#Witchfinder Private Newton Pulsifer

[semiramis-audron]

On a scale of Good Omens to Owl House, how fucked up is your crusty old British Witchfinder Army Wanna-Be dude?

Additional question

On a scale from Newton Pulsifer to Caleb/Hunter, how well does your Witchfinder treat their quasi adopted right hand man?

[performing-personhood]

Next time you feel like you aren't good at anything, I need you to remember that Newton Pulsifer broke every machine he ever touched and didn't know why until the very moment he saved the entire world from a nuclear apocalypse.

Maybe you just aren't at the "why" part of your story yet.

[hjbirthdaywishes]

July 7, 2023

Happy 35 Birthday to Jack Whitehall. 

[accultist]

📗

PRACTICAL OCCULTIST AND PROFESSIONAL DESCENDANT. 📗 self.

WAGES CLERK AND WITCHFINDER PRIVATE. 📗 newton pulsifer.

AN ANTICHRIST. 📗 adam young.

AN ANGEL WHO DID NOT SO MUCH FALL AS SAUNTERED VAGUELY DOWNWARDS. 📗 crowley.

AN ANGEL AND PART-TIME RARE BOOK DEALER. 📗 aziraphale.

THE NICE AND ACCURATE PROPHECIES OF HANNAH. 📗 ooc.

FOLLOW THY BLOG AND GOOD FORTUNE SHALL BLESS THEE. 📗 promos.

YE SHALL FIND A DOORWAY IN THE TOWN OF GREENDALE. 📗 caos verse.

AND THY FATE SHALL BE DECIDED BY PROPHECY. 📗 main verse.

THE MACHINE THAT WHISTLES TO THE TUNE OF A SONGBIRD. 📗 music.

SHE WAS A WITCH AND THEREFORE SENSIBLE. 📗 headcanon.

STUDY THY BOOK AND PRACTICE THE OCCULT. 📗 musing.

KEPT MEANING TO PUT IT ALL ON A COMPUTER. 📗 memes.

PROPHECY NO. 3008. 📗 answered.

WHEN THE WIND BLOWS THE BLOSSOMS REACH OUT TO ONE ANOTHER.  📗 newthema.

[a-typical]

IN SHADWELL’S DREAM, he is floating high above a village green. In the center of the green is a huge pile of kindling wood and dry branches. In the center of the pile is a wooden stake. Men and women and children stand around on the grass, eyes bright, cheeks pink, expectant, excited.

A sudden commotion: ten men walk across the green, leading a handsome, middle-aged woman; she must have been quite striking in her youth, and the word “vivacious” creeps into Shadwell’s dreaming mind. In front of her walks Witchfinder Private Newton Pulsifer. No, it isn’t Newt.

The man is older, and dressed in black leather. Shadwell recognizes approvingly the ancient uniform of a Witchfinder Major.

The woman climbs onto the pyre, thrusts her hands behind her, and is tied to the stake. The pyre is lit. She speaks to the crowd, says something, but Shadwell is too high to hear what it is. The crowd gathers around her.

A witch, thinks Shadwell. They’re burning a witch. It gives him a warm feeling. That was the right and proper way of things. That’s how things were meant to be.

Only …

She looks directly up at him now, and says “That goes for yowe as welle, yowe daft old foole.”

Only she is going to die. She is going to burn to death. And, Shadwell realizes in his dream, it is a horrible way to die.

The flames lick higher.

And the woman looks up. She is staring straight at him, invisible though he is. And she is smiling.

Good Omens — Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman

[antiquarianandunusual]

Incorruptible Bodies (A Good Omens Fic), Chapter 2: In Which There Be Witchfinders

Previous Chapter: In Which There is a Book

Next Chapter: In Which the Truth Comes Out (Tentatively releasing October 9th, but this is going to be an eventful week for the author! If push comes to shove, expect it October 16th!)

Chapter Synopsis: Aziraphale is not great at keeping secrets and almost confesses his occult-related indiscretions to the leader of the Witchfinder Army. Thankfully, Sergeant Shadwell's eccentric next-door neighbor is more than willing to lend an intrigued ear.

In a small interlude, Anathema has a pleasant conversation with Tadfield's most creative kid.

Fandom: Good Omens

Rating: T and Up (Language and Canon-Typical Violence)

Warnings: Unintentional misgendering in the form of Shadwell referring to Aziraphale as a man, not maliciously. Some light homophobia of the "considering Aziraphale a Southern pansy" variety. Very brief and no worse than what you would find in canon.

Word Count: 5,454

Read it on AO3!

The most crucial thing to understand about Aziraphale aside from his latent foolishness is that underneath the pleasant, bookish demeanor, he had the potential to be, most appropriately put, a right bastard.

This is not to say that Aziraphale intended to deceive, of course. He truly was, at heart, the warm, welcoming bookseller Anathema had begun making acquaintances with. He came about his fortune in life honestly, with an unparalleled work ethic and a genuine passion for the products and people he worked with. His soft exterior was far from a front for something more sinister; the genial, grandfatherly persona he projected was, for the most part, truthful.

Another, harsher truth is simply this: no one is perfect. People make poor decisions- stupid, selfish decisions- and spend their lives fighting an unending battle to justify those careless choices. Aziraphale was far from an exception to the rule. Sometimes he fibbed, he kept secrets he perhaps should not have, and he occasionally may have been prone to being a bit pushier with customers who seemed too interested in his more prized wares. He never meant any ill will. It was all a part of being human.

This was why, standing on the other side of the stack of papers Witchfinder Private Newton Pulsifer had been working on rifling through, Aziraphale conveniently failed to mention that he was in cahoots with a self-proclaimed dabbler in the occult and just as importantly, why he failed to mention to Anathema why he was a consistent donor to England's last remaining branch of the Witchfinder Army.

Another part of being human, Aziraphale had found in his many years of practice being one and was remembering as he nervously hovered over Private Pulsifer's work, was how quickly things could change. For example, how one day a certain eccentric book collector could find such joy in an incredibly rare opportunity of a lifetime and the next, he could wake up wracked with doubt and guilt and all sorts of icky, nauseating, horrible feelings stemming from that same chance. How thought of consequence came second, but when it did, it had the potential to be all-consuming.

