In my last real post I basically laid out a shopping list, a pros and cons list, of different swords, and I don’t think I really got into why I want a sword. More than just strutting down the street with a sword strapped to my belt, what I really want is my own fiefdom.
A fiefdom was generally awarded, gifted, or otherwise given to a vassal for his allegiance to some larger lord, some larger owner of land. It was a way to cement the relationship between vassal and lord, and a way to ensure a mutually-beneficial relationship. A vassal was, in a way, a tenant who paid some manner of rent (usually in the form of military service and undying allegiance to his liege lord) and owed his being there to the, duh, landlord.
In times of strife, a vassal and the able men of his fief could be called upon by the lord to carry arms against some foe, be it in a crusade or just some vagrant brigands disturbing another vassal’s fiefdom. The land would be given to a vassal so that he could have his manor, his family, his serfs, his soldiers, all his underlings support him and grow beneath him, such that they might provide for him should he and his men be called off to war or whatever.
This is, at least, my own rough understanding of the system.
What attracts me to the whole thing is just the idea of being given some land and told to raise a family, get a little manor and maybe town going around you, and suit up with my war buddies if I’m ever needed by my liege lord. I wouldn’t mind getting my land through military tenure, having to ship off the sons of my family and my fief’s families every year for some rigorous training and battling and whatever. It’s just like in Switzerland with their minimum 260 days of required army service. First, a main bout of training and whatnot, and then just a three-week check-up every year until they get too old or battered to show up.
I know it sounds cruel to just say, “Oh yes, I don’t care about other people’s sons, I don’t care about life or peace or blah blah blah…” C’mon, it’s the middle ages, get over yourself, everyone’s going to war, I might as well get a sweet patch of land out of it. And fiefdoms were generally hereditary, so I’d be setting up my kids for success too. So take that.
But more than having a sweet patch of land, more than being rich and successful in my own little world, more than having a little power to throw around and a bunch of serfs, peons, and other incredibly fun words beneath me, I’d have honour, and respect, and loyalty. I’d be a kick ass knight, in some kick ass armour and obviously with an awesome sword. And I’d name my sword, just like I’d name my horse and manor and all that other good stuff. Gone are the days when people named their homes, at least for the most part. Of course Frank Lloyd Wright named the homes he built, and of course B.B. King named his guitar Lucille, but I mean like Excalibur, like Sting and all those Elven swords I could never remember.
I might be romanticizing this whole scenario, but I’ve always imagined it as being in some sort of knight-club or knight-posse or some such, with the liege lord being captain of the Gloucester Gallivanters and all of us vassals being his team. And we’d gallivant across the country, back and forth and burn and pillage the jerks who burned and pillaged us the year before, and it would be all manly and awesome, but at the same time be noble and… manly.
Yeah, it’s basically Medieval Times Dinner & Tournament. My dream is to live that exact life, all the time. I want the life that gives me the food, the violence, the showmanship, but with fewer utensils, and more ladies. Maybe a titch more political stability too. But definitely the colour schemes. Love the colour schemes.
DFTBA
Monday, February 25, 2008
Knights
Monday, February 18, 2008
Excerpts
In my off-week, I bring you selected excerpts from Watchmen. Don't shoot, I am merely the messenger. All props, respect, and awe (not to mention the words) are property of Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons. DFTBA
Delirious, I saw that hell-bound ship’s black sails against the yellow indies sky, and knew again the stench of powder and men’s brains, and war. The heads nailed to its prow looked down, those with eyes; gull-eaten; salt-caked; liplessly mouthing, “No use! All’s lost!” The waves about me were scarlet, foaming, horribly warm, yet still the freighter’s hideous crew called out, “More blood! More blood!” Its tar-streaked hull rolled over me. In despair I sank beneath those foul, pink billows, offering up my wretched soul to Almighty God, His mercy and His judgement.
Waking from nightmare, I found myself upon a dismal beach-head, amongst dead men and the pieces of dead men. Bosun Ridley lay nearby. Birds were eating his thoughts and memories. Reader, take comfort from this: in hell, at least the gulls are contented. For my part, I begged that they should take my eyes, thus sparing me further horrors. Unheeded, I stood in the surf and wept, unable to bear my circumstances. Eventually, tears ceased. My misfortunes were small: I was alive, and I knew that life had no worse news to offer me.
I had a sudden memory of clinging fast to someone through the tempest. The figurehead lay at my feet, blindfolded by seaweed. Alone upon that dreadful shore, she smiled. I made to take the ribbon of kelp from off her painted eyes, then thought better of it, not wishing her to suffer the terrible distractions of that grim tideline. It was all I could do for her, though she had borne me through seas of blood, though her cold, wooden breast had nourished me in the heart of the storm. Her damp embrace had prevented me from drifting beyond reach, yet this small comfort was all I could offer; I could not love her as she had loved me.
