11-28-2021, 04:43 PM
The familiar surface of Calder's Way felt the toughened soles of Peggy Powler as she made her way towards the little
farming populace of Salvation Row or 'Old Scratch' -as someone presumably leaving the village, wished it be called.
The hedgerows along the famous highway were see-through due to the season and the fields beyond were just as bare.
The odd Elm, twisted Birch and even a wild Crab Apple tree broke up the continuity of the man-made fencing and formed
shadowy chaperons along the poncho-wearing necromancer's transit. A curious barn owl watched her passing from the
remains of a lightning-struck Rowan tree that Peggy blithely took as an omen to what might lay ahead.
The Witch felt the breeze getting up as whatever natural terrain around Salvation Row had been conquered for a more
favourable place to use for agriculture, the wind now had a direct line across the bare soil and meet up with its old friend,
the Farra River.
Seeing the twinkling of a lantern in the distance, Peggy juggled with the idea of either sleeping out in the open again, maybe
under one of the stark hawthorn hedges and snugly in her satchel or did she carry on with the idea of reaching Salvation Row
at this time of night guaranteed her a place of shelter?
If her experience as a travelling-sorceress needed to be explained via optics, seeing Peggy climb carefully into the Rowan
was a good sign of the result of her contemplation. It's said that these types of Ash tree were the bane of witches, but like
many superstitions, these shibboleths rely on fear of a determined group and not the intent of an individual.
Now dangling on the charred remains of a branch, the last Witch of Underhill settling down in her comfortable shoulder-bag
genially wondered if such beliefs would bring about another strike of wood-searing fulmination. However, it seemed bad luck
had other less-dramatic ways of showing that folklore still had a bearing as the steady humming of a certain seller of potions
came on the breeze.
Bartholomew Drigg was walking the night towards Salvation Row and being noisy about it too.
...................................................
"...It's not like I'm unaccustomed to sleeping alfresco, you understand..." the man carefully adjusting his cloth bag into a more
comfortable pillow explained to the strange woman hanging from her own type of repository above him. "...It's just unseemly
as an representative for Sarcens & Sarcens Druggists to emit the impression that payment for lodgings isn't a concern for
such an esteemed company"
"Definitely a toad" Peggy moaned softly from her canvas satchel and wondered if the barn owl was still around to eat such a
rowdy amphibians.
A whole minute passed before Drigg submitted his first reasonable -but prying question and this was during another bout of
sorting out his makeshift bed. "May I ask if you have kin in Salvation Row, Missy?" he asked softly towards a star-pricked night
sky and a swaying pouch.
Only a few seconds passed before the heaven-sent reply came to the parody of what a well-mannered gentleman was really
supposed to be. "Me-name is Peggy Powler, Ah' divna' know any bugger in Salvation Row, Ah'm not a 'Missy' and if yer' divna'
whisht yer gob, yer'll be wanderin the lane lookin' fur' bugs". This from the lofty slumberer and to some, it might be a lower-class
attempt to ask Bartholomew Drigg to quieten his inquisitiveness. Other less-misanthropic listeners may deem it as a threat.
As the nocturnal bird of prey ghosted across the barren fields in search of its supper, the new arrivals of its favourite roost settled
down to scour their own dreams for subconscious nourishment. Drigg snored.
...................................................
A breakfast-hunting wren peered at the gaping maw of the sleeping salesman and wondered if the pink thing within the fleshy
cave was a worm. Deciding that wheezing grotto may be hazardous to approach, the tiny bird flitted off to wherever wrens flit
off to.
Dawn had been up for almost an hour and like most shift duties, the transition was of a fairly bright sky taking up the space left by
a lethargic cloudless night. As those early-risers in the fluttering animal kingdom began their day, Peggy Powler was using all of
her stealth-abilities to descend from the scorched tree with aspirations of leaving the ebullient confidence-artist where he slept.
She almost got away with it too.
"I have to apologise Miss Powler for my uncivil behaviour last night..." Bartholomew began as effervescent as the daylight.
"...I had no idea that I was in the company of such a distinguished envoy of the esoteric arts" he added as he preened his matching
red-velvet jacket of winter-worn leaves.
The little Witch stood on Calder's Way and stared at the fidgeting man sitting on the embankment that held the hedgerows and her
sleeping-tree, it was like he'd never slept. No hebetude from his uncomfortable setting, no disgruntlement from lack of sleep or the
solitude of his employment, nothing to indicate anything negative was in his life. But the babbling continued.
