Sir Cedric Mournvale

“The Boy Who Would Be Knight: The Tale of Sir Cedric Mournvale”

From Mop to Mournvale

In the soot-streaked alleys of Greyhawk’s Old City, where smoke from ten thousand chimneys paints the morning haze, a boy named Cedric swept stable floors and dreamed of steel and glory.

The Temple of Heironeous was no place for a nobody. And yet, Cedric scrubbed its stones, mended bridles, and eavesdropped on sermons too lofty for his station. When the priests weren't looking, he'd linger before the stained glass windows, eyes full of wonder, mop limp in his hands.

One day, he fended off a drunken brute with a broomstick while defending the temple stables. A colorful bard happened to walk by and saw it all happen happen. On a lark, he declared him “Sir Cedric of Mournvale!” and scribbled a fake charter on the back of a playbill.

Most boys would laugh. Cedric bowed.

He wore the name like a blessing. “Mournvale,” he called it, an imaginary land of knights, honor, and plenty. With armor cobbled together from pawn carts and scrap heaps, a tabard stitched with a crooked lightning bolt, and a chipped blade slung proudly on his back, Cedric patrolled the city’s lesser wards, righting wrongs too small for coin and too foolish for praise.

The Greyhawk Exhibition — A Ration for the Ages

Fast-forward to the Greyhawk Exhibition, the famed seasonal gathering where alchemists, mages, and meat-sellers all try to outdo one another in the pursuit of invention and notoriety. That year, the highlight was a culinary marvel—DiGiorno Pizza Rations—dehydrated slices of cheesy excellence, enchanted for long-term storage and swift reconstitution.

The vendor—Talon’s and Turkey, a long standing vendor in Greyhawk who sells Turkey sandwiches with magical properties—unveiled the rations to great applause.

But drama soon followed.

A mysterious, robed figure approached, offering to buy 500 units, destination: Hommlet. A worthy sum—but Talon hesitated. “I haven’t got the guards,” he said. “Not for a caravan that size.”

It was then—just as the tension in the crowd reached its peak—that a voice cut through the din, bold and commanding, laced with the kind of charisma that makes children dream and grown men doubt their standing.

From the gathered throng stepped a man—tall, radiant, unmistakably someone. A knight? A bard? A king? Cedric didn’t know. All he knew was this was him—the flamboyant stranger from months past who had scrawled a “charter of knighthood” on a playbill and handed it to a frightened boy wielding a broom.

Only now… he shimmered with presence. His cloak caught the breeze just so. His voice—whether enchanted or merely gifted—carried across the market square like a battle horn wrapped in velvet.

“While I may have had a touch of wine,” the man proclaimed with a grand sweep of his arms, “I also have a gift—for songs… and solutions!”

Gasps and whispers rippled through the crowd: Waverly… it’s Waverly…

“I am Lord Ambassador To’mas Waverly,” he continued, his smile dazzling, “and you know me and my companions well—for we have bled in these lands, sung in its taverns, and made this world better for our passing!”

Behind him, his adventuring allies watched with bemused expressions, used to his theatrics—but none dared interrupt.

Turning on his heel to face the robed stranger and the flustered merchant Talon, To’mas boomed:

“You speak of needing guards for your shipment? Guards? Why, my good sirs, the roads to Hommlet are so safe these days, a gaggle of schoolchildren could see the cargo through!”

The crowd laughed.

To’mas paused. Then, as if fate itself guided his gaze, he spotted a familiar figure by the vendor cart—a boy in oversized armor, wide-eyed and breathless.

“In fact…” he said slowly, dramatically, “…here stands a prime example!”

All heads turned.

There stood Cedric, his breastplate scratched and dented, his gauntlets a mismatched pair, his old blue tabard faded but straight. His posture—awkward. His expression—hopeful. His heart—thundering.

With a flourish worthy of court and coliseum alike, Waverly drew his sword—polished, gleaming, ceremonial. The blade caught the sun like a beacon.

The crowd hushed.

“Kneel, young squire of no name,” To’mas said, and Cedric obeyed, though his knees wobbled with disbelief.

“By virtue of bravery shown, by faith unfaltering, and by the sovereign nonsense vested in me…”

With a tap to each shoulder and a wink to the audience, Waverly declared:

“I dub thee Sir Cedric of Mournvale, First Knight of the DiGiorno Escort! Guardian of the Righteous Flame, Champion of Pizzas Yet Delivered!”

The crowd erupted. Cheers and laughter filled the square. Someone tossed flower petals. A minstrel started playing a chord he didn’t know how to finish.

Talon, stunned but savvy, nodded in agreement. The deal was sealed. The order would be delivered.

And Cedric? He rose slowly, tears brimming, chin high, clutching the freshly donned DiGiorno tabard like it was royal regalia.

In that moment, in the eyes of the crowd, he was a knight.

And in Cedric’s heart, the kingdom of Mournvale had never felt more real.