#amodernknight

[painted-perfectly-red]

HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS TO amodernknight!!! This is back to our senior year of high school when we both had super long hair lol I LOVE YOU HUNNYYY

[amodernknight]

Holy crap I just hit 300 followers! It may be a small milestone but I appreciate each and every person who has decided to follow this unorganized blog!!!<3 I'm always open to talk so don't be afraid to hit me up!

[amodernknight]

Follow me on snapchat if you want 100% pure idiot shit.

kaymick1285

[pattvwalters]

Your waffle post relates to me on a spiritual level because I literally had one for breakfast and now imma have one for lunch

Leslie Knope would be proud.

[amodernknight]

Well hello to all of my new followers! Come say hello!

[amodernknight]

Do you have a link to your novel on your blog or has my myopia got the better of me? (this is a poorly disguised plea for information about your book please :))

Do I really know who this is?

**Shameless Plug**

Haha, a link to the novel.

But here is a description:

At the turn of the 21st century, Dr. Sara Roberts, a newly appointed professor of a fictitious Ivy League university in Cambridge, Massachusetts, is entranced by her work colleague, the enigmatic Dr. Koleen Edwards. The two form a fast friendship until Dr. Edwards asks Sara out on proper date in the fall. Though their relationship starts out smooth, a menacing letter sent to Dr. Roberts shifts their bond in a not-so-typical way. After a fatal accident in late December, it is revealed to Sara that Dr. Edwards is a living historical figure, unaged and unmarked with time. Dr. Edwards goes on to explain her past lives to Sara, telling her that until the mid-1970s, she was living her life as a man. Sara, though shocked to hear the revelation, does not doubt the love of her life and her various past roles. In the start of the New Year, the professors travel abroad to Wales to visit the Edwards’ impressive homestead in rural North Wales. There, Sara sees firsthand the history behind Dr. Edwards’ past lives and hears tales of the past from her various relatives. Sara seemingly wakes from a dream and finds out that all Dr. Edwards had told her was untrue, and struggles with reality, deeming whether or not this is just another cover-up from a family that has been tested for over seven hundred years.

[painted-perfectly-red]

HAI YES ALL THE YES LETS YES

PLZ THIS NEEDS TO HAPPEN BECAUSE I NEED TO START MY LIFE AND GET A JOB BECAUSE I"M STILL JOBLESS AT THE MOMENT

[amodernknight]

My First Duel: A Memoir.

            A tournament field is an arid wasteland of ambitious hope that goes unnoticed by the spectator. The white chalk line circle at the center gains the combatant access to a no-holds-barred exploit that can leave you gazing up at the sky on your back or glaring down at the shattered face of the enemy. This is your feeling, however; those who watch you only see the sunlight as it dew-drops off the silver armor you are encased in, the vibrant colors encasing that shimmering steel to showcase your name and honor, and the fast, uninhibited strikes of the weapon in your hand.

            The spectator only hears the crack of steel on steel, the bashing of heavy wood on metal as you lift that shield brazenly over your head in hope that you will not hear the sound of your own brain reverberating within your skull—the sound of the deep, cavernous thunk the strike of a blade makes against the two-inch thick steel encasing your mind. No one but you hears the ravenous pounding of the beating heart within your chest, the thick muscle galumphing against itself in nervous titters, and practically shouting, “Don’t you dare put your guard down.” You can barely hear the ferocious commotion and cheering coming from the audience over your racing thoughts and worthless prayers that burst through the very depths of your psyche like an arrow from a bow.

            Those leather straps that separate you and a centimetre thick blade grow hot and sweaty in your clamshell-encased palm. Your left hand is so drenched in perspiration it feels as though it is dipped in a bubbling cauldron, not a leather glove and sixteen-gauge steel. Even though steel blocks your wool encrusted forearm from the load of a inch thick shield, you feel the overbearing weight of the wood against yourself as you arch your arm upwards, attempting to cover your head that sits nearly a foot lower than your opponent’s. The woollen gambeson-jacket you wear under the steel feels like a thousand pounds of wool wrapped close to your skin as you stand in the unusually hot October sun. You can feel the sweat running down your back, your legs, even your ankles. The awkwardly cut piece of metal between your right radius and ulna juts into your exposed skin and irritates, causing slight pain as you draw you sword back, the shorter blade lightly fatiguing your arm as though you hold all the animosity towards your opponent at the sharpened end. The dirt at your feet flaps up and enters your boots, creating an unlikely place for pumice stone to enter into the rather implausible picture.

            Gasping, all you can taste is the salty, viscous liquid that is sweat and the leftover iron from a previous wound that left your lip bloodied and sore. Wait though; there is a second course of the sanguine as the noise you fear reverberates through your unsullied mind. This is your test—your coming-of-age ceremony in a faction where you are not only the youngest, but also the only current specimen of your sex.

            You make a last ditch effort to get away, but to no gain…your foe has disarmed you, thrown your shield to the earth, and pulled you into an world shattering reverse bear hug that has his forearm barring your neck from even moving in the slightest. You are forced to inhale the scent of unwashed sweat and dirt as he holds you back, slamming that centimetre thick blade against your head, over and over again you hear that deafening reverberation ricochet through your mind to the point that you are imploring some unknown force to make it stop. You have admitted and understood defeat, and now you must linger for your opponent to acquiesce. Someone calls out your name and the throbbing finally ceases, the mob has grown silent, and your mind can only focus on taking off your helmet. Your engorged head is released from its casing like helium exiting a balloon, but the relief brings you nothing but disenchantment. You have lost this bout, but there will be another time…you will rest well with the thought that you have proven your mettle and demonstrated yourself worthy to be called a knight.