The last few days of winter were finally passing as the coldest season came to an end.  Any small patches of snow left on the ground were now shrinking with every moment the spring sun beamed down upon them, and the bare branches on the trees and bushes were starting to make an effort to show that most plant life was at last waking from its winter sleep.  The forest which boarded the village of Tobbac on two sides was the only source of colour, as deep green holly leaves and bright red berries set to contrast against the deathly brown of the trees and muddy soil.  The earth was hard through frost, and the birds that had made the village their home throughout the cold season were kept busy finding food in the hope they could feed well enough to start providing for a family.

The thoughts of family life were also running through the minds of some of the citizens of Tobbac as the date of the annual end of winter party approached.  Banners and bunting had already covered the small village in their bright colours and the village hall had already undergone thorough cleaning in preparation for the event.  The shaggy haired old English sheep dog, who had been given the task of caretaker for the hall only two seasons previously, had worked like a demon possessed since the start of his employment to make sure that this year the celebrations would be held in the cleanest, brightest building in the whole shire.

“Stafford,” he said to himself with a smile as he swept the main hall for the umpteenth time.  “You have done yourself proud.  Without a doubt, this is the cleanest building you have ever seen, which means it is certainly presentable for the mayor’s inspection this morning.  Now, let’s check those antechambers shall we?”

The large windows on each side of the main hall allowed the sun to flood through them, showing all the small specks of dust that swirled in little air currents made by Stafford as he rest his broom against a wall and left to make sure all the other rooms in the village hall were as spotless as the main one.  The grand wooden podium at the very top end of the hall, raised so everyone could see who stood at it, seemed to be lit by a spotlight of sunshine and the highly polished wood gave the stage an almost heavenly look to it.  This was the sight that greeted the mayor as he walked in.

“What a glorious sight,” the smartly dressed bulldog remarked to his aide, as an official looking grey cat holding a clipboard entered behind his boss.  “A grand view of a forest in rebirth on one side of me and the sight of the village green on the other.  With me, stood behind that marvellous podium which today seems to radiate life, looking over everyone and their best interests.  Yes, today is a glorious day to be mayor.”

“With all due respect, sir, you say that every day is a glorious day to be mayor,” the cat piped up.  His voice was thin and sounded like he suffered from a chest infection.  He was well known throughout the village for a voice that greatly annoyed most of those he met.  His head was screwed on, however, and his guidance of the less-than-level-headed mayor had earned his respect in the community.

“Well, Jacob, I’m not going to…” the bulldog flustered for a moment, taken aback by the comment and the truth behind it.  He turned to his aide with a stern look on his face.  “Now look here, I’m the mayor, and you’re not being paid to backchat.  If I say it’s a good day, then it’s a good day.  Got it?”

“Clear as crystal, sir,” came the reply.  The mayor snorted an approving snort from his nose and turned to view the village green.

The green was a large circle of grass in the centre of the village.  A wide path surrounded it with various roads leading from the path to the homes of the residents, the shops and blacksmith, and to places outside the village.  The frostbitten ground was yet to return to its full and lavish shade of grass green, which it sported in the summer months.  The mixture of winter grass and white frosted mud, however, was not unpleasant to the eye.  Apparently it was also not too unpleasant to play on either, for two cheetah cubs were engaged in mortal combat around the large circular stone fountain in the centre of the green.  In the right paw of each cub was a stick and they were using their improvised weapons like swords.

“See Jacob,” said the mayor with an air of justification in his voice.  “Look at those two cubs.  Barely over a season old and already they are preparing to defend their village from attack.”

“I think they’re just playing, sir,” Jacob said as he watched the pair battle.  “Those aren’t the coats and scarves of combatants in training.”

“I’m not paying you to patronise me either, Jacob,” the mayor growled, “I know they’re just playing.  That’s where it begins though, in play.  Soon they will be old enough to take those techniques and hone them into unrefined skill.  Then, with enough training, those two cubs will make a fine addition to the village’s defence team.”

“Good, the current team will be glad to know you’ve got an eye on the next generation,” muttered Jacob, taking little effort to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.  He knew the bulldog well enough to know his boss never picked up on the tone of a voice, only the words.  The cat had grown tired of telling the mayor that the village lacked a suitable team of residents it could rely on in times of need.  Every time the mayor had promised to get an initiative underway to correct the problem, but the job never seemed to get done.  

