GULF WARS XXII [Day 1]

GULF WARS XXII

So I keep promising I’ll tell you about Gulf Wars. This is Part 1 of however many it takes to tell this story. It was a long event full of drinks and safety meetings, so I’ll try to keep it all straight. I’m sure several people will move to correct me on details, as Scadians are wont to do. But in order to do that I have to type the story first.

My life had been freshly destroyed by my ex, and I’d just started learning to sew. The cassock had been completed. I mentioned corrections, Ceanag recently brought it to my attention that it was she who made proposal to take me to Gulf Wars. I didn’t know what that was. All I knew at the time was that it was a week long. I wasn’t even sure where I would be going.

It took her a few times, bumping into “I’m not sure”s and “we’ll see”s before she sweetened the deal enough that I had to go. I was afraid to commit anything, now freshly set adrift, but it was with close friends, and besides, they offered to pay for me if I drove.

It’s a little complicated. On the day we were leaving, Ceanag was going to be at some convention doing some thing, so it was going to be me and Murdaigean driving up. Then we were going to pick her up from the airport. Murdaigean doesn’t have a license, which is why I became so instrumental.

I was at the point where something very badly needed to happen to my life. I was languishing. Sure, I had sewing, but I had no sense of purpose, and I had no friends in New Jersey. I’d just met the 404 and their ilk, I’m still not on have-a-beer terms with any of them. The whole thing in hindsight was insanely risky. I didn’t have a lot of money, and I wasn’t insured to drive. Ceanag assured me that her insurance was such that it was legal for me to drive, but my parents, my father especially, were highly suspicious of this idea. I think they still don’t know I made the trip behind the wheel. Until now I guess. Sorry, mom. Being an adult is like being a lady or being king in Game of Thrones, if you have to say it, it’s not true. So I never say it. I listen to my parents at most times, considering how much I owe them, and what a force of sanity in my life they are, but this was something I had to do for myself. After, ironically, mom drove me down to Maryland. Thanks, mom.

I ended up in Laurel with my bags, and hung out with them for about a week before it was time to leave. Ceanag departed and the next day Murdaigean introduced me for the first time to the unique experience of packing for a campout.

I’d known them for about two years by then, and their pickup truck was always full of things I couldn’t comprehend. Long poles covered in foam at the ends, posts with rivets sticking out, tarps, crates, all things that suddenly had meaning to me. Spears. Tent supports. Boxes of supplies. Planks that formed stargazer chairs. A bed. All these things were handmade. These were loaded, and it followed that there was some creative bungie cording to strap it all down under a tarp. Then there was the drive to Tennessee.

Now, normally I wouldn’t talk about the drive. But driving with Murdaigean is a unique experience. I found out why they were rewarding me so handsomely for gripping a steering wheel. Murdaigean is insane. It’s not his fault. By his own claim, he’s been in nine accidents, all of which he was in the passenger seat for. His job was to navigate. But what he did was drive. Have you ever had a passenger seat driver? It’s maddening. “Stop at the stop sign,” “watch out for pedestrians,” “red light,” these are all actual quotes. Murdaigean! Navigate! Do not drive! So we kind of started playing a game. Murdaigean and Ceanag are Star Trek fans, as am I to a degree. I was helmsman. Murdaigean became alternately Captain and Number One, both outranking and subordinating depending on what fit more. So the banter became different, “dropping out of warp” when we left the highway, “entering orbit” around a restaurant and “finding a suitable landing spot” in the parking lot, going to “Warp X” where X = speed in MPH/10. It’s a lot less annoying to have someone tell you to go to Warp 4 than it is for them to tell you to slow down or speed up. It’s also kind of amusing to declare “message from Starfleet!” when your cell phone rings. So when I say we had a “hull breach in cargo bay 2,” it means we kept having to stop to adjust our load. The wind had caught the tarp and pulled it up, fraying the old bungie net, forcing us to “drop out of warp” and improvise over and over again.

16 hours in total. We stopped off at Murdaigean’s brother’s place, a small farm in TN I think it was, then, finally, we got there. I think it was late afternoon. It’s a big, big campsite we rolled up on. That’s when I got my first medallion. Never lose your medallion. That’s your pass to get in, you have to have it to fight. If you lose it, you’re done-zo. I didn’t lose it. We slowly rolled the pickup truck through a treat for the eyes. Tents of all shapes and sizes everywhere. Some camps, the more established ones, the main bases of operations for the major player kingdoms in the war, had actual permanent structures. Big gates, arches, towers with their name on. ANSTEORRA jumped out at me first. More on those awesome, awesome dudes later.

But that wasn’t us. We were going for a smaller camp out in the corner on the edge of the world. Surrounded on all sides by impenetrable underbrush and foliage was Crawhere.

I’m including these pictures so you’ll believe the scope of what I’m telling you, and I’m still saying they don’t do the experience justice.

