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.
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.
‘Notsoworthy’ was the name the elderly knight had been christened with since his induction into Knightworld’s education system, an uncanny spite to its backwardness in hiring long term teachers. Nearing levels of obnoxious that only his late predecessor the Lamington could ever achieve, Notsoworthy set his own mark in stone by inducing his victims into a braindead coma whenever he prattled on about his nonsensical theories of rhetoric.
Lancelot decided he would abandon the class while he could, nervous system intact thank you very much. Listening to his best mate Sir Percival inform him of the jousting team vacating the training field due to a violent hazing incident had been the silver lining the knight was desperately looking for.
One fine afternoon, the two student knights had feigned an inclination to listen to the absolute rubbish Notsoworthy was jabbering away at the current moment. Through furtive exchanges of glances and written notes, the cunning knights meticulously planned their getaway of grand proportions. The mere idea of trading a brainwashing English session with the cheap thrill of stealing Merlin’s knicker collection was enough to fuel Lancelot’s bravery for his following shenanigans.
“Forgive me for interrupting good sir, but I would like to be excused,” called out said knight brazenly, daring a glance into the piercing, cyanide blue of the aged eddicator’s condescending gaze. Stopped mid-speech in his latest lecture about Shakesword’s bloody “contextual evidence”, Notsoworthy was less than pleased with his interruption.
“I have it on good authority to tell you, Mister Lancelot, that what I am teaching you will be examined upon. It would be unwise for anyone to skip out on this,” he enunciated sourly, before quietly adding in, "The nerve of some people, whose behinds are so deep in sickening self-importance...!"
Lancelot shifted in his seat, a cool facade playing on his facial features while internally, he was already visualising a certain geezer being used as the jousting team’s new training dummy. Clearing his throat, Lancelot schooled the most convincing expression he could emote and stared down Notsoworthy, drawing forth a seriousness akin to a Medic informing a patient of their fatal haemorrhoids.
“Unfortunately, it is of utmost importance that I be excused immediately along with Sir Percival. I believe we must attend to what Knightworld calls...a Code M.”
Several attending knights and squires let out a low whistle simultaneously, their simple brains already caught in the web of lies that Lancelot had craftily laid out. Unlike his dullards for students, the grizzled teacher was not to be convinced of this ploy just yet, his eyes narrowing in accusation and his wrinkled hands tightening suspiciously behind his back.
“A Code M is not something that you can just say without evidence,” Notsoworthy retorted sharply, waiting with an almost bloodthirsty expression to find a crack in Lancelot’s story.
“I would gladly procure some evidence but I’d rather not keep a lady waiting any longer,” Lancelot mustered with a dramatic but convincing sigh, “As a knight one must maintain their chivalry and punctuality to all women of this world and I intend to honour such personal integrity, indeed even by sacrificing my precious eddication! Such is the burden of being the knight of passion and loyalty.”
Next to Lancelot, Percival maintained an agreeable expression by wordlessly nodding along. Internally though, he suppressed multiple urges to cringe at Lancelot’s flourish of words. This was all for the greater good, he had told himself firmly. Freedom from this wretched torture session was so very close that he could almost smell the pollen-infested air of Merlin’s wardrobe a fair distance away.
“And just who is this damsel in distress that you and Mister Percival are obligated to ‘attend to’? I would like to know her name for record keeping,” Notsoworthy requested with a triumphant smirk, believing he had cornered the knight in his deceptive game. Unfortunately for the oldster, his supposedly cornered prey gave no indication of being trapped. Lancelot remained casually relaxed in his demeanour as he slowly rose from his seat and caught the interested looks of his fellow guild mates. He could almost feel a grimace playing on his lips as he delivered his mind blowing response with timed accuracy.
“...’tis Guinevere, sir.”
Percival almost did a spit take of deceptive quality while others around him genuinely succeeded in doing so. Lancelot barely seemed fazed by the overall reaction, his eyes trained only on the much older knight in front of him. Quivering lips and eyes bulging out of their sockets, Notsoworthy’s current face was reminiscent of a demented gargoyle perched atop one of Camelot’s towers, peering down into the town’s execution square with chilling apprehension.
