Featherdemon
3rd Level Red Feather
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A LBH TRIBUTE! 🙂 "The Case of Kristov Skittglod - a tale of the Low Roads" Part 1
Hello gentle readers!!! 🙂
You will all know by now of the epic and awesome creation of the "Tales of the Low Roads" by our local genius Little Big Head. It an epic creation whose vision is matched only by the skill and subtlety with which the tale is told.
Needless to say I am a huge fan and have been spell bound since the first.
LBH has given me permission to show my appreciation of his work through my own artistic dabbling; and so, thus presented is the first part of my tribute to his fantastic story teller. 🙂
It is a tale of devilry, celestial beings, tender teases and tickling beyond the imagination.
LBH, thank you so much!! I hope you like the beginnings of my tribute...
This tale takes place within the pre-established geography of the Low Roads, therefore all references of such locations are Copyrighted to LBH as its creator. All names and places and locations are also copyrighted to LBH unless stated other wise.
🙂
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Confound you and your blasted eagerness, Mr Fitch, this is too much!”
Kristov Skittglod was not a creature to be hurried into or out of any action once he had set his cruel mind to it.
“This goes against all of my nature,” he muttered, “to so suddenly change my plans for this evening!”
In fact, Kristov hated change of any kind because it never went the way he hoped. For Kristov, change was an unpleasant and unwelcome companion on the road of his life. It wasn’t something that he could fight against and it wasn’t something he welcomed; it simply just was, and so he treated it with as much contempt as he could spare in his life – and that, surprisingly, was quite a lot.
Kristov Skittglod, in fact, was not one who encouraged or even tolerated change.
“It is bad enough,” said Kristov with genuine distaste, “that you have the sudden gall to disturb me in the midst of my sacred Bogey labours; dragging me away with your endless and pitiful pleating from the saintly privacy of my own decadent abode, where I conduct with all due seclusion and unhurried secrecy, those delicate treats that a Bogey of my persuasion is entitled to enjoy. That is bad enough, but to force me to journey into the wilds…this is too much for any man to stomach.”
Kristov Skittglod, in fact, was not a man at all. He was what was commonly known by the folk of Tabor County as a Bogey. To him, of course, the name meant nothing. He was what he was – a soulless creature lifted from the swollen mass of mediocrity by the whole hearted embracing of his soul’s desire; blessed and damned in equal measure, but taken forever out of Time’s fire to eternally pursue that which drove him to damnation in the first place.
Tickling; in all its delicious forms and torments.
Kristov was a charismatic, if not odd looking creature, but nothing special amongst his kin save for his bulk. His was a large and round looking face, reptilian in appearance and equipped with a large mouth filled with razor sharp teeth. He had golden eyes, lank blue hair that rolled in ropes from his scaly head. This particular evening, counted amongst the last of his cruel existence, he bore a distressed countenance where usually there was only a look of delicious lasciviousness and wanton delight. His body was large and round, strong and enduring as the scales that covered it, his arms thick and hands like iron. It was his tri-forked tongue that gave his victims such delights as a Bogey.
“But worst of all,” said Kristov, “is that you insist on leading me through paths that are dark and twisted, over grown with horror and mired with peril un-named.” Kristov turned slowly and cast an unpleasant stare on his companion. “You,” he said, “have led me to the eternal darkness of the Gloominvald; at a time when any and all Bogeys know that such trips seldom end well – now least of all.”
It was common knowledge that great events were afoot in the Low Roads and for one, Kristov did not want to be part of it. He had his own wants to look after.
Kristov came to a stop, anxious and irritated, at the top of a small rise of the path that led into the labyrinthine depths of the Gloominvald. The night about him was cool and clear, star lit and touched with only the slenderest wisp of cloud; a beautiful night for those who had the luxury of appreciating it.
Yet before him loomed the treacherous dark of the Gloominvald – a forest that none entered lightly and most never returned from.
“To think that I have surrendered such tasty delights as helpless female ticklishness to come here,” said Kristov, shaking his head. “It is a sign of my age, no doubt.”
