The following is an account of warfare as remembered by the Goth Alaric Godricson, and therefore does not represent the opinions or views of Count Syr Arturus (Known as Arlof), the Kingdom of the East, or the Society for Creative Anachronism. All persons described are merely portrayals of fictitious characters existing mostly in Aaric’s mind, and therefore are subject to debate with regard to concrete reality, with the exception of Baroness Astrid. All debate of Astrid’s reality is subject to Astrid, and therefore all Astrid related concerns are directed to Baroness Astrid. Godspeed.
Pennsic forty-five. It was the Pennsic War, it was a gallant, metric war. It was a hot war. It was more hot than anything, truth be told, despite whatever jargon mathematicians would have you believe about the factual truth of numbers. I digress; it was brutally hot. So hot in fact, we humble fighters spent more time standing in holds than fighting. Eager, but physically unprepared comrades-in-arms dropped like flies out on the fields of Pennsic 45, and as they dropped and the Valkyries(ambulances) swooped in to carry their souls to Valhalla (Chirurgeons’ point) while the rest of us unlucky fellows left alive stood around to ponder the considerable heat, in the considerable heat. One exceedingly humble barbarian’s opinion suggested that the heat was worse than a tussle with the Duxux.
In other news, the Midrealm, in a rare show of forethought and cunning, elected to eliminate my dear sister in arms, Baroness Astrid from the field of battle. Those mid-western rapscallions were successful in this endeavor, utilizing the only means accessible to their miserable persons; a ballista bolt to the sternum, effectively preventing my dear sister’s return to the field in armor for the war. It must be noted, that to my limited barbarian knowledge, mistletoe is not an approved material for ballista bolts, however one managed to enter the list field and pierce my sister’s broad heart.
This was a sad, dark day for the House of Aranmore, as only I, the humble Scythian fur-wearing barbarian remained on the field to meet our most accursed adversary, and much of the war remained. The Unbelted team fought bravely and honorably, routing the Midrealm’s unbelted warriors in the classiest battle this Goth’s tired eyes have yet seen; indeed, all Easterners were proud of this kingdom’s unbelted warriors. In addition, this selfsame humble Goth was asked by her Highness Anna to fight in her honor in the Rose Tourney. The victor of that tournament was the fine Lord Richard Crowe, and Alaric was relegated to somewhere in the middle of the pack. In the end, the heat won the war. Both sides fought honorably in between the holds imposed by the ultimate power on the field; the unrelenting heat. When all was said and done, the last arrow shot, the last shot thrown, and the last pair of rope sandals purchased, the East was victorious.
 Myself, Alaric Godricson
 A rare creature from the most ancient texts, identified by strawberry leaves worn in conjunction with its strict adherence to Tuchux culture. HOW TO IDENTIFY When struck, it’s call will shift from “Tuchux, Tuchux” to “Too light, too light…”