09-26-2021, 02:16 PM
Treacle Thistle sat with his chin on knees and watched the rope for movement, Kittie Bretton sat with folded legs
and watched the worried Bogle. The night was well underway now and the little girl was deep in her own thoughts
when she realised that she had never enquired if Peggy had said anything important to the creature that marked
time by blinking before her.
Kittie and Treacle had waited for a full ten minutes with nibbled lips and sweating grips on the coarse hemp and
both of the inexperienced tug-of-war team had expected a response almost straight away. However, reality doesn't
work like that.
Now they waited and watched, watched and waited.
It was just as a faraway owl-hoot wafted between the tall cedars that Kittie posed her question to the wary Treacle,
a welcomed-distraction too, she thought. "Did she tell you anything that might give us a clue as to what's going on?"
Kittie said in hushed tones, it seemed the scene required a quiet voice.
The night-scared Yetun adjusted his hat and gathered his thoughts, he couldn't tell her about the spell the Witch had
designated to him in case she pushed to hear it and he certainly wasn't going to brief the twelve year-old about his
gift of igniting his own excessive flatus.
"She told me that the monster who's got your sister is called Gwydionel and she lives in a dark place just outside of
this one" Treacle remarked and for a moment, thought he saw the rope twitch. With a quick glance towards Kittie for
a signs of a confirmation, the girl's preoccupied features hinted that he was just letting the gloom take advantage of
his overworked alertness.
The silence settled between them again and the night watched the couple who watched a length of braided fibres.
...................................................
When the last Witch of Underhill witnessed the head of Silas Manson being torn off by an unseen force, her first thought
was not to run like the Devil was biting her bare-ass, but to grab for the burning torch that fell from the dying man's hand.
However, Peggy Powler realised that to obtain the illumination would also put her in a position where she too, could
possibly lose the need for a floppy hat and so selected to alter the former idea and high-tail it.
The cave had become narrow after about five minutes and their journey had offered no sign of the missing Lucy Lightfoot.
Manson had hissed over his shoulder that the Werewolf was probably asleep in a side-chamber up ahead and with her
remains scattered about him.
Now the renowned monster-hunter would never speak over his shoulder again and as Peggy fled blindly back down into
the pitch-black tunnel, she wondered if the ambushing man-beast would take her head too. Clutching her faithful satchel,
she hoped she'll get to see the pinprick of daylight before that happened.
...................................................
Time was changing -the tired bare-footed woman in the borrowed dirt-smudged clothes thought and resisted the need
to look over her shoulder. The Chimers were reacting to nearing the real world and it also seemed that the rope in her
hands was becoming more tangible with its texture.
"We'll soon be there, lasses" Peggy grunted and put more effort into pulling on the woven cord, she was becoming aware
that Gwydionel's light-lost kingdom was slowly becoming reluctant to release its visitors. Now the Witch realised that this
ribbon-wrapped placenta was vital to the girls and herself in getting home.
...................................................
Limping into the caliginous void, Gwydionel stopped and ignoring throbbing pain in her shoulder, she sniffed the air for
signs of a spoor. The half-blind hag understood that whoever the intruder was, she was powerful and should be cautiously
approached.
But the spell-slinger had stolen her children and clenching her only working hand tight enough to draw foul-smelling blood
from her palm, Gwydionel vowed that this thief would pay with the most horrid of deaths. Unknown to the time-altering girls
that had brought her the thread-displaying light, the Bitch O' The Green wore something beneath her black gown that nobody
had ever seen. The flayed skin of the original owner of Madam Tanner's Drapery.
Widening her toothless grin in the darkness, Gwydionel pressed on with her hunt for her makeshift family and a new flesh-suit.
...................................................
"Oh... er..." Treacle stammered and pointed to the slithering rope. "It-it's moving!" he said and hesitated to grab the animated
cable. Kittie said nothing and just snatched-up the decorated hawser. With a nervous breath on their lips, the couple prepared
to haul their unusual consignment back into reality.
