2016 Ansteorran Heraldic and Scribal Symposium.

There were a lot of unusual circumstances for me this year as I loaded up my bags and slipped out of the house mid Friday. My wife and normal traveling companion, as well as my son would not be at my side this weekend, mundane obligations having pulled them away for the time being. But I certainly wouldn't be traveling alone by any means. On my way out of town, I stopped and collected Bridget of Mooneschadowe, one of our newest members, to join me on our trip south.

Bridget, both new and unique in her position, had come to us at the same event, one year before. Not a week later, Kerra, the Kingdom Sign Herald, had effectively gobbled up our new member calling on her mundane training in sigh-language in service to the newly called-for role of sign heralds within the Kingdom. Bridget looked to revel in the role, quickly finding a place in the society unlike any other. But now, a year later, I wanted to make sure she got to see the inner working of the kingdom before spending too much time working for them. The week before, she, as well as my wife and I had traveled south to King's Round Table, a chance to introduce her to the administrative workings of the kingdom. Now, I was leading her even further south, and showing her the inner workings of the kingdom's own College of Heralds.

The First leg of our trek took us west and south into the borderlands between Namron and Wiesenfuer. There, we meet up with friends old and new. Castellana and Meadhbh were two long-time friends from the heraldic community, both having earned their stripes on the lystfield, and having later taken on roles with book heraldry to one extent or another.  Meadhbh was a regular player when I first joined the SCA, and Castellana was a later recruit whom I 'guided' into heraldry. The last addition to our party of five was Donnan, a hard working husband and father who's whole family had joined the society much more recently, and fell in with the good company of house "Patrin Or", a now long-standing band of close friends to my own family.

From there, Donnan took over for us, and the five of us made our way south across the Red River and through the heart of Elfsea and down to Raven's fort, who was hosting this year's symposium.

We arrived late at our lodgings, and I, at least, relished in the chance to catch up on lost sleep from the day's travels.

The next day we all rose early and set out for the short last leg of our trip.

Heraldic and Scribal Symposium has long been a center for both heraldic education and interaction within the kingdom. A chance for the newest and the oldest, the most experienced and the most inquisitive minds within the college to join and interact in a day both free of distractions, and full of too many of them all at the same time.

Upon arrival, I noted something most familiar and wondering all in the same time. The stewards for the event had named each room by way of a heraldic color. Now, as to if this was in any way a response to, or inspired by my work the year before, naming rooms after influential heralds and their devices, I don't know, but I was none the less very glad to see the concept carried over for another year.

Somewhat by design, (and somewhat by happenstance), the majority of my day was scheduled teaching, though I would get to sit in on a few classes as well. I had quipped with the first person in the door for my morning class, "List heraldry 101", that if I had two more people come in I would have officially exceeded my expected attendance. As it happened, not only did I double it, but my protected number of two became six, as no less than the Landed Baron of Raven's Fort walked in and rounded out the last of my students.

List heraldry is something that I don't do enough of anymore, but its a skill-set close to my heart, and as I tell my students, it is one of the rolls in the SCA that helps anchor us more firmly in the past. I often quip that it is the second most marketable skill set in the SCA. To his credit, at the end of class the Baron challenged me as to what the first was. "Dish washing, actually," I replied, and all in attendance laughed in agreement.

The previous weekend, at King's Round-Table (colloquially known as Red Tape), a longtime friend and career herald, HE Tostig Logiosophia (whom I got to know first at 30th year) as asked me if I would teach the voice heraldry portion of the Herald's warranting class. This is not a new request, and Tostig is well known for working to bring the best possible people in on any project. In my case, he knew I would be attending and had quickly worked to secure my teaching time.

As it happened, I wasn't the only subject of Tostig's networking. Newly Back from mundane travels overseas, Lady Ekaterina (whom I've known as "Kitty" since she was twelve year old at her first event) was now the newly minted Actuarius Pursuivant (warranting herald) and teaching the warranting class. The chemistry of the class was a good one, with a small size and friendly feel. Kitty and I had years of banter between us, and I felt that the working dynamic between us made for a good trade-off from her administrative lessons and my overview of voice heraldry.

Lunch followed, and the Barony was gracious enough to host a sideboard for us, letting the students and teacher stay and mingle. One of the event's major benefits for the college and its freelance members is the ability to network and make connections that otherwise would not likely happen. It was good to see friends, old and new as well as trade contact information with some of the people younger heralds there.

I also chanced a salutation with Sir Modius, a newly made master of Defence, making him the Kingdom's only quadruple peer. While only a handshake and a greeting at the moment, I was reminded of our more turbulent introduction and early interactions, personalities and dignities butting up against each other like two suborn rams arguing over a tuft of grass. Where others would probably have sought victory, time taught me to respect the man's demonstrated skills, and I have come since then to admire his accomplishments, even if we disagree with each other on the details as often as not. That insight, as much as anything else, is what heraldry has given me that I doubt fighting ever would have.

The afternoon classes for me were twofold, the first was my two hour Site Heraldry class (link to textbook). The attendance was understandably light, and I had expected it to be, not a lot of people what to sit in on a class that long. But I very clearly market the session as "Here is decade and a half of the mistakes I have made so that you can go of and make plenty of your own." This tongue-in-cheek summary aside, I take my instruction on site heraldry very seriously, and my students almost always walk out of the class glad for the time spent.

