In the distant land of Old St Ritty, a group of knights rode out into the distance, looking for Cider-ites to kill. They were members of the chivalric order of Old St Ritty, an order formed especially for fighting the Worsels crusade. The first one was simply carrying a lance and a sword in his belt, with the second one carrying a sword and a doll resembling St Ritty, both were armour clad. If you were to look at the lance and the swords carefully, you would realise they are both elongated pencils, adapted to work as weapons. For in this land, pencils are used as weapons and blades are used as writing implements.

As the day got on, and as both the horses and riders got board, the riders decided to talk to each other about something.

“You know, I’m sure this conflict will go on forever” said the first knight.

“You never know, our generation may be the last to fight the Cider-ites” replied the second knight.

“Perhaps, but there will still be wars after this.”

“Certainly, but that just means there’ll be a permanent supply of work for us knights, and all the land, money, women...”

“But that might change.”

“What do you mean that might change, there’s always going to be war.”

“But I’ve heard rumours that an invention has come into being that will remove the need for a skilled, warrior class.”

“Oh not that old thing again!”

“But it’s true, supposedly it can pierce through armour, work at long distances, and anyone could use it well without any need for physical training.”

“Oh that’s just a load of false advertising designed to creep some people out and get others to buy it, it will never catch on!”

“But we should be careful, the inventor claims ‘with this weapon and the help of my supporters, I will end the hereditary class system that restrains us, after my purge all status will be decided by the rule of merit’”

“Oh that’s just a load of bloody egalitarian, utopian shite!”

“The rule of merit is not egalitarian, it simply means that your alcoholic, anti-social son won’t simply inherit all your stuff when you die and it will go to someone who has actually done some work for you like me.”

“Don’t bring my son into this! Power is a gift from god, and it is up to the person god has given it to, to decide where that power goes.”

“S’pose so.”

When they reached the battle sight, a massive rabble of Cider-ites met them, but although large in numbers and ferocious in fighting, they were no match for skilled knights on horse back. As wood clanged with wood and graphite slit throats and punctured stomachs, it became clear that the two knights of St Ritty would win. Soon the remainder of the rabble ran away, but the two knights were two tired to chase after them. The second knight looked up and noticed a figure on the top of a hill beyond a marsh. He focused; the character looked dirty and seemed to be carrying something. He focused more, the device looked somewhat like a very long trumpet, and he was pointing it at them. Suddenly a loud bang occurred and the first knight had a pencil going straight through his helmet. The second knight knew he had little time left, and kicked the horse into running as fast as possible. But it was for nothing, for soon he too had a pencil in his neck. Both of these knights had been killed, in part, by “the machine that shoots pencils.”

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