In the fading light of early evening, a carriage races across the moor, the horse’s flanks flecked with foam and heaving from exertion. Chasing them is a man in a black mask on a black stallion, who laughs like the devil himself. “You can run, but you’ll nary escape the Beast of Brannigan!” He cackles madly, terrifying the driver and the passengers within. Finally, the carriage horses halt of their own accord, exhausted. The man dismounts, throws open the carriage door and smiles slyly.
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