I moved next to Castellana's rotatable discussion of how to promote local heraldic activity. This class, such as it was, is really the latest evolution in an ongoing conversation had by heralds across the kingdom. With over half of all the groups opting to not field a herald in their local officer corps, and some of the college of herald's administrative missteps not always showing the best face for our customers, heraldry as a field in the kingdom seems to vacillate between "neat" and "why bother" for the general public. For every person we welcome newly into the fold, there is another we seem to have put off with a ill-advised statement, or a poorly worded comment on a submission. As much most things, the idea of expanding information and education if the college's best tool against the naturally shifting tides of interest and indifference.

It is worth pointing out that the ideas shared there were diverse, and fascinating. Heraldry is far from the dead art that many seem to think it is today. I grant you, as the foundation of the United States broke the very tenants of the English aristocracy and the social system that make heraldry so relevant its not hard to understand why so many Americans have no concept of why arms and devices and their display is so important. When we talk about badges, most will think first and foremost of the gold shields carried by police officers today, and this is not an unfair comparison, as the badge carried there has some striking parallels to royal or noble retainers who carriers their lord's badge in ages past. But the example is too narrow, and it really is up to heralds and local leadership to help promote education and use of the arms within the society today.

The final class of the the day is a new entity entirely to my classes. One of the byproducts of my new officer of "submitter relations" is that I was able to really hone my skills at 'bird-dogging' lost submissions. My current record is 12 years lost, with only a fragmentary blazon for a starting point, and I turned that into a full submissions. By the time the last heraldic a scribal symposium arrived, I had jokingly codified my trade-craft into a discipline jokingly called "forensic heraldry". While I don't have any of the tools or gizmos that make CSI so fun to watch, the basic detective type work I do, starting with fragmentary information and building out from there, is uniquely rewarding. The "forensic" part is no joke, however. There is a lot of  "if x happened then Y had to happen" and "I don't' see A, so there is a really good chance B didn't go down either."  Complete with interviews, paperwork, and even a money trail. (I'm not kidding, "follow the money" will take you places in this world).

So, anyway, I have soft of taken it upon myself to make a class out of this new skill I seem to have created, and that was the last hour class of the day for me. The one thing about the class that I made sure to impress upon everyone was this, however.

"At the end of the day, when you're done tracking down the submission, there is one thing you are going to know without any question, and that is the name of the person who lost it."

This is very true, in every case I've work on so far, the name of the person who lost the submission became self-evident early on.

"What I advise you to do is this, jot it down for the sake of posterity, and then promptly forget it. We are here to fix submissions, not rake other heralds over the coals. If you happen to see the same name show up several times, send a letter to star with your factual findings, and then again, forget you ever found that name. This is a customer service mission, not an inquisition."

So, ending on that note, the event itself concluded with a royal court thanks to their majesties attendance, and two grant level awards being handed out, amongst others. The one drawback to the day was the air conditioning took that moment to shut down, so the call was a little warmer than I might call comfortable, but all told it wasn't unbearable.

Following that, we made a mass exodus for dinner, and as I shortly found out, there was local steakhouse that was a favorite amongst the SCAers there.Fully a third of the event must have descended on the  place. Our group were some of the the first, and we got a take near the back. As we all sat down, instinctively clustering together as we waited for others to join us, I said "we should spread out, that way when everyone else shows up we have new people to talk to. The plan, such as it were, worked wonderfully, as we were joined by, amongst others, Her Excellency Elisaveta Af Isafjord, pelican and newly made baroness of Northkeep. Elisaveta and I have known each other for ages, and it was good to speak socially, something we don't always get to do at events. Another longtime friend of mine who joined us was Annais, who I also have known for years. Annais is a Namron ex-patriot moved to Northkeep, and like me, one of the people who will probably grow old and gray burried in projects we only just barely have the time and energy to tackle. A kindred spirit through and through she was someone else I was glad to see again.

After dinner, we all said out farewells and departed, my traveling companions loading up for the trek back to our lodgings for the night.

As something of a side adventure, I well it worth talking about a endeavor undertaken by Bridget. As we're all want to do, the five of us talked about heraldry in its many forms through the trip home. One of the branches of that conversation was a part where I pointed out that while I support the office of Sign herald, and its duties, there was limited historical justification for translation type services like this in courts. Bridget seemed to take some measure of (good-natured) umbridge  to this suggestion, and set to work then and there (courtesy of her her Iphone) to see how far back she could document sign language in a royal court setting. To my sock, (and with largely preliminary information in the moment), she was able to document the practice of finger-spelling for deaf courtiers as early as the 1620s, practically at the doorstep of the 1600 line that we generally accepts for a workable cutoff. I am hoping she manages to firm up her findings and publish them some day, as I fell that the office of sigh herald could use the historical bolstering, at least in the kingdom.

And not long after, we came to the front door of our shelter for the night. I think there was an even blend of excitement for the event and fatigue from a long day by then, most of us were just glad to have beds waiting for us to sleep in, even if they weren't our own.

Like so many events, Heraldic and Scribal symposium was only partially about the classes, thought those were, and will always been on of the cornerstones of its purpose. The real advantage of the event is its ability to bring people together in unique ways and to build new relationships and spark interests within the college of heralds of Ansteora. And in that I feel that the event was an outstanding success this year what what I could see.



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

Thoughts between the cries (Northkeep's Castellan)

One of the things that site heraldry has afforded me over the years is a unparalleled chance to philosophize. I'm not joking, between cries, there is all of the walking I have to do, and in my case, that walking is a perfect mental laboratory for me to dissect and study thoughts of all different types.

