The First Step

I was there a decade and a half ago when the 'last great principality push' went down like a broken ship in rough seas. Its collapse was violent, ugly, too long, and in the end, costly In its wake, a number of players would hang up their garb, and their weapons never to come back. And a larger number still would emerge from that event with the scars of broken friendships and shattered alliances seared deep into their minds.

For those who were there, 'the dark times' is not a too dramatic name for the end of the last, great, principality push in my home kingdom.

I had enthusiastically polled for it that time, stumping on our northern culture, our unique identity, our character, and our stubborn resoluteness.

My 21 year old self  was naively blind to the divisions of the day. I saw, but did not recognize the fractures running through our region like fault lines shattering a foundation.

Every time since then, I have offered an unqualified, enthusiastic, and hard 'no' when asked about the subject.

I had been there, and I was in no hurry to go back.

Of course, my resistance to this was no only rooted in the past. I was no fan of the architect of this year's effort. I did not share in vision for the north, just like I didn't share any other aspects of his opinion on how the SCA should be run. We were men diametrically opposed on so much, that we should disagree on this question was almost a forgone conclusion.

But, when I rose this Friday last, I read the exact same missive from the same man as everyone else in the kingdom; the polling of the north was complete, and was 'overwhelmingly' positive.

Back then, the enthusiasm for Principality faded the farther south you traveled towards the Red River.  Eldern and most of the barony of Namron at the time were not so humorously ready to move the regional border in order to avoid the whole affair.

Now, whatever resistance there was to be had looked to be a shadow of its former self. And many of those who had polled against it were now talking about supporting the effort in the interest of uplifting their fellows in the north.

The north was hardly of like minds on the subject, but in this one thing, we as a group seemed to have come to a consensus; we would see a principality formed.

As I sat there, reading, looking, processing the conversation that slowly, and then not so slowly unwound itself below Master Ainar's Facebook post.

To absolutely no one's surprise, the reaction from the rest of the kingdom was not uniform, or even coherent at times. To their credit, the vast majority of replies ranged from openly supportive to neutrally polite. Of course, and also to no one's surprise, a few trolls crawled out of their caves to pay that party a visit, and the only reason I don't name them here is I don't feel like poluting my blog with their names.

But oh, if that were all. Some of the movers and shakers weren't happy either. Politically active players from high levels were also not shy about their positions, or slow to indict with the charge of 'underhandedness', or deception. Cries from some insisting that all of the kingdom were entitled to their opinion were echoed with calls against the character of the north. Before long, some of those same were calling us selfish, rude, destructive, and a number of other school-hard belittlement. Other feeds carried personal grievances against us, with one reportedly proclaiming "my god, our 40th anniversary event is being hosted by a bunch of people who don't even like their own kingdom!"

And honestly, its worth saying, for every such word that reached me, or filled the page that morning, there were four of support in one flavor or another, and two more who said they would not oppose us as we went forward.

Many clearly did not understand the process as well, the true powers, few that they may be, of a territorial P&P were clearly drastically inflated in some minds. Others still seemed to assume the process would take days, and not many, many months. More still assumed that this meant full secession from the realm. It would almost have been amusing if it were not adding noise to the cacophony of disharmony that was fulminating around mid day that Friday.

And yet.. in that, I saw something I had never, in two decades of play in the same location, seen before.

Unity.

I saw people who sincerely opposed the idea of principality stand up for the fundamental rights of their fellow men as actual supporters were singled out.

I saw a cohesion of spirit, people cheering in support.

I saw for the first time in a very long time, the spark of a type of hope that really can only be born of the most impossible of challenges. The audacity to say 'yes, we will do it', even in the face of men and women who's political prowess is well known, as is their willingness to crush their opponents.


I had not seen this.... ever before. Not here anyway.

Sure, there were hits, glimmers, glimpses, suggestions of what could be, but never before had I see so many different people come together quite like this before.  We don't all have to agree, and inf act, we are stronger when we disagree, but we are at our strongest when we agree on how we will disagree.

I saw union that day.
And I saw the foundations of that union were build on freshly laid blocks of dignity.

Now, for all its poetry, the scene before me was hardly utopic. We do have our own laundry that needs to be washed and left to air out before this is over. And we have some seriously scores that need to be settled within our ranks before we ever reasonably move forward.

And oh good lord do we need to education people, a LOT of people, about what this is really all about.

And even as I considered all this on that day, my own thoughts turned inward, my often times too critical,  too brutal lens of scrutiny turned inward, and would not offer a moment's peace until I stood under my own judgement and measured the pillars of my opposition to this movement.

My one chief fear in all of this was that the move in this direction would turn neighbor against neighbor again. I dreaded a mass blood letting where a third of the region would declare want of independence outright, another third would decry them all as traitors, and the last third would hide until it was over. Exaggerated? Maybe. But for those of us who were there before, its not as over-the-top as even I want it to be.

But the one thing that was clear now was that all of the people most able to trigger such an upheaval were not, and some were openly proclaiming support for Principality. Social leaders and charismatics were proclaiming "calm" and "reason", and putting to bed quickly any calls of treason or treachery. Many of the young were excited, Many of the old were invigorated.

My own fears had proven to be truly nothing but ghosts of the monsters they once were.

My anchor against a coming storm was no longer needed.

"The die are cast" I declared in a long Facebook post. "There is no way to stop the process, and opposing it now is fruitless towards my own personal values."

I am now changing my position to fully pro-principality, with an unapologetic end goal of eventual full secession from Ansteorra and the creation of a new, independent kingdom. This is said with the full understanding that it will take years, likely a decade (or even more) before it could ever reach that final goal.

And with that, I declared myself part of this strange, controversial idea that is, potentially, the first Principality of Ansteorra.

"Long Live The North!"

His Lordship Ivo Blackhawk
Kingdom of Ansteorra
"Long Live the King!"

The elevation of Mushir Abd al-Mahdi Jamal ibn Hakim

Climbing out of the car that Monday after a hot, un-air conditioned, hour-long drive from work left with with two main goals in my life for the moment; getting inside to AC, and getting something iced to drink. As I closed the car door behind me, I glanced at my phone, taking a mental inventory of the posts and instant messages that I hadn’t looked at while on the road. To my surprise, Mahdi’s name was on the list today.

“Are you planning on attending Warlord in two weeks?”

