Clarabell Cratchety and the Faberge Egg of Doom

There was once an old lady called Mrs Cratchety. She lived in an old draughty mansion house so ancient and wild it was almost sentient. Its long corridors spread out over the green landscape like withered arms that creaked and groaned in strong winds. The Windows took to flying and flapping in summer breezes, and the skirting boards were alive and crawling with animal life of the uncomfortable beady-eyed variety. There were many forgotten rooms that shivered with cobwebs and dusty broom cupboards full of rustling bats of all shapes and sharpness of tooth. When I say that Mrs Cratchety was old, I mean fortyfive, which today is 'the new 35', but in 1870 fortyfive was one birthday away from pushing up the Daisies, what with pernicious ingrowing toenails and syphilis. She had lived in Wychwood Hall all her natural life which was saying something considering she was part spook.

I'm just gonna get back here before Petty even has the chance to comment on some of these descriptions.

"She lived in an old draughty mansion house so ancient and wild it was almost sentient."

One of the greatest sentences ever posted here.

Mrs Cratchety was slowly spookyfying and fading into the damasked wallpaper, she had suffered 'A Great Disappointment' early on in her blooming mid thirties when she still had pink cheeks and a pert bustle. The love of her life Hubert had gone off to fight the Frenchies and had never more returned. She had taken to haunting the shrubberies and the Rhodedendrum drive in the hopes of catching the first sight of his returning figure, sometimes she imagined she caught a glimpse of a red wisket or the crunch of manly foot on gravel, but it was just a Robin flashing scarlet in the leaves, just Jeffries the gardener stomping home for tea. Mrs Cratchety had slowly sunk into old maidenhood, her flame grown dim and nearly all puffed out.
Her only companion was Clarabell, trainee spook and all round unfeisty heroine, Clara was cursed with an 'Imagination' that most unladylike and hoydenish attribute. She had a little bedroom in the West tower over the moat and many times she would pretend to be the Lady of Shalott languishing in her bower for Sir Lancelot. Lance being the contrary type had failed to materialize so she settled on Parson Pettygrew a most unsatisfactory arangement because the Parson didnt have an Arthurian bone in his body, although seemingly more bones than was altogether decent.

Parson Pettygrew was odd, it wasnt that he was a confirmed agnostic, because the C of E didnt believe in a muscular faith to be ordained, the vicars just needed the intelligence to stock a fine wine cellar in case of visiting Bishops, and finely tune an ear for gossip. No. he was odd because he was poetical, and that was deeply suspect and to be frowned on, so he kept a tight lid on his romantical outpourings and went for long walks in the rain to cool his heels.
He had a soft spot for the two Miss Cratchetys and their lumbering slumbering house. and they had various soft spots for him.

I suspect a story of great magnificence, especially if the ensuing is anything like the presuing - though the implications, if I'm implying them right, present an insidious risk - possibly amid those Rhododendrons, innocent for now, yes (apparently), but for how long? I dread the answer!

Um... more?  

Parson Pettygrew had a rival for the affections of Clarabell, he came in the form of Captain Orwen the local Gentleman landowner. Orwen was a veteran of the Franco-Corkhat wars, he had walrus moustachios and a hearty laugh. The Parson and Orwen were invited to take High Tea with the ladies every Tuesday and they would glower at each other from over the toasted muffins. They had settled into an easy rivalry, each trying to outdo the other with tales of derring-do and general gung-ho gentlemans pursuits. Orwen was particularly proud of his collection of Tasmanian Wyrms which he produced from his tweedy trouser pockets at inopportune moments. I think he wanted the ladies to scream in horror and fall into his arms, but the ladies just smiled languidly as they knew deep in the cellar there were Worms as big and as fierce as Hypogryffs in a pinch.
Orwen had romantical moments and sometimes he thought of asking Clarabell her age in a view to wedding her, (because strangely no one could tell just by looking at her, which was odd). Then he giggled to himself in a frisson of fear, as asking questions like that would surely get you killed.

Deep in the Night infested forest that surrounded the Hall, there lived a woodsman/poacher called Lancy. He was a broody sardonic type of chap with a monosylabic repertoire and he could be found sitting on logs playing his pipes with mournful yet folksy tunes.
Nobody knew where he had sprung from, some of the villagers liked to fantasize he was an exotic budgie smuggler gone to ground, or an ex-pirate, for Lancy had made his home in the trees, much to the discomfort of courting couples as he would jump down on them mid thrutch, whoop whoop and then run off into the undergrowth laughing madly leaving red faced villagers to pull up their pantaloons and go home frustrated and grass stained.
Clarabell thought he was facinating, but old Mrs Cratchety thought he was dangerous as she noticed he was always swigging a strange smelling purple liquid from a hip flask, she could tell it was purple because sometimes Lancy left dribbles down his shirt front. But Lancy hated all small furry animals so he was useful when they needed a brace of rabbits for the pot. The Miss Cratcheties liked to eat the rabbits but couldnt face the actual killings, which is the way with ladies of pseudo-refined sensibilities.

In the nearby village of Wychfarting there lived a Young couple called Mr and Mrs Eldnorc. They were young and they were newly married, they were also distant relations of the Cratcheties, therefore were invited periodically to stay at the great Hall. Into the silence and repose of the ladies lives would come a whirlwind of camping activity and swearing. The couple were passionate about rootling about in the undergrowth because apparently 'it was fun' loud oaths and Viking battle cries ran out over the peaceful countryside as the couple swam naked in the freezing lake or dug for Cumbers to eat for dinner. It was quite exhausting.

Mrs Figg wrote:... Into the silence and repose of the ladies lives would come a whirlwind of camping activity and swearing...

