High Paladin Waltz Vonstein came striding out of The Bastion’s privy. He started clunking down the steps, his armor shuffling with every stride. His movements were unwieldy but his face was confident. He began shouting as he strode down the steps.

“Men! Prepare yourselves. We are the light that holds back the dark, we are the guardians of Rovaldan. For five hundred years we have held back The Dark Lord and his evil minions. We have prevented the tyranny of their rule. We shall continue to do so. We ride for the dominion of man, we ride for the future!”

He had reached the bottom of the stone steps that led to the courtyard from the privy by the time he had finished his speech but instead of receiving cheers and enthusiasm from his men, a spattering of tired looking individuals wearing odd and unmatching pieces of armor, he was met with laughter.

“What? What are you laughing at?” Vonstein demanded of his men.

“M’lord” A Paladin Subcommander answered between hefty breaths as he held back his laughter. “Your pant’s. You forgot them!” He finished before breaking out in a fresh wave of laughter.

Waltz Vonstein followed the Subcommanders gaze to between his legs, where a small cocktail sausage like appendage hung limply. Immediately his face grew red from embarrassment and his gauntleted hands immediately went to cover his meager offering.

“What? Haven’t any of you suffered from shrinkage before?” He shouted, trying to bypass his humiliation with excuses. Now, this argument would probably make sense if it wasn’t the warmest day experienced in a decade, with sweltering heat flowing around the sweating men who were still trying and failing to cover their laughter.

Unable to stand there under the scrutiny of their gazes, Vonstein turned face and scurried up the steps to the privy as fast as his legs and his armor would allow him.

This was met by a fresh round of hysterical laughter as a strand of toilet paper tucked between Vonstein’s bun’s fluttered due to the sudden movement and updraft created by the fleeing High paladin before ultimately falling out covered in identifiable stains of the same color and consistency of melted chocolate.

Vonstein slammed shut the privy door, as the Grand Master of The Rovaldan Lancers entered the courtyard from a small door. The Grand Master was an awe-inspiring sight. Wrapped in imposing but beautiful crimson armor engraved with the sigil of The Rovaldan Lancers, a wolf with a mug of ale.

“Where is the High Paladin?” The Grand Master asked the same subcommander who had informed Vonstein of the “shitty” situation he was in.

“Having trouble with shrinkage, m’lord, and the pork pies from last night.” The subcommander uttered with a completely serious face.