11-28-2021, 10:38 PM
It was certainly a puzzle, Peggy Powler granted Bartholomew Drigg that much. The vandalised signpost had suggested that
the Dark One had rode into the little thorp of Salvation Row and stolen its residents, but as the salesman and the Witch took
in their mid-morning surroundings, both saw entirely different settings.
Bartholomew initially observed that a possible customer-base was missing and his trip to the village had been wasted.
But as the openly-superficial hustler of coloured-water peered closer, he concluded it had been some time since anyone had
live here. "It's like a ghost town Miss Powler" he muttered as he noticed all the doors of the cottages were open. The Last Witch
of Underhill struggled with her own mirth at the statement and answered "It is a ghost town Mr Drigg".
But Peggy saw a different scene, an 'almost-something' that tickled her mind like a summer trout resting in a chalk-bed stream.
The homes looked like they should, once-cared-for grass-root dwellings of common folk with a pride in themselves. The straw
roofs were weather-worn and the window-frames looked like they needed a coat of paint, but there was no individualism... they
all looked too "sameness" the little woman whispered as she jammed her hat on her head and stepped towards the first of the
residences.
The number of communities Peggy had visited must be close to a hundred -maybe more, and there was always a feel to them.
Some would adorn their window-sills with flowerpots or there'd be a cart parked outside, but usually the walls of common-folk
were daubed differently. Here, the squat houses just seemed trite, seemed cliché to the surveying Seer and it bothered the hell
out of her.
For Bartholomew, his quest to hawk his goods demands no need to mentally-ingest the character of a village, just that it was
occupied with folk who carried frollis and hopefully, numma. To look for a social ambience was for emotional people and to be
successful in Drigg's line of work, feelings didn't bring money.
On her tip-toes and with one hand tugging the back of her poncho down, Peggy looked into the window of the cottage that she
eventually decided belonged to a lone female, probably a widow. The place gave-off a dour feminine quality that smacked of
something had and also something lost, a half-hearted attempt to go on. Endure.
Peggy's brow furrowed, but not because of what she felt, but of what she believed she was meant to feel.
But immediately on the back of that thought, the little Witch mused on why such suspicion would appear on her horizon like that.
Looking back at the idling salesman leaning against the well, the heavy compassion for an unknown person seeped away like
the relief one acquires when taking a leak. Something that Peggy needed to do.
Leaving the textured window-sill, the bare-footed necromancer walked behind the home and allowing her hand to brush the ivy
that hung from the side-wall, she nibbled her lip in expectancy to see an outhouse. But only crop-less fields and an occasional
leafless copse waited for Peggy's viewing and this brought another bout of brow-furrowing.
"Bugger it" she cursed and quickly did her business against the rear wall of the cottage, her eyes never leaving the route she'd
just taken to get there. It was a minute later when Bartholomew called her name with a slight hint of concern, but as she returned
back to the square, Peggy was sure he wasn't worried about her welfare. The shyster just didn't like being alone.
...................................................
With Drigg's steadfast refusal to enter any of the buildings to make a meal, Peggy agreed with him that a campfire just where the
track from Calder's Way began, would be a good idea. What caught Peggy's wick, was that she agreed to eagerly and chastised
herself by gathering the makings.
It wasn't until the flames were lapping around a kettle borrowed from the kitchen of the 'widow-house', that she began to ruminate
on what might be going on in Salvation Row. That was until Driggs began his own enquiry.
"Where do you think they've gone?" Bartholomew asked as he begrudgingly sat down on the rough grass that covered the verge
of the stony lane. The remains of the fence that cornered the junction didn't look strong enough to lean against, but the abiding
agent for Sarcens & Sarcens excepted his situation without comment.
