05-31-2021, 09:47 PM
It could be said that the next four days were the best days that Peggy Powler had in St. Martin's O' The Green and in that
short-but enjoyable time, the Witch and her companion set out their scheme to retrieve the lost girls of the little hamlet.
Through hedgerows and thickets, the pair travelled to meet those who humans barely glimpse in their lifetimes and would
certainly only belong in the tales that children are told by their parents at bedtime.
As the summer sun stunted shadows of those working in the fields or going about their everyday village chores, Peggy
and Thistle kept away from the residents of St. Martin's and adhered to the countryside rarely walked. Moss People and
the odd-amicable Goblin, chary Brownies and 'Those of the Marshes', all eventually welcomed the famous Witch into their
respective burrows or abandoned human dwelling, once Thistle had explained their dilemma of course.
When that fiery ball eventually made its way toward the western horizon, Thistle Treacle would stay close to the cedars
and watch as Peggy explained her plan to take back the children. With the aid of a lot of majick, a few colourful materials
and a stout rope, the bantam sorceress described her design to use the monoliths as an entryway.
One night, Thistle led the way to a reticent Genomo who lived on the other side of Calder's Way. As Peggy followed the
the wary Yetun over a wooden stile in the dry-stone wall, the full moon warned the little shaman that time was pressing
and notified Peggy's associate that he was in full view for any hungry owls in the area.
"Stay close" Thistle whispered and the Witch of Underhill smiled beneath the shadow of her hat.
Amongst a clump of gorse, wild ferns and forgotten boulders, there's a hole that an average traveller of the countryside
would assume to be a badger's den. But with closer scrutiny, the shadow of the large tunnel hid a blockage that looked
remarkably like a small wooden door.
Thistle showed his wide eyes towards his new friend and Peggy observed his frightened features, he should be in his
own burrow at this time of night. "Yer' doin' a yeoman's job, lad" she commended the creature scrambling between the
smooth rocks and lightly patted his shoulder. Thistle's trepidation seemed to ease as he lightly knocked on the hatch.
"Yer'll be Turnip Mudd then?" Peggy asked the small grumpy elf rummaging around in a battered cupboard for a third cup.
The cave was just big enough to allow the hat-less woman to crouch in and her predicament regarding no under-clothes
never strayed far from her thoughts. Pushing the poncho between her legs, the cramped spellbinder watched as the old
Gnome focused on boiling a kettle.
He was ancient, a long white beard that hid most of his face and clothes that may have been sewn on the day Mudd was
born. A green tunic adored with stains, pants with more patches that original material and a well-thumbed cap jammed
on his unwashed head. Turnip Mudd rarely had or wanted guests.
Thistle sat nearer the door and seemed distracted from any introduction, Peggy guessed it had something to do with the
distant scream of a fox outside. The small brazier discarded its smoke up a flue that disappeared into the root-bound ceiling.
"That'll be me..." Mr Mudd finally replied "...and you'll know that some inane tradition demands I offer you refreshment"
he added with a surly tone.
" Aye 'Ah do, Mr Mudd and I apologise fur' botherin' you so late" Peggy said and accepted the cracked cup of herbal tea.
"Mr Treacle says yer' the fella to see about gettin' some Chimers back" she appended with a restrained decision on the
taste of the brew. Thistle sipped his own beverage and gazed round at Turnip's home.
The subterranean Genomo inspected the Witch's face and Peggy wondered what was going on under that filthy cap.
For almost a minute, If the Bretton's clock had been there, it would have been the only sound in the cave.
Turnip stroked his beard and mused the on the request, Chime Children were a pain in the backside and their parents
should be held accountable for their troubles.
Finally the Gnome sighed and put his discoloured cup onto a makeshift ledge embedded into the soil of the wall.
Peggy waited for the verdict. She knew the spells to open the doorway where she guessed Phinneas The Cunning was
holding the children. The vibrant-coloured tapestries and deeply hued scarves were a puzzler to the Witch, but she hoped
the little scruffy man near the fire could provide the answers.
"You'll have heard the human's legends about the standing-stones...?" Turnip asked the woman with the dirty bare feet,
"...they're all wrong and just for the young ones". he muttered and opened the door of the fire-basket. the warmth in the
cave increased as the old Gnome tossed in a few sticks.
It was Thistle who spoke next. "I heard that Accam Dey lived here centuries ago" he whispered and witnessed his host's
look of disdain. The Bogle merely offered features of genuine curiosity back to the sneering Mr Mudd. "The wolf never
came this far south and certainly never had the sorcery ascribed to him"
Peggy lifted her eyebrows at the statement, but held her tongue of contention. She'd actually met Accam Dey -or at least
the head of the beast, and learned many things from the horror that terrorised the countryside for years. But now wasn't the
time to argue.
