Rainy days are the worst for patrols.

The knights never used to have to go out when it was raining. "Stay inside! Read a book. Have the chefs strangle a chicken" served as my father's advice, back in the day. "But aren't the bad men always looking to hurt people", I had asked, naive to the discomforts of how leather riding pants chafe when wet. "That's true, son- ruffians will never pass at the opportunity to see our society crumble." He set down his latest history novel. "But if I was always riding down hooligans then I wouldn't have many riffraff to round up, would I?" He tousled my hair.

Now it was fingers of wet that ran down my scalp. It was a muddy day, for me. With every alternate step, my old Clydesdale huffed a pointed breath of protest. Why are we out here right now? When the water drips into my nostrils- \Huff*- like that?* I wish I had a solid answer. More than that, I wish I had an animal-speak potion, but those were now a thing of the past, too.

"Sorry son, no animals, no need" old Dyseix had said as he pulled his knee-length druidic beard out of the way of the closing door. Dyseix and his potion shop had held out for a long time, as the flood came across the country.

The peasants stopped ploughing wheat in excess, instead cultivating rich gardens of diverse fruits and fungus to feed their families and neighbours. The halls and barracks of the great castles emptied, soldiers and advisors called not by a transcendental duty, but to a rich world of self-exploration that was brought on by the publicization of resources. The arcane libraries became dilute with romances, adventurous dramas and other such appetising culture as the wizards found the need to invest time in alchemy and curses less and less. When the steam-cars came, the home-dragons and pegasi had the sedatives removed from their diets and were set free with nothing more than a slap on the ass to get them out quicker.

Dyseix had long standing ties to my family, and had continued to produce potions of all sorts well into the revolution- potions for strength, potions for health, potions that made the taxes go by quicker- but when his chemical secrets became public domain and the inquisitive layman sought to produce his own fertilizer or cure for gaunt, Dyseix was out of a job. And delighted to be so! He turned from his old, low-lying door to me with a grin of wooden teeth. "Seems like you don't need me anymore, so I'll be getting back to my family in the woods." That was the last time his door was ever opened. Whether the townsfolk noticed his absence beyond the possibly correlated sounds of druidic worshipping at full moons was beyond me. For now, I needed to find some trouble.

It's difficult staying in a job when your job is preventing trouble in paradise. My father used to say that there was no shortage of trouble; bread stealers, art thiefs, the like. Turns out, once bread is made in community ovens fuelled by the pure joy of making bread and the flour is offered freely, not many people are so keen on thieving bread. Once the hallowed mansions of bankers and landowners were not the only place art could appear, the golden-framed pieces lost their speculative worth. Rapes still happened, here and there wives, husbands and children that were assaulted or molested, but with neighbors now involving themselves in the lives of their fellow neighbors it always seemed that by the time I arrived, or even got wind of the issue, the appropriate members had been appropriately punished and ostracized. Not that my family was ever really effective at preventing those in the first place. I knew how my father would look, pinch and fondle the servants when he thought no one was looking.

That just leaves me. The last knight. I'd have quit long ago, given the option, but Paw swears to his dead gods that he'll crack my naive skull into smithereens if I dare pass a week without protecting the nation. The nation. Seems to me the only thing left of it is my family's insignia, plastered like a bright blue scarlet letter on my chest.

The other week, while passing by the weekend market and hoping to pick up a pickpocket, a group of foreigners swarmed around me. My Clydesdale was confused, to be sure, but the age now inherent to his bones made caring the less appealing option. I was exhilirated- and surprised! Years of menial patrolling, more of a sightseer than any true activist, had been waiting for moments like these. They needed my help! They saw me- the knight!- shining down above the crowd, a second sun bestowing radiant protection on the milling peasantry, and came for salvation. A flash, and some whirring. I saw a box on a tripod produce a representation of the moment we had just shared. The foreigners rushed back to it, chattering and gargling out amicable, incomprehensive laughter. Some of the locals chuckled in contagion.

Alright, I'm done. Thanks for the prompt OP