~
The freighter’s murderous onslaught had surprised us.
We’d been blasted to fragments before we could warn Davidstown of this hell-ship’s approach. I alone survived upon my remote atoll. I thought of my family: vulnerable, unsuspecting, never dreaming that damnation bore down upon them, sails pregnant with a pirate wind, a necklace of heads about its prow. Crazed with helplessness, I cursed God and wept, wondering if He wept also. But then, what use His tears, if His help was denied me? My own sobbing had frightened the gulls. They departed, and in the terrible silence I understood the true breadth of the word “isolation.”
That night, I slept badly beneath the cold, distant stars, pondering upon the cold, distant God in whose hands the fate of Davidstown rested. Was He really there? Had He been there once, but now departed?
~
The morning sun found me no more wise, no less troubled. Further down the shore, several of the beached corpses had become inflated by gas. I set about burying the sodden carcasses, matching odd limbs as best I could with them, I buried all hope for my family’s survival. Using driftwood, I began a pit, deep and wide. I had never seen nor imagined so many dead people.
Noon came and went. By dusk, the crater was deep enough and I commenced hauling those cold, maimed, wretched things into the bed I had prepared. Dragging and cursing, I hoped my wife and daughters might be tucked in by gentler hands when their turn came. I began to weep again. Dear God, who would protect them? The freighter was almost upon them. Who would care for them, now I was gone?
Exhausted, I slept atop the grave, dreams ringing with the horribly familiar screams of children. I saw the black freighter bearing down on all I loved…
…But I was powerless to stop it.
Delirious, I saw that hell-bound ship’s black sails against the yellow indies sky, and knew again the stench of powder and men’s brains, and war. The heads nailed to its prow looked down, those with eyes; gull-eaten; salt-caked; liplessly mouthing, “No use! All’s lost!” The waves about me were scarlet, foaming, horribly warm, yet still the freighter’s hideous crew called out, “More blood! More blood!” Its tar-streaked hull rolled over me. In despair I sank beneath those foul, pink billows, offering up my wretched soul to Almighty God, His mercy and His judgement.
Waking from nightmare, I found myself upon a dismal beach-head, amongst dead men and the pieces of dead men. Bosun Ridley lay nearby. Birds were eating his thoughts and memories. Reader, take comfort from this: in hell, at least the gulls are contented. For my part, I begged that they should take my eyes, thus sparing me further horrors. Unheeded, I stood in the surf and wept, unable to bear my circumstances. Eventually, tears ceased. My misfortunes were small: I was alive, and I knew that life had no worse news to offer me.
I had a sudden memory of clinging fast to someone through the tempest. The figurehead lay at my feet, blindfolded by seaweed. Alone upon that dreadful shore, she smiled. I made to take the ribbon of kelp from off her painted eyes, then thought better of it, not wishing her to suffer the terrible distractions of that grim tideline. It was all I could do for her, though she had borne me through seas of blood, though her cold, wooden breast had nourished me in the heart of the storm. Her damp embrace had prevented me from drifting beyond reach, yet this small comfort was all I could offer; I could not love her as she had loved me.
~
The freighter’s murderous onslaught had surprised us.
We’d been blasted to fragments before we could warn Davidstown of this hell-ship’s approach. I alone survived upon my remote atoll. I thought of my family: vulnerable, unsuspecting, never dreaming that damnation bore down upon them, sails pregnant with a pirate wind, a necklace of heads about its prow. Crazed with helplessness, I cursed God and wept, wondering if He wept also. But then, what use His tears, if His help was denied me? My own sobbing had frightened the gulls. They departed, and in the terrible silence I understood the true breadth of the word “isolation.”
That night, I slept badly beneath the cold, distant stars, pondering upon the cold, distant God in whose hands the fate of Davidstown rested. Was He really there? Had He been there once, but now departed?
~
The morning sun found me no more wise, no less troubled. Further down the shore, several of the beached corpses had become inflated by gas. I set about burying the sodden carcasses, matching odd limbs as best I could with them, I buried all hope for my family’s survival. Using driftwood, I began a pit, deep and wide. I had never seen nor imagined so many dead people.
Noon came and went. By dusk, the crater was deep enough and I commenced hauling those cold, maimed, wretched things into the bed I had prepared. Dragging and cursing, I hoped my wife and daughters might be tucked in by gentler hands when their turn came. I began to weep again. Dear God, who would protect them? The freighter was almost upon them. Who would care for them, now I was gone?
Exhausted, I slept atop the grave, dreams ringing with the horribly familiar screams of children. I saw the black freighter bearing down on all I loved…
…But I was powerless to stop it.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Swords
I can’t even get through rereading my last post, so I promise to make this one shorter.