“Unfortunately, I am not,” I replied. “Why?”

“Too bad. I was going to ask if you could be my herald for my Master of Defense elevation ceremony.”

I staggered, mid stepp, as I read that. Gym bag over one shoulder, big thumbs hovering on my phone’s touch screen. It took me a moment to process the text, and then a moment more to process it’s meanings.

“Oh....!Well hell, that changes things!”

And that was how I found out I was going to herald for Mahdi.

About a year and a half (maybe less) before, I had happened into a chance conversation with Deana de la Penna, an interaction that proved to be the first step in my heralding my first first peer into their elevation ceremony. Ultimately, however, it would be held at the same event, the same site, one year previous.

And so, I set out to do in two already busy weeks what I had managed to do in about three or so months previously. The contrast between the two as clients was stark and a clear learning experience, but also, pleasant in itself. With Deana, I was able to talk in details about each step of the process, the procession, and the expectations we had for each other. I was setting benchmarks for myself, and I knew it, and I knew that coming up short on any of those was a failure by definition. I was okay with this, and Deana was, and remains a most gracious and wonderful client and person.

Mahdi, however, was much (much!) more on the fly. We had two weeks, and no time for finess. Each part of the team (vigil, procession, music, herald) would have to  throw their all into their own aspect of the process, and then we would come together at warlord. It wasn’t completely different from Deana's, but the differences did outnumber the similarities.

I wrote for two days, mostly stolen minutes and hours between breaks and lunches, and after I got home. I wrote, cut, wrote some more and cut some more. Much as before, I didn’t want this to be a bland reading of a list of awards. I can’t think of a faster way to make an audience’s eyes glaze over than something like that. It's not that the awards were unimportant, but they are not the reason we would be there, but rather indications, or symptoms (if you will) of the reasons. Those awards would have to be packaged inside a narrative that would be compelling, engaging, and (not in the least unimportant) less than four minutes to read.

I started by looking at the OP. If you read carefully, in this case the awards sort of tell their own story.

Award of Arms 1989-08-12 
Sable Falcon of Ansteorra 1989-11-11 
King's Champion 1990-03-18 Mikael II
King's Gauntlet of Ansteorra 1990-07-21 Mikael II
Knight o/t Society 1994-01-08 
County 1997-07-26 Kahlid
Sable Comet, Award o/t 2001-03-02 Emerald Keep
King's Champion 2001-07-07 Duncan I
King's Blade of Chivalry 2001-10-06 Duncan I
Court Barony 2004-01-03 Steppes 01/03/2004-05/26/2007
Oak o/t Steppes, Order o/t 2004-01-03 
Duchy 2006-07-08 called Mushir
Queen's Rapier of Ansteorra, Award o/t 2014-05-24 
Sable Talon of Ansteorra, Award o/t 2014-11-08 Rapier Combat
White Scarf of Ansteorra, Order o/t 2015-05-09 
Lion of Ansteorra; Defender o/t Dream 2017-05-27 Gabriel II & Sonja II
Queen's Blade of Honor 2018-05-12 Margherita II

I went over the list in my head several times before i began to see a pattern. Roughly speaking, the man’s career is in thirds, the first being his rise to knight, the second being his leadership as king, then landed baron, and then king again, and the third was his entry into rapier, culminating in his elevation. I worked with that, the theme ultimately codifying as “the biography of a hero” for me, with the story three chapters long (so far, anyway). It actually didn’t take me very long past that to write the skeleton of what I needed. Fleshing it out took a little longer, but with the proverbial bones in place, the shape of it wasn’t hard to clarify on my mind.

Two weeks later, my wife and I, our son in tow, rolled onto site for warlord.

The grounds were special to be. Twenty years before, my wife and I had shared our first kiss there, following the climactic battle between the Liondragon Guard and the Arthurian company. Coincidentally, that would mark the first time that the guard marched with a non-resident member in its ranks, as Count Mahdi had been welcomed into the unit that same morning.  The relationship between the tall, strikingly featured Moore and Mooneshadowe’s tough-as-rocks infantry unit would continue when Mahdi would ask the Liondragon to escort him into his second coronation (also at the same site), one of the few times when a guard unit not local to a king would serve in such a role. Later in the same reign, Mahdi while attending a Mooneschaodwe hosted King’s Round Table,  would oversee the announcement of the then Shire of Mooneschadowe’s  elevation to the kingdom's only Province. All of this put the man close at heart to Mooneschadowe and its people, myself included.

Mahdi wasn’t on site yet, he and his wife were celebrating a wedding anniversary. Ourselves, we were there to say hello, and maybe see if anyone would join us a dinner. Chance and goof fortunate conspired to see us run into Kel, a friend from the local area who I had spoken with a handful of times before. Dinner was just a wonderful chance to enjoy some air conditioning, talk, drink lots of iced soda, and have a good meal.

Dawn the next day brought us to the main event itself, a day of preparation, vigil, and me alternately talking with people and trying not to freak out over the procession. Say what you will, but my nerves seemed ready to give me a heart attack about seven or eight times throughout the day. As the day rolled into afternoon, and then evening, I was grateful for the conversations and the distractions that let me not hyper-focus on the procession, including a wildly successful salon hosted by HL Beatrix Funteyn. I think I was one of only a few men to sit down and share company with the otherwise female dominated circle, but the company was witty, funny, and all around pleasant. Another conversation I was honored to share was with an old face from my past, Airaklee  (“Eric Lee”) Wolf.

Twenty one years ago (at the same event where Mahdi had marched with the guard, and Lillias and I had first kissed), Airaklee had lead the “Scottish” side of the so-themed “Battle of three kings” event, taking on the roll of William Wallace (though I think as much of his performance that day was taken from the film than history). I had only chanced a few conversations with him in the intervening years, but he had always been someone who, at least for me, added to “the dream” around him when he spoke. That conversation was little different, with big ideas and glad tiding trading between us through genuine smiles.

Afternoon traded to evening, and court closed in on us. I went to Mahdi at this point and asked about the final details of the procession. A quick conference later, and we were gathering the final pieces of the puzzle that were the procession. Mistress Rhiannon would lead the party with a scimitar balanced atop of head, followed with Mahdi and Valeria, side by side. Flanking them would be two umbrella barriers, in the Mediterranean tradition, and in close formation around and behind  Mahdi, like a semicircle, would be balance of the party...

