Sitting under the creaking giant elm tree where Calder's Way turned west to follow the coastline, Peggy Powler waited-out the rain
that found her walking towards the village of Seamarshes. The last few days had been hectic, what with searching for the young girl
that had been stolen from her mother in Hartford Knot and convincing the Scratter that had taken him to mend his ways.
Now musing on her week at the farming community, the Last Witch of Underhill felt that she deserved a couple of days away from
the policing of creatures not commonly found around the agricultural backwoods. The occasional tap of a solitary raindrop on her
wide-brimmed hat failed to dissuade half-Fae necromancer to change her position of waiting or her wish to peramubulate on what
she'd suggested to the adolescent Woodwose.
Tugging the hem of her poncho down over her thighs and absently gazing at the water-spattered sea stones of the fabled highway,
Peggy weighed the possible repercussions of interactions with the maverick youngster of the Fern People. These rarely-seen 'Folk
O' The Wood' were traditionally seen as elusive beings that kept themselves to themselves and only ever interacted with humans
on a barter level.
During a bad winter, a farmer might find his buckets already filled with milk from his stabled cows or discover his two-wheeled wane
creaking under the weight of collected cabbages from a frost-hardened field. Peggy had even heard of weather-damaged thatched
rooves being mysteriously repaired during the night without any of the family inside being aware of any overhead savior plugging the
holes in their shelter. Fern Folk gave their toil and for a few sips of milk, a handful of eggs or a couple of Brassica, they knew the trade
would assure a mutual distance would be kept in better climes between the shy people of the forests and those who broke the soil for
a living.
The moniker 'Scratter' simply came from the older women of certain rural colonies - toothless biddies that dabbled in the art of herbal
medicines and half-grasped rituals of majick. Peggy felt no animus towards these venerable men-less old buggers, they were simply
trying to show that they still had a place in a community and at the very least, were holding onto an accepted way of life that the new
religion ambiguously frowned upon.
The title for the young woods-being reflected the bodily scratching a group-ousted juvenile would perform due to a lack of grooming
that Fern People used to bond as a society. In the human social order, to 'scrat' means to ease a individual itch. In the woodland culture,
mites and ticks were dealt with in a duel purpose of melding trust within their tribe. If there's nobody to relieve one's annoying parasitic
problems, one becomes a Scratter.
As the rain slightly eased and the little Witch peeked out from the heavy foliage that had kept most of a soaking away, Peggy wondered
if the hairy naked rogue creature had done as advised and virtuously sought out a partner for family purposes. Fern People were a dying
race and as the forests were annually making way for agriculture, the reasons were obvious. Stepping onto the already-drying surface of
Calder's Way, the bantam sorceress sighed at the inescapable truth that if the level of the agronomy kept up, a unique astute and gentle
species would be gone for good.
.................................................................
Seamarshes could be described as a close-cousin to Wyrmhaven, one of Peggy Powler's favourite haunts. There's a stream that defies
all the odds of becoming a river and unpretentiously sets off from the high moors in the Henge-Tarn district, trickles down past the towns
and hamlets that utilise its small power of feeding the surrounding soils and eventually empties itself into the Great Sea via a half-league
-wide glacial-created cleft in the land. This courageous creek also provides nourishment from its long arable-passage for a huge bed of
brackish-water reeds that surrounds the small fishing community known as Seamarshes. Maybe the clue is in the name.
It was said that for a brief period, Pesh was extracted from quarried shale in the crevice and used as a mordant to improve the strength
and permanency of colour when dying cloth, but the mining had stopped some time ago for reasons that Peggy had never really enquired
about and Seamarshes continued on its simplistic path of fishing for a way of an economy. Luckily for the thirty-or-so families living in the
tightly-knit community, there is a particular type of fish called a Nosy-Gulper that enjoys the safety in the waters of the marshes and this
slow-moving melon-shaped inquisitive creature is deemed a delicious fare and quite an expensive gourmet food.
Ambling down the wheel-rutted lane that spurred off Calder's Way, Peggy Powler could see a late-summer haze reclining on the calm
surface of the Great Sea and the huddled white-daubed cottages of Seamarshes sat like eggs in a reed-adorned nest of some giant bird.
The sun was bright and just reaching its zenith as the diminutive Witch stirred the dust of the track beneath her bare feet and wondered
where she'd be sleeping tonight. Not a real concern -Peggy quickly added, as she deemed her visit to the coastal settlement as a type
of holiday, but at least something to mentally gnaw on as she soaked in the peaceful vista of a sleeping encampment far from the usual
tribulations found amongst the timber.
A large gull glided its shadow across the visitor's route and offering a indignant 'querk-querk', soared away in search of another thermal.