The sound of Stafford returning drew the attention away from a debate about the village’s defence before it could break out.  The old dog started to shuffle across the hall to where the mayor and his aide were standing.

“Good morning, Mayor Winston.”

“Good morning to you, Stafford,” the mayor called back.  “You’ve done a splendid job.  I have never seen the village hall look so clean.  I could eat from this floor, it is so clean!”

“I’d rather you didn’t sir,” Stafford laughed, “I’d hate to have to clean it all over again.  Though, when the workers come to erect the celebration bunting I guess I’ll have to, won’t I?  Still, it’s clean now and will be easier to clean if I keep it in good condition.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Mayor Winston replied.  His voice was disinterested, and his attention had again been drawn to the cubs playing outside.

“I’m sorry sir,” Stafford said, drooping his head in humble shame.  “My rambling is boring you.”

“No, no,” the mayor replied, snapping his head back to face the old English sheep dog.  “No, it’s not you at all.  I’m sorry.  It’s those two cubs outside.”

“What, those two, fighting by the fountain?  Want me to go and tell them to stop sir?”

“I’ve seen cubs their age who could barely stand,” the mayor continued, as if Stafford had not said a word.  He returned his gaze to the window.  “Not only are they standing, they’re play-fighting.  Not the rough-housing I’d expect to see, too, but they’re using makeshift swords.”

“Sire,” Jacob interjected, “I fail to see the significance of the antics of two cubs when we have more important things to worry about.  When they’re old enough, we can give them the training they need but until then can we leave them alone please?”

“They’re good though,” there was no distracting the mayor now.  He walked towards the window until he almost had his nose pressed against the glass.  “They’re not even just hitting the sticks together and pretending, they’re actually trying to hit each other, and defending when they need to.  I don’t think I’ve seen either one land a blow yet.”

“Mayor, I must insist you cease staring at those cubs,” Jacob demanded.  There was a tone of urgency in his voice that the mayor failed to pick up on.  Losing patience, the cat grabbed his boss by the shoulders and turned the dog to face him.  The shock of being manhandled by his aide seemed to break the mayor from his trance.

“Yes, yes,” he stammered.  “Official business.  Stafford, this hall is in perfect shape for the celebration.  Your hard work and dedication shall be handsomely rewarded.”

“Well, thank you Mayor,” Stafford said with a huge smile painted on his face.  “There is one thing I’ve always wanted though.  With your permission, I would like to convert one of the storage antechambers in to a living accommodation and become a full-time, live-in caretaker for the hall.”

“Hmmmm,” the mayor thought for a moment before clasping Stafford by the shoulders for a moment.  “I think it’s a fine idea, but I’ll have to put it before the village council tonight.  I can’t see why they’d refuse such a simple, and inexpensive, request though.  May I ask why you want this?”

“Well, when the nights were short I had to leave for home earlier than I would have liked.  If I lived here, I could keep working for as long as needed to in order to get my job done.  It’s pure convenience, sir.”

“Not a status symbol then?” Jacob asked, writing notes in his clipboard.

“Oh no,” replied Stafford, visibly upset at the question.  “I’m a very humble mutt and I certainly would not parade around the village bragging about my new home.”

“Is that all you desire?” Jacob was still writing notes and asked his question without looking up.

“Well, if I am allowed to stay, I would like to commission the blacksmith to make me a new broom.  This one has a very thin handle, which can cramp my paws up a bit.  I know our smith is skilled in woodwork as well as metalwork and a broom with a larger handle would be most helpful.”

“I’m sorry Stafford,” the mayor said.  “I have got to go and speak to those two cubs.  Jacob, take note of Stafford’s requests.  I’ll be back in a few moments.”  With that, the mayor left the hall and walked with a brisk pace to where the two cats were playing.

“Now he’s gone,” Jacob said with a glint in his eye.  “Tell me the real reason you want to live here.  Don’t worry, it will go no further than us two.”

“Well,” Stafford said, shuffling his feet in the awkward silence that followed his first word as he struggled to find a way of saying what he wanted to say without bringing shame upon the mayor.  “Whispers on the wind tell of a fox who’s amassed quite an army…”

“Looks like I’m going to have to form the village defences behind the mayor’s back, then,” muttered Jacob, second-guessing what the dog was thinking.  “I’ve heard this rumour too, quite a few times, and the story has been quite consistent.”  The cat started pacing in front of the window as he thought.

