Quirlton nestled comfortably in its little valley, the sort of place where nothing extraordinary ever happened unless you counted the local Lancle cheese, which most people didn’t.

Sergeant Fred Colon (retired, though his knees still argued otherwise) had settled here after leaving the City Watch, hoping for peace, quiet, and a steady trade in cheese. He got the cheese. The peace and quiet was patchy.

On this particular morning, Fred was rearranging a wheel of Lancle Blue in the window when the sky lit up like a bonfire and something fiery and very much not cheese-shaped came wobbling down over the valley. Quirlton folk, unused to flaming celestial objects, reacted with their usual measured calm: they carried on polishing milk churns and muttering about the weather.

The shop bell tinkled. A customer walked in, eyes still reflecting the streak of fire across the sky. “Evenin’, Fred. You see that thing fallin’ out the heavens?”

Fred squinted. “Aye. Looked smite-shaped, if you ask me.”

“Smite?” the man frowned. “Round here? We’ve barely got the facilities.”

Before Fred could reply, there was a tremendous _sploosh_ from the river. Out of the spray staggered a soaking wet figure with wild hair, dragging along what looked suspiciously like a wooden crate with legs.

“Afternoon!” the stranger beamed, dripping onto the cobbles. “Excellent test flight!”

The crate, which bristled with a kind of menacing indignation, snapped its lid in a way that made Fred’s watchman instincts twitch.

Fred put down his cheese cloth. “All right, sir. Name?”

“Leonard of Quirm,” said the man cheerfully, wringing out his sleeves. “Inventor, artist, occasional aeronaut. I appear to have miscalculated slightly on the wing deployment stage.”

Fred glanced at the smouldering contraption bobbing in the river. “Looks more than slight to me.”

Leonard brightened. “Oh, but failure is merely success in progress! Now then… you wouldn’t happen to have any spare parchment and cheese wire, would you? I think I can rebuild.”

Fred gave him the flat look perfected after decades in the Watch. “This is a cheese shop, mister. Not an aircraft hangar.”

The Luggage snapped its lid again, more pointedly this time.

The customer leaned in and whispered, “Fred, is it me or does that box look… murderous?”

Fred sighed, rubbing his temples. “Son, I’ve policed Murkstone-Snatchly. I know murderous. That there’s just annoyed.”

Leonard, oblivious, picked up a hunk of Lancle Blue, sniffed it, and beamed. “Splendid material! The density alone could support a rudder assembly.”

Fred snatched it back. “That’s cheese. For eating. Not for strappin’ on yer flying deathtrap.”

Leonard looked momentarily crestfallen, then brightened again. “Well then, perhaps just a small slice, to celebrate a safe landing?”

Fred gave him the cheesemonger’s smile that said, in no uncertain terms, _pay first, collapse later._

Outside, Quirlton returned to normal: cows chewed, villagers muttered, and the fiery trail in the sky slowly faded from memory. It was, all things considered, an ordinary day.

Extraordinary by Quirlton standards.