The Knight

't Was in the soft light of a misty morning that sir Mordimarty the Destroyer of Worlds, took a sip of 'is well earned jasmin tea. Glad and reluctant he was about the performances that night. Not man' would've withstood the 'nhuman challenges that he went through, for only his power and unbeknownst bravery...

Though through the mist forthbrought shortsight of glory shone a cold loss from the heavens, deep into the one muscle Mordimarty tried so rigorously to hide. The loss of 'is dear friend sir Brothbane o' Bellowriver, whose relation to Mordimarty 'ad always far succeeded that of a mere fellow. 't Was as though the heavens'd felt the losses' cold. For they shone color galore through morning mists to sooth earths 'ts mourn...

't Was in those moments that misery embarked on its solesome journey to mischievously devour Mordimarty's mighty multitudal mind, that woefully failed at the repelling of that low aspiration. Not the victory and contentment was in his willfull heart tha' moment, but sheer pain 'n black gal confined the contours of 'is inner space. He remembered the way he and Brothbane o' Bellowriver courted alongside with the lady o' Barrowvich and the queen o' Guiradelle. In the cataclism of the ill-fated necessity (later called the accident of multidimensional ruin of worlds (in which Mordimarty may have had a most small yet undeniable role...)) these most venerable and beauteous ladies came to their underserved ends. The mourning that followed was largely softened by the consolation of his indespensible friend Brothbane o' Bellowriver. 't Was such that made his current grief the more sorrowful...

't is in between two sips o' jasmin tea that it b'comes clearer than the brightness of present to the good sir that 't is the grim scythebearer who proves to be the truest fiendish evil in Mordimarty's tale. Thus our brave Destroyer desides on 'is fate and puts his leather strapped boots in the wet dirt below 'is stool. Mordimarty will need to take on this evil of old and find his vengeance where it is met. The hair on 'is muscular arm tells him he is ready for this battle to come. Except that the state of 'is weapon leaves a great deal to be desired and will need improvement ere the battle to come...

Yes, skillful as 't had been wrought, 'is offensive mechanical companion in dire times of need, 'ad seen through long-wintered battles of ages past. Th'Hair Dryer of th'Enshrouded Lands o' Catawhysp, engulfed in the martial arts of Sir Tywain the craftful, 'ad serv'd 'im well. However, oh, the compart'ment that contained the winds that blow in directions general had been deceitfully disabled in the contrivements of the Scythebearer, grimful as he was. No match was he, the Destroyer of Worlds, 'gainst the scythe of that gruesome being. Now, left 'lone in his misery and ineptitude there was but one he could call for...

No sooner said than done th' quest o' legends commenced. Aye, the feared warmonger sháll smite this mewling quim ere 'is doom is met! And be it so, b'fore 'e c'd tell 'is steed to show the true meaning of haste they had found themselves 'nfron' of th' famed weapon master's armory...

"Thanks be to thee, Shadowfox," Mordimarty spoke to 'is 'airy comrad when he dismount' and stood 'fore the armory of Sir Tywain the Craftful. This well-sighted man 'd 'ready marked th' vast approaching o' Mordimarty Destroyer of Worlds. Thus, in door's opening he stood: "'t Is rather late for thee, o' Mord'marty, to call for the support that com's from me. I witnessed the rise o' planets this morn', in sky above there. 'Mpeding your cause most recently born, noble and fair. Now, let me hav' look at that Dryer o' hair." Attent'vly looking his willful companion in 'is single dark eye, Mordymarty struggled for finding sent'ses with a scheme 'o rhyme. Thus, during Mordymarty's utter silence Tywain craft'd the improved Catawhyspian object, singing songs of old. Finally Tywain spoke reverently: "Here then, is the weapon thee desired, such that quests may unfold as aspired. May ever in need be thee, then surely thou mayst come to me." And thus, speaking w'th labour of thought, Mordimarty answered from his steed aloft: "Bye, to thy," and so went yonder, 'bout his coming battle to ponder...

Wonder took over sir Mordimarty's mind, for he does not know the tall skinny figure's whereabouts. A single question r'placed 'is reveries of past; "Where would one find the cloaked scrawny fiend?" Where indeed if not on life's edge? The destroyer's task w's clear. He would need to meet 'is doom to meet death's maker. He knows of a way to achieve s'ch a goal. According to the old manuscripts of death one would simply need to write ancient words of undoing in the sand: "/effect give @s poison". And for sir Mordimarty, it will happen so...

Yet, from dist'nt heavens a thunderous voice spoke aloud: "My potions are toooow strong for you trav'ler!" And 'midst the sand, grains shaped, curving in horrifying convergence towards the undoing sentence that could not be read with mistake: "/kill @Mordimarty_Destroyer_of_Worlds_69". Afore this fellow, comprehended the words, written thus, death's grasp was near and world's very existence dis'peared 'fore the fellow's mind. Mordimarty, destroyer of worlds, faced the inescapable fate, cast by divine will. Laid his senses to rest, filling 'is mind with the doom now met.