“I figured that since the village halls were abandoned when captured, if ours is occupied maybe it would act as a deterrent.”

“I quite agree.  Leave it with me; I’m sure I can sway the council.  You shall have your room here, and your broom.  Your, shall I say, rather special broom?”

“You’re sharp, sir,” Stafford replied with a grin.  “I can see why the mayor keeps you at close quarters.”

***

The frosted ground of the village green had seen its fair share of fights in the past, but never one so frantic as the battle currently being waged upon it.  Both cheetah cubs seemed to be an equal match for the other, and neither cub wanted to be the one to admit defeat.  Their sticks had been stripped of any bits that stuck out and the section designated as the blade had now been covered in scuffs and marks where the weapons had impacted.

Their battle had gone on for a good few minutes before the cubs were tired enough to call it a draw.  Shaking each other by the paw, they were about to throw their sticks away when the mayor arrived.  The cubs gulped with anticipation of a telling off.  They had been caught fighting.  The smile on the bulldog’s face, however, did not look like the smile of someone about to deliver a dressing down.

“Boys,” he shouted as he half-strode and half-slipped across the slightly icy path to where the cubs were standing.  “I’ve been watching you for the last few minutes and-“

“We, we, we’re sorry,” the younger looking of the cubs broke in, looking as if he was about to cry.  “We was jus’ playing.”  

“That wasn’t just playing,” Mayor Winston said as he gathered the cubs together for a friendly handshake.  “That was art, how old are you two?”

“Jus’ o’er a season, I’m oldest,” the other cub said in surprise as his arm was pumped up and down by the over excited mayor.  

“Only by a minute,” the first cub cut in with a weak voice.

“Wot you so ‘appy for?” continued his brother. 

“I’m sorry,” the mayor took a moment to compose himself and calm down.  “Long ago, well not that long ago actually, but it was more than a few seasons ago, I was elected mayor.  I had a son who was as skilled in fighting as the village’s most celebrated swordsmen.  When it came for tryouts for the village defence team, my son easily made the grade and he served his village proud.  Sadly the younger fighters have moved on to bigger and better areas while the old fighters are no longer able to fight like they could in their youth.”

“So?” both cubs asked in unison, though the younger voice could only just be heard.

“So,” the mayor laughed as he knelt down to the cub’s level and looked them in the eye.  “So, you two could be the start of a new generation of village defenders.  You two could be the new beginning I’ve been looking for.”

“Ha,” the oldest looking cub snorted with amusement.  “That’s not wot father says.  He don’t like us fighting.”

“Stop that fighting!” echoed his brother in a moment of confidence, trying to pull a stern expression to imitate his father.  The face made the older cheetah laugh.

“It’s just a shame you won’t be ready for serious training for another couple of seasons yet,” the mayor muttered with a concerned expression on his face.  “Jacob’s been on and on at me to get something sorted, but no one’s really been suitable...” Mayor Winston paused before his face brightened up again.  With a large smile he put his hands on his legs, as if steadying himself to get up.  “Right boys, how would you like a present each?”

“We ain’t meant to take fings from olders,” the eldest said in a heartbeat.  “Father don’t like it.”

“Not even from the mayor?”

“No sir-ee.  He says ter take nuffin’ from no one.”

“Well,” laughed the mayor, standing up and giving the boys a quick ruffle through their head-fur.  “How about we go to the blacksmith to let him watch you play while I go and speak to your father?  Bring your sticks,” he added with a laugh.

The trio walked with the mayor standing between the two cubs, all hand in hand as they took the leaf-covered path from the village green to the small collection of shops in which the blacksmith’s workshop was nestled.  It was a hot and fiery place, with half-completed bits of metalwork littering the surprisingly large yard.  In front of the huge wooden doors that housed the furnace and smelting area was the owner of the workshop.  The blacksmith bull was working hard and muttering murderous untruths under his breath.  He was on his knees, painting a weathervane a deep dark blue colour with long and delicate strokes from an old looking paint brush, which seemed to look thinner every time it came back from the paint pot.

“Mayor Winston,” he called as he glanced up from his work and saw the trio arrive.  “What brings you here on this fine, if somewhat cold day?”

“Good morning, Forge,” came the reply.  “May I distract you from your work for a few minutes?”