People were setting up, had already set up, the camp was about half there. So Murdaigean introduced me to the practice of unloading a truck for an event, and setting up a tent. Lay the tarp out. Lay the canvas out flat. Hammer in the pegs. Put the roof pole through. Attach the ground poles. Stand the assembly up. Close the flaps. Now, the smaller tent. That was mine. Tarp, canvas, pegs, poles, stand, done. “Okay. You can suit up now.”

About ten minutes later I emerged proudly from my tent.

I got looks.

They weren’t good looks. They were “uh-oh” and “who let him in here” looks.

Crawhere is an Early Period camp. I think I’ve mentioned that the SCA concerns between 600 and 1650, with the “50” added recently for the fencers. Crawhere is firmly shouldered up against the 600. Vikings, Celts, nationalities I can’t pronounce that are long dead. Now here’s this guy, not only Late Period (1492), but a fucking catholic priest. Let me show you what that looked like.

I got away with it for three reasons.

First, I made the outfit. I found out having a craft, some service you provide or skill you can demonstrate, goes a long way. And it shows commitment, a deliberateness and air of purpose behind your persona.

Second, I knew my shit. Their words. I was repeatedly asked, “what era?” The answer was, “1492, Borgia papacy, I’m from Naples, roundabout the time of the Conclave just before he emerged as Alexander VI,” and on and on and on. And they’d look at each other, smile, nod, and quip, “he knows his shit.”

Third, and probably most important, and I can’t overstate this: Cardinal Roverino is corrupt from his zuchetto down to his boots. Everyone is repelled by this persona at first. Actual Christians balk at my presumption. Everyone else is afraid I’m an Actual Christian. Like I’m really going to strike them with a bible or try to interdict the very-much-not-holy practices that happen at these events, or even in-character be a superior jerk about everything and try to interdict the very-much-not-holy practices of their respective tribes.

And they back away and put their hands up until I offer to sell them an indulgence. Then the reaction is always the same

“Oh! You’re that kind of Cardinal!”

Oh yeah. That kind. And proud out loud of it. Once again, the story of Cardinal Scolario “Skopa” Roverino is one I’ll tell you in detail later. But what you need to know is, he’s from the height of Rome’s decadence, and will justify or condemn any action, person or stance for the right bribe. In fact he’ll do ANYTHING for the right bribe.

And it’s after discovering this people offer me a drink.

So met the guys, who were all very nice Southern people, Murdaigean and I saw to our safety, and then I decided to go out and wander.

It was beautiful. Artificial light was rare. Torches everywhere, and it was quite enough to get around. I never walk anywhere if I’m alone. I lope at the slowest, and flat-out dash when I’m really excited. In an ankle length cassock, this takes practice. I end up hiking it up like a skirt, which causes it to puff up and billow out, it looks really awesome and really silly at the same time. So I’m double-timing it through this town of tents and arches and wood fences, looking for someone to talk to. That’s what I’m usually doing. Then I arrive at one of the few permanent buildings at the center of the whole affair.

I drift into the dim light and seductive embrace of the Green Dragon Inn.

The ceiling is really high. Above the bar is a loft where bands play or the cool people chat. From there you can get a good view of the tavern. You’re not allowed to sell alcohol at an event, so everything here is in exchange for donations. You can get stuff to drink but I don’t drink, so I can’t remember what they have. But you can also get a meal. Some salami, some bread, and some cheese. I realize that may not sound like much. But it’s not only extremely fitting, but so very tempting with the kind of hunger an event like Gulf Wars brings up. So I approached the bar for a coke. The bartender was a Laurel. She complimented me on my outfit, and I said I’d made it. Suddenly I was very interesting. She started pawing at my sleeve, turning it open for inspection. “But I’ll bet you didn’t do the sleeves ri--you DID do the sleeves right!” She was looking at me like I was The Chosen One or something.

I sound arrogant, and maybe I am. But I was at a very low point in my life, not long before I’d sold my old shotgun for fear of looking down the wrong end of it. I’d spent three years with a woman who went out of her way to make me feel useless and stupid. Suddenly people were telling me I knew my shit. I made the sleeves right. And I should be entering A&S competitions. I’m still riding that momentum, bearing in mind how much it’s come back after all that effort.

The Laurel gave me advice on how to find extant patterns, was the first of many to tell me not to make my garb out of polyester, and gave me some homework, go to the Merchant’s Row and get some patterns.

Soon I was standing on the loft with a beautiful young squire, a friend of the Laurel’s. She was sly and sweet and spunky, and told me that the tavern decorations were all things people left behind at the tavern. Remember those site tokens I mentioned not to lose before? Three of them hung on the central support beam from three different years.

I felt like I was home.

[I didn’t see the lovely Squire again. It’s easy to lose people at an event like this, but I found everyone else but her. Her nickname was Badger or something. Where’d you go? --The Cardinal]

Photos by Az Parris