SCA

Warning: Spoiler alert! There are articles here that have yet to be published elsewhere. All content copyrights belong to “True Thomas the Storyteller” (Robert Seutter) and/or the SCA. If you would like to re-publish these articles in your SCA newsletters, magazines, etc. please feel free to contact THL Thomas Whitehart (True) and he’ll be glad to help you.

• ABC-SCA, The SCA Alphabet Primer
• A Shield Wall of One!
• Bad-Bard, Bad-Bard, Whatcha' Gonna Do?
• Born in the SCA
• Crag's Lyst, (April Foolish!)
• The Medieval Diner
• Sunny Valhalla SCA Retirement Home
• Secret Stratagems
• Siege Towers 101
• The Boke of the Dyseases le SCadyian
• The Fyne Art of Combat Brewing
• True’s Glossary of…EVIL!, Version 3.0!
• Happy Hanu-Kwana-Solsti-rismas!
• The Fyne art of Feast Warfare
• SCA Heraldic Zodiac Bling
• Welcome to the New Middle Aged-ness
• The Fyne Art of Picking a Nemesis
• A Visit From Sir Sven A Claus

• Class Handouts

Sunny Valhalla SCA Retirement Home

By: THL Thomas Whitehart

“Greetings M’lord, My name is Master Branthelwyg, and I’ll be your gold-key chatelaine at the Sunny Valhalla SCA retirement home.” The grey bearded man paused to take in the luxurious estate. “Well thanks. I just moved into the area” The young man clad in impeccable Italian court garb bowed low, his sleeves sweeping the floor. “Well, M’lord, you’ll be happy to know that we have many fine features that will remind you of the “good old days.”

The two of them wandered past a lush courtyard where fighter practice was happening, albeit very slowly. Thomas paused to watch. “Wow, is that who I think it is?” Branthelwyg smiled. “Indeed. He’s been king 27 times so far. We actually have heralds working on new superlative titles for him.” After watching the flurry of creaky blows, and ancient squires scurrying off to fetch cold packs and splints, Thomas spotted a beautiful scroll displayed on the wall. “Is this… today’s schedule of events?” The young man smiled. “Well spotted M’lord, obviously, you have a keen eye for the Latin. We have the gold leaf illumination done daily!” The old man squinted at it. “Amazing!” Master Branthelwyg waited politely for the aging Celt, as he fumbled in his sporran for his reading glasses.

After a few moments the Chatelaine kindly offered to read it aloud for him. “Well, M’lord, Let’s see; we have wheel chair jousting at 3:00, then a class on feast warfare at 4:00, and, oh, at 7:00 we are watching the Knowne Worlds White Scarf Tourney!” He leaned conspiratorially towards the older man. “It’s beamed exclusively from the Lunar Colony arena to our facilities. Flying Swash and Buckle in Low-G, very dramatic!” The older man nodded enthusiastically. “I saw the “Bounding Darachian Dons” of Mars win five years ago. It was pointy-poetry in motion!” The two of them continued on, chatting as they wandered thru the sun-lit halls.

The younger man paused to recall for a moment. “Last year, we did have a bit of a problem though.” The bard smiled. “Really? How so?” “A few of our nobles here got a bit over-excited and some of them ran amuck.” Thomas nodded “Well that does happen, especially with the fighters.” The young master agreed “We now have standing policy regarding a certain female knight and mashed potatoes. And we keep a close eye out when all the honey starts disappearing off the tables. It seems that the Caidan Brewers Guild Underground is well entrenched here.”

They stopped at an elegant Byzantine courtyard, complete with cool fountains and tiles depicting famous crown tourneys. Thomas looked about the luxurious facility. “Hmm. So what are the rooms like?” “I’m so glad you asked!” He brought the aged bard thru a series of doors. “Here is one of our Viking rooms, part of our “Platinum Peer” program. Each item in this room has been carefully researched from authentic archeological finds, and has the “Laurelate™” seal of approval.” The bard shook his head in wonder.

The two of them continued the tour, and the young man proudly showed off the gold plated porta-johns, and beautiful hand woven pavilions. Eventually they made their way back to his office where he served some chamomile tea, and some scones made to a recipe thoroughly documented back the 12th century.

‘What is your Personae’s time period, M’lord? The older man scratched his head. “13th Century Celtic?” “And your Order of Precedence…Duke, Master...?” Thomas smiled wryly “Well, actually, I’m not a peer.” The chatelaine raised an eyebrow and there was a bit of a pause. “Oh. OH. Well, are you…(smiling hopefully)…well to do? We do have a lovely Wealthy Merchant program…. Are you by any chance a Wealthy Merchant?” Thomas looked down at his tea. “Not as much, no.” The chatelaine for Sunny Valhalla SCA retirement home, sighed. “Well. We might have some other programs you might qualify for. All of them just as thoroughly researched, of course.” Branthelwyg pressed a button and pointed towards a newly revealed door. “M’lord, follow me please?” Thomas tottered hopefully after him.

“I’m fairly certain you could qualify for the “minion-o-matic” program.” Thomas nodded encouragingly. “How does that work?” “Well, as you know, to keep our clients in fine fettle, they need to be challenged. Nothing keeps an older Knight spry, like wading thru a shield wall, or Pelicans perky like “cratting” an event for a thousand. Minions play a very important role here at Sunny Valhalla.” Thomas paused a moment to catch his breath. “That sounds… interesting.” The young man smiled winningly. “It is, it is…but it’s all “hush-hush, top secret” of course.” He pulled out a glowing stylus pad. “Now, if you’ll just sign this NDA here. And your thumb print here, and here. Thank you.” He motioned Thomas towards a darkened room that smelled of smoke.

“Now, if you would please step over here, and sit on this bench?” Thomas sat down. The chatelaine chatted amiably as he shackled the old man to the bench. “Did you know that this is a thoroughly documented roman trireme? No? Winner of pentathlon 127 in fact! He pushed the rowing oar into Thomas’s bewildered hands. “There we go. Well done m’lord, well done!” The young man pointed to the large hairy man wearing a pelican medallion and not much else. “This is Master Vlad, the transportation autocrat” Master Vlad growled, and snapped Thomas with the whip by way of introduction. Thomas jumped. “YOW! Is the whip necessary!? I’m not a leather-backed squire or apprentice! My hide is very tender!” Branthelwyg patted the aged man on the shoulder. “We do want to be authentic, M’lord, do we not?” Thomas nodded, slowly. “I guess…. wait, wait!.” The young lord paused before getting off the boat. “Yes?” “Will I get volunteer hours for this?” “Of course M’lord, of course! Now let’s get into personae, shall we?!” Branthelwyg stepped off the boat, and the large drums started to pound. “STROKE!” Dum-Dum-Teka Tek, Dum Teka- Tek! “STROKE!”

As Chatelaine Branthelwyg strolled back towards his office, he distantly heard the old bard scream. “Aaiiieeee! The DRUMS!!!!! ”

-Tempus Fugit!