It was through this haze of sore muscles, a hurt back, an energized mind, and an empty stomach that I heard something I had not expected just then.
“Ivo!” The voice was faint, a tenor’s tone carried over distance, the type of distinction a career site herald learns over time.
I stopped and pivoted on my heel, looking east from the edge of the Axemore gate. A figure was waving at me from near the Green Dragon tavern. The afternoon light was still good, but the distance, and my fatigue was just enough that I squinted to try and identify the person. I waived back to assure the other that I had seen them. A few strides later, and the shape resolved itself to the last person I would have ever expected to see that afternoon.
Master Alexander Ravenscroft was remarkable only in how unremarkable an image he cut there that day. He lacked the stature of most heavy weapons fighters, and frankly lacked the stride or flair of the rapier community (say what you will of that generalization). Modest in nearly every sense of the word, his well tailored but simply cut vestments told of a man concerned with the details of a thing, a man as much bothered by the ‘how’ as he would be the final result.
In this four year stretch at Gulf Wars, my only return since 2004, I couldn't recall ever seeing him west of King’s highway. Having lodgings off site by tradition, he was a frequent sight at the stables, or field in front of the castle. For myself at least, to see him was to speak of business or ceremony, or things that needed doing, or things that needed addressing.
“What brings you to this side of site, Master Ravenscroft?” I asked, slipping into my business mindset, even as an empty stomach pulled me towards Narmon’s encampment and their waiting dinner spread a mere dozen or so yards away.
“I wanted to talk with you, Ivo,” he said, his tone even, serious, but not angry. This was, I realized immediately, and unsurprisingly, not a social visit. I had heard that tone many times before, and each time it carried with it an instruction that needed to be followed. Never a chastisement or correction, but a job to be done, a task to be tended to, and, I knew then after five years of working with the man, the tacit understanding that once given, he would walk away and likely never ask about it again, confident that I would do what was expected.
“Of course, of course. What can I do for you?” We stepped to one side, making way for the steady flow of traffic; the last fighters coming from the field, mingling with artisans, students, and volunteers all making their way back to camp for dinner. All of them, young and old, artisan and fighter, student and teacher, looking tired and most looked as hungry as they problem felt.
“I’ve noticed something that I feel needs to be addressed.” He had a hint of excitement in his voice, the type of smirking, good natured, conspiratorial mischief he sometimes had when he was about to pull out some interesting fact or share a new idea. “It’s rather important, or at least I think it is.” And with that, he told me.
~
Gulf Wars 27 was a good year for me to put a bookend, as the saying goes, on my work at the event. Five years before, my wife, a friend and I had made a trek to southern Ansteorra for that year’s Known World Heraldic & Scribal Symposium. As opportunities go, it was about nine tenths networking for me, the last fraction would be my condensed site heraldry class that the event steward had managed to fit into a blank class slot Saturday morning. The class was, as I expected it to be, modest, and somewhat conversational. A small affair, but nonetheless a good opportunity for me to share the benefits of my experience as a ten year plus site herald in Ansteorra. I instructed for forty five minutes, answered questions for ten, and then concluded with hand shakes and ‘thank you’s to my four students.
Of course, Ravenscroft was among the small cadre who were there, with the same unassuming posture, and the same southern charm that was both disarming and engaging. As I recall, I was halfway to the door, ready to make my own exit and make way for the next class and the next teacher, when Alexander caught up to me. For as long as I live, I doubt the words he said to me in that moment will ever leave my memory.
“Hi, I’m Master Alexander Ravenscroft, the war herald for Gulf Wars this year. I’m looking to rebuild site heraldry at the war, and I’d like you to help me spearhead that.”
I remember physically staggering back a step with that statement. In one sentence, I, a lowly AoA voice herald was just asked to head up site heraldry for the second largest event in the society; a dream job by any metric I wanted to use, and one I didn’t even ask for.
The adventure that followed was a dream come true, and journey that reinvigorated my SCA career, introducing me to people, places, concepts and ideals that I would never have dreamed of in my home in the north of Ansteorra. The war’s the followed were also subsequent chapters in my life, both as a herald, and as a person. Where Gulf Wars 23 was something out of an adventure novel, Gulf Wars 24 knocked all the shiny off of the experience and was a study in hard work, not that I was complaining. 25 was going to be a “good war”, and then mother nature showed up and handed us “gulfnado”. Gulfwars 26 was hard work dampened with bitterly cold nights. Somehow, the fatigue let me become unusually introspective about the whole experience (blog posts 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8), though by then, I also think the war as a concept was started to take out of me more than I was taking in.