Despite what Aziraphale was certain was an expression admitting immediately to guilt painted on his face, Private Pulsifer still offered a timid, yet affable smile. “Sergeant Shadwell should be back in a few minutes.”

“Ah, yes, Madame Tracy had mentioned he had stepped out. In the meantime, how's Private Pulsifer faring?”

Private Pulsifer attempted to feign bashful humility, though the pride shone off him like the sun. “I've told you, just Newt's alright.”

“Oh, but Private Pulsifer is your rightful title. It would be incredibly inappropriate of me to refer to you as anything but.”

The Witchfinders were harmless, really, was the argument Aziraphale desperately attempted to employ to justify his continued support of an organization that was, in essence, long defunct, and for good reason. Burning people at the stake- especially without trial- was one of those things society had finally realized that, when you got down to it, was quite improper. As much as Private Pulsifer's commander, Sergeant Shadwell, proudly regaled them with tales of the glorious retributions of Witchfinder's past, Aziraphale knew proper violence against others was not in the cards. He didn't believe the ornery Shadwell would, or, at the very least, didn't believe he could.

Really, they were just a glorified neighborhood watch. Aziraphale couldn't remember the last time he had stopped by Shadwell's flat and Private Pulsifer didn't appear so inconsolably bored with his daily research into unexplained phenomena.

“I'm fine, I guess,” responded Private Pulsifer. “I can't complain, at least.”

“That's always a nice place to start.”

“Yeah. Just wish there was more to do. If it were up to me, I'd like to get out there and do some real work. But not many witches to find in London, I suppose. At least there're some good headlines today," he offered with the gusto of someone who did not, in fact, believe there were good headlines that day.

Aziraphale stepped over to one of the stacks on the opposite of the table to Private Pulsifer. On top of it was a local red top paper a few days old with massive, bold letters speculating about the strangely optimal weather patterns of Tadfield, of all places.

“Would you mind if I took this?”

Private Pulsifer glanced at the newspaper only briefly before giving him a resounding, “Sure.” Aziraphale wasn't even sure he had read the headline.

The bookseller folded the paper with impeccable neatness before tucking it into the pocket of his trench coat.

If anything, Aziraphale's continued funding was out of some semblance of pity. Shadwell's silver tongue had once convinced him that the Witchfinder Army was a grand organization acting out God's will against supernatural evils lurking among man and, in retrospect, he may have been just slightly foolish to buy into the lie. He had, after all, been rightly embarrassed when Private Pulsifer had regrettably informed him that the loyal soldiers he had been funding were fake, dead, or, in the unfortunate case of Sergeant Milkbottle, both. Aziraphale should have caught onto the suspicious number of Smiths on the charter from the start.

Still, he couldn't fathom being the reason Shadwell's life's work vanished into thin air. Thus, he continued to donate out of goodwill. If anything, it gave the two men something to occupy their time.

With Private Pulsifer busy, Aziraphale wandered around the flat- carefully, of course, with his arms folded politely behind his back.

The main room was cluttered with Witchfinder memorabilia, which Shadwell protected with a nonpareil fierceness. Aziraphale, despite everything, found the history fascinating and never in a million years would have intentionally crossed the bounds of respect, but there was always the latent, nigh irrational paranoia that he would commit a horrific misstep and be left to pick up what pieces were left. Thankfully (albeit quite drearily), in his darkest thoughts, there would not be many pieces to pick up.

Display cases flaunted uniforms and weapons and yellowed documents galore from genuine Witchfinders- the type that truly persecuted alleged evildoers back in what Shadwell openly referred to as the “glory days”. It entertained Aziraphale's morbid curiosity, this brutal history, and he sometimes found himself actually appreciating when the ornery old Witchfinder regaled him with the details, most of which, he was surprised to find in his own research, were historically accurate.

Now, it made him feel a little sick with guilt.

Aziraphale was certain Anathema's intentions were pure. Witch or not, her goal was to save the world, not end it, nor did she seem keen on cursing villagers or blighting crops while she was at it. He was certain he would not be played once again for a fool.

Shadwell was less inclined to believe in the good of others, hence why Aziraphale felt it an important piece of information to omit, especially considering the sketchy history between her and Private Pulsifer's families. It was for both his and Anathema's peace of mind. Right?

“Erm. Mr. Fell?”

“Hm?” Dumbly, Aziraphale whipped his attention over to Private Pulsifer. He had, ironically, stopped in front of the proudly displayed hat of Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer himself. His descendant had clearly been speaking to him and was now eyeing him worriedly. “Sorry. I was elsewhere.”

“Are you alright? You seem...”

Private Pulsifer fumbled for the words and upon realizing he couldn't quite pinpoint them, made an odd gesture at the air around his head. This, Aziraphale gathered, translated roughly to, completely and utterly spaced out.

“Just got a lot on my mind. No need to worry about me, I'm quite alright. Tickety-boo, even,” Aziraphale quickly spat out.

Private Pulsifer did not look reassured, but he conceded with a "... Right," before returning awkwardly to his newspaper endeavors.

The shouting in the hallway hadn't made Aziraphale jump in a while. But it got quite the fright out of him this time as he almost gave himself a good swat in the nose with how aggressively he flinched.

“Blasphemin' Jezebel!” Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell bellowed as he thrust open the door. “Back to the den o' sin wi' ye, ye harlot!”

A sweet, female voice cooed from across the hall, “You flatter me, Mr. Shadwell!”

In response, Shadwell gave no more than a disgruntled huff and a dismissive wave of his hand.

Shadwell was the sort of man who it was nearly impossible to tell when he was happy, which was especially convenient, considering he rarely was. He carried himself with a seriousness that presented itself as a nasty temper, a perpetual bitterness that left him with a permanently furrowed brow. While the meek Private Pulsifer tried with all his might to make himself small, Shadwell put immense importance on making himself seem large and in charge. It worked, to an extent; those who didn't immediately peg him as a complete and utter lunatic did, in fact, find him rather intimidating, his booming voice a harbinger of what the man allowed himself to believe was righteousness.

Aziraphale would have been lying if he said his muscles didn't tense on instinct when the Witchfinder Sergeant entered a room.

