Finally, the story can be told ...

The GeneralJust Hit it with a Stick - The General's MemoirsI have long wondered what I would say when the time came to retire from the Tripod of Power. It was inevitable. Unlike the Iron baron, I never saw this position as a life-long post. As I said in my parting words at the Pipe & Pint, my work has been accomplished. It is time for someone else to sit in the spotlight for a while.

However, now that the deed is done, and the grinding wheel turns again as a new throne-holder is sought, I reflect on those remarkable years that I served Revelwood in that capacity.

Hidden deep in my memories are magical moments that make me smile, or cry, whenever I rediscover them. They are like gentle clouds of fireflies glowing in the warm spring Revelwood nights. Each flash of brightness reveals a distant place, or a moment of forgotten time. Each luminous recollection is a part of a lifetime spent with my family, my Revelwood.

I will now try to share some of the more brilliant flashes of these memories. The choosing of which lights to describe is difficult. There are so many. But try I will.

As I have often said and believe with all my heart, our primary goal in Revelwood is to make people as happy as they can be when they are
with us. This has not often been easy, nor has it always been successful. But it is not for lack of trying.

In fact, it was this desire that got me into trouble in the first place.

CHAPTER ONE • First Contact

The date was 1985. I had spent several years developing a fantasy persona in the medieval reenactment organization known as the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA). This was a roller coaster ride for me as the local chapter, the Shire of Iron Bog, was involved in a political skirmish. The original leaders were getting ready to move off and join a popular household. This left a void within which two groups were vying for control. For those of us without political aspirations, this created a environment of bitterness and divisiveness. Don’t mistake service with political aspiration. I served the shire as Knight’s Marshall, and Chronicler for several years. But I didn’t see it necessary to subjugate myself in service to the popular local Baron, or Duke, or King. This disinterest led those in competition to believe, “If he is not with us, he is against us.” In truth, I was neither. I really just wanted to hit people with sticks and write clever newsletters. Something that has never changed all these years.

But it was not to be so. The pleasure was being sucked from the experience and I had decided to mothball “Kathleen.” No, not my beautiful wife, known to most of you as Cheron. The other “Kathleen.” The one that was my first armor. It was named Kathleen by the Vicar. He called it so because no matter how ripped, how broken, how torn and tattered it would get, I would always “take it home, again.”  Back then it was simple to fix your armor. Just cut another piece of carpet and rivet it into place.

Cheron and I figured that it just wasn’t worth it any longer. So we decided to quit. However, since I had agreed to Marshall one last fighting demonstration, at the Gloucester County Library, I patched up Kathleen, gathered my sticks and went to the demo.

That is when it all changed.

During the latter part of the afternoon, I had grown bored. There were some one-on-one bouts between rivals, a couple of melee bouts between factions, and the occasional attempt by the visitors to don some armor and swing a sword. That is how I met Q.

This sturdy looking fellow, accompanied by his frail but wiry cousin approached me. “I want to try and fight!” the sturdy fellow exclaimed. The wiry fellow helped fit his cousin with the spare armor and picked out a sword for him. Then the virgin fighter made his way into the list. I spent a few minutes explaining the legal strike zones, how best to use a shield and the wrist-snapping motion of sword play. He caught on quick and we bounced about the list for a few minutes.

As fate would have it, I was fighting with a new mace I had constructed before deciding to quit. It was a quick weapon, and in a moment of rare unconscious villainy, I smacked this newcomer square in the groin with my mace. He went down in a flash and groaned in misery. I felt awful. The poor guy, I thought. I knew how it felt because it had happened to me several time over the years. And to make matters worse, he wasn’t wearing a cup.

I knelt down beside him and try to console him. I spewed apologies as the wiry cousin came running towards us. Expecting a tirade of curses and admonishments, I was bewildered when the frail fellow screamed “That was great! Q, wasn’t that great! That was so cool.”

Q looked up from his fetal position and with tears in his eyes smiled through clenched teeth. “Yeah.” he whispered. “It was great. Now it’s your turn to try it Skylar.”

We struck up a friendship at that very moment. I was impressed that I could hit him in the balls and he wasn’t angry at me. I sensed a spirit of kindness in him and was attracted immediately. I invited them both to the feast scheduled for that evening at the Shire’s meeting hall. That is when I discovered the music.

That evening, Q, Skylar and another fellow, called M, arrived at the meeting hall in Pitman. They had brought their instruments and were interested in playing for the Shire. However, they didn’t know any medieval songs. Just a couple of Jethro Tull tunes, and a version of Lady Jane by The Rolling Stones. It was wonderful. In the past, the only music had been the occasional recorder or almost silent harp. Here was a sound that had a flute, a penny whistle, a violin and a guitar. And these guys were good. However, they were missing a vital sound. A drum.