I suspect I love everything, Mrs Figg, but I do have my favorites.  

Indeed, MORE Mrs Figg {{{I think  }}}

One mild day in mid October, an Indian summer of Golden hue, Clarabell stood at the library window musing on the possibility of running away to join the French Foreign Legion, when she espied the Young couple down in the rose garden playing Chicken. This involved Eldorius with his back to the wall whilst Norclettina threw Dwarven battleaxes at his head. He ducked and dived giggling madly as the axes whooshed past his curled head. Norclettina had a bloodthirsty gleam in her eyes as she took aim and lobbed another. Unfortunately she tripped over her long skirts sending the axe spinning into the conservatory where it embedded itself into one of Miss Cratcheties prize mellons. Fie Foe Fum! cried the young lady in an awful paddy, but Eldorius had slunk off to oranize his Penny Dreadful collection.
To this bucolic scene was added two Gentlemen callers who were at that moment hiding in the Labrynth amongst the topiary. They lived together in a little cottage just on the borders of the forest. Bungo and Malickiavelli were their names they were two jolly bouncy public school boys with a taste for unnerving practical jokes and setting off of fireworks at awkward moments. They were very mischievous and frequently got their ears boxed by mrs Cratchety when she could catch them.

The wind howled outside the darkling Windows that evening at dinner. They were all sat round a candle-lit long mahogany table in the Great Hall, the flames danced a merry jig in the many draughts, and everyone were feeling sleepy and full after some hot spotted dick pudding and custard. They decided to play parlour games until it was time for bed. Orwen said they should play 'Hide the Sausage', but Pettygrew had once lost his sausage in a tight crack in a Welsh Dresser for two weeks, and the memory of the overpowering smell had put him off for life. They decided to play 'Hunt the Beaver hat' instead, a much more satisfactory game in Pettys view, he had a canny knack when it came to sniffing out those dratted hats.

 

And that's why I will never go back to Wales. Was a pork sausage too.  

There is an undertow and I like it.

Looking over at his dear wifelet Eldorius was uneasy to see her left eye twitching gently, a sure sign she was bored and when she was bored bad things happened and that tended to mean villagers with lighted pitchforks. He decided it was time to pull out his trump card. Hunt the Faberge Egg. The two Young gentlemen sprung up to attention, Parson Pettygrew as their moral compass said it was not wise to go hunting in dark holes during a Thunder storm, as he remembered the time in the seminary dorms and a certain game playing session one windy howling night. He shuddered at the memory, and the tattoo of a naked Beau Brummel on his bottom throbbed warningly.
Norclettina bounced and giggled, she loved this game above all Others.

The Others were slowly digesting their meal and the Land of Nod was calling them, but a bored Norclettina could mean waking up with the four poster bed ablaze or slugs in the slippers. They didnt want to risk it so everyone agreed to one bracing game before lights out. The trouble with this game however was it undoubtedly meant essaying forth into the Forbidding Forest at full moon. The camping and outdoorsy types amongst them, which was pretty much everyone apart from old Mrs Cratchety, said they would go get their galoshes, sowesters and wellington boots on in preparation. Mrs Cratchety grumbled to herself, and went to bed in defiance. Clarabell secretly enjoyed all the drama of getting lost in the forest, she was hoping a gentleman would fall over her in the darkness and dampness of the gloaming and mistake her for an Elven Queen. With those happy imaginings she dressed herself in a long flowing silver frock which twisted itself round her legs in a most becoming twirl, unfortunately she lost the use of her legs for any forward motion but it looked simply divine.
Just as they had all congregated in the hall, a loud booming knock was heard on the huge wooden door. The booming echoed down the hall and was heard petering out at the furthest farthest scullery levels. Everyone jumped and pretended they hadnt. Captain Orwen opened it and two figures were silhouetted against the thundery sky and rolling clouds. One was a small furry man with bright green eyes, the other was an immensly tall thin man with a beard that bristled out as he surveyed the quivering gamers.

Gorgeous beyond belief.  

I've decided to leave my wife and immediately fly to Tuscany so as to trip over you like an Elven Queen, Mrs Figg. You need not study the proposition, or enjoin one guilty thought about this, as I fully plan to trip over you on the sward with or without your agreement.

{{{That's Old Fashioned Male Behaviour, Mrs Figg, not your Modern, "Oh lass, would you mind me falling upon you on the sward? But please don't think I'm pressuring you at all."  }}}

(((( I hesitate to ask what sward is... it sounds like medieval grass, and that means Millers Tale writ large  ))))

Farmer Dave Cranberry and Halfling stood in the doorway, having very acute nostrils they could smell the party cake from miles off, and had come to join the fun. Bungo and Malick hid quivering behind Clarabells dress, they had recently raided Farmer Daves mushroom fields and had carried off a sack full of oddly shaped turneeps. Farmer Dave had set his 'doggies' on them. Bungo hoped Dave had left his two Direwolves, Fluffykins and Candypaws at home, they were rabid bottom biters but Clarabell thought they were cute doggies and thought it was a shame they Always seemed to come to a sticky end (yes I am looking at YOU G.R.R Martin  ).

Mrs Figg wrote: Bungo and Malick hid quivering behind Clarabells dress, they had recently raided Farmer Daves mushroom fields and had carried off a sack full of oddly shaped turneeps.

So are Bungo and Me the merry and pippin of this story?  

Nice to be mentioned though, obviously I have made an impression  

just wait until you hear of the shennanigans you two get up to in the Forbidden Forest  

I can hardly wait  

How did this hide away for a few weeks? Loved it when it started but it seems to have kept getting buried by other threads.