This year, the issue was more or less taken care of in short order when my sister called to announce her engagement. As my real life family celebrated, the caveat of the conversation fell when she named March 9th of ‘19 as the weekend of the ceremony. For better or for worse, my term as lead site herald for Gulf Wars had just been decided for me. And to be fair, it was for the best, and looking back I know it. I am exactly the type of person who would have walked his way into a knee replacement or heart problems before admitting that I had had enough. I have my father’s stubborn nobility that way, and my mother’s bullheadedness.
Actually getting to war was a interesting process that began almost six months before. I Submitted my time off request in October, only to have it rejected because “we don’t accept requests before the first of the year”. I turned it in on the 2nd of January, and the request errored out compliments of a networking issue on the company’s side. I had to wait 2 weeks to resubmit, and when i did, it was wait-listed. Then, as if there wasn’t enough drama in my life, the same scheduling department waited until 3 days before war to say “rejected, too many people were already approved for these days.” When I asked how early they got their requests in, I think the scheduling department screwed up when they said (admitted) “November”. So I turned the whole email chain into my boss, a combat vet retired army Ranger, who literally walked into the scheduling office the next day and started the conversation with “listen up mother%&$#%@!”
Did I mention that I like my boss?
With this go around being a solo run like 23 had been, but without our dearly departed Van (unlike 23), I was going to have to improvise this time around. The final result of my efforts were a near last minute arrangement where the bulk of my heavy gear would travel with his Excellency Andrew Turnbull, my essentials would travel with me. My own transit down would be made with Liadan Patron Or, her daughter Ainier, and said daughter's (boy)friend, Roland. Food and provisions would be handled by Namron as part of their meal plan, and shelter would be Liadan’s cabin tent. As logistics went, it would be one of my most sparsely packed, and heavily networked wars to date.
When I was still two hours out from site, I received a text asking if I was able to herald site. The message, from a proxy for the event steward, was forwarded to my deputy, and replied to with directions to the same.
 |
| L-R: Liadan, Ainier, Roland and myself |
Some time back, I had offered a literary introduction of my deputy, also a longtime friend, by saying;
“Kitty wasn’t just ‘there’, she nosily radiated the type of quirky self confidence that can only be called inhumane. Where legends of demigods and and superheroes wanted to dwell on the supposedly human aspects of doubt, Kitty bubbled with unusual confidence that seemed to outpace her energy levels and her formidable education, if you can believe that. It was like a drug, you almost wanted to try and bottle it and sell it, telling yourself you could change the world if you somehow replicate this once precocious kid’s explosively extroverted outlook on life.”I still stand by that, of course, and those traits, as well as a powerful voice, and epic levels of dedication, were part of why I had tapped her for deputy-ship under site/cry heralds this year.
As it happened, the rain had wrought havoc on the site’s parking, and word was to be sent out with all due haste that several of the lots were closed. Even as I blindly forward the instructions to her, I was quietly confident that whatever challenged there may be in the deed, Kitty would be up to the task.
Our arrival was cold and wet, hearkening back to the miserable send off from the year before. We put off setting up under the informed hopes that the rain would break soon.
With a cloak covering my traveling clothes, I ventured towards artisan’s row, and made short work of finding two people I that did desperately need to see that day. Groza Novgorodskaia, called Skaia, was the stalwart past head of the event’s herald’s point, and my aid-to-camp for administrative purposes this year. She, as it turned out, was not far from kitty, and I was able to quickly bring both of them together for a impromptu planning meeting under the cover of an empty classroom pavilion on artisan’s row. Kitty had made quick report of the earlier announcements, and Skaia had tersely declared that ‘of course’ she was ready to help me out. Neither of them has seemed particularly surprised as my announcement that I would be ending my run as site herald lead this year, evidently I was aging faster on the outside than I had first given myself credit for.
Some time later, after the three of us had taken advantage of an offered meal of cut meat and bread from a friend, the rain broke. I made my way back across site to the Namron encampment and joined back up with my traveling partners. Making camp had been a straightforward affair, with a Jeep™ brand cabin tent serving as home for the four of us for the length of the war, and an outside camping table, chairs, and a propane stove serving as kitchen and dining room.
As the afternoon edged it way towards evening, I napped for a bit, glad to the rest, but was woken later on by a visit of Taran The Wayward, who was also delivering tabards for use at herald’s point this year. These, specifically, were from Alexander. We talked for a while, glad to see each other again, and for the chance to get away from our mundane lives, even if only for a few days.
As afternoon transitioned into evening, I made my way to the Green dragon, both to sit down and rest, seek out conversation, and for warmth, all things I knew it would offer me. As it happened, and late into the night at that, I found myself sharing a table with a lord Domminico Taddio and Lord Ullrich, both equestrian players form An Tir. We spoke at length about horses, heraldry, and girdle books, as well as the timeless aspects of marketing, information, and culture in a way wonderful and weird such as only the SCA could provide. Fatigue, and not any lack of company finally compelled me to bed that night, but I rested well assured that I was, in my own way, truly home again there on site.