Photo compliments of Melanie Gallon

Including Tostig holding the “combat trumpet”.

Photo compliments of Melanie Gallon

I would lead, heralding the full length of the aisle by myself. When I turned and ushered the party in, musicians would play in accompaniment to the entrance while I also made my exit. I had timed my reading of the entrance script multiple times through; three minutes and twenty seconds. Longer than I might normally want a procession to be, but I was confident I could sell it, I could perform it and draw the audience in.

We sat in the back, waiting as court moved through the awards, local, AoA, and then Grants. Assuming they didn’t announce anyone, the first warning we would have would be the calling of the Masters of Defense. The wait was punishing for me, but I have never been good at waiting.

Sitting there, as the awards moved on I pulled on my formal garb, and then the heraldic tabard with his Grace’s arms on it. I cradled in my hand my herald’s baton, freshly detailed with his arms across the head. I was wearing 4 garments, one on top of the other, for well over 8 layers of fabric, some of it not inclined to breath in the still-warmer-than-comfortable hall.



Then, the herald called the Masters of Deference forward, and we knew we were down to the last moments. I rose, composed myself, and looked back over the procession party. They had stepped into place perfectly. They waited on my signal, and waited with silent smiles of excitement and anticipation.

The introductions up front were done, barely audible in the back. The King asked the Master’s if their order was complete, and as per the ceremony they replied ‘no’.

The crown herald called for Duke Mahdi to step forward.

The moment had come.

I started in the back, standing tall, and holding my baton high in the air.

Photo compliments of Melanie Gallon

Hear ye, hear ye! Today we see a biography in three chapters, a life of many adventures.

My voice carried like a thunderclap through the hall. I could hear it resonate off the ceiling. I had the unbroken attention of the whole court in that moment. The stage was mine, and I was going to make the most of it for the next three and a half minutes.

Mahdi: The story of a knight.

We see the fledgling efforts a man giving of himself on and off the field as he discovers this newfound dream. We see an award of arms, followed later that same year by a Sable falcon. Mahdi  would press on, eventually proving his prowess and becoming King’s champion under Mikael II, also earning a King’s Gauntlet. The final page of this first chapter was penned when 4 years later, Mahdi was welcomed into the order of the chivalry  and sworn in fidelity to the Crown of Ansteorra.

I had slowly stepped forward as the paragraph moved on. Making my way to the midpoint, halfway down the aisle. When it was completed, I stopped, raised my baton again, and continued.

Mahdi: The story of a Leader.

For ten years Mahdi proved himself both leader, and worker. Mahdi Sat the throne less than three years after becoming a knight.  But his work does not stop with his reign.  As a Count, properly called Kahlid, Mahdi would be awarded the Sable Comment for service to Emerald keep, and then again hold king’s champion and be named holder of the King’s blade of Chivalry. For three years he would lead the Barony of the Stepps next to his wife, Baron and Baroness, and then join the order of the Oak of the Stepps, while also being made a baron to the court. Our second chapter ends as Mahdi descends the thrones for the second reign, and is made a Duke, properly called  Mushir.

I was moving again, concluding as I reached the front. I still had almost every eye on me when I looked. I turned my left side to the crown, my back to the musicians at one side, and my front cutting across the majority of the audience.

Mahdi: The story of a Defender

On this site 9 years ago, Mahdi stood before Don Robin of Gillwell and took on the mantle of Cadet, setting forth on a new path, a new adventure. This story tells of studies and dedication,  recognized first with a  Queen’s rapier, and then with a Sable Talon. The midpoint of this chapter saw Madhi welcomed into the order of the White Scarf of Ansteorra.

The efforts of this man have forged a mind as sharp as any edge, a body as strong as any shield, and a heart dedicated to the dream. These traits were so recognized in this hall, one year ago, when Gabriel & Sonja II named Mushir Mahdi as their Lion, their defender of the dream.

So now we come together today to witness the last page of this the third chapter. We come as history is written, witnesses to a man ready to complete another journey.

I pointed my baton down the aisle, took a deep breath, and let everything I had blast out with the last line.

So now, before this august court and assembled gentles I present to you

Knight,

Baron,

Duke, 

Don,

and Lion! 

Mushir Abd al-Mahdi Jamal ibn Hakim!

With the last sound, the musicians started, and I turned to exit the court, my role done.

Mahdi was welcomed into the order with all of the reverence and splendor befitting a Master of Defense. Following the ceremony, the court closed, and the audience broke up quickly to tend to their evening plans, not the least of which for many was congratulating Mahdi.

Photo compliments of Melanie Gallon

As i made my way to the drinks left over from Mahdi's vigil, a lot of people were catching me and providing wide-eyed thumbs up over my introduction, including Wladyslaw, a good friend, and her wife both gleefully declaring “that was epic!” Mahdi voiced a wide-smiling approval of the whole procession, and was thankful for everyone’s part.

Tired, now horse from pushing myself too hard, and physically exhausted, I collected my family and we made our departure, the task at hand done.

His Lordship Ivo Blackhawk
Kingdom of Ansteorra
"Long Live the King!"

An Argument for Voice Heralds

Even for those outside of the SCA, we all live with the echoes of the past surrounding us every day. Things of the here, the now, draw on things that came before them to meet the ever evolving roles our society calls for.  The emblems of offices of state, company logos, and official services such as the police and the fire service carry on the tradition that was at one time called heraldry. The technological marvels of the sewing and embroidery machines build upon the lessons and techniques learned over centuries by weavers, tailors and seamstresses across the globe. Modern weapons of war, including the bayonet and the helmet each have their lineage through bygone eras, including the “middle ages.” Marching techniques practiced by marching bands in high schools and colleges across the country draw on close order drills first developed in the early age of pike and spear formations.

As a former firefighter, security, and correctional officer, IT, and bachelors degree holder in Safety and loss prevention engineering, I am acutely aware of the vital importance of communication in the modern world. Not only are radio and mobile phone communications convenient at conventions and large activities, they are vital to the point where not having access to them on at least an official level is widely considered negligent. The ability to reach out for help, of course is vital, but also the ability to convey real-time information to large groups of people across a large site is vital to help assure a smooth day, weekend, or even multiple weeks of activity. This reality is understood in both official and unofficial capacities across the world. The federal Incident Command System has a dedicated communications officer built into its design. Large scale conventions, auctions, and trade shows incorporate PA systems, large signs, or even outdoor projectors to help direct hundreds, or even thousands of people. Whole industries currently exist to feed the technical hardware needs of communication at every level and capacity.

