Respect, Bart.

“Respect, Bart,” you sigh, a great big gale of a thing. “Do you ever tire of being hunted for who you are? For the things you do? It never ceases, and I’m sick of it. What has being bad ever gotten us? Gold, power, renown? All well and good, but what happens in the end? What always happens? We lose, Bart. Good prevails, as it always does. Eventually. Just look what happened to your father.” You gesture to one of the decomposing corpses in the circle. It’s barely recognizable as human. Barely. “Do you really want that?”

Bart looks absolutely stricken. “Well… no, not rea—”

“Of course he does!” At the sound of the rough, spectral voice Bart withers, folding in on himself. From out of the tree comes floating Bart senior, necromancer extraordinaire now deceased. “He would rather have that than be, what, good? Bah!” he spits, waving his clammy ghost hands in disgust. “You would corrupt my son from his birthright. This brat will come to be my new scion, just as my father instructed me for such a purpose, and my father before him. We are a proud, vile line of necromancers, and no self-doubting dragon will keep him from—’

The dead necromancer’s speech continues, but you can’t bear to listen to it. It’s just so cliche. You and the princess both roll your eyes in frustration, then nod at each other in sympathy. The old man is rude and obviously a horrible role model for Bart, who’s too spineless to defy him. Time to take matters into your own hands.