Peggy glanced across at her unwanted companion and said nothing, a small voice in the back of her mind was already doing
all the talking. "This isn't what it looks like..." she muttered softly towards the man folding his jacket again, "...I don't think this
is real" and couldn't help but notice the wandering merchant's look of astonishment.
the Dark One had rode into the little thorp of Salvation Row and stolen its residents, but as the salesman and the Witch took
in their mid-morning surroundings, both saw entirely different settings.
Bartholomew initially observed that a possible customer-base was missing and his trip to the village had been wasted.
But as the openly-superficial hustler of coloured-water peered closer, he concluded it had been some time since anyone had
live here. "It's like a ghost town Miss Powler" he muttered as he noticed all the doors of the cottages were open. The Last Witch
of Underhill struggled with her own mirth at the statement and answered "It is a ghost town Mr Drigg".
But Peggy saw a different scene, an 'almost-something' that tickled her mind like a summer trout resting in a chalk-bed stream.
The homes looked like they should, once-cared-for grass-root dwellings of common folk with a pride in themselves. The straw
roofs were weather-worn and the window-frames looked like they needed a coat of paint, but there was no individualism... they
all looked too "sameness" the little woman whispered as she jammed her hat on her head and stepped towards the first of the
residences.
The number of communities Peggy had visited must be close to a hundred -maybe more, and there was always a feel to them.
Some would adorn their window-sills with flowerpots or there'd be a cart parked outside, but usually the walls of common-folk
were daubed differently. Here, the squat houses just seemed trite, seemed cliché to the surveying Seer and it bothered the hell
out of her.
For Bartholomew, his quest to hawk his goods demands no need to mentally-ingest the character of a village, just that it was
occupied with folk who carried frollis and hopefully, numma. To look for a social ambience was for emotional people and to be
successful in Drigg's line of work, feelings didn't bring money.
On her tip-toes and with one hand tugging the back of her poncho down, Peggy looked into the window of the cottage that she
eventually decided belonged to a lone female, probably a widow. The place gave-off a dour feminine quality that smacked of
something had and also something lost, a half-hearted attempt to go on. Endure.
Peggy's brow furrowed, but not because of what she felt, but of what she believed she was meant to feel.
But immediately on the back of that thought, the little Witch mused on why such suspicion would appear on her horizon like that.
Looking back at the idling salesman leaning against the well, the heavy compassion for an unknown person seeped away like
the relief one acquires when taking a leak. Something that Peggy needed to do.
Leaving the textured window-sill, the bare-footed necromancer walked behind the home and allowing her hand to brush the ivy
that hung from the side-wall, she nibbled her lip in expectancy to see an outhouse. But only crop-less fields and an occasional
leafless copse waited for Peggy's viewing and this brought another bout of brow-furrowing.
"Bugger it" she cursed and quickly did her business against the rear wall of the cottage, her eyes never leaving the route she'd
just taken to get there. It was a minute later when Bartholomew called her name with a slight hint of concern, but as she returned
back to the square, Peggy was sure he wasn't worried about her welfare. The shyster just didn't like being alone.
...................................................
With Drigg's steadfast refusal to enter any of the buildings to make a meal, Peggy agreed with him that a campfire just where the
track from Calder's Way began, would be a good idea. What caught Peggy's wick, was that she agreed to eagerly and chastised
herself by gathering the makings.
It wasn't until the flames were lapping around a kettle borrowed from the kitchen of the 'widow-house', that she began to ruminate
on what might be going on in Salvation Row. That was until Driggs began his own enquiry.
"Where do you think they've gone?" Bartholomew asked as he begrudgingly sat down on the rough grass that covered the verge
of the stony lane. The remains of the fence that cornered the junction didn't look strong enough to lean against, but the abiding
agent for Sarcens & Sarcens excepted his situation without comment.
Peggy glanced across at her unwanted companion and said nothing, a small voice in the back of her mind was already doing
all the talking. "This isn't what it looks like..." she muttered softly towards the man folding his jacket again, "...I don't think this
is real" and couldn't help but notice the wandering merchant's look of astonishment.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.