Extra credit challenge? extra credit challenge! As i failed my first writing challenge last year so badly, i took on +10 stories making my challenge 40 stories in 30 days (fuck me right?) mostly themes i recieved last time that i never finished. This is one of them.

theme: Vent out whatever bad feelings are keeping you down
So, i vented about my emotions, how i feel the good guy never wins.

themes coutesy of my dear friend and fellow challenge go-er  gothicvixen-autumn Be sure to check out their work too! theyre a lot better than i am i promise~




Sir conan was thrown to the ground by a beastly shield bash. The ringing of the hit against his plate armor and helmet rang through his ears with painful detail, while he looked up through slitted vision to the knight above him. Posing in confidant victory, sword blade pointed to the sky, humiliating him further. Not even killing him after the shameful defeat in the duel. "Next time. Be a challenge sir conan. The tournament is for the hand of a princess, and i'd hate to disappoint her father with another display like this."
The crowd of peasants and Noble's alike uproariously laughed at the mockery. Fingers pointed and rotten food thrown towards the meager sir Conan who hadn't even landed a single strike on Sir Redoran. Slowly, the armored figure got back to his feet. Leaving his sword, and family herald shield in the dirt, as sign of surrender, no further fight left in the knight, that stood merely half the stature of his victorious rival.
"It's a good thing you're leaving the tools in the dirt boy. Id hate to have to humiliate your family lineage further. The women of it make great concubines." The crowd laughed even harder, while Sir Conan just balled his fist. Steaming breath boiled underneath his helmet, but it was pointless, hed lost fair and square. Sir redoran was merely a better fighter.
"I'll have my revenge Redoran. Come the tournament I'll be the one who earns the Princess's hand. I swear it" vengeful adrenaline surged in every word, drawing the stern ire of Sir redoran, who poised almost to strike. Seemingly offended at the mere idea of it; but was cut short by a fresh melon splattering into Sir Conan's helmet. Gushing juices and fruit meat across the metal, desperate to stain his honor further.
"Hah! We'll see about that, runt." Sir redoran bellowed, relaxing his posture after the melon indignity. No longer feeling his thinly protected pride threatened.
Slowly, the crowd started to engulf the pair, or rather, surround Sir Redoran with love, affection, and gifts of praise. Pushing Sir Conan away like debris. Every passerby pushing him aside as if he wasn't even there. Kicking dirt over his shield and sword, till he finally grabbed it from beneath unconcerned boots, to walk away in shame. At least they weren't watching his shame anymore, he thought for a moment. Brushing dirt away from the family crest to admire his lineages accomplishments. Sir Bander slayed the wyvern of Bacnur, Lady Seren led the king’s armies in the yellow war, even his father, died protecting the duke of Hurnle. "I promise, i'll do you proud. Show that fool how an honourable knight should act!" Sir Conan proudly cheered, rubbing the dirt from his family before daring to clean his own armor.
Occupied until arriving home; Sir conan finally removed his helmet before entering the small home. Holding at the door for a moment to plan his words before going inside.
"Sir Conan! You have returned! Were you victorious?" Quickly asked a young boy. Rushing towards him with bread and bottles of drink to celebrate.
"No. I wasn't squire. But i need you to find me opponents, i will not sleep a moment until i'm ready for our rematch"

The squire seemed to darken his mood only for a moment, before lighting back up with pride at his master's confidence. "I will get right to work sire!"
Piece by piece, Sir Conan stripped down from his armor. Placing it all on the armor stand, so he could deeply scrub away the shame. Every particle of fruit burning the hatred inside him hotter and brighter. Waiting for the moment of truth. Every fighter his squire brought, another savage duel, swords clashing, armor bending, blood spilled for the Lord's pleasure, always back to scrubbing moldy fruit from the plates of his mail.

"Sire? The tournament is starting soon." The squires calm voice drew the useless knight from his melancholic scrubbing. Eyes red from tears and lack of sleep. Silently standing up, putting on the first piece of armor.

"Sire, would you like my help getting ready?" The squire pleaded. getting as close to his master as he felt was safe.

"You're released from service Andrew." Sir conan responded. Placing his metal mask over his head, turning towards his friend, ready for the fight.
"But sire!"
"I'm coming home a prince, or i'm not coming home at all. Your services are no longer needed friend."
"Sir conan, you're not acting yourself. Don't go. You are not in fighting shape."
"Collect your pay and go home Andrew." Sir conan lastly said. Closing the door on his friend behind him.
Spirit heavy, Sir Conan gripped the handle of his blade, tightening and loosening. Reminding himself that he was from a line of heroes, Sir redoran was not. The gods would be on his side.

Breaths slow, as Sir Conan arrived at the tournament. His name placed low onto the board, giving him time to watch the fights below. Even in this state, he watched every strike, every block, every movement. Preparing himself for one last battle.
"Bring in the next fighters! " yelled out the master if ceremonies. His voice echoing across the arena, while the last body was dragged away by the servants. "Sir Conan! Sir Redoran! Get ready!"

"So you did come back, runt." The behmothan Sir Redoran howled. Crossing his arms over his gut to contain himself; while Sir Conan's vexation seethed. Bringing to be the first to strike. Turning his blade around while his opponent laughed, with full intent to cave in his rivals skull with the weapons guard.
Despite his size, and let down guard Redoran reacted with alarming speed. Throwing up his buckler to bash Sir Conan's forearm. Stopping the strike short. Leaving Sir Conan unbalanced and vulnerable, to a quick retaliation. Letting Redoran quickly bring the point of his blade between the hinge in Conan's armor. Ending the fight nearly as soon as it began.

"And we have a winner! Sir Redoran! Come, take the hand of the princess!" The ceremony master yelled, the last thing Sir Conan heard, before it all went black.