I had made the decision to head out to site Friday earlier in the week. I already had off of work, so the option was worth taking advantage of. I went without garb, planning on both saying high to people and helping set up where I could.

Between all of the normal greetings, my first real 'contemplation' (to be dramatic about it) struck me.

It's no secret that the SCA is, in full, the vast majority of the social life. I make a very deliberate effort not to socialize with too many people I work with. And for all of the benefit I draw from my church, the feedback I need from my faith is not something that encourages me to just randomly call someone up and say "hey, lets hang out.". No, my chance to talk with, and interact with people that I share a common interest with comes almost completely through the SCA. Is this a good thing? I don't know. I'm not one to say it is a bad thing, but at the same time, its a decision made out of habit, reflex, and concussions action. I never set out to say "I only want to hang out with SCAers", but at the same time, here I am. That being said, am I really any different than the kid who hangs out with his football teammates, or the factory worker who hangs with his buddies after punching the clock? A social circle is a social circle, isn't it? 

While I chewed on this, I went through the critical steps of talking with the event steward and making sure my information was current. I had been specifically asked to come and herald, so me being who I am, I wanted to make sure I was at my level best and didn't leave anything to chance. One of the first rules of heraldry I learned (ages ago) was that understanding where your information was coming from was more important than knowing where it was going.

Not long after this, I ran into an old friend. Hellos transitioned into a conversation, and that turned into a foray into town for dinner.

Not for the first time, I considered that night how I had come full-circle in the SCA in many respects. its no secret that my entry into this world was loud, rude, and hurtful. I was  a brash kid who had no volume control and too big an opinion of himself. My one saving grace, and in many respects my biggest obstacle was my crushing sense of guilt when I was made aware of (after the fact) the actual results of my impetuous comments. That was nearly two decades ago, and while the transition from loudmouth to trusted confidant and friends was a steady conversation, its arch across my evolving autobiography is fascinating for me to consider. I don't say this because I'm melancholy about the past, or obsessed by it. Rather, if one looks at the past, and the "lines" it draws on our timelines, where do those lines point to going forward?  From a strictly academic perspective, where would my lines point to? Am I destine to be an officer, a leader, a peer, a noble? There's no way to know for sure, of course. And before anyone offers a speculation, just consider the unexpected, or unwanted. Within my own life, even within the past decade things have happened and choices made that no one, even me, could have predicted, even the day before. Still, its a fun conversation to have with myself. 

Friday night turned into the trip back home and  respectable, if short night's sleep. My family and I climbed out of bed early the next day, my wife and our friend were off to mundane obligations for the day while my son and niece would travel with me to the event.

The first cries of the day were morning court, or rather my telling people that it was pending. most people were up, but I saw a few groggy eyes clambering out of tents later than they had probably intended.

Learning how to herald, for me was a much about learning from others as it was falling on my own face and getting up again. As a walked between camps, I, for whatever reason, remembered watching Master Ulf cry a wake-up call one time, back at Camp Cimarron. He walked tent to tent, softly saying the words "oyes, oyes, I have coffee, if you want coffee too, you should head to the main hall." For a population used to tuning out the walking thunderclaps that were traditional heralds, his walking whisper approatch was surprisingly effectively at rousing the populace relatively early at that event. Ulf was one of the people who taught me that heraldry was as much a conversation with people as it was an announcement. Being loud was part of the skillset, but knowing what to say to get and hold their attention was the other part, and what set apart a medicare herald was a good one.

Morning court was brief, with the crown and their excellencies of Northkeep hitting a few strategic pieces of business before promising to do a 'roaming court" on order to keep recognition up throughout the day.

There really wasn't anything about the morning heralds that stood out for me. not that routine is boring, or the job not important for me, far from it. But in retrospect, listing off my announcements would be a tired repetition of what most people already know, or better yet remember. After the cluster of morning cries, I took a moment to sit and talk (and rest) in the main hall, hovering by the raffle table and talking with passers by.

An interesting conversation bloomed then, a stark contrast of thoughts, if you would. There was a time in the kingdom's history, a long time ago, when Northkeep didn't play with Namron, Mooneschadowe and Wiesenfuer weren't on the best of terms, and Eldern Hills wasn't exactly cozy with too many other groups. People, for the most part, fell in line with these factions, and the north of the kingdom, was composed of many very individual groups. Now, over a decade an a half later, we are (largely) northerners who happen to pay our taxes in different locations. Sure, its an oversimplification, but the interaction and social overlap between groups is ages beyond what it was. With this as the framework, the question posted to me was if people outside of Northkeep should be doing jobs at the event. More specifically, should those people have been given first access to sign up, next to Northkeepers. Its an interesting puzzle, and not one with an immediately clear answer, other than to say "it depends". On the one hand,  a group as large and Northkeep should be able to field its own site heralds (for example). On the other, the north didn't get where it was today by each groups giving blanket deference to its own people. But even then, those are two extremes on the scale. I don't think anyone wants to ignore skills help in any skill set at an event, and several of us there were not Northkeepers, but were, arguably some of the strongest players in the north in our fields. And just when you think the answer is simple, I'll throw in there that years ago, when I blogged about a canton that had managed handle all of its own heraldry internally for its event, I was accused of insulting the baronies. All told, the question of who should staff an event is sort of like choosing a date, the answer is a reflection of who you are (as a group) and what you want out of the situation. But be assured, it is a reliant question, and one that I am quite confident will come up again.