Kristov had dressed for the occasion; heavy boots and reinforced trousers to prevent scratches and bites; several thin tops of varying textures to protect from the elements and the fondling of those alien things that awaited in the Gloominvald. Over all that, he wore an immaculate suit jacket of emerald green and bow tie of jade.
“A thousand apologies, gentle Kristov,” squeaked his companion, “you know that I would never dare disturb you thusly where it not for the best of reasons. By the Moon and Stars you know I would never waste your time! I swear that this matter is one you would not want to be ignorant of, tis something most urgent!”
Kristov’s companion was small and pitiable. Reaching only shoulder height to the large and round girth of Kristov, Mr Fitch was rat like in appearance; long snout and twitching nose but with feathery whiskers that fluttered with a life of their own. His body, lithe and strong, wore only the tattered trousers he wore as a human. He had four arms, each with a hand that had extra fingers.
“It had better be, Mr Fitch, it had better be,” said Kristov. “I am reluctant to enter this here wood at the best of times, for things lurk in there that even Bogeys must fear. Yet you demand we risk it on this eve.”
“I swear on my soul-that-was,” said Mr Fitch, “this will tickle your interest, no doubt!”
Kristov took a deep breath. “Then tell me,” he said. “Tell Kristov what manner of business could be so important to a mind such as yours that you would risk my wrath and the shadows of the Gloominvald?”
Mr Fitch straightened to his full height and a crooked smile crossed his face. “A matter most delightful sir,” he said. “Something no Bogey worth their salt could ignore. It is a rare and very special treat open to any brave enough to risk the journey to claim it.”
Kristov frowned. “Be quicker in your speech Mr Fitch,” said Kristov, “for while your words are like that of a Muse to my curiosity, they serve as little more than a distraction for my caution and if we are to enter this wood I will need all my attention.”
Mr Fitch bowed a little lower. “Begging your pardon,” he said. “But I must tell my tale in its full sir, lest I miss something out.”
“Then let us walk and talk,” said Kristov. “Lead the way, Mr Fitch.”
With Mr Fitch in the lead the pair of them set down the rough hewn path and headed between the nearest trees into the murk of the Gloominvald. They took care to stick to the path that presented itself, such as it was, following as space allowed the direction Mr Fitch took. It was a heavy and oppressive darkness that set suddenly about them, as if entering another world. About them, at the corners of their eyes things of all shapes and sizes seemed to move and shimmer, only to disappear once in the full view of the eye. Branches and leaves moved in their passing; things sang and tweeted and croaked and cried.
“Unsettling is the word,” said Kristov, “but it does not do it justice.”
“Aye,” said Mr Fitch, “I feel at any moment to have my ankles snagged or to be lifted away.”
“Then stay close,” said Kristov, “for I will not allow you to leave me alone until at least you have explained yourself proper.”
Mr Fitch huddled closer to the reassuring bulk of his companion. “Being grateful, I am, for your protection,” he said.
“Tell your tale Mr Fitch,” said Kristov.
“My tale starts with my own personal fall, sir,” said Mr Fitch. “You will recall sir that I am only a recent addition to the brotherhood of the Bogey.”
“I do indeed, Mr Fitch,” said Kristov. “If I recall you were little more than a human ruffian, propping up the bars and taverns in Tabor County.”
“Correct sir,” said Mr Fitch. “Random violence and malicious deeds were my taste back then, sir, and it was such wantonness that brought to the Low Roads, in particular to Dox’s House on that fateful night. I was there sir; I saw that stranger Klept strike with unnatural strength Dox down and make boast how a new world was rising.”
“A boast you responded too, Mr Fitch?”
“Without hesitation, gentle Kristov,” said Mr Fitch glumly.
Kristov grinned. “Not work out as you planned, eh?”
Mr Fitch shook his head. “We made a wonderful fight of it sir, make no doubt,” said Mr Fitch. “Swillwell will long remember the battle we made; even the great Von Smutt was laid low – saw him fall myself, I did. But it was not our might that drove them before us, Sir, though we were each gifted supernatural aid, giving us strength beyond our ability.”
Kristov frowned. “And how is that?”
