03-19-2022, 01:14 PM
It's never nice to see someone adjust to a reality they'd never believed existed or effected them, but as Peggy Powler watched
Albert Hobson sitting among the overgrown tussocks of grass of the little gorge and come to terms with who he wasn't, the Last
Witch of Underhill felt another pang of rage for what certain parties at Pook Hill had been up to. Namely, Brenna and Alaric.
Pressing Janus Mockingbird further as the Hyder had stirred a breakfast of porridge for the three girls, the little sorceress had
discovered that the presumed leader she'd met when requested to expel a Manticore had been 'grabbed' from the settlement
just as Brenna and the other Elders of the village had implied.
But the dramatic capture hadn't been as exciting as the sullen-faced woman in the red-attire had vaguely described and Peggy
had only realised from an off-the-cuff comment during the easy-going giant's supposition, the 'through-the-wooden-wall' abduction
of Alaric Hobson hadn't even taken place last Winter, a pure fabrication from someone with limited imagination!
Only a few weeks before the seated confused young man currently processing the potion-induced fraudulent life he'd found himself
in, had made his way across a field of barley to ask for Peggy's help, the old man had been returning from a meeting with the person
who acquired the children to replace the dwindling population of Pook Hill. This trader of children had insisted the trio of girls were
to be concealed in one of the barrels that the Orange-hued-smock wearer had been urged to purchase. It was during Alaric's journey
home that the Hyder had made his move on those who threatened to destroy his private home.
Brenna had only discovered had what happened when Ransom the Donkey had clip-clopped his way back into Pook Hill and browsed
the already clipped-grass beneath the rusting gibbet in the village centre. The cart was missing along with its passenger and the cargo
that only the inflexible spitfire and her nearest adherents knew about. The secret had been contained for a couple of weeks until those
who congregated at the Meeting Hall came to realise that something needed to be done to allay the concerns of the novices who were
asking questions.
Albert Hobson was instructed to go to Banewood and inquire of the little Witch who'd solved a previous problem. As it turned out, the
Fates that Peggy Powler knew were playing a prominent role in her wandering lifestyle, had already moved the relevant chess-pieces
into place to make the lad's quest easier. The rest...? Well, you were there, you know what happened!
...................................................
"What do I do now?" Albert asked in a whisper that took Peggy by surprise, she'd been collating what she knew and wondering the
same the question regarding herself and fixing the ghastly situation. The quiet backdrop of the overgrown shallow ravine -well away
from the bottled-up and disciplined place Albert had called home, seemed to have assisted in driving out the apathetic drug-demon
that the young man had carried with him. Albert Hobson had gone and another Albert -maybe a teenager who had a life ahead of
him that once contained great deeds, now sat in the serene clove of wild elderberries, tall grass and Rosemary.
Peggy adjusted the satchel's strap on her shoulder and felt the despair coming off the lad. "Aye, it's a bugger all reet, Yer've found
out who yer' are now and yer' track to a future looks a dauntin' one..." she replied gently. A jittery Song Thrush mildly objecting to
the intrusion of the thigh-revealing woman siting on a rock too close to where his spouse had a nest, concurred in its own clucking
manner. "...But Yer' not alone, the three lasses are in the same..." she was about to say 'barrel', but deemed it inappropriate and so
continued with "... in the same muddle as yer'self" Peggy knew the word 'predicament, but it was not of her usual vocabulary.
Gazing around at the dense undergrowth that had survived and thrived after the contents of the Pooker cavern had been deposited
in the sunken gully, the little Witch wondered again at what her days would've been like if she'd refused to follow Albert. As she mused
on this unanswerable riddle, Peggy glimpsed the unmistakable movement behind a bunch of nettles on the far-bank of one of her own.
It seemed even here, the Fae once again observed the terrible way humans treated their own kind and being the viaduct between the
Good-Folk and those who practice such evil acts of forced-servitude, Peggy Powler reluctantly made her decision on how to solve the
trouble of Pook Hill.
...................................................
With the majority of the Blue-Smocks tying back the hop tendrils, raking the soil beneath the bines and generally being overseen by
their Green-vested superiors, Alaric Hobson took a chance and made for the safety of the Meeting House. Landing poorly from his
descent of the last night's concealment, the old man limped along in the gloom of the plantation and hoped none of the dullards would
notice his stumbling flight towards his cohort in a plan he'd been cajoled into creating.
The carpet of dried pine needles crackled their voices of "here is the Judas of children" as the stooped bald-headed leader of Pook
Hill hobbled through the corridor of branchless rows of conifers and every step accused him of his treachery loudly. "Oh Brenna, you
better have a way of getting us out of this" Alaric hissed in his journey to an imagined haven. The large building could just be glimpsed
as neared the end of the orderly wood and gasping from his exertion, the bald man pulled the orange tunic over that same hairless head
just as he arrived at the edge of the plantation.
Panting beneath the brittle twigs that had kept Janus Mockingbird from finding him, Alaric prayed to any deity listening that he could
traverse the few yards to the Meeting Hall unseen. Maybe the odd Pooker who wasn't consigned to working the fields wouldn't realise
who he was if he just -wearing just a plain-brown under-vest and knee-length underpants, walked directly to the largest structure in the
community and ignored any Red-Smock who might be about on this work-day morning. Taking in a large gulp of air in some strange
form of self-adamancy, Alaric Hobson ran like the betrayer the dead foliage had blamed him of.