“Certainly,” the bull said, adding the final few splotches of paint to his project and dumping the remains of the paintbrush in the pot.  He stood up with a small groan and went to join the three visitors.  “I’m just about done here, so long as it doesn’t rain.”

“I can’t imagine it would,” the mayor said, looking at the sky as he led the two cubs to the largest uncluttered area.  “I’ve got these two kids whose idea of play is to attempt to kill each other with sticks.  Do you mind watching them play for a few minutes while I get their father?  I’ll want your opinion on them when I return.”  The mayor turned to the cubs with a smile so wide it looked like it would break free from the sides of his face.  “Now boys, you play here like you did outside the village hall.  I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

“Won’t he yell at us?” the oldest cub asked, pointing at the bull.

“No…  What is your name again, little one?”

“Kyyanno,” the oldest cub said with a confused look.  “Why d’ ya want my name again when you ne’er ask fer it in the first place?”

“And your name is,” the mayor asked the younger cub, ignoring Kyyanno’s question.

“H, Haraka,” the less confident reply was almost a whisper and only just loud enough to be heard.

“Excellent.  Right, Kyyanno and Haraka,” said the bulldog, clapping his paws together.  “You both play your fighting games while Forge watches you.  If he says anything, remember he’s not telling you off, but you might just learn something so pay attention to him.  I’ll be back shortly.”  Giving Forge a quick and excited nod, the mayor left the blacksmiths and vanished towards the housing district.

“Well then kids,” Forge said, smiling and plunging his hands into the pockets of his blue dungarees.  “Mayor Winston says I should watch you kids play at killing each other.  So off you go, get killing.”

“What, now?”  Kyyanno asked, looking around at all the items littering the yard and pointing at the ones that looked particularly fragile or sharp.  “We might hit sumfing.”

“You’ll be fine, I’m sure,” Forge smiled.  “You’ve only got sticks, so if you do happen to hit something, I’m sure it will survive.  There’s nothing breakable out here.  Nothing that can’t be fixed, anyway.”

“Okay, if you sure,” Kyyanno shrugged and turned to face his brother.  Haraka took a few paces back and drew his sword.  In a flash, the older cheetah lunged at the younger cub with his pretend blade while yelling a small battle cry.  Without even pausing for thought, the defender blocked and attempted a parry which would have hit his brother had Kyyanno’s stick not somehow been in the way again.  The battle went on for a couple of minutes, with neither cat gaining ground on the other.  They only stopped the fight when Forge called for a cease.

“You there,” Forge called, pointing at the older brother and beckoning him over.  “Kyyanno, isn’t it?  Let me see your weapon.”  The cub nodded and trotted up to the bull.  The blacksmith took the sword from the cheetah and looked it over.  It was nothing special, just a fallen bit of branch that had been trimmed down to resemble the size of a sword in the scale of its owner.

“Does ya like it?” the cub asked, with a proud grin plastered all over his face.

“I do, Kyyanno, but I think you can do better without it.”

The sound of splintering wood echoed in the yard, as Forge snapped the stick in half before an argument could be made.  Kyyanno watched his sword get destroyed open-mouthed with shock.  He was just about to burst into tears when Forge drew some sandpaper from his back pocket and started rubbing the splintered ends of each half down to a safe, blunt end.  With a confused expression painted on his face, the cheetah watched as the bull made his single weapon into two shorter weapons.  Haraka was still on the battleground, hugging his stick for all he was worth.  It was obvious he did not want his sword snapped into two swords.  When the modifications were complete, the two weapons were handed back to their owner.

“Right,” Forge said with a satisfied look on his face.  “Have another go at getting a hit in on your brother.”

This time the fight went very differently.  Every time Haraka blocked one attack, a second would follow and catch him.  It was not a painful strike, but the young cheetah could not find the speed to match his brother blow for blow.  When he tried to attack, he was blocked by one sword and countered by the other.  In no time at all, Kyyanno had bested his brother.  The older cheetah was overjoyed.  This time, it was Haraka’s turn to look like he was about to cry.

“Don’t worry little one,” said the blacksmith, beckoning the cub over.  “Do you want me to do the same to your sword too?”  Haraka shook his head, but came over anyway.  Forge took the stick and sanded it down to make it more comfortable for the cheetah to hold.  “What you need then,” he mused as he handed it back, “is a shield.  That way you can defend yourself against the second weapon.”  The youngster said nothing, but tilted his head as if trying to understand.