The day itself, not unlike a great many different events, from shaped by my making strategic, but mostly circular transits of site ever hour of so, and getting more announcements to make with each circle. Not surprisingly, I was able to stay on top of the inflow, however, keeping a good pace while managing the stream of rather dynamic information.

I don't know why, but as the afternoon bled into early evening, I was struck by the type of relationships I had formed in the SCA. People I would never have spoken to a decade before were now regular stops at my normal eventing plans. Adversaries of a time were now friends, and some of my early friends had drifted away from me, and some of those exists were with unapologetically cold shoulders between us both. I started the society as a fighter, discovered heraldry almost literally as an accident, and soon hung up my armor for good, trading in helmet for a notebook and pencil. The shift in role was reflective of, and in many ways symptomatic of my own shifts in life. As much as I say I don't mind losing a fair fight, chivalric combat had changed for me over the years, rather that being a source of fun and stress relief, it was the epicenter of increasing frustration and tension. I was starting to dread getting into armor, where I was looking forward to calling lists or fields instead. That type of shift changes who you meet and how they interact with you. Rather that trying ti beat someone senseless, or pretend to fit in at some of the "frat house" revels with the heavy community, I was forming increasingly stronger and stronger relationships in the heraldic community, and the people that community served. As a herald, you don't just meet heralds, you meet fighters, stewards, peers, newcomers, artisans, leaders, students... the list goes on and on, and only after I took my helmet did I feel like I really got to meet those people, and see who they really were. I don't know if this shift was caused by other changes in me as I matured, or if this change in SCA circumstances helped cause those changes and helped me to mature, but it is beyond debate that the two dynamics existed in parallel throughout that time in my life. 

Sitting at feast that night, My wife, who had managed to make it after her mundane appointment, joined some new and old friends at feast while my son ran around like the over energized ten year old he was with some other kids. The outside setting was pleasant, but because of the earlier than normal hour, it was a tad hotter than I was used to for feast.

Between removes of food, I contemplated some of the feasts I helped serve, or work in the kitchen. The one that I was head server for, and the few where I was wing-man for the same. Its hardly a spotless record, my younger side didn't lend itself well for leadership back then, and my tendency to direct things was equally unhelpful. I'm told (by sources I'm not completely sure I trust, depending on who they are, and when they said it) that I'm even responsible for a few people quitting the SCA. I really don't know for sure, but its one of those things that I don't forget easily. Maybe I'm overly sensitive to the accusation, I don't know, but I can say that I don't have the fondest of memories looking back at feast serving. 

Court was a momentous event for most people there, and maybe my heraldic pragmatism simply leads me to take things ins stride, but I really was sitting in the back, watching the while thing play out. First, two relatively new friends stepped down after a solid, and from all appearances good run as Landed hats of Northkeep. And then, two close friends  were elevated to the same, taking the mantle of leader and guide of a groups who's stubborn individuality was legendary.

Standing there, watching the ceremony, I at first thought of the whole thing as seeing a friend off on a grand voyage. There was no doubt that  Beorhtlic and Elisaveta had a grand adventure ahead of them, no mater what came of the seats while they were in them. Bu then, it dawned on me, this was far, far from a sending off, but rather a welcoming aboard, because this was an adventure I was relatively confident that I would be part of as well. Certantly not a central part, but something told me that I my part in their leadership would not be merely that of spectator. 

After court, my family and I went to the camp of some close friends, for a fresh serving of cobbler. I had know Liadan and her family, as Castianna and hers for as long as I can remember at this point, and all of the associated company was always appreciated.  in the dim light of the nighttime camp e sat and talked and walked around and ate cobbler.

Perhaps one of the most intriguing things about my situation is that I truly don't understand how different people see me. I have all the imposition of an ogre, looming tall and powerfully over anyone who's smaller than me, and at 6'3", that's a lot of people. And to be sure, there are  a lot of people who see me as intimidating, or aggressive. But at the same time, there was young girl there that night, not older than 6, as I recall. A stick-figured waif of a kid, springy and bouncy as only a child can be. We had met before, and she was been utterly terrified of me, hiding behind her friends every time I looked in her direction. Her mother has said she was like that with everyone.  I recalled wanting to at least leave her with  good impression of me, so I showed her my girdle-book, hoping that she at least wouldn't' think me scary. As she saw me work the latch on my small book, her eyes opened, and she had literally run at me and jumped into my lap, all fear gone in an instant. Now, a few weeks later, the same energy and glee was in her as she ran up to me and hugged me like a long-lost brother, a huge smile on her face, and joy in her eyes. I truly am a contradiction in that way. To some I am very much a looming ogre, power and vanity personified, framed in intimidation. But at the same time I'm also the person that scared little kids suddenly warm up to, and the person mothers can trust to protect their daughters. I understand that these two perceptions can coexist, and can both be true in their own way. Yet, even now I am not completely sure I do, or ever will fully understand all that goes into those perceptions of who I am. Maybe I never will, some things were not meant to be known by one person. But the dynamic is still a fascinating consideration for me. 

Driving home that night, with my wife and son both asleep in the late hour, one last thing came to my mind, a complex realization that had been percolating in my mind for some years now, but only recently had come together.

