A passing gull elected itself as Peggy Powler's morning-cockerel and with the smacking of her lips, the squinting sorceress
lifted the flap of her satchel and peered out a beautiful coastal vista. The sun was well up in the sky, but hadn't started on
warming the Isle of Murdigon just yet. A light sea-breeze gently blew the fog from Half-Fae's thinking as she wondered on
what the day ahead held for her.
It was a large growth of Hyperion grass that had served as the little wizard's bedchamber and the tall feather inflorescences
towering above the woman climbing from her satchel swayed like the carefree flags Peggy recalled from her childhood at
the Carnival. Moving her satchel far enough away to not be effected by her much-needed ablution and checking that nobody
was taking in a morning shore-side amble, the high screen of undulating grass doubled as a expedient latrine.
Moments later, Peggy dropped the strap of last night's cot over her shoulder and plonking her wide-brimmed hat on her head,
the Last Witch of Underhill surveyed the pastoral place she'd chosen to sleep She'd chosen to stay out of the village and the
stunted woods due to both being involved in this unusual issue on Murdigon. The weather had required no cover and finding
the large knot of Hyperion stalks between the shadows and the openness of the ocean seemed to be a fair expression of her
objective deduction.
The similar-sized trees of Murdigon hadn't been brave enough to grow too close to the Great Sea and the narrow ribbon of
different salt-tolerant grasses between the woods and the tide-line had taken the opportunity to exploit their sandy safe-space.
Making her way back towards Camden Bight's dock, Peggy's bare feet enjoyed the feel of the lush turf as she headed down to
the shore to quickly wash herself.
Invigorated by the cold waters, she looked to her left and enjoying the raw freshness that her light douche had accomplished,
set off in that direction whilst pondered last night's revelations regarding the village of Camden Bight. To the contemplating
conjurer of spells making her way across the soft turf and sprinkles of Marigold, it seemed The Beams of King Stephen held
a currently unknown magic that -she guessed, held the ability to transport a person to another realm. If this wizardry retained
a different function, Indigo Dunth had never been told it and he did sound convincing -even in his imagined drunken state.
The mysterious ones who had brought such baffling bewitchment to the island had ensured secrecy was paramount and a
great deal of trust had been secured between the villagers and the nameless faction. This kind of unanimity would require a
steady flow of encouraging support and a gentle style of handling. But why would the need to replace those who decided to
leave the island of Murdigon be so crucial to the overall scheme...?
Peggy had strolled into many deserted camps and villages during her roving and accepted that sometimes -and for various
feasible reasons, communities just up-sticks and leave. Restoring the balance of occupants to Camden Bight shouldn't be
a concern if the whole inhabitants had agreed to the move. The ruminating Witch lingered on that thought as she caught a
whiff of wood-smoke and bloater-fish being kippered nearby. What if someone here had decided not to leave?
...................................................
Fishing trawlers rolled slowly beside the quayside and their sea-faring passengers were back to using the upright mooring
posts as pews to hum their shanties and repair their nets. A monstrous blubbershark's skull fastened to a boat's wheelhouse
glinted sunlight towards the yawning woman as she approached the seated mariners.
"Fair travels, gentlemen" Peggy chirped as she passed the four men-of-the-sea and didn't need to look over her shoulder as
her naked feet padded the large granite pavement. The low mumbling between the trawler-men told the smirking necromancer
all she needed to know and such admiration was always grand nutrition to a wandering loner, especially during her middle years.
The Ship Chandlery was closed as a cheerful Peggy stepped onto the cobbled street and absently glancing towards the large
-paned window of the quaint shop, she saw a bespectacled balding man adorned in a cloth apron staring back at the newcomer
to Byefleet Howe. For a moment, she thought she was looking at a mannequin on display, but the figure turned slowly away and
slipped back into the gloom of the fisherman-supplies store.
Continuing her journey, a fleeting thought caused the little Witch to ebb her pace as the word 'replacement' whispered beneath
her shaded head. Looking back at the emporium, Peggy realised a confidential chat with the disinterested seller of the canvas
and rope could possibly unearth some needed answers to what was going on in Byefleet Howe.
But since the aroma of smoked-fish had reminded the little Witch that food would be a welcoming friend on such a lovely morning,
her architects of decision-making had found a policy they could agree upon. As many know, hunger is a despot. Since replenishing
her canteen was also a need, Peggy aimed her little toes towards the hand-cranked water-pump that stood in front of Goddard's
Dry Goods Store. The merchant's brightly-painted establishment looked a promising place to acquire some reasonable fare.