What was amusing about his alarm, however, was the immediate flip of a switch that occurred in Shadwell when he at last whirled around and saw Aziraphale from the top of the stairs. Shadwell was a fool, indeed, but he knew the basics of playing one's cards right when it came to money and, more crucially, the gaining thereof. The first rule was to never let your kind donors see you behaving churlishly, unless you were in the sort of business that valued a boorish attitude, which Witchfinding was, Shadwell found over several decades, not. He found the people who turned their noses up at his brash manner weak-willed, but said weak-willed people paid his bills and he rather valued the roof over his head.

So, he wasted no time in putting on an agreeable smile and softening his typically harsh voice. “Ah, Mr. Fell. That time 'o year already?”

“That's what I was trying to tell you, Mr. Shadwell!” lightly chastised the voice from moments before.

In the doorway, behind Shadwell, materialized a rather fetching older woman. She never failed to look like an entirely different person each time Aziraphale saw her; this afternoon, she was almost mythical, with her dress and shawl flowy, giving the impression of someone otherworldly, appropriate for her daytime work as a medium. Her hair today was a vibrant red and neatly put up, and the makeup she sported gave her a subtle showgirl quality. Her jewelry jingled as she stepped up to Shadwell.

“Mr. Aziraphale's been waiting very patiently for you. Haven't we, dear?” She clapped her hands on Shadwell's shoulders. He visibly tensed, struggling to keep the smile on his face.

“There really was no rush, Madame," said Aziraphale. "Patience is a virtue, after all.”

Madame Tracy waved him off as if to say, Oh, you!

“I had a cancellation this afternoon. You should stop by for a bit, I've already got the kettle on.”

“I wouldn't dare miss our yearly visit.”

She tittered. “That includes you, too, Mr. Pulsifer.”

Private Pulsifer's eyes speedily darted from the newspapers to Sergeant Shadwell to Tracy. It took him a moment of floundering, though he finally sputtered, “I, erm, I can't. But thank you.”

“Maybe next time, then,” Madame Tracy sighed with the latent implication that this was supposed to be “next time”. She gave Shadwell a playful pat on the shoulder before retreating to her own flat, but not before calling over her shoulder for the three of them to “play nice”. Once again, Shadwell grunted a dismissive “Aye” before shutting the door.

“You got home late last night.”

Anathema had not been the least bit surprised when local menace Adam Young had been waiting for her outside of the local shop. She knew he didn't follow her, more that Tadfield was small and if you went anywhere between his house and Hogback Wood, it was likely you were going to have a fortunate encounter with him and his friends. The Them, as they had christened themselves, were as close to rabble rousers as you would find in the village, save for maybe the Johnsonites, and in Anathema's humble opinion, there was far worse trouble to be made.

This afternoon, Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian were absent, a rare and curious occurrence but not impossible. The only company Adam had as he stood by the entrance with his bike was the tiny black and white dog sitting obediently at his heels.

“I did. After you were supposed to be asleep,” Anathema pointed out matter-of-factly. She kept walking and Adam followed at her heels, the dog, which was, conveniently, also his name, following Adam in turn.

“Mum and Dad have started letting me stay up on weekends.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Adam kicked absently at a rock. “I've started staying up late on weekends,” he admitted almost sheepishly.

“I feel like it would be the responsible thing for me to do to start telling your parents about these things.”

Good naturedly, Adam scoffed. “You wouldn't.”

“That's bold of you! Why wouldn't I?”

“You're too cool to tell on me.”

It was Anathema's turn to scoff. “It's cute that you think I'm cool.”

“Cooler than most adults, at least. Where'd you go?”

“Hm?”

“Last night, on the bus. I saw the headlights. That's how I know you got home late. Was it witchy business?”

“If you must know, I went into the city. And, yes, on 'witchy business'.” Anathema didn't bother to correct his admittedly crude terminology.

Adam noticeably perked up and Dog, seeming to feed off of his sudden energy, began a cycle of sprinting ahead of them, waiting for them to catch up, and then dashing away again once more. “What kind of witch stuff?”

“I visited an antique bookseller.”

Anathema could see the gears turning in Adam's head, as they were always apt to do. Give an inch of something mildly interesting, and Adam Young would take a mile, warping it into something impressively fantastical. That was why he led the Them; he always had the brightest ideas.

“Did they sell spell books? Like, the kind of spell books that teach you how to read people's minds or go invisible? Or to call the most ferocious animals in the world to your side in battle, even when they're really, really far away?”

“No, nothing of the sort.”

Adam wilted and Anathema almost felt bad for bursting his bubble. Dog returned to padding directly by his owner's side. “Oh.”

“I went to talk to him about Agnes' book and the problems I was having with it. He knows a lot about books of prophecy, and I was hoping he could help me figure some things out.”

“Did he help?”

“Almost. Not yet. I'm seeing him again on Monday to pick up where we left off.”

For a considerate moment, Adam thought before enthusiastically offering his own assistance. “Maybe I could help. I'm really good with books. I've got loads of ideas about them.”

The duo came up on Jasmine Cottage and Anathema stepped inside the gate as Adam waited outside it. Dog pawed at a patch of grass.

“Thank you, but I think this is one we need to take care of on our own. But I'll let you know if that changes. Okay?”

He nodded, his mop of curls bouncing as he did. The disappointment on his face was fleeting. It always was; Adam knew how to make his own fun when others wouldn't.

They waved each other goodbye and as Anathema stepped inside the cottage, the only proof that Adam had ever been there was the distant sound of his bike chain rattling and Dog yapping excitedly behind him as he rode off.

Aziraphale flinched once again as Shadwell ceremoniously slammed the ledger book down on the dining table. He was grateful the Witchfinder Sergeant didn't seem to take notice.

“That's quite alright, Sergeant Shadwell,” he insisted with a squeak. He unveiled a crisp envelope from the other pocket of his coat, the one that didn't house the newspaper clipping. “Three hundred and fifty pounds, as we've agreed on for the last several years. No less.”

Graciously, Shadwell took the envelope and tucked it into his Witchfinder Army-issued coat with a grin and an almost warm chuckle. “Yer a good man, Mr. Fell. Good man, indeed.”

