[Ansteorra] I have a question

[Brendan Talbot]

Why did I join the SCA?
An interest in history.
Why do I *stay* in the SCA?
Magic. 
(Stay with me here!) 
     I refer to moments that happen, not at every event I attend, sometimes not even at most events I attend, but often enough that it keeps me coming back. Moments that transport me from the modern, mundane world, to a different place and time... Sometimes it's the kinda stuff that takes your breath away, sometimes it's the kind of stuff that will thereafter follow the words "No ****, there I was..."
     My first exposure to the SCA was when some friends invited me to an event some 15 years ago. It was a close drive, being held at the recently opened "Castle" in Muskogee. I had no idea what to expect, but made an attempt at garb... a folded over piece of muslin, sewed up the sides, with a neck hole, and a long piece of plaid flannel, wrapped around my waist. After a long day of meeting new people, I was sitting around a campfire with some of my new friends, (Some of whom were drinking something they called "Grizzly Piss", wish I could get ahold of some of THAT!), watching this fellow in a tunic and bermuda shorts, dancing around barefoot and playing the bongos. He stepped on a stick, and cut open his foot. Everything ground to a halt, and the fellow sat down right next to us. He asked for a pull off the bottle, and poured some of it on his foot. He asked if we had anything to bandage it with, and I offered a piece of my "kilt". He bound it around his foot, and hopped up and danced away, picking up his playing where he had left off. I said something to the effect of, "Well, that was interesting, he seemed like a nice guy... Who was he?" and all of my companions kinda stared at me... One of them said, "Oh, that was the King of Ansteorra..."
     More recently, I was walking through the hall at a Northkeephad  event, having a "meh" kind of event. The hall was largely deserted, and I happened to look dawn toward the other end of the hall. Sitting in a ray of sunshine, motes dancing, I saw a young Lady, sittinng quietly, staring out the window. Everything, from her garb, he way she sat, with her hands in her lap, and legs tucked up under her chair, to the sun haloing her hair in copper, was right out of an old master's painting. It breaks my heart that I cannot paint portraits. It was Magical.
So, magic, the magic of moments, is what keeps me coming back... well, that, and all the friends I have made in these last 15 years...
In Service to the Dream,
~Ld. B. Talbot, of Northkeep
 		 	   		  
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