I've long wondered why it is that I so heavily fell into the SCA. What was it about this band of people that met my needs so much better than church, or the fire service, or even college and its inherent social structure. The answer for me, at least, was something rather simple. Rules. The inherent structure of teachers, students, leaders and subordinates, men-at-arms, apprentices, proteges... all of it may well have been a throwback to past times, but it was a formality of what I never had. Its no secret that I was a social outcast in school, alternately bullies, mocked and ignored by most. My self esteem was throughout beat up by the time I got to college, and much of my bravado was me convincing myself that I didn't care what the world thought about me, a backlash to when the opinions of others could be wielded like swords for the amusement of others.  The causality of all of this, or one of them, as it were, was the fact that I was blind to social ques and body language. Its not that I didn't see them, I saw them clear as day, I just never learned all of what they all meant. Socially, I was blind and deaf, but not mute in most situations, and nothing in modern society existed in my world to make up for what wasn't learned in school. Only the SCA and its makeshift formal structure of titles, ranks, rules, etiquette and customs gave me the groundwork I needed to relearn how to "fit in". of course, I recognized none of this at the time, I simply knew that compared to the rest of my life, the SCA was a better fit than most places, so I kept going. But looking back at it now, I see that it was for me what the Marines probably were for my father, a place where a lot of social questions were answered for you, and you could be left to do a job. I know this sounds dark and depressing, but trust me, even at my darkest days, my life still had joy and hope in it. Some days more than others, I admit, but this recollection isn't about pity of sympathy, two things I want no part of. Its about putting an academic, skeptical eye on my own past, and seeing what I wasn't seeing then. Believe me when I say that there are still lessons to be learned from those times. 

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

Red Plains baronial championships

So, a few days before the combined Wiesenfeuer / Eldern Hills championships, I got a message from a fiend of mine directing me to contact yet another old friend, who "might" be needing some help with voice heraldry at the event. Now if I were to actually sit down and recount the number of times I have gotten site or list heraldry jobs this way (in one way or another), I think it would account for fully half of my career as a voice herald in the SCA. You can go back to my first site herald, (which amounted to "at the right place, at the right time"), and go from there.

But, I digress... sort of.

So, what followed was a string of emails between myself and the Wiesenfeuer herald, whom I've known since my first event back in 1997. The call out was for a site herald that would let him concentrate on the needs of the day's two major courts. I had intended to go anyway, so the chance to site herald and help a friend out was an added bonus to the day.

Friday would be a light day in terms of heraldry, as it is for almost any weekend event, but none the less, I opted to take advantage of the fact that site was literally on my way home from work. I packed my garb in an extra sports bag and took it with me to work. When the work day was over, let me tell you I was glad for the chance to change out of the office attire (we do business super-casual at work) and into garb. I think I gave most of the second-shifters at the office a collective case of whiplash as I walked out of the bathroom and towards the front door.

I made it to site just before sunset on Friday. Ascant few people were already there, and most of them, less the event staff, were setting up for Saturday. I got a chance to talk with some old friends, and meet a few new ones. A casual affair all told, but I knew it would be. The critical things to do that night would be to herald the prep for the bear-pit tournament, and then the Wiesenfeuer bardic competition just afterwords. Bur before that came to pass, I got to help Namron put their pavilion up, and talk with a few of the fighters (including a few who would not be fighting the next day). It was the usual, casual, laid back conversation, held in the failing light of a sunset through thick spring foliage.

I had to cross the infamous Da-Ka-Ni bridge more times that I care to recall that night. It was a fun walk the first few times I crossed it ages ago, but now, with both it and I a little older, and showing the respective ages, I am far, far less fond of the metal and cable spans, their bouncing spring under every step, or the tendency of people to clump on it in numbers that aren't reassuring.  But, I am a herald, and I go where the job takes me... besides, I'm a decent swimmer if it comes to it.

The first cry of the night was for the aforementioned torchlight bear-pit. I started at the bottom of the kill, and walked every so slowly up towards the covered pavilion, crying the blanket welcome to any and all who would come and fight that night.The tournament itself took some time to get going, with fighters trickling in late in the process. The "pre-show" entertainment consisted of a heard of little kids running around in the walled in goat pen chasing volunteer adults around with glow sticks in a raucous game of tag. The truth be told, it was actually very entertaining, for adults and kids alike.

In the moments before the tournament, His Excellency, Sir Morgan made his way over, armor half on, waiving off the heckles and calls from his fellow fighters to hurry up so that they could start the tournament.

I had actually met Morgan for the first time at Gulf Wars two years before, a brief encounter where he had commented favorably to me about my work, and gifted with with larges in the form of one of his personal coins. While Morgan was pulling on his armor, he called me over, at first to help him armor up, and then to ask me to help him track how many wins he had in the tormentor for the scorekeepers. I was glad to do both for him. And was equally glad to help him with some frustratingly stiff buckles and straps on his armor. His kit, like a lot of the people there, had survived the sudden storm at Gulf War a month before, and while it had weathered the worst of the storm relatively well, the leather was a little more uncooperative than might be the norm.

As the two of us worked, we also talked, albeit briefly, about gulf, both this year and the one two before. I commented that I still had his coin, and he seemed surprised that I had kept the small item. "Oh, I still have it, It's the type of think I'm not going to let slip away."

"Yeah," be agreed as he pulled on a van brace, "Being Baron... its not about me," he explained. "its about everyone around me, and making sure they have as much fun as possible." The bit of SCA existentialism was actually the type of casual comment I have come to expect from the veteran barons I have had the pleasure to know. While the words are almost always said easily, the profoundness of their meaning is usually understated at the same time, an unusual byproduct of the balance between keeping ones dignity in a SCA nobility role, and not feeling too self important. I wouldn't accuse Morgan of the later at all, but I think the reality of his impact, or any person's impact as a landed baron in the SCA is a power that must need to be experienced to be fully appreciated for its depth of magnitude.