"Remember the spell" the little Bogle mouthed to himself and began to pull.
and watched the worried Bogle. The night was well underway now and the little girl was deep in her own thoughts
when she realised that she had never enquired if Peggy had said anything important to the creature that marked
time by blinking before her.
Kittie and Treacle had waited for a full ten minutes with nibbled lips and sweating grips on the coarse hemp and
both of the inexperienced tug-of-war team had expected a response almost straight away. However, reality doesn't
work like that.
Now they waited and watched, watched and waited.
It was just as a faraway owl-hoot wafted between the tall cedars that Kittie posed her question to the wary Treacle,
a welcomed-distraction too, she thought. "Did she tell you anything that might give us a clue as to what's going on?"
Kittie said in hushed tones, it seemed the scene required a quiet voice.
The night-scared Yetun adjusted his hat and gathered his thoughts, he couldn't tell her about the spell the Witch had
designated to him in case she pushed to hear it and he certainly wasn't going to brief the twelve year-old about his
gift of igniting his own excessive flatus.
"She told me that the monster who's got your sister is called Gwydionel and she lives in a dark place just outside of
this one" Treacle remarked and for a moment, thought he saw the rope twitch. With a quick glance towards Kittie for
a signs of a confirmation, the girl's preoccupied features hinted that he was just letting the gloom take advantage of
his overworked alertness.
The silence settled between them again and the night watched the couple who watched a length of braided fibres.
...................................................
When the last Witch of Underhill witnessed the head of Silas Manson being torn off by an unseen force, her first thought
was not to run like the Devil was biting her bare-ass, but to grab for the burning torch that fell from the dying man's hand.
However, Peggy Powler realised that to obtain the illumination would also put her in a position where she too, could
possibly lose the need for a floppy hat and so selected to alter the former idea and high-tail it.
The cave had become narrow after about five minutes and their journey had offered no sign of the missing Lucy Lightfoot.
Manson had hissed over his shoulder that the Werewolf was probably asleep in a side-chamber up ahead and with her
remains scattered about him.
Now the renowned monster-hunter would never speak over his shoulder again and as Peggy fled blindly back down into
the pitch-black tunnel, she wondered if the ambushing man-beast would take her head too. Clutching her faithful satchel,
she hoped she'll get to see the pinprick of daylight before that happened.
...................................................
Time was changing -the tired bare-footed woman in the borrowed dirt-smudged clothes thought and resisted the need
to look over her shoulder. The Chimers were reacting to nearing the real world and it also seemed that the rope in her
hands was becoming more tangible with its texture.
"We'll soon be there, lasses" Peggy grunted and put more effort into pulling on the woven cord, she was becoming aware
that Gwydionel's light-lost kingdom was slowly becoming reluctant to release its visitors. Now the Witch realised that this
ribbon-wrapped placenta was vital to the girls and herself in getting home.
...................................................
Limping into the caliginous void, Gwydionel stopped and ignoring throbbing pain in her shoulder, she sniffed the air for
signs of a spoor. The half-blind hag understood that whoever the intruder was, she was powerful and should be cautiously
approached.
But the spell-slinger had stolen her children and clenching her only working hand tight enough to draw foul-smelling blood
from her palm, Gwydionel vowed that this thief would pay with the most horrid of deaths. Unknown to the time-altering girls
that had brought her the thread-displaying light, the Bitch O' The Green wore something beneath her black gown that nobody
had ever seen. The flayed skin of the original owner of Madam Tanner's Drapery.
Widening her toothless grin in the darkness, Gwydionel pressed on with her hunt for her makeshift family and a new flesh-suit.
...................................................
"Oh... er..." Treacle stammered and pointed to the slithering rope. "It-it's moving!" he said and hesitated to grab the animated
cable. Kittie said nothing and just snatched-up the decorated hawser. With a nervous breath on their lips, the couple prepared
to haul their unusual consignment back into reality.
"Remember the spell" the little Bogle mouthed to himself and began to pull.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.