Mr Fitch gulped. “By a God, sir; a monstrous behemoth of a god let loose on the Low Roads,” he said.
Kristov came to a stop between two nasty hazards; brackish water on his left and quicksand to his right, but it was the words of Mr Fitch that stopped him dead. “Y-you speak of the one called Sid?” he said.
“That I do, sir,” said Mr Fitch. “It was he who led the attack, though it is clear to me now, it was for a purpose not revealed to us who were hired to fight.”
Kristov felt a shudder of horror pass through him. Even in his secluded Bogey life style, he had heard rumours and dark tales of this Sid. The thought of encountering Sid left cold chills in its wake, for even a Bogey like Kristov would be helpless in the touch of that Bogey-God.
“You have walked in the direst of company, Mr Fitch,” said Kristov.
“Indeed,” said Mr Fitch. “I pray that we do not cross his path on our wandering.”
“Prayer has nothing to do with it,” snapped Kristov. “No prayer or symbol held aloft has power to stay that beast. Hear me on this, Mr Fitch, if you wish to survive long enough to strike your own way in this world – be as a butterfly in the path of a Tiger about Sid; stay well clear of him and the flee at the tremor of his passing.”
Mr Fitch nodded. “Does the good Kristov believe Sid to be a God?”
Kristov sneered. “What does it matter what I think?” he asked. “Creatures of that ilk are beyond my opinion and my understanding. What do I know of such celestial beings? There are many gods and daemons out there Mr Fitch; too many to name and too many worry about. Stick to you purpose and hope never to cross them.”
Mr Fitch nodded.
“As for Sid,” said Kristov, “all I know is that he is much bigger than me and is possessed of a strength that is greater than mine. God or not, I want no part of him.” Kristov shook his head. “So, it was Sid who made you a Bogey?”
“No sir,” said Mr Fitch, “it was Sid’s infernal flesh that started it though, for he gave to us part of himself sir. He made us burn in the touch of his flesh; a ticklish torment that you cannot imagine sir, as if the nerves of my body were laid bare. And once it was over, he left; but it was too late for us, he had planted in me the hunger for the hellish delights only a Bogey can know.”
Kristov grinned. “It is a hard taste to ignore,” he said.
“Very much so, sir,” said Mr Fitch. “We need to go left here, sir.”
They turned left, passing a section of wood filled with web cocoons hanging from trees. This part of the wood was deathly quietly but Kristov was sure he heard in the distance the sound of voices screaming with laughter. For a moment he imagined helpless prey cocooned in web while unnamed critters stroked and crawled and tickled. A shudder of delight worked its way through him.
“Well sir,” said Mr Fitch, “after the attack of Swillwell I don’t right remember much. I remember the hunger, the need to tease flesh and the burning inability to sate my needs. It was a hellish state sir. I do not think I would have survived were it not the intervention of some like minded souls.”
“Bogeys?” asked Kristov.
“No sir,” said Mr Fitch, “other survivors of the battle on Swillwell, who could not shake the feeling of Sid’s flesh from their senses. They found me collapsed and in a right state. They brought me some unwilling soles and I sated myself as best I could sir – the first laugh is always the sweetest, is it not?”
Kristov nodded. “How is it you became a Bogey?”
“Once we had drank enough laughter to have some sense of ourselves,” said Mr Fitch, “we worked our change by a being older and more powerful still; the Little Big Head.”
Kristov nodded and smiled ruefully. “Well I know him,” he said. “It was through his mercy that I had my change worked.”
Mr Fitch nodded but it was a bitter nod. “Mercy is not what I would call it sir,” he said, “still, changed me and the six others he did, made us Bogeys. Then he left us be, told us that after that night we would not see him again.”
Kristov frowned. “That is odd,” he said. “Did he say anything else?”
Mr Fitch frowned. “Only this,” said Fitch, “he said our souls belonged to him but unless we were careful in our steps, we would all lose our bodies to another. Don’t rightly know what he meant in that sir.”
“There is a warning in there, Mr Fitch,” said Kristov. “Mind your steps.”
