The Fall of Kittering

by Lee McLeod

The gates of the redoubt creaked open slowly. Behind the wall of mounded earth and stone ramparts, the tent city wrapped around the black basalt walls and turrets of the Temple of the Cudgel – its weary denizens huddled in dread and expectation as the representatives of Kittering walked through the gates and into the blasted no-man’s land between their walls and the trenches of the invaders. We walked cautiously through the maze of carnage, never taking our eyes from the thronging horde gathered at the opposition’s lines. Slowly, carefully, we made our way through the wreckage and rubble and piles of the rotting dead, marching on to hear what doom awaited our pitiful host. A city of twenty thousand souls, now little more than a smoldering ruin, streets haunted by the living dead, and a bare thousand men, women, and children, hiding behind the earthen mound and the walls of the Citadel.

The siege of Kittering began three month ago. The Horde rose in the east, and swept away everything in its path. We made a fierce stand upon our walls at the first. Our holy men’s blessings and the wizard’s fire held the ravagers at bay – at least until the fell beasts began their foul flights. Dozens of leather winged monstrosities flew over the walls, carrying with them smoldering pots of fire and destruction As the missiles fell on the city, whole neighborhoods were torn to pieces, leaving nothing but ruin, death, and smoke that belched thick, oily, and black into the air, staining the sky over our heads. They breached the outer walls. The flames found purchase in the city, and turn the port into a raging holocaust. The scent of ash, and sulfur, and death filled our nostrils, and was soon join by the rot of our adversaries. On and on they came, legion against our already wearied forces. With the undead at our throats and the inferno at our backs, we began our retreat.

The mages began erecting a rampart or earth and stone at the furthest southern edge of the city. Hemmed in and all sides by the sea, leaving only the narrow road over the lowland isthmus to channel the attackers into a narrow killing field at our doorstep, but sealing ourselves into a final holdfast. A small group of heroes held the forces of Night at bay while the redoubt was completed and the city’s survivors hurried behind its safe walls. And there we held, day and night, as the hordes of the undead flung themselves against our defenses. To the roar of the cannon were added the explosions of spell-fire and the incantations of our priests. The dead fell by the thousands and the tens of thousands in that narrow ground, and still they came.

Like a fetid flood they came on in seemingly endless variations of death and corruption, the isthmus turning into a morass of blood and bile, pus and excrement, the hordes charging onward upon the bodies of the fallen. Driven by the iron wills of their carrion-lords they came on. By night their screams tore at the air, the flames of the burning bodies, set alight by arcane fires, guiding their way. By day, beneath hooded helmed, they charged, their lords shielded from the burning touch of day by the oily-black film that still poured into the air from the craters left by the cauldrons that fell throughout the city in their first assault. A menagerie of horror assaulted our eyes at every glance. The mindless walkers, some little more than skeletons, others the ruined visages of once-neighbors, shambled toward the redoubt, moaning, shambling, and clawing. The phages, eaters with jagged talons, glistening fangs and empty eyes, sprinting and leaping, thirsty for the blood they smelled coursing through our veins. Liches and corpse-herders, carrion brutes and shrieking wraiths, bodies hanged and bodies beheaded – all rushing to join the fray. We saw the entrails of the fallen oozing toward our position only to watch them burst, flinging disease and destruction for yards in every direction, and sat bewildered as an angel descended upon the wall, only to see death dripping from the pestilence gathered upon its feet as it unfurled a grotesque mockery of wings made from the flayed flesh of its own body. There was no end to horrors we witnessed upon those walls.

Yet the wall held. And days became weeks became months, as we exhausted ourselves upon the defenses, holding off sortie after sortie – waiting, watching, searching for some sign of hope.  And then we heard of the Horde’s search for an ancient power, buried deep in the south. The bravest among us volunteered for the mission, leaving secretly by night, to begin their journey. If only we had known – if only we had moved more swiftly, perhaps the scourge might have been averted. Weeks passed, and hope flickered. A relief column, holy warriors and grey mercenaries, a strong host, approached from the west. The battle lines of the undead shifted to fight on two fronts. For the briefest moment we thought we would see them break. And then, deep in the south, a fire began to burn.

