You do not cut the heads off a hydra, lest they should split, and two strike in place of one, no, learn from Hercules.

You burn the body and salt the bones and tar the earth where it fell.

You hunt the monster as a hatchling, route it out with dogs like a boar from the thicket before it can mature.

And if those who are the evil, hiding behind less monstrous faces, have hidden the torches and salt, slain the bloodhounds?

If heroes have been outlawed, the knowledge of ******* the monsters written out of history, truth become legend and legend lost?

A new generation of heroes will rise, from the most humble seeds, germinating under Promethean fire, and rediscover the old ways.

A maid will take her hair and braid it, cut if off and make it tinder for a torch, gather from her tears their salt, offer the strength of her arms.

An armorer, crippled, will limp on, and craft spears to heckle the beast, and a shepherd will make of the sheepdog a war hound to protect the flock.

Do you hear the earth pushing up, the shears and the lamentations, the blacksmith anvil ring, the baying on the moors?

You will.