Big, puffy clouds roll over the afternoon sky as Wil hurries home from Milburh. The wide, open fenland stretches before him, punctuated here and there by a tree or one of the many small rivers which cross the marshy land. Crossing one such - on a bridge, even - he looks downriver, and hesitates, surprised. There's something lying on the bank, something suspiciously person-shaped.
"Wait, is that - one of the rebels?" He makes his way towards it, eyes and ears open in case of ambush, although he of all people ought to be safe from them. He crouches down by the unmoving figure and pokes the weird floppy hat. "Was it true, then - oh!" The hat slides from the figure's head, and Wil gapes in shock at what is revealed.