Once upon a time, there were three mighty heroes. Born into royalty, the children of the land's great queen, the three grew up inside the towering castle of Bowerstone.
Her son was a colossal warrior, and the strongest fighter in the land. But he was also arrogant and spoilt. As the first born we was next in line to the throne and couldn't wait to sit upon it. His mother appointed him as head of the army. His younger brother was far more popular, but never took anything seriously. He yearned for adventure and often sneaked out of the castle when he was young. He soon grew tired with the politics of the court and his lessons in law. Fleeing the castle, he lived out in the wilderness, hijacking carriages and traders, but never once did he take a life. The third child, and only daughter, was nothing like her headstrong brothers. Quiet and shy, she spent her time alone in the royal library or the Brightwall Academy. It wasn't long before she had read every book she ever found, and her prodigal memory remembered them all.
She was never given much attention by her mother, whose time was mostly spent doting on her first son, or lamenting her second's outlaw ways. But she liked it this way. She could spend her time reading, and her favourite books her always about magic, demonology and the will power of ancient heroes.
One night, as she sat up in her luxurious bed, reading from a tome that smelled faintly of blood, she decided to read an incantation out loud. As soon as the last words left her lips, a demonic creature stood before her.
His muscular shoulders stood higher than the posters of her bed, and he had to stoop to look at her. His skin was jet black, and thick curving horns sprouted from his head. A demon. In one hand he clutched a huge croquet mallet.
It turned out his name was Boris, and he was rather nice as demons went. But as typical of demons, he saw straight into her soul. He told her that he knew she secretly longed for power and attention. He promised to sit her upon the throne, and place the crown on her head, for only a small favour in return. Before she could resist, the princess cried 'Yes!'.
The demon smiled and bowed before her. 'In thirteen days, you will be crowned queen'.
For three days, nothing happened, and the princess wondered if Boris the Demon had tricked her. But on the fourth day, she awoke to panicked shrieks along he castle's corridors.
Grabbing a passing servant by the arm, she asked what had happened. Apparently, the rogue prince that was travelling the land had been killed! After holding up a trader caravan, he slipped on a gold coin and fell into a ravine where he was beset upon by a tribe of river Hobbes who had been sunbathing. The angry Hobbes proceeded to bash the prince's head in and take all of his stolen gold.
The princess was horrified. She wanted to be queen, not have her brother killed. But it would only get worse.
On the eighth day, tragedy would strike her oldest brother. Literally. One stormy night, the haughty prince stood on the highest tower of the castle, decked out in his finest plate armour and challenged the sky to a duel. A lightning bolt struck him and fried him inside his armour.
The queen was devastated. She had lost both of her sons in the space of a few days. She locked herself in her royal chambers and refused to leave until the funeral.
On the twelve day, the queen and her husband stood over the grave of their sons, with their only surviving child in attendance.
Her father lifted a bugle to his lips and blew out a horrible noise to send them off.
Unfortunately the noise awakened a flock of angry crows who then pecked the queen and her husband to death.
Boris then appeared before the princess.
'Now the throne is clear for you to sit upon, your majesty'.
'But I didn't want my family to die! Bring them back!'.
'I can't. You should have been more specific. Tomorrow you will be crowned queen, fulfil your end of the bargain and I will be gone.'
And so on the thirteenth day, the princess had become a queen.
'Thank you Boris, you may now have your end of our deal.'
'Thank you your Majesty.'
And so the people of Albion became human lawn hoops for Boris and his friends to play croquet with.
The moral of this story is, you should never make a deal with a croquet mallet wielding demon named Boris.
The End.