I’m a member of The Society for Creative Anachronism. We try to recreate medieval life without the downsides like no milk chocolate, no modern medicine and no glasses. Tierce is a well-known persona in Insula Magna (Vancouver Island). This last weekend, we went on a sojourn to Tir Righ September Coronet where we camped together:
Tierce: Why can’t I ride in the car?
Me: Because, A. Mischa isn’t here, B. I’ve never bothered to get a drivers license and C. Mischa has the keys anyway.
Tierce: Wow, you suck. We could have taken five times as much and gotten there five times sooner.
Me: Do you want to pull the goddamned trailer? Because I can arrange that.
Tierce: Oh, don’t be like that. It’s not like I can run beside the bike when you’re going 20+ kilometres per hour. You’d end up dragging me or I’d pull a muscle.
Me: This is sounding better and better. Tell me more.
Tierce: You would say something cruel and heartless like that. Put on your headphones and just keep going. Maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will steal me at the next gas station you stop at for chocolate milk.
Tierce: No… no… leave me. You go on. Leave me here to die.
Me: Come on, Tierce, stop being such a drama queen.
Tierce: Cloth… of… evil… sapping… will… to… live…
Me: Oh, stop it. Look at Rupie; he’s not making an ass out of himself.
Tierce: Shetland Sheepdog sycophant.
Me: What? What was that?
Tierce: Nothing. Just deploring the servile nature of dogs these days. Some of us have our pride.
Me: Yeah. Yeah, about that. He’s not the one pretending that the cloth on their shoulders is infected with a deadly poison.
Tierce: Like you would know if it was.
Me: It’s a table napkin. They’re not known for their lethal properties.
Me: Tierce, you’ve seen that kid. In fact, that kid just petted you fifteen minutes ago.
Tierce: It could be a different kid disguised as the same kid!
Me: No… no… this is medieval recreation, not a sci-fi con. Calm down!
Me: Tierce, shut up or I will shut you up and you will not like it.
Tierce: I’m trying to alert you to a possible threat to your life and you ignore me. You’re not inspiring my confidence here.
Me: Tierce, at this point, the only life being threatened here, at this event, is yours. Shut. Up.
Me: Get off the pillow.
Tierce: But this is *my* pillow.
Me: It’s filled with *my* clothes and it’s where *my* head is going to rest. Get. Off.
Tierce: I can’t; my legs won’t work.
Me: Get your paralysed ass off the pillow and onto the cloak where you belong.
Tierce: Fine. This isn’t over yet.
[Morning, when I find Tierce on the pillow and my head pushed to the side where it is hanging precariously off the edge]
Tierce: Hnngh. Wha?
Me: Tierce, what is this?
Tierce: What is what? Is it breakfast?
Me: What are you doing on the pillow?
Tierce: I’m on the pillow? Why, so I am. Lovely day, isn’t it? I could do with a walk.
Me: You make a great case for animal abuse.
Me: Yeah, get in there.
Tierce: Camping sucks. I wasn’t allowed to run around all weekend.
Me: Learn to come when you’re called and more freedom you will have.
Tierce: Meh. Maybe later.
Me: You got petted by a lot of people.
Tierce: Yeah, a lot of people with no food to feed the starving dog.
Me: You had food all weekend!
Tierce: Yeah, that kibble crap. You try living on a diet of nothing but meal replacement bars and see how enthusiastic you are for that shit after a few years.
Me: I bought you turkey. From the deli. You didn’t even eat it all!
Tierce: I have discriminating tastes.
Me: You’d better discriminate in favour of the trailer. Get your ungrateful ass in. Just wait until Mischa gets home from England.
Tierce: At least then someone in the house will know how to cook and feed the hungry dog.
Me: I remember the good old days, when dogs used to pull people and when they didn’t pull them anymore, they were eaten.
Tierce: Keep pedalling. The sooner we’re home, the sooner I can check out the backyard for a dead rat to tide me over until Mischa gets here.