They heard his melodious sounds fill the countryside and watched as the furious and unpaid piper led their children out of town.
“No… come back,” muttered one disheveled townsperson, hiding a half full bottle of mead in the folds of her crushed velvet skirt.
“Please, stop… not the little ones,” mumbled another, his wool vest already stained with splotches of red wine.
First the rats and now the children. Soon their little village would be among the quietest in the kingdom.
It was all part of the plan.
The only regret weighing on them now?
Not thinking of this sooner.
The Weekday One Hundred 