After years of war and famine, the bands of ragamuffin children the kingdom provided Sir Richard Whisk to whip into knights eroded into little more than steaming piles of cow dung and smoking piss. The grizzled and grey-bearded old swordsman longed for times long past, when pupils entered his tutorship with values of respect and healthy fear already installed. This new breed of denizen lacked such qualities. Families, even within the shattered remains of the nobility, no longer taught their inbred little bastards the fine traits required of an honorable member of society. As the elders and household heads struggled over scraps of wealth, land, food and power, the youth ran rampant through the fields and streets, causing havoc and mischief, with no oversight to beat them back into line.
Sir Richard rode alongside King Hodor, as they circled the perimeter of the royal knight academy, one of the few establishments of its kind in the civilized world. Aspiring knights battled in the fenced in sparring circle with blunted blades. Others practiced horsemanship on the varying tracks of dirt, turf and obstacles that enclosed the bulk of academy grounds. In the woods on the outskirts, others practiced tracking and survival skills under the tutelage of the brothers Sir Daryl and Sir Merle Dix. In the field by Death's Stream, Sir Rick Grim instructed others in the art of tactics and formations.
"How goes the training, Richard?" asked the king. "I know I say this upon every visit, but we need more knights to lead our armies. Every day more barbarians creep through the passes in the Borderlands Mountains. Illiterate, heathen scum! And our wars with the Holy Disciples of Sensitivity and the Troll Republic continue to falter in a perpetual stalemate."
Sir Richard sighed and took a long look at the setting sun on the western horizon. The glowing orb stained the sky a smattering of pinks and tainted blues.
If I were a sun god, I would burn this shameful world to cinders, fertilize the planet with the ashes and start all anew. We are truly lost. But Sir Richard kept these thoughts to himself. Instead, he said, "Poorly, to be forthright, your Grace. Proper training takes nearly 18 months longer than three decades past. The new generation lacks the requisite traits of their ancestors. Maturity blooms later in life and many refuse to grow as both soldiers and men. The women we enlisted are little better. They love to bitch like old shrews, even while their breasts retain the height and vigor of youth."
"There is no need for formalities, Richard." The king patted Sir Richard on the shoulder, a somewhat awkward gesture while riding horseback, but only fools dare to mock a king openly. "But I appreciate your candor. The Sensitivity God and his cult cast a blight on our world, and the trolls and heathens only add to our problems. But we must struggle onward, for the sake of a brighter tomorrow."
Sir Richard groaned. "Hodor, why do I get the feeling you're about to dump a sack of shit on my head?"
"Because I am." The king offered a sad smile. "This new cast of characters I've brought for you may be the most pathetic yet, but I know you can turn them into knights. The sane world needs you to, Richard."
King Hodor and his escort departed in quick fashion after a brief introduction of the new pupils, no doubt wanting as little to do with them as possible until Sir Richard and the other instructors pummeled chaos into order. As Sir Richard strolled down the line of outcasts and introverts, one of the more despicable gargoyles jumped out of line and made a spectacle of himself.
"Hi!" he said, sticking out a hand coated in either shit or mud. "My name's Brendan O'Rock. I'm from the Shamrock Isles off the coast! You're going to be so excited to see what I can do! I'm great and my swordsmanship is going to be legendary!"
Sir Richard's boot collided with O'Rock's testicles. The old knight felt them squish through the leather, but they did not rupture, which caused him some mild disappointment. As the years wore on, and the stupidity and disrespect mounted, Sir Richard grew ever less patient with the recruits. Each day, his wrath and malice bolstered inside, building pressure, like a volcano on the brink of eruption.
The lad collapsed to the ground and curled into a ball, as his hands cradled his coin purse, which had fallen from his pocket. A young girl, introduced as Cat'mous Paw from the warrior dukedom, attempted to snag the sack of coins, but a backhand from Sir Richard sent her sprawling back in line and onto her arse. Sir Richard considered castrating the little shit and then quartering him, as an example to the recruits of what happens when you act out, but he decided to be merciful.