Aziraphale would have also been lying if he said that this didn't make him feel just the tiniest bit gratified. Despite the "man" part which was, in itself, not quite true, the "good" part is what struck him most. Still, his nerves were becoming increasingly raw, and his vindication did not last long.

“Ye understand we live in a degenerate age. It's hard times for the modern Witchfinder, hard times indeed...”

Aziraphale knew this spiel by heart these days. For the first several times he'd heard it, he clung onto every word with the same undying empathy. He still lent a sympathetic ear nowadays, but he mostly nodded along with little thought and waited for Shadwell to finish before promising to be back the same time next year with the same amount of money in his pocket.

This time, he let his mind wander into dangerous territory.

He had the type of intellect that when it caught onto an idea, it snagged like a sweater on a branch; he couldn't ignore it, lest the entire thing unravel. He would find a particularly clever thought slipping away into the ether before he could so much as consider chasing after it, or, more irrationally, he feared he would lose track of more harrowing ideas and have no idea where they would ultimately go, how intensely they would haunt him. He put diligent effort into keeping tabs on his mind at all times and the unfortunate truth was that it wasn't uncommon for him to get lost in his own world, for him to wrap himself up too tightly in his own, sometimes narrow perceptions.

For example, as Shadwell rambled, Aziraphale latched onto the idea that, despite his more reasonable side knowing it simply wasn't true, the man could see right through him. That if he stepped out of line for even a second, Shadwell would be on the defensive and everything would fall apart abruptly and violently.

He didn't catch onto a solitary word Shadwell said, but he caught himself on more than one occasion nodding absently with just slightly excessive vigor, and there was no doubt in his mind his bewildered expression betrayed his anxiety. His tense body language screamed I'm not guilty! in the worst possible manner. In his meager effort not to bedevil himself, he was certainly doing the exact opposite.

Here Shadwell was, praising him for doing his part in keeping the Witchfinder Army alive (although Aziraphale was no idiot, and certainly saw the not-quite subtle bid for more funding), and he had been so cruel as to turn his back on them.

Here Anathema was, entrusting her family's most crucial work to him, and he was actively supporting an organization that would more than look down on her for it, to a harrowing extent.

Was it hot in here? It felt hot.

“... an' I commend ye, on behalf of the brave men who canna...”

He was being silly. He was being silly! He just needed to ignore the sweat adorning his brow, the nervous pounding in his chest, the ache in his face from forcing a grin. There was nothing he needed to worry about; he had rationalized his decision what must have been hundreds of times that morning alone, meaning he had firmly decided that there was no crime to confess to.

But if there was no crime to confess to, then why did his stomach wrench with each overblown compliment? Why did he feel so small, despite being mere inches shorter than even the tallest person in the room? Why did he literally bite his tongue to keep himself from pouring his heart out and accepting the resulting fallout as punishment fit to the transgression?

The most appropriate way to describe how Aziraphale was feeling in this moment would be, inclined to scream into a pillow until he went blue in the face.

Only when he consciously clenched his fists in an effort not to make a go for a nearby cushion did Aziraphale realize the room had gone silent. He came totally to when Shadwell apparently firmly repeated, “Mr. Fell?” Both he and Private Pulsifer were watching the book collector with bewildered confusion, Private Pulsifer suffused with the most concern of the two.

“I'm sorry?” squeaked Aziraphale, swallowing hard.

The two men exchanged a look.

Private Pulsifer was the first to speak. “Are you sure you're okay, Mr. Fell?”

“My dear boy, I don't know why you keep asking me that,” Aziraphale breathlessly posed, pushing an angle of a lack of self-awareness. “I'm perfect. Better than perfect, even, I'd say. Absolutely tip-top, but if you would kindly pardon the abruptness, I really should be getting back to the shop. No rest for the, um... Not wicked. Good? Not good...”

Frustrated, he waved his hands to dispel the cobwebs that had seemed to suddenly manifest in his brain. The period at the end of an insanely long sentence, he announced, “I need to go!”

In a blur of beige, with the still careful shutting of a door, Aziraphale was up and out of the flat. Madame Tracy, who had heard his frantic footsteps from across the hall, threw open her own door. She had caught him making a mad dash for the stairs to the door to the streets outside and with a cock of her head, chimed, "Now, where do you think you're going?"

He whipped his head around and must have looked something awful because Madame Tracy immediately sobered.

“Mr. Aziraphale, you look like you've seen a ghost!”

With open arms, she bustled over to Aziraphale's side, hooking their elbows and softly tapping his arm in what was supposed to be a comforting motion. He allowed himself to be led over to her door, but when, attached to the wall between Tracy and Shadwell's respective flats, the phone cried out, he reeled back and clutched at his chest. Madame Tracy only started for a brief second before taking him again. “There we are, that's a dear," she said soothingly. "We can let Mr. S get that one, can't we?"

With a wave, Madame Tracy welcomed him to take a seat at her makeshift seance table before rushing off into the kitchen. She had already started preparing both of their cups before she had even entertained the notion of asking, "Some tea to calm your nerves?"

Breathlessly, fighting to will away the tension riddling every muscle, fidgeting rigidly with the ring on his finger, Aziraphale sputtered back, “That would be lovely, thank you.”

He peered wretchedly at his warped reflection in the crystal ball she used for show, which sat in the middle of her dining table, ready for a client that would, that day, never come; he didn't realize how much misery his expression betrayed until he saw it for himself, which then prompted his frown to deepen. Had he more relaxed standards for his own behavior, he would have wasted no time in putting his head down on the table in a fit of petulance and allowing the world to fall away for a while.

Instead, Aziraphale stared and thought and panicked, basking in the timid scent of brussels sprouts and the churning of the ceiling fan.

Eventually, Madame Tracy came bustling back into the room, two teacups in hand, bringing an end to his brooding. He took the cup she extended out to him graciously, all while meagerly pretending he was perfectly alright, really no need to worry, he just wasn't feeling himself that day but he was really fine now-

She shook her head disapprovingly. “I know you better than that, Mr. Aziraphale. Now, talk.”