And it is not that the need to communicate is in any way, shape or form new. History is replete with thousands of incidents where the very shape of events would have been very different if one critical message made it at the right time, or had not made it at all. Some of the warfare’s greatest leaders were noted for their ability to command at distance, thanks in part to their schemes of communications. Reference materials abound to the ever increasing resources that generals, lords, and kings put into their communication efforts, be that signal flags, skilled horses, lanterns, or just loud people.

In the SCA today, event stewards across the known world assume the unique responsibility of running events in modern circumstances, with modern understandings  and sensibilities, but tackling those same hurdles with only traditional resources whenever practical. By whatever happenstance we want to call it, the title and role of voice herald has picked up the mantles that mundanely are handled by PA systems, scoreboards, and megaphones. We, as a society, have chosen to invest the extra effort into helping preserve the medieval ambiance by asking people and not technology to announce court, call the lysts, cry the site.

But we are not investing enough into it.

It has been my observation that this vital trade, whose role is positive and important without question, is increasingly being pushed aside, delayed, or ignored outright, treated  as a second-hand duty.

The benchmarks for this are stark in their display.

Were a modern Fire Engine’s radio to fail, the whole apparatus would be pulled from service until the equipment was fixed, or replaced (if only temporarily).

Yet repeatedly, coordinating heralds (also called Heralds in Charge) are left unnamed until weeks or even months after the event is announced and the steward named. In some cases, they are not even named until days before the event, if at all. This scheduling robs them of vital time to recruit help (both locally and regionally), coordinate, and plan.

Modern scoreboards at sporting events are tested and repaired weekly, and at times daily in order to assure that audiences have access to the information conveyed. These tools, though hardly glorious, are seen as vital to the event, and the technicians who maintain them are understood to be critical to success.

However, over the years far, far too many tournaments leave the name of the coordinating lyst herald undecided until days or even hours before the tournament. Many are so understaffed that fighters step in to cry the rounds. And yet, time and time again, interested parties are heard to ask at meetings where and when they can learn to lyst herald, and are only provided with vague directions of who might be some place the day of the event.  At the same time the most capable heralds on site aren’t even aware of the need, and otherwise obligated when help is called for at the last minute.

Modern PA systems, especially in schools and large buildings, are tested as part of the building’s emergency systems, and are now integrated into the automated alarms that help guide people to safety during a fire or other life threatening incident. Announcements at conventions can bolster activity attendance, calm rowdy crowds, and even preempt disaster before an emergency response is needed.

As a veteran site herald in the kingdom, and five time site herald for Gulf Wars, it has been to my horror to hear people, peers, leaders, and decision makers openly advocate for the dissolution of site heraldry at the the second largest event in the SCA. Attitudes both hostile towards, and dismissive of site heraldry as a concept existed, and still persist at interkingdom, kingdom, regional, and local levels. And even when the need for announcements are recognized, again the roll is often times haphazardly tossed off towards a single person, late enough in the process to rob them of vital planning and recruiting time. Untrained, unprepared, and often times tired people volunteer to walk long distances and shout loud statements without even basic training in projection or phrasing. Messages are garbled, people are further tired out, and volunteers learn that site heraldry is a chore that has to be done, rather than a have the chance to see it as a functional, vital part of an event’s communications.

If we are to draw any lessons from our modern experience, it is that the roll of communications is not something to be piecemealed haphazardly.

A single event, even a small one, has basic heraldic requirements that can be calculated. A site herald is needed for announcements, lyst heraldry services for the tournaments, and perhaps someone to add some flair to the evening feast by announcing the courses. And of course a herald for any courts. With tight scheduling, this could all be done by one or two people, at least with a small event. If you were to make it a larger event, with a larger tournament,  and rapier and chivalric at the same time, that will require one herald for each tournament, and if there are enough fighters, you will need relief heralds to keep from exhausting someone.  Larger still, and the tournaments could go to multiple fields, and the need for two heralds could double, or even triple. Mooneschadowe’s Triumph, and Namron protectorate are just two examples of events large enough to typically run four fields at a time. If you need to do mid-day announcements, then you have to have someone, or multiple someones, depending on how big site is, to do site heraldry as all of your lyst heralds are obligated. Come time for feast, there is a good chance that most of the heralds will be tired, some may even opt to sleep through feast, it's not unheard of. It's not even remotely unrealistic to suggest that another herald still would be employed for that role. Court, even for a small event, will need a court herald, and that is a skill set that is more often than not separate from those previously mentioned. A larger court could need two heralds, or even three if there is a long list of items to be attended to. If there is a royal presence, while the crowns will very likely bring their own herald, that herald will almost assuredly be coordinating with the local heralds.

If you factor all of that together, and consider the demands of a typical baronial level championship, that could mean as many as ten different heralds coordinating their time and efforts towards making the event run that much better. Every day that we take away from them to plan in advance is an obstacle that we willfully place between us and optimal success.

Most of these people, who have a specialized skill set, or are still learning that skill set, also have other interests. When we leave the details of heraldry to be figured out hours or even minutes before the event in question, we compel heralds and prospective heralds to either give up heraldry, or turn their back on other obligations that were already planned.

Every hurdle left in place is a disrespect to the veteran heralds who want to give of their time, and a discouragement to new and aspiring heralds who are chasing their personal dreams in the SCA though heraldry.

The responsibilities of voice heraldry should be spelled out in writing and clearly delegated out at the same time the remaining balance of event deputy stewards are named.

In the event these are unified under a single “herald in charge”, that person should be engaged and made knowledgeable of his responsibilities at the same time as the feast steward, or the gate steward or any other of the principle deputies.

If those roles are delegated out to others, (ex. lyst heraldry falling under the lyst mistress, site heraldry under the autocrat, feast heraldry under the feast steward, and Court heraldry left the sitting noble,) than those others need to even more vitally have written directions about these added duties, and if they themselves are not knowledgeable in the heraldic arts, they should be encouraged to name an appropriate deputy with all due speed.

But one thing that must be clear in this; there is no reason the staffing of heraldic duties should not be as thorough or planned for as a signup sheet to work gate, or serve tables, or clean the privies would be, and each of those lists clearly denotes the overall authority responsible for the job at hand.

