I fain not think that you should fail in your quest, Brave Sir Norval. I’ve heard of your exploits — how you failed in leading the noble savages of Washington, how you miserably failed in leading the less than noble savages of Oakland, but you are all that remains.

Your pockmarked visage is difficult to regard. Your breath reeks of carrion. Your armor is tattered and I am fairly certain your horse has been dead for some time. The Good Lord has not seen fit to bless you in the ways of looks nor intelligence, but you are indeed brave. That counts for something, though it be not much.

All who have gone before the beast have been vanquished soundly and without mercy. Even you yourself were defeated most handily early in its reign of terror, perhaps only spared your pathetic life for no other reason than sheer boredom by that foul creature and its braying supporters.

If there existed a system in which I could wager our kingdom’s fortunes on your chances of success, I would surely lay on money on the side of the beast and take the points. Sadly, there is no such system. It is an unfortunate consequence of our Slaughter of the Jews many years past.

Go now. Take in your hand the dark blade of Volek and strike down this scourge upon our realm. If successful, I could even learn to love you and would lustily expose a section of ankle to you. Think me not bawdy, sir knight. I am ready to make the appropriate sacrifice.