By nature, Madame Tracy was the type of woman you could feel comfortable around. She was an open book, intentionally or not, accented by an acute lack of judgement for whatever it was you were going through. She was odd and a touch out there and sure, maybe lying to people about making contact with their deceased relatives was a touch problematic, but Aziraphale still had taken a shine to her and she, him. They didn't speak much, but when they did, it was as if no time had passed.

So, he tried. And at first, it came out in a series of incoherent sentences as Aziraphale started, stopped, and then decided to begin again. “I... Well... Erm... It's...”

Madame Tracy sat there patiently while he finally started to form something sensical. With a sigh, he announced, “I think I've found myself in a bit of an, um... an ethical dilemma.”

“'Ethical dilemma?'”

“Yes,” he confirmed with a grim nod.

“That doesn't sound much like you.”

Though this diminished Aziraphale's worries for a fleeting moment, the weight wasted no time in crashing back down. He almost felt worse once the relief dissipated.  “Yes. Well. A young woman came to me yesterday with a rather tempting offer and I'm afraid I didn't think it through much before accepting it.”

A look nothing short of salacious crossed Madame Tracy's face. “Mr. Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale felt the heat rising in his cheeks. “Not that kind of offer! I...” He huffed and rubbed at his eyes in exhausted exasperation. Chasing it with a deep breath, he willed himself to continue.

“She came to me with a book of prophecies passed down through her family and help her... verify some notes she and her ancestors have made over the centuries. And you must understand me when I say,” Aziraphale was quick to add, “that this is a book I had given up on entertaining the idea of ever living to see. It's been declared lost almost since publication.”

Madame Tracy waited for worse news to come. It didn't. Instead, Aziraphale, gripping the edge of the table as if it were a life preserver, waited for an explosive reaction to the scandal that he had been an active participant in. It also never came.

She finally proposed that it “didn't sound so bad”.

Aziraphale, in turn, posited that she “didn't understand”.

“Ms. Device is a direct descendant of the last true witch in London, Agnes Nutter. That's who wrote the book. And by helping her with it, I'm playing my part in keeping the family business alive and well.”

A beat passed until Madame Tracy, thoughtfully, finally admitted, "I don't think Mr. Shadwell would like that."

“Precisely. Not only does Mr. Shadwell not know I'm working with a self-proclaimed occultist, but she doesn't know I'm a supporter of the Witchfinder Army, either. I don't know if I'm technically doing anything foul- it's not my intention to deceive either of them, after all. But it all feels a little... backhanded.”

Madame Tracy took a spell to ruminate while Aziraphale eyed her expectantly.

“It might be, just a little bit.”

Aziraphale wilted.

“But you're not doing either of them any harm, I don't think. The two of you aren't getting into anything... underhanded, are you?”

“Not at all! If anything, what we're doing is over... handed,” he insisted, lamely. “It's only for her family's eyes, anyway. Hardly any harm done.”

“So...?”

Aziraphale met Madame Tracy's eyes. The ball was beginning to drop.

“So... I'm not technically hiding anything untoward from Mr. Shadwell. Am I?”

She thought on this, as if the thought had not so much as occurred to her until Aziraphale put it out into the world.

“Wouldn't seem so, no.”

With a sigh, he took to absently toying with the tablecloth, fixing the crinkles he had put into it with his prior death grip. “Unfortunately, that doesn't solve my problem of hiding Sergeant Shadwell from her.”

Madame Tracy reached across the table and took Aziraphale's hand to gently stop his fidgeting. “You said yourself that this work is perfectly innocent.”

“Right.”

“So, there's nothing to report to Mr. S.”

“Right.”

“Then, what have you got to be worried about? You're certainly not going to tell him and I pride myself on client confidentiality, so there's nothing to be afraid of. What she doesn't know won't hurt her.”

“But what if she finds out?”

“Then you tell her the truth.”

For a lengthy moment, Aziraphale thought on this. It still felt deceitful, but he had done plenty of things that felt a certain way but turned out, in nature, to be the complete opposite. It wasn't out of the question that he was getting in his own way; his own woes often seemed to be his greatest obstacle when opportunity came knocking on his door. And maybe he felt a just a smidgeon vindicated when someone else supported his decision-making, whether they, too, were in the moral right or wrong.

Besides, it wasn't as if he was going to be fighting to keep the two of them away from each other while the Book was a work in progress. Shadwell didn't come to the bookshop unless Aziraphale couldn't make time in his schedule to drop his dues off personally, and Anathema was laser-focused on the task at hand; Aziraphale seriously doubted she would stand up one day and demand he take her to see the London sights at the risk of them encountering the Witchfinder Sergeant on his soapbox downtown.

“What they don't know won't hurt them,” Aziraphale repeated considerately and for the first time since he had stepped into the flat, he indulged in letting a relieved smile slip. “Right.”

The phone call had been from a wrong number, but Shadwell believed with the utmost firmness that this was not information Mr. Fell and the Madame were privy to.

When Madame Tracy's door creaked open and she gently ushered an eased Mr. Fell out, Shadwell scrambled to pick up the receiver, pretending not very convincingly but with enough conviction that it threw them off of his scent that he was speaking to a very important client, peppering the mimed conversation with the occasional “Aye”. There was certainly no possible way either of them would suspect the poor, gruff sergeant had stood with his ear pressed to the door for the last while, trying to make sense of what their muffled voices were saying and irritably waving off Private Pulsifer when he came out to check on his commanding officer.

They had no reason to suspect he had heard anything at all. But he did.

He heard it all, and his pounding heart echoed furiously in his ears as he resisted the inclination to confront the bumbling Southern pansy right then and there. No, no, he had to be smart about it. Mr. Fell had been patient, cunning enough to play the long game; Shadwell needed to match him on his level.

“Same time next year?” Tracy proposed.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Mr. Fell chirped back.

They bid their goodbyes. Madame Tracy disappeared into her flat; Mr. Fell opened his mouth to offer Shadwell a friendly farewell before noticing he was occupied with the phone and deciding better of it, settling instead for a hasty wave before showing himself out; and Shadwell returned this with a curt nod and a smile that wandered more into the realm of a grimace. Shadwell kept a keen ear out for the sound of the door downstairs falling shut and when it finally came, the fury set itself in with jagged teeth; he slammed the phone receiver down with a growl and stormed back into his own flat.