“Forge,” called the mayor’s voice as he returned, not giving the blacksmith a chance to explain what he meant to Haraka.  Following behind the bulldog was an adult cheetah dressed in jeans and a large overcoat.  He was looking a little confused and flustered as he trailed behind the mayor.  “Forge, how goes playtime?”

“Pretty good, mayor,” the bull replied, gesturing Haraka to return to his brother.  “Kyyanno has taken to dual wielding like a duck to water.  With a proper pair of sai blades and a couple of seasons of training, he’d be deadly.  Both these kids have such natural talent I keep forgetting they’re not even two seasons old yet.”

“That’s right,” the adult cheetah shouted as he realised what was going on.  “They’re only just over a season old.  They are far too young to be learning to fight.  How dare you start training them at this young age without consulting me!”

“Sorry, Tunza,” the mayor said, trying to calm the cheetah down.  “They were play fighting outside the village hall this morning and-“

“Oh they were, were they?”  Tunza glared at his children with a look of fury.  The two cubs wilted under his gaze.  “What have I told you two about fighting?”

“AND,” the mayor continued, raising his voice above the cheetah’s and shouting him down.  “They were amazing.  They could read each other like a book, and neither could get a true hit in.”

“What did you expect?” Tunza fumed, trying not to shout at the mayor.  “They’re twins.  They can probably read each other’s minds for all we know.”

“But-“ Forge started, but Tunza cut him off.

“No buts,” he growled, “They’re too young.  I’d like to get them past the stage of speaking, reading, and writing before they even think of learning how to handle themselves in a fight.  A little rough-and-tumble play fighting is fine, and to be expected, but weapons combat?  Weapons combat!  It’s lucky for you their mother’s not here with us, or she’ll have torn the hide from your bones for even thinking it.”

“That’s a pity you feel that way,” barked the mayor with a snap.  “In the interests of the safety of the village, I was going to commission Forge to make suitable weapons for the cubs to train with.  These two could be heroes when they’re older.”

“Feel free to commission them,” Tunza replied, shooting a fierce scowl at the bulldog.  “You can do whatever you please, but I’ll be the one who decides when my cubs are ready to use them.  Come on boys, we’re going home.”

Forge and Mayor Winston watched as the two cubs accompanied their father down the path and towards home.  Both of them were looking at the floor and dragging their heels.  Neither of them dared to look back.

“It’s a shame,” Forge sighed when the trio of cheetahs were out of earshot.  “Those cubs could have made awesome fighters.”

“They still can,” said the mayor, rubbing his chin and looking with a blank look into space.  “Get the kids some weapons.  Playtime isn’t over.  Not by a long shot.”

“But, what about Tunza?”

“What daddy doesn’t know, Forge, won’t hurt him.  In the meantime, I’d best get back to the village hall.  Jacob’s probably having kittens with me gone for so long.”

***

The walk home for the cheetahs was a slow and silent one.  The frosty ground crunched beneath their feet as they walked through the streets that made up the residential district of the village.  Tunza took the lead, taking his time in bringing his sons home.  The two cubs trudged behind him.  When they all had home within sight, Haraka plucked up the will to break the quietness.  He looked at the back of his father’s head and using all his will to stop his voice cracking, he spoke.

“We’re sorry dad,” he said, letting a single tear run down the side of his face.

Tunza stopped and let out a deep exhale.  He closed his eyes, as if trying to find the words.  After a moment, he relaxed his shoulders and turned to face his boys.  Haraka let another tear escape as he looked into the adult cheetah’s eyes.  Kyyanno stood strong, trying to be brave for his brother.  Kneeling down to their level, Tunza sighed and gathered his cubs into a hug.  Each brother took a shoulder and rested their chins upon it, letting the tears flow free where their dad could not see them.

“There, there,” Tunza comforted as he felt the two bodies convulse with their gentle sobs.  “It’s not you I’m mad at.  It’s the mayor I’m mad at for encouraging you like that.”

“But he said we be really good,” Kyyanno said, sniffing back another small sob.

“Don’t you think your mother and I already know that?” Tunza replied, hugging the pair a little harder.  “You two have been fighting like cat and dog almost since you were born and we’ve had plenty of chances to see you perform.  It’s just too soon for you to be worrying about having to train as proper fighters yet.  You’re still so young, you’ve got the whole of your lives ahead of you, and the life of a fighter is often a very short one.”  He stopped, trying to fight back the tears himself.  “We just don’t want to lose you.  Not like that.  Not yet.”