And from a purely functional standpoint, heraldry, beyond being an art, a historical discipline, and an important part of the medieval era we work to recreate, is absolutely needed. Someone has to announce the paring at the lysts, someone has to call court, and someone has to do even the most rudimentary of site heralding at most events. Not to mention the need to convey information to attendees if something drastic changes.

There is already a group of people who have these skills, who want to use them, and who what to do the job well. For them, the dream is expressed a heraldry in a way no less vibrant than a fighter’s armor or an artisan’s creation.  But they, like any other aspect of an event, need the ability to plan accordingly, and in advance.

When we take away time from our heralds, we take away their ability to prepare, to teach, to learn, and to succeed. That directly affects, and reflects on the quality of the event, and our character as event stewards and deputies. There truly is no way around that point.

When we wait until the last minute to talk about heralds, we are telling them they aren’t important, and that their Dream is not important, and that their contributions do not matter. While at the same time scrambling to find someone to do the job when it comes up.

We owe our heralds better than that.

We owe our events better than that.

We own ourselves better than that.


His Lordship Ivo Blackhawk
Kingdom of Ansteorra
"Long Live the King!"

Might and Magic PT 3 (Gulf Wars 27)

So, the situation that Thursday beggs the administrative question, what do you do when you are arguably the best ceremonial herald on site, but you are thrown into almost literal chaos while trying to perform a quick presentation before a foreign crown?

If you’re Alexander Ravenscroft, the answer is “you improvise”, which was just about all we could do, standing on the edge of the champion's battle. Not that the battle was going yet. Not by a long shot. You see, all of the principle kings, and the allies had arrived at a meeting the night before and talked at length about the format of the Champion’s battle. Reportedly, they had departed with agreement on how things were going to take place.

So of course, the dozen or so assembled crowns who were there that morning showed up with what looked to be twenty or more different and conflicting ideas between them. There were three or four roving clusters of kings (and entourage) wandering this way and that on the battlefield in front of the castle, talking constantly at (not necessarily with) each other. While this was going on, most of the queens that I could see were sitting in their thrones, (also with entourage) watching these goings on with some unknown measure of either amusement or annoyance, I could only guess much poast that. The scene would have been more entertaining for me if there weren’t also well over two hundred others swarming around, mostly fighters, but also extended entourage, consorts, spouses and friends as well, and all waiting for some final word as to how the battle was going to take place, and when it was going to happen.

Somewhere in this, Master Alexander and I were going to make a quick, but public presentation where he formally took me as a protege. I don’t think either of us really wanted to compare notes about how bemused we respectively were at the confusion of the situation, but nonetheless we did have a mission to complete, such as it was.

At some point in this, he turned, and handed the rolled up yellow leather belt that was to be mine over to his former protege, master Mathias. “Hold this,” he said to the recently minted Pelican, and then ran off on his own mission the same type of purposeful steps I have come to expect from him.

I had known Mathias only slightly less time than I had known his now wife, Mara Palmer. The latter I had met at Gulf Wars 23, the former a year later under separate circumstances. Goofy to the core, but good spirited and hard working, he had found ourselves shoulder to shoulder one night as a makeshift set of would-be heroes tacking a small emergency. During one of the lulls as we were triaging our (deliberately ambiguous) situation, I looked over at him and said “Oh, by the way, I’m Ivo. hi.”
“Mathias” he said by way of reply. And thus, as was very much the common theme at Gulf wars for me, a friendship was formed.

Now, two years later, we had another commonbond to share.

After arriving on site late Wednesday afternoon, he had tracked me down only after finding his wife and greeting her.

As it happened, he related to me that he was one of the first of a string of calls Alexander had made before make his offer to me. Ever the diplomat, and hardly ignorant of interpersonal politics, Alexander had checked in with each member of his household and his one currently active former student to ask each of their reactions to the idea of offering me a yellow belt and by default, inviting me into the household of his friends.

For as long as I live, I’ll never forget Mathiases words when he related his answer for me.

“That’s an great idea. In fact, if you don’t offer it to him, I will!”

I had rocked back on my heels at that note. Later that night when talking with Alexander, he had confirmed the narrative word for word, and while there was open humor in the statement, the good feelings didn’t mask the fact that both men were deathly serious as well. I had gone from nobody’s student, to two friends and pelicans both willing to offer me a belt on the spot if need be.

Now, a day later, Mathias was not going to let the joke rest. As soon as Alexander had his back turned, he flipped out the yellow leather belt and jumped forward, pulling the belt across my midsection. “Here quick, before Alexander claims you!”

We both broke out laughing at the jest. “Lord, you are an ass, you know that?” I asked him between laughs.

“Always,” he confirmed in kind.

I paused my laugher for a moment. “And thanks for having that much confidence in me. It means a lot, from either one of you, let alone both.”

The other man’s laugh transitioned to a sincere smile then, and he nodded. “Always.”

Alexander returned a short while later, the same purpose in his stride. “Okay, lets do this.” he said, clearly decided that there was no better time like the present.

The first item of business was the blessing of the crown. Alexander was taking a student across kingdom lines, questions of loyalties and respects had to be answered first. He knelt before Her Majesty Ansteorra, (conicidently the same queen who had presided over the KWH&SS that I had first met Alexander at), and asked permission. Gwen, who knew he on site, smiled with dignified excitement at the idea and gladly gave her blessing to the whole arrangement. It was about as close to being ordained as the thing was going to get in the SCA.

The ceremony itself was quick, and straightforward. After a last minute dash to by a few to collected people who were both interested and available (which for the middle of the day was unfortunately not many), Alexander began in earnest while the Kings were still running around (literally) negotiating how the champion’s battle was going to run.

The first step was a announcement to the general attendees, Alexander stating simply (and loudly) that he was going to take a protege, and an audience was welcomed.

Some ten minutes later, he called to all assembled and then returned into the royal presence of HRM Ansteorra. He spoke eloquently, but briefly about the bond between people, and that bond across kingdom lines. Then, he rose, walked over and unrolled the yellow belt he had purchased for me.

A moment later it was pulled around my waste and bucked.

And with that, the deed was done. I was now officially protege to Master Alexander Ravenscroft of Meredies.

Her Majesty concluded the whole thing by stepping over and adding her blessings to the event, congratulating me, and wishing me the best of fortunes going forward.

