The Greatest Braggart

There was once a man called Prahlen who was the greatest braggart there ever was. People all believed him to be one of the strongest warriors of the land, and even though he was not the biggest nor the bulkiest man by any means, he still had a fair bit of brawn and was fit as a fiddle to boot. But more importantly, there was just something serious about his aura, his very presence seemed to demand respect, and when he spoke, he sounded almost humble no matter what boast he made. His bluffs were never too far beyond the realm of belief, he never claimed he could do magic, as just by one look at the fellow you could tell he was no mage, and he never claimed that he was as mighty as a titan, as you would be sure to doubt him if he said so, but the meticulous manner in which he described of wrestling down craggy skinned rock trolls, punching through scaly crawling hoards of newborn dragon whelps, and receiving the passionate embrace of rescued mermaid damsels made every detail feel so real, as if you were there with him, watching the scenes unfold before your very eyes.
Indeed, when it came to boasting, Prahlen was a genius. His crimson hood and silver bastard sword in black leather sheathe became symbols that people and monsters came to fear and love irrespectively, and he would travel the world performing minor deeds of greatness that were blown out of proportion through the sheer force of his reputation alone. Many a goblin tribes were made to swear that they would stop harassing the nearby villages lest they taste his silver blade, and many an ogre cleared out into the countryside someplace far away when Prahlen came knocking upon their rotted cave den doors. He was praised as both wise and merciful for sparing the lives of so many wretched creatures, and none doubted that he could take them if he tried.
Prahlen was welcome wherever he traveled as all the inns in the empire let him eat and stay for free, and all the women of the empire too were more than happy to take him in. It seemed that the man had had it all figured out, but alas, all good things come to an end, and one day, as he was skipping merrily and whistling in the rain, poor Prahlen slipped and fell and chipped his skull on a rock, and after that nothing was the same. While fortunately the man was saved by a wandering priest and his body was restored, it seems that he lost a good chunk of his mind that day. Indeed, he no longer had any memory of even his own legendary name, suffering from a case of amnesia so severe that it seemed no magic could heal it away. The people all tried to help him remember, regaling him with all his greatest tales, how he had once ridden a red dragon through the clouds and needed to wipe the moisture off his face with the ancient cloth on which the first treaty with the elves was drafted, how he had once crafted a raft of solid permafrost and rode it down into the sweltering pits of a volcanic magma chamber to rescue a lost dwarven miner boy all while his eyebrows caught on fire and his backside became frozen to his seat, and how he once carried a young mermaid maiden out of her fading oasis before it dried out completely all the way across the Calidi Desert during the hottest summer on record, but none of the stories seemed to be ringing any bells.
Prahlen did not know who he was, all he knew is that everybody said that he was a great and powerful, noble and wise man. And yet he did not quite feel so strong, and he knew he could not arm wrestle ogres, or outwit dragons, or do any of the amazing things people said. But still, with everybody believing in him, for their sake, he wished to try. As it so happened, as Prahlen traveled, he came across a small borough that was on the brink of destruction. A brutal tribe of Vesanian Wendigo had just claimed the village as part of their territory and unleashed an onslaught of wicked deeds upon the poor folk living there. They hunted the children of the village as game and kidnapped the women as sacrifice for their dark rituals. When Prahlen heard this, he knew that he could not just sit idly by, and so he went to the Wendigo encampment to confront them immediately.
Well, that is where things all went wrong as he had no so much set foot within a mile of their camp's perimeter that he was spotted by one of their scouts who promptly shot him with a tranquilizer dart, then bagged and dragged him back to their shaman. Mercifully, Prahlen did not suffer as he was completely out cold when the psychotic beastmen proceeded with the ceremonial disembowelment. They then cooked his remains into a stew so that their warriors could consume his essence to gain his legendary might. 
It was tragic indeed, and as the disheartening news of the hero's fall spread like wildfire from village to village, adventurers all across the land rose up and swore vengeance upon the ruthless beastmen. A ragtag group of heroes both great and small came together, rallying to protect the starcrossed borough. United, they launched an assault against the Vesanian camp, eradicating every last member of that accursed tribe. The battle was fierce and more lives were lost, but through their combined effort, the borough was saved. Even though Prahlen had fallen, he had not failed to save those he promised to protect, and in the end, even after his propensity for embellishing the truth was uncovered, none would deny that he was truly a hero like no other.