Barnaby wasn’t your average squire. While his peers spent their afternoons polishing shields and learning the delicate art of "not dying in a ditch," Barnaby was busy redefining the chivalric code. His philosophy was simple: why poke someone with a pointed stick when a well-placed boot to the backside achieves the same moral victory with significantly more flair?
Sir Roderick looked up from his mutton, blinking in surprise. "Dealt with? You didn't even have a sword, boy. I forgot to give you the key to the armory." 11 : Butt-Kicking Squire
Roderick sighed, finally dropping the mutton. "I suppose I should update the scrolls. 'The Squire of the Swift Foot' has a certain ring to it." Barnaby wasn’t your average squire
Barnaby shrugged, adjusting a leather greave that had seen better days. "Didn't need it, sir. Turns out, if you kick a dragon hard enough in the soft spot right behind the left haunch, it loses all interest in pillaging and develops a very sudden interest in finding an ice pack." Sir Roderick looked up from his mutton, blinking in surprise
The Hall fell silent. The knights exchanged looks of bewilderment.
"You... you kicked it?" Roderick asked, his fork hovering mid-air.
"Thrice, sir. Once for the stolen sheep, once for the burnt haystack, and a third time because he had a very punchable—well, kickable—expression." Barnaby leaned against a pillar, looking remarkably un-singed. "He’s currently relocating to the Southern Isles. He said the 'vibe' here was becoming too hostile toward giant lizards."