05-18-2022, 03:57 PM
(Continued from above)
Long ago in Peggy Powler's time of witchery apprenticeship and during her wild forays beside her mentor Myrddin the
Great Wizard to oust demons and the undead from back country villages, the young lady discovered a canvas bag that
held magical qualities only beneficial to herself. For anyone searching the single-strapped satchel, their fingers would
always find it empty. But for the Last Witch of Underhill, an item of what she needed at any precise moment would be
invariably detected laid in one of the corners of the pouch.
...................................................
Now, as Wendell Penn swung his whip towards the huddled figure on the back of the unhinged stallion called Diabolus,
that well-worn satchel performed another trick to aid its owner's survival. Maybe it was the wind caused by her mount's
momentum or maybe the thick fabric does have a life of its own, I cannot say which. But as Lord Tatem's jockey aimed
to thrash the unshod peasant-woman across the face, Peggy's faithful tote suddenly flapped upwards and Penn's whip
failed to find its mark.
However, it was the strap that brought the coup de grace and tangling the rider's rawhide knout, Wendell felt himself
being tugged from Grandee's Valour. Releasing the useless riding crop, the enraged employee of the aloof financier of
the Summertide and Barnstead race hauled himself back into his saddle and quickly aimed his attention to the obstacle
rushing towards him.
"Blast you Witch...!" Penn yelled as he hastily hunkered down and prepared for his run-up, "Dawes is a lummox to have
you compete in this race" Taking some small consolation that if his would-be victim managed to traverse the next fence,
Penn grinned to himself in the knowledge a bone-jarring surprise was waiting for the scruffy runt at Archibald's Hindrance.
But for now, The Fall was coming.
...................................................
For Diabolus, it was easy. The leaping horse spotted his landing-point as he became airborne and reaching the apex of
his jump, stretched his fore-legs out instead of keeping them tucked beneath his body. This ensured he was prepared for
the impact of his arrival on the slightly higher ground than the immediate lower soil behind The Fall. Such an elongated
jump also primed Diabolus to continue at the same pace he'd maintained before the fence.
It's been put forth that if only steeplechase horses could communicate to humans -or even half-breeds such as Peggy,
they could possibly relate their inner-fortitude and hunger to vault such heights and in the gasping sorceress' instance,
stop her from screaming the words 'Oh Yer' Bugger' as she landed awkwardly back into Diabolus saddle.
Alas, we still wait for that day.
Six horses fell to The Fall that day and two of them had be later released from the agony of broken legs. Though Orville
Tipps had found the grass before this formidable obstruction, his rider-less horse followed in Diabolus' wake and safely
jumped to the other side.
"Three down, three te' gan" Peggy whispered as she resettled herself and peered ahead. The thought of going through
this hair-raising ordeal again was quickly shunned as her shaky gaze inspected the thing called 'Archibald's Hindrance'.
To a casual onlooker, the large awning of flowering entwined foliage that adorned Archibald's Hindrance might seem a
tad pretentious for a steeplechase. But to a galloping exhausted horse, such an approaching sight looks more like a
decorative maw waiting to consume anything that ventured between the collection of creepers and the spruce-covered
hurdle.
As the little Witch cajoled Diabolus with what her own thoughts were on the grandiloquent cover of Archibald's Hindrance,
Wendell Penn aimed his mount to get beside the black horse and drive them to the right-hand side. Although he had no
idea what Lord Tatem had set-up for the ass-showing Jezebel clinging to her horse, Penn would take great enjoyment in
seeing the trap unfold as crossed over the hurdle beside her.
...................................................
Unknown to all, as the damp mist of dawn revelled in its reign around the private land of Lord Tatem, the titled gent had
rose early to implement a project that would put-paid to Stanley Dawes' blue-collar daring of entering the esteemed race.
A thin loop of twine, so slender that it could hardly be seen -and certainly not by a tired jockey focused on advancing on
the hurdle, was hanging the colourful garland on the far-right of the canopy above the fence. It wasn't lethal, but it would
certainly dislodge a rider and even someone who was small in stature as Peggy Powler.
Lord Tatem felt confident in his scheme as he walked back to his mansion and thought about his breakfast. Maybe that
was why he failed to see the the small head of Pommer the Sprite peeking over the outlandish impediment known as
Archibald's Hindrance and examining the odd dangle in the foliage.
...................................................
The man who worked for Tatem was back and this time, Peggy knew he meant business. Buffeting the raven-coloured
stallion, Wendell Penn was attempting to push Diabolus to the right of the hurdle and if Pommer's idea of thwarting the
plot to unseat her was correct, the little Sprite should be appearing soon. "Get over!" Penn growled and yanked the reins
of Grandee's Valour and his attention on shepherding the Witch and Diabolus into the trap.
No one heard it, but Wendell's horse saw it... the word Pommer used was 'Boo!' as he suddenly hung down from beneath
main decoration of Lord Tatem's famous barrier. Grandee's Valour swerved left to avoid the weird creature beetling from
the leaves and as Diabolus leapt through the ostentatious laurel, he was sure Pommer touched his ear.
