If you ever visit the quaint little hamlet of Bettiscombe, there's a wall that has no connecting structure or belongs to any building
that the residents of the small village use. It just stands there, crumbling masonary of dried lime mortar and fired bricks with the
remains of gypsum in a couple of places.
Back a century or so, a nameless Magician ousted one of the Fallen's children with an implement similar to the one Peggy Powler
was now wielding. If you're polite enough and ask the older folk of Bettiscombe, they'll tell you that the blast from such an exorcism
was so intense that it left the shadow of the Daemon embedded on the wall.
Mind you, there isn't much left of the off-white plaster, but there are blackened marks on the remains... if you look hard enough.
...................................................
As Myrddin fell backwards from the sudden disgorging from the half-hidden grave, Peggy Powler felt her bladder release the
equivalent physical manifestation of her shock at what she was witnessing. Whether Duckworth Bowe produced such warm
liquid, the prone bearded magician and the teenager would never know due to the young attractive man fleeing the glade of
the damned.
Ignoring the trickle on her bare feet, the last Witch of Underhill gazed with wonder at the dusty creature standing over the human
that was supposed to slay him. Jack Dor was over six-feet tall and wore a dark-red surtout with gold buttons running down the
right-hand side. A similar-coloured braiding hung from the epaulettes and met just beneath the collar of a dirt-smudged black shirt.
The Daemon sported knee-high boots over his dust-smeared black pants and a strangely-carved belt-buckle of gold to match
the overall effect. Peggy observed all this in the wink of an eye and in the moment before she believed Dor was about to pounce
on the sorcerer at his feet.
"Eh... Bugger-lugs..." Madame Ruth Powler's daughter barked "... yer' ever tried yer' hand wiv' a Witch?" and attempted her best
engaging stance. Peggy had never been one to show-off her slim figure for attention, but she knew a bare thigh tilted correctly can
go a long way to distract a man's -and hopefully, a cacodemon's eye.
Jack Dor had seen this type of ploy before, but being only the result between the cleaving of a Fallen and a human, he still paused
in his initial stratagem to rip Myrddin's throat out. Cold eyes of grey scanned the little female pushing her chest out and offering a
smile of allurement.
"You'll be Fae, I would surmise?" Dor cooed mockingly and pondered whether to make the girl one of his dancers or just enchant
her with his charms. A wash and a change of clothes would certainly improve the daring shoeless wench -he thought as he felt the
man at his feet move. "A demoted, just like myself" he derided and appreciated her attempted diversion.
"I will deal with you in moment, darling" the Daemon muttered and moved his steely-gaze towards his immediate intruder. Jack Dor
had fought magicians before and this one would follow in their footsteps he mused. "It's time indeed" he scorned at the scrambling
skinny-legged prone figure in the dark robe.
That was when the young Witch made her move.
...................................................
It would be easier to explain the result of Jack Dor's assault by observing the desert scene through Doctor Duckworth Bowe's eyes.
One moment the easy-standing Witch was smiling flirtatiously at the oncoming Daemon, the next she'd fallen backwards in the
similar manner that Myrddin had done all those years ago.
The man who'd abandoned his one-night-lover and his teacher and sought solace in the desert, now watched as the scarred Jack
Dor flew over the tumbling Peggy and screamed in a presumed anger of missing his target. However, Duckworth was wrong.
It wasn't the pain from the wooden stake sticking out of his groin that was causing the Daemon to bellow loud enough for Sarah
back in the cabin to hear. It wasn't even the fury from being out-manouvered by the little scruffy Hob in the daft hat. The surging
agony came from the strange leaking from the Wiggan Stick's perforated point combined with the incantation that Peggy Powler
was providing.
With features that a more-studious person than the heavily-breathing man on the incline may have appreciated, the last Witch of
Underhill went about ridding the county of Wildhorn of a very old bogeyman. Jack Dor had enjoyed a good innings and used many
poor souls during his appalling -but covert, reign, now it was time to pay the Ferryman.
"Vulgaris diaboli, videte thy verba et amplexus via spiritus, Abito aeternum" Peggy Powler stated with her best commanding tone
and getting to her feet, she watched the Wiggan Stick do its work.
Staying with the thoughts of our imaginary intellectual observer, he may have admired the forthright address of the banishment
and the simple fact that half-starved little Seer from a drunken mother and an unknown father, was taking-out a demi-Daemon
on his own turf. All the while, without shoes, without underwear and in attire that could do with a good wash.
It's classed as big-stuff in Magician circles.
While we're on about the credible dominions that operate in the environs of sorcery, the small holes that spiralled around the sharp
point of the Wiggan Stick protruding from Jack Dor's crotch, held a very special venin. A strange miasma that derived from those
who dabble in the transmutation of natural materials.
True alchemy was a favoured discipline in certain Fae assemblies and during early experiments, this weird vapour was discovered.
