First, I would like to say that any who attempt to usurp the name or
title of Kinsman without giving proper respect to the tradition from which
such title derives (and I do include certain rogues who have tried to
establish groups of kinsmen apart from Anglesey and Gwynedd), these people
quite rightfully should be sought out for war.  In my opinion any good
excuse for a decent war is excuse enough, and by all the gods, upstarts who
try to capitalize on our traditions ought to be taught a good lesson at the
end of an Anglesey sword, pike, or other pointy-stabby object.

  That being said, here is my tale:   I, Lorick, was Bard before I was Kinsman.

   In the Elder Days, when Gwynedd and young Angelsey brought forth its host
to the plains of Pennsic, I did wear the sole kilt in camp, and sing songs
that the muse brought upon me.  We Celts fell into many feats of daring and
courage, and I was there for all of them.  Those who were there know the
truth; those who have heard through my songs and stories know the
recounting.  Every word that I tell is true, and let no fools besotted with
the distortions of the ages steer you wrong.  My word is bond, and my bond
is as certain as the helms we place around the fire, and the banner that
flies still, with our green and gold wheel above our enemies.

   Valgard, Knight of Gwynedd, was he who made me squire.  In those days, he
was known as Hobbit, for his stout but diminutive stature.  I had long
sought a title to make complete my standing in the kingdom (at that time
there was a royal body), and so I sought his patronage.  Valgard, being a
brave warrior and a fine purveyor of wit, took me on as squire, and I did my
duty.  Swordbrothers will understand the duties of which I speak.  I did carry
the wood; I hefted beer in its many vessels; yea, I know the hard cold
feeling of earth beneath my belly as I crawled forward through the trees to
steal booty for my lord, Sir Valgard.
Indeed, I was part and parcel of escapades that to this day remain secret,
and should remain so for all but the most inner circle of the Clan.

   Then, the day came when knightings were to be made.  I had served my
time, and made good upon my oaths.  All in camp believed that Sir Valgard
would raise his sword and lower it upon my shoulders, taking me into the
sacred brotherhood of the Order of Gwynedd.  But it was not to be.

  Verily, Sir Valgard's choice was my own blessing, though I was not to know
it at the time.  When the moment came, and I knelt before my patron, he said
unto me, and unto the assembled camp, "I cannot make this man a knight.  I
am a Christian, and a man of God.  Lorick does not follow the faith, and so
I cannot in conscience make him a member of my glorious Christian order."

   I chafed, not knowing what was to come.

   At that moment, it was Thorvald (sometimes called Thorveldd) of the House
of the Red that stepped forward. Sir Valgard continued.

  "If he shall not be a knight, then let him be kensed. Kinsman Thorvald,
will you kens this errant squire?"

   Thorvald came forward, and drew his axe.  With a great staggering and
swinging of the blade (like unto draw a gasp from the assembled peerage), he
lay the blade of his axe upon my shoulders.  I did not flinch.  Thorvald
bade me drink from his horn, and I did.  And again.  And again.  With his
proclamation, where Lorick the squire had knelt, Lorick the Kinsman arose.

   In those days was Mordock yet a swordbrother.  Handrick had shown his
face but a few times.  The house of the Red was small, but I was honored to
have been a part of it.  And should any of that house ever need aid or ale,
when you find the camp of Lorick Dellengwyn of Anglesey, rest easy.  For you
are among allies.  Drink hearty, and live well.  For tomorrow, the enemy dies.