Reid Stillwater had lived in the Wilds all his life, as his father had before him and his father’s father had before that. The village in which they lived had been named Stillwater Crossing, for the acts of heroism his family had shown in their lifetimes. However, Reid was nearly seventy years old and hadn’t done a single heroic thing in his entire life, and he was feeling especially crummy now.

Robgoblins, tiny, two-foot tall green imps with pointy ears, tattered clothes, and a tendency to thieve and destroy, had been disturbing the natural life on the outskirts of Stillwater Crossing for weeks. Reid had woken up to Mrs. Melson - the retired teacher, so old, no one knew her first name because she had been Mrs. Melson in class, even to Reid - screaming at the top of her lungs about the horse head in her kitchen. She wasn’t exaggerating; Stillwater was known for the wild horse herds that lived in the hills east of it, and somehow they had ended up here, breaking windows and eating crops. After a little digging around, Reid discovered that the horses had all been scared away by robgoblins in the hills.

The horses were a minor disturbance, but what really set the village off was when robgoblins began hurling dynamite into the river. The only fish coming with the current were dead fish; the rest had been frightened away. When Reid found this out, his blood boiled. Fishing not ran only in his blood, but it was the village’s largest export and kept it alive.

Within a few weeks, it was evident that without their fish, not only would Stillwater starve, it would fall into an economic crisis and soon cease to exist.

Reid Stillwater was no negotiator, but he made the hike up the hills outside the village to speak to the robgoblins, to try and work something out. But the selfish little imps refused to listen, didn’t care to negotiate or even know how to care about the well-being of others.

Furious, Reid returned to his home and stewed a while longer, until an idea struck him. He sat at the kitchen table, drawing out parchment and ink, and scribbled furiously for several minutes.

The letter was addressed to the Captain of the Royal Guard:

“...you have always been our military and our police. You can right the wrongs in Sacred Grove, save a village which will go under if things are not corrected. If you can spare a few of your soldiers, the people of Stillwater Crossing will be in your debt.”

The next few days inched by, and Reid watched many a person pack up their meager things and leave. His hopes dimmed, until the Royal Guard crossed the river from the eastern hills and announced that they were safe now.

Even the Captain of the Royal Guard himself understood the importance of the meek fishermen’s village, and even he would send his best to protect it.