Crabbit Faery Tales and Folk Tales of Forumshire

My mind is racing through various possibilities for what young Petty could be up to now. Can't wait for the next installment.

Amarie turned from the narrow street among a maze of narrow streets which she had been walking along and into an even narrower dank side alley.

The morning sun, barely having arisen over the horizon had yet to permeate the gloom down here.
The dark cobblestones were wet and slippery with rain from the day before, water gurgled down the gutters at either side.

It was typical she considered that Ringo and Norc would not only take up residence in so difficult to find a location, but that the inn they had chosen was not even down an alleyway, but down an alleyway within an alleyway. An alleyway which was itself at the heart of the warren of streets that made up Dunfuckinaboot's poor quarters, which in turn were squeezed into a narrow strip of land behind the equally sprawling and maze like docks.

It was not going to be she considered, the sort of place where people offered information freely. It was however as she suspected and upon entry found it to be, exactly the sort of place where people would offer information crookedly and greased with the passage of coin.

Amarie reflected as she made her way up the narrow backstairs to the upper rooms that it would have probably have taken her longer to buy a drink than it had to get the barman to betray Ringo and Norc.

She approached the last door in the long hall at the top of the stairs as instructed, but failed to spot the subtly loosened floor-board right in front of the door.

She felt it give a tiny amount as she stood on it, just enough she knew to rise slightly on the other side of the door and alert its occupants.

She cursed under her breath at the sounds within of scrambling bodies and at her own lack of attention.

Carefully she inserted the key the barman had given in her in the lock and it clunked satisfyingly open as she turned it. Then standing carefully to one side of the door she pushed it open. An axe swung with a heavy pendulum whoosh down from above the door.

She waited for the expected crossbow bolt to thump into the wall opposite the door but it never came, cautiously she peered round and down. Ah yes, tripwire at ankle height across the doorway.

Carefully she stepped over it then crouching down snapped the wire with her finger. There was a whistling sound and the bolt fired harmless overhead through the empty doorway and embedded in the hall wall at waist height. It was never going to be easy catching a Glesgae Constable she reflected, to beat a Glesgae criminal they had to first learn all their tricks.

The room of course was empty, the window slightly ajar still, the thin ragged curtains having caught the breeze were billowing out into the street.

She went over to the window, making sure to stand at the side of the frame and peered out at an angle not revealing her head to silhouette, just in time to see Norc and Ringo both hurrying along the alleyway below and trying to dress as they did so.

Amarie sighed in annoyance, swung the window fully open and climbed out, avoiding as she did so the small sets of spikes Ringo had left on the sill to slow down any overly exuberant pursuer. She sighed in even more exasperation at the realisation that she was going to have shimmy down a drainpipe, and that she would almost certainly be slowed by avoiding the small nails Ringo would most certainly have embedded in it, but she climbed carefully down anyway and then sighed again when she finally reached the bottom and saw that Ringo and Norc were almost at the end of the alleyway and about to break out in to the maze of streets leading into the docks, and they were also very nearly fully dressed.

Why did people insist on running? It was so much easier on the Dark Planet where you knew where everyone was all the time and they stayed put, so much neater and tidier.

She raised her hands, magic as black as the depths of space coalescing between her fingers and hands in sticky globules, then as she had done on the road before she cast her Dark magic and waited.

Norc grabbed Ringo by the hand as he half hopped after her trying to pull his second boot on.

“We dinnae even ken whose efter us?” Ringo protested as Norc dragged him along and he finally got his foot solidly in the boot.

“Whoever the fuck it is I bet they are working for my Dad,” Norc replied and pulled harder on Ringo forcing him to join her in a full on run, which is why they were completely unable to stop when suddenly right before them a gaping hole of pure blackness opened up and swallowed them.

They ran right through it, so it felt, but when they emerged it was to find they were back where they had begun under the window of the inn they had just escaped from.

“Fuck!” Norc exclaimed succinctly.

“Sergeant Ringo McRotten of the Glesgae Constabulary?” Amarie enquired emerging from the shadows.

“Who the fuck are you? “ Norc demanded.

“Ambassador Amarie of the Dark Planet, with missives from the Queen for Sergeant McRotten,” Amarie explained.

”No,” Norc explained back, “that's who you fucking were!” and she swung her axe.

“NO!” Ringo cried out reaching for her arm but not before her blow fell.

It fell about a centimetre from Amarie's  brown hair, there was a crackle of light and then the axe rebounded and took Norc with it with a cry of “Ah fuckkkkkkkittttyyyy!” and she slammed into the wall of the alleyway and sunk to the ground, her axe notched.

Ringo hurried over to her and helped her to her feet, “Ambassadorial Immunity,” Ringo explained.

“And,” Amarie chipped in smiling sweetly, “when its granted by an immortal elf Queen who can bend space and time around herself  just by absent-mindedly humming a tune in the bath, Immunity really means something.”

She turned to look directly at Ringo, “Honeymoon's over Sergeant, you are needed back on duty,” she handed him the sealed orders of the Queen.





Water hung on Figg so that her ginger hair was plastered to her forehead. It was not that it was raining as she followed Petty through the woods and downhill, it was just that the undergrowth and the leaves of the trees were still heavy with dew, the grass underfoot still sodden from the rainfall of the day before, and the air itself felt moist and damp against her cheeks. Her cloak and bustle were dripping. Especially her bustle which seemed to sweep into every low hanging branch of every tree she passed, gently shaking it and its surrounding branches so that she was showered in icy cold droplets every time that made her shiver in the pale early morning light.

The air seemed to grow thicker, mistier as she descended. She had lost sight of Petty temporarily, but she could see that ahead through the heavy hazy air the trees were thinning out, soon they would give out all together, as would her cover.

She heard before she saw it the swirling swollen waters of a rapid river, and leaving the cover of the eaves of the trees completely she descended down the last of the open slope towards it.

A wide dark river lay before her, full of rocks and white angry foam. The morning mist coiled about it and partly concealed a stone bridge which crossed it.

Petty was on the bridge. A small figure against the wide dark grey sky. He walked slowly to the middle of the bridge with his burden and then set it down, gently it seemed to Figg, on the parapet . It was a large sack, tied at the top.

