(10-09-2021, 01:19 AM)ABNARTY Wrote: And then what?
Can't leave a person hanging like that
Then we won't Sir!
Jenny Dinsdale met Father Jacobs just has he'd traversed the oily pool of rainwater near the remains of the gallows. The tall
chunk of woodlice-chewed timber was a remnant of when Little Compton had been a true example of a properly-functioning
hamlet. Now, the few thatched cottages that housed a family could be counted on one hand and the forgotten gibbet was the
perfect symbol for the dejected place.
"Oh Father, it's my Ma... she's-she's..." the plain-looking teenager tried to explain, but the preacher kept his face neutral as he
neared the girl in the off-white bonnet, he knew what 'she' was and he hoped a touch of the good Book would allay the usual
symptoms of a tarriance from the evil creature that fed of Little Compton.
"Take heed sister, we will pray together that your mother's malaise will be overcome" Jacobs interrupted in his best confident
tone.
The deep stink of liniment was excessive in the Dinsdale home and Father Jacobs tried to hide his act of shallow breathing
from the woe-filled young woman who followed him into the lobby-way. A single waxy-candle did what it could to illuminate
the cramped living-room and the Pastor peered around at the sparse furniture that spoke of the latter stages of penniless and
the village's overall despondency.
Jenny's father had left a year after the dowdy girl in the ageing headwear was born and so Mrs Dinsdale had struggled to rear
her only issue by basket-weaving and mending her neighbours clothes. When Martha's arthritis came a-calling, the wily woman
had taken to giving Tarot readings and this type of paganistic practice had always been a bone of contention between the kind
old-woman who came to church and the man who was now visiting her own kind of chantry.
"How are you feeling today, Martha?" the reverend Mathew Jacobs asked softly towards the plump shape in the corner of the
room. The rickety old woman stood more upright than the suspicious Parson had seen her in the last few months and Martha's
red-rimmed eyes seemed to be staring at something moving on the stained walls.
"Martha?" the Priest inquired again and received no response from the languor-laden lady, nothing of her manner indicated she
was aware her confessor was standing beside her. She seemed to be watching something and as a fleeting thought, the curious
vicar wondered if she was maybe even waiting for someone. Jacobs cleared his mind of such useless mental interrogation and
went back to examining the vacant-staring Martha Dinsdale.
Plucking the sacred book that his father had given him on his death-bed from his coat pocket, the guarded Preacher carefully
leaned closer into the cloud of body-odour emanating from the apathetic elderly woman and slowly placed it over her heart.
It was then that Mathew saw the single puncture wound behind her ear.
"Oh Sir, she's been like this since last night" Jenny interjected over his shoulder and stifling the need to scream due to the young
woman's sudden statement, Father Jacobs accepted that the Vampyre known as Doramus had visited Little Compton again.
...................................................
Peggy eyed the nearby water trough from her arboreal shelter and watched the rain pound it's splashing surface into a broiling
cauldron. At times, it looked like the very velocity of the torrent was making the water turn to steam, such a weird sight that Peggy
had to wipe her eyes in annoyance. The empty trunk of the rotten willow tree trembled in the gale and the frowning Witch wondered
if her only sanctuary would endure the horrible zephyr outside.
When the rain had first come, the stunted tree seemed to be the only object on the moor taller than herself and hitching her satchel
tighter on her shoulder, Peggy had ran from the lonely Calder's Way and headed along the remains of a fence towards the leafless
willow with the hope that at least, it would be a place where her bag could be hung off the ground. Off the ground and with her in it.
Now the punky interior of the tree seemed a better place to wait out the storm and as it began to throw its contents sideways across
the moor, the sighing sorceress felt that her option had been reinforced. An earthy aroma stirred inside the trunk as the icy winds
tugged at the ancient bark and pulling her hat further down on her head, Peggy Powler resigned herself to spending the night in this
miserable setting.
"It's a frog-striper, all-reet" a low voice said from the darkness of the tree's hollow and snatching her head in the direction of the cold
statement, Peggy hurried to think of a spell to protect herself. "A gadgie had have be a clod to be out in this, eh Missy?" the hidden
source polled.
As another gust slammed the willow and drew an ominous creaking sound from the upper-part of its cavity, the last Witch of Underhill
crouched down to see who the owner of the weather comments was. A small serious face peered back from the gloom and without
any reaction to being discovered, offered the motion "It's really boggin' doon noo and thee'll be needin' to get out this walla' drencha'".
Mentally translating what the creature poking its head from half-hidden burrow was saying, Peggy silently agreed that it was quite a
downpour and yes, a man would have to be a fool to endure being outside during such a storm. The crouching Seer -with decorum
on her mind by tucking her poncho appropriately between her thighs, also subscribed to the idea that the rainfall was increasing and
that refuge from the tempest would be a superb idea.
All of this done with a nod of her head.
The burrow was large enough for her to walk in and in fact, Peggy wondered later why she hadn't noticed the crumbling entrance
when she had first took shelter in the dying tree. So as she followed the little figure down into a lantern-lit tunnel, the reticent Witch
finally categorised her host as a Grim-Figg, a type of northern Elf that lives below ground and traditionally known for repairing broken
farming equipment of humans.
"Me-name is Brape and this is me-home..." said the trudging silhouette that led the way down the warm smooth-walled delve.
"Yoo'll be that lass called Peggy Pounder, Ah've heard about thee" Brape said knowingly. The bare-footed necromancer smiled
to herself at the error, but didn't feel it pertinent to amend her host's mistake.
One doesn't bite the hand that feeds one, so to speak.
As the weather-shy couple eventually arrived on a level surface, Peggy recalled the tips her mother had told her about Grim-Figgs.
One may presume that abiding with a solitary living-off-the-land existence, certain mannerisms and parts of language become altered
from the regular behaviour of other more-social species of Elfin-folk. Madame Powler had informed her daughter that Grim-Figgs were
famed for their no-nonsense outlook to life and pragmatism was a regular companion in their existences.
"In their words, my dear...they take nay shite" were her mother's exact slurred words and only being eleven years of age at the time,
the young girl standing in the Fortune Teller marquee had originally wondered if Grim-Figgs had an aversion to out-houses.
Yet -as many of us would agree, being the Custodian of Majick is a learning process.
But regardless of tangled rustic dialect or hard-boiled sensibilities, Peggy gazed upon the wooden-panelled room she stepped into
with sincere admiration, this Grim-Figg lived in a fine abode. There were candle sconces on each wall which gave the chamber a
warm welcoming feeling, a pleasure enhanced by the sight of a large teapot resting on a gnarled table and set for supper before a
roaring fire hearth.
Peggy smiled inside to herself as she now realised what she'd witnessed occurring at the water trough. It wasn't steam... it was smoke.
"I bid thee fair travels and thank yer' for yer' hospitality" the Witch said to the little stoic figure warming his rear in front of the fire and
curtsied to show her gratitude.
The large-nosed Elfin in the dark-blue sark and black knee-length britches nodded, but the gesture seemed subconscious as if Brape
had expected his guest to say it. "Aye... aye, well sit doon and rest yer' jacksie on a seat" the Grim-Figg muttered in a seemingly weary
tone and stepped over to pour two mugs of tea.
Steeling herself to accept that terse remarks from this race of Fae didn't necessarily mean malice and was born from a candid
perception of a life living off the land, the Witch slipped off her satchel and chanced the comment "by yer' bugger, 'Ah needed that"
as she gratefully sat down. And to her pleasant surprise, Brape smiled as he dropped some honey into the two steaming brews and
agreed with his guest by displaying his accord with "Aye".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.