12-07-2021, 06:41 PM
Even though Bartholomew Drigg had been fully informed of what Peggy Powler was certain would happen, seeing a
whole building splutter and then disappear was still not a usual event in his time as a purveyor of bottled medicine.
However, it was during his walk towards the cottage near to the store that he witnessed the strange occurrence.
Remember the Witch's words, he looked over his shoulder as he approached the open door and saw the solid-looking
structure flash and then was no more. Bart gasped, but spun his focus back to the direction he was walking in, the belief
that he would be a distraction for the monitoring Callendous Vole was -he agreed, a good notion.
As he arrived at the dull-brown doorway with a moulded-metal owl for a doorknocker on its frame, this spoofed-home
blinked out of existence too. Mr Drigg restrained his theatrical antics now because it may alert a watcher or Vole himself.
Then moments later a third mock-dwelling faded away.
"I hope you know what you're doing" hissed Drigg and gazing around Salvation Row's centre, thought he saw his large
bag of remaining medicaments move. Could Peggy have returned from wherever she'd been, so quickly? Once more,
the Last Witch of Underhill's words reverberated in his mind. "Nay matter what yer' see or hear, stick te' the plan".
...................................................
The thing about a Dust Hob, something that is directly the cause of their solitary life, is how they view loyalty.
For Harrow Bent, his fealty like most of his ilk, was based on what he could obtain from the individual he was supposedly
supporting. Keeping the Djinn-Kilns working for the pompous Callendous Vole was all fine-and-dandy and the daily fee of
Bent's favourite tipple was more-than adequate, but the promise that when the trap was sprung and the little Fae-woman
with the shapely figure was stripped of her powers, having her as his own serf made it a certain deal.
But now surrounded in this sack of strangely-coloured liquids, Harrow Bent pondered on the contract with the haughty
wannabe-wizard and ventured that grabbing the barely-dressed female now would be a better solution to his seedy goal.
Taking a swig from one his finds and dispensing the strange dust that identifies Dwerger-Sprites such as Bent, he now felt
confident that his newly-hatched scheme outweighed the bargain he'd had with the phony magician in the fancy robe.
Glugging down the contents of a second bottle, the grimy Dust Hob peered back through the still-open Salem Door and he
could see the Witch deftly moving from oven to oven and extinguishing the enormous incandescence inside. Discarding her
large hat to the floor, Harrow Bent marvelled at the way her hair swept across her forehead like a warrior in the midst of a
battle. Firm thighs and... he gulped some more of the funny-tasting alcohol, a shrtong woman who would do hish bidding.
Sho maybe... just maybe -the Dust Hob calculated as he uncorked another bottle of blue something-or-other, with some swift
movements of his own and the use of one of these hefty glass containers, the petite coquette in the big hat would succumb
to his particular requirements. He didn't need Vole and his aloof lectures about how the world had wronged him.
Grabbing another assumed-intoxicant, he whispered his regular profanity whenever Vole visited the Djinn-Kilns.
"Blasht hish eyesh".
With granules of the eternal dirt crumbling from his arms and dropping through the doorway, Harrow Bent continued his
quest in emptying the possible weapons he could subdue the yearned-for woman in the hole beneath him.
The woman they call Peggy Powler.
...................................................
"Still your hand or you'll be a pine cone before your next breath, Peggy" Callendous warned as he swished his ornate robe
and stepped into the slowly darkening cavern. Peggy narrowed her eyes in annoyance as she was about to toss more
droplets of the Yeti-Ice from the blessed flask into the bowels of the fifth furnace from Hell and now she was going to have
to deal with this malodorous buffoon.
It was turning out to be quite a day.
The tall man swept into the centre of the grotto and made sure the Witch's escape was blocked, it was time for the famous
Peggy Powler to relinquish her notoriety to the more cabalistic Callendous Vole, the Seer of Seers. "You mocked me back at
the County Fair and I know you enjoyed the ridicule I endured at the Hall of The Hidden" he drawled slowly with round, pear
-shaped tones.
"Yet, through all of the lampooning I endured, I strove to create this marvelous ambuscade for you, my Dear..." he continued
and waved his arms in his usual melodramatic manner. ".... This is my gift to you, a scruffy commoner who stole my limelight"
The little Witch noticed his hair had taken on a wisp of grey and wondered if maybe he'd dabbled with similar chemicals that
Bartholomew Drigg carried in his bag. It wouldn't surprise me, she thought and offered the arrogant unsuccessful augurer a smirk
of contempt. "Iffn' yer' divna' mind, Mr Vole...?" Peggy said and pointed to her hat on the floor, Callendous' well-polished buckled
shoe was positioned on its dust-covered rim.
Watching her with suspicious eyes, the overdramatic sorcerer stooped and plucked his enemy's headwear from the dirt and shook
it. "Ah yes..." he gloated "...the famous bonnet of the shabby She-obeah, the blighted badge of the travelling fool". With a similar
smile of disdain, Callendous slipped the wide-brimmed hat onto his head. "Suit me?" he asked and prepared his act of revenge.
whole building splutter and then disappear was still not a usual event in his time as a purveyor of bottled medicine.