She frowned at this, wondering what on earth could be in it that would prove his manliness to Paw.

Then suddenly and with a horrible feeling of rushing sickeningly downwards she recalled Paw's words to Petty on her first day in the McTyrant barrel -  “Mind yi've that bag tae take tae the river son,” and accompanying it the memory of watching Petty from the kitchen window as he went sneaking out to the shed with a jug in his hand that she had wrongly assumed contained stolen buckie, and now knew with certainty had contained milk and finally she saw in her minds eye a hissing angry ginger cat in the shed.

“Oh no you don't!” she cried and forgoing all semblance of hiding she sped from her cover and ran heedlessly, slipping and sliding over the muddy grass to the bridge, crying, “Petty! Don't you bloody dare! Petty!”




Lance had a very strong feeling this meeting was not going to go well.

Their rendezvous point, a seedy boat restaurant called “Munchies End” presumably on the basis it was where food came to die, floating out in the docks was not ideal. But it was certainly out of the way, you had to cross four other docked restaurants of declining standards, hygiene and sea worthiness before you got to this one- which seemed to Lance to specialise in deep frying all the things pulled out the sea even other Scothobbit establishments threw back. Things with more eyes than legs, or more legs than fins. And which deep frying did not so much kill as annoy.

Its few patrons, when it had any, seemed to consist of Scotshobbit's who had gotten too drunk to realise where they were or what they were eating, but not quite drunk enough to have fallen overboard yet.

But that was not the main problem, the main problem was Wee Mad Mental Malky.

Having now spent some time in Malky's presence Lance had come to the conclusion that there were definitely at least three pints poured into a one pint body. There was Mad Malky, who was of course raving mad. There was Mental Malky, who was also raving but included extreme violence among his repertoire and offensive language, and then there was Wee Malky, who as far as Lance could tell was mostly concerned with colours for some unfathomable reason. And all three of Malky, who currently was sitting at a table in the corner of the empty dining room beating something with tentacles and crispy batter with a spoon, he was about to introduce to the Eel Wranglers as their accomplice. And then he had to explain Malky to Ambassador Amarie when she arrived. He was not looking forward to either.

But, he thought with a resigned shrug, they were out of time and Malky, wee, mad and mental as he was, was all Lance had.

It was just then the three eel-wranglers entered. Or rather sashayed into the restaurant, which somehow seemed to gain considerably more prestige just by having them standing in it.

They were dressed 'down' in that they had forgone their usual glamorous attire that filled courts and courtiers with awe and heart palpitations for their idea of everyday wear. But it was so immaculately tailored and cut, so hugging to every line and undulating curve that they stood out more dressed like this than if they had turned up in full courtly regalia.

“Hooochie coochie Mamas!” Malky cried out, swatting aside a tentacle with the spoon and leaping down from the chair, “ladies yer luck isi n, yer wee row-boat has landed its catch, the barge is steamin' fir yer canal an' A think A've goat the lock-key! Huv yi ever hud four fit nuthin' o' Scotshobbit assail yer ramparts? Can A huv the maist orangey wan? Shut it!”

Lance's head drooped. This was his crack infiltration team to steal the most valued relic in all McTyrant lands? He had the distinct feeling this 'heist' was going to go down in history, but for all the wrong reasons.






Petty spun round. In the distance beyond him a low grumble of thunder rolled. The far hills were invisible in a haze of far falling rain that was coming their way.

“Whit are yi daeing here?” Petty cried, grabbing the top of the sack with one hand as Figg leapt up onto the bridge and stormed towards him, “yi shudnae be here, this is all ur fault! A wish yud never cum here!”

That momentarily stopped Figg, how this was her fault she simply could not see, “What's in that sack?” she demanded.

“None o' yir bloody business!” Petty retorted fiercely and Figg could see that he had clearly been crying, his eyes were red and puffy. A light rain began to fall and the distant thunder rumbled again and rebounded from the hills.

The sack squirmed and mewed plaintively.

“Why are you doing this?” Figg demanded edging closer to Petty who put both his hands on the neck of the sack threateningly, “I huv tae, Ah huv tae prove am a man, Paw says so.”

“How does killing kittens prove you are a man?” Figg demanded angrily, “and not say, an idiot? It's just masculine nonsense.”

“Its noo aboot the killing, no exactly,” Petty wailed,his hands shaking as sheet lightening flashed distantly,” Yi cunnae understund.”

“Try me,” Figg said, “tell me what's going on?”

“There's tae many cats,” Petty said turning his face to her, “and aw these wans are females and they will aw huv cats, and we cunnae house them, and we cunnae feed them, an aw their cats will huve cats, thats the logic aw it yi cannae fight the logic of it,” Petty insisted.

“Yes you damn well can!” Figg retorted, “those are living things little kittens, innocent, blameless, you can just shove them in a sack and drown them. I won't let you.”

“Whit else cun a dae?” Petty demanded, “go oan, yi tell me! Wit? Break it doon tae its individual steps and explain it tae me then. Yi cunnae cun yi? If we keep em there's hunerds o cats running aboot everywhere and Paw will disown me fir nae daen it, and fir noo huving learned enough tae use ma craabit tae deal wi it.”

“How does being crabbit help anything?” Figg demanded, “Ever?”

Petty looked horrified at the question, “How? Well, meabies I'll get so crabbit at folks haevin tae kill aw their cats and drunk enough tae be inspired, that'll find a way sae they didnae huv tae huv kittens if they didnae wunt tae, or mebbies create sum magic spell or amulet that will stoap it, but here and noo.” he stared ashen faced at the sack.

“Here an now?” Figg echoed.

“Here an noo, there's jist whit needs tae be done, an its me as hus tae dae it,” he choked on his words then flushing red he turned angrily on Figg, “Bit its you as should be daein it, no me, this widnae be happening if yi werenae here, it'd be Paw still daen it.”

“What have I got to do with ?” Figg demanded putting her hands on her hips.

“You turned up, wi yi're...” Petty faltered.

“With my what?” Figg said sharply and suspiciously.