Interestingly, I could conclude this narrative with a recounting of the congratulations, or the well wishes, or the fun talks that followed. And be assured, there were a lot of each and every one, some of them breathtaking in their words.

But perhaps the most fitting end to this story is  a smaller story of its own.

It started the next morning, Friday, as dawn broke. Nature had traded its biting cold for a warming humidity that more than hinted at rain. By the time I was done with my shower, the grey skies had fully rolled in and the rain had started.

I was making my way to the Five Points, the drizzle now a steady downpour, when I ran into Master Donnavin making his way in the other direction, heralding a delay to the morning’s rapier activities. I intercepted him, told him I would finish the announcement, and then urged him to find shelter, his garb was not as weather suited as mine was just then.

As I rounded out my impromptu and wet announcement, I crossed into Last Bastion and made my way over to their kitchen tent and repeated what would be the last herald of the moment. As it turned and walked away, intent to now make it to the Five points and information point, someone called after me.

“My lord!” I looked back to see  a woman jumping out from under the cover of the tent and running up behind me. “What is your name, and who is your pelican?”

The question gave me pause. While I had been asked perhaps a dozen times at gulf what my name was, in that moment, I had forgotten completely about the yellow belt on my waist just then, as well as most of the previous day. Tired, and purpose driven, my real only concern was getting my job done.

“I am His Lordship Ivo Blackhawk, out of Ansteorra. And my Pelican is Master Alexander Ravenscroft from Meredies.”

“Excellent!” the women proclaimed. “We know master Alexander! And thank you for your work here.”

And with that she ran back to cover to escape the rain.

The whole thing gave me pause, not for any ill, or good reason, but the understanding that this was, or at least might be, a new metric in my SCA career was something that I needed to process.

As we collected for the friday morning announcements. Two men walked into information point, one a chapparone, of sorts, and the other a fighter, young, healthy, eager, with an interesting story of why he was there. It seemed he wished to be a knight, and ergo sought a red belt. A knight of his kingdom had agreed, but only if he had completed a list of tasks, the last of which was he had to learn how to voice herald, and today was the last day for him to complete the trail.

Years ago, long before any of this, I had been approached by a newly made Fyrdman from Calontir who had been tasked by his countrymen to collect knowledge from each kingdom present at way. By some random chance, I had been the Ansteorra he had selected. In that encounter I had realized, only afterwards, that I was one of those steps in that man’s personal adventure, I was a page in his story.

Here, in much the say way, we were the same for this man. And while he may never remember our names or faces, in this moment it was my duty to make sure what he did recall was beneficial, and positive.

I welcomed him wholeheartedly, encouraged him, and the explained what we would be doing. I assigned him to Mathias, and sent them both to merchant’s row. Like the tired, but determined soldiers we were by then, all of us ventured out into the rain.

Hours later, the last of us, young and old, the now hardened core of the Gulf War Site heralds, as well as a few new and enthusiastic recruits from the week, gathered for the last regular cry of the week. This time, I took King’s highway, and this time, like many times before over the years, the rain was a steady downpour.


I made my way down, mostly ignoring the rain where I had to, and ducking under shelter where I could. I was not loud, but rather option to save what was left of my voice by walking up to clusters of people where I could. As I made the turn to loop back towards Calontir, I ducked under a pavilion.

On the other side, a man in black, traditional Japanese jacket, a white belt tied around his waist. And at his side, the young fighter from the morning, a red belt tied around his waist. Before I gave the announcements, I offered congratulations to the newly made squire, and a reassuring word to the Knight. “According to my volunteers, your squire here acquitted himself well. He’s welcome on any site or listfield I’m heralding.”

“That’s good to hear. Thanks for telling us,” The knight said.

“Glad to,” I replied. Then I rattled off the announcements in short, now well practiced order.

As I turned to leave, I considered then that the young man, who’s name still to this day escapes me, was stepping into the first part of what could very well be a grand adventure. And by some bit of chance, I was fortunate enough to be a page in that story.

But then it also occured to me; These people were also part of my story. These random figures, encountered by chance, were pages in my life’s narrative.

And it was up to me to make sure my story was worthy of the people in it, be they great, or small in their part.

I stepped out from under the pavilion that afternoon now more fully aware of not only the yellow belt on my hips, but so much more of what it signified.

I stepped out into the rain that afternoon, onto the turning, putted, muddy road.

It was going to be a wet, ugly, turing walk, I knew.

But I also knew in my heart of hearts, that I was going to enjoy every step of it.

The end

Part 2 (previous)

His Lordship Ivo Blackhawk
Kingdom of Ansteorra
"Long Live the King!"

Might and Magic PT 2 (Gulf Wars 27)

“Ivo, there is something that I have noticed that Ansteorra hasn’t done, so I’m going to do it. Would you be interested is becoming my protege?”

Me and Alexander talking
[note: not a photo of the actual conversation]

I literally staggered back from the words that I had just heard. Not once in my planning for the trip had I even contemplated this type of situation. All at once, a million thoughts rushed in on me, memories and recollections, fears and aspirations.

“My God,” I remember saying, “you’re serious.” Even as I said those words, I knew they were redundant with Ravenscroft.

“Of course,” he said with his typical, business-as-usual grin.

There was as much babbling on my part as coherent conversation over the next few minutes, I was completely unprepared to even think about such things. I think the most productive part of the conversation that followed what Alexander’s assurance that he didn't need an answer just then, I was free to think about it. We parted company then, both agreeing to revisit the topic in twenty four hours where and when we could talk about it in more details and in better circumstances. I was still hungry, and I knew that at Gulf, Alexander always has another appointment to head to.


Despite my hunger, I walked past the main camp pavilion and ducked behind a tent so that I could text my wife, who was coincidentally attending our local SCA meeting just then back in Mooneschadowe. A minute later I was on the phone with her, still stunned beyond any reasonable thought just then, recounting what Alexander had said to me. Lillias almost squealed with joy on the other end of the line, excited at the prospect.

Bit it wasn’t a done deal by any means. The ramifications of a foreign Pelican taking a protege from Ansteorra were not as straightforward as a simple yes or no question. Also, there was the question as to is I wanted to go down that road again, the path was not a simple one for me. In the past, I had been both cold and at times hostile towards the peerage as a concept, and concurrent with this, several of my own kingdom’s peers had effectively painted a bull’s eye on my back and acted accordingly. Actions ranged from the passive-aggressive to overt bullying, handing back my first protege’s belt seemed to be just about the only thing that brought a end to the mess.