Madame Tracy rushed back to the door for a moment with a distant, “Are you alright, Mr. S?”, but he had already shut and locked his own door behind him.

Private Pulsifer leaped up from his seat directly into a position of attention. He sported the look of a deer caught in headlights or, more appropriately, a hobbyist Witchfinder caught in the warpath of his sergeant.

“Get yer wits about ye, laddie!” he commanded, voice booming. If Private Pulsifer could have possibly fixed his posture any straighter, he would have in a heartbeat.

With a furrowed brow, hateful scowl, and reverence born of a lust for vengeance, Shadwell savored every word of his announcement with grim pride.

“It seems we've got a traitor in our midst. Congratulations, Private Pulsifer. Ye've got yer first official Witchfinding duty.”

[hugefreakinnerd]

[agnes-nutter-witch]

[ghostfriendly5]

Regarding Good Omens, Michael Sheen and David Tennant are excellent, on-the-money actors, but I must say Witchfinder Private Newton Pulsifer was a very lucky man.

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 11 Part 2

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 11, cont.

Crowley purred upon seeing the Bentley. It was a little obscene, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t had a day off in ten years. Going for a drive was one of Earth’s greatest pleasures, as far as he was concerned,[1] and he’d been sorely neglecting it. He stroked the door lovingly before letting himself in.

“Don’t get anything on the seat,” he told Adam.

“Er,” Adam said, peering through the back window.

Crowley leaned back to wave him inside and saw somebody already sitting in the back seat.

“Hello,” she said.

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. “Who the Hell are you?”

Aziraphale leaned his head in through the passenger door. He blinked at the woman in the back, as if unclear whether Crowley had left her there by accident.

“My name is Anathema Device,” the woman said.

She was wearing a dramatic green coat and prim, thick-rimmed glasses. Despite the Wiccan-ish aesthetic, there was something stern and school-teachery about her. Crowley had the impression he was about to be told off.

“You’re two minutes late,” she said. Ah. There it was.

Adam decided he might as well sit down. He slipped into the back beside Anathema. She smiled at him.

Crowley made a decision there and then. No more tagalongs. Whoever this person was, she could get lost.

Anathema leaned forwards, business-like. “I’m here about the Antichrist.”

Adam looked offended. A lot of the people he’d met today seemed to have spoken to his mother.

“Nope. That’s it. I’m done with this. I’ve already processed everything I’m willing to hear today. Whatever revelations you’ve got, you can keep. I’m content not knowing everything, I don’t need whatever you’re selling. Get out of my car.”

“You’re going to want to hear this.”

“I definitely won’t. Angel, get in.”

Aziraphale got in the passenger seat. He gave Anathema a polite smile. “Hello, my dear.”

“She’s not your dear. She’s a woman who’s broken into my Bentley and spread patchouli everywhere.”

Anathema sighed. “Please. I didn’t break in, it was unlocked.” At least, it wasn’t locked very well.

“I don’t lock it for a reason. Because nobody touches my car.”[2]

“I remember you,” Adam said to Anathema. “You came round the house. You were trying to give us magazines. You talked to the head of security for ages. Most people don’t get that far.”

Anathema brightened. “Um, actually yes. I was trying to speak to you.”

“Oh. I was round the corner on my Gameboy,” Adam said.

Anathema had spent an interminable forty-five minutes keeping the security guard talking, hoping to catch a glimpse of Adam. “...Oh.”

“I read the magazines, though. They were cool.”

“Oh! I’m glad.”

“We’re actually in a hurry, if nobody minds,” Crowley said, to no-one in particular.

Anathema straightened up. “Right. Allow me to explain. I’m here to prevent the End of Days.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged glances.

“Oh, that’s not a real thing,” Adam said, confidently. “That’s just stories an alien told me when I was a kid.”

Anathema looked up, sharply. “An alien? There are aliens in the Book…”

She hefted a much-thumbed, elderly tome onto her lap and flicked through it. Aziraphale’s bibliophilic senses rang a faint bell.

“Yeah, I like books with aliens,” said Adam. “This alien was real, though. Actually, there were lots of them. They kept telling me I was going to grow up and destroy humanity and burn the planet to a crisp. And then Hell would defeat Heaven and blah blah blah. I was a bit worried about it all.” Adam scratched his head, near his gem. Anathema’s eyes zoomed in on it. “But it all makes way more sense now I know it was aliens.”

“Oookay. This is pretty big, actually,” Anathema murmured. She was staring at Adam like a rare specialist who had just made the find of their career. “I wasn’t positive, even after everything… but it’s really you, isn’t it?” Her eyes shone with various emotions. Awe was in the mix. So was fear.

“Nanny was definitely an alien,” Adam said, darkly.

Anathema’s eyes flicked down to the open Book on her lap. They fell onto prophecy 1011, And the devile dide saye: we doe notte have time for alle this nonesense.

“We don’t have time for all this nonsense,” Crowley said.

“I know who you are,” Anathema blurted. “Agnes says you’re going to take the Antichrist away. The family don’t all agree where, there are a few different readings, but the important thing is that you won’t succeed. Listen to me. Armageddon will happen here, at this house.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged tense looks.

“No human prophecies have come anywhere near predicting any of this.” Aziraphale craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of the Book. “Did you say Agnes, my dear -?”

Crowley didn’t like this. Who cared what a prophecy said? He didn’t need strange women popping up and putting him off before they’d even set out.

“You two are in this whole batch of prophecies. You can set things right if you just listen to me and don’t leave. Your only hope to save the Earth is if you do exactly what I say -”

Crowley snapped his fingers. Anathema vanished.

“Crowley!”

“She was wasting our time. And we haven’t got much of that left.”

Crowley gunned the ignition. The Bentley sputtered to joyous life. He jerked the steering wheel and veered out onto the road. He almost took out a pillar box that mysteriously leapt into the air and settled safely a few feet down.

Aziraphale shook his head. “All her things are in the back seat. What if she needs them?”

“Should have thought of that before she touched my Bentley.”

Crowley took a corner at an alarming speed. He mumbled something about the emotional violation.

“I’ll be very cross if you’ve sent her somewhere bad.”

