The Troll Hunt

Colyne Stewart, April AS XXXVI (2002)

For the April Fool’s TankArd

Every year the inhabitants of the Cliffs gather together to engage in a Troll hunt. Trolls are quite numerous in the wilds of Ardchreag, in the brambles, the marshes, the rocky quarries and the stinking bogs. Trolls grow larger the longer they live, starting out the size of a wolf terrier. The oldest Trolls loom over the heads of men on horseback.

To keep the Troll population at a manageable size, the Chreaggers engaged in a Troll hunt each New Year’s Day. The entire populace gathered at the canton keep, splitting themselves into teams.

Several of the shorter people were made flushers under the leadership of Colyne. The flushers would act as bait, drawing out the Trolls, and leading them back to where the archers waited. These included Raffe Scolemaystre, Ivanna the Oblivious, Iolanda de Albornoz and Emperor Bobo.

If the Troll was too large to be taken down by arrows the fighters of the canton would rush it from either side. Thorfinna gra’feldr, Siegfried Brandbjorn, Volodymyr “Vlad” Blahuciak, Brandt das Lederwerker and many others had sharpened their spears, swords and pikes in anticipation.

Things went exactly as planned, with the Chreaggers bagging twenty-two Trolls in four hours. The only mishap was when Berend van der Eych, the canton’s executioner, cut his hand while lopping off the last Troll’s head. (Some Trolls are strong enough that they will not stay dead unless their heads are removed.) Luckily, Fursto was nearby to patch him up.

Then things went really bad. One of the flushers, Stephen Scrymgeour, interrupted a large troll busily devouring the carcass of a bear. The monster was instantly on its feet and threw Stephen through the air, sending him crashing into an oak. The Troll, easily twice the height of Wulfgang Donnerfaust and three times as wide, strode quickly towards the hunters. The archers loosed shaft after shaft but they broke on the beast’s thick skin.

Gunther Katzkin, Eanor of Amberhall, Siegfried and Vlad rushed the Troll and halted its progress momentarily. But then it caught Gunther up in its giant hand and used him to club his compatriots into unconsciousness.

Brandt and Kenric rallied the remaining fighters around them and rushed the Troll as it chased after the archers. It knocked them aside one after the other and gave voice to a triumphant roar that made the blood of those that heard it run cold.

Then Piero remembered reading once that a Troll’s most vulnerable spot was behind its knees. He shouted this out as the Troll lumbered after him. Thorfinna lashed out with her blade as the beast ran past her, connecting solidly with the back of its left knee. Howling with pain the Troll dropped to the ground and thrashed about while Colyne, Crispinus and Elspeth threw nets about its body. Soon it lay as fully trussed as a Yuletide goose.

The triumphant Chreaggers took the beast back tot heir keep and locked it within a specially made cage, built by Melchior, Brandt, Gunther and Berend. No matter how the Troll raged it could not break free.

And so a great feast was held, the Troll was presented to Their Excellencies of Septentria to do with as they pleased, and all those on the Cliffs had a wondrous New Year’s Day.

Except Stephen. Who is dead.

Missive from the Knight Marshal

Colyne Stewart, AS XXXVI (2003)

For the April Fool’s TankArd

To the fighters of Ardchreag, Greetings,

Our plans to incorporate the flying turtles native to our lands into our fighting force is progressing well. Many test flights have been made, with only a few fatalities. The turtles can fly very swiftly over short distances, or slowly over great. However, once the turtles tire they land and move at a pace slower than their land born relatives. This can be problematic when being chased by knights on horseback.

Feed for the beasts is also a bit problematic, as their number one choice is fresh goblin meat. Goblins are not as numerous in the Cliffs as Trolls or Ogres, and can be hard to find. If on turtleback when they see one however, the turtle becomes unresponsive and will not stop until it has chased down and devoured the beastly thing. Flying turtles will also eat aquatic vegetation, but it must be moist. Turtle Riders must carry a separate bladder of water for the sole purpose of wetting greens before feeding.