Another quick note: I’m too lazy to post any links or pictures, but both Wikipedia and Miss Google have been lovely in helping me develop some opinions on some of the following swords, and they can also help you look up some nice pictures if you’re so interested. But you’re not, so I’ll just get right into it.
Swords are the gentleman’s weapon. I’d like to say it was earlier, but it was probably around the time of the release of the first Lord of the Rings that I really got into swords, and by release of the movie I mean when I read the trilogy in book form before I went to see the first movie (three times) because I didn’t want to ruin the books for myself by seeing the movie first. More specifically, it was in the Barrow-downs that the hobbits came across three enchanted daggers in the cavern where a barrow-wight had imprisoned them. Maybe it was the magic of the prose, but ever since I’ve been in love with the idea of strapping a sword around my waist and strutting down the street.
There’s just something about the short sword that’s always appealed to me; long swords have always seemed too gangly for proper wielding. I mean of course they aren’t, but for my personal preferred (read: imagined) fighting style, the short sword really seems to do the trick.
Consider the various long swords. First up, the broad sword: this behemoth is long, thick, heavy, and blunt, and really made for swinging around wildly and crashing into someone’s chest, hopefully crushing their breastplate and the puny chest within. There’s no grace there, no smooth movement or flow, just crash boom bang, knock the guy off his horse and break the majority of his ribs. It really isn’t a gentlemanly sword.
And then there are the skinny swords, the ones you’d fence with: the foil, epée (rapier), and sabre. They’re all skinny, lame, and useless. Enough said.
There are of course the two-handed swords, the claymores and zweihänders, but again as with the broadsword, they’re just unwieldy in my mind. Mostly I can’t imagine wearing one around all the time. Or whipping one out and slicing some jerk’s head off on the subway. There’s just not enough space indoors to swing it around.
I’ve purposely avoided discussing the katana because honestly it scares me. Even the smaller wakizashi and tantō scare me. It’s in the blade, the sharpness, meaningfulness, and art with which there are wielded, slicing the very air itself. There’s a reason wielding these swords properly requires martial arts training, and it’s all just not for me.
There are a lot of swords I won’t be discussing, and really it’s only because they’re not that interesting, they don’t stand out as something I wouldn’t want to end up with, and they’re not something I’d specifically go out and buy. These swords include, but are not limited to, the falchion, the scimitar, the cutlass, and the dirk. A great many more didn’t even make this list, and who cares.
On to the swords I care about, and want: the gladius, the falcata, and the Celtic sword (I’m disappointed in the Celts that they didn’t give me a better name to use, it would have been cooler of them to come up with some neat name).
Firstly, the gladius, which we all know and love from the movie Gladiator (more on movie swords later), is a fine short sword that can clearly be wielded artfully and close to the body, which makes it good for both indoors and showing off. Sure there’s skill involved, but it doesn’t come with the cultural-traditional baggage that the Japanese swords do. It’s small and stylish, could easily be worn on my belt, and looks good swinging around to boot. To appease my own nerdiness, I’d specifically be gunning for either a Mainz for Fulham gladius, although ideally it’d be a Mainz.
Next, the falcata, which is a stylishly forward curving pre-Roman Iberian blade that originated centuries before somewhere in the Middle East, and has a cutting edge that can best be described as convex near the tip, and concave near the hilt. Having so much more sword near the tip makes swinging it somewhat less than graceful, but in terms of usefulness, the thing handles like an axe, and would be most useful hacking through the forest or something.
Lastly, the Celtic sword, so named because… well, you know. This is perhaps my favourite sword, and has been so for many years. It is short, which of course is necessary for my brand of urban sword fighting and general tomfoolery, and slightly leaf-shaped, that is, wider at the tip than at the base. The double-edged blade is simple and symmetric, as is the hilt. The hilt itself can best be described as follows: take the Cingular Wireless logo (that little jumping-jacking orange fellow) and cut him in half at the waist, put a simple leather grip in there, and push his head down onto his shoulders. The sword is simple, and yet curvy and fun. This is the sword I would wear everywhere and be buried with. No wait, I’d pass it onto my second child. Yeah, that’d be sweet.
A couple of Hollywood swords come to mind when I think about swords that I’d like. Of course Sting is a classic, and I wouldn’t mind having it (although it really doesn’t hold a candle to the Celtic sword). The sword from 300 is a beautiful piece, and I’d love to have it. I’d also love love love to have the knife used by the Indian in Predator. That is the ultimate in sharp kickassery on the big screen. The. Freaking. Ultimate.
Alright so now I’m just drooling and picturing myself frolicking through the woods hacking at random branches that get in my way, so I’ll sign off once again.
