Please, don't say you're with me.

Several hundred million Christians have managed to pass the preceding 7 days without doing anything to make a mockery of the Name of Christ or the Second Coming.  We've fed the hungry, brought medicine to the sick, comforted the broken-hearted, and encouraged the down-trodden. We've been good friends, neighbors, co-workers, and students. We prayed for our families, our leaders, and our troops. We've waited, as has every generation since Christ's ascension, for the hope He has promised us: that there will be a day with no more tears, no more pain, and no more fears. We've quietly told those around us that there is Hope, and that Hope can be found the same place we found it; in the Name and Person of Jesus Christ, our Living Saviour, and our soon-coming King. Not one of those I've just mentioned, including myself, has made news. Instead, a group of, at best, misguided zealots, and at worst, outright MORONS, have proved to the watching world that Christ definitely will NOT return tomorrow, for of "that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father." You have served only to provide an entertaining sideshow to those who scoff at your "faith." When you stand before God, and you surely will, even as I and everyone else will, and He asks you why He should allow you into heaven, I pray you have a better answer than "I made the home page of CNN dot com!

Cultures Clash as the Border War Heats Up.

On the 24th inst., my men and I set out with a retinue of cavalry and archers to the area near Gretna, having heard that a tasty morsel of ill-equipped, ill-fed, and ill-led Scots refuse was ripe for the picking, having set its meager sights on DeSpencershire, our lord’s small keep and outlying base of operations built near the ruins of the old Buxley Church. A contingent of about 20 archers accompanied us, drawn up to the southwest of the plain between DeSpencershire and Boglachburn. We also pressed into service a small group of peasants armed with javelin and ax. A pitiful group of “warriors,” these, but the price was right; free.

The poor Scots fools anchored two skiltrons by a swamp to the south and a patch of woodlands to the north. These spearmen appeared unusually well disciplined, for Scots, and may have made a sporting obstacle… if our fine cavalry had ever had any intention to charge.

They may have remained there for time immemorial for all we cared, for they were no threat to us whatever hemmed about on two sides as they were, and exposed to arrows raining from the heavens, launched by our peasant archers that acquitted themselves well.

But our true attention was focused on the mob of mindless rabble drawn up in the woods on the right flank of the two skiltrons.

Lord Locksley brought his swordsmen and archers to the field north of us, on the other side of Buxley Church, ready to rain sharply pointed misery on the upstarts as soon as they made their move.

As the battle began to unfold, we dispatched a group of 10 experienced archers to the top of the keep, an excellent vantage point from which to shower death upon the enemies of the King. Our remaining longbowmen moved into position around and behind the stone wall of the DeSpencershire longhouse. Our cavalry, including myself riding, Brego, who has been my friend and ally through many dangers, sallied forth across a small rise and deployed into a line out of reach of anything the enemy could bring to bear at the moment, whereupon we suddenly halted. Lockesly’s archers and our own began an antiphonal chorus of twinging bows into the skiltrons, and picked off several with each volley.

Meanwhile, the poorly disciplined Scots advanced to the edge of Boglachburn, and inexplicably stopped, although the stream is entirely fordable, being a mere two feet or so deep and less than 5 paces across. Lord Ingram advanced with the cavalry and stopped roughly 20 paces distant and facing the mob, and for several tense minutes, neither side advanced, although our missiles continued to drop wooden rain into the skiltrons.

Seeing that our cavalry had failed to produce a proper reaction from the Scots, Lord Ingram ordered the peasants to mount a charge upon the mob at the water’s edge.

He knew that Scots, being less intelligent and disciplined soldiers than any fighting unit Lord DeSpencer might have formed from the nearby cattle, would not be able to resist the urge to charge head-on at such a tempting target.

His analysis was, of course, correct, and soon the Scot peasants crossed the stream and broke into a run. The peasants were cut to ribbons, of course, but the men suffered not so much as a hangnail. My lord was about to order the cavalry to charge the unruly bunch when it became clear that their momentum, and bloodlust, would bring them to us where we stood! Lord Ingram ordered swords drawn and for us to stand our ground. The ruffians crashed into our line with a mighty clang of iron, steel, and wood.

Whether by design or by chance, Lord Ingram found himself alone facing three of these vermin, when two very lucky spear thrusts pierced his armor at the joints of the shoulder, and he fell together with his mount, both mortally wounded. As though we needed further exhortation, the death of our champion enraged those of us that remained, and we cut down the murderers to a man.


Having wiped out half of their total forces in the field, we reformed our line and prepared to deal with the skiltrons. As their position atop the keep, our most skilled archers were out of position to be effective, and since the Scots posed no threat, we signaled that we would wait a moment, so they could come down and join the festivities.

But before they could arrive, the Scots wisely fled the field, and we turned our full attention to tending to our beloved leader, who died in my arms where he had fallen, His blood shall be avenged, Scots mongrels!