Some Call me... Tim?

When, in the quest for the Holy Grail, King Arthur found himself surrounded by able bodied goodly Knights and yet rudderless, he sought out a legendary sorcerer. A man so fearsome, he could summon up fire without wood or tinder by merely pointing at cold dead stone. A wizard of such phenomenal power he could vanish in a flash of heat and smoke only to reappear leagues away! A enchanter so diabolical, he grows ram's horns from his very bonce!

There are some who call him... Tim.

Tim the Enchanter, fearsome but wise, powerful but intelligent, mad but Scottish - it was he who directed Arthur King to the Cave of Caerbannog, where therein, carved in mystic runes upon the very living rock, the last words of Olfin Bedvere of Rheged proclaim the last resting place of the most Holy Grail. It was he who led them to the very cave where death personified in rodent form awaits with nasty big pointed teeth.

O Tim, he knows much that is hidden. Quite.

This hat fits a normal man's head, and the curled rams horns are soft to avoid any untoward headbutting, blood, and tears.