In mock battles the turtles handled themselves very well. They have proven quite capable of flying down and grabbing fighters right out of their saddle, as long as their descent is not too steep. Regrettably, Aesop Brown of the Scarlet Bluffs is no longer with us. Even more regrettable is the death of his turtle, who smashed its head into a boulder while swooping after a goblin. The goblin was drawn and quartered for this offense.

Caring for the young flying turtles has been proceeding almost without a problem, under the guidance of the Reptilian Aeronautic Team (or RAT). The young turtles are housed in a domed hut, full of moist sand, with a pool of water in its centre. Perches and treat poles hang from the ceiling. Here the turtles remain until they are three months old, at which time they are the size of large dogs. They are then moved to specially built barns where they will stay unto maturity, at which point they are bigger than horses.

During its youth, the turtle goes through vigorious training where its inborn hostility is curbed (or at least, trained to be unleashed only on certain targets). They get used to being handled and small conscripts (some of Dwarf or Gnome descent) are lucky enough to get to break them in.

Our Flying Turtle Squad was used to good effect in the Ardchreag Rebellion of XXXVI that led to our becoming a Duchy. Soon they will become an integral part of our army.

In Service,

The Knight Marshal

The Knighting of Eirik Andersen

Colyne Stewart, April AS XXXVI (2003)

For the April Fool’s TankArd

It was a stormy day when our Seneschal, now Emperor, Bobo took the field. He was to hold it against all comers as proof that he was worthy to wear the white belt. At first Eirik was confident, his mouth spewing forth ironic barbs and quips. He leaned casually against a column, a sword dangling from his hand, chewing on licorice and talking to the ladies.

Then Colyne, called Meinfretr by the Norse, tapped him on the shoulder and Eirik’s ready grin slipped from his face. He looked in the direction that Colyne was pointing with his thumb, and saw a long line of armoured fighters waiting patiently. They were all looking at him and laughing, some giggling with anticipation, some actually hopping up and down in glee. Siegfried was there, his sword wrapped in a scarf with Eirik’s name written upon it. Sir Berus, the Kingdom Earl Marshal, was also in line, holding an ‘experimental’ great weapon covered with many wicked looking points and claws. (As Berus was found of saying, as Earl Marshal he could pretty much use any thing as a weapon, as long as it was ‘experimental’.) Beyond them stood Sir Evander, most of House Hrogn, the entire populace of Ardchreag and verily many people of the kingdom. Many, in fact, had traveled from kingdoms afar to take part in the mashie-pow.

Grinning, Colyne left Eirik and took his own place in line, fist tightening and relaxing on his hilt. On a noose hanging from his basket hilt was a small stuffed monkey.

When the marshals walked on to the field, Eirik’s nerves failed him. The line numbered over a hundred strong, and he had no wish to let that many folk take a crack at him. He turned to flee but Duchess Eanor was waiting. She grabbed his arm and marched him on to the Lists.

What then followed was a brutal scene unequaled in Ealdormere’s history. Blow after blow rained down on Eirik’s head, limbs and body. Swords, cudgels, maces, axes, spears and even the occasional rubber chicken knocked him to and fro until finally he lay flat on the ground. His shield sat by his side, cracked in three pieces. When he was pulled to his feet again he left behind an imprint that has become a holy relic to all those who worship the wise crack.

As he regained his feet, thankful that his ordeal was over, he saw the giant, Wulfgang Donnerfaust, running to the field. He was waving his sword and shouting that he had just authorized, and was ready for his turn.

Screaming in horror, Eirik ran into the trees. The Emperor of Ardchreag has not been seen in weeks now, and likely won’t reemerge until his Austmannaskelfir Legions have managed to capture Wulfgang. To date, fourteen have perished in the attempt.

The First Annual Miss High Cliffs Competition

Colyne Stewart, April AS XXXVI (2003)

For the April Fool’s TankArd

Yes, the news was true. Too many people on the Cliffs found their lives empty and meaningless without complete strangers thinking they were pretty, so it was agreed to hold the first Ardchreag Beauty Pageant.

The entire populace of the canton gathered along the cliffs one fine spring morning, waiting to see their fellow Chreaggers strut their stuff. They were hoping for a good show, and they weren’t disappointed.

