"The Rogue, the Marshal and the White Scarf"
(In which the names have been changed- to protect the guilty... and the innocent... and even the bystanders as well...) {{Disclaimer: No Rogues were harmed in the composing of this tale}}
Once upon a time in a distant Barony whose name I forget (but is well known for the prominence of it's windmills) there occurred a tourney to discover the most talented Rapier artist in the land. The winner of this tourney would be crowned Baronial Champion... News of this event reached even the ears of the populace of the Endless Hills- and several humble swashbucklers set out to measure themselves and their steel against those of their neighbors... Numbered amongst these travelers were a Baron, A Pirate and a Rogue- all of whom fought bravely and skillfully.. to no avail.
O'ermatched by superior talent, the Rogue found himself bested by a Maiden Fair- a well known swords-mistress in a paisley dress and bright-metal helm. Ever the gallant swordsman when offered the gloved hand of his honored opponent at the end of the duel, instead of shaking it- he lifted it to his lips (and being a self-admitted Rogue indeed!) he kissed not only the back of her glove (through his steely helm).. but also her wrist, her forearm, her inner elbow, her upper arm and her shoul... but Wait! 'ere the Rogue could bring the swordswoman's shoulder to his fencing helm for a *kiss* she tuned and said to the spectators...
"M'Lord, This *man* is kissing me!"
Whereupon did rise from the assembled crowd a veritable mountain of a man.. bearing not only a rapier himself.. but also adorned with a white scarf 'pon one arm- that being the traditional insignia of those known to be amongst the most knowledgeable of the rapier arts... and in a deep sepulchral echo the mountain replied?
"Then I shall *kill* him for thee, My Lady" (feel free to shudder with me here folks...)
Moments later (at least 10 to 15 moments.. but who's counting?) the Rogue found himself again in the list field -this time face to face with Mt. Whitescarf... The two men saluted each other in preparation to duel and before advancing the White-Scarved Gentleman leveled his blade at his opponent and asked?
"Do You Yield, Sir?"
Unwilling to concede defeat without a single pass the Rogue replied,
"No My Lord, I do *not*" Battle commenced. and it took only two or three passes of steel before the Rogue was wounded- losing his dagger-bearing arm. Again the demand echoed 'cross the list field:
"Do you yield *now*, sir?"
"No, M'Lord! I still have an Arm... as does *thy* wife*!" ...in the silence that followed, a single pass was all that was necessary to see the Rogue dis-armed (and un-armed as well)?
"Do you yield **now**, sir?" to which the Rogue responded
"M'Lord.. She still has *ankles!* " (stunned pause) "Yes, M'Lord - I Yield!"
Honor satisfied, the White Scarf and his swain went on to live happily ever after... and the Rogue (miraculously healed of his wounds), unable to repent his wicked ways, having kissed the back of many a sweetly-offered hand (as well as other limbs) was eventually called before the local nobility, to discuss his lascivious ways.. (but *that's* another story entirely...)
Yes- that Paisley-dressed swashbuckler was none-other than the KINGDOM Marshal of Rapiers- who less than a fortnight later contacted me to tell me she was willing to offer me the status of Marshal- under the conditions that I do not tell anyone that "rogueing" her was the deciding factor.... (grin) To make matters worse- the event bears the name, the "Feast of the Seven Deadly Sins"- the site tokens each represent a different sin.. and at court awards and prizes were given out to those present who best *embodied* specific sins... Care to guess who on was thusly celebrated? ?and for which sin? (Heh, heh, heh...)
A Pearl by any other name...?
Reader's Beware: Do not attempt to try this at home- duplicating the actions described herein will not result in a Warrant, Arms, or the smiles of the viewing audience- They will instead likely get you slapped, banished or *killed*- You have been warned....
What has gone before: Our humble, as-yet-untitled swashbuckling Rogue encountered a high-level fencing Marshal, and after rouging her on the listfield, had been resoundingly and repeatedly *killed* by both the Marshal and her White-Scarf Husband.
The sun shone brightly over the 7 Pearls Tourney field... Assembled together from each portion of the Kingdom were the 7 Baronial couples, each with their tourney-champions (3 members of the Order of the White-Scarf, 3 Cadets and one humble Rogue)...
The Rogue stood with his Second, accompanied by his Baron & Baroness, as they listened to the Baronial Herald (the sun shone even brighter on the herald, or maybe it just seemed so- as if the sun itself were jealous of the array of colors resplendent upon his person).