Through tears and gasping sobs, O'Rock whined on the ground like a blubbering babe. "That was mean! I just wanted to tell you how great I am and how excited I am to be here!"
"Learn your place, urchin. No one wants to hear about what you
will do. Show us what you
can do."
The day continued its southward trend from that point on. Cat'mous Paw started a fight with some of her peers and even a few higher ranked recruits who had already been training for months. In the end, someone held her down and took a shit on her head. Sir Richard ordered beatings and whippings for everyone in vicinity unless the shitter stepped forward to atone for this defilement. No one claimed ownership of the turd, so the whips cracked throughout the night. And the metallic, copper hint of blood lingered in the air surrounding the academy.
Lady Miz, the academy's illustrious and virulent wench, administered what some considered an excessively cruel beating on a recruit for some random act of stupidity. Lady Bree, the academy's up-and-coming mother hen took exception to the act and demanded Lady Miz meet her at high noon for mortal combat. Even, the Death Deity made an appearance. And he offered some grey and gray overviews on the matter, after his white knight function failed to activate. In the far reaches in a land known as, A Little South of Sanity, an enslaved squirrel informed his master, Bucky - some manner of cervidae and a self described enforcer of chaos - of the happenings. Bucky arrived late to the destruction, but he too, offered some form of grey and gray commentary, as well as some rudimentary humor. The event blew over and disappeared from memory before Sir Richard could send the women back to the kitchens where they belonged.
But the hallmark of insanity came when one of the new girls forced a pair of twin brothers and sisters to have sex on the alter in the church while she sacrificed them to the shadowy and cloaked Death Deity, as a token of her ever lasting love. Sir Farren wept when he saw her bathing in the blood of the four slain victims, after fetching medical supplies from the nearby town. Sir Richard killed her with fire.
As Sir Richard settled into his chair that night, desperately hoping for a peaceful night after the madness of the day, a knock loomed from his door. O'Rock stood on his step, head bowed, testicles swollen in his breeches. And he offered an apology for his foolishness.
"Show me what it means to be a knight," said the lad.
Sir Richard agreed, and though he had his doubts about the sincerity of the act, he elected to reserve judgement. He drew from his deep well of knowledge and offered insights into simple respect and basic swordsmanship. But the lad opened his mouth again and all potential respect vanished like piss down a drain.
"I want to fight in the melee tomorrow. But I'm going to keep doing things my way."
Sir Richard forbade the lad. "You only just learned how to hold a sword properly, now you want to go back to holding it like a butterknife? And fight against squires and pages who have been training for years? When you've never had actual experience in knightly combat?"
"Stop being so mean! I said I was sorry! I just want real advice!"
Sir Richard scratched his thinning hair. "But... but, I just gave you advice..."
O'Rock ran off, leaving a trail of tears in his wake.
The next day, O'Rock entered the melee. Poor old Sir Richard just could not be bothered to give a damn anymore, so he let the little fool go on with his plan. Maybe after the impudent pupil received a good beating from his peers he would learn.
Now, I could endear you with a detailed account of O'Rock's first and final bout in the melee, but such a shameful tale does not deserve a vivid depiction and vibrant imagery. Let it simply be known, the eager lad swapped out his blunted sword for true steel, and wielding the blade like a butterknife, soon found himself impaled on his own weapon.
Sir Richard shook his head and sighed as the lad bled out on the academy grounds.
Elsewhere, in that land, A Little South of Sanity, Bucky observed the happenings with his butt monkey servant, who is actually a squirrel named Jones.
"What do you think, Jones?" Bucky asked.
Jones thumped his furry tail on the ground in thought. The veterinarian he found did an excellent job cleansing him of the mange and helped regrow his coat. "T'was amusing."
"I'm not sure," said Bucky. "I think it needed a little more chaos. Perhaps a graphic, incest sex scene."
