The Sorry Tale of Seymour's Skull...

’Ello, mates. Seymour here. Yes, that Seymour. The decapitated skull with a refined taste in baked goods and a bottomless reservoir of sarcasm. I suppose you’re wondering how little old me ended up looking like an ornament from a haunted charity shop. It’s a funny story, if your idea of funny involves necromancy, bad decisions, and significant personal disassembly. At the centre of it all is Holtar the Necromancer. Naturally.

Picture the scene. It’s freezing, my teeth are chattering like a badly tuned xylophone, and we’ve just dragged ourselves up the Doom Mountains to reach the Dragon Lord’s Citadel. Shockingly enough, that’s where the Dragon Lord lived. Even more surprising was discovering he wasn’t some ancient, scaled terror perched on a throne of gold. He was a farmer. Just a bloke from the valley who got tired of lust-mad dragons swooping down the mountain to grab his cows for a post-romp snack. So he bought himself a Helm of Dragon Control and decided to sort it out himself.

Unfortunately, the helm was cursed. Sold to him by a feckless wizard who conveniently forgot to mention that, as well as controlling dragons, it also muddled your mind until you couldn’t remember why you were bothering. The poor chap ended up being controlled by the dragons instead, who promptly made him their leader. There’s irony for you.

Our job was simple. Sneak in, pinch the helm, and leave. Easy enough, if you ignored the skeletal dragon in the corner and Holtar’s inability to keep his necromantic urges in check.

He took one look at that pile of bones and simply couldn’t help himself. The temptation got him. One little resurrection later, I’m standing there holding the helm while a rotting dragon hauls itself upright. I nearly leapt out of my skin which, considering what happened next, feels dreadfully on the nose. I dropped the helm on my foot, the Dragon Lord heard the racket, swooped in, slapped it back on his head and used it to command the dragon to eat me.

It was a fate worse than death, which is saying something, because once the skin and organs were sucked off me like the last scraps on a chicken leg, all that remained was bone. My skull was spat out and bounced across the stone like an unwanted nut. I was dead, but still alive, caught in some dreadful loop between the helm’s power, the undead dragon and Holtar’s spell.

Holtar grabbed what was left of me and legged it, me tucked under his arm, screaming the whole way back to the nearest tavern. And now I’m stuck like this for as long as that undead dragon keeps shambling about.

Well, that’s my story. It isn’t pretty, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I suppose I should count my blessings. If it had spat out my pelvis instead, you’d be talking to my arse.

Anyway, until next time, this is Seymour saying I’ve got a damn eternal itch I cannot scratch...