It is impossible in such a small space to do justice to the Herald's words (in truth- they deserve a story all their own.. ..as does the Herald's garb as well) The Herald discussed the Rogue's attire (bright and shiny), mentioned his hair (bright and shiny) and even touched upon his demeanor (brigh.. uh- you get the idea...) Applause (and mayhaps laughter) were heard from all corners of the list..
Presiding over the Rogue's first Tourney bout- a familiar face- the very same highly-placed Marshal who figured prominently in our original tale- and at the other end of the list, his first match- a young lady cadet from the furthest southern reaches of the Kingdom. The traditional Honors were offered: To the Crown, the Baronial Couples, the assembled audience, each champion's inspiration... and then.. to their honored opponent. (Had the presiding Marshal forgotten? purposely blanked the memory?) Calmly and unsuspectingly, the cadet- Pearl stepped forwards- offering her hand for shaking... As if 'twere the most natural thing in the world, the Rogue took the offered hand and raised it to his helm, as if to kiss it.. and in the pause that followed, the only thing that could be heard (in the listfield, anyway) was the softly murmured comment of the presiding Marshal who wryly commented?
"Just FENCE, Po. *Just* fence..."
Many were the triumphs on the field that day.. and just as numerous the fatalities... but in the end it must be said that each of the 7 champions fought with style, grace and honor. And later that evening, at the great Sylvan Court, after honoring several prominent and accomplished fencers, a humble, swashbuckling Rogue was requested to attend Their Majesties- to receive an Award of Arms.
To the Rogue's great glee (and the assembled court's apprehension) as he was raised up from his knees by Their Majesties, The Rogue was able to bring the hand of the Queen to his lips as he bowed... and paused (causing several near coronaries for those who feared that they were about to see yet another rogueing...)
Both on and off the listfield- the day's glories will not soon be forgotten...
a Pennsic tale...
"House Neptune Rising has (or had) a duck pond... More than a mere duck pond.. a duck pond oracle, actually... Ask the oracle a question, reach down and lift up the rubber ducky of your choice- and there was your answer: emblazoned 'pon the ducks ass. At least that's the way things were until Meg the Mad came to visit, the night the Rapiermaniacs lay in state- at their own Wake.... The Night the DuckPond Died...
It was a cool breezy Tuesday evening- and the bodies of the three Rapiermaniacs (Lord Stefan, Lady Deianeira (aka Morghan), and your humble narrator) lay in state... Dead (-tired) after being outnumbered 60-some-odd versus over-200 in the broken-field rapier battle. Our heroes had died repeatedly, oft taking an honor guard of slain opponents with them, all for the glory of the Kingdom of Drachenwald (for whom they had negotiated their services as mercenaries... but *that's* a story for another day...) Even the Queen of Northshield wept and giggled in her tent- widowed by a blade- thrust that *killed* His Royal Majesty- a thrust delivered by none other than That deadly Drachenwaldian Mercenary; Lady Deianeira. ...
And so it was that Meg the Mad, Rapier-marshal and member of Aethelmearc's renowned Southern Watch, came to the encampment of House Neptune Rising, bearing beer for the Wake, a rapier at her side... ready to offer her eulogies for her fallen opponents.. and already half-drunk.
In the stillness of the night, eulogies finished (as was most of the beer) a significantly more tipsy Meg wandered out the gate towards the privy- past the Oracle. An oracle? why not? The night's stillness was broken as Mad Meg consulted the oracle- apparently Meg was not pleased by her answer....
"No...what do you mean No!!?... I'll teach you to tell me No!"
The offending duck was dropped back into the pond, and there was the sound of steel being drawn.
Rapier in hand, Meg LUNGED...
The duck (being rather less drunk than Meg) *ducked*... ...and Meg the Mad pierced the edge of the oracular pond... repeatedly... which being mere plastic liner promptly began to siphon outwards, leaving the ducks to flounder in the mud.
(Quoth Meg: "F*cking Ducks...")
All hail, Meg the Mad, slayer of the pond, killer of no ducks at all...
Hallo! My name is Ducky Montoya! You Keel my Pond.. Preeepare to die!
Quoth Meg The Mad: "One thing, however, I attacked the duck pond entirely sober. I was extremely tipsy after I left camp, but very, very sober when the attack occurred. And I hit the damnable duck several times. He just bounced right back as though he never felt it. Damnable rhino-hider's.."