DFTBA
Another quick note: I’m too lazy to post any links or pictures, but both Wikipedia and Miss Google have been lovely in helping me develop some opinions on some of the following swords, and they can also help you look up some nice pictures if you’re so interested. But you’re not, so I’ll just get right into it.
Swords are the gentleman’s weapon. I’d like to say it was earlier, but it was probably around the time of the release of the first Lord of the Rings that I really got into swords, and by release of the movie I mean when I read the trilogy in book form before I went to see the first movie (three times) because I didn’t want to ruin the books for myself by seeing the movie first. More specifically, it was in the Barrow-downs that the hobbits came across three enchanted daggers in the cavern where a barrow-wight had imprisoned them. Maybe it was the magic of the prose, but ever since I’ve been in love with the idea of strapping a sword around my waist and strutting down the street.
There’s just something about the short sword that’s always appealed to me; long swords have always seemed too gangly for proper wielding. I mean of course they aren’t, but for my personal preferred (read: imagined) fighting style, the short sword really seems to do the trick.
Consider the various long swords. First up, the broad sword: this behemoth is long, thick, heavy, and blunt, and really made for swinging around wildly and crashing into someone’s chest, hopefully crushing their breastplate and the puny chest within. There’s no grace there, no smooth movement or flow, just crash boom bang, knock the guy off his horse and break the majority of his ribs. It really isn’t a gentlemanly sword.
And then there are the skinny swords, the ones you’d fence with: the foil, epée (rapier), and sabre. They’re all skinny, lame, and useless. Enough said.
There are of course the two-handed swords, the claymores and zweihänders, but again as with the broadsword, they’re just unwieldy in my mind. Mostly I can’t imagine wearing one around all the time. Or whipping one out and slicing some jerk’s head off on the subway. There’s just not enough space indoors to swing it around.
I’ve purposely avoided discussing the katana because honestly it scares me. Even the smaller wakizashi and tantō scare me. It’s in the blade, the sharpness, meaningfulness, and art with which there are wielded, slicing the very air itself. There’s a reason wielding these swords properly requires martial arts training, and it’s all just not for me.
There are a lot of swords I won’t be discussing, and really it’s only because they’re not that interesting, they don’t stand out as something I wouldn’t want to end up with, and they’re not something I’d specifically go out and buy. These swords include, but are not limited to, the falchion, the scimitar, the cutlass, and the dirk. A great many more didn’t even make this list, and who cares.
On to the swords I care about, and want: the gladius, the falcata, and the Celtic sword (I’m disappointed in the Celts that they didn’t give me a better name to use, it would have been cooler of them to come up with some neat name).
Firstly, the gladius, which we all know and love from the movie Gladiator (more on movie swords later), is a fine short sword that can clearly be wielded artfully and close to the body, which makes it good for both indoors and showing off. Sure there’s skill involved, but it doesn’t come with the cultural-traditional baggage that the Japanese swords do. It’s small and stylish, could easily be worn on my belt, and looks good swinging around to boot. To appease my own nerdiness, I’d specifically be gunning for either a Mainz for Fulham gladius, although ideally it’d be a Mainz.
Next, the falcata, which is a stylishly forward curving pre-Roman Iberian blade that originated centuries before somewhere in the Middle East, and has a cutting edge that can best be described as convex near the tip, and concave near the hilt. Having so much more sword near the tip makes swinging it somewhat less than graceful, but in terms of usefulness, the thing handles like an axe, and would be most useful hacking through the forest or something.
Lastly, the Celtic sword, so named because… well, you know. This is perhaps my favourite sword, and has been so for many years. It is short, which of course is necessary for my brand of urban sword fighting and general tomfoolery, and slightly leaf-shaped, that is, wider at the tip than at the base. The double-edged blade is simple and symmetric, as is the hilt. The hilt itself can best be described as follows: take the Cingular Wireless logo (that little jumping-jacking orange fellow) and cut him in half at the waist, put a simple leather grip in there, and push his head down onto his shoulders. The sword is simple, and yet curvy and fun. This is the sword I would wear everywhere and be buried with. No wait, I’d pass it onto my second child. Yeah, that’d be sweet.
A couple of Hollywood swords come to mind when I think about swords that I’d like. Of course Sting is a classic, and I wouldn’t mind having it (although it really doesn’t hold a candle to the Celtic sword). The sword from 300 is a beautiful piece, and I’d love to have it. I’d also love love love to have the knife used by the Indian in Predator. That is the ultimate in sharp kickassery on the big screen. The. Freaking. Ultimate.
Alright so now I’m just drooling and picturing myself frolicking through the woods hacking at random branches that get in my way, so I’ll sign off once again.
DFTBA
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
