Saw this quote online, figured it might inspire something interesting.
“Hoping to find a ‘knight in shining armor’ is a worthless dream. His blade razor-edged, his shield polished, his breastplate ornately-gilded, they say only this - that his experience in battle is nothing, and his courage has never been tested. He has nothing but ambition and optimism in his corner, and he could easily falter and flee when that shine fades. Hope instead to find the steadfast soldier in scuffed and dented plate, whose shield is scarred and cracked and whose sword is chipped and dulled. This is someone who has faced the enemy without fear, who has fought through the assaults of those who tried to break him and, even if in the end he was left weary and bloody, still emerged victorious. That man, battered and bruised but still triumphant, is the kind of hero one should seek.”
(#0153)
“Oh, now what the hell?”
There were two figures blocking egress. Men in armor. Men with muscles, but beyond that, they were opposites. One was a stereotypical shining knight replete with his own star filter. The other was a rusted, dented, mismatched man with a smoldering cigar and reeking of cynicism.
“CHOOSE YOUR HERO,” boomed the voice controlling this labyrinth of chaos.
“I know how this goes,” Kitty began to go to the sparkly one on the left.
“Wait,” said Jean. “This was put together by Sara on a 'flu medicine and sugar bender. Nothing fits nypical rules.”
“Nypical?” echoed Pietro.
“Neurotypical. I’ve been reading Sara’s psych books. Deal. This is her creation. In essence, we’re inside her head.”
“Euw,” said Lance.
“That explains the last three pun-related traps,” muttered Scott.
“Hush,” said Jean. “We have to think like Sara.”
“Psychoweirdo lunacy? I’m not doing anything about anything, then,” said Pietro.
“So…like, the shiny hero’s the bad one?” guessed Kitty.
“Too right,” said the other one. He had been leaning against his archway. “Mister shiny over there’s never been in a real fight. Watch.” he flicked a small, wooden cosh towards the shiny knight in a negligent motion.
And, predictably, the pretty one literally fell to pieces.
The rusty fighter lit his cigar again. “Sam Vimes,” he said. “Ankh-Morpork City Watch.”
“Told you so,” murmured Jean.
[Muse food remaining: 8 (fic war prompts, 3). Submit a prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories!]