“I daresay I will be safe enough in your company sir,” said Mr Fitch.
The pair of them headed further and deeper into the Gloominvald. Maintaining any sense of direction was impossible this deep and it was only thanks to Mr Fitch’s sense of smell they were able to continue. A perpetual half light hung about them with shadow stealing anything beyond ten yards from their sight. They kept a steady pace but were always mindful of their surroundings.
They came across a clearing where a multitude of small fairy looking creatures frolicked, tickling each other with bird feathers and fronds and other such things. It gave the two Bogeys a warm joy to see such indulgent behaviour. Kristov led Mr Fitch away from them, urging him to keep to his own business lest he become part of theirs.
“Well whatever fate has in store for you Mr Fitch,” said Kristov, “you will at least complete this journey with me. Kindly tell me where you are leading me. I know of no town or even a hollow in this place.”
“That is the oddity of it all, sir,” said Mr Fitch. “You see, there isn’t supposed to be anything in the Gloominvald. No buildings, no town, not even a ruin; far as I know not even a passing tribe has record to have landed here.”
“But?” asked Kristov.
“But we found something, sir, me and my Bogey rescuers,” said Mr Fitch with a grin of barely contained excitement.
Kristov frowned. “What did you find? Be quick!”
“A sweet scent,” said Mr Fitch, “and an impossible Cottage.”
“A cottage?” said Kristov.
Mr Fitch nodded. “The likes of which you have never seen before,” he said.
“Make sense, Mr Fitch!” snapped Kristov. “You test my patience awfully.”
Mr Fitch paled at his companion’s anger. “Y-yes sir,” he said. “While looking for suitable entertainment, me and my fellow Bogeys came across this smell sir, like a perfume only much more sweet.”
Kristov paused. “You brought me into the Gloominvald for a perfume?” said Kristov, and there was a dangerous tone in his voice.
“No,” said Fitch, quickly, “no, not that, I don’t think it was a perfume. Imagine, if you can sir, the smell of every flower that has ever been and ever will be. Then add to that the sweetest feeling of comfort you can recall, like a mother’s arms about you. Mix all of that with a wild trembling urge; the need to find something precious to you; to hold someone or something special - do that then you will have an inkling of what it was like to come across it.”
“You describe no smell I have ever encountered,” said Kristov impatiently. “What you have done, however, is heightened my impatience.”
“But that scent sir, it snared all of us,” spluttered Fitch, “it was like the chorus call of the Voluptuaries. We could not resist it. We had to follow sir, we did; we had to! So we followed this…scent into this very wood, helpless to do anything but find it. For hours and hours we followed it and then…we came across the cottage sir.”
“A cottage?” said Kristov, incredulous. “You found a cottage in the darkest depths of the Gloominvald?”
Mr Fitch nodded. “Yes sir, I know, but I swear of my soul-that-was,” said Fitch. “We saw it. This scent led us their, led us inside sir.”
Mr Fitch stopped in his walking, an excited trembling taking over him. “It was what we found inside that got me so excited sir, got me to come and disturb you – you who have been so kind and looked after us since the change.”
“Pray tell Mr Fitch, what did you find in the Cottage?”
Mr Fitch smiled. “The sweetest root and cause of all the chaos that has taken over the Low Roads, sir,” he said. “We found Mercy Mew.”
Kristov turned fully to face his companion. “The Mercy Mew?” he said, almost incredulous.
“Yes sir,” said Mr Fitch, “what’s more she was engaged in deeds so Bogey-like in nature that it makes me blush to even recall them.”
Kristov felt a shiver of excitement pass through him. “What was she up to, Mr Fitch?”
“Tickling sir,” said Mr Fitch, “of the sweetest kind; so tender and intimate it was sir that we were almost over come by it. But we resisted sir, made good her capture and secured her down below while we enjoyed the others.”
Kristov licked his snout. “Mercy Mew,” he said, “what a treat, if it is indeed her, you have caught Mr Fitch. Long have I wished to hear her laugh for my tongue.”
“She awaits you in the Cottage, Mr Kristov,” said Mr Fitch.