Flames rolled toward us, not upon the ground, but in the sky – a wall of flames, rushing toward us, fire stained with a deep sickly green of raw eldritch arcana, a poisoned flame that filled the air from horizon to horizon, and carried a scream of desolation on the wind as it came. The Red Lady appeared in our midst, carrying a white branch, which she planted in the midst of the redoubt at the steps of the Citadel. Round her gathered the priests and the mages, weaving their spells together as though to cover our holdfast in a hedge of protection. The flames raged, and the fire rained down on Kittering, the stench of death and decay overwhelming our senses. The Undying Host flung itself upon the Redoubt anew. They brought with them the animated corpses of behemoths, great monsters in the form of men, bent and twisted, and these death-bringers led, the charge. At their head came one of the Lords of Night, a woman garbed in glistening steel plate, her phage-guards circling around her, fangs shining in the fiery twilight. The gate could not hold against their assault.

Yet in that moment, as the gate fell and with it our hopes of survival, and strange calmness seemed to fill the Red Lady.  She turned, facing the Night-lord, and strode toward her, calmly yet with a purpose. The guards at the wall moved to strike down the phage-guard, as the two women crossed the field. The Vampire queen raised a blade high to strike, and in that moment the Red Lady held out her own hand and placed it against the enemy’s breastplate. There was a pulse of raw power and a calm flash of light – and in that light I saw a gleaming brilliance, as of the dawn, pulse through the form of the invader, and as it passed through, I thought I saw a shadow pass as well. The vampire fell to the ground, and uttering a final word known only to the Red Lady herself, she breathed out and the ravages of stolen ages passed over her, leaving nothing but hollow armor and dust.

The White Tree held the ravages of that infernal fire at bay, and seeing the Light of Creation, the lux aeterna, in the hands of the Red Lady, the Hordes of Night drew back, away from our walls, and waited. Days passed with no further attacks, as we drew the survivors of the relief column into our holdfast. We tended our wounded, repaired our gate, prepared our weapons, and waited. Then came the clarion call of a horn, sounding to us from across the no-man’s land. We all held our breath, watching. Soon we saw a small party of the enemy, no more than six, moving to the center of the isthmus, carrying a white flag, calling out to us for a parley. Their lord was prepared to offer us terms for the surrender of Kittering.

And now I, marshal of the city, find myself walking across the narrow deadly expanse. With me are the Ladies of Kittering, both Red and Gold, and the captains of the relief columns. We walk cautiously, watching for any sign of treachery. Our nerves are all on-edge, our senses keen, yet the enemy offers not so much as a snarl at our approach. We cross through the carnage, and begin the walk from the low hollow of the isthmus up the slight incline to the fortifications of the Host of Night. We have seen so many thousands of these abominations fall, and yet, standing here in the midst of their camp, it is impossible to count the number that remain. They press in tight order, yet give way to our party, as we walk to the pavilion erected in sight of our redoubt.

A woman greets us, another of the Lord of Night, and beckons us to await the arrival of their master. No less than four of the Lords of Night stand within arm’s-reach of our party, close enough to smell the blood on them, and see the glistening blood that still lingers on their lips and fangs as the talk quietly amongst themselves. And then the press of the Horde begins to give way to a growing shadow, as the air around us grows palpably cold. The crowd begins to part, and a chill sweeps up my back. Coming toward us is a jet-black throne, crafted from bone and adorned with gold, mounted upon a wheeled dais, ringed with runes and carvings depicting scenes of conquest and bloodletting. The profane carocchio is pulled by six dragonkin, their black scales glinting in the last lights of the setting set.

Yet it is not this spectacle, but the figure reclining on the throne that threatens to stop my heart within my chest. A hissing whisper of despair and doom rises within my heart as he draws near. The cold emanating from his presence turns hope to ice in my soul. Dressed in black robes that seem to hide and devour all light, he sits, regal and relaxed as a monarch in a palace, not a warchief on a battlefield. A twisted crown wrought of pale green silver and black gold twines round his head, and a cruel-edged sword rests at his side. At his feet are the crowns of a dozen kings, their ornaments rest upon his dais. A shadow, in waves and wispy smoke seems to roil before him, reaching and grasping, absorbing and killing every shred of light in its path, and filling the undead around it with a surge of vigor and strength.

Mercifully the cart comes to a halt just before the shadow reaches the pavilion where we stand – the faintest edges of its tendrils seeming to reach for us, the stroke the ground, to the caress the on-lookers. The sickly-sweet scent of death hangs in the air. The Vampire Queen turns to her lord, and it is as though I can hear them speak, though a heavy silence rests over the whole of the assembly. At last she turns, and begins to address us.

