It was dark days in Avonlea. Dark days of mourning. The sky was blood and the roads had long been paved with the trampled bones of those poor villagers who could not escape monsters risen from the deep. Nightmares made flesh. Relentless, brutal. Inhuman.
The threat was gaining ground and the creatures could not be bargained with. Of Avonlea, of its people, they only wanted one thing: more.
It had taken a decade of battles waged and lost, generations of men banding together in the killing fields, all of them dying broken and bloodied. Those widows who lived fled with their children to the next village and the next. There was no escaping the rising tide of monsters. They were legion.
Strange, then, so strange that in these darkest of days, these years of blood skies and carnage, that Avonlea's savior would come in the impish form of the Dark One.