Willowsgate he'd cajoled into forming a choir. But others with further reflection could postulate that only the
priest's crouching twisted and lacerated naked body was actually in the chancel. For Peggy Powler, it was the
latter, but she was more concerned with what was waiting inside the gashed pastor. "Oh bugger it" the canny
conjurer murmured and prepared herself for the showdown.

[BIAD]

"Stand there Mister Thurgood and divna' move" Peggy Powler snarled without looking at the destination of her instruct,
the bloodied shape slumped near the altar moved slightly during their admission from Father Martin's private room as
the anxious retiree followed the little Witch's guidance. It was the Wulpos unashamedly wearing the garment Arthur
and his fellow-inhabitants of Willowsgate would pray and sing along with when the days came to a close.

It was a devious spiteful demon coated in the clawed puppet who was too weak to resist the power such malevolent
supernatural entities offer and had fallen for the ruse that they would somehow be the dominant one in the partnership.
However, what true intellectual capacity of Theodore Martin remained inside the naked human getting to his feet, the
vigilant sorceress couldn't tell.

"Ah... so you're the ignoble floozy that got the priest so discombobulated" the demon's split-lips spat and forcing the
preacher's face to display a terrible grin, he bowed slightly in a most blasphemous form of mocking. The Last Witch
of Underhill returned the smile and whispered over her shoulder to her trembling partner "Yer' knaw' me-lad, Ah'm
ganna' enjoy tekin' this one out".

Totally unrepentant of its nudity, the Wulpos urged Theodore's form to parade in front of the clothed-table where he
would normally give praise of the new-religion, but for a moment, Peggy saw the clergyman's eyes glance towards
her with a pleading look-see. "It must be difficult for you to endeavour in an environment where your superiors look
upon you with disdain, does it not?..." the thing asked as it sprawled across the altar in a provocative pose.

Father Martin was now laid facing the two people who had tracked the killer of two youngsters and cattle. "...Please
-my good strumpet, beguile me with your cretinous acumen" the Wulpos added as it propped the pastor's head up
with his blood-stained arm. With a slow overemphasised movement of her finger to her lips, Peggy looked upwards
and gave the impression a dull plebeian was attempting to offer something that may interest somebody better than
herself.

"Hmmm, Ah' was just wonderin'..." she phrased her words carefully to taunt the bare-skinned demon waiting on the
wooden bench of appeal, "...when yer' were watchin' the young uns' kissin' in the cowshed, did yer' get too excited
before yer' finished writin' yer' name?" The flinch wasn't much but it happened before the Wulpos had chance to stop
it, but it managed to gathered itself before speaking again. "Very good my dear fallen woman and did that moniker
make your little head hurt?" it mewled and raised Father Martin's eyebrows in faux-curiosity.

Growing a little agitated with the question-orientated prattle and the sight of a naked man on a cold day, the little
sorceress mused if she should bring to their palaver to a close. There was always treasure to mine when dealing
with those who are from the other side, but the sorry-sight of a human being degraded in this manner was already
placing a thumb on her scales of deliberation. "Aye, yer combined one of yer' hex-marks with the parson's initial..."
Peggy replied effortlessly "...every bugger guessed that one".

Taking out the book she'd found in Father Martin's trunk, Peggy's eyes joined in with the theatre and widened above
her taunting smile. "Whey Ah'll be buggered, what 'ave we here?" she hissed coyly and licked her index-finger as she
readied herself to flick through the pages. The Wulpos' demeanour suddenly changed as it recognised the old tome.

Nodding in her charade of reading, the bantam-sized thaumaturge watched from the corner of her eye as poor Father
Martin's tortured body was hauled-up to his full height. "If you struggle with -what your type of people call 'big words',
please allow me to assist you" the Wulpos sarcastically offered and audaciously winked towards Arthur. But what
confidence the hellion had first shown, Peggy could hear was severely degraded.

"Nay me-auld cock, Ah'm sure Ah' can manage" she murmured absently and keeping her face towards the profane
wording, Peggy mouthed-spell to ensure the devious Wulpos wouldn't rush to her and grab at the book written by
Whitby Kipper. The demon felt the change around it, but with a survey towards its audience, the preacher's eyes
publicised its confusion. "My-my..." it whispered in defence, "...your bawdy allocution is becoming quite alluring
as time goes by" and that was when the target of his innuendo brought an end to any of the Wulpos' further acts.

It was the sight of the jar, you see? That and the sudden tug of a hidden force pulling the unexpecting Wulpos as
Peggy Powler shoved the offensive book titled 'The Worship of Sun-Lizards & Other Gods' under her arm. With a
friendly wave of the same finger to request the startled retired saw-mill owner to walk ahead of her, the grinning
spell-worker headed for the exit with a demon in tow.
.................................................................

Arthur Thurgood was still out of breath when he returned from the chapel with Father Martin's cassock and a stout
pair of boots. By then, Judge Stoddard had arrived and was busy adding more fuel to the bonfire beneath the large
elm tree in the corner of the graveyard. Arthur was surprised of the spryness of the gent who'd once hanged ten
men in one day with his past jurisdictional reasoning and there was a slight admiration in the way he cleaved the
branches with the axe he'd brought.

Peggy would occasionally wave her hands over the roaring flames and mutter words Arthur believed he could never
pronounce in his lifetime. The book was nothing but ash and the glass container was in pieces with its contents
glowing a strange eldritch green. Arthur had once seen a midwife deliver a baby in the saw-mill he'd first started
at and the little woman standing on the other side of the smoky pyre held the same face of stern concentration.

"I would've never believed it..." Ben Stoddard said in his toil and broke Arthur's engrossment. "...But how did you
know the fiend was hiding in the church and in..." he stopped his words then as he saw the bewildered look on
the man who'd been taken by demon from ages ago and now free from its dominion. Father Martin's tear-filled
eyes met the Judge's and an understanding passed between them. "Fair travels Pastor" Ben said softly as the
objective of his greeting  finished buttoning his religious tunic.
.................................................................

Epilogue.

With Elsa Thurgood's huge package of food stuffed into her satchel and her shoulders sore from the cordial fondles
of the few from Willowsgate who would lower themselves to commend the little sorceress for her supernatural work,
Peggy Powler followed the tall manicured hedges of Hornbeam that would guide her out of Willowsgate and onto
Calder's Way.

She was on her way now and happy to be away from the camarilla community of the well-spoken. Not because the
villagers were -as the Wulpos had proposed, better than herself, but simply by virtue of her need to wander. There
will always be metaphysical and the human with tricks to tempt a train of thought or suggest sensibilities to adjust
one's belief in where they fit into the world, but such subterfuge is wasted when pushed to someone who walks
between these realms.

Placing an unshod foot onto her favourite highway, Peggy could only think of one who's cloth was cut that way and
if memory serves, she was from Underhill.

The End.