“My lords and captains, and you, Marshal – I greet in the name of my liege. I am his voice. We come to you with terms. We applaud your courage and tenacity in the defense of your city. No other township has so withstood our hosts…

“Hosts?” I think to myself, “then this is but a part of the whole? What fell power has been brewing for so long in the East?”

…But surely you must now see that your time is at an end. The water will be no barrier to the goblin-born or the dark elves you, even now, see gathering amongst our ranks. The White Tree has held the scourge-fire at bay in your township. Yet your scouts must have reported the truth of the matter to you. The curse has fallen, and the Kingdom of Shadows now controls every land south of the Brön Mountains. The Empire has fallen. The shreds of your relief forces now gathered within your defenses are all that remains of the Imperial forces. Your have fought valiantly and held your ground, but the time for struggle is at an end. You need not perish here, the memory of your courage lost to the ages. My father offers these terms…”

But her voice drifts off into the background. Instead, my attention is riveted to the figure seated upon the throne. Small, nearly imperceptible movements of his head seem to suggest that the vampire-queen’s words are not her own, but rather narrated through her lips. She dances like a puppet on a string. In the Kingdom of Shadows all wills are his will, and he who sits upon that throne, will court no discussion. These are not terms, these are a proclamation.

And then, as though sensing my own thoughts, his heads shifts again, and I find myself staring into the face of the King of Shadows. His face covered in a pallid mask, etched in runes and whorls, I find myself staring into the blackness within the mask’s eyes – and then the sensation of falling, falling as the darkness hidden behind that mask has swallowed me up entirely. And images begin to flood my consciousness. I see the King, unrobed, naked, floating like me in the black outer darkness. A flood of images – a stillborn godling, malformed, a horrible parody of life, floating, a font of endless un-life. I see fangs flash in the darkness. I see a new godling born in the midst of the chaos, emerging filled with the dying essence of the rotting deity.

Then I am standing behind him at the shores of a great lake. A warm breeze blows, and the tattered yellow hem of his robes flaps, as we stare into the blackness of the night sky. In the distance lies an ancient dying city, beneath the signs of the Hyades and Aldebaran.

Then I am standing facing him, the inky blackness around me alive with the sound of a subterranean world, the cracks, splashes, and haunting echoes of an immense cavern – a world that he has conquered and remade in his own image. A world of blood and terror. A world of vice and pleasure. A world of ecstacy and suffering.

And for a moment I see it – like the golden flash of dawn in my mind’s eye – a world in his own image. A caricature, a mockery, and mirror. But his parody of creation, hides our reality at its core. His hosts of malformed corruption gathered upon this field of battle, are lovingly created by a master artist – a sketch of our world through his eyes, a sketch that leaves us hollowed by the recognition of its accuracy.

I see the city through the eyes of the mask: I see a child trampled to death under the feet of the city’s fleeing denizens. I see the cannibals hanged two weeks ago at their grizzly feast in their tent. I see the dark souls of the men who came to rescue us, burning with hatred and malice, fueled by oaths made to ancient dark powers, oaths of blood and death. I see the poisoned soul of the assassin and betrayer, torn apart with hopelessness and despair as he tore out the throat of our greatest champion while she sat at prayer. I see myself, standing over the body of a heretic, skull crushed beneath my mace, and I see the contentment on my own face as I watch his body twitch lifelessly in the mud. I see the true face of the city, of the world, and suddenly I know the soul behind the pallid mask for who he is.

He comes only to reveal what is already there. Appearing like a Phantom armed only with Truth, the truth about ourselves, the truth of our world, leaving us standing face-to-face with the banal horror of our own existence, shocked by the truth and left with only madness or subservience to turn to.

And suddenly I feel my soul being pulled from my vision back into my mortal form, drawn back through the darkness and horror made manifest by the gilded sigil in the mask’s forehead into my own body. I find myself standing in the assembly again, staring into the empty eyes of that pale formless mask, looking into the not-eyes of a king; of a god – a god-king… the God-King of Night. His emissarie's words catch my attention again.

