The True and Unexpurgated Story of Ivar’s Pants
by Alisandre Oliphant
This tale began long ago, just after the days when Hrabia Jan w Orzeldom was baron of Bjornsborg, and many who are old now were young.
Having stepped down as baron, Jan was filling his time by sharing his knowledge of fighting and warcraft. We hosted fighter practices at our house, and the fighters brought their ladies and sometimes their children, and they became gatherings.
After a time, Jan told the fighters of Grand Outlandish, an event of renown far away, hosted in the deserts of the Outlands by the barony of al-Barran. Many people attended, from many kingdoms, and there were many fighting scenarios. He suggested they test their prowess against the warriors of this far land.
This idea was received with great enthusiasm, and so our warband, our drużyna, was formed. In the years that followed, Jan led this band to Grand Outlandish at least three times. Once we hosted a tournament there that the participants had such fun with that it ran til after midnight. Once we feasted the royalty and nobility with a suckling pig roasted with space heaters during a burn ban in the middle of a sandstorm. And once, this happened.
In Anno Societatis XXIX, 1994 of the common era, our warband traveled to Grand Outlandish XXI. Our party varied over the years, but this year we traveled with Lord Alfredo Gabriel Halcon, squire to the Hrabia; HL Ivar Runamagi, herald to the Hrabia; HL Jusric, HL Anne Harper of Eland, and their young daughter Maggie Rose; HL Thorgard Inn Svarti; Lady Mathilde Brotbaker and her son Mattieu Matson, page to the Hrabia’s house; Lord Svipdagr of Lindisfarne; Lord Hrolf the Dane, his lady Borga and their daughter Karissa; Lady Linnea Hen; Arduain Kristian; Khalil Sarklander; Alewolf of the Shining Axe and his lady Naomi; Ella Elias; Mabluth; and Karen.
We had wanted our very camp to show our presence, our strength, and who we were. We set our tents in a circle and fixed cloth panels between them to form walls, so that our camp had a gate. We made a huge firepit. And since Jan had a banner – the actual length appropriate to a count, something like 6 feet long – we set a full-sized flagpole at the center of the camp, that his standard might tell all whose camp this was.
In the evening, after the fighting, as our band was decompressing and relaxing into the evening, our young men lit a fire in the huge firepit. They seemed to consider the pit’s size a personal challenge and built the largest fire it would contain. It was a beacon on the hills; it was a bonfire; it was a concern to the event planners. They came to speak with us, and Jan reassured them that we would stay by it til it burned to ash, safeguarding the camp.
And since we were thus bound to the fire, we sent out word that Hrabia Jan was pleased to host any and all, royal, noble, or common, now that the evening was upon us; and he would serve a renowned drink of his native land.
Here I must explain krupnik. Krupnik is a drink that the Poles say has felled mighty warriors and conquered conquerors. Krupnik is a heated blend of rare spices and honey with 80–100% grain alcohol as its base.
It has a pleasant scent, if a little bit reminiscent of cough syrup. It is about as sweet as mead. And it does not taste particularly alcoholic, which is misleading in the extreme.
Krupnik is an aperitif. It is meant to be served in tiny little sipping glasses. Jan’s household did not know this the first time they made it. They used tankards, and Jan awoke the next morning in his front yard to what he later said looked like a war zone. Bodies lay everywhere. One man was actually draped over his low stone wall. He realized that he himself had been pillowed on a random posterior. This is to say that krupnik is to be handled with respect.
We had brought the makings of krupnik to Grand Outlandish. Jusric had set up a little camp stove where we could heat it. Out of consideration for those of a more delicate constitution and realizing many people did not have the innate capacity of the Poles, we used vodka. Even so, this was a potent beverage.
So. That evening, as the sun sank and the temperature lowered, Jan’s band stayed with the fire while our guests came and went. And because the firepit was so large, many conversations happened around it rather than being able to speak as a group across it.