“The Lady Guinevere, betrothed to the son of King Uther, Prince Arthur?” Notsoworthy gnashed with gritted teeth, his prudent mind probing belligerently for any logical explanation to this glorious madness.
Lancelot’s face broke out into a coy smile, his person striding haughtily over to the front of the room and sweeping a careless gaze across the stunned crowd.
“The one and only,” he confirmed loudly as he made a halt in his steps before a stone faced Notsoworthy.
“Preposterous!” the wizened eddicator cried, “The Lady would never be embroiled with some good for nothing knights!”
“Take it or leave it sir for it is only the truth I speak,” was all that Lancelot smoothly replied before he cast a knowing look at Percival. With a curt nod, Percival left his chair with all the willingness of a convict being pardoned from his execution. Joining his friend in a tell-tale show of smirking at the now spluttering Notsoworthy, the debonair cavaliers spared little grace to remain in the befuddled geriatric’s presence.
Notsoworthy could do little to stop them as he held his ground with whatever dignity that remained. A Code M could not be refused, even by a teacher of his standing. The indignities he had suffered by those two knights was already threatening his rising blood pressure with a stroke impending. Thankfully, to the benefit of his physical health, the beginnings of dementia began to kick in shortly after his altercation with his two students. Notsoworthy’s mind had already slipped back into a state of monotony and a feeble strive to educate the masses was prevalent once more. With a collective groan, what remained of a class resumed their braindead trance as Notsoworthy droned on.
.....
“Using dear old Gwen as a scapegoat? It seems you have a method to your madness after all,” Percival mused as he and his now high spirited companion barrelled out of the gloomy stone building with renewed vigour. Lancelot let out a jesting laugh to his friend’s remark.
“Percy my good fellow, in a world wrought by disease and famine and ancient windbags, is it wrong to yearn for the simpler times of joy and merry fun?” the confident knight grinned, clapping Percival’s shoulder with a well-toned hand.
“By merry fun, I hope you mean flying Merlin’s star themed britches as the jousting team’s new flag,” Percival suggested with a devious glint in his eyes.
“What would Knightworld be without its two most gifted, charming knights to bring the party to the people? Alright, let us annihilate the tasteless old man’s trousers.”
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.
‘Notsoworthy’ was the name the elderly knight had been christened with since his induction into Knightworld’s education system, an uncanny spite to its backwardness in hiring long term teachers. Nearing levels of obnoxious that only his late predecessor the Lamington could ever achieve, Notsoworthy set his own mark in stone by inducing his victims into a braindead coma whenever he prattled on about his nonsensical theories of rhetoric.
Lancelot decided he would abandon the class while he could, nervous system intact thank you very much. Listening to his best mate Sir Percival inform him of the jousting team vacating the training field due to a violent hazing incident had been the silver lining the knight was desperately looking for.
One fine afternoon, the two student knights had feigned an inclination to listen to the absolute rubbish Notsoworthy was jabbering away at the current moment. Through furtive exchanges of glances and written notes, the cunning knights meticulously planned their getaway of grand proportions. The mere idea of trading a brainwashing English session with the cheap thrill of stealing Merlin’s knicker collection was enough to fuel Lancelot’s bravery for his following shenanigans.
“Forgive me for interrupting good sir, but I would like to be excused,” called out said knight brazenly, daring a glance into the piercing, cyanide blue of the aged eddicator’s condescending gaze. Stopped mid-speech in his latest lecture about Shakesword’s bloody “contextual evidence”, Notsoworthy was less than pleased with his interruption.
“I have it on good authority to tell you, Mister Lancelot, that what I am teaching you will be examined upon. It would be unwise for anyone to skip out on this,” he enunciated sourly, before quietly adding in, "The nerve of some people, whose behinds are so deep in sickening self-importance...!"
Lancelot shifted in his seat, a cool facade playing on his facial features while internally, he was already visualising a certain geezer being used as the jousting team’s new training dummy. Clearing his throat, Lancelot schooled the most convincing expression he could emote and stared down Notsoworthy, drawing forth a seriousness akin to a Medic informing a patient of their fatal haemorrhoids.
“Unfortunately, it is of utmost importance that I be excused immediately along with Sir Percival. I believe we must attend to what Knightworld calls...a Code M.”