By now, five wars, and a decade and a half into the art of site heraldry, I was an old hand had at blocking out how the war would progress for us, and what ‘tea leaves’ I would need to read to predict the progress our work. Monday was going to be the first benchmark for us, both to see who actually showed up, and what the roads and weather would be like. When I first started, we were only allowed to cry Merchant’s row and the battlefields, since the rest of site was “too big” by some logic. By the time Gulfnado hit, I have proved that all of site could be cried in 5 routes.
The castle up to the barn and then down to kennellands was the longest, nearly three quarters of a mile round trip all told. Merchants and Artisans rows was the shortest, but with the largest and most packed audience, its quarter of a mile of powerful lungs and good vocal training. Kings highly, will fully half of all the camps on site posted off of it, was a challenging, winding, broken half of a mile of uneven roads, camps, walls, and trees. Queen’s highway as a more modest half mile, with more tests and lest trees. And last but not least, Price parkway up towards the archery fields was a half mile run of, how shall we say, interesting character. I don’t want to sound like my people were in any danger, but when heralding Wolfstar, things like marriage proposals or random offerings of exotic alcohols are never off the table.
As it happened, Monday was a strong start, with enough people that I was able to send someone on each route, including being able to pare off new heralds with experienced ones for some of the routes, and I was able to get a sign herald for merchant’s row.
I lunched with Namron, and then visited the scribes, an always glad social visit with people I have become quite close to over the years.
The afternoon cries were a slightly less auspicious follow up, with more modest numbers but still all five routes were filled, and all of site was heralded. I also was able to catch up with Alexander for the first time that was then, thanking him again for the chance to herald. I also told him of this being my final year as head herald. Unlike Kitty and Skaia, this seemed to momentary startle him. The normally cheery face and adaptive personality flashed a wide-eyed “oh” at me as I shared the news. I have no idea what actually went though his mind in that moment, but he clearly had not considered that eventuality would come at that moment. In retrospect of the moment, I can surmise not what he was thinking, but likely what thoughts saw their first embers in that moment, but even still, such things are supposition.
 |
| This looks like its just after our opening sequences. |
Tuesday morning was a frigid one to wake up to, and I remember willing myself out of bed and to the showers against the protests of nearly every ounce of muscle and bone I had. I made it to the stables, and meeting before the procession just in time to grab a bite of breakfast from the leftovers at the royal breakfast spread.
After helping Michalley and Mistress Jillalli line of all of the kingdoms for the procession, I readied myself to head up the whole thing with a walking announcement herald calling people out just ahead of the procession. When the last person was in place and the time was right, Alexander gestured me forward, starting the whole procession.
“Make way and bare witness to the march of armies! Feel the ground shake under their hooves! See their spears rise up like a forest! Watch as their banners blot off the sun! Make way! Come and bare witness!”
I remember when Ravenscroft first suggested me for this role, three years before, and I’ve zealously pushed myself every year since, making sure that every person I could reach knew we were coming in time to see every inch of the procession as it marched by. This year, however, I pushed just a little too hard, and by the time I made it to the castle, my throat was torn up, and my voice a raspy mess. I had made it, and damned if there was anyone east of King’s highly that hadn’t heard me, but I had paid the price for it at the same time.
Opening ceremonies was a little more… improvised than we were used to, but we all survived with only the expected declarations of war being made.
The Afternoon cries, the first of the day on Tuesday, were a splendid affair, with so many people there to cry site for us that I was able to send two heralds on some of the routes, and a sign herald with the pair to merchant’s row… and I was able to stay back and rest, thankfully.
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| The site herald's muster on Tuesday afternoon was most impressive. |
After the last of the heralds had returned, I walked over to Scribes point and worked on a new scroll for an hour, both enjoying the time alone and the chance to rest, both physically and mentally. I think my stomach more than any time piece told me it was a good point to stop and head back to camp for dinner.
I made my way to the Five Points, and then down Queen’s highway, towards the Ansteorran encampment. I was tired and sore from my work so far, but invigorated for it at the same time, but overall just then I was hungry as well.
It was through this haze of sore muscles, a hurt back, an energized mind, and an empty stomach that I heard someone call my name. I turned to see Alexander Ravenscroft making his way down the road after me.
“I wanted to talk with you, Ivo,” he said as he came up.
To be continued...
End part 1 | Part 2
His Lordship Ivo Blackhawk
Kingdom of Ansteorra
"Long Live the King!"
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