The semi-armored philosophic conversation concluded, he moved to the pen where the others were assembled, and I moved to the edge to watch.

The tournament itself was a fascinating, bear-pit speed fight with the fighters standing inside a fenced in area about fifteen feet across and taking turns at what can only be called brutal close quarters combat. The rounds, three in total, were timed, and in the intervals fighters took turns at breathtaking speeds to see who could win more times than anyone else. By its very nature, the whole process lent itself  towards fast shots, hard hits, and quick, violent decisions.

Not that any of the fighters were complaining about that at all.

When the tournament was over, close to eleven-thirty, I got up from my seat on the sidelines and started the announcement for  the pending bardic competition, drumming circle and hafla up at the covered pavilion. I made it that far up the hill, tired both from the hour and the work put in that day. I managed to get up there long enough to say hello to some last few friends, and then say goodbye to all o the same and more. I wasn't camping, and had to be home in time to get some semblance of sleep so that I could come back with my family the next morning.

My wife, my son, and I arrived back on site the next morning in time for the royal court where the sitting hats of Wiesenfeuer stepped down. The main hall at the top of the hill was packed to the point where it was standing room only in the back. I was fortunate enough to find an empty space on the edge of the brickwork of the cold fireplace along one wall. I don't mean to diminish the the court for what it was: a new crown, a stepping down, a packed room, it was an emotional time for some, and for many different reasons. A lot of awards were given, and of some unique interest for me, at least four baronial awards were handed out to children by their majesties after the stepping down. Holding duel titles as both crown and landed hats during the interim period before the later stepping up court, the scrolls given out were signed, as I recall, in the crown's names, but as baron and baroness. Myself, I had not seen such a practice before, but each day in the society is a lesson of one sort or another, so this was filed away as another such encounter.

When court recessed for the day's activities, I made my way forward to speak with the Baronial herald. I've known Grímólfr since my first event, a bard, herald, viking and overall relaxed figure in the north, he's good company and a good friend. He was just pulling of the baronial tabard after being one of a team of heralds crying the Wiesenfeuer side of the court. We Spoke briefly, and he was glad I was there, but in an unexpected turn, he asked me if I could swap with him, opting to cry the list field while he handled what site cries were needed. Of course I had no objection, I'm glad for either, or both, and as the local officer in such things, his word is the overriding decision.

Walking back down the hill from the main hall was actually little less punishing than the trek up. Where the latter was a test of punished knees and underused leg muscles, the former promised a twisted ankle or torqued knee for the unwary traveler who didn't keep one eye squarely on the uneven, rain-shaped ground at their feet.

In an interesting sequence of events, I arrived at the list field to find not one or two heralds, but an arguable plethora. Aside from myself, HL Adalia was there, one of the people I had first learned list heraldry from, and Kitty, a woman whom I first met  seventeen years ago as a child, and had watched grow into a formidable, and quirky, charismatic woman in her own right. A fledgling herald and new member to my home group, Thomas de Groet stood in his six-foot-plus glory, waiting eagerly to learn how to site and list herald. Two more people also came forward, eager to learn, though their names, sadly, escape me now.

This this development was unusual in itself has heralds are usually barely able to get enough people together to manage a 4 field list like we had here, yet this time, we would have enough to rotate people out, and teach the newer members, and have a backup or two to spare.

The oddity got even more interesting when the heavy weapons fighters announced that they were running a modified format that needed no heralds. Our service were now down to two fields from four. At that rate, we would be tripping over each other if we weren't careful.

Then... the rapier fighters got their instructions, the day's format would be a challenge tournament.

No heralds needed.

So, no sooner had we assembled a relative platoon of heraldic capability than the proverbial invasion was called off.

As I walked away from the list field flanked by Thomas and Kitty, I quipped with them "So, what type of trouble can three unemployed heralds get into?"

The reality of the situation, however, was much more tame. Thomas, Kitty, and I went our different ways, friends, interests and opportunities playing the type of random havoc life at an SCA event is usually subject to. I ultimately made my way to the covered pavilion halfway up the hill that was, more or less, site. not long after I arrived.

Not long after, I was pulled aside by Vigdis, one of my fellow officers and heralds in the college. She showed me small green banner painted with a key, the badge of the hospitaler in the kingdom. It turns out that she made a batch of the small flags as markers for the small army of newcomers attending the event that weekend.With those, she explained, people new to the society would have a good idea of whom they could direct their questions towards as the event moved forward. My part, as it were, was to help disseminate the message across as much of sight as I could.

Yet again, my reputation as a voice herald had brought work to me.

This certainly was not going to be a "fighting starts in ten minutes" type of announcement that people were expecting. An economy of words would work against me, not only was I to inform, but I had to inspire, to promote. I needed to put the emotional energy of Vigdis's efforts to the masses. It needed to be a narrative, an invocation, and it had to have gravitas to it in order to last in people's mind more than the time my voice was in the air.

And yet, I still didn't have unlimited time. People's attention spans are fickle things at best.