“All the lands with fifty miles of the walls of Kittering will be held as a protectorate – to be governed as it’s denizens elect. Their annual tribute shall be paid to the Baron la Mierce, who will be the Kingdom’s regent within the Protectorate. Within the Protectorate, five laws will remain sacrosanct – the practice of ‘turning’ and the channeling of the lux aeterna is forbidden, as are the blessing of arms or armors; each year three hostages, one for each month of the siege, shall be delivered to the Kingdom’s regent at his manor at Theira;  that all arms are to be bound while in the townships of the Regent, and surrendered upon request of any Regents’ officers, nor may any arms be fitted with any form of true-death magic; that the Trees are to be left untouched, neither watered nor molested, nor may any portion be carried or transported for any reason. Finally, obeisance will everywhere be offered at the arrival of the Dread-Lord and before his Standard, on penalty of death.

So says my Lord. Agree, and this host will depart to the borders on this protectorate. Refuse, and we will erase the name of Kittering from the minds of men. We would have your answer now.”

We looked at one another for a long time. Standing, staring, wondering, watching. We can see the exhaustion of our people reflected in our own faces. We can see the smoldering ruins of our homes. The death of hope, of dreams, of joy. And then one by one, we turn to face the black throne, and fall to one knee, amid the ash and the blood, before the God-King of Night.

Penance

by Lee McLeod

The heavy scent of still, old air fills the tunnel. The only sound other than the soft slapping pats of dripping water in the darkness comes from the throat of the armored figure kneeling quietly before the door of the forgotten crypt. The quiet prayer in the old High Sylvan tongue drifts through the mausoleum, “Mighty Cudgel, hear my prayer. My blood cries out from the ground, mingled with my tears. I offer you, Great Avenger, my lifeblood as my libation before your throne. Grant me justice, and vengeance to those who have wronged me. Let not my blood be washed away. Let not my life be forgotten.” A mailed hand traces over the rune-carved door, as a soft blue glow begins to emanate from the sigils.

After a few moments, the figure rises, slowly, as the sharp pain in his lower back begins to scream. He turns to leave, only to find himself face-to-face with the thief. The priest quickly pulls his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, hoping to cover the stain of the blood as it oozes through the bolt-hole punched through the back of his breastplate. The thief’s eyes narrow with a spark of curiosity, before the old familiar haughty expression returns. "I'm not planning on murdering your friend,” he says quietly, but firmly. “You might want to try to talking him out of murdering me as well."

The priest’s brow furrows as he prays silently, “may the Avenger grant me patience and wisdom,” before answering the thief’s question.

"Tell me, thief - why are you here? Why are you traveling with us? It can't be for the pleasurable company. And it can't be because you think to somehow turn a profit from these pointless wanderings. Why are you here?"

The cleric’s abrupt response seems to puzzle the cutpurse. “What choice do I have?”

“You could left us at any time - in the Dales, both Kittering and the Cotting were large enough for one like you to ply his trade, or while we meandered through the hill-country. You could have left us at virtually any point in the last four weeks, and yet you continue to tag along. Why?

"It’s obvious that you aren't trying to help the council. You can't be doing to help the sellsword or the lady, or you wouldn't be so disrespectful to their beliefs. And I’m certain that you aren't here to help me track down my contracts. But you remain. Why, after all this time, are you still hanging on our heels?"

The thief stares at the priest for a moment, brow furrowed in genuine confusion, before he shakes his head. “You were present for the "puppets and pawns" speech, right?” At the reference, images of a sand-dry voice, a visage of dry cracked corpse-flesh, and the hollow glowing eyes sockets rush into the priest’s mind.  “I've apparently been picked for this. If I had my way I'd leave and never look back, but it doesn't seem like I've got much of a choice.” His tone seems to soften momentarily.  “Besides, even if I tried to run, where would I go?

Then shaking his head to snap himself out of his own introspection, he continues. “I could ask you the same question, cleric. It's obvious you've devoted your life to the fool's errand of revenge. Call them whatever you want, but I've seen the look in your eyes whenever you talk of the men you hunt. Why tag along with the witch and that unstable hick when you could be sating your bloodlust on those you chase? Why are you letting them slow you down?”

The priest’s sharp reply cuts him off, "Then you continue on this quest because that fool of a necromancer in the clouds told you too? His ploys to manipulate us and those fools on the council are as plain as the glyphs on that wall. We are no "puppet and pawns" unless we choose to bend our will to that of a corpse-herder.

