Paladin Jones sat by the campfire, his plate armour weighing heavy on his muscular frame. He hated the armour, always had. It restricted movement, visibility and any Paladin worth their salt dumped the armour at the first sign of trouble. But it had become a symbol, and as he sat around the campfire surround by dignitaries of the nearby villages, his job was to be the symbol of the Paladins. A job he hated with a passion.
He sat and listened to the man beside him drone on and on. The man was a prince (luckily not the Prince and heir to the throne) and an absolute clod. He said nothing that wasn’t scripted, thought nothing other than what he was taught to think, and had a laugh that made Jones’ skin crawl. Yet he seemed to please the village leaders and town mayors who sat and lapped up every word the idiot said.Read More »