“Wi, yi're, nearly being a wimminness,” Petty said going bright red at even having to mention so vaguely such a topic to an actual girl,  lightening flashed again and the thunder rumbled closer, the ran got heavier and a strong cold breeze blew up.

“What has my, womenliness go to do with anything?” Figg demanded affronted.

“It made Maw get oan tae Paw again tae gie me the talk, tae move me frae shandy tae the buckie, as a proper Scothobbit. She said wi yi aboot a might git ideas, A didnae ken whit sort o' ideas, cys A've never hud an idea afore now aboot oanything! Bit thats whit she said. And she git onta Paw aboot it, and noo A huve tae dae this- sae its yer fault!”

Figg pondered this, it sounded oddly connected to her own dilemma with the thing no-one would tell her about, but from an odd angle she could not quite see, yet she could sense the connection. It was infuriating. As if there was a part of her that knew exactly what this was all about but just wouldn't tell her. “And this 'talk',” she said, “involves killing kittens does it?”

“Naw, bit it always involves daen something that's unpleasant bit unavoidable, lifes full o' them, this,” he looked pained at the sack sitting on the parapet, squirming and mewing, “this is wan o; them. Wan o' life's shit no-win decision yi need the crabbit fir. It shows A'm old enough tae face the real world, and tae get crabbit aboot it in the right way, by wanting tae dae something tae fix it so it disnae happen tae oanyone else. Thats the McTyrant crabbit way.”

“That's bloody stupid,” Figg replied, “its just a daft male excuse to do the wrong thing, blame the universe, get angry about it and go get drunk. You could save them if you really wanted to , it's in your hands.”

“You dinanne understand, yir jist a lassie, and a sasssanach, theres nae other way.”

“But its wrong, and you know its wrong,” Figg pleaded,”it's written all over your face, you can feel it's wrong.”

“Right an wrang dinae come intae it, feelings and emotions dinae cum intae it, its aboot whit its actually there in front o' yi, I huv tae dae this,” Petty insisted solemnly and with leaden tones which were aided and abetted by the equally leaden tones of the ever closing thunder, he lifted the sack as Figg cried out and held it out over the parapet and above the raging waters of the river below.

“No! You can't do this, I am telling you, you cannot do this!” Figg yelled at him desperately, tears for the kittens beginning to well up in her own eyes as she heard the pathetic and helpless cries from the sack frightened by the roaring waters, the ponderous ominous thunder and the sudden swinging movement of being held in the sack out over the river..

“If there was another way A'd dae it, but there isnae. Cun yi noo see that? If there wis A'd dae it, bit there jist isnae, facts o' the matter ur the facts o' the matter, there isnae another choice!” Petty cried through his own tears.

“Just save one!” Figg pleaded tears now rolling freely down her cheeks and her voice choking against the wind, “if you won't save the whole sack at least save one”

The sun choose that moment to rise up through a small gap in the thunderous sky and send a shaft of blinding light that dazzled Figg's eye and blinded her. But she heard the splash of the sack hitting the water as the storm rolled by overhead and out towards the sea.





Amarie waited patiently in the shadows of an alley that opened out onto the docks. Thunder rumbled distantly behind the sounds of the town and the busy dock. She had to meet Lance, but first she had to collect his post for him.

Queen Tinuviel was no fool, and despite her appearance too long in the tooth not to have sent Lance a letter informing him of Ringo's engagement at Amarie's behest. Information Amarie felt Lance really did not require to know. That she in fact needed him not to know.

Unlike deliveries to an official Ambassadorial Residence, complete with address and guarantee no-one would eat the eagle, a letter sent to Lance, undercover in a strange land full of McTyrants, would be delivered the traditional way and by hand.

And that meant a postman.  She drew out her pocket palantir and focused her mind into its deep depths until it revealed an elf, looking uncomfortable in the smelly surrounds of the McTyrant backstreets and about to walk right by her in one, two three, four...she stepped out from the shadows right in front of the startled elf postie.

“Citizen 103,445” Amarie smiled at him.

“I beg your pardon?” the elf said flustered.

“No need to beg,” Amarie smiled back at him as the black strings of magic drew between her hands, “This trip is free and cutesy of the Dark Planet. And I not only pardon you, I give you a whole new life 103,445.”

“I don't understand. Why do you keep calling me that?” the elf said backing away and stumbling into some old discarded crates and rubbish in the alleyway.

“Because that's your name.”

“No, it isn't you've got the wrong person.”

“I don't believe I do,” Amarie replied and flung her hands out towards him. The web of darkness engulfed the elf, holding him immobile as Amarie plucked from his belt the sealed letter he was carrying. Then the black web folded in on itself taking the screaming elf with it until the entire thing had shrunk to a small black pebble hanging in the air. Then it too vanished with a sound like someone unblocking a sink.

Amarie pulled the pocket palantir out again and glanced at it. In red letters it displayed: 'The Population of the Dark Planet is- 103,444.' A moment later the last digit ticked over to a 5.

Amarie smiled satisfied and opened the letter. It contained, as she suspected, more information than Lance should know. With a flick of her wrist a black fire engulfed it, Royal Seal and all, and burned it away to dark ashes that floated down onto the street and melted away in the puddles just as the first of the drops of rain proceeding the approaching storm began to fall.





Figg squinted into the light just as the clouds swept on by the wind blotted the sun back out to revel a crying Petty storming towards her, “I hate you!” he cried as he swept up to her her, “I didnae wunt tae grew up yet, I didnae wunt tae huv tae be a man,” then turning suddenly he grabbed her by the hair and pulled it, “and dinnae yi tell anyone wit A did!” he cried fiercely in her face, pulled her hair so sharply she yelped and swung a boot at him.

“What have you done?” Figg asked between gritted teeth as he tugged on her coils of ginger hair.

He suddenly let hair her go from his grasp and with snot dripping from his nose and tears from his eyes he stormed off the way he had come, “An' A'm tellin' Paw yi've run away!”

Figg stood in the rain, stunned and emotional. What had he done she should not tell about? He had only done what he had been sent to do. On balance it occurred to her there really ought to  be a better qualifying test for manhood.