The focus of the bird's curiosity sighed softly to herself and reached into her faithful satchel for a canteen of water. Squinting up to see
where the sky-sentinel had gone, Peggy smiled and promised herself she was going to enjoy this seaside sabbatical.
that found her walking towards the village of Seamarshes. The last few days had been hectic, what with searching for the young girl
that had been stolen from her mother in Hartford Knot and convincing the Scratter that had taken him to mend his ways.
Now musing on her week at the farming community, the Last Witch of Underhill felt that she deserved a couple of days away from
the policing of creatures not commonly found around the agricultural backwoods. The occasional tap of a solitary raindrop on her
wide-brimmed hat failed to dissuade half-Fae necromancer to change her position of waiting or her wish to peramubulate on what
she'd suggested to the adolescent Woodwose.
Tugging the hem of her poncho down over her thighs and absently gazing at the water-spattered sea stones of the fabled highway,
Peggy weighed the possible repercussions of interactions with the maverick youngster of the Fern People. These rarely-seen 'Folk
O' The Wood' were traditionally seen as elusive beings that kept themselves to themselves and only ever interacted with humans
on a barter level.
During a bad winter, a farmer might find his buckets already filled with milk from his stabled cows or discover his two-wheeled wane
creaking under the weight of collected cabbages from a frost-hardened field. Peggy had even heard of weather-damaged thatched
rooves being mysteriously repaired during the night without any of the family inside being aware of any overhead savior plugging the
holes in their shelter. Fern Folk gave their toil and for a few sips of milk, a handful of eggs or a couple of Brassica, they knew the trade
would assure a mutual distance would be kept in better climes between the shy people of the forests and those who broke the soil for
a living.
The moniker 'Scratter' simply came from the older women of certain rural colonies - toothless biddies that dabbled in the art of herbal
medicines and half-grasped rituals of majick. Peggy felt no animus towards these venerable men-less old buggers, they were simply
trying to show that they still had a place in a community and at the very least, were holding onto an accepted way of life that the new
religion ambiguously frowned upon.
The title for the young woods-being reflected the bodily scratching a group-ousted juvenile would perform due to a lack of grooming
that Fern People used to bond as a society. In the human social order, to 'scrat' means to ease a individual itch. In the woodland culture,
mites and ticks were dealt with in a duel purpose of melding trust within their tribe. If there's nobody to relieve one's annoying parasitic
problems, one becomes a Scratter.
As the rain slightly eased and the little Witch peeked out from the heavy foliage that had kept most of a soaking away, Peggy wondered
if the hairy naked rogue creature had done as advised and virtuously sought out a partner for family purposes. Fern People were a dying
race and as the forests were annually making way for agriculture, the reasons were obvious. Stepping onto the already-drying surface of
Calder's Way, the bantam sorceress sighed at the inescapable truth that if the level of the agronomy kept up, a unique astute and gentle
species would be gone for good.
.................................................................
Seamarshes could be described as a close-cousin to Wyrmhaven, one of Peggy Powler's favourite haunts. There's a stream that defies
all the odds of becoming a river and unpretentiously sets off from the high moors in the Henge-Tarn district, trickles down past the towns
and hamlets that utilise its small power of feeding the surrounding soils and eventually empties itself into the Great Sea via a half-league
-wide glacial-created cleft in the land. This courageous creek also provides nourishment from its long arable-passage for a huge bed of
brackish-water reeds that surrounds the small fishing community known as Seamarshes. Maybe the clue is in the name.
It was said that for a brief period, Pesh was extracted from quarried shale in the crevice and used as a mordant to improve the strength
and permanency of colour when dying cloth, but the mining had stopped some time ago for reasons that Peggy had never really enquired
about and Seamarshes continued on its simplistic path of fishing for a way of an economy. Luckily for the thirty-or-so families living in the
tightly-knit community, there is a particular type of fish called a Nosy-Gulper that enjoys the safety in the waters of the marshes and this
slow-moving melon-shaped inquisitive creature is deemed a delicious fare and quite an expensive gourmet food.
Ambling down the wheel-rutted lane that spurred off Calder's Way, Peggy Powler could see a late-summer haze reclining on the calm
surface of the Great Sea and the huddled white-daubed cottages of Seamarshes sat like eggs in a reed-adorned nest of some giant bird.
The sun was bright and just reaching its zenith as the diminutive Witch stirred the dust of the track beneath her bare feet and wondered
where she'd be sleeping tonight. Not a real concern -Peggy quickly added, as she deemed her visit to the coastal settlement as a type
of holiday, but at least something to mentally gnaw on as she soaked in the peaceful vista of a sleeping encampment far from the usual
tribulations found amongst the timber.
A large gull glided its shadow across the visitor's route and offering a indignant 'querk-querk', soared away in search of another thermal.
The focus of the bird's curiosity sighed softly to herself and reached into her faithful satchel for a canteen of water. Squinting up to see
where the sky-sentinel had gone, Peggy smiled and promised herself she was going to enjoy this seaside sabbatical.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.