As the prim-and-proper Bartholomew Drigg droned on about his error of being complacent with the woman in the large hat, the owner
of the headwear gave the snake-oil-selling opportunist a full perusal, mainly because he was... well, he was so self-absorbed.
His hair was black and Peggy wondered if a bit of dye had been applied in the not-too-distant past in the attempt to retrieve a few
years. A perfumed grease also resided on the shyster's head to keep Drigg's locks from effecting his salesmanship and maybe
enriching his chances to retail to the fairer sex. His face told of shrouded petulance and stifled intolerance, but his lined features
-when stretched towards a winning smile, didn't promote the idea that he was handsome, just that he was a caricature of what a
salesman should look like.
The Witch wondered if the ill-suited dark-red suit for this type of travel was chosen for its durability and not its vending-impact.
The lapels held a red-silk piping that alarmingly, reappeared down the sides of his trousers and elbow-patches spoke of long
talks over shopkeeper counters. The matching derby hat that Barthomlew was currently pushing the dents out of, was also -in
Peggy's opinion, a poor choice in costume.
"...And in a way, we're in the same line of work" Mr Drigg ended his blather with and smiled at his only audience standing in the
lane. Peggy realised that she had not heard one word of what he'd said and quickly on the back of this acknowledgment, assumed
it didn't really matter. "Er, Aye" she said for no reason at all and turning towards a place with 'Salvation' its name, the little sorceress
hoped such deliverance from Bartholomew Drigg's annoying monologue lay somewhere in its domain.
...................................................
Salvation Row wasn't a community, it was six cottages and a store that had fallen into disrepair. Peggy cautiously stepped into the
square where a stone-well waited with its bucket coated in spiders webs. The usually-chattering salesman was quiet as he wandered
around the seemingly empty homes and the little Witch noticed that he didn't dare knock on the doors. "What has happened here?"
Bartholomew asked -probably to himself and returned to the village's watering hole where he placed his bag of potions.
Doffing her hat and peering into the well, Peggy murmured "Old Scratch came a-visiting" and wondered how deep it was.
Drigg copied the action and producing a white handkerchief from his trouser-pocket, wiped his brow. "You mean the Devil came to
this... this whatever it is, and stole the people?" he said with a note of doubt, his diminutive partner just smiled at him and said nothing.
farming populace of Salvation Row or 'Old Scratch' -as someone presumably leaving the village, wished it be called.
The hedgerows along the famous highway were see-through due to the season and the fields beyond were just as bare.
The odd Elm, twisted Birch and even a wild Crab Apple tree broke up the continuity of the man-made fencing and formed
shadowy chaperons along the poncho-wearing necromancer's transit. A curious barn owl watched her passing from the
remains of a lightning-struck Rowan tree that Peggy blithely took as an omen to what might lay ahead.
The Witch felt the breeze getting up as whatever natural terrain around Salvation Row had been conquered for a more
favourable place to use for agriculture, the wind now had a direct line across the bare soil and meet up with its old friend,
the Farra River.
Seeing the twinkling of a lantern in the distance, Peggy juggled with the idea of either sleeping out in the open again, maybe
under one of the stark hawthorn hedges and snugly in her satchel or did she carry on with the idea of reaching Salvation Row
at this time of night guaranteed her a place of shelter?
If her experience as a travelling-sorceress needed to be explained via optics, seeing Peggy climb carefully into the Rowan
was a good sign of the result of her contemplation. It's said that these types of Ash tree were the bane of witches, but like
many superstitions, these shibboleths rely on fear of a determined group and not the intent of an individual.
Now dangling on the charred remains of a branch, the last Witch of Underhill settling down in her comfortable shoulder-bag
genially wondered if such beliefs would bring about another strike of wood-searing fulmination. However, it seemed bad luck
had other less-dramatic ways of showing that folklore still had a bearing as the steady humming of a certain seller of potions
came on the breeze.
Bartholomew Drigg was walking the night towards Salvation Row and being noisy about it too.
...................................................
"...It's not like I'm unaccustomed to sleeping alfresco, you understand..." the man carefully adjusting his cloth bag into a more
comfortable pillow explained to the strange woman hanging from her own type of repository above him. "...It's just unseemly
as an representative for Sarcens & Sarcens Druggists to emit the impression that payment for lodgings isn't a concern for
such an esteemed company"
"Definitely a toad" Peggy moaned softly from her canvas satchel and wondered if the barn owl was still around to eat such a
rowdy amphibians.
