Long ago, in the moors of Scotland, their lived a farmer and his family. He and his wife had managed to have nine daughters, each beautiful and fair. He was a very happy man, and could not ask for more in his life. One day, he asked the eldest daughter to fetch some water from the local well. She left the house at midday, saying to her father she would be back by supper. The hours passed, and the father became worried. He sent out another daughter. She also did not return. One by one, all his daughters where sent, and none returned. He then went himself to see where they had vanished too. When he arrived at the well, however, he was met with a horrific sight. A huge dragon lay sleeping. It had sunset-orange skin, with razor sharp teeth and claws. And surrounding it, lay the bodies of all his daughters, mutilated beyond recognition. He let out a muffled shriek, and sprinted as fast as he could from the well. He soon arrived at the local village, and told the townspeople about the dragon, and how it had eaten all of his daughters. The villagers where horrified, and grabbed their pitchforks and torches, preparing to slay the beast. They set off towards the old well as quick as they could. They arrived, and all saw the mighty dragon. The villagers began to stab the beast, attempting to kill it while it slept. Nothing they possessed, however could pierce its thick hide. The beast soon awoke, and let out an ear-splitting roar. The village folk began to run away, fearing that the dragon would eat them all. All except for one, by the name of Martin. He had been a lover of one of the farmers daughters, and reckless with distraught, leapt upon the dragon, armed with nought but a club. He began too beat the dragon with it. Hew clambered around its head, whacking it brutally and mercilessly. The dragon let out a cry of pain, and began to stretch its enormous wings, attempting to escape the relentless clubbing. Martin however would not stop, driving his club deep and hard. The villagers cried out from far down below “Strike Martin, kill the beast!”. Martin, channelling all his anger and will, struck hard and true, and cracked the dragons skull, killing the beast. It clattered too the ground, along with martin. He was a hero, and in honour the town was named “Strathmartine”, after what the villagers shouted, now modern day Dundee.