The Ballad of Sir Nolan the Bearfighter
A Legend of a Man So Noble Even His Enemies Applauded.
In the Kingdom of Ofhys, nestled between the Marshes of Delay and the Mountains of Meaningless, there lived a knight so admired, so accomplished, and so impossibly luminous of brow and trouser, that ballads wept for him long before this tale began.
His name was Sir Nolan the Bearfighter.
Every morning, as the sun crept across the castle courtyard, the grooms would pause their shovelling to sigh wistfully in his direction.
Courtiers timed their entrances to coincide with his. Royal Guards hid behind pillars, hoping to capture the rhythm of his footsteps. Even the enchanted mirror in the south tower, famed for its honesty and tragic divorce, once confessed that Sir Nolan made it tingle.
He was, in every way that mattered, the very embodiment of nobility: tall, well-combed, possessed of a smile that could disarm a tax-collecting elf and a laugh that could rally the dying dwarves.
But even the most adored knight must one day face darkness. And in Sir Nolan’s case, the darkness arrived in the form of prophecy.
It began, as these things often do, with a diary, in the 30th summer since Sir Nolan’s birth.
Sir Nolan had entered his Royal Napping Chamber, looking for his misplaced sash. A silken strip embroidered with compliments received at last year’s Harvest Ball.
The chamber had a [faint perfume in the air](The Ballad of Sir Nolan the Bearfighter), something floral and intelligent. That’s when he saw it: A velvet pillow, on top of which sat a book.
How did this get here? Who does it belong to?
Sir Nolan respected privacy. Everyone in the Kingdom knew that. But the book had a pink ribbon. And smelt of secrets. So he opened it.
What he found made his heart gallop.
Page after page, all in a familiar, elegant hand were reflections. Longings. Doodles of a man on horseback with calves like carved marble.
At one point, the author had written:
“Sir Nolan’s presence is like honeyed thunder. When he speaks, the room blooms.”
Later:
“I would eat rocket leaves if he asked me to, and I hate rocket.”
Sir Nolan’s cheeks flushed. His fingers trembled.
The diary belonged, unmistakably, to the Princess. And it was entirely about him. He read it three times. Then brewed some thinking tea.
He had long suspected that her under-realms fluttered at his approach. Once she laughed so hard at his clever pun about armour polish that she had to excuse herself from the chamber.
Another time, she rearranged the seating chart to ensure she always sat opposite him during Royal Breakfasts.
Sir Nolan considered his options. He could confront her. Declare himself? No. Such actions are rash. Undignified. Better to let the moment build.
He put the book back in its pretty pink ribbon and on top its velvet pillow.
Sir Nolan was no stranger to admiration. It came to him as naturally as breathing or leaving a room dramatically. But this was love. The kind that led to picnics in the park and progeny.
Unfortunately, progeny has consequences.
You see, the Kingdom of Ofhys was ruled by King Smugtwat the Unsmiling. A man so consumed by formality that he once exiled a dove for flapping too freely.
The King did not hate Sir Nolan per se. But he distrusted joy, and Sir Nolan generated a great deal of it in everyone. Both peasants and pixies were drawn to Sir Nolan.
At that exact moment, a delegate from the northern provinces sent the King a statue carved in Sir Nolan’s likeness.
That wouldn’t do at all. It was the final straw. Sir Nolan must be brought down. So the King brooded. And plotted. Until one day, a witch arrived.
She was old, sharp-eyed, and dry of soul. Her name was Mother Compliance, and she was accompanied by her son, the Black Knight Sir Howard the Flamboyant.
“The Princess will bear a child,” she rasped. “The child will lead with kindness, abolish decrees, and seduce a nation with his hair.”
The King paled.
“And the father?”
She said only one word: “Sir Nolan.”
The King’s face soured even paler.
Mother Compliance added, with unnecessary relish, that the child would be the hero to all. And loved without condition. Like his father before him.
“The Kingdom needs order, not love!” Gasped the King.
Concocting a cunning plan, he turned to an unremarkable corner of the realm known as Trisbon.
Trisbon was a mess of petty nobles, broken towers, and forgotten promises. It had long been under the stewardship of the Black Knight Sir Howard the Flamboyant, the witch’s son.
Howard had plans. Strategies. Charts. He had spent years in Trisbon, fruitlessly trying to restore it to its former glory of olde.
That’s when the King did something unexpected: He sent Sir Nolan to help him.
Officially, it was to provide flair and lift morale. But everyone knew the truth. Howard was to cage Sir Nolan in red bunting. Let the people see that Sir Nolan’s free ways are inferior to a mindless administrative structure.
