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."
Barnaby grinned, already eyeing the next set of doors. "Just 'Squire' is fine, sir. But keep the boots polished. We’ve got a giant to see about a beanstalk tomorrow, and I’ve got a feeling his shins are wide open."
"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." 11 : Butt-Kicking Squire
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."
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? Barnaby shrugged, adjusting a leather greave that had
"You... you kicked it?" Roderick asked, his fork hovering mid-air.
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." "Just 'Squire' is fine, sir
The Hall fell silent. The knights exchanged looks of bewilderment.