“Like what?”  Haraka asked, unsuccessfully attempting to hold back another small sob as Kyyanno fought to regain control of his emotions.

“You’re too young to understand,” their father sighed, releasing his children and standing up.  “Come on, let’s get home.  We can practise speaking and listening some more.  I’m sure I just heard you say what instead of wot, young Haraka.”

As they walked the final few yards to the door, the adult cheetah looked back at his cubs and smiled.

“Remember,” he said as he looked into their faces.  “No matter how much your mother and I yell at you, we still love both of you with all our hearts, and we’re both very proud to call you two our sons.”

“We know dad,” Kyyanno replied, as Tunza opened their front door and the trio filed inside.

***

From the archives of Tobbac Library’s Official Village Recordings: A brief recounting of the End of Winter Party as recorded by St. Bruno; Official Scribe and Keeper of the Recorded History of Tobbac Village and Forest.

It is a fine day for the coming of the passing over from the dull and depressing season of winter to the hope and promise that spring brings.  Mayor Winston has again done a fine job of making sure that all the arrangements have gone according to plan, and this year’s celebration has run like clockwork.  The town hall was a sight to behold, having had a great deal of love and care over the winter months from its new caretaker, Stafford – who takes on this role having formally been employed in far more prestigious roles.  Furthermore, his application to move into the village hall has been met with no objection from the villagers, or the members of the Council.  

The first activity of the celebration was the Opening Speech, as delivered by our mayor according to the village customs.  Most of the residents of the village turned out for the speech.  This year the mayor talked about ensuring that we took steps to prepare our young ones for the future.  A special mention was given to our new friends over at the newly founded Riverbridge Village, who have been keeping our resident blacksmith very busy while they build all they need to create their new community.

After the speech came the traditional street party feast which was catered for once again by the charitable monks of the Tobbac Abbey and their hard working assistants.  A personal note to add here is that, being the Village Recorder, I, regrettably, could not help my fellow brothers out with their duties.  If I am relieved of this post by the next celebration I shall be delighted to assist.  

Once the feast had run its course, it was time for the children and young adults to perform their presentation pieces.  There were, sadly I feel, very few entrants this year, reflecting the rather low number of youngsters currently in the village.  Young Alistair, the hedgehog, identified a selection of leaves by touch and smell alone, with an audience member getting to choose which of the leaves made up his challenge.  I can see a career in forest management on the horizon for that talented lad.  Another notable performance was from a young cheetah named Haraka, who recited some poetry co-written by his father, who as we know is a respected poet in this village.  With such a strong heritage behind him, Haraka may even be the one to take the pen here as Village Recorder.

When the young ones had finished their pieces, the village dance began.  The music this year was performed by a visiting group of rabbits and hares.  They came seeking overnight refuge after losing a territory battle and were only too happy to lend their marching band to our proceedings.  Having come from the north, they are heading back up there when day breaks, albeit in a different area of the north, having not intended to come quite this far south. 

The sun has since long departed from the sky, but not all is at rest.  The rabbits and hares have taken over a lot of the village hall for the night, which I have no doubt is giving Stafford something to fret over.  If I am able to catch the travellers before they leave tomorrow, I intend to question them about the territory battle as that will probably be worth documenting somewhere and I doubt they have access to their past recordings at the moment.

The tavern is still filled with happy party-goers enjoying the last chance to be together before they have to bed down for the night.  The arrival of our guests has set a lot of speculation and rumour off in relation to the story told during the previous seasons about a fox who has amassed an army in the south and is slowly working his way north.  The messengers we have sent to investigate these claims still are yet to return, but that was to be expected during the colder seasons.  If nothing is heard before the next few times the sun rises, however, I think the sense of unease is certainly going to increase.

I am not in the habit of naming seasons, but I fear that this could be the Spring of the Fallen Village if Tobbac is assailed by villains this season, for there are not enough villagers here trained in fighting should the worst happen.  It has been written many times that this situation displeases the Mayor’s Adviser, Jacob, to a large degree and it would appear that the mayor has, of yet, done little to address the problem.  Some villagers think he has a plan under wraps?  It is true, he might.  However, it is not my job to speculate on what may or may not be; I must record what is and has been.  To which end, today has been a day filled with festivities and enjoyment for the whole village.  Long may these happy days continue.