The Luckless
Tuchux
The Bagpiper
Ouch, That
Had to Hurt
The Swimming
Hole
The Maiden
in Distress
SCA
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Well, as usual the Tuchux had a bunch of fighters ready and willing to die for the highest bidder... Ahem, I mean the King who gave their clan leader the greatest tribute. Notice I said "die" earlier, not fight, not defend, just die. You see, generally a Tuchux fighter in a field battle simply charges the opposing line berserker-style, hoping to breach the line and cause confusion. Some of the more inventive ones actually try to jump over the shield wall to be able to strike behind the lines as it were. What this usually does is get them killed very, very quickly.
For example, one of their number, dressed in bare minimum armor (and I mean bare minimum: the rather large amount of skin he was showing was covered with a dark soot and runic symbols) screamed and ran towards our line just after the starting cannon went off. He tried to get through our line of spearpoints, but one quick-thinking spearman in our ranks caught him just as he made his jump over our shields.
The spear caught him dead center while he was in mid-leap. His momentum carried him upward, spear still square in his abdomen. The loud "hoooushhhh" of air escaping his lungs could be heard even by the cheering crowd. Silence took the field as the luckless Tuchux continued in his upward arc. All eyes were upon him as his motion ceased... Still on the spear which was now vertical, one end planted in the ground, the other end nine feet up.
The spearman, holding his spear firmly lest the Tuchux topple from it, called upward: "Milord, I do believe that was a fatal blow. Do you agree?"
"Yes, yes, I'm dead" wheezed the Tuchux.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" inquired the spearman innocently.
"You could let me down" the Tuchux replied.
"I thought you'd never ask!" the spearman said, his eyes gleaming as he yanked the spear out from under the Tuchux.
"Thump!! Uhhhhh..." replied the Tuchux upon hitting the ground.
Well, there was a certain chieftan of a Scottish clan who was one of those light sleepers. And by the third night of the Tuchux's "festivities" he had had enough. So he went into town, bought a case of Glen Fiddich (12 year old, single-malt scotch) and bribed a bagpiper: "Go to the foot of their encampment and drown out their drums!" he said. The bagpiper took up the challenge (and the case of alcohol) and set out upon his task.
So, precisely at sunset, as the first "broom" of the drum echoed across the entire campground, the sound of a bagpipe's drones could also be heard. The second "boom" of the drum brought the first notes of "Amazing Grace". The drummers kept drumming, and the Bagpiper kept playing.
Very soon, faces appeared at the top of the short hill the Tuchux were camped upon. One of their number came down to the Piper to inquire as to what the H**L he was doing. The piper, still playing, gestured to a hand-calliged note prepared by his chieftain, which stated in no-uncertain terms the Piper's purpose that night. In frustration, the Tuchux stormed back up the hill. The drums got louder. The Piper played another jig.
This went on for some time. After a few hours, the Piper struggled a bit to keep up the melody with one hand as he re-tuned one of his drones with the other...
About the twentieth time the Piper played "Amazing Grace", the Tuchux had had enough. Two of their number fetched a six-foot burning log out of their great fire and rolled it down the hill at the Piper.
Unimpressed, the Piper simply stepped out of the way, still playing, while watching the log roll past him in into the lake.
Our target was forty yards away, and as soon as the marshal yelled "Fire!" we let loose. Our arrows left our bows together and landed on the target at the same time. The unknown archer, far more skilled than I, landed his arrow squarely in the throat of the paper man-shaped target. My arrow landed right where I aimed it, dead center of the target's chest.
My impish bastard of a friend put his arrow right in the poor target's crotch.
I found out you can't shoot very well while laughing.
One afternoon we heard a buzzing sound. It was a helicopter. It circled the campground once, and once again, then it hovered a scant hundred feet right above the swimming hole.
We were perplexed, then amused by this... That is until the largest telephoto lens I had ever seen appeared and pointed straight down at some of the lovlier lasses... As the women (and a few men) dove for cover, on older gentleman, still wearing his cornet and nothing else, stroked his beard and smiled.
That smile turned into a chuckle as he loaded a bolt into his crossbow.
There was laughter all around as the 'chopper angled quickly out of sight. After all, who could blame the pilot for hurrying after a crossbow bolt thudded into his craft right between his feet?
I was walking up to the barn with the sunrise at my back when I spied a large group of males, mostly on their hands and knees, apparently looking for something. In their midst was a young lady. She couldn't have been more than 17, but was pretty, even at this distance. She was obviously distressed.
"Hmm... She must have lost something" was my thought. Naturally I decided to lend a hand. She did not notice me as I approached.
"Ah, she must have the face of Helen herself to have so many men groveling at her feet so!" I said to get her attention.
She turned toward me, and the look of confusion on her face was precious. It was if she was thinking "Oh, no, not another one!" The war between confusion, loss and not wanting to be the center of so much attention was clearly getting to her.
I helped her calm down by asking her what happened -- she had purchased a moonstone just a few minutes before and had lost it almost immediately. I asked her where she had purchased it, and she replied at a stall back towards the sunrise.
I wondered for a bit why all the other men were behind her, looking for the stone west of where she was walking, but I had a girl to calm and a moonstone to find...
Now, you must understand. I had never seen a moonstone in my life. My plan was to look along the rocky path for a stone that did *not* look like gravel.
But fate was kind that day, and within seconds I saw it: a polished milky-colored stone about the size of a marble. I closed my fist around it and walked towards her with a smile.
"Milady?" I said to her as I opened my hand. The look of relief and glee on her face made it more than worthwhile, but the quick hug I got, along with the envious stares of the other males, made it even better.
After she thanked me, she walked away towards the sun. And as I looked towards her, it finally dawned on me why the other males were looking in the wrong place. You see, the young lady was wearing a gauze skirt and, while it covered her completely, the sun did shine through it quite nicely, revealing a wonderful pair of legs.