Crowley waved the concern away. He tore down the street. It had been too long since he’d done ninety in central London.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Aziraphale finished crossing himself and clutched the roof of the car in the apparent hope that he could jimmy himself in place in the event of a crash.

“My old bookshop, if you would be so kind,” he said.

In the back seat, Adam picked up the Book and flipped through it.

~*~

Newton Pulsifer, Witchfinder Private, perched on the edge of the discoloured sofa belonging to his employer, Sergeant Shadwell. He was just starting on his third hour of daily newspaper clippings when a woman tumbled out of the air and landed on top of him.

There was chaos. There was screaming (mostly from Newt). There was shouting (from Shadwell). There were accusations of foul sorcery and witchcraft (from Shadwell; for once in his life, he was spot on).

Eventually, things calmed down enough that Newt noticed the woman was rather attractive, and that she seemed annoyed but not surprised to have teleported to a first-floor flat in Tower Hamlets.

Her name was, apparently, Anathema Device. Well. Why not. Newt recently learned he had an ancestor called Adultery Pulsifer. He wasn’t about to judge.

Anathema surveyed her new lieutenants in her stand against Armageddon. A cigarette-charred man with an ambiguous regional accent and a scowl that could cut rocks. A nervous young man who was vaguely threatening her with a pair of scissors, but who was obviously likelier to injure himself with them than her. And some kind of “painted strumpet” (not Anathema’s words) across the hall who hadn’t shown up to the proceedings so far, but who they could tag in later if things went badly. Not a promising start. Lieutenants might be too strong a word. Sidekicks, then.

It frustrated her, leaving all her possessions behind in the car. Losing the Book would have devastated her, but Agnes had predicted it, so Anathema was prepared. She had compensated for its loss by memorising the remaining prophecies that seemed relevant.

“OK, guys. Is everything clear so far?”

Shadwell glowered. He held something that was apparently a Thundergun. It slightly resembled a bass trombone. He made no move to shoot her, and she doubted anyone had reloaded it any time in the last century, so his grip on it seemed to be for comfort. Newt had put down the scissors as a gesture of magnanimity.

“I think I’ve followed so far,” Newt said. “The world’s going to end. Um, there’s a boy called Adam Dowling who’s the key to everything, but he’s out of range now and there’s nothing anyone can do about that - er -”

Anathema nodded encouragingly.

“- And our job is to take care of stuff here, and hope that the people with this, er, Adam do their part, because otherwise the Earth is doomed,” he finished. Luckily, he’d passed through the barrier of absurdity and into the vista of calm that lay beyond.

“That’s about it, yeah,” said Anathema.

“So - what should we be doing now?”

“Now we need to stop the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

“Great,” Newt said, weakly.

Anathema nodded, satisfied. It was coming together. She hoped.

It was the two men, or men-shaped-beings, with the Antichrist she worried about. They had to do the next part on their own. And if that went wrong…

She’d known there was no genuine hope of diverting them from their course to escape… wherever they were planning to escape to. But Agnes said she would try to stop them, so she had to try, no matter how vain the attempt. She had hoped to see more evidence that her words were sinking in before the goth one banished her from his equally goth car.

What they did next was out of her hands, so there was no point in worrying. She turned to her new sidekicks. There was work to do.

---

[1] Specifically, speeding.

[2] Crowley got pretty far, normally, assuming that no-one would dare break into the Bentley. He was mostly correct. Witches, however, were unimpressed by demons.

(Link to next part)

[gretchenzellerbarnes]

Good Omens | Dramatis Personae

Aziraphale (An Angel, and part time rare book dealer)

Crowley (An Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards)

Adam Young (An Antichrist)

Anathema Device (Practical Occultist and Professional Descendent)

Newton Pulsifer (Wages Clerk and Witchfinder Private)

Dog (Satanical hellhound and cat-worrier)

Madame Tracy (Painted Jezebel [mornings only, Thursdays by arrangement] and Medium)

Shadwell (Witchfinder Sergeant)

Apocalyptic Horsepersons:

War (War)

Pollution (Pollution)

Famine (Famine)

DEATH (Death)

+ Bonus: The Archangel Fucking Gabriel

[letmetemptyou19]

Shadwell: Okay, first I’d like to introduce our new team member, Witchfinder Private Pulsifer, and I’d like to thank him for his generous gift of two dollars, which he handed me outside this morning. Not necessary, but much appreciated.

Madame Tracy: Why did you give him two dollars?

Newton: I thought he was homeless.

[hjbirthdaywishes]

July 7, 2022

Happy 34 Birthday to Jack Whitehall. 

[beepadoobop]

is anyone going to acknowledge the fact that witchfinder private newton pulsifer, known lovable dork, wore a doctor who tie to his first day of work?

[huilianwrites]

Armageddon, or Not

Book Title: Good Omens

Author: Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett

ISBN: 978-0-06-085398-3

Armageddon has never been more funny. That is a nice and accurate description of this book. We follow the journey of Crowley, a demon who didn’t fall to hell, just sauntered vaguely downwards, and Aziraphale, an angel and part-time rare book dealer. Having spent millinea watching and living with humans, both Crowley and Aziraphale is now tasked to bring about armageddon. They were to raise the Anti-Christ, the son of Lucifer, and to make him be either on Heaven’s side, or Hell’s. 

That did not happen as planned. The Antichrist was not the one both Crowley and Aziraphale spent years trying to indoctrinate. He was an eleven-year-old named Adam, who is really, just an eleven-year-old who happen to be the son of Lucifer. Realizing what absolute disaster this is, both Crowley and Aziraphale tried to correct it. 

Along the way, Anathema, a descendant of Agnes Nutter, both of them a witch, was trying to decipher Agnes’ prophecies to know where, when, what, and how the end of the world will come to. Newton Pulsifer, a Witchfinder Private who became a witchfinder largely by accident, is trying to do his job when he crossed paths with Anathema, an occurence that of course, Agnes Nutter had prophesied. 