Unknown to the bare-footed pedestrian in the large hat, the focus of the suggested palaver was monitoring her progress from the
shadows of his sombre premises and unlike the strange blue light from the night before, he never blinked.
lifted the flap of her satchel and peered out a beautiful coastal vista. The sun was well up in the sky, but hadn't started on
warming the Isle of Murdigon just yet. A light sea-breeze gently blew the fog from Half-Fae's thinking as she wondered on
what the day ahead held for her.
It was a large growth of Hyperion grass that had served as the little wizard's bedchamber and the tall feather inflorescences
towering above the woman climbing from her satchel swayed like the carefree flags Peggy recalled from her childhood at
the Carnival. Moving her satchel far enough away to not be effected by her much-needed ablution and checking that nobody
was taking in a morning shore-side amble, the high screen of undulating grass doubled as a expedient latrine.
Moments later, Peggy dropped the strap of last night's cot over her shoulder and plonking her wide-brimmed hat on her head,
the Last Witch of Underhill surveyed the pastoral place she'd chosen to sleep She'd chosen to stay out of the village and the
stunted woods due to both being involved in this unusual issue on Murdigon. The weather had required no cover and finding
the large knot of Hyperion stalks between the shadows and the openness of the ocean seemed to be a fair expression of her
objective deduction.
The similar-sized trees of Murdigon hadn't been brave enough to grow too close to the Great Sea and the narrow ribbon of
different salt-tolerant grasses between the woods and the tide-line had taken the opportunity to exploit their sandy safe-space.
Making her way back towards Camden Bight's dock, Peggy's bare feet enjoyed the feel of the lush turf as she headed down to
the shore to quickly wash herself.
Invigorated by the cold waters, she looked to her left and enjoying the raw freshness that her light douche had accomplished,
set off in that direction whilst pondered last night's revelations regarding the village of Camden Bight. To the contemplating
conjurer of spells making her way across the soft turf and sprinkles of Marigold, it seemed The Beams of King Stephen held
a currently unknown magic that -she guessed, held the ability to transport a person to another realm. If this wizardry retained
a different function, Indigo Dunth had never been told it and he did sound convincing -even in his imagined drunken state.
The mysterious ones who had brought such baffling bewitchment to the island had ensured secrecy was paramount and a
great deal of trust had been secured between the villagers and the nameless faction. This kind of unanimity would require a
steady flow of encouraging support and a gentle style of handling. But why would the need to replace those who decided to
leave the island of Murdigon be so crucial to the overall scheme...?
Peggy had strolled into many deserted camps and villages during her roving and accepted that sometimes -and for various
feasible reasons, communities just up-sticks and leave. Restoring the balance of occupants to Camden Bight shouldn't be
a concern if the whole inhabitants had agreed to the move. The ruminating Witch lingered on that thought as she caught a
whiff of wood-smoke and bloater-fish being kippered nearby. What if someone here had decided not to leave?
...................................................
Fishing trawlers rolled slowly beside the quayside and their sea-faring passengers were back to using the upright mooring
posts as pews to hum their shanties and repair their nets. A monstrous blubbershark's skull fastened to a boat's wheelhouse
glinted sunlight towards the yawning woman as she approached the seated mariners.
"Fair travels, gentlemen" Peggy chirped as she passed the four men-of-the-sea and didn't need to look over her shoulder as
her naked feet padded the large granite pavement. The low mumbling between the trawler-men told the smirking necromancer
all she needed to know and such admiration was always grand nutrition to a wandering loner, especially during her middle years.
The Ship Chandlery was closed as a cheerful Peggy stepped onto the cobbled street and absently glancing towards the large
-paned window of the quaint shop, she saw a bespectacled balding man adorned in a cloth apron staring back at the newcomer
to Byefleet Howe. For a moment, she thought she was looking at a mannequin on display, but the figure turned slowly away and
slipped back into the gloom of the fisherman-supplies store.
Continuing her journey, a fleeting thought caused the little Witch to ebb her pace as the word 'replacement' whispered beneath
her shaded head. Looking back at the emporium, Peggy realised a confidential chat with the disinterested seller of the canvas
and rope could possibly unearth some needed answers to what was going on in Byefleet Howe.
But since the aroma of smoked-fish had reminded the little Witch that food would be a welcoming friend on such a lovely morning,
her architects of decision-making had found a policy they could agree upon. As many know, hunger is a despot. Since replenishing
her canteen was also a need, Peggy aimed her little toes towards the hand-cranked water-pump that stood in front of Goddard's
Dry Goods Store. The merchant's brightly-painted establishment looked a promising place to acquire some reasonable fare.
Unknown to the bare-footed pedestrian in the large hat, the focus of the suggested palaver was monitoring her progress from the
shadows of his sombre premises and unlike the strange blue light from the night before, he never blinked.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.