"I continue on this errand because the council, for reasons unknown to me, asked for my help. And I cannot, in good faith, refuse aid to the innocent. The lady is here of her own accord. Her journey draws her is strange circles I do not understand. The sellsword has stood beside me as a brother-in-arms more times than I can remember. We may not always agree on the means, but our ends lie along the same path."

"I am here because I am meant to be here. I am a Harrier of the Council of Prelates. They hold my commission, my oath, and my allegiance. I hunt whom they direct me, where they direct me. And in all things, I serve the Cudgel. Those who I track now are of less value than the worms we crushed under the hooves of our horses on the way here. They sacrificed all claims to humanity and all pleas for mercy when they murdered women and children in cold blood on the steps of the temple in the Cotting. I hunt them at the pleasure of the Council, but sometimes,” a small gleam flashes in the priest’s eyes, “and take pleasure of my own in the hunt.

At the words, a twinge of pain races across his features, and the thief watches him shift slightly in his stance. After a brief moment, the priest collects his composure, and continues. "But none of that answers the question, thief. Why tag along? You wish to bend your will to the mad ravings of a decrepit old bone-hag? Leave his ramblings about “puppets and pawns” aside; he is as inconsequential as the weak spells which animated those poor bodies in these crypts. His kind are parasites. Ignore him. His only power lies in his ability to manipulate weak minds. You must decide for yourself what your purpose is. Choose your own fate, discover your own destiny."

A heavy sharpness enters into the cleric’s voices as he says, "It is for you to decide the whether and the why of your traveling with us. But if you are to continue along our path, we need to come to some agreement about acceptable and unacceptable behavior, beginning with the desecration of hallowed tombs!” The sharp rasp of these last words echo softly through the tunnel as the two men stand, toe-to-toe, staring coldly into each other’s eyes.

And then the silence is broken by the soft chuckle of the thief.  “A corpse-herder he may be, but a creature more powerful than you or those you serve could ever dream of being – unless, of course, you have to power to alter time and trick people, including delusional clerics, into doing your bidding? And you did his will before without noticing. What makes you think you'd notice it now? After all, you've dedicated your life to being the puppet of the church. And I know enough about magic to understand that you and he draw some of your spells from the same place. Unless you’d like to suggest that that little trick back there, making the hobs rot from the inside out, isn't drawn from the Void?

“So you do this because the High Council asked? I'm surprised you'd do anything requested of you by a group that includes that fat baron. I am here because I was asked as well. I've nowhere else to go, and I'm less likely to be found by the fanatics of the Blood Crescent wandering around in the wilds with you lot.

The thief’s eyes grow hard.  “But I may reconsider. You claim to want only justice, and yet when your friend threatens to kill me, you don't worry about stopping him from committing murder. And you have the gall to hassle me about why I'm here? I wonder, priest, if he did murder me, would you be able to punish him as you would any other murderer? Or would your principals be decayed by your friendship?”

The thief steps back, his hand moving, unseen, from the pommel of a hidden blade. “In any case, don't worry about me. I've no wish to have to try my daggers against your friend’s swords. I'll stay out of his way. You might want to keep him out of mine.”

He then turns to head back down the dark passageway, toward the redoubt erected by the party in an adjoining chamber. After a handful of steps, he stops and turns toward the priest, shaking his head slightly. “You know, you remind me of someone I met a long time ago. He was a priest too. His only purpose in life was tracking and killing those his god wanted dead. He lived only to bring glory to his god, and to serve his will. Like you, he found purpose only in obedience to his masters, and he enjoyed his work. Truly, I can find only one small difference between you and him - you worship the Cudgel. He worshipped the Reaper.” A sardonic smile crosses his features as he turns and disappears into the darkness of the tunnel, leaving the priest standing alone at the door to the sepulcher.

Sometime later, the priest steps into the room with the rest of the party. He closes the heavy wooden door behind himself, removing a hard iron piton from his satchel, and jams it hard in the door-jam, spiking the door shut. As he turns to the rest of the group, the sellsword steps toward him, holding one of the arrows out before him. The weapon is finely crafted, the head lined with cruel barbs, designed to sink deep, to cut and rend while they remain, and to rip and tear when removed. A greasy film covers the surface of the arrowhead. His back begin to ache again as he looks at the devilish implement.

