[ WP ] You are an insane lunatic in the magical world , you 're considered highly dangerous because every bit of gibberish you spit out seems to count as a spell

I'd always heard stories about the King's dungeons, but *wow* did I underestimate. I thought they would at least have decent facilities to dispose of your waste; but no, the only opening was a window, so every day I was forced to excrete out of there. And that's not the worst either: if it fell on passerby, *I* was blamed! What nerve! Those bloody rascals! I should've killed them when I had the chance, torn their bloody eyes out and -- 
 
 I clenched my hands together to stop them from shaking. 
 
 I suppose that is my punishment. I *did* immolate two children in sacrifice for the Lord Mother. Apparently, that sort of thing does n't sit well with the Kingdom. What a bunch of fools. I'm saving them from the Mother's wrath, and they put me in the deepest, darkest dungeon they could find. Fools. Idiots. I should've let them all die. 
 
 Such was my life. 
 
 But one day, a guard opened the door to relieve me of my suffering. I hoped he would kill me on the spot. Unfortunately, he slapped my arm with the flat side of his sword and ordered me to follow him. Whatever. Something to do, at least. 
 
 The cruel bastard blindfolded me in blatant violation of Section XIV, Clause MLI, Paragraph III, Sentence VIII of the Konstitution, which prohibited unnecessary acts of violence against the mentally ill. But then again, I was n't really insane. I was a little eccentric, sure, but just because my beliefs differed from everyone else does n't mean I'm insane. But such is today's world: if society thinks it, it is deemed true. 
 
 After a long series of passages that did nothing except worsen my arthritis and give me more justification to tear the guard's tongue out, we arrived at what I recognized as the King's Courtyard. I had arrived at the gallows. 
 
 To be sure, I had always expected my death. It was only a matter of time. On some days, I even looked forward to it. Thirty-seven years in a dungeon tends to depress you. I walked forward onto the wooden stage set up for the sole purpose of my death. 
 
 The guard read the charges against me, of which there were two, one each for the children. He then proceeded to read legal things. 
 
 It was kind of boring. 
 
 Eventually the guard told me to step up, and, dear Mother, I knew this was it. My one hundred and twenty-nine years of terrorizing, harassing, fighting, and looting on this Earth were over. It had been fun. 
 
 I put the noose around my neck, and I dropped. 
 
 The rope immediately tightened around my neck, and I choked, which was to be expected. My vision constricted, and I began to see red. My arms were flailing wildly, clawing at the rope, my legs thrashing as if I was drowning ( which I would have preferred ). I began to lose consciousness, the rope tighter than two friends living in the same apartment all their lives -- 
 
 I woke up and walked over the window.
