Benjy Fynn-----Coked to the Gills!

In the last Age, when those gifted of power came to see the true source of their might, seldom did one appear who embodied everything that those seekers of the Right had come to call The Mete. The chroniclers embroidered tales of those souls into the tapestry that we have come to call “M”. It is in the finest sense of “M” that we present this version of the legend first set down by Mergus the Sedge, the story of Benjy Fynn.……………………………………
It first happened that, in the highest levels of Fynn, when all seemed dark and drained of hope, there arose a young sea-dweller of noblest proportions, cloaked in the many merits of his sire and destined to occupy the pinnacles of all meaningfulness. He was called “Benjy” by his progenitors, and he hied forth under this banner to do battle with all the unclean and the irreverent. At a young age he felt the weight of his charge, and he accepted its responsibility in such a way that none could deny that he set about his task with a precipitous degree of salinity. At first the journey was a difficult one, but Benjy felt that each success bred the possibility of more success, and he was proven right in this. The Tangleet of Frothbane were only the first to feel the heat of his vengeance. They were succeeded by the Hindeheren from Myxxr and the lost tribe of the Geetch in Ylrrnistan, amongst many others. Such was the rapidity of his success and the ruthlessness of his aggression that a meeting of his enemies became inevitable. It occurred, as did so often such dark matters, on Heine’s Dunkel Plain, the last stop on the Gynberra Runn before Koncrage and the end of all eternity. The elders present soon agreed in Conclave to pursue a joint means of rendering Benjy Fynn ineffective, if not in extinguishing his meteablility forever.
Thus it came to pass that on one of his journeys far into an unholy realm, Benjy Fynn fell into a trap set by those of the Conclave, one that no one could have forseen. As was commonplace in those times, the manner of travel often required stays at one or more waypoints, commonly marked by a hostelry of dim repute. Those versed in evil had determined to make one of these fetid sites the focus for the disruption of the youngest Fynn. It was a murky swim indeed for him, descending to the level of such wickedness, but there was no other way to do battle with the same, and his need to do so led him directly into the gaping maw of the Conclave, who feted him with such grotesque solutions that Fynn soon became a reeling, stupefied subject of all that was laid before him. He left the inn with quivering, disjointed flippers, scarce able to effect a meaningful word, let alone a verse. He had entered a scion of justice, and he had departed a slave of the juice. The seaworld spun in nebulous, disjointed perversion of all that was Right and good. Waves of nausea overcame him, and oceans of agony awaited him, for his besotted body soon floated barely above the jagged sands of the tidelands, regions inhospitable to his kind. His mind closed down as his form flopped upon the scales of justice, and he was no more.
And, lo, how the anguish of his progenitors rose to the surface, proclaiming the destruction of Benjy Fynn, he who embodied all that any might admire, and denigrating the foul, cursed mean of his destructors, those who must forever labor under the stain of his seduction, soon to join him, reeking and rotting under the hideous fiery Sol of all Aridity.