This animal, they call it a horse, its body etched in chalk into the side of a hill. It watches the landscape, watches over the dragon mound, watches over the forge that was Excalibur's birthplace.

He seems skeletal, the lines thin, his body thin, but his stance is active. He is rearing, running maybe, ready to pounce, to leap, to strike... I don't think he's a horse at all. I think he is the dragon.

For thousands of years he's stood there, ground and grooved into the hillside. Perhaps it isn't chalk at all, but the blood of George's success bleached white by time and sunlight.