For the screaming Wendell Penn, there's a thin loop of twine, so slender that it could hardly be seen -and certainly not by
a hate-filled jockey focused on putting someone he deemed lesser then himself out of the Summertide and Barnstead
Hunt Horse Race.
Grandee's Valour rapped his hooves on the edge of the five-foot fence, but managed to clear it. Sadly -possibly, Lord
Tatem's favoured rider failed to negotiate the hurdle for never-spoken-about reasons and we'll leave it at that. Horse
racing is precarious sport and many factors in succeeding in a race can effect the outcome.
...................................................
Leaving the machinations of noblemen's follies behind, Peggy Powler hung on for grim-life as her canny friend between
her thighs raced towards the wide stream and Ivor's Folly that lay in the home-stretch. Glancing to her left, the weary Witch
saw that the pack was down to three. Herself, a pale horse with a rider carrying a face that hinted he'd already fouled his
pants and a young lad with victory on his mind. Adjusting her hold on Diabolus' mane, Peggy whispered "Whey, now we've
got a race" and stroked the neck of her galvanized mount.
...................................................
"She's still in it Boss!" Farra shouted as the crowd errupted on seeing the approaching riders. A sweating Stanley Dawes
craned his neck to see a dark-green shape bobbling up and down on the back of his own horse and intuitively reached for
his waistcoat pocket. "She's still in it" he softly repeated his employee's words and took to pushing his fingers through his
tightly-curled hair.
...................................................
It isn't a stream that flows through Lord Tatem's expansive vegetable garden, it's an ocean that would rival the Great Sea
when you're exhausted and just want to slake one's thirst with its waters. The jockey who seemed to have released his
bowels and offered facial clues to such an accident, fell foul the width of the hurdle and would later blame the stain on
his pants on the dark soil that escapes from the aristocrat's legume-growing allotment.
The kid just made it and with Diabolus landing confidently beside him, he emulated Peggy's earlier thoughts. Now it was
a race. Both took Ivor's Folly fairly easily and Marcus Jessup -the young man who stemmed from a stable out of Wheatland
County, wondered how the bantam hat-wrapped woman hanging onto her mount's mane had managed to succeed where
many -more qualified, had failed.
If Master Jessup had known a bunch of copse-living Fae or the hand-clenching big man standing in the noisy crowd ahead
or even asked two of the wealthiest men in the land watching from the grandiose stand near the winner's enclosure, the lad
would have found his answer. That's Peggy Powler, the Last Witch of Underhill.
Now, the final contestants in the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race had to go again around the circuit.
But will they make it?
Long ago in Peggy Powler's time of witchery apprenticeship and during her wild forays beside her mentor Myrddin the
Great Wizard to oust demons and the undead from back country villages, the young lady discovered a canvas bag that
held magical qualities only beneficial to herself. For anyone searching the single-strapped satchel, their fingers would
always find it empty. But for the Last Witch of Underhill, an item of what she needed at any precise moment would be
invariably detected laid in one of the corners of the pouch.
...................................................
Now, as Wendell Penn swung his whip towards the huddled figure on the back of the unhinged stallion called Diabolus,
that well-worn satchel performed another trick to aid its owner's survival. Maybe it was the wind caused by her mount's
momentum or maybe the thick fabric does have a life of its own, I cannot say which. But as Lord Tatem's jockey aimed
to thrash the unshod peasant-woman across the face, Peggy's faithful tote suddenly flapped upwards and Penn's whip
failed to find its mark.
However, it was the strap that brought the coup de grace and tangling the rider's rawhide knout, Wendell felt himself
being tugged from Grandee's Valour. Releasing the useless riding crop, the enraged employee of the aloof financier of
the Summertide and Barnstead race hauled himself back into his saddle and quickly aimed his attention to the obstacle
rushing towards him.
"Blast you Witch...!" Penn yelled as he hastily hunkered down and prepared for his run-up, "Dawes is a lummox to have
you compete in this race" Taking some small consolation that if his would-be victim managed to traverse the next fence,
Penn grinned to himself in the knowledge a bone-jarring surprise was waiting for the scruffy runt at Archibald's Hindrance.
But for now, The Fall was coming.
...................................................
For Diabolus, it was easy. The leaping horse spotted his landing-point as he became airborne and reaching the apex of
his jump, stretched his fore-legs out instead of keeping them tucked beneath his body. This ensured he was prepared for
the impact of his arrival on the slightly higher ground than the immediate lower soil behind The Fall. Such an elongated
jump also primed Diabolus to continue at the same pace he'd maintained before the fence.
It's been put forth that if only steeplechase horses could communicate to humans -or even half-breeds such as Peggy,
they could possibly relate their inner-fortitude and hunger to vault such heights and in the gasping sorceress' instance,
stop her from screaming the words 'Oh Yer' Bugger' as she landed awkwardly back into Diabolus saddle.
Alas, we still wait for that day.
Six horses fell to The Fall that day and two of them had be later released from the agony of broken legs. Though Orville
Tipps had found the grass before this formidable obstruction, his rider-less horse followed in Diabolus' wake and safely
jumped to the other side.
