The grasslands of New Zealand were under consideration for the new resort. The spot they were looking at had a beautiful treeline and miles of space for golfing. There wasn't much residence to contend with so they felt pretty confident about moving forward.

Burnt Hill is a small, rural community named for the extinct volcano in the township's southeast corner. They arrived late in the afternoon, settled in at the tavern and headed out to explore the area, but not before grabbing a pint and chatting up the bartender.

"How's business these days, mate? We're looking to expand our market into the area."

"Yeh 'mahket', eh.  What's yeh mahket?"

"We're in the resort business, we'd like to bring one here, with a golf course.  You know liven up the local economy."

"We do just foyn, d'noe 'ow many galfers yuh'll get from these pahts, but I'm sure it'll 'ave it's own draw. Yuh'll wanna watch the fahrust, tho.  Ogres."

"What?  Did you say ogres? Like goblins and trolls, ogres?"

"Aye."

They gave each other smug glances, thanked the barkeep for his time and settled their bill. By the end of the night and after canvassing most of the town, they decided they were part of some elaborate ruse to dissuade them from building here. If not that, then the whole town was ogre crazy.

In the morning they headed straight for the plot of land they were looking to develop. It really was gorgeous, so hilly and green. And, those TREES, those trees were dense and lush, the perfect backdrop. They pulled the trigger that day. Full steam ahead.

*fast forward*

The Verge Resort is thriving, reservations booked months out. The golf course is lovely.  In celebration of their success, the development team is playing 18 holes. Next turn, one of them strikes the ball into a tree deep in the rough and it bounces back onto the fairway, lucky boy. He's lining up his next shot and hears the snap of wood in the trees behind him. No one else is paying attention, they're engaged in conversation by the golf cart. He turns and walks slowly toward the treeline, peering in. There's a smell in the air, it's earthy and rotten, tinged with sulfur. Movement catches his eye and before he can register what's happening a giant hand is around his chest, snatching him from the ground. Breathing is impossible in the clutch of what he cannot believe he's really seeing. The bartender from the tavern is standing nearby.  He makes a motion with his hand and whispers:

"Ogre, flog a golfer. Go."