Armageddon was coming, like it or not, and the four horsepersons of the apocalypse was riding. Adam, the eleven-year-old Antichrist with his gang of four friends, were just going on their day when Adam turned into the Antichrist he was. Both Crowley and Aziraphale managed to get to the scene before the apocalypse actually happened, through different ways. They managed it in time to see Adam turn away the apocalypse, and helped Adam to stall the apocalypse. See, Adam was not good incarnate, nor was he evil incarnate. He was just human incarnate, and he wanted to stay alive in this earth, thank you very much. Crowley and Aziraphale, who were both quite fond of living amongst humans managed the feat of confusing both the voice of God, and the duke of Hell to convince them to stall the apocalypse. Of course, it couldn’t happen without Newt who managed to ‘fix’ the computer system that is going to cause armageddon. With Anathema watching behind. 

General

I may have forgotten several things, as I read this book months ago and only wrote this part now. But from what I can remember, I can confidently say that this book is fantastic (as you might all already know. After all, it was made into a mini-series and everyone was hooked on it). I know a lot of people were focused on the relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale, and it is fantastic. One of the best relationships I have read, and one of the best relationships in general (they were ‘together’ for millinea, come on). But let’s look at it another way. 

The way the book was written to show that prophecies do not always come true in ways you expect it to be. They will come true, especially the ones from Agnes Nutter, but even though you know they will come true, you won’t be able to guess how precisely they will be true. And it also shows that having this kind of power is a burden, instead of a gift. How would you feel being able to see far into the future, but not knowing the context of what is going on? You’ll feel that burden too. 

Still on Agnes Nutter, this book also tells the story about how Anathema goes beyond just being a descendant of someone. I really like the quote, “Do you want to be a descendant for the rest of your life?” Your ancestor might be someone really great, or even your parents might cast their shadows to you, but you must remember that your life is your own, and Anathema really shows how she claimed her life as her own at the end of the book. 

Claiming your life, is also another big thing in this book. Adam claimed his life to be more than just an instrument of armageddon. Anathema claimed her life as her own, as I’ve said before. Newton Pulsifer claimed his life to be more than just the Witchfinder Private that he was. And of course, Crowley and Aziraphrale claimed their lives to be more than what Heaven and Hell told them to be. 

Besides that, there is also the illustration of man’s free will. How we can use this to our detriment, or use this to our advantage. It was our choice, whether we like it or not. We have to choose. Adam chose to be human, and that choice practically saved all of the world. Everything can be changed by our choices, and that is why we must take care to not just choose the right choices, but to not infringe on other’s choices. 

I finished reading this book months ago, and didn’t have the chance to write this review until now, so I’m finishing this off here, with quotes that I love from this book underneath. Thanks! 

Quotes

And just when you’d think they were more malignant than ever Hell could be, they could occasionally show more grace than Heaven ever dreamed of. Often the same individual was involved. It was this free-will thing, of course. It was a bugger. 

Hell wasn’t a major reservoir of evil, any more than Heaven, in Crowley’s opinion, was a fountain of goodness; they were just sides in the great cosmic chess game. 

And precisely because she was a witch, and therefore sensible, she put little faith in protective amulets and spells; she waved it all for a foot-long bread knife which she kept in her belt.

“... You see, Agnes was the worst prophet that’s ever existed. Because she was always right. That’s why the book never sold.”

What the hell. If you had to go, why not go with style? 

Sometimes human beings are very much like bees. Bees are fiercely protective of their hive, provided you are outside of it. Once you’re in, the workers sort of assume that it must have been cleared by management and take no notice; various freeloading insects have evolved a mellifluous existence because of this very fact. Humans act the same way. 

“Think of it like this,” he said quietly. “Do you want to be a descendant for the rest of your life?” 

Then he said: “I don’t see why it matters what is written. Not when it’s about people. It can always be crossed out.” 

He couldn’t see why people made such a fuss about people eating their silly old fruit anyway, but life would be a lot less fun if they didn’t. And there never was an apple, in Adam’s opinion, that wasn’t worth the trouble you got into for eating it.

[goodomenscosplay]

Welcome to the Good Omens Outfit Library & Cosplay Sourcing.

This will be our Master Post for information on costumes and props in “Good Omens” television series 1 and series 2 (and hopefully for a series 3)!

We will add characters and specific costumes to the series 2 list from confirmed official announcements. We do not wish to be a place that contains unconfirmed spoilers, but we understand that people may wish to cosplay series 2 costumes at events leading up to the series 2 release date.

Click on the name of the character to be taken to a Character Archive, where we shall list out all known outfits. From there, you can click on an outfit to be taken to posts tagged with that name.

If you have information you’d like added to this Library or new resources on sourcing specific articles or props, please contact us!

~~~~~

GOOD OMENS CHARACTER LIST

Series 1 (2019)

Aziraphale

Crowley

Major characters in alphabetical order:

Adam Young, the Antichrist

Anathema Device, Occultist

Beelzebub, Prince of Hell

Gabriel, Archangel

Hastur, Duke of Hell

Ligur, Duke of Hell

Newton Pulsifer, Witchfinder Private

Shadwell, Witchfinder Sergeant

Tracy, Madame

Minor characters in alphabetical order:

Agnes Nutter, Witch

Brian, one of the Them

Dagon, Lord of the Files

Death, Horseperson of the Apocalypse

Dog, a Hellhound

Eric, the Disposable Demon

Famine, Horseperson of the Apocalypse

Leslie, the International Express Man

Michael, Archangel

Pepper, one of the Them

Pollution, Horseperson of the Apocalypse

Sandalphon, Archangel

Uriel, Archangel

War, Horseperson of the Apocalypse

Warlock Dowling, the False Antichrist

Wensleydale, one of the Them

Obscure characters in alphabetical order:

Chattering Order of St Beryl

Dowling, Harriet (Warlock’s mother)

Dowling, Thaddeus (Warlock’s father)

Maud, Leslie’s wife

The Quartermaster, an angel

Mr. Scroggie, séance attendee

Shadwell, Witchfinder Lance Corporal

Usher, Hell’s Usher

Young, Arthur (Adam’s father)

Young, Dierdre (Adam’s mother)

~~~~~

Series 2 (TBA)

Aziraphale

Crowley

Other characters in alphabetical order:

TBA

~~~~~

11/11/2021 - This blog is currently maintained by:

@seedsofwinter

@caspianthegeek