Would That I Could

I had more to say, after writing that last entry, but it felt so unimportant after what was said that I thought it would essentially be like renting out ad space on your first manifesto. Just after you get past the part about eliminating the proletariat or the white race or the Catholics or something, there's an ad for Jerry's Dogs and the whole thing just makes you hungry.

Nectarhoozle, I promised pictures from war, and pictures from war I have come to deliver... feeling some obligation to own up to some promise, if any, after failing to deliver porn after having promised to do so in the first real post ever.

So, to set the scene, Prado National Park, Great Western War, the Year of Our Lord 2005, the setting: Troy.

Enjoy my awesome.

...


One of the big deals about this war that I was so excited about, that I believe I commented on earlier, was the fact that all the scenarios were going to be centered around the legend (read: movie) of Troy, Homer's Iliad. True to form, there was a boat battle (ghastly) there was the
beach landing and attempted capture of the sanctuary of Apollo (which I didn't take much part in, mostly due to the boat battle's ghastliness) and throughout the weekend there were numerous rez battles and castle battles and knights showboating and Corvus dying and many, many opportunities to kill many, many people but, mostly, it was a chance to fight as a Greek invading the city of Troy... and that appealed to me most of all. I'm sure the entire thing was cooked up by Dirk (or Direk... I believe it is officially) as he's recently become extremely entranced by the Hellenic legends and has gone so far as to, in his split from the Orkneys, name his new fighting group the "Myrmidons," however, the entire thing felt as if it were planned especially for little old me, and in keeping with the egoism of my proud ancestry, I took up the call, broke in my new persona, and donned the helmet you see above, a beautiful Corinthian made by Brand himself whiel he was king. It'd been sitting on my shelf for a while, unstrapped and unpadded, awaiting its virgin battle... and O how the battle did come.


I do love this sport, this life of war. Saturday proved to be the glory day, and as I've said many times after the fighting was over, I think I did the best fighting of my life on that Saturday. My brothers and I took Corvus apart, not that they're all that difficult to dismantle once you realize that a) most of them can't fight all that well to begin with, b) the ones that can are so surrounded by those that can't as to be bogged down by their presence and c) they are afraid of you. I had Ichtius with me, a short sword which, for most SCAers, is certain death, and all that I'd do is walk straight up to the line of pretty red shields with their pretty corvid heraldry (visible in the background to the right) and try to catch up with them as they'd back away in terror. The Corvi that can fight fight well, and hit hard, but they're too busy trying to maintain the line to protect themselves. My brothers and I slaughtered them, time and time again, to the extent that I wasn't even thinking about them as I made a mad rush at Achilles (my good friend Jedon), batting their spear aside and killing indiscriminantly and effortlessly as I went. Gods, my house is a house of legendary glory, if only we have the faculty to realize it.

The tournament, as always, was a little weak. The Lord of the Great House enjoys doing the "Pas" every year in which that red barrier is built and placed within an eric (this year being made of posts extolling the twelve virtues of chivalry or some such antiquated notion that no one, NO ONE, adheres to within the context of everyday life, only in one of making someone stop something that bothers you) and the people fighting have to fight over the damn thing. Weak. Sauce. You ask me. The gentleman I'm fighting against up there thought it a good idea to call all the other fighters there "pantywaists" (wh... wha?) and the proceeded to fight each and every one of us, single sword to single sword, three counted blows. Also, he proceeded to lose to every. single. one. of. us. Every one. Didn't win one fight. And I had my little Icthius, slashing him up, not being nearly as long as his sword. Boo-ya. We were going to do a Bear Pit tourney (much more our style, wherein there is scrapping and struggling and wrestling over weaponry and chaotic fighting for survival and honor) but I fell asleep. D'oh.

At any rate, the war was the best war I'd ever attended, as I've said before, but my exploits and those of my house are all that I really had been meaning to discuss, and having done that, I think I'm going to hold on to the rest of the photographic documenation of this particular fightfest until another subject occurs to me that they'd serve in providing visual aid for. Until then, if you haven't, join the god damn SCA. It is awesome.

God help me I do love it so.