First was Thorfinna, dressed in the hide of a walrus she had ripped off herself. She juggled some throwing axes and wanted to split an apple while it sat on her husband’s head, but Colyne could not be found.

Next was Mahault, clad in Elizabethan garb so extravagant people had to strain their eyes to see her within it. For her performance, she correctly pointed out what period garb everyone in the audience was wearing. You could see by the twinkle in her eye she had noticed many flaws, but she was too kind to point them out.

Iolanda, or should I say Qadachin, was next, draped in her plaid Mongolian tunic. Everyone’s stomach churned as she downed quart after quart of fermented milk, followed by chasers of Green Bison vodka.

Many more followed: The belly dancer Michaela with her hips jingling; Eanor, riding on horseback while reciting corpora; Elisabetta who cooked up a storm; Jean-Margaret; Ivanna; and many more.

Then a mystery contestant walked out on stage. She was a strange looking figure, tall and almost skeletal, with long lanky arms and bony knees. Her hair was red-brown and tied back in a ponytail; her face obscured by a feathered mask. She wore a plain green dress and bug black boots. Slowly, she began to dance and she held everyone’s eyes prisoner. She moved with a grace like no other and completely captivated the audience. When she was done their was thunderous applause. The MC, Duke Sir Finvarr, ridden in especially for the occasion, proclaimed the mystery woman the winner and bade her reveal herself.

With a demur smile she pulled off her face. The audience gasped as they all saw that she was not a she. She was a he. She was Crispinus Spellar, former Ardchreag Chatelaine and now Chronicler of Septentria.

Somewhere in the back Colyne screamed (having flash backs of Ealdormere War Practice and a certain lap dance he had received), thus giving away his hiding place to Thorfinna, who was still carrying an axe and an apple.

As Finvarr crooned, “There he is, Miss High Cliffs,” Crispinus bowed to the crowd, jumped off the stage and got himself a bottle of mead.

“Life is good,” he said, unaware that the female members of the canton were creeping up behind him, fury burning in their eyes for he had profaned the deep and resounding spirituality of a beauty pageant.

After the commotion was over, Crispinus was hung from a crow’s cage at the crossroads in northeast Ardchreag. Small children would throw rocks at him while ghosts and trolls had a good laugh at his expense.

The moral of the story? Beauty pageants are damn stupid.

Excerpt from Garderobes of Ealdormere, by Colyne Stewart

Colyne Stewart, April AS XXXVI (2003)

For the April Fool’s TankArd

The latrines of the northern reaches of our fair kingdom are not as primitive as many of us lowlanders believe. I have visited many of them, and have found them all to be of excellent quality, with the possible exception of one.

I know that many have complained of the facilities of Bonfield, that frozen bowl of the north, but I have found them to be every bit as modern as those that serve at Ealdormere War Practice here in my home canton of Ardchreag. Wooden walls that block most of the wind, a roof (!), and a wooden seat that leaves but few splinters. These are all good things.

However, I feel I must condemn the privies of the little known Shire of Scheißehaus, which is located north of the Barony of Skraeling Althing. I have been to one event in that snowy realm, which was called Wurstliebe. The latrines consisted of a row of holes in the bottom of a trench running along the back of the event site. There was no shade from the sun which reflected off the snow, blinding the eyes as people tried to aim directly for a hole so as not to soil their shoes. No shade also meant we were drenched by intermittent blasts of ice-cold rain. And, as the main focus of the event was spicy sausage and ale, well, the latrines were always busy, and the lines were long.

Still, I have encountered such primitive conditions here in the south where we deem ourselves more civilised than our northern cousins. I am, as are most, accustomed to the chamber pot, but when at a local Lord’s keep I was asked to

I think that’s enough of that. — The Editor

The Ardchreag Rebellion of AS XXXVI

Colyne Stewart, April AS XXXVI (2003)

For the April Fool’s edition of the TankArd

It was on a misty morning that the army of Ardchreag gathered along the Cliffs. Many of the fighters, archers and scouts were young and newly trained, but all had been tested against the Troll hordes that crawled through their lands. Ogres also they had slain, and tri-headed serpents had fallen to their might. Their leaders were battle hardened and wise in the ways of war.

