Sir Nancelot

    The crescent sun peeks its pointy head over Tarpolk Mountain while the small village of Keytune lay engulfed in the light and colors of dawn. The surrounding hills pierce the stagnant fog that fills the entire valley like the ancient Moosefish coming up for a kiss of the sunlight shining upon Lake Terothor.
    Our hero, Sir Nancelot, lay atop a grassy hill overlooking the cloudy village. Infant rays of sunlight glance across his powdered face and onto the dewy grass, immersing him in an aura of sparkling brilliance like he is a master in the old ways of Crystal Magic.
    As he lay, he hums an old Keytunic folk song and flaps his rigged arms and legs, clanking his full plate armor to the beat of the song.
    At his side sits a mighty dragon whose height is that of three men and whose wingspan stretches across the filled River of Arbantas. Its scales are colored like those of black flame, accented by glowing red claws and fiery wings.
    The dragon's name, as tatooed in black calligraphy into the leathery skin of its left wing, begins with the three letters M-O-G and ends, as tatooed into his right wing, with the three letters R-O-C. Mogroc is his name.
    "Mogroc!" Nancelot cries. "Look, Mogroc! I'm making a dew angel!"