"Three down, three te' gan" Peggy whispered as she resettled herself and peered ahead. The thought of going through
this hair-raising ordeal again was quickly shunned as her shaky gaze inspected the thing called 'Archibald's Hindrance'.
To a casual onlooker, the large awning of flowering entwined foliage that adorned Archibald's Hindrance might seem a
tad pretentious for a steeplechase. But to a galloping exhausted horse, such an approaching sight looks more like a
decorative maw waiting to consume anything that ventured between the collection of creepers and the spruce-covered
hurdle.
As the little Witch cajoled Diabolus with what her own thoughts were on the grandiloquent cover of Archibald's Hindrance,
Wendell Penn aimed his mount to get beside the black horse and drive them to the right-hand side. Although he had no
idea what Lord Tatem had set-up for the ass-showing Jezebel clinging to her horse, Penn would take great enjoyment in
seeing the trap unfold as crossed over the hurdle beside her.
...................................................
Unknown to all, as the damp mist of dawn revelled in its reign around the private land of Lord Tatem, the titled gent had
rose early to implement a project that would put-paid to Stanley Dawes' blue-collar daring of entering the esteemed race.
A thin loop of twine, so slender that it could hardly be seen -and certainly not by a tired jockey focused on advancing on
the hurdle, was hanging the colourful garland on the far-right of the canopy above the fence. It wasn't lethal, but it would
certainly dislodge a rider and even someone who was small in stature as Peggy Powler.
Lord Tatem felt confident in his scheme as he walked back to his mansion and thought about his breakfast. Maybe that
was why he failed to see the the small head of Pommer the Sprite peeking over the outlandish impediment known as
Archibald's Hindrance and examining the odd dangle in the foliage.
...................................................
The man who worked for Tatem was back and this time, Peggy knew he meant business. Buffeting the raven-coloured
stallion, Wendell Penn was attempting to push Diabolus to the right of the hurdle and if Pommer's idea of thwarting the
plot to unseat her was correct, the little Sprite should be appearing soon. "Get over!" Penn growled and yanked the reins
of Grandee's Valour and his attention on shepherding the Witch and Diabolus into the trap.
No one heard it, but Wendell's horse saw it... the word Pommer used was 'Boo!' as he suddenly hung down from beneath
main decoration of Lord Tatem's famous barrier. Grandee's Valour swerved left to avoid the weird creature beetling from
the leaves and as Diabolus leapt through the ostentatious laurel, he was sure Pommer touched his ear.
For the screaming Wendell Penn, there's a thin loop of twine, so slender that it could hardly be seen -and certainly not by
a hate-filled jockey focused on putting someone he deemed lesser then himself out of the Summertide and Barnstead
Hunt Horse Race.
Grandee's Valour rapped his hooves on the edge of the five-foot fence, but managed to clear it. Sadly -possibly, Lord
Tatem's favoured rider failed to negotiate the hurdle for never-spoken-about reasons and we'll leave it at that. Horse
racing is precarious sport and many factors in succeeding in a race can effect the outcome.
...................................................
Leaving the machinations of noblemen's follies behind, Peggy Powler hung on for grim-life as her canny friend between
her thighs raced towards the wide stream and Ivor's Folly that lay in the home-stretch. Glancing to her left, the weary Witch
saw that the pack was down to three. Herself, a pale horse with a rider carrying a face that hinted he'd already fouled his
pants and a young lad with victory on his mind. Adjusting her hold on Diabolus' mane, Peggy whispered "Whey, now we've
got a race" and stroked the neck of her galvanized mount.
...................................................
"She's still in it Boss!" Farra shouted as the crowd errupted on seeing the approaching riders. A sweating Stanley Dawes
craned his neck to see a dark-green shape bobbling up and down on the back of his own horse and intuitively reached for
his waistcoat pocket. "She's still in it" he softly repeated his employee's words and took to pushing his fingers through his
tightly-curled hair.
...................................................
It isn't a stream that flows through Lord Tatem's expansive vegetable garden, it's an ocean that would rival the Great Sea
when you're exhausted and just want to slake one's thirst with its waters. The jockey who seemed to have released his
bowels and offered facial clues to such an accident, fell foul the width of the hurdle and would later blame the stain on
his pants on the dark soil that escapes from the aristocrat's legume-growing allotment.
The kid just made it and with Diabolus landing confidently beside him, he emulated Peggy's earlier thoughts. Now it was
a race. Both took Ivor's Folly fairly easily and Marcus Jessup -the young man who stemmed from a stable out of Wheatland
County, wondered how the bantam hat-wrapped woman hanging onto her mount's mane had managed to succeed where
many -more qualified, had failed.
If Master Jessup had known a bunch of copse-living Fae or the hand-clenching big man standing in the noisy crowd ahead
or even asked two of the wealthiest men in the land watching from the grandiose stand near the winner's enclosure, the lad
would have found his answer. That's Peggy Powler, the Last Witch of Underhill.
Now, the final contestants in the Summertide and Barnstead Hunt Horse Race had to go again around the circuit.
But will they make it?
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.