They called it 'Thursettun', which some believe came from combining the the human words of 'thurse' -meaning giant, ogre or
monster and 'Ettun', which translates to devourer. As a small side-note and not relevant to our tale, if we belabour the use of our
observing character, in the future, 'Thursettun' will also be reluctantly agreed on to be a contender for Dark Matter.
(Something to do with gluons!)
This cabalistic gaseous poison was now disrupting Jack Dor's ability to escape the reality he was currently in and barring the Daemon
from escaping the agony he was feeling. "You stunted harlot... do you know what you have done?" the frightened Hellion screeched
as he stared at the baton sticking out of his privates. Peggy showed a face of cruel enjoyment and thankfully, the wide brim of her hat
stopped anyone from seeing her bitter expression.
"Yer' once copied someone's words when yer' messed-up at our last encounter..." the Witch said as she approached the twisting form
of the disintegrating half-breed. "...Permit me to use 'em again" Peggy added with a lilt of sarcasm as she leaned close to the tormented
features of the subject from her teenage demonic engagement.
Noticing the typical light-displaying splits in the physical composition that Jack Dor presented as himself to those of Peggy's reality, she
knew she didn't have much longer to deliver the Daemon's epitaph and so adjusting the strap of her faithful satchel and making sure her
hat was set correctly, she spoke the words.
"It's time" she whispered and with a fizzle, Jack Dor was no more.
...................................................
Myrddin would later comment on the speed that Peggy showed as she jammed the Lapis Veneficus into the face of the grinning Daemon
that threatened to terrorise the neighbourhood of Hatton in the Corn. Quickly rolling out of the way of the squealing well-dressed monster,
the magician was surprised that his -now only votary, showed such courage as she leapt forward and smashed the radiating stone into
Dor's wicked -but dapper, features.
A moment later, the dishevelled clearing was quiet except for Myrddin groaning as he got to his feet. Peggy was just standing there looking
at the air where Jack Dor once inhabited and her mind was bound in puzzled glue. "He... he's gone" she mumbled and struggled to move
her eyes from... well, from a moment of disbelief.
The older shaman stepped close and gently steered the shocked seventeen year-old by her shoulders towards the path they had first used
to enter the place of horror and the one the coward she'd made love to had utilise to quickly skedaddle.
He's gone for now, my sister of the Fae..." Myrddin said in hushed tones "...but I have no doubt that we will encounter him again" the kindly
Wizard supplemented as a blackbird struck-up its melody in a nearby elderberry bush.
"Aye" said the young girl, but could honestly say she didn't know at that moment what she was agreeing to.
that the residents of the small village use. It just stands there, crumbling masonary of dried lime mortar and fired bricks with the
remains of gypsum in a couple of places.
Back a century or so, a nameless Magician ousted one of the Fallen's children with an implement similar to the one Peggy Powler
was now wielding. If you're polite enough and ask the older folk of Bettiscombe, they'll tell you that the blast from such an exorcism
was so intense that it left the shadow of the Daemon embedded on the wall.
Mind you, there isn't much left of the off-white plaster, but there are blackened marks on the remains... if you look hard enough.
...................................................
As Myrddin fell backwards from the sudden disgorging from the half-hidden grave, Peggy Powler felt her bladder release the
equivalent physical manifestation of her shock at what she was witnessing. Whether Duckworth Bowe produced such warm
liquid, the prone bearded magician and the teenager would never know due to the young attractive man fleeing the glade of
the damned.
Ignoring the trickle on her bare feet, the last Witch of Underhill gazed with wonder at the dusty creature standing over the human
that was supposed to slay him. Jack Dor was over six-feet tall and wore a dark-red surtout with gold buttons running down the
right-hand side. A similar-coloured braiding hung from the epaulettes and met just beneath the collar of a dirt-smudged black shirt.
The Daemon sported knee-high boots over his dust-smeared black pants and a strangely-carved belt-buckle of gold to match
the overall effect. Peggy observed all this in the wink of an eye and in the moment before she believed Dor was about to pounce
on the sorcerer at his feet.
"Eh... Bugger-lugs..." Madame Ruth Powler's daughter barked "... yer' ever tried yer' hand wiv' a Witch?" and attempted her best
engaging stance. Peggy had never been one to show-off her slim figure for attention, but she knew a bare thigh tilted correctly can
go a long way to distract a man's -and hopefully, a cacodemon's eye.
Jack Dor had seen this type of ploy before, but being only the result between the cleaving of a Fallen and a human, he still paused
in his initial stratagem to rip Myrddin's throat out. Cold eyes of grey scanned the little female pushing her chest out and offering a
smile of allurement.
"You'll be Fae, I would surmise?" Dor cooed mockingly and pondered whether to make the girl one of his dancers or just enchant
her with his charms. A wash and a change of clothes would certainly improve the daring shoeless wench -he thought as he felt the
man at his feet move. "A demoted, just like myself" he derided and appreciated her attempted diversion.