"Your culprit has lived here a long time and she's not one for giving up her growing family" Turnip said enigmatically.
short-but enjoyable time, the Witch and her companion set out their scheme to retrieve the lost girls of the little hamlet.
Through hedgerows and thickets, the pair travelled to meet those who humans barely glimpse in their lifetimes and would
certainly only belong in the tales that children are told by their parents at bedtime.
As the summer sun stunted shadows of those working in the fields or going about their everyday village chores, Peggy
and Thistle kept away from the residents of St. Martin's and adhered to the countryside rarely walked. Moss People and
the odd-amicable Goblin, chary Brownies and 'Those of the Marshes', all eventually welcomed the famous Witch into their
respective burrows or abandoned human dwelling, once Thistle had explained their dilemma of course.
When that fiery ball eventually made its way toward the western horizon, Thistle Treacle would stay close to the cedars
and watch as Peggy explained her plan to take back the children. With the aid of a lot of majick, a few colourful materials
and a stout rope, the bantam sorceress described her design to use the monoliths as an entryway.
One night, Thistle led the way to a reticent Genomo who lived on the other side of Calder's Way. As Peggy followed the
the wary Yetun over a wooden stile in the dry-stone wall, the full moon warned the little shaman that time was pressing
and notified Peggy's associate that he was in full view for any hungry owls in the area.
"Stay close" Thistle whispered and the Witch of Underhill smiled beneath the shadow of her hat.
Amongst a clump of gorse, wild ferns and forgotten boulders, there's a hole that an average traveller of the countryside
would assume to be a badger's den. But with closer scrutiny, the shadow of the large tunnel hid a blockage that looked
remarkably like a small wooden door.
Thistle showed his wide eyes towards his new friend and Peggy observed his frightened features, he should be in his
own burrow at this time of night. "Yer' doin' a yeoman's job, lad" she commended the creature scrambling between the
smooth rocks and lightly patted his shoulder. Thistle's trepidation seemed to ease as he lightly knocked on the hatch.
"Yer'll be Turnip Mudd then?" Peggy asked the small grumpy elf rummaging around in a battered cupboard for a third cup.
The cave was just big enough to allow the hat-less woman to crouch in and her predicament regarding no under-clothes
never strayed far from her thoughts. Pushing the poncho between her legs, the cramped spellbinder watched as the old
Gnome focused on boiling a kettle.
He was ancient, a long white beard that hid most of his face and clothes that may have been sewn on the day Mudd was
born. A green tunic adored with stains, pants with more patches that original material and a well-thumbed cap jammed
on his unwashed head. Turnip Mudd rarely had or wanted guests.
Thistle sat nearer the door and seemed distracted from any introduction, Peggy guessed it had something to do with the
distant scream of a fox outside. The small brazier discarded its smoke up a flue that disappeared into the root-bound ceiling.
"That'll be me..." Mr Mudd finally replied "...and you'll know that some inane tradition demands I offer you refreshment"
he added with a surly tone.
" Aye 'Ah do, Mr Mudd and I apologise fur' botherin' you so late" Peggy said and accepted the cracked cup of herbal tea.
"Mr Treacle says yer' the fella to see about gettin' some Chimers back" she appended with a restrained decision on the
taste of the brew. Thistle sipped his own beverage and gazed round at Turnip's home.
The subterranean Genomo inspected the Witch's face and Peggy wondered what was going on under that filthy cap.
For almost a minute, If the Bretton's clock had been there, it would have been the only sound in the cave.
Turnip stroked his beard and mused the on the request, Chime Children were a pain in the backside and their parents
should be held accountable for their troubles.
Finally the Gnome sighed and put his discoloured cup onto a makeshift ledge embedded into the soil of the wall.
Peggy waited for the verdict. She knew the spells to open the doorway where she guessed Phinneas The Cunning was
holding the children. The vibrant-coloured tapestries and deeply hued scarves were a puzzler to the Witch, but she hoped
the little scruffy man near the fire could provide the answers.
"You'll have heard the human's legends about the standing-stones...?" Turnip asked the woman with the dirty bare feet,
"...they're all wrong and just for the young ones". he muttered and opened the door of the fire-basket. the warmth in the
cave increased as the old Gnome tossed in a few sticks.
It was Thistle who spoke next. "I heard that Accam Dey lived here centuries ago" he whispered and witnessed his host's
look of disdain. The Bogle merely offered features of genuine curiosity back to the sneering Mr Mudd. "The wolf never
came this far south and certainly never had the sorcery ascribed to him"
Peggy lifted her eyebrows at the statement, but held her tongue of contention. She'd actually met Accam Dey -or at least
the head of the beast, and learned many things from the horror that terrorised the countryside for years. But now wasn't the
time to argue.
"Your culprit has lived here a long time and she's not one for giving up her growing family" Turnip said enigmatically.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.