She felt wretched, her stomach wrenched for the poor kittens in their watery grave and then felt even more wretched when the pain in her head from the hair pulling made her think, out of nowhere of the words of the witch Azriel, spoken to her only a matter of days ago yet seeming so long ago now, telling her how she would know when a boy was showing an interest in her for the reasons no one would tell her about, the memory seemed as clear as if the words were coming from right behind her, Figg heard Azriel say, “don't worry, at your age its more likely to be just pulling your hair till you yelp.”

Ariel cackled and Figg spun round shocked, the words had been coming from right behind her. “How long have you been here?” she demanded hands on hips.

“About three days waiting for him to do that. Typical of you dearie, no sooner do I need to nip behind a bush for a widdle and you go getting all moody and romantically dramatic, and think I got some on me boots,” she grimaced glancing down.

“But, Petty?” Figg said disbelieving, “you mean he did that because he likes me?”

“Well you could do worse.”

Figg considered this, “I really don't think so,” she said eventually.

“He might have just killed a load of cute kittens, but he took and got no pleasure from it. There's them as come in more handsome smiling packages who would have though. The wrapping ain't the contents dearie.”

“But he is infuriating, stubborn, obnoxious, runny nosed, rude and he smells!” Figg protested.

“Well, there nothing to say you will like the person who likes you with this sort of thing,” Azriel explained.

“What sort of thing?” Figg fumed.

Azriel cackled again, “Let things happen in there own time dearie, a meal rushed is rarely enjoyed.”

“I not only don't know what's on the menu,” Figg snarled,”I don't even know whee the bloody restaurant is.”

Azriel cackled at this too as the storm passed them by overhead and began to rumble over the coast.





Lance and two of the eel-wranglers sat on the dockside and looked out over the harbour.

The restaurant boat was fully ablaze now, and it had subsequently set fire to three of the neighbouring restaurant ships and several smaller vessels moored close-by, and spectacularly, a barge full of pig fat, so that as well as being ablaze the harbour also now smelled of bacon.

Of course the ship was on fire Lance thought, how could something like this not happen with Wee Mad Mental Malky aboard? And how had Malky managed to burn the entire harbour down? By getting himself into a violent fight over the eel-wranglers of course, with himself.

The McTyrant fire brigade turned up, took in the scene of black smoke and roaring flames, noted the ponderous rumblings of thunder growing ever closer, but not yet cose enough to aid in dowsing the flames and decided that the easiest thing to do was sink all the ships. Including those nearby who might catch fire and spread it, but were not yet in fact ablaze.

This in turn lead to some spirited protest from the said boats owners and crew and so a huge fight ensued.

This is turn led to the local law enforcement turning up in considerable numbers and considerable drunkenness, saw a huge fight and a the fire and immediately joined in.

So now, as Lance sat there cupping his chin his hands and dangling his legs over the dock edge watching the orange flames dancing in reflection in the water below, pandemonium had erupted all around him.

“What now?” one of the eel-wranglers asked him.

He looked up at her. They had of course all managed to jump overboard before the fire had entirely taken hold, but where he looked wet and bedraggled, and was smeared with the oily grime that floated on the surface of the dock water, they,  annoyingly just looked gleaming and fresh. As if they had steeped from beneath a waterfall on a tropical island. He had no idea how they did it and assumed it must be a Guild Secret.

“Well, I think we may have lost Wee, Mad Malky,” Lance observed as the Munchies End met its end in a flurry of smoke as it finally keeled over into the sea, “Did anyone see what happened to him?”

“The last I saw,” the eel wrangler replied, “he was running towards the fire to see what colour it was,” they reflected on this a moment  as the flames crackled and roared and the combatants screamed and yelled, before she added, “and we lost our Head Wrangler, again.”

“Yes, rather rummy that,” Lance frowned, “who would have thought to see a swimming horse come and take her off out to sea.”

“It's more common than you might think,” the wrangler reflected dolefully.

“So I guess that makes you the Head Wrangler now, what my dear is your name?”

“Sweetly Bottomed.”

“No,” Lance replied, “not your Wrangling name, what is your real name.”

“Gwen Bottomley,” Gwen said in slightly droning Englishhobbit regional accent he recognised, but being of his class and education did not wholly approve of, “I was a  millers daughter from Buurrmingham.”

“Remarkable how well you disguise the accent, almost as good as private schooling,” Lance commented, “please do continue to.”

She frowned slightly, but on her face it just looked cute, “I was talent spotted by the Guild and went into training. Well, a girl from my background, you would wouldn't you?”

“Yes, yes, well, I dare say you would,” Lance agreed having even less of a concept of what it would be like to be of her class and background than he did of what it would be like to be a girl, “well Gwen, we have until tomorrow evening, when I will be sitting down to gamble a sizeable chunk of Queen Tinuviel's money against the McTyrant Chief, and you and your surviving accomplice here will be distracting the Scuttle guards, to find a new chap small enough, willing enough, and desperate enough to climb up a privy for us. Any suggestions anyone?”

Just then there was an enormous clap of thunder overhead and the rain came pouring down and doused the flames.







“So what do I do now?” Figg asked Azriel.

“What do you want to do dearie?” Azriel retorted, “if you want my advise, and me being a witch you do, I'd say you should go follow him home, you've unfinished business there I'd say, wouldn't you?”

“They are taking me into town tomorrow,” Figg said flatly.

“That's nice dearie a day out.”

“To sell me at the market,” Figg finished coldly.

“Ah, well, wheels within wheels dearie, that's how it works when you dance with Fate and I reckon he is having a Ball with you.”

“Fate's a man? I always thought fate was supposed to be a woman?”

“That's just what men, who lack any imagination, think, but the question is dearie, what's your next step in the dance? What you going to do?”

Figg had in fact decided this already. If she ran away from the McTyrant's now here in the middle of nowhere there was, well, nowhere to go. No shelter no food, nothing to sustain her, and with no idea how to get back where she had come from, just nowhere to go. She did not in fact even know in which direction the town lay.