“Tormond, the lady says she’s never seen an arrow like this before. Any idea where it might have come from? Not the sort of thing hobs usually carry.”

The priest takes the arrow, turning over in his hands. "Doesn't look like anything I've seen before. Not an assassin's weapon, more of a battle arrow...but definitely not hob-make. These must have been acquired from some other source.” His mind begins to sort through the possible means and motives for supplying a band of hob raiders with such weaponry. Recovering himself, he replies, "But what about you? How are your wounds feeling? Did the healing help some?"

"Yeah, I'm doing fine. Still missing a chunk out of my leg from pulling the arrow out, though. I won't be doing that again. Thank you. I was in bad shape. Did you get hit? The shots came from the dark as I started charging so I missed what happened."

The lady’s voice speaks from across the room. “Are you alright, Brother Tormond? You seem distracted.”

He turns slightly to face the elf, and a piece of his cloak catches for a moment on broken shaft of the arrow, where it punched through the thick steel of his cuirass. The brief movement of the arrow brings and explosive of pain that arches from his side across his entire body, making him wince with pain. He coughs, roughly, in an attempt to cover his agony. "I was wounded as well, but nothing too serious. I took care of it. Shouldn’t have let them catch us by surprise like that though. Doesn't speak well of our combat prowess to get chewed up in an ambush by a bunch of hobs. Ah well, such complaints are nothing but wounded vanity, and the beasts now swim in pools of their own blood and filth. More than they deserve.” He hides another cough within a rough chuckle, before continuing.

"And everyone else, are your wounds feeling better? Perhaps we'd best bunker down for a while - rest up before continuing on." The party nods in agreement, and begins to settle down for a long rest. The priest settles himself down in a corner, groaning under his breath as he tries to sit down. He begins packing a pipe-bowl and chars it, before taking a long pull. As the smoke begins to drift around him, his mind begins to wander.

Smoke and darkness. Too confident. Too hasty. Again. He hears an echo from deep within his mind, screams and cries of anguish, fires burning. He smells the bitter tang of blood and bile, hears the hoof-beats, and everywhere the sounds of death. We should have been ready. I should…again, it’s all happening again. Struck from behind, struck from the darkness, friends crying out in pain. I’ve failed again. When will I learn to open my eyes? How much more blood must be spilt before I wake up?

As if in answer, he feels a warm trickle running down the small of his back, and a strange coldness beginning to spread from the steady ache in my side. How much more blood must be spilt before you wake up, Tormond?

Guess who's back?

Hello internet friends! After a longer than planned hiatus, I've returned! Well, sort of.

While I'm finally moved, married, and gainfully employed, I'm in the process of turning the place I live from a sterile white box into a home where humans do human things. You know, like cook and respirate. Contrary to whatever farcical expectations I began this endeavor with (e.g. painting doesn't take long, the best position for furniture is self evident, nothing will be broken) yesterday was two weeks and I still have shit to do.

However, I want to start sharing all the guest content I mentioned in my previous post. No, not the one with the blood water. The one before that. If you saw a message in the blood water, please follow your destiny to whatever dark conclusion you were promised.

This afternoon I'll run the first story I received. It's titled Penance, and was written by my good friend Lee McLeod. I'll do two guest posts a week until I run out of material, at which point I hope to have something to put up here. It could be comedy, it could be horror, it could be a tapeworm fresh from a woman's throat doing a burlesque. We'll see.

The Microwave's Ghost, Batman's Day Out, and my twitter feed will resume Monday the 2nd.

Here are some dinosaur stickers for being so patient during my drastic life reorganization:

Please do not try to peel the dinosaur stickers off your screen as you will break your computer or laptop or mobile smartphone. Sadly, technology has not advanced such that I can send glue or other adhesives through interweb code.

The best I can recommend is for you to print the dinosaurs, carefully cut them out, and then use an adhesive of your choice (or tape! there is no shame in tape!) to place them where you would like. Then you may proceed to have whatever dinosaur themed adventures you can come up with. I'm not trying to limit your creativity, but here are some suggestions:

1.) One of the dinosaurs has become lost, and the others must find/rescue him/her.

2.) It is dinosaur Christmas and they are having a party.

3.) The dinosaurs find an abandoned theme park and go exploring.

4.) A mysterious figure offers one of the dinosaurs a trip in his van, but a police officer teaches them all a valuable lesson about strangers.

Thank you.