A lady sought Jan’s advice on persona play. Fighters who had crossed swords with our warriors stopped by and spoke of the day’s shared triumphs and losses. The baron and baroness of al-Barran stopped by and spoke courteously. Royalty of the Outlands and I believe An Tir and Atenveldt graced us. But always our band was by the fire. And always there was krupnik. I know. I had made it; I was serving it.
The fire burned lower and as it became more coals than flame, we began to speak around the fire as Bjornsborg was wont. Someone told a tale of some Tuchux at Pennsic, who had been debating firewalking when the Ansteorran Camerinus, loud and genial as Thor, walked into their conversation and into their fire, laughing and scattering flaming brands (and Tuchux).
Our firepit had a lot of coals in it. Jusric and Ivar had become very acquainted with krupnik. They began to eye the firepit speculatively.
Permit me another digression. This event was the first time I had seen glowsticks used in the privies. They gave just the right amount of light to see without destroying night vision. Earlier in the day I had begged a few from our hosts to use in the tent and to walk the path to the privies.
Jusric, who knew such things, had regaled the young of our group with what would happen if they threw a glowstick in the fire. Inspired, the young of our group had been gathering up the used ones. By that evening, we had a sizable store of used glowsticks.
And now, with the flames not so roaring and full dark fallen, it seemed a good time to see what the glowsticks would do in the fire. It also seemed a good time for a distraction from the firewalking story. Both Lady Anne and I thought it would be a shame if Jusric and Ivar’s garb, so well and lovingly made, sustained fire damage.
So we cast a glowstick upon the fire, and indeed, there was a flare of light and briefly, the flames were different colors. It was indeed very cool.
Ivar in particular was delighted, so we gave him a handful of used glowsticks to throw into the fire himself. He did so; he would happily toss in a glowstick, watch it flare up, then sip some krupnik as he let the fire settle a bit before throwing another.
Alas, far before he had tired of this, he used up his supply. He was unhappy. He sought more used glowsticks from others. He went around the fire asking each person in turn. And then he got to me.
At this point I must tell you of Ivar’s hat. It was a well-made sheepskin hat that came to a point at the top and with lovely thick fleece turned up all around the edge. I loved it. I had a running joke with Ivar where I tried to get his hat – asking for it, pretending to steal it, etc. This had gone on for years. He was wearing it, there in the firelight.
So. As Ivar was going around the fire soliciting glowsticks, he got to me. And yes, I had one – but it was not a used one. It was still live, and I had it because I needed it to see the path and in the tent. So I told him I was sorry, but no, I couldn’t give it to him. And disappointed, he went on to ask others. He found a few more glowsticks to throw on the fire. And then they were again all gone.
He remembered I had one. He asked. I refused.
He asked again. I refused again.
He asked again. And I, tired of this, told him, “I’ll trade it to you for your hat.” Expecting, of course, that he would laugh and demur and seek elsewhere again.
He did not.
He smiled a broad smile and immediately took off his hat and held it out to me. I was unprepared for this. I took it. I put my glowstick in his hand and my new hat on my head. And Ivar was happy, and threw the glowstick in the fire.
Something or other distracted him from his glowstick fixation at that point, and the conversation turned to other topics.
I have said that al-Barran is in the desert. Deserts are hot during the day, but they rapidly cool at night. It was late and the fire was dying down. Ivar began mentioning that his head was cold. He said, sadly, to the fire, several times, “I want my hat.” “I miss my hat.” Then he asked me directly, “Can I have my hat back?”
“It’s not your hat, Ivar. It’s my hat. You traded me.”
“Oh, yeah.” He sighed.
In a few minutes: “Can I have my hat?”
“It’s not your hat, Ivar. It’s my hat. You traded me.”
“Oh, yeah.” Sigh.
In another few minutes: “Can I have my hat?”
And I, tired of this, came up with the most outlandish thing I could think of. Believing that this would surely end it, I said, “I’ll trade it to you for your pants.” Thinking, that’ll do it, we’re done now.
I was wrong.
I had underestimated the persuasive powers of krupnik.
Ivar immediately stood up and dropped his pants, stepped out of them, and held them out to me. What could I do? I took them and gave him his hat. He put it on his head and was happy.
