Knightworld was a dastardly place to find any semblance of a personality. Chiselled specimens of hard laboured but mindless hunks thundered corridors, the terror of BO they exuded ever so persistent. Any occupant stepping foot into the realms of the institution was bound to an inevitable dose of the toxic fumes. Once breathed in, the pungent odour worked like clockwork on the impressionable minds of young men. The hormonal stench wiped out all morsels of intelligence and self-respect one could possibly possess in a Kingdom thriving on blonde, self-centred monarchs.
Sir Lancelot, however self-contained of a dashing lad he was, could barely find within his shrivelled calibre of honour an inkling of care to attend some blasted English literature class. Taught by some heathen who dared regurgitate words written by some blue balled, limerick savvy git called Shakesword and claim it as fine “eddication” was the current object of the knight’s frustration.
Sir Lancelot, however self-contained of a dashing lad he was, could barely find within his shrivelled calibre of honour an inkling of care to attend some blasted English literature class. Taught by some heathen who dared regurgitate words written by some blue balled, limerick savvy git called Shakesword and claim it as fine “eddication” was the current object of the knight’s frustration.