A whole minute passed before Drigg submitted his first reasonable -but prying question and this was during another bout of
sorting out his makeshift bed. "May I ask if you have kin in Salvation Row, Missy?" he asked softly towards a star-pricked night
sky and a swaying pouch.
Only a few seconds passed before the heaven-sent reply came to the parody of what a well-mannered gentleman was really
supposed to be. "Me-name is Peggy Powler, Ah' divna' know any bugger in Salvation Row, Ah'm not a 'Missy' and if yer' divna'
whisht yer gob, yer'll be wanderin the lane lookin' fur' bugs". This from the lofty slumberer and to some, it might be a lower-class
attempt to ask Bartholomew Drigg to quieten his inquisitiveness. Other less-misanthropic listeners may deem it as a threat.
As the nocturnal bird of prey ghosted across the barren fields in search of its supper, the new arrivals of its favourite roost settled
down to scour their own dreams for subconscious nourishment. Drigg snored.
...................................................
A breakfast-hunting wren peered at the gaping maw of the sleeping salesman and wondered if the pink thing within the fleshy
cave was a worm. Deciding that wheezing grotto may be hazardous to approach, the tiny bird flitted off to wherever wrens flit
off to.
Dawn had been up for almost an hour and like most shift duties, the transition was of a fairly bright sky taking up the space left by
a lethargic cloudless night. As those early-risers in the fluttering animal kingdom began their day, Peggy Powler was using all of
her stealth-abilities to descend from the scorched tree with aspirations of leaving the ebullient confidence-artist where he slept.
She almost got away with it too.
"I have to apologise Miss Powler for my uncivil behaviour last night..." Bartholomew began as effervescent as the daylight.
"...I had no idea that I was in the company of such a distinguished envoy of the esoteric arts" he added as he preened his matching
red-velvet jacket of winter-worn leaves.
The little Witch stood on Calder's Way and stared at the fidgeting man sitting on the embankment that held the hedgerows and her
sleeping-tree, it was like he'd never slept. No hebetude from his uncomfortable setting, no disgruntlement from lack of sleep or the
solitude of his employment, nothing to indicate anything negative was in his life. But the babbling continued.
As the prim-and-proper Bartholomew Drigg droned on about his error of being complacent with the woman in the large hat, the owner
of the headwear gave the snake-oil-selling opportunist a full perusal, mainly because he was... well, he was so self-absorbed.
His hair was black and Peggy wondered if a bit of dye had been applied in the not-too-distant past in the attempt to retrieve a few
years. A perfumed grease also resided on the shyster's head to keep Drigg's locks from effecting his salesmanship and maybe
enriching his chances to retail to the fairer sex. His face told of shrouded petulance and stifled intolerance, but his lined features
-when stretched towards a winning smile, didn't promote the idea that he was handsome, just that he was a caricature of what a
salesman should look like.
The Witch wondered if the ill-suited dark-red suit for this type of travel was chosen for its durability and not its vending-impact.
The lapels held a red-silk piping that alarmingly, reappeared down the sides of his trousers and elbow-patches spoke of long
talks over shopkeeper counters. The matching derby hat that Barthomlew was currently pushing the dents out of, was also -in
Peggy's opinion, a poor choice in costume.
"...And in a way, we're in the same line of work" Mr Drigg ended his blather with and smiled at his only audience standing in the
lane. Peggy realised that she had not heard one word of what he'd said and quickly on the back of this acknowledgment, assumed
it didn't really matter. "Er, Aye" she said for no reason at all and turning towards a place with 'Salvation' its name, the little sorceress
hoped such deliverance from Bartholomew Drigg's annoying monologue lay somewhere in its domain.
...................................................
Salvation Row wasn't a community, it was six cottages and a store that had fallen into disrepair. Peggy cautiously stepped into the
square where a stone-well waited with its bucket coated in spiders webs. The usually-chattering salesman was quiet as he wandered
around the seemingly empty homes and the little Witch noticed that he didn't dare knock on the doors. "What has happened here?"
Bartholomew asked -probably to himself and returned to the village's watering hole where he placed his bag of potions.
Doffing her hat and peering into the well, Peggy murmured "Old Scratch came a-visiting" and wondered how deep it was.
Drigg copied the action and producing a white handkerchief from his trouser-pocket, wiped his brow. "You mean the Devil came to
this... this whatever it is, and stole the people?" he said with a note of doubt, his diminutive partner just smiled at him and said nothing.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.