No, far better she had considered to go to town and take her chance for escape there. Towns meant people and people meant crowds and that meant a chance of slipping away unnoticed.  A better chance than she had easily escaping here to nothing.

“I will go back,” she said firmly, “but not, just to be perfectly clear about this, to chase after Petty. I don't give a fig about him.”

“Of course not, dearie,” Azriel said smirking as Figg turned and began walking from the bridge, “aren't you forgetting something dearie?”

Figg turned back to Azriel, “What?”

Azriel nodded back towards the bridge to where Petty had stood and cast in the kittens in their sack. A small dark shape was pressed up against the stonework at the base of the parapet wall.

Figg hurried up to it and crouching down she saw it was a shivering ball of ginger fur. Figg stretched out a hand to it and two small ears popped out, unwrapping from the furry ball to reveal two dark eyes beneath them and a small pink nose. Figg could feel the kitten purring through her fingers.

Petty had saved just one. And realising now what he had meant with his last words and with tears in her eyes she swept the kitten up and  promised to herself she would not betray him, she never would tell anyone what Petty had done. She hurried from the bridge and back to the McTyrant barrel and her own upcoming sale.

Loved the final scene between Figgs and Petty. There's some real talent in this writing.

Its great story telling ! but why kill kitties ??? sweety darling, why ?? youve done a brilliant job of the paragraphs, each giving time for the different characters Its all gonna come together & smiles all round........yeah ??

{{Cheers Halfy- though sadly the talent is not mine, see my reply to Azriel reply}}}

{{{Azriel, I did hum and haw over the kittens thing, but in the end I think a part of coming of age and setting childhood aside is the realisation of death. The moment, whenever it comes that we are confronted with death something of our childhood innocence dies with it. The other reason was its a parody of the Who episode Fires of Pompeii, well the end anyway and I wanted something that would be emotionally high enough, but at the same time sort of ludicrous when compared to the scene its parodying.
Which is why the line which makes me giggle (and I rarely laugh at my own stuff) is Figg's "if you won't save the whole sack at least save one" which is a direct rewrite of Donna's line "if you won't save the whole town, at least save someone." There's something about the silliness of changing it from the town of Pompeii to a sack of kittens, and yet at the same time it remains genuinely sad (hopefully) and works within its own context because life is life. And that was also a point worth having I felt.

That's also why this chapter is structured the way you noted- I thought the Amarie and Lance stuff would provide the necessary gags, silliness and slapstick to balance out the more heavy stuff on the other story line.}}}

M'kay, ( do like kitties tho ) I think the 1st death in a family is somehow a turning point of no return. It makes you feel weird & you dont know why ?

A change of tone in places, obviously, but this might be the best chapter yet.

{{Thanks Eldo, there was a bit more craft in this chapter than in others which I tend to write more on a whim and with the flow- this chapter was preplanned for some time and I knew it was coming up, if not quite how to pitch it, so I have been mulling on it on and off at the back of my mind for a couple of weeks- glad you feel I got it about right.

Although having said all that it also amazes me when I am writing how much stuff still seems to come out of nowhere- the Munchies End restaurant ship, the harbour fire, the loss of yet another Head Wrangler and indeed Wee Mad Mental Malky all sprung up on the page in the process and I have no idea where they came from! }}}

That's the same way Tolkien described Faramir entering LOTR, you know.

Many of the ideas for stories that I play around with and write notes for (most of which are related to the Forumshire universe to a greater or lesser extent) are heavier and less frivolous than most of what I've written before. Of course, I worried that The Needlehole Mysteries would be too dark also which they seem not to have been, but I get what you mean about it being harder to execute in some ways. This felt like a very natural fit even with the (mostly) humorous and madcap world of the tale though, which has gotta be even trickier. My hat would be off to you if I wore one.

That's the same way Tolkien described Faramir entering LOTR- Eldo

{{{Hold on, would that make Wee Mad Mental Malky my alter-ego in the story? Now I think about it...... }}}

'This felt like a very natural fit even with the (mostly) humorous and madcap world of the tale though'

{{I reckon you can get away with an awful lot of silly if you make your main characters honest, in this case Figg- so all the silliness can happen but she has to be real about it as it were, get cold, wet, hungry, tired- so long as you have something grounding it you can get away with an awful lot I reckon.
This is also true of fantasy writing- Tolkien creates a totally believable world full of unbelievable things by rooting the everyday stuff solidly so you hae already bought into it as 'reality' and so also accept the unbelievable when it appears }}}

I come back here to catch up with this whenever I'm in the frame of mind to concentrate for your longer pieces, Petty, and whenever I do, I reckon I see a degree of improvement every time; I agree with the others, the writing is top notch. Sooner or later you'll have to write some more of Home. Your talent is definitely not wasted here, and clearly the more you write the tighter it naturally gets, but... Well... I want more of Home too. Call me greedy if you like, Wee Mad Petty... (Is that the distant sound of Azriel's cackles I discern on the breeze?)

{{{{ Cheers Orwell, I really appreciate that coming from you in particular. You have a natural gift for comic writing, which obviously I therefore envy and hate in equal measure! As to Home, well I can say with all honesty its always on my mind, just not necessarily on actual paper....}}}





Figg watched Petty disappear up the slope into the misty wet morning air and followed shortly after, stopping along the way only to construct a small wicker basket for the kitten which she then fitted to the complicated framework inside her bustle.

After some brief mewing, lulled by the warmth and the dark of the interior of Figg's bustle it curled up in a ball and went to sleep. Figg resumed her pursuit of Petty but even so she arrived back at the McTyrant barrel some considerable time after him. The rain and the storm had swept over them and out to sea and the sun was beginning to make an appearance in long warm shafts through the breaking clouds.

She scurried towards the rear of the barrel and casually made to enter by the kitchen door, but Maw was there waiting on her with a stern face and her arms folded across her ample chest.

“Wir yi been aw this time?” Maw demanded.

“The privy,” Figg replied jerking one thumb back over her shoulder in the direction of the wooden out-house at the back of the garden.

“Fir aw that time?” Maw raised a suspicious eyebrow at her.

“It's all the porridge,” Figg grumbled putting a hand over her stomach and frowning.

