Vengeance is walking Salem.
Who: Abigail Williams, Open
What: Arrival
When: Day 49, Evening, about an hour after Ashley's arrival
Where: Town Square
Abigail Williams, unlike most who had appeared at this selfsame place in Peaksville, exhibited no fear or outrage. She blinked into existence and stood stock-still for a moment, simply listening, and looked about in wonder. This world was new and strange. It was full of dangers - and possibilities. Abigail wasn't afraid, no, nor did she feel outrage at being ripped from the world she knew. There was nothing awaiting her in Boston but a life of miserable obscurity, a lonely existence without John Proctor.
But here. Peaksville. Abigail, despite her common ignorance, was not blind to the scope of the power available to her. She was still a child, in the attitudes of her time. Children were worthless creatures, and a child in Salem village learned quickly to recognize when the opportunity to be important, to be respected, presented itself. Aye, it was the world of Mr. Henry West (who might be the devil's man), but even in subservience to his whims, she could be powerful.
All this, she gleaned from a conversation which lasted no more than five minutes. Children had power here - monstrous power - and the devil himself walked the streets of Peaksville.
Abigail turned her attention to the envelope in her hand; she examined it carefully in the gathering darkness, memorizing the lettering of her name, turning it over and eying the folds at the back, the crisp whiteness of the paper. When she was satisfied, she smiled and slipped it into the pocket of her apron. Soon, she would find some secret place and hide it there, far from prying eyes.
What: Arrival
When: Day 49, Evening, about an hour after Ashley's arrival
Where: Town Square
Abigail Williams, unlike most who had appeared at this selfsame place in Peaksville, exhibited no fear or outrage. She blinked into existence and stood stock-still for a moment, simply listening, and looked about in wonder. This world was new and strange. It was full of dangers - and possibilities. Abigail wasn't afraid, no, nor did she feel outrage at being ripped from the world she knew. There was nothing awaiting her in Boston but a life of miserable obscurity, a lonely existence without John Proctor.
But here. Peaksville. Abigail, despite her common ignorance, was not blind to the scope of the power available to her. She was still a child, in the attitudes of her time. Children were worthless creatures, and a child in Salem village learned quickly to recognize when the opportunity to be important, to be respected, presented itself. Aye, it was the world of Mr. Henry West (who might be the devil's man), but even in subservience to his whims, she could be powerful.
All this, she gleaned from a conversation which lasted no more than five minutes. Children had power here - monstrous power - and the devil himself walked the streets of Peaksville.
Abigail turned her attention to the envelope in her hand; she examined it carefully in the gathering darkness, memorizing the lettering of her name, turning it over and eying the folds at the back, the crisp whiteness of the paper. When she was satisfied, she smiled and slipped it into the pocket of her apron. Soon, she would find some secret place and hide it there, far from prying eyes.