Albert Hobson sitting among the overgrown tussocks of grass of the little gorge and come to terms with who he wasn't, the Last
Witch of Underhill felt another pang of rage for what certain parties at Pook Hill had been up to. Namely, Brenna and Alaric.
Pressing Janus Mockingbird further as the Hyder had stirred a breakfast of porridge for the three girls, the little sorceress had
discovered that the presumed leader she'd met when requested to expel a Manticore had been 'grabbed' from the settlement
just as Brenna and the other Elders of the village had implied.
But the dramatic capture hadn't been as exciting as the sullen-faced woman in the red-attire had vaguely described and Peggy
had only realised from an off-the-cuff comment during the easy-going giant's supposition, the 'through-the-wooden-wall' abduction
of Alaric Hobson hadn't even taken place last Winter, a pure fabrication from someone with limited imagination!
Only a few weeks before the seated confused young man currently processing the potion-induced fraudulent life he'd found himself
in, had made his way across a field of barley to ask for Peggy's help, the old man had been returning from a meeting with the person
who acquired the children to replace the dwindling population of Pook Hill. This trader of children had insisted the trio of girls were
to be concealed in one of the barrels that the Orange-hued-smock wearer had been urged to purchase. It was during Alaric's journey
home that the Hyder had made his move on those who threatened to destroy his private home.
Brenna had only discovered had what happened when Ransom the Donkey had clip-clopped his way back into Pook Hill and browsed
the already clipped-grass beneath the rusting gibbet in the village centre. The cart was missing along with its passenger and the cargo
that only the inflexible spitfire and her nearest adherents knew about. The secret had been contained for a couple of weeks until those
who congregated at the Meeting Hall came to realise that something needed to be done to allay the concerns of the novices who were
asking questions.
Albert Hobson was instructed to go to Banewood and inquire of the little Witch who'd solved a previous problem. As it turned out, the
Fates that Peggy Powler knew were playing a prominent role in her wandering lifestyle, had already moved the relevant chess-pieces
into place to make the lad's quest easier. The rest...? Well, you were there, you know what happened!
...................................................
"What do I do now?" Albert asked in a whisper that took Peggy by surprise, she'd been collating what she knew and wondering the
same the question regarding herself and fixing the ghastly situation. The quiet backdrop of the overgrown shallow ravine -well away
from the bottled-up and disciplined place Albert had called home, seemed to have assisted in driving out the apathetic drug-demon
that the young man had carried with him. Albert Hobson had gone and another Albert -maybe a teenager who had a life ahead of
him that once contained great deeds, now sat in the serene clove of wild elderberries, tall grass and Rosemary.
Peggy adjusted the satchel's strap on her shoulder and felt the despair coming off the lad. "Aye, it's a bugger all reet, Yer've found
out who yer' are now and yer' track to a future looks a dauntin' one..." she replied gently. A jittery Song Thrush mildly objecting to
the intrusion of the thigh-revealing woman siting on a rock too close to where his spouse had a nest, concurred in its own clucking
manner. "...But Yer' not alone, the three lasses are in the same..." she was about to say 'barrel', but deemed it inappropriate and so
continued with "... in the same muddle as yer'self" Peggy knew the word 'predicament, but it was not of her usual vocabulary.
Gazing around at the dense undergrowth that had survived and thrived after the contents of the Pooker cavern had been deposited
in the sunken gully, the little Witch wondered again at what her days would've been like if she'd refused to follow Albert. As she mused
on this unanswerable riddle, Peggy glimpsed the unmistakable movement behind a bunch of nettles on the far-bank of one of her own.
It seemed even here, the Fae once again observed the terrible way humans treated their own kind and being the viaduct between the
Good-Folk and those who practice such evil acts of forced-servitude, Peggy Powler reluctantly made her decision on how to solve the
trouble of Pook Hill.
...................................................
With the majority of the Blue-Smocks tying back the hop tendrils, raking the soil beneath the bines and generally being overseen by
their Green-vested superiors, Alaric Hobson took a chance and made for the safety of the Meeting House. Landing poorly from his
descent of the last night's concealment, the old man limped along in the gloom of the plantation and hoped none of the dullards would
notice his stumbling flight towards his cohort in a plan he'd been cajoled into creating.
The carpet of dried pine needles crackled their voices of "here is the Judas of children" as the stooped bald-headed leader of Pook
Hill hobbled through the corridor of branchless rows of conifers and every step accused him of his treachery loudly. "Oh Brenna, you
better have a way of getting us out of this" Alaric hissed in his journey to an imagined haven. The large building could just be glimpsed
as neared the end of the orderly wood and gasping from his exertion, the bald man pulled the orange tunic over that same hairless head
just as he arrived at the edge of the plantation.
Panting beneath the brittle twigs that had kept Janus Mockingbird from finding him, Alaric prayed to any deity listening that he could
traverse the few yards to the Meeting Hall unseen. Maybe the odd Pooker who wasn't consigned to working the fields wouldn't realise
who he was if he just -wearing just a plain-brown under-vest and knee-length underpants, walked directly to the largest structure in the
community and ignored any Red-Smock who might be about on this work-day morning. Taking in a large gulp of air in some strange
form of self-adamancy, Alaric Hobson ran like the betrayer the dead foliage had blamed him of.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.