Maw snorted at this but as Figg was clearly here now there was not much more to be made of the matter so instead she said, “Don't think about trying to escape before tomorrow.”

Figg put her hands in her hips in indignation, “Oh and where would I escape to? I don't even know where I am!”

“I'll be locking yer door tonight,” Maw warned and turned and walked away.

Figg followed to find Petty and Paw in the living room, Paw was grinning from ear to ear as he uncorked not one but two bottles of buckie.

“Ma Petty!” Paw said proudly holding one of the bottles out to his son, “a man at last! Who'd aw thought it?”

“Noo me,” Maw chipped in, “I hud ma pin money oan him no bein able tae dae it.”

Petty snatched the buckie eagerly in his hand and then his eye caught Figg and for a moment he froze, bottle half way to his lips.

Figg could read his face like a book, she could see the thoughts marching through his mind, 'is she going to tell them I didn't do it. Is she going to ruin everything?'

It did, for the briefest moment flash through Figg's mind to pull the kitten from her bustle, and on reflection it was probably more for fear of what might happen to the kitten than concern for Petty which made her dismiss the notion as quickly as it occurred.

“Yi savouring the moment or whit?” Paw demanded of the frozen Petty.

“Eh?” Petty said and then realising Figg was going to remain silent he grinned back at Paw, put the bottle to his lips and let the beautiful buckie burn its way down his throat like melting treacle, treacle that has been filled with alcohol and sugar.

Figg, tired and feeling somewhat drained from the emotion of the day already was somewhat relieved when the McTyrant family, in order to celebrate Petty's ascension to manhood officially and publicly, went to the pub. Leaving her locked in the house with a list of domestic chores to perform before their return.

She took the opportunity to fetch the kitten from the basket, “I will have to think of a name for you?” she mused as she stroked between its ears and the kitten tried to paw at her hand, causing it to lose its balance and fall over sideways purring happily.

She scooped up the ball of squirming fur and took it through to her bedroom and sat it down. She was certain it would be some time before the McTyrants rolled back in from the pub and she felt it should be safe to let the little kitten roam freely for now. Going to the kitchen she fetched it a saucer of watery milk and some haggis, which was the only meat she could find which was not deep fried in batter, and left them under the bed with the kitten, who immediately lapped at the milk, and then she went about the first of her chores.

She had only been at her task for less than an hour when suddenly there was a loud thumping on the barrel door.

Figg leapt up from the fireplace where she had been cleaning the grate. She hurried from the living room and into the hall, her heart leaping fearing that for some reason the family had returned.

“Thump! Thump! Thump!” went the unseen hand on the door with some impatience it seemed to Figg, then she heard the sound she was dreading, the sound of a key going in the lock, it was the McTyrants.

She knew there was not time now to rush to the bedroom and get the kitten, she would just have to hope Maw had no cause to go in the room before she herself could.

The barrel door swung open swiftly, swiftly and hard enough to slam back against the wall and a woman stepped over the threshold, the sun behind her.

Figg squinted up at the woman's face but could only see the top half of it over the huge rounded balloon like chest. She was staring into two very cross eyes, framed above by two dark, thickly tattooed on and seemingly permanently arched eyebrows. A mane of hair and extensions, that was probably originally a sort of dirty blonde but now shimmered in the sunlight with a dazzling array of dyes and highlights framed the high cheek bones. And the entire upper half rested on the longest pair of legs Figg had ever seen that were not on a giraffe. They descended from a skirt so short it might just have been a belt, and the legs in turn teetered on the highest shocking pink heels Figg had ever seen. They were like stilts.

“Um,” Figg managed at this sight.

“Who the fuck are yi?” the woman demanded.”

“Gingerlocks,” Figg replied promptly as the woman stalked towards her, heels clicking ominously on the wooden floorboards, “Who are you and why do you a have key to this barrel?”

“Why dae I huv a key?” the woman yelled incredulously, “Because its ma fucking hoose yi wee numpty! An' as tae who I um, um Pretty fucking Tyrant an A fucking live here. So why dae A cum hame tae find a wee sassanech in ma hoose?”

She loomed threateningly over Figg who tried to stand her ground but found there was a slight problem with this which was that Pretty was absolutely terrifying. Pretty was all sharp angles where she was not inflated curves, and veins throbbed on her temple. Her puffed painted lips only seemed to be able to convey two expressions- pouting or snarling. Figg got the distinct impression that Pretty might be a touch crazy, well even crazier than the rest of the family. This she considered was probably not the time for one of her glib or sarcastic replies. She opted for honest statement of the facts instead.

“I'm the McTyrant's slave,” she blurted out.

Pretty paused and considered this a moment, “Well, why did yi noo sae so afore hen?” she beamed, “Ha! Gud oan yi maw, finally goat Paw to dip his haund intae his sporran an' part wi sum cash fur a hame-help. Gin an' buckie then, cum oan chop, chop” she clapped her hands together at Figg who seeing she had an opportunity to at least get out of striking proximity of Pretty darted hurriedly off to make the drink.

“Aw, ah need a jacuzzi,” Pretty sighed stretching her long arms, “bring ma drink tae ma room.”

Figg froze mid-stir and darted back out the kitchen drink sloshing in hand just in time to see Pretty put her hand on the bedroom door and open it.




“You look tired?” Amarie said with an arched eyebrow.

She was perched on the edge of a less than clean or aesthetically pleasing chair in the tavern room currently being rented by Norc and Ringo, who were in bed together. Occasionally giggling and rummaging about under the sheets. Much to Amarie's annoyance.

It was at times like this she really missed being back home on the Dark Planet, there was none of this sort of thing there. There were rules. And people took the rules seriously, as pain of death had a way of focusing the mind. Here in Forumshire no one ever seemed to take anything seriously at all. And even when there were rules, they were just ignored anyway. And its inhabitants seemed to have the attention span of gnats.

Norc and Ringo had been in bed together when she had arrived and as their combined apparel between them consisted of one pair of underwear, and the wrong person was wearing them by gender, they had, not exactly discreetly, retreated back into the bed after letting her into the room.