The pavilion, fill of people in one for the lunch tavern, looked to be my best audience. Competing with the chaos of two, simultaneous tournaments might as well have been yelling at an avalanche for all the good it would do. I walked to one corner, where the newest number of people would have to turn to see me, hoisted my baton into the air with a commanding gesture and opened my mouth,

Hear ye, hear ye, I beg all's attention. I hold here a banner, green of field with a gold key displayed across it's face the badge of the hospitaler, welcome to all. This flag is one of many on display here today, and to see this flag flown, or worn, is to invite all queries from any who would ask, but most especially the newest members who have flocked to this great event. I ask all here to spread this word to all would should hear it. To those new to us, they need to know what this device means. To those of us who know such things, more of these flags are in lady Vigdis's possession by the list field, and she urges any who would, to display them. 

I stopped, feeling the natural end to the narrative I had improvised. The announcement had gained and commanded the attention of the whole pavilion for its length. I felt that the task given me was completed in earnest and that word would spread as it should.

The day progressed as days at events do, with conversation and activity, socializing, and happy work. Old friends, and new, the waters of the society were ever in motion, and always changing as they should.

The heavy tournament saw its final blow landed with the fast footed Ottoman, Vlad, taking the field with his signature  two weapons, dancing around shots and landing blows that were deceptively fast and as accurate as they were stout.

The rapier field saw another interesting turn, with the Don of the previous year's champion claiming the now dual title of rapier champion for Wiesenfuer and Eldern hills. Don Trevor's relaxed, six-foot plus frame had carried the war-horse though the tournament with a commanding lead in the final points tally.

With the afternoon had come an unexpected bout of fatigue for some, most namely my ten-year-old son. The event, the weather, and the early rise had taken it out of him and he wasn't having any fun. Not normally one to abandon an event, even for a short time, I decided that both he and I, however, might want a change of pace.

"How about some ice cream?" I offered him. He warmed quickly at the offer, and a few minutes later he, I, my wife, and Liliana were on our way to the parking lot for the prescribed break when I opted to pull my cell phone out and check for any messages. To my surprise, I saw one from another SCAer, one who wasn't at the event that day.

It would seem that I was also being asked to help with an upcoming event as well. My reputation as a site herald, or just "that loud guy", looked to be alive and well in the north of late.

The foray out for milkshakes and soda was well spent, and I think in the end we all appreciated the short change in pace.

Coming back, I adjusted myself for the afternoon, opting to park the car on the top of the hill rather than the main lot at the bottom, and not across the bridge, I also opted to leave the baton this time, I didn't anticipate any real point is carrying it around as we moved into the evening, and there was certainly no need for it in court.

The next few hours, as I recall, were social for me, more conversation and more glad company than anything else. The afternoon turned into early evening, and the time for court came. As it happened, I was late for the reopening, and as I found a spot by a door into the once-again packed room, I realized that the king and queen were wasting no time with the 'main event' of the day. I walked in just as the coronet was placed on the first of the two new hats for the barony.  The investiture was almost done.

The event, or more specifically the baronial investiture was notable for me on two levels.

As a political, social, and kingdom landmark, this is, to the best of my knowledge, the first time a pair of landed hats had been bestowed to two people not of different genders.

I am reminded of the earlier conversations had about this topic within the SCA. The shape of the conversation at the time, at least such that I can recall, was a dynamic one. I had been resistant to the rules change, largely because much of what I had seen up until that point in time had been a thoroughly modern argument of "this is the way society is going, you *have* to accept this." Needless to say, this argument dell on largely deaf ears, and I, for one, no matter how laughable my 'reenactment' credentials may be by more formal, academic standards, am still respectable enough in the field to not overly bow to "the weight" of a modern society. I recall a lot of my friends were the same way, not necessarily opposed to co-regents of the same gender, but not caring for the shape of the argument we had heard at the time. Our, or at least my rebuttal at the time had been a simple one, "show me a historical precedence, and you will silence my objections".

As it happened, there was a strong historical precedence for the practice, including, but by no meant limited to King Leonidas, the spartan monarch who fought and died in the battle of Thermopylae had been a co-regent with another, separate crown along a different family line. Both men had wives and families, yet ruled the kingdom as part of a complicated governmental system that did, in fact, recognize two male regents at its head. The history of Europe is dotted with other examples of monarchies headed by two regents of the same gender. Some were father and son, others siblings, others uneasy allies, and others still were, in fact, lovers. My one demand on the subject, a strong historical base for such a proclamation, had been met. And with that, I withdrew all objection to a change in corpora allowing for landed baronies and royal thrones to be sat by a two people of the same gender.

And this weekend, I witnessed the first such step in our kingdom's history in action of that option with the investment of two women, Mistress Deirdre Ni' Raghailligh and Mistress Valia of the Mists, to the baronial seats of Wiesenfeuer.

Now, on a far, far more pragmatic note, I also saw an "interesting" cascade failure in the same moment. Somewhere in the process of planning the court, the decision on how the ceremony would take place was made, but never completely transmitted to the populace. I know this because a huge portion of them were standing outside, waiting to process in with the soon-to-be invested leaders, but unable to see that the process had begun in earnest without them. There wasn't any real drama over the incident (at least none that I could see), but I imagine there was some disappointment at both missing the ceremony, and not being able to process in the planned ceremony. As a some-time court herald, I know all to well how many hands a simple message can go through in order to each the right people, and as such, I have no idea where the disconnect was in this event, but that, I dare say, is not my mystery to investigate.

Court was both mercifully short, given the amount of material covered, and rather long, as evidence by how much my feet hurt from standing in the back. Ultimately I found my way back to the same spot I had been that morning, an empty place on the brickwork of the fireplace, a chance for my knees and feet to rest.