“Then lead me quickly,” said Kristov. “I have an urge to rid the Gloominvald of Mercy for all time.”
Hello gentle readers!!! 🙂
You will all know by now of the epic and awesome creation of the "Tales of the Low Roads" by our local genius Little Big Head. It an epic creation whose vision is matched only by the skill and subtlety with which the tale is told.
Needless to say I am a huge fan and have been spell bound since the first.
LBH has given me permission to show my appreciation of his work through my own artistic dabbling; and so, thus presented is the first part of my tribute to his fantastic story teller. 🙂
It is a tale of devilry, celestial beings, tender teases and tickling beyond the imagination.
LBH, thank you so much!! I hope you like the beginnings of my tribute...
This tale takes place within the pre-established geography of the Low Roads, therefore all references of such locations are Copyrighted to LBH as its creator. All names and places and locations are also copyrighted to LBH unless stated other wise.
🙂
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Confound you and your blasted eagerness, Mr Fitch, this is too much!”
Kristov Skittglod was not a creature to be hurried into or out of any action once he had set his cruel mind to it.
“This goes against all of my nature,” he muttered, “to so suddenly change my plans for this evening!”
In fact, Kristov hated change of any kind because it never went the way he hoped. For Kristov, change was an unpleasant and unwelcome companion on the road of his life. It wasn’t something that he could fight against and it wasn’t something he welcomed; it simply just was, and so he treated it with as much contempt as he could spare in his life – and that, surprisingly, was quite a lot.
Kristov Skittglod, in fact, was not one who encouraged or even tolerated change.
“It is bad enough,” said Kristov with genuine distaste, “that you have the sudden gall to disturb me in the midst of my sacred Bogey labours; dragging me away with your endless and pitiful pleating from the saintly privacy of my own decadent abode, where I conduct with all due seclusion and unhurried secrecy, those delicate treats that a Bogey of my persuasion is entitled to enjoy. That is bad enough, but to force me to journey into the wilds…this is too much for any man to stomach.”
Kristov Skittglod, in fact, was not a man at all. He was what was commonly known by the folk of Tabor County as a Bogey. To him, of course, the name meant nothing. He was what he was – a soulless creature lifted from the swollen mass of mediocrity by the whole hearted embracing of his soul’s desire; blessed and damned in equal measure, but taken forever out of Time’s fire to eternally pursue that which drove him to damnation in the first place.
Tickling; in all its delicious forms and torments.
Kristov was a charismatic, if not odd looking creature, but nothing special amongst his kin save for his bulk. His was a large and round looking face, reptilian in appearance and equipped with a large mouth filled with razor sharp teeth. He had golden eyes, lank blue hair that rolled in ropes from his scaly head. This particular evening, counted amongst the last of his cruel existence, he bore a distressed countenance where usually there was only a look of delicious lasciviousness and wanton delight. His body was large and round, strong and enduring as the scales that covered it, his arms thick and hands like iron. It was his tri-forked tongue that gave his victims such delights as a Bogey.
“But worst of all,” said Kristov, “is that you insist on leading me through paths that are dark and twisted, over grown with horror and mired with peril un-named.” Kristov turned slowly and cast an unpleasant stare on his companion. “You,” he said, “have led me to the eternal darkness of the Gloominvald; at a time when any and all Bogeys know that such trips seldom end well – now least of all.”
It was common knowledge that great events were afoot in the Low Roads and for one, Kristov did not want to be part of it. He had his own wants to look after.
Kristov came to a stop, anxious and irritated, at the top of a small rise of the path that led into the labyrinthine depths of the Gloominvald. The night about him was cool and clear, star lit and touched with only the slenderest wisp of cloud; a beautiful night for those who had the luxury of appreciating it.
Yet before him loomed the treacherous dark of the Gloominvald – a forest that none entered lightly and most never returned from.
“To think that I have surrendered such tasty delights as helpless female ticklishness to come here,” said Kristov, shaking his head. “It is a sign of my age, no doubt.”