“I'm fine,” Ringo said, the bits of him not under the covers blushing red, “jist been, busy.”

“So I see,” Amarie observed dryly.

“Keeping ahead of Norc's father and all,” he explained hastily.

“They are in Dunfuckingaboot?”

“Aye, looking fur us.”

'Good' Amarie thought, that saved time, “And you are prepared for your mission for the Queen,” Amarie asked him thinking he did look awful flushed and worn out.

“Oh yes that, aye of course,” Ringo replied.

“Piss easy,” Norc interrupted, “fucking twatting over a bunch of eel-wranglers in poncy dresses? Hardly a fair fucking fight is it?”

“I do expect you to be successful if that's what you mean,” Amarie replied steadily, “if my intelligence is right, and I am certain it is, the theft of the scuttle will take place tomorrow night whilst the Chief and the Court are all at the big game at the Casino. Sergeant, you and Norc will position yourselves within the Keep, the guards will be expecting you and grant you entry. You will await in the Great Hall whilst I observe the scuttle chamber by palantir, when the criminals strike I will notify you. At which point you and Norc simply move in and arrest them. The scuttle will be returned to its place and our job will be done. Simple enough?”

“When shud we be thur?” Ringo asked.

“As soon as the Chief has left for the game. Don't let me, or your Queen down.”

“We won't, now fuck off,” Norc replied cheerily and did something under the covers which made Ringo both blush and squirm.

“Gladly,” Amarie replied rising from the chair. She had no more closed the door behind her as she left when the squeaking of the bed springs began.



Lance stared at the three bulging bags before him on the table.

He gulped in a dry throat and took from his pocket a deck of playing cards which he sat down before himself. He started again at the bags of coin, and then opening the closest one to him he took out a coin.

It was a golden Forumshire Crown, on one side it had the Royal Crown and seal, and on the other the head of Queen of Tinuviel, in profile of course so the exquisiteness of her nose could be fully appreciated.

It was the head side he was staring at and it seemed to him that the perfect nose was wrinkled ever so slightly, and the eyes narrowed imperceptibly in a frown at him as he considered the possibility he was about to lose all the Crowns money.

He was it was true the best card player in the Service. But all it took was a run of bad hands. One night of bad luck. Cheating in these circumstances was out of the question. Not in a Scotshobbit casino where the penalties were rather severe, often drawn out and inevitably, but only eventually, fatal.

Which he reflected was probably only about as bad as what Queen Tinuviel would do to him if he lost so much of Forumshires' money on a card game.

And then a worst thought occurred to him which was that it was not as bad as what she would do to him if he lost the money, and failed to discover if the McTyrant scuttle was authentic or a copy. Was it genuine or had the McBanks already stole it? Was that what was behind the McBanks sudden expansion and acquisition of Forumshire businesses?

He found it somewhere between hard and impossible to believe that Offo McBank was capable of such a deed. Or that he would be so subtle as to use the scuttle merely to acquire just enough to slowly and quietly build up an empire. Subtly and Offo seemed odd bedfellows.

And yet Lance considered, if the McBanks did not have the scuttle, and the one here was genuine, then where were the McBanks getting the wealth to acquire the business' from? Their presence in Scotshobbitland was nothing more than the town of Greetin' Blue, and they had lost control of it when they lost control of the Marriage Chapel. Who was making these investments?

He stared at the bags of gold again. It did not make sense, but then his part was not to make sense of it, that was for the higher ups. His job was to get the scuttle, check its authenticity and return it without the McTyrants ever knowing it was missing.

And, without someone small enough to get up the privy chute he no longer had a plan for how to do that. His head sank onto the desk.

There was a gentle knock at his door and lifting his head just enough to see who was there called wearily, “Enter.”

The door opened, slightly, just a gap and the head of Gwen ,the newest Head Eel-wrangler, appeared round it, “are you free?” she did not wait for his answer but somehow, without opening the door further managed to squeeze into the room whilst still giving the appearance she had sashayed in.

And as she did so led by the hips Lance felt his blood pressure rise as she slid up to him and smiled coyly down at him, “That's a lot of gold,” she commented and then picked up the pack of cards, “What are these for? Solitaire?” she giggled and sighed in a way that made her chest heave and Lances blood pressure moved into the sort of territory that would worry any good doctor, “you don't need to play with yourself,” she whispered into his ear and Lance moved into territory where the Doctor was now calling for assistance and a trolley.

“Um, no,” Lance managed taking the cards from her hands and she made sure in releasing them her hands brushed his, the softness and warmth of her skin seeming to sear to him somewhere about the groin region, “I was practising, for tomorrow nights big game,” he croaked in explanation.

Gwen stared at him, suddenly her demeanour had changed, the mood of quiet, or not so quiet seduction had been dropped instantly like the mask it always was and she was suddenly serious and talked in a louder more normal, less husky and provocative, voice, “Cards? You are practising card games?”

“Yes, that's why I am on this mission, I am the best card player in the Service.”

Gwen shook her head in disbelief, “This is a Scotshobbit Casino, they don't play cards.”

Lance stared back at her in silence for a moment as this sunk in, “No cards?”

She shook her head brusquely, “No cards, “ she confirmed.

“Well that's just not playing cricket!”

Gwen frowned, “No, no cricket either.”

“So what do they play by jove?”

“Darts, dominoes, caber tossing and haggis racing.”

Lance continued to stare at her then he stared again at the bags of gold then his head thumped onto the table.

“She's going to bally well kill me!” he mumbled into the wood of the desk top.


Amarie was swapping one seedy tavern for another. Only this second one was so seedy that it did not even merit being down a filthy alleyway of its own. No this tavern was down on the docks. And when they meant down they had really meant it. As access to this particular lovely establishment could only be reached via the docks and down a set of stone steps which led towards the filthy harbour water, and which were treacherous as the steps and indeed the walls were green with slime.

At the foot of the steps was an archway which led into a short tunnel going back under the harbour wall and which eventually led to a door with a wooden slot in it at head height.

