Once upon a time there was a brave knight who prospered from slaying a dragon. He shared his riches with the townspeople, financing the building of a castle, and vowed to defeat the evils of the world. Sir Guyon persevered against great earth-shattering peril, the plots of an evil wizard, and the dark magicks that plagued humankind.

But this is not the tale of prince charming, the oh-so-delicate and pampered son of a king who only wished to continue his father’s reign of genocide and campaign of power. No. This is the tale of a ruthless, cunning, and relatable…

VILLAIN.

This villain had a cat. A black and white spotted alley cat that Kragorn found after pulling several bodies from the Tibron River. It followed him home, almost as curious as he was at the cadavers. At that time of night, the city was asleep and the fog had rolled in from the Northern fields. Mr. Nyx would be there in his shop of mysteries and oddities for months to come. And Kragorn was happy for that.

It had been his first companion, friend, or even family member since entering this wretched city. King Cedric had taken them from him at an age that a son should not watch his family taken away to execution camps. Now in his death bed Kragorn wondered if the king had the strength to regret the genocide of his homeland.

The dreaded, quiet, and small room of the Westport apartment was dark and filled with hanging plant life and jars, specimens of dark magic and substances that would assure his ultimate scheme.

Mutilated, scalp melted, and scarred Kragorn looked at the cracked mirror, quickly turning to tinker with the model of the royal throne room. He didn’t want to see the ugliness. The pain of living was enough. He slapped his leg to readjust the bolts in his mechanical leg. Soon the royal family would know his pain. Of course, he had to do it all from memory during his time in the court. His fingers were old which made the model reconstructive that much more difficult. Even if they didn’t take his balls and his freedom during the Messaphin Massacre, his rage only assuaged by Mr. Nix’s gentle nuzzling, he had plenty of reason for vengeance after his unceremonious replacement by that pudgy merchant lord. The court wouldn’t know an honorable man if he came up and bit them on their asses.

At least he didn’t have to scratch his balls like every other man but the phantom presence was still there, reminding him how the King had attempted to kill off his chances of breeding. How foolish they had been for allowing a stranger in their court in the first place. He turned toward the corpse strapped to the table and smiled weakly. His plan would soon be put into action and his final retaliation would be at hand.

His failed attempts plagued his mind even still. The ones where Sir Guyon seemed to foil him at every turn. That son of a whore would need to go if any of his plans were to succeed. Promiscuous and lecherous pig. There was the poisoning of the royal family at the grand fall feast, where the royal court had attended. An utter failure. Sir Guyon being the offspring of the king had the poison changed out for simple ginger when he hired additional food tasters. Then there was the time when Kragorn hired the barbarous and wicked mercenary of Ghildagod to face Sir Guyon in open combat. Failure. The mercenary’s head still remained on a pike above the castle walls.

There was the disappearance of the maidens of the kingdom, Sir Guyon’s favorite whores who also happened to be the daughters of lords in the region. But that also would be a failure. No, no, it couldn’t be. He had to stay positive.

A poor foolish old man, crumbled like nightshade in a pot. He only wanted to save the human race. So many cultures and peoples have been slaughtered by the iron fist and ever-expanding kingdom of Bellowmere and King Cedric. He captured the princess of Whitekeep and placed her in a high tower above the fires of Mount Killian. That was a pleasurable moment in his life. The fake leg seemed minor when he watched Sir Guyon fight his way through hordes of foul creatures, those bog beasts, below. That was a wonderful day indeed. He didn’t take glee in nervously holding that knife to her throat and only held it there with thoughts of his parents being taken away from him. Sir Guyon probably didn’t notice the tears in his eyes when Kragorn hesitated and the knight knocked the blade from his hand.

There was some relief to that failure, knowing he didn’t have to kill the princess but his ire against the crown only grew worse since then. His next plan wouldn’t fail. The test on the cadavers proved fruitful. With a flourish he spun on his leg, grabbed his tattered coat, the flask with the repristinating fluid, and ran toward the door, mindful to give Mr. Nix one more pat. This had to succeed. It would, he told himself. It had to.

The throne room was busy with merchants arguing over stolen bread by the time he snuck in, claiming to be one of the lowlifes, but not under such terms. The lead consoler was feverously trying to assuage them. Guards heavily glanced at the merchants and ignored him thoroughly. Kragorn made his way into the secret doorway in the alcove nearest the far brazier and made his way to the King’s bed chamber in the dark. The potion was valuable. Invaluable. Since it had been made by his hand, the one good one. So many failed attempts, so many times thwarted by that foolish knight.

The king’s chamber was lit by a few candles as he entered. No guards. No family attending the despotic king as he laid in the cold. Kragorn held his leg tight, creeping as quietly as he could to the bedside. King Cedric was so enfeebled that he didn’t recognize the bony face. Kragorn sprinkled the necrotic dust over his beard. The dust swirled into the king’s nostril and ears in a blue mist. Kragorn whispered his secret message, commanding him to act. The king tossed and turned in a nightmare as Kragorn hurried away to watch the results in the throne room.

Kragorn delightfully made his way to the far corner of the illustrious throne room chamber, stored with gold and other ill-gotten gains and waited. Sir Guyon stood near the guards and gasped when he saw the trembling King enter in his night gown. A gasp echoed from the audience. The knight and attendants rushed to the King. He was mumbling to himself in front of the throne and finally he grabbed a hold of Guyon, pulling him close. The message was delivered to the knight in a quiet whisper, as dictated by Kragorn, so that no one else heard. Then suddenly, as expected, the King fell on the stairs and died. Kragorn couldn’t help but smile.

The words sunk deep within Sir Guyon’s ears as he stood there in shock, slowly destroying him. Tears welled in the man’s face as he contemplated what he had heard. The pathetic knight was inconsolable but not just from the death of the King. He wept and wept and finally took out his sword, plunged it into a gap in his armor, and screamed out in splendid pain. That grieving wail was a cry that escaped his own throat many times. All those times Kragorn had failed. He wanted to shout with glee but instead held onto the side pillar.

The attendants, merchants, guards all swamped the dais, muttering and asking what the King told the poor knight. They would never know what killed the young man, only that he was overcome with grief. He would be the only one that didn’t mourn for the horrors the kingdom put Kragorn through. They would never know those simple words that achieved his mightiest glory: “The bog beasts slain by your hand were none other than the lords’ maidens in disguise.”