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!"