In front of the door was a thin scrawny scotshobbit in a tattered dirty kilt. He had been slumped against one wall when Amarie entered the tunnel but he arose as she appraoched and immediately reached for a long cold knife in the belt of his kilt and drew it out. His smile matched the blades for coldness.

Amarie sighed.

“Well, well, wit huv we here,” the man said cockily and waved the knife in her direction, “looks like yi've cum tae the wrang place girly, but jist the right place fur me.” he laughed harshly at her.

“Look, you think I am a weak and defenceless woman, well attired, clearly educated, pampered and probably unworldly, must have taken a wrong turning on the dock looking for her first class passage. Easy pickings for robbery and probably worse for men like you, that the sort of girl you think I am? “ Amarie sighed again.

“Well, yi look that sort tae me. How? Ure yi noo?” the would be robber grinned back full of his own certainty, which in a moments time he was about to be drained of, spectacularly.

“No, I really am not,” Amarie said quietly. It was rare she choose to really expend her energy, but she was in no mood for this idiot and she felt like she could do with the exercise.

She moved so quickly the thief was only aware of her boot when it appeared before his eyes, a split second before it was kicking him in the face.

He was so stunned by this and his eyes so instantly full of water that he was only aware of a dark blur, which was Amarie pirouetting around him, neatly grabbing the arm holding the knife at the elbow and snapping it in two with a crunch and a scream from the thief on her way by, then kicking him so hard in the back of the legs that he collapsed in a heap of agony on to the cold wet stone floor of the tunnel.

Amarie grabbed him by his blooded chin and he groaned as she pulled his face up to meet hers, “See, I meant it, I really am not that sort of girl.”

Instead of letting him slump back to the ground she kicked him there just for good measure and approached the door and hammered on it. The slot opened and a worried pair of eyes appeared.

“I expect there is some stupid password for entry?”

“Um, aye” the eyes said widening as they saw the mangled groaning body on the floor, “dae yi by any chance ken it?”the eyes asked hopefully.

“No,” Amarie replied, “but you could just open the door for me anyway.”

“Um,” the eyes said watering slightly with anxiety, “that's agin' the rules.”

“Ah,” Amarie replied thoughtfully and raised her hands up into view, and where the eyes now widening could take in the Black Magic coalescing between her fingers, “and would it also be against the rules to use Dark Magic to open a vortex right behind you and rip you out of existence and cast you into the nether nothingness between Forumworlds?”

The eyes looking worried again considering this, “Yes,” they hazarded.

“Then, “ Amarie said ginning, “we have established that one of us is about to have to break the rules. So, which of us is it going to be then?”

The eyes hesitated a moment and then the slot slammed shut and she heard a series of bolts being slowly drawn back.

Somewhere in this unpleasant dive was, in secret hiding, Offo McBanks and the remainder of his men. Things were lining up she could see the pieces falling into place in her minds eye, could foresee in each stage the following nights events- Lance and the Chief leaving for the Casino, the eel-wranglers seducing and eliminating the scuttle guards, Offo, the buffoon, surprising the eel-wranglers and of course seizing the scuttle, the heroic arrival of Ringo and Norc outnumbered until her last piece comes into play, and her last meeting as its timing would need to be precise, Norc's Viking father.

Norc and Ringo with Viking aid would take the scuttle and bring it to her and she in turn would deliver it to her employer. The McTyrant's would be tipped off to the theft and of course Offo arrested for it. The scuttle would be lost, whereabouts unknown, and Offo would no longer be Chief of his clan, as per her employers express wishes. She would get paid handsomely and the Dark Planet sow discord and uncertainty in Forumshire furthering their own long term agenda. She could feel a promotion in the offing.

As the door finally unlocked and swung open for her she thought with a heavy tinge of pride, “I have all the pieces in my sights and ready to go, there isn't one I've overlooked.”

Which was just the sort of certainty which approximately one day from now she would be kicking herself for having indulged in because several miles away, scrubbing the privy of the McTyrants and worrying about a kitten whilst Pretty tried on her sixteenth outfit so far was Gingerlocks.

Forgotten, outside of Amarie's thoughts and everyone's grand plans and schemes. Gingerlocks. Just a young woman, lost and alone, searching for answers and not finding any, so far as she could tell at least, and with a knack for falling right into the midst of things.

And tomorrow she was coming to town.

Humour. Pathos. A Forumshiran tale that makes sense. A girl you can actually like and not be terrified of, but, somehow, reminiscent of Julia. How do you manage it, Petty? You're a genius, lad.

{{{ }}}

scrubbing a privy my arse!

(((( tho that Pretty McTyrant is quite scary ))))

this is very Forumshirian.

Rude, inane and ridiculous... What do you mean, by Forumshiran, Julia? ... Oh... Maybe i do know what you mean....

Yep, very Forumshiran I liked it too. Didnt realise Rickaaaaay could sing like that

Sorry it took me a couple days to get round to this; love the story and characters but it's fun to see the tension ratcheting up too. Though that makes the wait for more even harder.

{{{Its in the pipeline Eldo! Nearly at the finale! }}}

I will be a little sad when this is over since I've enjoyed it so much, but seeing how things wrap up is a big part of the fun. And I'm sure (hoping!) that you have plenty more crabbit fairy tales in various stages of gestation.

{{Sorry for the horrible long delay, more than usual I mean- the end of this is coming, soonish, I hope, just RL has been cruelly and unfairly encroaching a lot of late, no matter how drunk I get in an attempt to stop it! }}}

Totally understandable, Petty. I hope RL will give you a break soon.

Curiouser and curiouser! What's that irascible Scot up to now?

Mmmm... Figgy wearing bedsheets, Amarie a witch, and a town called Dunfuckinaboot... (Yes, I just had to re-read some favorite parts!) You know, I hope you're not trying to pass this documentary off as a work of fiction, Petty?!

{{The end of this is on the way- RL continues to be rather relentless of late and unfair, as life sadly is often wont to be, and getting myself into the mindset for writing what is largely whimsical comedy has been proving somewhat difficult.
But not, I am glad to say, without some progress, and I hope that when I get the final part(s) (not sure on length depends how it plays on the page by the end) they will be better for the delay at least.}}