Another adventure started for me after court, however. With the echoes of the closing "vivat"s still hanging in the air, I was already making my way forward to talk to a few people. I wound up next to my wife, exchanging greetings with her excellently Amelot Lisette, whom I had first met at Gulf two years before, and whose company I had come to enjoy, as well as that of her towering husband, the seven foot (okay, six foot 'something', but taller than me, a lot taller) Sir Alejandro. Alejandro is another earth-rumbling bass-voiced herald who's power and projection lends itself well to court and site heraldry. The two of us actually fell into a bit of a talk on the science of heralding, how higher and lower pitches work in different environments, witch carries better, which cuts through the din of a crowded room better. The glorious collision of physics and history was the type of thing that you never expect, but can revel in when it happens.

Not long long after the start of the conversation, Lisette moved back to behind the now empty thrones, explaining that she had to collect the crown's possessions and move them back to the royal cabin. I offered to help, two strong hands are usually a welcome addition to any effort.

My wife and I wound up carrying some of the coronet boxes while Lisette and Alejandro carried some of the other trappings of the office. It was, humorously, only then that I recalled that Lisette was the crown Chamberlain for this reign. We made out way through the failing light of the dusk to the royal cabin, the one closest to the main hall, but still a bit of a walk. We found the cabin empty, and were welcomed to rest for a moment. I took advantage of one of the unattended chairs (technically ot was one of the folding "thrones", but the back was down, and with no heraldry displayed, it was just another seat), and rested my legs. The conversation was sedate, but pleasant. Lisette had taken to shifting through the box of insignia and awards used by the crown for all of their courts. Alejandro had rested for a few, I imagine his towering frame was only slightly less forgiving on his knees after a long court than my own body was on mine.

A short time later, the door into the cabin opened, and the Crown, flanked by a small party of retainers walked in. I didn't even wait for either of their majesties to make eye contact with me, and hopped out of the seat. As I recall, the new arrivals brought the collection of people to just over half a dozen, including Vlad. Somehow, talk shifted to talk to big cats, it seems than his majesty, when not in the SCA was fond of the larger felis breeds. This proved a fortunately coincidence as Vlad is, mundanely, an Oklahoma Game Warden who in in charge of the mountain lion division in the sate. Vlad quickly settled into a pattern in the conversation, sharing his opinions of the state's several big-cat rescues and offering high marks for a few. The King, looking tired when he walked in, became more upbeat and rested with the talk, and at the end of the conversation thanked everyone for the chatter about big cats.

Lillias and I departed soon after, opting to make out way back down to the covered pavilion and the pot luck dinner that was the event's feast. Our son had found a cluster of kids his age, and not long after sunset someone had broken out a glow-in-the-dark boccie ball set. I don't think any of them knew how to actually play boccie, but lights, a hill, and youthful exuberance worked well to keep the heard of them entertained.

Lillias, Liliana, and myself enjoyed dinner with friends, a mostly standing and talking affair under the large, open-sides shelter.

Some time after I had finished eating, Ahlanna a'beckit bounced up to me with her school-girl type energy level the belied her age.

"Ivo," she said over the din of talking people. "I need you to be loud."

Not for the first time, my reputation had done what a promotional drive probably wouldn't have been able to do.

In this case, the announcement was twofold. First, in support of an injured friend, Ahlanna was part of a consortium who were running a donations-only shots bar to raise funds. Secondly, there would soon start the booze pinata game (and yes, that is just what it probably sounded like to you. A stuffed wheel shaped box was loaded down, filled completely, actually, with plastic shot bottles of hard liqueur.)

Heralding a party is actually not that easy. First you have to get their attention while everyone is talking, then you have to convince them that you need them to keep giving you their attention past the first three seconds (I'm not kidding, people turn away and start talking again if they don't think you are talking to them), and then you keep to tell them what you want them to know... fast. Still, no challenge was ever met by being meek, and I, as always, reveled in the environment. The trick, is the initial sales pitch. Make the hook big enough, and you have them for an easy twenty count.

"Hear ye, hear ye! I bring news of things alcoholic!"

Let me tell you, that will get a room's attention in a hurry at an event, even if half of the people there don't drink. I probably could have read a few lines from a phone book and still had most of their attention, even if only so that they could decide weather or not to tar and feather me for invoking such a "personal" subject.

The festivities of the night concluded when the third person to take up the blindfold and bludgeon of the pinata challenge was none other than the queen. With a crowd standing around her and cheering, she was quickly blindfolded, handed a rattan bastard sword, and spun around three times. Then, she put her own spin on the adventure when she flipped the sword on its end and took hold of the tip. In reality, she had just traded a narrow baseball bat for what amounted to a steel plated fly swatter, thanks to the metal hilt that was now an unapologetic striking surface. She swung and missed two times, but on the third, with the crowd (myself included) cheering her on in a deafening roar, she pulled back and deceived a stout blow that tore a dinner plate sized chunk out of the cardboard construct, and sent some dozen little plastic liqueur bottles scattering across the ground.

The night ended for me in much the same way as the day had begin, with a quiet walk. My wife, our son, and Liliana were tired, excited, and glad to have come. We talked until there should have been nothing else to talk about, and then talked some more, because between us, we can always find something.

It's said by some that when you leave an event, you leave a little piece of yourself there. The challenge is always what you take with you. As we climbed into the care at nearly midnight, we were leaving behind a lot spent energy, a lot of time, and a lot of conversations.

But, for myself, I took with me the reminder of what pricelessness there was to be found in greeting old friends, and meeting some new ones.

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