Quite a pleasant year it’s been,
Mayhap the best yet I have seen.
And ‘tis true, as some do say,
That I spent it running ‘mongst the fae.
Blessed Canterbury this year has been,
With fae leadership like none yet seen,
And all the talent one could ask,
For the fae portraying task.
Listen*, reader, and you shall hear,
What has transpired this past year.

*Strike “listen” and “hear”, replace both with “read”.  You get the idea.

In the mortal world, a gloomy day.  At least, until the coming of the fae.

In days long past, it came to be,
A mortal found the courts faerie.
Ever long, his life was made,
So eternally he could guard each glade.

King Sil and I, we are the same.  'Twas not I that made this claim.  They say he wished to see the things one would not dare to show to kings.  So he walks the and as common fae.  At least, that is what they say.

In the mound of the fae King Sil,
His home once was and it is still;
The faerie mound Silbury Hill*.

*Wiltshire, England.  Kind of close to Stone Henge.

The place I dwell, the circle round.  The ancient tomb, the faerie mound.

When on the Hill each new day dawns,
The once-mortal rises and yawn.
His silver* armour he quickly dons,
And grabs his ancient sword of bronze.

*May not actually be silver.  This is theatre, you know.  But the sword really is bronze.

Most of the fae, if I may say,
Have faces young and forms quite fine.
They glisten in the sunlit day,
And have a glow nearing divine.

Sometimes, to these lovely fae,
Unscrupulous admirers* seek and pine.
The once-mortal drives them away,
Keeping unwanted suitors in line.

*Or, put plainly, stalkers.

Not an actual stalker.

Quite unlike the other fae,
The once-mortal doth seldom play.
He watches the fae, their homes and gates.
Though some mischief fae nature predicates.
Those with ribbons in their hair,
Or hats with long tails had best beware.
Thou may feel a breeze, but shalt not see,
How the braid behind thee came to be.

With the fall of day and rise of night,
The once-mortal’s daily job is done.
But there is time for a revel or fight,
With the things that stay hidden from the sun.
Some may hunt, or play chess with a brother,
But collaring werewolves is a sport like no other.
And sometimes strange patterns he cuts in the grain,*
To see if it drives the mortals insane.

*Turns out, Silbury Hill is the crop circle capitol of the western world.  But I don’t think the phenomenon is period, so I couldn’t put it in the costume.

And with the dead that feed on the living,
There is indeed much misgiving,
For nothing can more vexed be,
Than a vampire near garlic it cannot see.
And the faces it makes, though wicked and vile,
Are funny enough to make the chase worth the while.

Fin.

King Sil's crown, scepter and all that, are guarded by a pumpkin cat.  Mortimer is the creature's name, a fearsome fruit impossibe to tame.

Well the sun's shining down on these green fields of France
The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance
The trenches have vanished long under the plow
There's no gas, no barb wire, there's no guns firing now

But here in this graveyard that's still no-man's land
The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man
The whole generation was butchered and damned

Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the pipes lowly?
Did they bugles carry you over as they lowered you down?
And did the band play 'The Last Post' in chorus?
Did the pipes play 'The Flowers Of The Forest'?

                                  -No Man's Land (Green Fields of France), Eric Bogle

The start of KCRF 2009 (aka 1547) season approaches swiftly.  In the mere wait to Labor Day weekend we shall commence with the festival.  And what of the news of Canterbury?  See below.

The Festival

We are again met with a ficticious monarchy.  It seemeth that, when we attempt to portray actual, historical personages, Ann Boelyn hath an an invisibe yet unshakeable mark of doom about her head.  This is not well met at all for a festival, so our recourse is to conjure forth royalty of our own devising.

The scenario this year, now that 'tis finalized, I see to be light an irreverent.  'Tis a match betwixt Sheakespeare and Marlowe with, as we are known to do, great liberties taken in the interpretation of history.

The Fae

'Tis true that I this year shall count myself among the number of the Unseen.  I can best describe the attention given to the fae by saying we are riding the "last year's scenario high."  We have taken the Wildewood as our own realm and we've the numbers to fill it.  In contrast to the mortals, we the shining ones have begun to draw characters more from history (or rather mythology) than previous years' trend toward taking characters from fiction.

For mine own character, this year not as "Sir Julian" shall I be known, as well you may likey guess.  Rather, I shall be Sllbury (named for the hill, which in reality, is the crop circle capitol of the Western World), knight-protector to the legendary King Sil (king to the fae of Albion), and guardian to all Albion's fae.

More on this I shall likey have to say as the year doth progress.

Chess Match

Again I shall be participating in the Human (and fae) Combat Chess Match.  I've not a fight of mine own this year, but still I do look forward to it.  The fae will be present in force this year, and to any visitors to the festival I do highly recommend seeing the match.

Of the Past Week

This weekend did see a major event for our festival, the promotional event by which we pay for our rehersal space.  Mine own praticipation was of a limited nature as I hads been struck with multipe vexations for the weekend.

First was that unseen forces governing my knee did decide the weekend was a splendid time to cause it to inflate as a baloon for no particular reason.  I later realized it to be an infection, after it broke the skin days later.  'Tis well now in function, but I suspect 'twill leave a mark when all is done.

Second, and paling in comparison was that I did manage to gouge a chunk from one finger as I was doing last-minute work on mine armour.  Such was naught but the incapacitation of a single finger and it bothered me little in comparison to the previous vexation.  'Tis healing well now.

Finally was a slight sore throat I did seem to acquire at about that time.  Hardly did I notice it at all o'er the other matters.

Added to this, although not affecting the feaste, was that I had bombed a job interview mid-way through the preceeding week.  I had not truy expected to attain such employ, but job interviews are rare for me (even when the economy is good) and failing another is a less than comfortable reminder of how stuck I am in a rut of life.

Faced with such a conjunction of vexations, I can only conclude that I did have a fair bit of karma to pay off.  I know not what I may have done to earn such a debt, and so must guess it to be an ending balance from a previous life.

Matters Outside Faire

I did mention failing the interview.  It appears I've no choice but to remain at the job I have now.  Considering my pay, the time (the better part of an hour) to commute to work, the price of gas, and my scaled back hours, I am quite certain my net gain at this job is below minimum wage.  'Tis, howe'er, preferable to the one alternative I have which is to not have a job.  Barely.

Also I have elected to not participate as a vendor in the Wichita faire this fall, for the two reasons that I've had no time to build new inventory on account of al the labor I am putting into this year's costume armour, and further because I simply have not the money to cover the registration fee, and refuse to borrow said money when I have every reason to believe I will not sell enough armour to cover that expense.

(Tangentially, my costume armor is quite a piece of work.  I know of no other armour even remotely like it.  Some parts did not come out quite as I wished them, but this a very ambitious endeavor for my modest skill level, and by-and-large I am pleased.)

Finally, as I've no other advertizing for it, I shall reiterate:

weread.com/book/B0027IQGOM/It+Takes+A+Gr...

I would like to start a website to promote my one published 'kindle' book, but have no idea where to start.  I am also hindered by ack of money (as I do not believe webspace to be free) and the fact that mine own computer hath not internet access.  Would that I had my way I would put up a site via a green webhost.

-Sil, or J

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?
In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined?
And though you died back in nineteen-sixteen
In that faithful heart are you always nineteen?

Or are you a stranger without a name?
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane
In an old photograph, torn and tattered, and stained.
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame.

Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the pipes lowly?
Did they bugles carry you over as they lowered you down?
And did the band play 'The Last Post' in chorus?
Did the pipes play 'The Flowers Of The Forest'?

     -No Man's Land (Green Fields of France), Eric Bogle