And, above all of that, saying yes, to Alexander or anyone, would represent a radical change in my own life’s path, both in the Society, and to an extent outside of it. For all that the last five years have taught me, and the overwhelming majority of it was good, positive things, to be sure, it also left me cold and jaded about the idea of advancement within Ansteorra. Some things were my own doing, choices (Mistakes and otherwise) with consequences I had to live with. And others were the overt product of people who’s unapologetic dislike (or even hatred) of me had left its mark. To say yes here would be to change the balance I had come to live with on all of that, and likely lead to me eventually having to reengage with some, if not many of those people once more.

This was not going to be any sort of an easy decision.

The first people I told following the call with my wife were Ainier and Liadan who had retreated into the shelter of the text to relax before the the evening set it. Both of them cheered at the news. Liadan was acutely familiar with the ins and out of protegeship, having taken a yellow belt from Sir Burk several years before. As I ventured back to the main camp pavilion and served dinner for myself, I sat down at the one of one of the long tables and enjoyed the chance to rest. In something of an off-key chorus, a few people asked me how my day had been. One of the askers was Derega Tote, longtime friend, one time resident of Mooneschadowe, and fellow archer.

With my mouth full of pasta, I thought about how to phrase my answer as I chewed. Should I keep the conversation to myself until there is a final decision, or should I tell the people close to me and see what their reactions were?

“Master Alexander Ravenscroft, the war herald for this year,” I said calmly, “just offered me a protege belt.”

Eyes across the tent went wide at that news. “Did you accept?” Derega asked.

I shrugged. “Not yet. I’m still thinking on it. Its a lot to think on.”

“Well, congratulations on the offer then.”

And that was the theme across the dinnertime hour; friends, acquaintances, casual conversations were all met with the same response. The honor, and magnitude of the offer alone was not lost on any.  That, coupled with the words of Alexander himself were what first helped me start to get perspective on the whole thing.

It was sometime after dinner when the pieces started to right themselves in my head, letting me put thoughts in some sort of order. One time before, I had donned a yellow belt, and that was after a long conversation with a good friend I spent a lot of time with. In truth, I had first broached the subject. Years, and so much work later, I had just more or less just accepted that I would probably never have that path open to me again. The idea that someone, let alone a foreigner, would see more potential in me that I did when I looked in the mirror now was earth shattering in its magnitude.

Frankly, it left me reevaluating a lot about myself as the evening turned into nighttime.

Exiting the main tent, I ran into Derega again, and as we often do, we started talking. Much of our friendship over the years was built on our vastly different perspectives on most topics, and our ability to typically both argue effectively, and consider the other party’s points. This give and take, back and forth had allowed us to be sounding boards and counterbalances to each other over the years. Walking together, we made our way back towards Five points, and then down towards Scribes point, talking the whole time, both about Alexander’s offer and about a dozen other things.



Scribes point was actually relatively lively when we arrived, many of the illuminators and calligraphers seemed to tend towards being night owls during the war. Inside the tent, there was a unique suspension of ranks and titles. There, were were simply two different categories, artists, and friends.

A time later, and with Derega still at my side, we made our way back towards the camps, and as we passed the five points, I suggested we look in on the green Dragon and see what was playing there that night. The Dragon was packed when we got there, and she and I huddled in a corner, I taking an unoccupied high-backed chair, and she absconded with a small stool and we sat and listed for a while to the music as two bard performed from the second story balcony. It was late by then, and after a time, Derega retired for the night. I stayed, but the room was getting a little too crowded for my tastes. I made my way towards the front exit, and found myself looking at the brazier under the gazebo next to the tavern. A circle of people were talking softly across the fire, one of whom I recognized as Mistress Marion (sp?), the same women who, four years before has ushered me up to the Dragon’s balcony for my now famous first herald on site. I walked over, and was warmly welcomed to the circle, greetings being exchanged by all.

I sat and listed as the other talked for a while, and one of the topics that come up was the origins of the green dragon. The founders envisioned it as a public house, a place of neutral ground where people from all kingdoms could come and socialize. A “public house”, of sorts, that would by its very nature invite people of all measures and motivations to come and make merry in good company with one another.

Towards the end of this, Marion put in “I can’t decide what to do next with this, however. I want to do a shine so some sort. Every village in Europe has a shire to this saint or that, but I have no idea what I would name it.”

I chewed on that for a moment, my mind turning at the academic challenge. Then, an idea came to me. I put my hand up meekly. “I might have a suggestion, my lady.” Marion, for her part, eagerly welcomed me to make a suggestion.

I told all assembled my story of the late Mistress Talanna Dustana the Violet, her mentoring, friendship, and work as a teacher. I talked about my offer to help her register her name and arms, and her decision to take me up on that offer over a year later. I started to get choked up when I got to the part about the stroke taking her from us the same weekend I was going to consult with her about a problem registering her name. And then of course, the college of heralds of Ansteorra got together and made a special submission letter just for her name and devices, that way, at least, we could get her arms registered, even if we only had a holding name. And then, of course, the final but small miracle of the whole saga was the fact that someone, somewhere managed to actually register her name as submitted, no changed required.

“Anyway,” I said by way of conclusion. “When that was all done, I was able to message her husband and tell him that we had done it, we had registered the name and heraldry we wanted to do. So, if you were looking for a name, maybe something like Saint Violet?”

Everyone at the circle was teary eyed by then, I had not fully appreciated the magnitude of my tale, even I was sporting a pair of leaky faucets by then.

Marion then suddenly clapper her hands together with a start. “I have it!” he then looked right at me. “I know what I should do!” Eyes all tracked to her with this. “I’m going to build a shrine with a  box on it that is open on one end and with hooks on the inside. That way people can hang up the names of people. A memorial for those no longer with us.”

The idea met with instant approval from everyone there, even I nodded at the perfection of it. Then, to my surprise, she walked around to me, leaned over and gave me a hug. “You give me the name of your friend, Ivo,” she said into my ear. “and I’ll make sure she’s the first one up next year. I promise it.”

“God bless you, mistress. God bless you, and I most certainly will.”

