A small village once plundered, once burnt.
Create from the word 'Foxcastle'. What is Foxcastle really like?
Foxcastle had been a rather splendid town once. It had been my home at least, and that gave it some gravitas in my mind. Smallish and filled with outlaws, some who wielded their weapons at whomever dared to come our way, Foxcastle had not relied on anyone else; it simply hadn’t needed to. And we didn’t want the help of any or every stranger. It would have stayed that way if not for that one stranger. As they come, he was unassuming and asked only for bread and water, just as every other traveller had before him had. We didn’t to think of the fury inside him, fury that had probably been there for centuries. Foxcastle wasn’t without its enemies indeed.
And when the fellow had set alight his chain of miserable events, we were all tucked up in our beds, under the impression that all was well, his smoke-screen cast too tight. It had never occurred to us that within forty-eight hours of his arrival our town would be dead, its citizens pleading for their lives.