So you may have noticed I disappeared for a while. That's cause I did! I barely even had my phone (I forgot my charger in Calgary).

We went to Dragonslayer (I posted about that already), and then Paul, Will (aka Donut) and I went up to Paul's dad's place, way the fuck up north in the boonies.

The little town Paul's dad lives outside of boasts the world's largest perogy. Seriously. That's it's solitary draw.

Paul's dad is a French-Canadian native-american who lives in the bush with his cat, Minou, and a large assortment of guns with which he shoots deer from his porch. And although it sounds like his dad is an ignorant red-necky type, he's really not. He's a good cook, and he reads like mad. He also says 'cocksucker' a lot.

It was a nice stay. I got some sewing and painting done. Then we all went to Quad War (which was in the boonies of Saskatchewan).

The first day I was really frustrated and irritated, because Paul was pretty much ignoring me, and spent more time talking to Will than he did with me. Pretty much the only time he would settle down and actually talk to me was before bed and in the morning, before he started running around again. He also has been developing this irritating habit of walking on without me, without checking whether I'm able to catch up (he's got some powerful legs on him, and ones that aren't hampered by skirts).

Finally I decided: Fuck him. I'm not going to let him ruin my event. I'm going to have as much fun as I can.

So I did!

I shot in the populace shoot (only four points *sigh!*), I signed up for a class on period techniques for making amber cabochons (though I never made it, but that story is later), I entered the A&S competition, I caught up with a handful of old friends from when I was in college, I shopped on merchant's row (didn't buy anything, though).

All in all, I had a good Saturday.

Sunday is where the story really begins, though.

Sunday I dropped my A&S entry off at the table, and, because I hadn't realized it started on Saturday, I started going around asking people to vote in the A&S competition (it was populace choice). I didn't say which entry was mine, of course (it was anonymous). I just wanted to even out the voting. If someone else won, it would be completely fair, and not because I was given misinformation on the start time.

Anyway, I wandered over to the Bitter End encampment to encourage everyone there to go cast their votes. They hadn't even heard of an A&S competition, so they gladly all upped and headed over to the table with me. While we were there, I heard someone calling for a chirurgeon up on the war field. I didn't think much of it, because it could be anything: a cut that's bleeding, a wasp sting (there were TONS of wasps; I think everyone got stung at least once), a sprained ankle.

A few minutes later my name was being heralded down merchant's row by AEdelred (pronounced Ethelred).

"Hey, you were yelling my name?" I asked, a little curious.

He had a look of concerned pity, and put his hands on my shoulders. "Ellias has been hurt," he said. "Go up to the war field."

I don't think I even said anything in response. I just turned and started up to the war field as fast as my little legs could carry me.

I think that was the longest run of my life. All the horrible things that could happen in a war started to flit through my mind. All the while I had half an eye out for wasps nests; it would not be good if I stepped in a wasp nest now.

I slowed as I came up to the top of the hill. None of the fighters were fighting; they were all mingling uneasily and glancing at a center point. The chirurgeon, and about half a dozen fighters were clustered in a small circle, with a pair of legs I recognized as Paul's sticking out from the group.

As any girlfriend of a stick-jock knows, this is one of the nightmares.

I slowed as I approached. Throwing myself on him would not do any good. James the Quixotic saw me and intercepted my path towards Paul.

"He took a pike to the side of the face and went down," he explained in low, calming tones. "He said he was feeling tingling down his spine and his right side. He can move all his limbs, but they're going to take him to the hospital just in case."

"I could hope so," I laughed nervously. "I'd like him to be okay. I kind of like him a little bit."

I lingered nearby. A marshal tried to shoo me away, but stepped out of my way when I told him I was Paul's lady.

They'd strapped him to a half plank of plywood, and one of the fighters had hold of his head and neck, to keep him from moving around. He looked frustrated, but not scared or in pain. People were starting to make horrible jokes at his expense.

Vic, the baron of Borealis, was crouching nearby, looking like he'd just pulled off his helm (he probably had). "Hey, hey Ellias!" he called. "If you're going to town, get me a slurpee, eh?"

Sheldon pulled up with his truck. The plan was to load Paul into the back of the truck along with a couple able bodied fighters (to keep his head still), and meet the ambulance halfway (it had a good fifty kliks to travel). I, naturally, insisted on going with him. I do not like hospitals at the best of times, but damned if I was going to sit around any worry.

I was sitting in the back of the truck, watching ten of the fighters load Paul slowly into the back, and the other door of the truck was yanked open.

Her Highness, Princess Gemma, barely dressed and looking like she just got out of the shower.

"Are you okay?"

