What's Cooking with Kenwald?

The candle flickers.

I see in magical, dancing glimpses, now, my cluttered parlour and its books of a thousand years of spells.

Something is incubating nearby. A beast which will be my scout, pathfinder and protector on my way to the right hand of thrones still yet unheralded.

I am Kenwald, a successor of Merlin, as yet within my tiny wooden house deep in a petrified forest where no bird nor animal lives. Only my plans. And I, Kenwald the Creator, Seer and Empowerer.. they shalt know thy name!

Still I mix my broth, into this essential essence for the soon to be risen child of the netherworld; no simple salt stirred herein.

The beast grows and wakes whilst earlier potions do their trick and right now ancient castles and bastions fall, I know; armies turn and run from tempests from which there is no shelter. Those who survive will beg the leadership of any King. Not me, but mine. Every ruler, my sovereign.

But first…

…

Soon, I hear the shuffle of great bat-wings wings unwrapping within the oak and cast-iron clad casket to my right. My heart races.

I utter my secret words.. loud then softly; all levels and dimensions to hear.

And then I.. SHRIEK!!!

The casket lid bursts open and the great beast rises up, wings thrust down by it's side as it is barely able to stand erect in my tiny house.

Shoulders arched at the rafters, it scents the air, measuring the potency…

Until.. it eyes.. me…

…

It is with no little disappointment that I sit, looking out beyond the open door through which the beast has departed. Along with it, my cauldron of elixir.

“Soup.. soup!!” the beast had yelled, clutching the potion, apparently deaf to my own cries of “Stop, thief!”