And it was very late, and though his head was warm now, other regions were not. Krupnik and the hour and the promise of warm blankets called him to bed.
Jan was still by the fire. So was Svipdagr. So was I. So were the pants.
Jan said, “We really need to commemorate the shrewd dealings my lady has done this evening.”
He stroked his beard. He eyed the flagpole speculatively.
The next morning many of us slept late. Even I did; although I had not been drinking, it had been a very late night. But Ivar was still abed when I emerged from my tent.
Everyone around me had the deliberately unstudied look of people waiting for the other shoe to drop. Everyone had an eye on Ivar’s tent. And above us, the pants waved gently in a soft breeze against a beautiful blue sky.
Eventually Ivar emerged. He was not moving quickly. He was not standing to his full height, and he was not raising his eyes very high. Someone brought him coffee. Everyone watched him.
He gradually became aware of people looking at him. He looked at them. They looked up. He looked up. He saw the pants floating gently on the breeze against the lovely blue sky. He blinked.
He frowned. Focused. Blinked again.
He looked at everyone. Everyone looked at me.
He looked at me.
“ALISANDRE.”
“Yes, Ivar?” Music in my innocent, helpful voice.
“ALISANDRE, WHY ARE MY PANTS ON THE FLAGPOLE?”
“They’re not, Ivar.”
“They’re not?”
“No, Ivar.”
He raised his head with some effort and studied them.
Again, “They’re not?”
“No. Those are my pants, Ivar.”
He frowned in real confusion. He walked closer to the pole, looked up and examined them closely.
"Your pants?"
"Yes, Ivar."
“Why are they your pants?”
“You traded them to me, Ivar.”
“I traded you?”
“Yes, Ivar.”
“Why did I trade you my pants?”
“You traded them to me for your hat.”
“WHY DID YOU HAVE MY HAT” – and then abruptly muttered oh I don’t want to know and retreated to recuperate.
And Jan and I and our band and the pants came home.
I noticed they had a small tear right in a personal area, so I mended them. Then I thought it would be considerate to conceal the mend – it really was in a hard-to-miss area – by decorating it. I sewed pearls there in the shape of my badge (an elephant’s head with ears spread and trunk hanging down, curled to the side). It had ruby eyes. It was striking against the striped blues and purples of the pants. For I did intend to give them back to him at some point, and I thought seeing my badge every time he looked down might make him think fondly of me.
A few months later, Jan and I hosted a feasting-in. This was our take on a dining-in, a military tradition, a formal dinner where the men wear dress uniforms and follow specific protocols. Dress uniforms, in our case, meant fine garb. One requirement was that all men wear the favor of a lady, and to this end, I gave Jan the pants. He wore them on his sleeve, and as they were largely my colors, they went beautifully against his gold tunic, which the pearls of my badge accented.
Ivar was of course part of that feasting. And after we all left the table, he came to me and asked me, politely, “Can I have my pants back?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Ivar, I’d love to give them to you, but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you saw. I don’t have them. I gave them to Jan.”
So Ivar sought out Jan, and asked him, “Can I have my pants back?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Ivar, I’d love to give them to you, but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, my lady gave me this as her favor. It would be unchivalrous and dishonorable for me to give them away.”
Ivar retreated, deflated.
Some time later, at another event, Ivar came to both of us at once, and gifted me with a candle holder he had carved that had my elephant on it, and formally asked if I would consider making him a gift of the pants in return.
We thought it was time. I bestowed the pants upon him.
I later learned that he REMOVED my badge, the gems I had adorned the pants with. How ungrateful.
The pants lived a long and fruitful life, and when they were ready to move on to the great dresser in the sky, Ivar asked me if I would like to have them, in honor of their adventures. Of course I would.
I restored my badge, this time in mother-of-pearl beads, and found a banner stand to show them to best effect. I still have them and display them prominently when I particularly want to do Ivar honor.
It has been many years and time has dimmed some memories, but these are true words I have spoken.
