08-16-2022, 09:18 PM
It wasn't much, but as Oliver Horton tore off a chunk of the loaf he'd salvaged from his stretched acquistion and handed it to
Boy-Boy Munce, his victory-smile waned as he observed Gideon Tundy's chewing-grin fade due to the farmer's son staring at
the door. It was opening.
The inventor's stomach sank, his crazed-creation had captured another unsuspecting wanderer of the woods and now, the cage
that the metal man had fashioned with twisted iron would house another prisoner and the nightmare would continue. Three pair
of wide eyes waited for the inevitable and realising the full implications of what was to come, the unlikely trio quickly stuffed
their mouths with the recovered fare.
.................................................................
It's written somewhere that two Ash trees were turned into the first humans by a forgotten deity and Peggy Polwer had heard
there's many villagers who see the lean deciduous timber's seeds -or keys, as a fine item to deter witchcraft. The latter is partly
true, but only when combined with particular invocations. But isn't that a type of magic in itself?
The Last Witch of Underhill had even come across arcadian tales of woodsmen being transported away to an unknown place
because they felled one these trees and she knew well that some farmers would wall-up a live shrew inside its trunk in order
to heal their sick cows.
Many other legends have the Ash tree as their main character and all of them belong to the old ways, a manner of faith that the
little Witch believed held layers of subtle canniness that had stood in good stead for those who lived off the land. Now climbing
down from such a tall timber, Peggy wondered if this new religion would just sweep these myths all away and implant their own.
New for old, one season moving into another and an empty page to fill.
"You belong me..." the metal man said as it rose from its hiding place, "...You come here" it added and remained behind the
blackberry bush. Peggy smiled, adjusted her satchel strap and stood her ground, her time up on her perch with Jasper hadn't
been wasted and now she waited to see if she was correct. "Nah, yer' get rusty backside over here" she cooed mockingly.
Jip-Jip moaned inside the head of his chariot, what magic the Lubber Fiend had used to control the hollow puppet had waned
due to his search in the darkness and the legs of the metal man just wouldn't move. Being unable to look upwards, it had never
occurred to the Lob that his quarry would merely hide above him. "You belong mine... you come" he demanded again and Peggy
could hear frustration wrapped around every word.
But that's the way with Lobs and lubberkins, selfish creatures that have no concept of compromise. Down through the ages these
nasty little buggers have taken without a thought and ruined without responsibility. Such intrinsic lack of ethics would make a fine
reason to why the creature called Jip-Jip couldn't drive the metal man to capture the disparaging unshod sorceress.
To keep a fire going, one needs wood and to create steam, one needs a lot of wood and have the ability to apply the fuel to said
blaze. Jip-Jip didn't appreciate Oliver Horton's invention nor cared how it functioned, but if any solace is needed, the self-centred
Goblin could've asked Gideon Tundy and even though he was just a teenager, he'd remark that even a plough-horse will die if you
don't feed it.
As a pheasant croaked its exasperation at finding such a performance interrupting its foraging for breakfast, Jasper Forster came
into view in the narrow slits the Lob was watching from. A boy with a stick taken from where he'd been hiding, another bondman
for his control. However, the item that the female slowly revealed from her shoulder-bag suddenly grabbed Jip-Jip's attention and
mesmerised by the little woman jamming it onto the youngster's Ash-sprig, any thoughts of cunning and strategy slipped away like
quenched steam in the morning mist.
.................................................................
"You're a sight for sore-eyes" Oliver sighed as he gazed at the two silhouettes standing in the doorway. The three men all displayed
relieved features, but it was the inventor's face that altered slightly when he saw something wriggling on the end of a pole the boy
was holding at arms length. "Fair travels Mister..." the one in the hat said easily, "...Ah' think this bugger belongs to you".
Boy-Boy Munce, his victory-smile waned as he observed Gideon Tundy's chewing-grin fade due to the farmer's son staring at
the door. It was opening.
The inventor's stomach sank, his crazed-creation had captured another unsuspecting wanderer of the woods and now, the cage
that the metal man had fashioned with twisted iron would house another prisoner and the nightmare would continue. Three pair
of wide eyes waited for the inevitable and realising the full implications of what was to come, the unlikely trio quickly stuffed
their mouths with the recovered fare.
.................................................................
It's written somewhere that two Ash trees were turned into the first humans by a forgotten deity and Peggy Polwer had heard
there's many villagers who see the lean deciduous timber's seeds -or keys, as a fine item to deter witchcraft. The latter is partly
true, but only when combined with particular invocations. But isn't that a type of magic in itself?
The Last Witch of Underhill had even come across arcadian tales of woodsmen being transported away to an unknown place
because they felled one these trees and she knew well that some farmers would wall-up a live shrew inside its trunk in order
to heal their sick cows.
Many other legends have the Ash tree as their main character and all of them belong to the old ways, a manner of faith that the
little Witch believed held layers of subtle canniness that had stood in good stead for those who lived off the land. Now climbing
down from such a tall timber, Peggy wondered if this new religion would just sweep these myths all away and implant their own.
New for old, one season moving into another and an empty page to fill.
"You belong me..." the metal man said as it rose from its hiding place, "...You come here" it added and remained behind the
blackberry bush. Peggy smiled, adjusted her satchel strap and stood her ground, her time up on her perch with Jasper hadn't
been wasted and now she waited to see if she was correct. "Nah, yer' get rusty backside over here" she cooed mockingly.
Jip-Jip moaned inside the head of his chariot, what magic the Lubber Fiend had used to control the hollow puppet had waned
due to his search in the darkness and the legs of the metal man just wouldn't move. Being unable to look upwards, it had never
occurred to the Lob that his quarry would merely hide above him. "You belong mine... you come" he demanded again and Peggy
could hear frustration wrapped around every word.
But that's the way with Lobs and lubberkins, selfish creatures that have no concept of compromise. Down through the ages these
nasty little buggers have taken without a thought and ruined without responsibility. Such intrinsic lack of ethics would make a fine
reason to why the creature called Jip-Jip couldn't drive the metal man to capture the disparaging unshod sorceress.
To keep a fire going, one needs wood and to create steam, one needs a lot of wood and have the ability to apply the fuel to said
blaze. Jip-Jip didn't appreciate Oliver Horton's invention nor cared how it functioned, but if any solace is needed, the self-centred
Goblin could've asked Gideon Tundy and even though he was just a teenager, he'd remark that even a plough-horse will die if you
don't feed it.
As a pheasant croaked its exasperation at finding such a performance interrupting its foraging for breakfast, Jasper Forster came
into view in the narrow slits the Lob was watching from. A boy with a stick taken from where he'd been hiding, another bondman
for his control. However, the item that the female slowly revealed from her shoulder-bag suddenly grabbed Jip-Jip's attention and
mesmerised by the little woman jamming it onto the youngster's Ash-sprig, any thoughts of cunning and strategy slipped away like
quenched steam in the morning mist.
.................................................................
"You're a sight for sore-eyes" Oliver sighed as he gazed at the two silhouettes standing in the doorway. The three men all displayed
relieved features, but it was the inventor's face that altered slightly when he saw something wriggling on the end of a pole the boy
was holding at arms length. "Fair travels Mister..." the one in the hat said easily, "...Ah' think this bugger belongs to you".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.