ANST - Final moments of Crown

Pug Bainter pug at
Mon Mar 30 11:21:58 PST 1998

D.R. Hoffpauir said something that sounded like:
> Attached is a personal recollection of the final moments of Crown
> Tournament.  A wave of creativity hit me (or maybe it's just exhaustion)
> after Sir Kief related his 'final moments of Crown' experience which
> were exactly like mine.  This was intended only for our local
> publication 'Quoth the Raven,' but  I thought others might enjoy it as
> well.
> David St. David, s.b., Baron Raven's Fort

Below is a text version of the same message. Let's try not to post Word
or other software files since not all people can read them and they lead
to wasted bandwidth.


Phelim "Pug" Gervase  | "I want to be called. COTTONTIPS. There is something 
Barony of Bryn Gwlad  |  graceful about that lady. A young woman bursting with 
House Flaming Dog     |  vigor. She blinked at the sudden light. She writes
pug at           |  beautiful poems. When ever shall we meet again?"
I submit these words in honor of our crown Prince and Princess as
a recollection of the final moments of Ansteorran Crown Tournament,
Raven's Fort, A.S. XXXII

Being host, I had observed the subtleties of weather all day. Strangely
the sun and clouds had danced about.  At times the wind would gust as if
forcing its will upon some bouts by whirling leaves into fighters faces
or carrying upon itself the distraction of voices.  At other times it
lay still, or crept softly along the ground like some unseen cat, hardly
perceptible, but undoubtedly present, awaiting the precise moment to
spring, it finding suitable prey in chivalric fighters and their game.
The clouds, as well, had alternately tumbled shadows and sunlight over
the field.  At times the shadows would linger as if watching, then be
gone as if they had lost interest or been bullied aside by the sun.
So this waltz of subtleties had progressed all day.

It had been a grand day of fighting.  Chivalry had not contained itself.
All who had fought had won with winners not being determined by skill
alone, but by strength of heart and kinship shown in chivalric acts that
are often the closest thing we ever see to deep emotion in strong men.
Knights had subjugated their will and in friendship yielded to their foe.
Squires and the lesser skilled had fought above themselves. Hopes had
fluttered in the wind and then been carried away.

I am not one to believe much in things I cannot control, but a good
lady friend of mine had related to me that she had consulted her cards
and predicted that our future king would be something of a dark horse.
An interpretation she took to mean as someone who had never sat our
throne before. Her divination had proved true.  Neither of the final
three contenders had ever won Crown Tournament.

The final bout, as many of you know, was fought between two of our
greatest exemplars of Chivalry.  Sir Gunther of mighty arm and deadly
skill had stood this ground before as had his opponent Sir Barn Silveraxe,
the titan of swiftness.  Both had come this close before, nearly winners,
nearly king.

The final bout.  The final moments of our grand tournament.  The list
field was ringed with Ansteorran Chivalry in anticipation of the end.
Very soon the outcome would be determined.  It was then that something
mystical happened.

It was one of those moments when the sun had been shoved aside and
shadow lay upon the field.  The wind was crouched somewhere, hardly
stirring. Everyone knew the significance of the moment.  Time had come
when fate would choose a king and we each would witness that important
moment in our created history simply by watching.  All eyes were on the
field, no one spoke, nor stirred, some hardly breathed.  The opponents
gauged each other, not hurried nor distracted, for this was too important
for such things.

Suddenly, the great pavilion top slapped down then up announcing the
wind had found quarry and pounced, leaves scattered across the ground
and the aged Dreaming Tree bowed with a rustling of thousands of more.
The clouds, at that exact instance, brushed aside illuminating the
fighters, gleaming their metal helms, light vibrating in the greenness
of the grass and the pennant colors that fluttered and flapped from
tents which ringed the field.  NOW!, I thought.  Now!

This is it! Right now, I found myself saying to no one in particular.
Others related later they had uttered those very same words at that very
same instance. It was THE moment and everyone knew.  The elements had
given consent, the two engaged in a quick, brief storm of clank and thud.
Blows had landed, but were they good?  A collective gasp from onlookers.
A pregnant, expectant pause, then it was over.  The dead lingered a
moment, then was gone.  The combatants embraced.  A prince was born.

	VIVAT, Barn!

HE, David St David, s.b., Baron-Raven's Fort
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