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- Joined
- Aug 27, 2018
It was a pleasant sort of morning; the blazing sun was high in the heavens, casting a gold aura across the rolling hills of green grazing-meadow and wheat. The families of the valley were out in the fields, working the land, singing, laughing. Between the vast tracts of field that the farmers cultivated ran a long, winding pebble road. Along the road clopped a horse; a beast of a thing, a big old draft horse. The breed wasn't meant for riding; it was just barely tolerating the presence of the man on its back, one might guess for the sake of a long stroll in the sunshine, or out of pity. And who was this rider?
A farce in the shape of a knight.
Credit where it's due; the man could probably have a shot at fooling the poor, merry folk who worked these lands into thinking he was a knight. He certainly walked and talked the part of a knight from the sort of book young women liked to wank to in their beds. But the further into one of the big cities he went, the less people he would deceive; those familiar with armorers and their work would notice that his gear was far too ornate and poorly made to serve a real warrior.
The gold leaf decorating virtually every square inch of the suit was getting into the sort of territory that even a king would consider tasteless; it marked this man as the son of an extremely wealthy merchant; a new convert to the worship of The Sage, who who'd offered his physically impressive son up from a young age to gain standing in the cult. A man who, by the looks of it, thought a jeweler was fit to do the job of a warsmith. To add to the tasteless gaudiness, if the metal were polished to a sheen any higher, the man would be starting spotfires wherever he went. Only wankers had time for that.
To top it off, it was fitted by an incompetent; the man could barely move to scratch his balls. A real knight, with a real, battered set of plate, would probably laugh at him for having the audacity to assume their station on the authority of his crackpot deity, and shove him into the mud before he got his sword from its scabbard. See how good all that polishing would do him then; he'd have been better off polishing his penis, not that he'd ever entertain the notion.
Ahead, jutting into the sky like the thick, hard cock of the Earth, was the tower. It was an old place, reclaimed some years back by an odd woman; clearly a magic user. The husbands and wives of the land exchanged knowing glances whenever they passed by, deciding to distract their children and head quickly on through before anything unseemly could be heard. Some of the more lonely souls from the nearby town visited the tower; the services rendered remained ostensibly a secret, but there were few dignified reasons for a man or woman to visit a sorceress of the art practiced by she who called the place home.
It was that very art which brought this self-proclaimed crusader riding up to her doorstep on this otherwise fine day. He struggled his way down off the back of his unenthusiastic mount, drew his sword with a long rasp, and approached the heavy wooden door.
"Attention!" He cried, his voice muffled to a metallic murmur by his visor. The thing had been worked into the shape of a lion's roaring features. It was very hard to see and breathe through. His own voice was sure as hell ringing in his ears, though. "The time has come, temptress," he spat the last word, "to repent, or suffer the consequences of your foul ways at the hands of I, the humble Sir Xander Godfrey of the Order!" With that, he lifted his right leg off the ground and planted his heel into the old oak.
He bounced off, and fell on his ass with a great clatter of metal.
But he was up again before long, dusting himself down and returning his attention to the barricade. "Bah! Your foul trickery will not prevent the righteous from storming into your little hole. We'll come again and again, if we must!" He started ramming his shoulder into the wood, over and over again, growling with the sort of impotent indignation only a man who hadn't jerked off in his life could muster.
A farce in the shape of a knight.
Credit where it's due; the man could probably have a shot at fooling the poor, merry folk who worked these lands into thinking he was a knight. He certainly walked and talked the part of a knight from the sort of book young women liked to wank to in their beds. But the further into one of the big cities he went, the less people he would deceive; those familiar with armorers and their work would notice that his gear was far too ornate and poorly made to serve a real warrior.
The gold leaf decorating virtually every square inch of the suit was getting into the sort of territory that even a king would consider tasteless; it marked this man as the son of an extremely wealthy merchant; a new convert to the worship of The Sage, who who'd offered his physically impressive son up from a young age to gain standing in the cult. A man who, by the looks of it, thought a jeweler was fit to do the job of a warsmith. To add to the tasteless gaudiness, if the metal were polished to a sheen any higher, the man would be starting spotfires wherever he went. Only wankers had time for that.
To top it off, it was fitted by an incompetent; the man could barely move to scratch his balls. A real knight, with a real, battered set of plate, would probably laugh at him for having the audacity to assume their station on the authority of his crackpot deity, and shove him into the mud before he got his sword from its scabbard. See how good all that polishing would do him then; he'd have been better off polishing his penis, not that he'd ever entertain the notion.
Ahead, jutting into the sky like the thick, hard cock of the Earth, was the tower. It was an old place, reclaimed some years back by an odd woman; clearly a magic user. The husbands and wives of the land exchanged knowing glances whenever they passed by, deciding to distract their children and head quickly on through before anything unseemly could be heard. Some of the more lonely souls from the nearby town visited the tower; the services rendered remained ostensibly a secret, but there were few dignified reasons for a man or woman to visit a sorceress of the art practiced by she who called the place home.
It was that very art which brought this self-proclaimed crusader riding up to her doorstep on this otherwise fine day. He struggled his way down off the back of his unenthusiastic mount, drew his sword with a long rasp, and approached the heavy wooden door.
"Attention!" He cried, his voice muffled to a metallic murmur by his visor. The thing had been worked into the shape of a lion's roaring features. It was very hard to see and breathe through. His own voice was sure as hell ringing in his ears, though. "The time has come, temptress," he spat the last word, "to repent, or suffer the consequences of your foul ways at the hands of I, the humble Sir Xander Godfrey of the Order!" With that, he lifted his right leg off the ground and planted his heel into the old oak.
He bounced off, and fell on his ass with a great clatter of metal.
But he was up again before long, dusting himself down and returning his attention to the barricade. "Bah! Your foul trickery will not prevent the righteous from storming into your little hole. We'll come again and again, if we must!" He started ramming his shoulder into the wood, over and over again, growling with the sort of impotent indignation only a man who hadn't jerked off in his life could muster.
