Sir Tristan – always the chivalrous sort – gave the beast a fighting chance. He poked the bright purple tentacle with the pommel of his claymore, hoping the message of mercy would be appreciated.
But this hidden creature from the deep was undeterred.
It tightened its grip around the young knight’s bare leg and continued its slow yet unrelenting downward drag towards the depths of the murky lake.
He had picked this quiet, secluded section of the beach for a reason. But with his afternoon nap officially over, Sir Tristan was forced into action.
And woe to this creature that disrupted it.
The Weekday One Hundred 