The time had come for rebellion.

Like a green wave they descended from the Bluffs, washing over forts and towns. Septentria rallied its fyrd to withstand the attack but found themselves sore pressed. The Canton of Greenhithe was turned into a churning morass of blood and mud as brave fighters on both sides battled relentlessly.

In the former no-man’s-land between the Chreag and Greenhithe, a final push was made. Septentria, led by the Baron-Gnome himself, had made camp somewhere deep within the brambles from which they would launch their attacks against the “chreagger rabble.” They thought themselves safe, but Ardchreag’s scouts infiltrated their camp, incapacitated their guards and allowed the Ardchreag horde to descend upon the unsuspecting fyrd.

Norse, Celts, Mongols, and the others of the Cliffs fell upon the unsuspecting Septentrians like a plague. The Bear put up a brave fight bu against the over whelming zeal of Ardchreag they stood no chance. Knowing it is better to live to fight another day, the Baron-Gnome fled through the the marshes of northern Ardchreag, evading patrols and slathering beasties local to the area, finally reaching and barricading themselves within the Royal City of Eoforwic. There they waited for reinforcements from Skeldergate to arrive.

The engineers of Ardchreag begun to cut down trees from which to build terrible machines of destruction. The Mongols brewed a potent poison that was stuffed into Troll heads and flung over the walls while the French taunted Septentria mercilously.

By the time the forces of Skeldergate arrived, nothing remained of the city but a smouldering ruin and a purple hat.

The King and the Queen were by this time extremely agitated by this fighting within their borders and gathered a force to quash the rebellion. This large force, led by Dukes and numbering many knights, made haste to track down the Chreagger Menace, and put their heads on pikes.

Ardchreag, being peopled by sly individuals, prepared a trap. A small force was sent out that lured the Royal army into a rock valley with high walls. The skirmishers then climbed up ropes to the heights, cutting them when done, as the main Ardchreag force came out behind the Royals. Their archers kep the Royals penned in as a large Ogre, that had been caged in the valley, was released to wreck havoc.

When the carnage was complete, and the Ogre was re-caged, Ardchreag marched on the capital. The Kingdom had sent emissaries to the Middle and Calontir to ask for assistance, but the Royalty knew it would not arrive int ime. Ardchreag made camp at the base of the castle and demanded parlay.

The King and Queen agreed, but only as a stalling tactic. They met the Ardchreag envoy at the porticullis, surrounded by guards. Ardchreag demanded that the Royals surrender the Kingdom to them, or face annihilation. The King and Queen hemmed and hahed and demurred and the Chreagger envoys knew they were being stalled.

And so the flying turtles, long thought to be nothing but myth, were called upon. The rotund, winged reptiles swooped down from the clouds and carried off the Royalty, taking them deep into conquered territory. The Ardchreag envoy then demanded to speak to the Prince and Princess.

The Heirs agreed to meet, and fearful for the safety of their parents, agreed to consider ardchreag’s terms. Finally, they said that they would submit the Kingdom to ardchreag, only if one of their number could defeat the Prince in single combat. If their champion failed, they would have to surrender their forces.

Ardchreag agreed, and sent out a giant from Germanis to fight in their name. The giant and the Prince fought bravely for hours, then for days, with neither of them claiming the victory. However, the giant finally made one fatal error and was subdued.

True to their word, Ardchrerag gave up their quest. They released their hostages, which included the King and Queen, the Baron-Gnome and numbers of knights and squires, and submitted themselves for punishment.

The Royalty were much impressed by this display, and by the compassion the Chreaggers had shown their hostages. The leaders of the rebellion were punished for propriety sake, but the Royals gave Ardchreag the next best thing to independence. They became the first Duchy of the Knowne World!

Long live the Earth-Pigs!

Articles from the 2003 April Fool’s issue of the TankArd

By Colyne Stewart

p33r ph33r Causes Riot

The Barony of Rochambeau, normally a quiet and oft-overlooked corner of Ealdormere, has recently been the scene of one of the worst arts and sciences related riots in the history of the Knowne World.

