"Sir Bastion, could you help me lift my wheat, please?"
"Not a problem, Lady Guinevere!"
Strutting proudly, the valiant knight's arm swooped down gracefully to lift up two hefty sacks filled to the brim with wheat grains. Even with one arm, the knight's graceful gesture was unhindered by the sheer weight, almost as if he were lifting air.
"Here you go, madam! Safe and sound as always!
Swiftly and delicately plopping the valuable cargo on the horse's cart, Bastion struck another pose before bowing courteously to the smitten peasant woman. One flex of his rugged biceps wasn't enough in his mind. With a flourish and twist of his torso, the knight's biceps peaked upwards, throbbing veins snaking around the slick skin adorned with sweat. The crowd was entranced, some clapping, some gasping in awe, and some feeling awfully hot and bothered themselves.
"Glad you lot enjoyed the show!"
Bastion proudly smiled underneath the helmet. After waving cheerfully at the delighted crowd, he returned to his usual patrol around the village's perimeter. His silver greaves shuddered the rustling grass as he waded through the pristine countryside. The thatched cottages resting on the borders were lined up with moss creeping along their cobblestone exterior. Plumes of smoke curled lazily from the chimneys as the scent of slow-roasting lamb chops wafted from the windowsills.
The knight crossed his limbs, surveying the landscape like a sentinel from legend, the polished blue steel of his helm glinting beneath the midday sun. But just as the peaceful hum of village life lulled around him, a ruckus erupted near the town square—shouting, sharp and sudden, like a goat kicked a hornet’s nest.
Bastion’s ears perked. He turned with theatrical flair, cloak fluttering as if caught in an unseen wind. His boots thudded purposefully on the packed dirt path as he marched toward the disturbance, each step commanding silence from birds and peasants alike.
There, beside the well and beneath the weatherworn signboard, two burly farmers—Rufus and Jorn—stood nose to nose, arms flailing, one wielding a turnip like it was a cudgel of war.
“You keep lettin’ your chickens roost in my thatch, ya onion-suckin’ layabout!”
“Maybe if your roof didn’t look like a henhouse, they wouldn’t be so confused, ya stump-legged trout!”
Gasps and giggles rippled through the gathering crowd, and bets were already being whispered when suddenly… the sun dimmed. Or so it seemed, as Sir Bastion stepped into the fray, the shadow of his formidable chest and glinting helm washing over the two men like a holy eclipse.
A slow, deliberate flex rippled through his left bicep as he raised it beside them, smooth, practiced, glistening in the light like polished oak. The crowd hushed. Rufus blinked. Jorn swallowed his turnip.
“Gentlemen!”
Bastion’s voice boomed with enthusiasm, masking his authority with a more mischievously subtle tone of intimidation.
“Are we about to engage in violence... over poultry?”
He leaned in ever so slightly, his torso twisting just enough to send his pectorals into a rhythmic bounce. His right hand rested on his hip while his left arm flexed higher, veins bulging like battle cords. He didn’t need to scold. He radiated better judgment.
The two farmers looked at each other. Then at Bastion’s glistening shoulders. Then back at each other. In perfect, silent agreement, they both shook their heads furiously and muttered something about going to check on their pigs.
The knight stepped back, gave a theatrical bow, and with a wink to a swooning baker’s daughter nearby, turned to resume his patrol.
“Let it never be said that valor lacks variety.”
He chuckled to himself, hands resting on his hips, as the village slowly returned to its tranquil buzz, with only slightly more people glancing his way than before.