Several attending knights and squires let out a low whistle simultaneously, their simple brains already caught in the web of lies that Lancelot had craftily laid out. Unlike his dullards for students, the grizzled teacher was not to be convinced of this ploy just yet, his eyes narrowing in accusation and his wrinkled hands tightening suspiciously behind his back.
“A Code M is not something that you can just say without evidence,” Notsoworthy retorted sharply, waiting with an almost bloodthirsty expression to find a crack in Lancelot’s story.
“I would gladly procure some evidence but I’d rather not keep a lady waiting any longer,” Lancelot mustered with a dramatic but convincing sigh, “As a knight one must maintain their chivalry and punctuality to all women of this world and I intend to honour such personal integrity, indeed even by sacrificing my precious eddication! Such is the burden of being the knight of passion and loyalty.”
Next to Lancelot, Percival maintained an agreeable expression by wordlessly nodding along. Internally though, he suppressed multiple urges to cringe at Lancelot’s flourish of words. This was all for the greater good, he had told himself firmly. Freedom from this wretched torture session was so very close that he could almost smell the pollen-infested air of Merlin’s wardrobe a fair distance away.
“And just who is this damsel in distress that you and Mister Percival are obligated to ‘attend to’? I would like to know her name for record keeping,” Notsoworthy requested with a triumphant smirk, believing he had cornered the knight in his deceptive game. Unfortunately for the oldster, his supposedly cornered prey gave no indication of being trapped. Lancelot remained casually relaxed in his demeanour as he slowly rose from his seat and caught the interested looks of his fellow guild mates. He could almost feel a grimace playing on his lips as he delivered his mind blowing response with timed accuracy.
“...’tis Guinevere, sir.”
Percival almost did a spit take of deceptive quality while others around him genuinely succeeded in doing so. Lancelot barely seemed fazed by the overall reaction, his eyes trained only on the much older knight in front of him. Quivering lips and eyes bulging out of their sockets, Notsoworthy’s current face was reminiscent of a demented gargoyle perched atop one of Camelot’s towers, peering down into the town’s execution square with chilling apprehension.
“The Lady Guinevere, betrothed to the son of King Uther, Prince Arthur?” Notsoworthy gnashed with gritted teeth, his prudent mind probing belligerently for any logical explanation to this glorious madness.
Lancelot’s face broke out into a coy smile, his person striding haughtily over to the front of the room and sweeping a careless gaze across the stunned crowd.
“The one and only,” he confirmed loudly as he made a halt in his steps before a stone faced Notsoworthy.
“Preposterous!” the wizened eddicator cried, “The Lady would never be embroiled with some good for nothing knights!”
“Take it or leave it sir for it is only the truth I speak,” was all that Lancelot smoothly replied before he cast a knowing look at Percival. With a curt nod, Percival left his chair with all the willingness of a convict being pardoned from his execution. Joining his friend in a tell-tale show of smirking at the now spluttering Notsoworthy, the debonair cavaliers spared little grace to remain in the befuddled geriatric’s presence.
Notsoworthy could do little to stop them as he held his ground with whatever dignity that remained. A Code M could not be refused, even by a teacher of his standing. The indignities he had suffered by those two knights was already threatening his rising blood pressure with a stroke impending. Thankfully, to the benefit of his physical health, the beginnings of dementia began to kick in shortly after his altercation with his two students. Notsoworthy’s mind had already slipped back into a state of monotony and a feeble strive to educate the masses was prevalent once more. With a collective groan, what remained of a class resumed their braindead trance as Notsoworthy droned on.
.....
“Using dear old Gwen as a scapegoat? It seems you have a method to your madness after all,” Percival mused as he and his now high spirited companion barrelled out of the gloomy stone building with renewed vigour. Lancelot let out a jesting laugh to his friend’s remark.
“Percy my good fellow, in a world wrought by disease and famine and ancient windbags, is it wrong to yearn for the simpler times of joy and merry fun?” the confident knight grinned, clapping Percival’s shoulder with a well-toned hand.
“By merry fun, I hope you mean flying Merlin’s star themed britches as the jousting team’s new flag,” Percival suggested with a devious glint in his eyes.
“What would Knightworld be without its two most gifted, charming knights to bring the party to the people? Alright, let us annihilate the tasteless old man’s trousers.”