When they got to the scene of the recent twanging interruption they found a rather unique scene before them. The first bit of weirdness manifested in the form of a broomstick wedged halfway through the trunk of a nearby tree. (Literally through the trunk, in the absence of a preexisting hole in the majestic oak, by some feat of physics that really did not bear thinking about the broomstick had elected to create its own, without snapping. The second weirdest thing was the metal casing wedged into the back containing a still burning fire and air stone.

If that was all Mibbet would have written it off as the must be Tuesday effect, but it did not end there. Third there was a rather rotund looking sphinx cat, clad in what looked like a black leather jacket, and wearing a helmet into which ear holes had been cut and further reinforced. Now in that circumstance you would expect the feline in question to be freaked out. Instead they just looked bored.

Finally and strangest at all there was another figure buried head first in the ground, and still producing language that would make a sailor blush. (Sir Leeroy tried to cover Elvira’s ears under the logic that such language was not suitable for young ears. Elvira responded to this by kicking him in the shins hard enough to dent the armour and make him let go. There was no way she was missing out on such new and creative swear words. Next time her mum made her attend a tea party and “act ladylike” these would be a golden solution to the issue.)

Now on top of that they were clearly seeking a more upright and less head down position, as they kicked and flailed, bloomers exposed for all the world to see. Mibbet kept an eye out for further high velocity humans as she grabbed a shovel and started carefully digging the unfortunate (or rather fortunate as they were, despite being pre buried, clearly alive and from the flailing very much kicking.

Once the kicking died down the cat hopped off the broom, or whatever the hell else that thing was, and wandered over to nuzzle the legs, purring, and meowing what was clearly a demand for more food. The legs of course being somewhat distracted by being head down in the dirt responded with another round of kicking and swearing. (Elvira at this point had pulled out a book and was taking notes, she was a good swearer. But right now she was in the awe inspiring presence of a master of the art. At this rate she could fill half a notepad from this incident alone.)

It took half an hour, much flailing, and enough language to practically turn the air blue. But eventually a witch in a thick leather jacket covered in a tremendous array of spiky bits, and a patch on the back reading “The Cacklers,” was excavated. You could tell she was a witch from the pointy hat and broomstick. Oh and the way she was clad in enough enchanted gear to practically glow in the dark. Strangely the pointy hat was still....... well not to put too fine a point on it, pointy. For non witches it was hard enough to structurally engineer a hat into a steeple form before it is buried. Let alone afterwards. The witch in question was clearly not the stealthy sort, but did seem grateful enough not to be subjected to any longer a preemptive funeral.

She was carefully lead to the wagon, and given a seat and a nice calming cup of tea. (Of course we all know that in reality this ritual has little to do with the calming effects of tea, and a hell of a lot to do with calming everybody else down since if the casualty is steady enough to be trusted sipping from a vessel of scalding leaf juice it is a fairly solid chance that they are not getting the shakes. Plus as a bonus it keeps everybody distracted bickering long enough for the casualty to calm themselves down.) Mibbet had of course suggested coffee would taste nicer than tea, and was advised that maybe amping them up further was not ideal for a person potentially suffering from shock.

As soon as the witch took a seat of course her cat had somehow managed to clamber up into the wagon, and in the agonising manner of cats the world over had clambered up her legs. (Using claws as crampons as felines tend to do,) and proceeded to make their own contribution to the calm by purring as loud as Rascal coming down from the nip, which given that Rascal was the size of a particularly smug Shetland pony, while the newcomer was the size of a regular well fed sphinx cat.

The witch seemed happy with this, and proceeded with the time honoured calming protocol. Petting the cat, (carefully avoiding the tummy, as anybody who has ever lived with a fussy feline will no doubt be aware that to a cat touching a fuzzy tum tum is equivalent to sticking your hand in a bear trap on a hair trigger, and prodding it while jumping up and down.)

Eventually with a sound that can only be described as several large explosions, jammed in tin cans, accompanied by a thunderstorm, and cackling, a lot of cackling the group were encircled by the a group of witches on what a particularly drunk abstract artist would call a broomstick, if they were paid to sculpt one. If they had never seen a broomstick prior to the commission, and didn’t bother to look for a model. (So a lot of abstract artists really, bullshitting is usually about seventy percent of the job.)

The group of five gradually descended, in what can be generously defined as a landing (well they did walk away from it, so in many flyers eyes it would be a good landing.) Who then proceeded to examine the broom in the tree, taking meticulous notes, while poor Mibbet became increasingly confused.