~

There is a power to inspiration, and that is perhaps the more poorly kept secret in the human experience. The ability to encourage others to rise up above themselves, even if only for a moment’s time, is both finite, and unpredictable. But it also is not one way. In each thing that we do for others, the same can be visited back upon us.

Something almost supranational had coalesced in my mind that evening, a product of the whole experience, from Ravenscroft’s offer, to the conversation with Derega, to visiting with my friends at Scribes point, to the talk around the fire next to the Green Dragon. For the first time in four years, I felt bathed in the magic of the society. Not since the “Tale of Four Coins” had a seen an event that way. It was a good feeling, but at the same time a bit overwhelming.

Bathed in emotions that I couldn't name, and tired beyond any good reason, I made my way back to camp late that night, glad for the chance to sleep once more.

Wednesday morning was the icy cold wake up I really could have done without. It was painfully cold to wake up and climb out from under the layered covers that morning. Force of will alone carried me to a miserable but necessary shower in the shower house at the end of Queen’s highway.

The morning and afternoon heralds that day were a little more sparse than I would have prefered, with my having to assign two routes to some people in order to maintain coverage. Of the whole site. In terms of warm bodies, we had enough people, but the skills were not there, with interested by untrained volunteers showing up. On the morning runs, I went down Queen’s highway, and the afternoon I went up towards the archery fields. By the end of it, my back was killing me and my right ankle had been twisted not once, not twice, but three three times.

The interim, however served a critical purpose for me. I went back to scribes point, specifically seeking the counsel of two close friends. Adela Scrijver van Brugge, OL and Landed baroness from Atlantia carried with her the credentials to offer valid, and valued council on the subject of protegeship. And Mistress Mara Palmer OL, and wife of Master Mathais, newly made OP and former Protege to Alexander had both the credentials of the rank, and the personal experience with Alexander to offer he own valuable and important insights on the issue. It was, as I recall, a enlightening Forty minutes worth of conversation just between them, and that’s not counting the added input of people like  Lady Vastilia and Lady Finnguala, among others.

So informed, and more or less on the verge of overthinking things, I was satisfied that I was in as good a position to speak again with Master Alexander as I ever would be.

The final lead up to the conversation was “midnight madness” the big sales event on merchants’ row Wednesday during the war. The name is not to far off, not quite Black Friday (which I have mundanely worked security for a few times), it is nonetheless an energizing experience as people flock to the vendors and see what deals are out that night.

As it happened, I ran into Lady Rosma, her lord, Oberon, and Oberon’s sister while I was out and about before meeting up with Alexander.  I traveled with them between merchants and laughed and talked with them as they moved this way and that. I hadn’t before met Oberon’s sister, but I’d known Oberon himself for about two years now, and his quirky, but pragmatic sense of humor was always a welcome perspective to things. Rosma, as it happened, was one of the most unique heralds on site as part of the handful of newly misted sign (or silent) heralds in the society. She was, and would be our only sigher for the duration of the war, and was a continuous fixture on Merchant’s row when the cries went out. Fun loving, kind hearted, forward thinking, and an occasional (but subtle) flirt, she and Oberon were proving to be a perfect pairing for each other of late, and their shared humor and good spirits were particularly contagious that night. 

After a while, including a dinner stop at the food vendors, I met up with Alexander yet again, this time hear the west entrance to Merchants row. He guided me to the show of the wife of Taran The Wayward, friends of us both, and fellow Meredian’s to Alexander. Ducking behind their canvas walled shop, we sat down in the relative quiet back there and sat in camp chairs as we talked in more detail about the challenges that his proposal would present to both of us.

“I honestly thought I had planned for everything when I set out to come here, Alexander. I even had a plan in case I needed bail money.”

“Bail money,” Alexander blurted out. “Really?”

“Well, the plan consisted of calling my mother and crying, but still, at least I thought that far ahead.” We both laughed at that. “Still, not in my wildest dreams had I thought I would ce contemplating this. Not without anyone, let alone yourself.”

And there were challenges to be addressed, let there be no question about that. How would a man who lived 400 miles away from me advocate for me in an Ansteorra pelican’s circle? How would we correspond, communicate, teach and learn over that same distance? What feedback would he be looking for and needing from me? And how could he get the information I could not provide?  Its not there there were not answers, or that the answers were even few, but the distance between vague ideas and solid plans needed to be ironed out before I agreed to any of this.

For his part, Alexander was upbeat about the whole thing, and was optimistic of his end goal. I still feel that he might now understand Ansteorrans as well as he thinks, but all told that would be a small thing to learn compared to what I will have to master in the years to come.

One thing I have prided myself in though the course of my life is the ability to act decisively. Right or wrong, I am inclined to act rather than stand immobile in the face of a decision. Sure, I can wait and think things through, and the decision to do that in itself can be decisive. But after a while, I’ve trained myself to ask “am I waiting for a reason, or am I just putting myself in a ‘holding pattern’ out of habit?” Even though Alexander was perfectly willing to let me wait even longer to make my decision, and even though I had had plenty of people offer critical and accurate statements of the whole idea, I was also persuaded that despite these hurdles, or perhaps become of the, Alexander’s idea had enough merit to try, even if for no other reason than to fail and learn from that failure. But I knew, then and there, that anything I needed to really know to make that decision was already in front of me.

With one last qualifier thrown in, I gave my answer.

“So long as we agree to revisit this agreement in one year’s time, I’m willing to become your protege, Alexander.”

And with that, the adventure was begun.

                           To be continued...

                         Part 1 | Part 3


His Lordship Ivo Blackhawk
Kingdom of Ansteorra
"Long Live the King!"

Might and Magic PT 1 (Gulf Wars 27)

The walk down Queen’s highway was a too familiar stretch of dirt and mud by the time Tuesday afternoon rolled in on me. Scantily two days into the war, I was already feeling tired and hurt from my work so far, but invigorated for it at the same time, and 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 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.

Dinner was an adventure that night. When I returned to camp, I was invited to try a meal cooked by Ainier, only to find out that she had accidentally confused the cumin and the cayenne pepper, leaving the curry with a remarkable bite that I was able to laugh at only after a few gulps of water. The four of us, Liadan, Ainier, Roland and myself, ended the night at the Green Dragon where Roland and I tried our hands at a rather cutthroat game of Chess. I came out victorious, but it was closer than I anticipated, and the final kill was due more to fatigue on Roland’s part than any superior tactic on mine.

 
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.

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!"