Sources claim that at the barony’s quarter-annual A&S competition one of the Laurels present began screaming, “Ph33r my l33t skillz!” while whacking people over the head with a duo-tang of documentation for his display on Aztec chocolate drinks.

The violence apparently began when a member of the populace wondered aloud if the Aztecs were in period.

A member of the chivalry, the respected Sir Gynne the Barber, attempted to restrain the unnamed Laurel, who rubbed Aztec suicide peppers in his eyes. Gynne’s squires replied by pouring hot chocolate down the Laurel’s pants and the violence erupted in earnest.

After four hours, bruised and battered Pelicans managed to restore order. Most of the A&S entries had been destroyed in the riot. The unnamed Aztec Laurel, his cheetah skin cape stained with chocolate, ran off with the prize—a Viking ear spoon.

Farthingale Fluster – Elizabethans lazier than before thought, says expert

Eoforwic archaeologists recently unearthed evidence that once and for all answers the question “Why would women wear such gigantic underwear?”

THL Jocelyn Farfanoose led a team who discovered the grave of a woman they have dubbed Lucia. “Lucia was a noble woman from 15th Century England,” explains Farfanoose. “She was found under the bed of one of the citie’s founding members, but he plumb forgot she was there!”

Under Lucia’s farthingale was found a second body, with twisted, hunched shoulders.

“From this evidence, and from the obvious withering of Lucia’s legs, we can conclusively say that Elizabethan women hid small porters under their undies and rode on their shoulders,” said an expert.

Journals found buried with Lucia support this claim and clearly show small men carrying aristocratic ladies on their backs.

“The men would have to be very small,” said another expert. “Say, a little taller than Colyne.”

Colyne could not be reached for comment.

Constables Crush Scroll Forging Ring – Man Buys Peerage Online

Jido Mu-hung is a Laurel, at least according to his scroll, a scroll he bought on e-bay.

“I did a search on e-bay one day,” explains Jido, “and there it was—a peerage scroll. It was only $20 bucks too!” Jido’s scroll arrived two weeks later, complete with official seal but with the name of the recipient removed.

“I just filled in my name and viola! I was a Laurel!”

Meridian constables were alerted to the scam when Jido attended his next event. Jido, who has only been a member of the Society for a year, raised some eyebrows when he walked into Meridies Crown Tournament wearing a cape covered in Laurels and a Laurelate medallion.

“The medallion was only $5 more!” gushed Jido.

Tracking Jido’s method of payment—dumping a sack with the money behind a tree in a park—constables found the deviant responsible for the forged scroll.

Leon Ducot, last seen in Ruantallon impersonating a Duke, was found with a pile of scroll blanks and what looked to be a replica of the Meridian College of Arms official seal.

“He’d craved it out of a potato,” said a constable. “And potatoes aren’t period.”

Celts not Crazy – Plaid ain’t Bad

Celts all over the Knowne World, long discriminated against because of their pattern of preference, have finally had the last laugh.

“I always knew plaid was great,” said one such Celt. “I just never knew it was this great!”

Research carried out by the Sprigganstone Gaelic University, located somewhere in Drachenwald, has proved that plaid makes people virile.

“Ever wonder why many of the Celtic people wore kilts or went without pants?” asked a bare legged researcher.

“People of Celtic origin are randy and full of sexual energy and it’s all because of the plaid,” said a textile Laurel. “Tests have been done on other patterned fabric and none of them are as virile as plaid.”

“We knew there must have been a reason they wore it,” said a Renaissance lord. “It couldn’t have been for fashion sense.”

Saint’s Face Seen in Beer – Crispinus Sighted at Local Alehouse

Before a crowd of witnesses the face of St. Cirpsinus, patron saint of alcohol and cross-dressing, appeared in the foam in a cup of beer at the Jaunty Troll Pub.

“I was just sitting there, ready to blow the head of my beer,” said a bar patron, “when suddenly in the foam I see these two dark eyes looking out at me. I set the beer down and I clearly see the face of a man.”