I nodded. Tears were starting to threaten.

"Are you sure?"

Another nod.

"Do you want someone to go with you?"

A shake.

"Do you want me to ignore that and *tell* you someone is going to go with you?"

I shook my head a little. I tried to say I'd be fine, but I started crying instead.

"Do you want a hug?"

Holy god, yes I did! I nodded.

"That's something I can do."

She gives good hugs.

Paul was loaded in. Sheldon jumped in the front, and the guy with the phone jumped in the passenger seat. Gemma made no move to leave, and instead leaned out the back window and started making crude jokes at Paul's expense.

"Hey," I said, leaning out the back window too. "You know Paul, if you were a horse, we'd just shoot you." He'd made the exact same comment to the cook in our camp when she twisted her ankle in a gopher hole, and spent the rest of the event whining about it.

We were almost at Lloydminster by the time the ambulance met us (I can't imagine what people passing us thought of us: a bunch of men, dressed medievally, packed in the back of a truck and two women in identical green dresses -- pure coincidence! -- leaning out of the back window).

The ambulance attendants had to cut some of Paul's armour to get him out of it. Just the shoulder and arm straps (his slips over his head, and buckles at his sides), but man, Paul was not happy about that. He's going to have to drill out the old rivets in order to re-strap his armour. At least they didn't cut his gambison. It did tear a little, but it's a seam tear, and that's easy-peasy to fix.

Paul started to get scared when the ambulance folk started to work on him, getting his armour off and stuff. I could tell because his fists were clenched until his knuckles were white, and his answers were very clipped.

We followed the ambulance to the hospital, and it wasn't long at all until they let us in to see him. He was still scared, but thank Gemma's level head, she talked him down a bit. (I think she's the secretary in a doctor's office or something, because although she didn't know really specific stuff, she knew what was going on, and what they were most likely going to do.)

Sheldon was going to ferry the unnecessary people back to site, and we were deciding who it should be. It was getting close to court, so Paul said to Gemma: "You should really get back for court, what with being the Princess and all."

"Hmmm...Denied!" she replied quite cheerfully.

I'm really glad she stayed. I'm not much good in hospitals, plus I was mostly being worried for Paul. She talked sense into Paul. She talked him into taking the muscle relaxant that the nurse was trying to give him when he very adamantly didn't want to take it (he doesn't like taking medicine at the best of times). Heh. It was a shot in his bum.

He also got a prescription for a painkiller/muscle relaxant, but I highly doubt he's going to actually fill the prescription.

The doctor who came in to check out Paul was North African (I believe). Like, white guy who's first language was Afrikans (I don't know if I spelled that right). Paul knew a few words, so they talked about that. The doctor tried to get Paul to say other words he knew, but Paul refused, saying he only knew really bad words.

So the doctor sent Paul in for x-rays (which came back fine). Then the nurse came in, gave Paul the shot, and then the doctor came back just to say good bye and give parting advice.

"Okay," he said firmly. "I want to know what bad words you know."

"...really...they're bad...."

"Just tell me one," he said.

"Fine, uh," Paul fumbled for a word, and then rattled off a couple syllables that made no sense to me.

The doctor gave him a ruefully amused look and shoot his head, laughing. "Out! You're done!" And then you're left.

"I feel really bad!" Paul said. "I just said a really horrible thing!"

I asked him how horrible.

"Think of the derogatory term of 'nigger' and times that by about ten."

It just sounded like jibberish to me.

So in conclusion, Paul is alright. It was basically whiplash. He had to wear a soft neck brace for a couple days, but he's out of it now. He says his neck is still sore, but he can move it small amounts and it doesn't hurt.

The funniest part of this whole thing was the stories when we got back to site. There were tons of stories of what happened, ranging from heroic, to pure stupidity on Paul's part. Eventually Paul just started making up wild stories when people asked him what happened.

What actually happened was Paul was engaged in battle with Liam (who was one of the fighters who held his neck on the way to the hospital) and a pikeman off to his left, just out of his vision, went for a head-shot and caught him across the chin, spinning his head around. Paul was totally concerned that the pikeman would feel bad about the shot, but it was one of those fluke things; slightly lower, he would have been fine (just dead), and slightly higher he would have been fine (still just dead). We never did figure out who the pikeman was.

And we never did get Vic's slurpee. I think we totally should have.

Yeah. And that was my weekend.

Oh, yeah, and when we returned, we found out that Paul had won three awards in the squire's tourney (most wins, most fights, and most chivalric). They were trying to fit as many fights as they could in fifteen minutes. Paul was quite surprised about winning any of them.

And me, I won the A&S competition. :)

Yay us!

Before&After