Alfred wove through the trees, calling the name of his horse in vain; what could possibly have scared the steeds into running away?

As he crashed through the brushes, a small whisper echoed through the trees, making him stop in his tracks.

“Beware of the thistle flowers, Prince…“

Alfred spun around, trying to identify the source of the disembodied voice. It was only him and the forest, he discovered. Soon, he had gathered his tattered nerves together again and was on his way.

When the ground started shaking with minute vibrations, Alfred thought he had finally snapped.

The only thing that confirmed his sanity was the massive pressure on his back. It sent him tumbling head first into a ditch.

The last thing he heard was tinkling laughter before the world disappeared in a swimming pattern of red and black.