“It was the face of St. Crispinus,” said the alehouse owner. “Sure as Green Bison vomit in the woods, it was.”

Eventually the beer went flat and the face disappeared as the foam evaporated.

“It was a sign from heaven to stay and have another draft,” said the patron who had first glimpsed the saint’s foamy features.

“I’m not a religious fellow,” said the patron’s friend, “but I recognize a miracle when I see one.”

It is reported by reliable sources that the pub did record business that night as every patron bought tankard after tankard of ale, beer and bitter in the hopes of seeing Crispinus appear again.

“Maybe this time in a dress,” said a winking patron.

Pointy Ears Seen at Local Event – Autocrat Denies Involvement

Participants in a local event were shocked last weekend when a group of individuals with pointed ears walked on site.

“At first we thought they were from the sci-fi convention next door,” said one such shocked participant, “but then we noticed the tight green leggings and then we knew.”

When asked what he knew, the participant refused to comment.

The autocrat of the event was more forthcoming.

“It’s them elves,” he said morosely. “Ever since the Lord of the Rings movies came out they’ve been popping up at events again. It’s like a plague. How can a personally reasonable person, one who usually wears perfect Flemish fish-wife garb show up in public with pointed ears. It’s shocking.”

Upon checking the paperwork at troll this reporter found that the autocrat had let the elves on site and even offered them a discount.

The autocrat could not be found again to comment but an elf wearing the same set of garb was seen fleeing the scene.

More on this story as events progress.

Horoscopes

Aries Mar 21 – Apr 20

You should not have eaten that strange fish course at feast yesterday. Noting locations of public bathrooms a priority today.

Taurus Apr 21 – May 20

A belt could be in your near future. Or not.

Gemini May 21 – June 21

If you are a Peer, you will be in a meeting tomorrow. If you are not a Peer, you will be wondering what they are meeting about.

Cancer June 22 – July 22

You will inspire a bard today, for good or ill.

Leo July 23 – Aug 22

Chances to win tourneys high this month, but then so am I.

Virgo Aug 23 – Sept 22

A windfall of cookies may be coming your way, but beware the nuts involved.

Libra Sept 23 – Oct 23

At your next camping event your immediate neighbours will be Satan worshipping, Conan-esque sadomasochists. They will complain about you.

Scorpio Oct 24 – Nov 22

A certain household has you under surveillance, but I’m not telling which one.

Sagittarius Nov 23 – Dec 21

Do not go down to the woods today or you’re in for a big surprise.

Capricorn Dec 22 – Jan 20

The Mongols are coming…and they know your name.

Aquarius Jan 21 – Feb 19

You will be embroiled in an argument over who would play you in a movie about the SCA.

Pisces Feb 20 – Mar 20

You will be forced to write horoscopes for April Fools issue of your local newsletter. Sucker.

Flying Turtle Flocking in Record Numbers – Goblins Fear for Lives

This spring has seen a massive upswing in flying turtle populations, say rangers from Ardchreag.

“There’s always been a lot of turtles in the ‘chreag,” said a head ranger, “but never this many.”

The winged reptiles have been nesting in rooftops and church spires and their sheer weight has collapsed several buildings.

“First I thought it was cute to have one on my roof,” said a local resident. “But they kept coming. Soon I had dozens on my roof. Let me tell you, turtle guano stinks!”

There is another danger represented by increased flock size other than damage to masonry and piles of stinky turtle pooh. The food of choice for flying turtles is goblin, a diminutive cousin of the troll. Once numerous in Ardchreag goblins are now scarce as record numbers are being devoured by the turtle swarms.

“There is a great danger to the Septentrian goblin population, “ said a kingdom expert. “As those in Ardchreag dwindle, the turtles will increased their range. Soon these flying shellbacks will spread throughout the barony.”

Residents of Vest Yorvik have already launched an anti-turtle campaign. Armed with long poles topped with nets, residents take turns standing at strategic locations along their border.

“They have to get past Eoforwic first,” said one Vest Yorvikker, “but we’ll be ready if they do.”

Specialists from Skraeling Althing have suggested importing vorpal bunnies from their barony’s forests to prey on the turtles but Ardchreag’s officers have so far not taken them up on their offer.