Kristov had dressed for the occasion; heavy boots and reinforced trousers to prevent scratches and bites; several thin tops of varying textures to protect from the elements and the fondling of those alien things that awaited in the Gloominvald. Over all that, he wore an immaculate suit jacket of emerald green and bow tie of jade.
“A thousand apologies, gentle Kristov,” squeaked his companion, “you know that I would never dare disturb you thusly where it not for the best of reasons. By the Moon and Stars you know I would never waste your time! I swear that this matter is one you would not want to be ignorant of, tis something most urgent!”
Kristov’s companion was small and pitiable. Reaching only shoulder height to the large and round girth of Kristov, Mr Fitch was rat like in appearance; long snout and twitching nose but with feathery whiskers that fluttered with a life of their own. His body, lithe and strong, wore only the tattered trousers he wore as a human. He had four arms, each with a hand that had extra fingers.
“It had better be, Mr Fitch, it had better be,” said Kristov. “I am reluctant to enter this here wood at the best of times, for things lurk in there that even Bogeys must fear. Yet you demand we risk it on this eve.”
“I swear on my soul-that-was,” said Mr Fitch, “this will tickle your interest, no doubt!”
Kristov took a deep breath. “Then tell me,” he said. “Tell Kristov what manner of business could be so important to a mind such as yours that you would risk my wrath and the shadows of the Gloominvald?”
Mr Fitch straightened to his full height and a crooked smile crossed his face. “A matter most delightful sir,” he said. “Something no Bogey worth their salt could ignore. It is a rare and very special treat open to any brave enough to risk the journey to claim it.”
Kristov frowned. “Be quicker in your speech Mr Fitch,” said Kristov, “for while your words are like that of a Muse to my curiosity, they serve as little more than a distraction for my caution and if we are to enter this wood I will need all my attention.”
Mr Fitch bowed a little lower. “Begging your pardon,” he said. “But I must tell my tale in its full sir, lest I miss something out.”
“Then let us walk and talk,” said Kristov. “Lead the way, Mr Fitch.”
With Mr Fitch in the lead the pair of them set down the rough hewn path and headed between the nearest trees into the murk of the Gloominvald. They took care to stick to the path that presented itself, such as it was, following as space allowed the direction Mr Fitch took. It was a heavy and oppressive darkness that set suddenly about them, as if entering another world. About them, at the corners of their eyes things of all shapes and sizes seemed to move and shimmer, only to disappear once in the full view of the eye. Branches and leaves moved in their passing; things sang and tweeted and croaked and cried.
“Unsettling is the word,” said Kristov, “but it does not do it justice.”
“Aye,” said Mr Fitch, “I feel at any moment to have my ankles snagged or to be lifted away.”
“Then stay close,” said Kristov, “for I will not allow you to leave me alone until at least you have explained yourself proper.”
Mr Fitch huddled closer to the reassuring bulk of his companion. “Being grateful, I am, for your protection,” he said.
“Tell your tale Mr Fitch,” said Kristov.
“My tale starts with my own personal fall, sir,” said Mr Fitch. “You will recall sir that I am only a recent addition to the brotherhood of the Bogey.”
“I do indeed, Mr Fitch,” said Kristov. “If I recall you were little more than a human ruffian, propping up the bars and taverns in Tabor County.”
“Correct sir,” said Mr Fitch. “Random violence and malicious deeds were my taste back then, sir, and it was such wantonness that brought to the Low Roads, in particular to Dox’s House on that fateful night. I was there sir; I saw that stranger Klept strike with unnatural strength Dox down and make boast how a new world was rising.”
“A boast you responded too, Mr Fitch?”
“Without hesitation, gentle Kristov,” said Mr Fitch glumly.
Kristov grinned. “Not work out as you planned, eh?”
Mr Fitch shook his head. “We made a wonderful fight of it sir, make no doubt,” said Mr Fitch. “Swillwell will long remember the battle we made; even the great Von Smutt was laid low – saw him fall myself, I did. But it was not our might that drove them before us, Sir, though we were each gifted supernatural aid, giving us strength beyond our ability.”
Kristov frowned. “And how is that?”
Mr Fitch gulped. “By a God, sir; a monstrous behemoth of a god let loose on the Low Roads,” he said.
