The foul creatures of the Dark forest had taken the King's youngest daughter. Bog king, he called himself had crashed the festival and ripped her away from dancing, making a big display of it and demanding the love potion be returned.

Roland had demanded an army and marched into the dark forest, but they were slow. Very slow.

So now you step silently unseen along the edge of the cobweb woven gap in the tree of his 'castle,' sword against your thigh and your wings tucked close.

Bog king sat, one leg folded tmover the other, clearly bothered by the copious amounts of singing erupting from his dungeon where his captured princess lie.

He didn't even see the outline of the armed fairy, you, breaking apart the moonlight, too irritated and conflicted.