Chapter 94) The Thatcher's Doom

No being existing within the little village of Morino thought twice about the burly, quiet man everyone called the Thatcher, thanks to his fleeting nature. He skulked out of his small stone hut once in a while to do no one knows what at no one knows where, mostly walking down the street that led out of the village at a brisk but measured pace that belied his tall, broad frame, and always, always returning with a full shrouded cart that he logged up the hill seemingly without stress and into his stone hut with the thatched roof. Thatcher had a befitting sinister ring to it, don't you think?