In which I go to war as a Viking

This is how Vikings dressed. (Missing from the shot: hilariously poofy pants.)
This is how Vikings dressed. (Missing from the shot: hilariously poofy pants.)

This weekend is the Wars of the Roses, a camping event where (hundreds? thousands? IDEK) a zillion members of the Society for Creative Anachronism descend upon a campsite in upstate New York to battle over…

I’m not sure. The biggest event in the Northeast, Pennsic, is over which side doesn’t have to take Cleveland for the following year, and one of the big European events is about which side is the right side to butter one’s bread on. The Wars of the Roses are about…

Huh. According to the website, it’s Lancaster and York battling over the English throne. What an uncommonly historical reason. I must read up and decide which side to root for.

In any case, I’ll spend most of the weekend bouncing about in Viking clothes, learning skills that are useless in the modern age but that will make me a prized commodity in case of apocalypse. The weather is supposed to be ninety degrees, so I’ll do my learning flat on my back in the shade, whining, which is a totally legitimate learning style and in no way reflects on my maturity or my ability to withstand an apocalypse.

It’s unlikely that I’ll be able to do more than a cursory check-in this weekend, and approving comments will be right out. If a fight breaks out in the comments, remember to slap with the palm, not the back of the hand, and anyone who writes “I wasn’t a perfect parent” automatically loses.

For crown and (someone else’s) country,
Issendai

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