However, it was during his walk towards the cottage near to the store that he witnessed the strange occurrence.
Remember the Witch's words, he looked over his shoulder as he approached the open door and saw the solid-looking
structure flash and then was no more. Bart gasped, but spun his focus back to the direction he was walking in, the belief
that he would be a distraction for the monitoring Callendous Vole was -he agreed, a good notion.
As he arrived at the dull-brown doorway with a moulded-metal owl for a doorknocker on its frame, this spoofed-home
blinked out of existence too. Mr Drigg restrained his theatrical antics now because it may alert a watcher or Vole himself.
Then moments later a third mock-dwelling faded away.
"I hope you know what you're doing" hissed Drigg and gazing around Salvation Row's centre, thought he saw his large
bag of remaining medicaments move. Could Peggy have returned from wherever she'd been, so quickly? Once more,
the Last Witch of Underhill's words reverberated in his mind. "Nay matter what yer' see or hear, stick te' the plan".
...................................................
The thing about a Dust Hob, something that is directly the cause of their solitary life, is how they view loyalty.
For Harrow Bent, his fealty like most of his ilk, was based on what he could obtain from the individual he was supposedly
supporting. Keeping the Djinn-Kilns working for the pompous Callendous Vole was all fine-and-dandy and the daily fee of
Bent's favourite tipple was more-than adequate, but the promise that when the trap was sprung and the little Fae-woman
with the shapely figure was stripped of her powers, having her as his own serf made it a certain deal.
But now surrounded in this sack of strangely-coloured liquids, Harrow Bent pondered on the contract with the haughty
wannabe-wizard and ventured that grabbing the barely-dressed female now would be a better solution to his seedy goal.
Taking a swig from one his finds and dispensing the strange dust that identifies Dwerger-Sprites such as Bent, he now felt
confident that his newly-hatched scheme outweighed the bargain he'd had with the phony magician in the fancy robe.
Glugging down the contents of a second bottle, the grimy Dust Hob peered back through the still-open Salem Door and he
could see the Witch deftly moving from oven to oven and extinguishing the enormous incandescence inside. Discarding her
large hat to the floor, Harrow Bent marvelled at the way her hair swept across her forehead like a warrior in the midst of a
battle. Firm thighs and... he gulped some more of the funny-tasting alcohol, a shrtong woman who would do hish bidding.
Sho maybe... just maybe -the Dust Hob calculated as he uncorked another bottle of blue something-or-other, with some swift
movements of his own and the use of one of these hefty glass containers, the petite coquette in the big hat would succumb
to his particular requirements. He didn't need Vole and his aloof lectures about how the world had wronged him.
Grabbing another assumed-intoxicant, he whispered his regular profanity whenever Vole visited the Djinn-Kilns.
"Blasht hish eyesh".
With granules of the eternal dirt crumbling from his arms and dropping through the doorway, Harrow Bent continued his
quest in emptying the possible weapons he could subdue the yearned-for woman in the hole beneath him.
The woman they call Peggy Powler.
...................................................
"Still your hand or you'll be a pine cone before your next breath, Peggy" Callendous warned as he swished his ornate robe
and stepped into the slowly darkening cavern. Peggy narrowed her eyes in annoyance as she was about to toss more
droplets of the Yeti-Ice from the blessed flask into the bowels of the fifth furnace from Hell and now she was going to have
to deal with this malodorous buffoon.
It was turning out to be quite a day.
The tall man swept into the centre of the grotto and made sure the Witch's escape was blocked, it was time for the famous
Peggy Powler to relinquish her notoriety to the more cabalistic Callendous Vole, the Seer of Seers. "You mocked me back at
the County Fair and I know you enjoyed the ridicule I endured at the Hall of The Hidden" he drawled slowly with round, pear
-shaped tones.
"Yet, through all of the lampooning I endured, I strove to create this marvelous ambuscade for you, my Dear..." he continued
and waved his arms in his usual melodramatic manner. ".... This is my gift to you, a scruffy commoner who stole my limelight"
The little Witch noticed his hair had taken on a wisp of grey and wondered if maybe he'd dabbled with similar chemicals that
Bartholomew Drigg carried in his bag. It wouldn't surprise me, she thought and offered the arrogant unsuccessful augurer a smirk
of contempt. "Iffn' yer' divna' mind, Mr Vole...?" Peggy said and pointed to her hat on the floor, Callendous' well-polished buckled
shoe was positioned on its dust-covered rim.
Watching her with suspicious eyes, the overdramatic sorcerer stooped and plucked his enemy's headwear from the dirt and shook
it. "Ah yes..." he gloated "...the famous bonnet of the shabby She-obeah, the blighted badge of the travelling fool". With a similar
smile of disdain, Callendous slipped the wide-brimmed hat onto his head. "Suit me?" he asked and prepared his act of revenge.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.