Kristov came to a stop between two nasty hazards; brackish water on his left and quicksand to his right, but it was the words of Mr Fitch that stopped him dead. “Y-you speak of the one called Sid?” he said.
“That I do, sir,” said Mr Fitch. “It was he who led the attack, though it is clear to me now, it was for a purpose not revealed to us who were hired to fight.”
Kristov felt a shudder of horror pass through him. Even in his secluded Bogey life style, he had heard rumours and dark tales of this Sid. The thought of encountering Sid left cold chills in its wake, for even a Bogey like Kristov would be helpless in the touch of that Bogey-God.
“You have walked in the direst of company, Mr Fitch,” said Kristov.
“Indeed,” said Mr Fitch. “I pray that we do not cross his path on our wandering.”
“Prayer has nothing to do with it,” snapped Kristov. “No prayer or symbol held aloft has power to stay that beast. Hear me on this, Mr Fitch, if you wish to survive long enough to strike your own way in this world – be as a butterfly in the path of a Tiger about Sid; stay well clear of him and the flee at the tremor of his passing.”
Mr Fitch nodded. “Does the good Kristov believe Sid to be a God?”
Kristov sneered. “What does it matter what I think?” he asked. “Creatures of that ilk are beyond my opinion and my understanding. What do I know of such celestial beings? There are many gods and daemons out there Mr Fitch; too many to name and too many worry about. Stick to you purpose and hope never to cross them.”
Mr Fitch nodded.
“As for Sid,” said Kristov, “all I know is that he is much bigger than me and is possessed of a strength that is greater than mine. God or not, I want no part of him.” Kristov shook his head. “So, it was Sid who made you a Bogey?”
“No sir,” said Mr Fitch, “it was Sid’s infernal flesh that started it though, for he gave to us part of himself sir. He made us burn in the touch of his flesh; a ticklish torment that you cannot imagine sir, as if the nerves of my body were laid bare. And once it was over, he left; but it was too late for us, he had planted in me the hunger for the hellish delights only a Bogey can know.”
Kristov grinned. “It is a hard taste to ignore,” he said.
“Very much so, sir,” said Mr Fitch. “We need to go left here, sir.”
They turned left, passing a section of wood filled with web cocoons hanging from trees. This part of the wood was deathly quietly but Kristov was sure he heard in the distance the sound of voices screaming with laughter. For a moment he imagined helpless prey cocooned in web while unnamed critters stroked and crawled and tickled. A shudder of delight worked its way through him.
“Well sir,” said Mr Fitch, “after the attack of Swillwell I don’t right remember much. I remember the hunger, the need to tease flesh and the burning inability to sate my needs. It was a hellish state sir. I do not think I would have survived were it not the intervention of some like minded souls.”
“Bogeys?” asked Kristov.
“No sir,” said Mr Fitch, “other survivors of the battle on Swillwell, who could not shake the feeling of Sid’s flesh from their senses. They found me collapsed and in a right state. They brought me some unwilling soles and I sated myself as best I could sir – the first laugh is always the sweetest, is it not?”
Kristov nodded. “How is it you became a Bogey?”
“Once we had drank enough laughter to have some sense of ourselves,” said Mr Fitch, “we worked our change by a being older and more powerful still; the Little Big Head.”
Kristov nodded and smiled ruefully. “Well I know him,” he said. “It was through his mercy that I had my change worked.”
Mr Fitch nodded but it was a bitter nod. “Mercy is not what I would call it sir,” he said, “still, changed me and the six others he did, made us Bogeys. Then he left us be, told us that after that night we would not see him again.”
Kristov frowned. “That is odd,” he said. “Did he say anything else?”
Mr Fitch frowned. “Only this,” said Fitch, “he said our souls belonged to him but unless we were careful in our steps, we would all lose our bodies to another. Don’t rightly know what he meant in that sir.”
“There is a warning in there, Mr Fitch,” said Kristov. “Mind your steps.”
“I daresay I will be safe enough in your company sir,” said Mr Fitch.
