Sir Maglamore of Waed, a self-appointed Sir, and questing knight of no Order in particular, was killed by fish.
Being a lifelong lover of ancient tales of chivalric knights and deeds of derring-do, Sir Maglamore could not have imagined such an ignoble, forgettable death. He had hoped for something grander, something that the minstrels and songweavers would be singing about for generations to come. Instead, he died alone and cold, unknown to anyone at all.
As a boy, his small township was leveled by Goblin entrepreneurs intent on expanding their tunnels beneath the foundations of his homestead. When his people refused to comply, the Goblins, like the glorified bandits they were, razed the thatch-roofed huts, and drove the remaining few villagers off into the wilderness. With no family, and nothing to his name, Sir Maglamore vowed to avenge his people, and rid the land of Goblins and their vile avarice.
But life as a lone vigilante-knight proved to be difficult. He hadn’t the resources to stand against the corporate dungeon machine; after all, he was a self-appointed Sir. As luck would have it, however, while he tarried along the Middle-Route Run across the vast expanse of Mucklands, a crumpled flier came dancing down the road on a billowing wind: “Meat teh King uv Grimly Would,” it read. A King? Sir Maglamore had never heard of a living King. A real, live King with a castle! Surely this King could not abide the sorry state of the world, and the hordes of fiends and rapscallions who prospered in a lawless age. Sir Maglamore would gain this King’s audience. He would serve this King. He would rid the land of Goblins in this King’s name.
But when Sir Maglamore came upon Castle Lake, the small rope-hauler dinghy was on the opposite end of the moat. Adorned in full plate mail, he thought better of swimming in the murky waters, but as days passed and no one exited or entered the keep, the knight plunged into the lake grasping at the rope to pull himself along.
At first it was a tickle, like a lady gently caressing his liver, or his brain. Then an itch. A searing itch in his heart. When he emerged from the lake, he tried desperately to remove his armor, but this strange feeling had tugged at his very soul: everything he had ever believed was wrong. What was he doing here? Who was the King in this castle? What was the point of it all? When his eyes finally blinked away the water, and he tried to peer out the slit in his visor, all he could see were fish–black, wriggling demon-eyed fish, with smiles so wide they blotted out the sun.