Diary of Pip Rippon

The wailing wall of Worrall road. There is an ancient wall alongside Worrall road which Shad, of all beasts, refuses to walk next to. I have been pondering for a while why that might be. It occurred to me that if I wear a psycmask and subject myself to the hive mind, and as Shad is a Barghest and dweller of the murk, who also has access to the hive mind, then we should be able to communicate in some way -- which is better than our current method of communication, which is nothing at all, other than me believing that when I have said something that he has understood. I think it's possible, I'm going to work on that idea, I believe we should be able to have shared images.

Been in the off-world for what seems like an age, and not been able to visit Hellsborough at all, but today managed to get myself out for a bit -- down the Middlewood road, past the fossil tree, then up over Wadsley common, and back down into the Loxley valley. Nothing to report, other than the squall -- which, whilst always threatening, never happened -- and the view from the back of the common was the best that I have seen this year. Always love that view. Back in the bar on the Middlewood road, met a crosslander by the name of Hagg.

Got out for a decent stretch with Shad, and did a circular of Boggard lane and Wadsley common.

There is definitely a boggart who lives on that lane -- which doesn't really come as a surprise -- Boggard, boggart, it's a bit too close a coincidence. It seems to be centred around the building know as the Asplands. It was probably their resident hob, more of a useful type of spirit than a malevolent one.

Have I seen it? Yes. We were walking down the lane around gloaming and it was hiding in the shadows. Shad was spooked to the point of snarling, but the little thing shuffled off posthaste, so there was no time for anything other than a sighting out of the corner of my eye -- I didn't even get a shot off from my psycmask -- a psycmask can take images as directed by the eyes, but as with a mobile phone like you have in the off-world, you need to be quick!

The days drag on and on, and no-one is around. Did get into my favourite bar on the Middlewood road, but didn't stay long since this is the dead zone and I have things to do and people to see.

Back to work in the off-world, but most folk are still on their holidays, so no great stress. Got out for a wander, but all the bars are closed, so didn't speak to anyone. As seems to be customary at this time of year -- based upon last year at least -- Van has gone awol.

Our -- mine and Shad's -- first major outing since I broke my arm under those bizarre circumstances. I decided that we would tackle that mountain which had eluded us for so long last year. What do you know? The hail of last year -- hail-ripperthroat -- wasn't a problem this year, nor has it been.

We attacked Onesmoor from the side of the Coumes wood, and were pretty much left alone by the murk, which was good news. In fact, it was the opposite: A hot and sweaty ascent in the forest, which this time of year was most unexpected. The coumes rift worm didn't make an appearance, but as I have mentioned in this diary previously, Shad was very much on edge, and you suspect that the creature, whilst not visible (or even alive), is most definitely around this place in spirit.

As is fitting for the day and the new year, saw a brace of longleg (usually solitary creatures, I'm sure?) tearing up the side of the rift -- maybe they were milting, that would also be appropriate.

But coming out of the forest dripping wet, your blood at boiling point, you are then exposed to the full force of the cross wind whipping across the face of the moor. The bleak and inhospitable tundra of Onesmoor is then a challenge to behold, and you stumble over that landscape, loosing feeling in your legs, as your body fights against the cold.

At 1200 feet or so above sea level with a view that stretches to the end of the world though, the pain and exhaustion are worth the effort, and the murk stayed away for long enough to make the view worthwhile; in fact it was not the murk today, but of course, the squall of the year's name that decided to make an appearance, forcing me away from the high lands and back down towards the Loxley valley.