"I will deal with you in moment, darling" the Daemon muttered and moved his steely-gaze towards his immediate intruder. Jack Dor
had fought magicians before and this one would follow in their footsteps he mused. "It's time indeed" he scorned at the scrambling
skinny-legged prone figure in the dark robe.
That was when the young Witch made her move.
...................................................
It would be easier to explain the result of Jack Dor's assault by observing the desert scene through Doctor Duckworth Bowe's eyes.
One moment the easy-standing Witch was smiling flirtatiously at the oncoming Daemon, the next she'd fallen backwards in the
similar manner that Myrddin had done all those years ago.
The man who'd abandoned his one-night-lover and his teacher and sought solace in the desert, now watched as the scarred Jack
Dor flew over the tumbling Peggy and screamed in a presumed anger of missing his target. However, Duckworth was wrong.
It wasn't the pain from the wooden stake sticking out of his groin that was causing the Daemon to bellow loud enough for Sarah
back in the cabin to hear. It wasn't even the fury from being out-manouvered by the little scruffy Hob in the daft hat. The surging
agony came from the strange leaking from the Wiggan Stick's perforated point combined with the incantation that Peggy Powler
was providing.
With features that a more-studious person than the heavily-breathing man on the incline may have appreciated, the last Witch of
Underhill went about ridding the county of Wildhorn of a very old bogeyman. Jack Dor had enjoyed a good innings and used many
poor souls during his appalling -but covert, reign, now it was time to pay the Ferryman.
"Vulgaris diaboli, videte thy verba et amplexus via spiritus, Abito aeternum" Peggy Powler stated with her best commanding tone
and getting to her feet, she watched the Wiggan Stick do its work.
Staying with the thoughts of our imaginary intellectual observer, he may have admired the forthright address of the banishment
and the simple fact that half-starved little Seer from a drunken mother and an unknown father, was taking-out a demi-Daemon
on his own turf. All the while, without shoes, without underwear and in attire that could do with a good wash.
It's classed as big-stuff in Magician circles.
While we're on about the credible dominions that operate in the environs of sorcery, the small holes that spiralled around the sharp
point of the Wiggan Stick protruding from Jack Dor's crotch, held a very special venin. A strange miasma that derived from those
who dabble in the transmutation of natural materials.
True alchemy was a favoured discipline in certain Fae assemblies and during early experiments, this weird vapour was discovered.
They called it 'Thursettun', which some believe came from combining the the human words of 'thurse' -meaning giant, ogre or
monster and 'Ettun', which translates to devourer. As a small side-note and not relevant to our tale, if we belabour the use of our
observing character, in the future, 'Thursettun' will also be reluctantly agreed on to be a contender for Dark Matter.
(Something to do with gluons!)
This cabalistic gaseous poison was now disrupting Jack Dor's ability to escape the reality he was currently in and barring the Daemon
from escaping the agony he was feeling. "You stunted harlot... do you know what you have done?" the frightened Hellion screeched
as he stared at the baton sticking out of his privates. Peggy showed a face of cruel enjoyment and thankfully, the wide brim of her hat
stopped anyone from seeing her bitter expression.
"Yer' once copied someone's words when yer' messed-up at our last encounter..." the Witch said as she approached the twisting form
of the disintegrating half-breed. "...Permit me to use 'em again" Peggy added with a lilt of sarcasm as she leaned close to the tormented
features of the subject from her teenage demonic engagement.
Noticing the typical light-displaying splits in the physical composition that Jack Dor presented as himself to those of Peggy's reality, she
knew she didn't have much longer to deliver the Daemon's epitaph and so adjusting the strap of her faithful satchel and making sure her
hat was set correctly, she spoke the words.
"It's time" she whispered and with a fizzle, Jack Dor was no more.
...................................................
Myrddin would later comment on the speed that Peggy showed as she jammed the Lapis Veneficus into the face of the grinning Daemon
that threatened to terrorise the neighbourhood of Hatton in the Corn. Quickly rolling out of the way of the squealing well-dressed monster,
the magician was surprised that his -now only votary, showed such courage as she leapt forward and smashed the radiating stone into
Dor's wicked -but dapper, features.
A moment later, the dishevelled clearing was quiet except for Myrddin groaning as he got to his feet. Peggy was just standing there looking
at the air where Jack Dor once inhabited and her mind was bound in puzzled glue. "He... he's gone" she mumbled and struggled to move
her eyes from... well, from a moment of disbelief.
The older shaman stepped close and gently steered the shocked seventeen year-old by her shoulders towards the path they had first used
to enter the place of horror and the one the coward she'd made love to had utilise to quickly skedaddle.
He's gone for now, my sister of the Fae..." Myrddin said in hushed tones "...but I have no doubt that we will encounter him again" the kindly
Wizard supplemented as a blackbird struck-up its melody in a nearby elderberry bush.
"Aye" said the young girl, but could honestly say she didn't know at that moment what she was agreeing to.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.