[ WP ] For generations , every first-born of your family has been bestowed a Magical tool to fight the forces of evil that threaten to destroy the world . It 's your birthday , the coming of age ceremony has now finished with the summoning ritual , and you 've been bestowed the mighty enchanted ... . Ladle ?

The Dark Lord's army gathers around. 
 
 `` Tomorrow, we wipe the highborn scum from the face of the planet!'' 
 
 The rabble cheers, an echoing chorus of whoops and shouts. 
 
 `` Go forth my army. Annihilate those who would look down upon us. But first, we feast!'' 
 
 Another chorus of cheers. 
 
 The rabble disperses to their campfires. Some roast huge boars, others fry bacon. Potatoes and carrots are diced and stewed. The occasional fight breaks out, as the soldiers scuffle over food, space, spoils, and the camp followers. 
 
 Between the campfires walks a cloaked figure, dragging a huge cauldron of soup. They disperse bowl after bowl, carefully drawing the soup from within with their ladle. 
 
 Where they walk, the mood lightens. The soup is good. Very good. A fine broth, with soft potato and carrot and peas, with the rich taste of gravy and chunks of beef. And some unidentifiable herb. 
 
 The figure walks for hours. Their vast cauldron slowly empties as the aroma within entices the army towards it, to sample the food. 
 
 Then the figure takes their ladle and departs, leaving behind the cauldron, which the rablle falls upon in gluttony. 
 
 The next morning, the Dark Lord raises his army. They come slowly, unsurely. They march to battle slowly and carefully. 
 
 The force gathers up before the army waiting outside the castle. The Dark Lord gazes upon the meagre force before him. Barely a third the size of his own. Standing at the front, next to their commander, he spies a small figure in a cloak. They appear to be whispering something in the commander's ear. 
 
 `` Charge.'' 
 
 The Dark Army shouts and readies to run, before a single noise erupts. 
 
 A fart. 
 
 It is loud. Earsplittingly so. It trumpets forth like a war bugle, drawing every eye towards the agonised soldier from which it emanates. The Dark Lord's eyes bulge with anger, before another fart erupts. 
 
 Then another. And another. 
 
 `` No....'' 
 
 The Dark Lord looks upon his army, each of his men collapsing to the ground as their tunics flap in the wind bursting from their bottoms. The greatest force on the planet, reduced to a whimsical mess by their digestive tracts. 
 
 He hears the thunder of hooves as the defending army charges upon his own. At the front of the charge is the cloaked figure. They appear to be wielding... a ladle? 
 
 The Dark Army struggles to rise to their feet, but it is too late. 
 
 The Battle of the Windy Fields goes down in history as one of the greatest victories over evil ever.