When Sir Nolan was at his weakest, following a planned bureaucratic ridicule, Howard would slay Sir Nolan to the cheers of the peasants.
Sir Nolan had other ideas. He arrived in Trisbon, and within a day, had redecorated the war room in a regal burgundy. His colours. Then he went to the inns and spoke to peasants and leaders alike.
The concubines followed him, and he bestowed his wisdom on all. By the third day, the locals were wearing sashes with his name on them.
Sir Nolan allowed Howard to continue with the administration. Howard objected. So Sir Nolan said, “We’re all on the same team”, while gently placing a gauntlet on Howard’s shoulder to show him who’s the real boss.
The King was impressed. Sir Nolan told him the truth.
“I did it all myself. All this glory you see.”
The King looked up in awe.
Sir Nolan continued, with a cheeky wink, “Perhaps Howard might be better suited to overseeing moat maintenance.”
It was neither an argument nor a suggestion. It was a triumph. The King had no option but to announce a parade in Sir Nolan’s honour.
Sir Nolan led the Trisbon parade while Howard watched from the shadows. There was nothing he could do. Sir Nolan had done another miracle again, just like the last time.
Ever humble, Sir Nolan grinned and bowed to collect his Leader of Trisbon sash. Then, he thanked Howard for his “acceptable foundational efforts.”
He went on, “Sir Howard had tried his best. His very, very best. It simply wasn’t enough.”
The crowd roared at the hubris.
To cement his position, Sir Nolan announced a celebratory joust: an open competition of honour and strength. Knights from across the realms were summoned.
He called it Sir Nolan’s The Festival of Trisbon. The prize? One wish from the Princess.
Sir Howard entered. Of course he did. This was once his realm. Sir Nolan entered, too. Glistening. Beautiful. Radiant. And wearing a new sash.
The joust lasted three days. There were games, feasts, duels, and scroll recitals. On the second day, Sir Nolan, a virtuoso, serenaded the Princess from horseback, using only a harp and his natural vocal timbre.
On the third day, Sir Nolan gave an impromptu speech about unity that inspired Ofhys and Aitchar (another kingdom) to join forces and follow Sir Nolan.
Sir Nolan beat Howard easily in the joust, then married the Princess. That was her wish.
At the wedding, they kissed before the trumpets sounded. The crowd was enormous. The bards wrote many songs about it, and everyone sang them as Sir Nolan looked on.
Back at court, the King erupted in rage. By now, Howard the Flamboyant was king. They say his witch mother had poisoned Smugtwat with her magic.
It turns out that was always his goal. He’d been pulling the strings all along.
But It would be a short reign. The people had turned. The Princess cried joyful tears. Even the Royal Guard had changed their marching rhythm to Nolan’s footsteps.
There was only one thing to do. A duel. A final reckoning.
King Howard summoned Sir Nolan to the Hall of Outcomes. They fought beneath the Glimmering Chandelier. Sparks flew.
Sir Nolan gave a heartfelt speech about how he never wanted power. Witnesses sobbed from the sheer poetry of it all. Then they all chanted, “That’s why it must be you!”
Sir Nolan fought with poise. With kindness. With a blade carved from the sacred dwarven mines.
King Howard fought with indignant fury. But he lost.
“He is too powerful,” the King shouted. “Too smart!”
Sir Nolan bowed his head. Ever humble.
“Sir Nolan is your new King!” Said the King.
Showing mercy, but with a final upward strike, Sir Nolan severed Howard’s head. He was King no more.
King Nolan picked up the golden crown and place it on his magnificent cranium.
Everyone in the Kingdom took a knee at once. People cheered. Doves flew in through the windows. The doves that King Smugtwat exiled had finally returned.
As his first act, King Nolan gave the land back to the people. He could have all the power at any time he wanted. But he chose a simple life.
He moved into a modest castle with tall windows, soft chairs, and a moat shaped like a heart. The castle included a reading nook, a sun deck, and a guest turret for poets. The drawbridge played mystical music.
The Princess moved in the next morning. It was theirs. She was beautiful. When they played parlour games or archery, the Princess always won because King Nolan let her.
It was not all perfect. When the moon shimmered over the mystic fjords, the Black Knight Sir Howard the Flamboyant still haunted our hero’s dreams. Good men will ruminate.
Mostly, it was perfect. But as with all legends, King Nolan’s feet grew itchy. And the Princess grew noisy. Eventually, he took her to the sandy shores in the East and left her there.
The end.
They all lived happily ever after. Until Flatfoot Warwick showed up and started asking questions about the hole in the pantry. But that’s a tale for another day.