With a heavy sigh, George threw his cloak over his shoulders and ambled out of cottage into the midday sun. In his youth, he galavanted all around the wide country of Guidsmeane. He never called any one village home for too long. After all, his fate had once lie with those leathery flying herds. But in his golden years, he found himself in a village so quaint you’d think it was straight from a storybook.

He did not particularly enjoy it.

Walking down the road, he came upon people crowded around the village hall, murmuring about a large parchment that had been plastered up. George tried to crane his neck over the crowd but his body quickly protested. Instead, he pulled over a wide-mouthed teenager.

“What’s it say, son?” said George

“The.. the… Peter Peartree… is dead…” muttered the boy, sadly.

The village Defender was dead? It could not have been. Peter Peartree was a strong, capable Defender.

“It.. it… was a Spiked Mane.. got ‘im. They’re… they’re….”

“Back,” mouthed George.