Brother Thomas’ Cryptogram

qoisu dep sief vjot cyv dep auy

Answer: Piero can read this but can you

Key: The vowels were exchanged for the next vowel (including y), then the same was done with consonants. A=E, B=C, C=D, D=F, E=I, F=G, G=H, H=J, I=O, J=K, K=L, L=M, N=P, O=U, P=Q, Q=R, R=S, S=T, T=V, U=Y, V=W, W=X, X=Z, Y=A, Z=B

Wulfgang’s Head Speaks Out

Little known to many, Herr Wulfgang Donnerfaust has a secret.

“It’s…like this: my head is detachable,” said the German lord during a closed press conference. “It happened in Eoforwic last year. I found myself put in the stocks and then lead to a backroom where I was decapitated. For some reason that no chirurgeon can explain I didn’t die.”

Rather, Wulfgang has lived and gone on to be squire to a former Khan.

“It’s…weird,” he says. “For the most part I still feel normal but sometimes a good head shot on the field will knock my cranium clear off my shoulders. It’s kind of embarrassing, especially on a crowded field. Sometimes my head ends up getting kicked all over the place while I’m trying to find it.”

Several Mongols in attendance snickered at this statement. One of them later told this reporter, “We kick his head around on purpose. We call it wulfkashi.”

Wulfgang, called Uncle Vulfy by some and “Holy sh*t that big guy!” by others, is looking forward to the future.

“It’s…not something I’m letting hold me back,” he says bravely. “Me and my big head are going places.”

Invasion of the BOD Snatchers! – SCA Directors Replaced by Pod People

At the last gathering of the SCA Board of Directors a terrible discovery was made.

“I noticed that the Duke to my left had a fern sticking out of his cuff,” said an Honourable Lady from the Central Kingdom. “He kept drinking a lot of water too.”

Several members of the BOD were absent or late in attending the meeting, and many of those who did attend seemed to be in a daze.

“They all seemed to have a lot of plant matter on their persons,” said our Central Kingdom source. “Flowers on lapels, leaves sticking out of pockets. I thought at first it was some spring fertility thing.”

Finally asking her fellows what was going on, our source said, “They all stopped talking, pointed at me and let out this shrill cry. I was terrified!”

Running for her life, THL raced to the basement.

“That’s where I found them,” she said. “The pods. They had one for me too! I could see a replica of myself within the verdant growth!”

After making these revelations known by screaming them at the crowds at Gulf Wars, THL was taken by chirurgeons for recuperation at a remote asylum in the Outlands.

“You’re next!” she screamed as she was dragged off. “First the BOD, then the Knowne World!”

Bear’s Blue Banger Banned

Heralds and pursuivants across Ealdormere were called to a close door symposium recently where new heraldic laws were handed down. One of them has Septentrians up in arms – literally.

“This is an outrage,” spewed one Septentrian olde pharte. “We’ve always done this, they can’t stop us!”

Special heraldic constables have been scouring the barony looking for all traces of what many Septentrians fondly refer to as ‘blue yarbles.’

“You see,” said a former baroness of Septentria, “Back in the day the genitals of the Septentrian bear were coloured blue. This was a completely medieval practice. Medieval heralds would ‘arm’ arms and colour their teeth, claws and, yes, their genitals blue.”

But no more says new Ealdormerean Heraldic Law number 1138, which states: that no heraldry shall make any bearer of other heraldry feel emasculated by any means.

“We’ve had complaints,” said a representative of the College of Heralds. “Seems some of those who have arms or devices that don’t feature reproductive organs feel threatened by seeing giant cobalt blue yarbles displayed everywhere.”

When it was pointed out that this was an historic Septentrian practice and wasn’t really done anymore the representative just winked and refused to speak on the subject anymore.

Many Septentrians were noted to be filled with anger and grief as banners and tabards were seized, the offending members painted white.

“There’s more to this than meets the eye,” said one Septentrian bard. “I’ll be getting to the bottom of this!”

Heralds have no said that animal’s bottoms cannot be coloured either.