A visible twitch could be seen in their eyes, sunken and only visible from behind the horrible, blood-stained mask stretched over their face. Around their neck was a battered, misshapen ruff, their clothes consisting of an old, ragged uniform of the Yeomen Warders, hastily patched and armoured with spare scraps of fabric and metal. They stood, slightly hunched over, and shuddered, muttering to themself.

“Oooh, the oven… Soon enough, I’ll bring one back, and I’ll get the most off the carcass.. It’ll be all mine… all the best cuts.”