The pair of them headed further and deeper into the Gloominvald. Maintaining any sense of direction was impossible this deep and it was only thanks to Mr Fitch’s sense of smell they were able to continue. A perpetual half light hung about them with shadow stealing anything beyond ten yards from their sight. They kept a steady pace but were always mindful of their surroundings.
They came across a clearing where a multitude of small fairy looking creatures frolicked, tickling each other with bird feathers and fronds and other such things. It gave the two Bogeys a warm joy to see such indulgent behaviour. Kristov led Mr Fitch away from them, urging him to keep to his own business lest he become part of theirs.
“Well whatever fate has in store for you Mr Fitch,” said Kristov, “you will at least complete this journey with me. Kindly tell me where you are leading me. I know of no town or even a hollow in this place.”
“That is the oddity of it all, sir,” said Mr Fitch. “You see, there isn’t supposed to be anything in the Gloominvald. No buildings, no town, not even a ruin; far as I know not even a passing tribe has record to have landed here.”
“But?” asked Kristov.
“But we found something, sir, me and my Bogey rescuers,” said Mr Fitch with a grin of barely contained excitement.
Kristov frowned. “What did you find? Be quick!”
“A sweet scent,” said Mr Fitch, “and an impossible Cottage.”
“A cottage?” said Kristov.
Mr Fitch nodded. “The likes of which you have never seen before,” he said.
“Make sense, Mr Fitch!” snapped Kristov. “You test my patience awfully.”
Mr Fitch paled at his companion’s anger. “Y-yes sir,” he said. “While looking for suitable entertainment, me and my fellow Bogeys came across this smell sir, like a perfume only much more sweet.”
Kristov paused. “You brought me into the Gloominvald for a perfume?” said Kristov, and there was a dangerous tone in his voice.
“No,” said Fitch, quickly, “no, not that, I don’t think it was a perfume. Imagine, if you can sir, the smell of every flower that has ever been and ever will be. Then add to that the sweetest feeling of comfort you can recall, like a mother’s arms about you. Mix all of that with a wild trembling urge; the need to find something precious to you; to hold someone or something special - do that then you will have an inkling of what it was like to come across it.”
“You describe no smell I have ever encountered,” said Kristov impatiently. “What you have done, however, is heightened my impatience.”
“But that scent sir, it snared all of us,” spluttered Fitch, “it was like the chorus call of the Voluptuaries. We could not resist it. We had to follow sir, we did; we had to! So we followed this…scent into this very wood, helpless to do anything but find it. For hours and hours we followed it and then…we came across the cottage sir.”
“A cottage?” said Kristov, incredulous. “You found a cottage in the darkest depths of the Gloominvald?”
Mr Fitch nodded. “Yes sir, I know, but I swear of my soul-that-was,” said Fitch. “We saw it. This scent led us their, led us inside sir.”
Mr Fitch stopped in his walking, an excited trembling taking over him. “It was what we found inside that got me so excited sir, got me to come and disturb you – you who have been so kind and looked after us since the change.”
“Pray tell Mr Fitch, what did you find in the Cottage?”
Mr Fitch smiled. “The sweetest root and cause of all the chaos that has taken over the Low Roads, sir,” he said. “We found Mercy Mew.”
Kristov turned fully to face his companion. “The Mercy Mew?” he said, almost incredulous.
“Yes sir,” said Mr Fitch, “what’s more she was engaged in deeds so Bogey-like in nature that it makes me blush to even recall them.”
Kristov felt a shiver of excitement pass through him. “What was she up to, Mr Fitch?”
“Tickling sir,” said Mr Fitch, “of the sweetest kind; so tender and intimate it was sir that we were almost over come by it. But we resisted sir, made good her capture and secured her down below while we enjoyed the others.”
Kristov licked his snout. “Mercy Mew,” he said, “what a treat, if it is indeed her, you have caught Mr Fitch. Long have I wished to hear her laugh for my tongue.”
“She awaits you in the Cottage, Mr Kristov,” said Mr Fitch.
“Then lead me quickly,” said Kristov. “I have an urge to rid the Gloominvald of Mercy for all time.”
