Thomas Willowby
G.A.S.R., G.A.M.C.

My name is Thomas Willowby. I was born the second son of a English
wool merchant in the year 1434. Due to my fathers rather dramatic
income we were allowed most of the status and luxuries that money can
afford. Most of my childhood was spent wasting away the days playing
games as most young boys my age would have done.

Till the day of the fire. Nobody knows if it was indeed an accident
or if a rival merchant decided that my father was cutting too deeply
into his business and had remedied the situation.
After the loss of his warehouse and all the stores of wool that he
had stored in anticipation of the next year's wool prices my father
turned bitter. Due to having borrowed great sums of money to buy all
the wool he could we were forced to sell off our belongings to try to
pay off the debts. As the debts grew my father began to blame us for
wasting his hard earned money and accused my mother of stealing from
what little we had left for food. Not long after my mother was found
in an alley dead.

My father had become a different man. Loudly he claimed to those
nearby that the ones that had burned his warehouse had also murdered
my mother. As time passed the townspeople began to agree that this
might have indeed had been the case. Not long after my father
announced that he was going to remarry. It seemed that one of his
wealthier customers in Flanders had a daughter that he wished to
marry off. With her marriage came large dowry. Soon my father's
business was back in full blossom.

However his new, young wife was a spoiled, willful harpy with a
tongue full of venom.
She accused my brother and I of many foul things that were indeed
total lies. Quickly she managed to drive a wedge in the cleft already
growing between my father and I. My brother begged my father's
forgivance and attempted to work hard to learn my father's craft
which pleased my father greatly. I on the other hand confronted my
father time and time again with the lies that this evil siren wove
with such cunning. Then one day I dared to question my father to the
details of my mother's death. In stead of answers I received a
beating that left me at deaths door. Only with the pleading of our
neighbors and intervention of the town priest did my father stop.
Slowly I healed under the "loving" hands of my new mother. Finally
after months of continuous beatings and punishment I decided to leave
and go live with my mother's brother.

My uncle took me in and confronted me with his beliefs that
my father had killed my mother. I had already formed my own ideas and
we quickly agreed that we would get our revenge on him. My uncle was
a blacksmith. But he was not just a simple village blacksmith. He
owned his own foundry. He had no less than two score smiths working
for him. More apprentices and laborers than I could count swarmed
like bees about his business. He supplied the needs of one of the
greatest harbors in England outfitting the great ships with chain,
fittings and more importantly, cannons.
 

As time passed I grew to love my Uncle's foundry and all the
hustle and bustle of the workers. In no time I was in charge of a
small group of apprentices helping them, by making sure that they
knew what their masters wanted and such. This quickly came to the
notice of my Uncle who pulled me aside and told me not to get overly
friendly with the workers and best not to come between the masters
and their apprentices. As the years crept by I was sent to study with
arms masters and retired soldiers. War was brewing and my Uncle was
faithfully loyal to the Lancasterian cause and had no wish for the
Yorkist rabble to be in charge It was my Uncle's plan that he would
hire a small company of free mercenaries and equip them with weapons
forged by his own workers. He admitted to me that he still was
supplying the Yorkist with weapons but off lesser quality and higher
prices. The weapons my men were equipped with were paid for with
Yorkist money.

After a few skirmishes my men and I both found our rhythm and soon we
were in the thick of battle with the enemy. Reports from my Uncle
about food supply and weapon shipments served us well and we managed
to keep our allies feed and armed as we cut deeper and deeper into
the enemy. Soon very influential men were speaking my name and
keeping track of my victories and losses. As favor and unofficial
rewards were granted I was forced to send my growing little army into
more dangerous situations to keep my backers happy. I knew that
eventually my tide of fortune would turn and on several occasions had
spoken of this when I wrote to my uncle. Finally he wrote to be with
news that he had swayed several officials to his favor and was
seizing my father's wool business. Soon he would be destitute and
imprisoned for the murder on my mother.

With this news buzzing in my mind I went about my trade.
Perhaps that was my undoing. I'm still not sure which details I had
overlooked during my planning. Perhaps it was only fate casting the
bones against my newfound fortune. Perhaps the commander of the other
free company stayed up that night studying what to do instead of
spending the evening drinking and wenching with his men. Needless to
say I may never know. As it is I was somehow overcome by a
undermanned, ill-equipped bunch of half starved rabble troops. As my
troops broke before this peasent mass I took a sword cut to the
thigh. Only by the grace of our God and the loyalty of my men did I
survive. Several drug me from the field under cover of the remainder
of my handgunners and pikemen. They managed to get me aboard a ship
and sent me home.
There I lay abed wracked in fever as the surgeons tried to save me
leg. It seems that although the blade bit deep into the bone and
bleed fiercely that it was God's will that I was to keep my leg.
Nowadays I walk with a cane and in colder weather I am often
forced to stay inside near a roaring fire. But I take comfort in that
due to my exploits and adventures have left me with a comfortable
amount of land and holdings. Now I run my Uncle's foundry and
business is good because our King Henry will soon be sending a force
on men into France. At times I can hardly hear myself think over all
the hammers falling on the anvils. Often I wonder what my mother
would have thought at my position in the world.
 
 
 
 
 

Armoring Essay

by James 'Killjoy' Wilson
 
 

As a young child my dreams were filled with images of Robin Hood and his Merry men and the tales of King Arthur. With shining sword in the hand the hero always managed to save the day. As I grew older the dream dimmed but never faded. Then years ago I found the forgotten ways of mailleing and found that I could actually do this great thing with the bare skills that I processed.  Again the dreams grew,
visions of Beowulf and Leif Erikson clad in shining shirts of  shimmering rings filled my mind. Laboriously I toiled crafting these works of the ancients to garb my friends and family. Yet, oddly, the
dream remained unfulfilled. Then, one fateful day, with the aide of the great electron Oracle visions were granted unto me. Such visions that left me speechless and spellbound. The dream awoke with a fiery
passion long denied by my days of hopeless longing Again the Oracle called to me, showing my the painful folly of some, yet guiding me along the long and hard true path. As I stated to walk that steep and
climbing road again the Oracle called filling my essence with the words of wisdom of those sages that I longed to imitate. Day by day I walk further along that path, be it not an easy one. Yet I know in
the depths of my soul, the dream will not die.
 
 
 

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