No brain left, just enough energy to follow the links and track through the web for delightfully uproarious accounts of dreadful things like this one. My idea of a pleasant Sunday morning—no workshop, lectures, readings, introductions, conferences in prospect.
Organised ranks of men standing under an arrow storm can do one of three things. They can take it, the steepling hysteria, the terror, the incessant keening of the goose feathers, the thud and grunt, the screaming and pleading, the smell of shit and vomit and split gut; they can stand with their skin prickling in mortal expectation. Or they can retreat – get out of the rain, give ground, lose form and purpose, and run. Or they can attack – move forward, confront the butcher, the bloody, unmanly, unarmoured, jeering peasant bowmen.