Hmmm.. What tale can a Swashbuckling Rogue tell of Pennsic 35?
I would have loved to regale thee with a rousing yarn of battle- How two dashing rapier-wielding theatrical hams "held the tavern door" using only their voices and the lyrics of Gilbert and Sullivan at the Rapier Town Battle.. but alas- that tale has been spun already, by my "drinking buddy", Master Alewright...
So! if not a rousing tale of battle.. then mayhaps a quiet tale of Pennsic magic...
Final Friday eve was drawing to a close- and a number of the denizens of the Duckpond (House Neptune Rising and Clan Icephoenix's encampment) had spent an enjoyable evening being hosted at the Shire of Sunderoak's closing party. Tales were told, assorted beverages (including year-old mead) were shared and toasted, and even an occasional whipped-cream misdemeanor had been committed ( I plead Innocent, Your Honor... ok, ok.. Guilty as Charged...) As the hour approached midnight the assorted Ducklings made ready to depart- in various directions on various errands. It was tasked to Lady Dei and Lord Po to free the captive Dragon from it's pen in Handicapped Parking- returning it to the Duckpond in preparation of packing and loading on the morrow...
The path between Sunderoak ('pon the Serengetti) and Handicapped (beyond the Rapier listfield) lay straight through Merchantville. and with mere minutes left before the witching hour- our brave protagonists allowed the partially overcast and partially starlit sky to light their way... until a bright light unexpectedly split the night.
Uncharacteristically an entire booth had decided to sit vigil through the night- a dealer in fine oils and essences. Lady Dei, who had spent the entire War lamenting the absence of her traditional perfumer decided that this just might be an omen, and producing the battleworn parchment containing the arcane recipe that had been created just for her years before, inquired about having the mixture recreated. Not just possible, but only the work of moments! (I joked as the final vial was mixed that the recipe needs now must be rewritten to reflect that it required being mixed at Midnight at War...) Having been the merchant's final customer on Friday eve *and* their first on Sat. morn. we continued back into the dark night...
Only to have the evening again enlightened- turning another corner in Merchantville brought the most unexpected view to our eyes! A full score of people, seated on the midnight street, gazing enraptured at the side of a pavillion- where (larger then life) moving images were being displayed! A Midnight Matinee performance of *Yellowbeard* was being projected onto a tent-side and Graham Chapman stood bantering alongside Cheech and Chong for our viewing edification.
After a moment to appreciate the discongruity.. to savor the magic of not one, not two.. but a *series* of moments -from the party onwards - we swaggered off with grins on our faces...
Only at War...
Addendum: The Bar-Song Incident
(Quoth the Bard, Lord Michael Alewright)
It was the third battle for the rapier town battle war point. The BMDL squad's objective was to deliver a keg of "beer" to the "pub," and prevent the Midrealm's keg from arriving. We took the pub without a
fight, and another squad took care of the Mid's keg, leaving us with nothing to do but watch the fighting going on across the field.
So, we were in a pub with nothing to drink. What was left? Singing!
As a stream of newly-resurrected allies headed toward the fighting, Po Silvertop and I serenaded them in chorus with a bit of Gilbert and Sullivan:
Go, ye heroes, go to glory,
Though you die in combat gory!
Ye shall live in song and story,
Go to immortality!
Go to death, and go to slaughter.
Die, and every Cornish daughter
With her tears, your grave shall water,
Go ye heroes, go and die!
There was a marvelous moment when one of the fencers stopped dead for a moment to turn toward us incredulously, before turning back to head into battle.
Maybe it's one of those "you had to be there" moments, but it's the little things that make it all worthwhile.
- Michael
She rests..
cupped lightly in my hand-
gentle weight both relaxing and inspiring.
I feel her sharing my own body's warmth
even with my eyes closed I can feel her every atom, sense each limit and boundary,
(as if my own awareness extends beyond my own reach and into hers)
familiar presence at my side...
Eager arms like wings spread to grasp, to catch, to direct;
slender yet solid, nimble and responsive capable of speed and agility beyond the eye's ability to capture.
Is it my ears or just my mind that hears her whispered "Let's Dance.."?
unthought, unplanned, my fingers curl tighter 'round her as pulse speeds and mind recedes and I'm again caught up in her whirlwind.
slave to the moment. slave to the movement.
breath and balance.. united briefly (for an eternal moment) until...
cupped lightly in my hand-
she rests-