Never having been one to wait too long for fate to direct my destiny, I approached them and asked if I could sit in. They looked at each other apprehensively. Finally, after an awkward moment of silence, Q said sure. I had intended to use a dumbeck that someone had brought. However, Skylar offered me a home-made bodhran and a stick. It was comprised of a cardboard cylinder, about 14” in diameter, topped with a tom-tom drumhead. It was all held together with duct tape.

This was the first time I’d ever seen a bodhran and wasn’t quite sure how to play it. But I understood the principle. Just hit it with a stick. All through the night, we hacked our way through reels and jigs, to the delight of the music starved members of Iron Bog. Of course, I didn’t really know how to play it at that point. I really was just keeping time as best as possible. The moment of enlightenment came in a rented seashore house, halfway into a bottle of Chivas, wearing a bathing suit and a Pith Helmet.

The stage had been set for a dozen years of music.

CHAPTER TWO • Baron Bobby and the Night of Woe

The music wasn’t the only thing this early form of Revelwood was accomplished at. We were also fighters. In fact, we were sought out by one of the more popular up-and-coming fighting households known as The Black Guard. Revelwood consisted of a squad size (8-10) unit of mercenaries with the attitude of an entire army.  After all, we had a General.

The leader of the Black Guard was an ambitious fellow by the name of Baron Robert. It was his design to rule all the lands in Central Pennsylvania through the creation of an elite fighting force. This fighting force was comprised of a handful of machismo young studs, fiercely loyal to Baron Robert and the Black Guard. Fiercely loyal, that is, until Revelwood came along. Then it just sort of fell apart. It should be clear by now that Revelwood has that effect on pomposity.

It wasn’t our fault. The Black Guard fighters had a better time hanging around with us than they did with the Black Guard. You see, the Wolffe Pack was sort of a traveling fiesta with sticks. Again, it was attitude. As a General, I understood the need for good morale and decisive leadership. I had served with bad leaders in the past and had learned through their mistakes. In the field, I could command with the best of them. I could watch a melee unfold and direct our forces where they would do the most good and have the best time fighting. A happy fighter is an effective fighter. And we were happy.

One by one, the young studs started to show up in the Revelwood camp instead of the Black Guard camp. Although this pleased our ladies, it didn’t do much for Baron Robert’s plans for world domination. He was becoming disturbed with the effect our approach to fighting was having on his unit. But we were becoming disenchanted ourselves. One experience stands out quite clear in my mind.

One early morning, Baron Robert had us assemble and march across the entire campground so that we could be first in line for the Woods Battle. However, he got the location wrong. So we had to march back to within a hundred yards of our starting place, only to find that we were now last in line. That meant more waiting. For those in armor, that’s the worst thing that can happen. Then he argued with his lieutenants about whose fault it was. We looked at each other and whispered “Trouble at the mill.”  Our mutual interests were quickly fading.

Another deal breaker was the requirement that we stand guard duty at the King’s encampment. This was a great honor for Baron Robert and the Black Guard. Less so for us. However, in true Revelwood fashion, a way was found to twist a rather bland experience and make it bizarre. Q and Skylar spent about 3 minutes watching people walk by and decided that the King was on his own. They hadn’t driven seven hours to be bookends for a group of people who wouldn’t even consider looking at us. They decided that here was a golden opportunity to make some gold. While the Royals were out ignoring people, Q and Skylar started selling tours of the Royal encampment. They charged $.25 each for a stroll through the King’s shower stall and a peek into the Queen’s tent. For a dollar you could try on a bra. They made a few bucks before the Royals came back. Q & Skylar tossed their spears to the closest lackey and jingled their way out.

That night, it all got even weirder.

One of the perks that had been promised to me by Baron Robert for the allegiance of our groups was an invitation for me to fight in the non-belted champion’s battle. In Revelwood, everyone was proud. Their General would join the ranks of some very accomplished warriors. I was very proud to carry the Golden Boris into battle. But, something went wrong. Very wrong. The night before the battle, the Royals decided that the several slots they had promised to Baron Robert for that battle was to be diminished to very few. Baron Robert sent a messenger to tell me that he was very sorry, but I was cut from the list. I was devastated. Not only did I see this as a personal disappointment, I saw it as a demonstration of his true opinion of Revelwood.

As I walked down the dirt path, SCAdians were milling about, partying was going on all around me. Looking up ahead, in the distance I could see M and Q talking just outside our campsite. “Wait a minute.” I thought to myself. I could still have a good time. Sure I was hurt, and my self-esteem was hit from behind, but I still had my band. A smile lit across my face. It was going to be alright. We were great and I would still enjoy myself. They seemed to be in lively conversation and I figured they were discussing what the playlist would be for the first camp we would visit. Q’s arms flew wildly as I imagined him telling M that he wanted to play Tull all night long. M’s foot must be keeping time on the dirt while it rose and fell. He was surely telling Q that he wanted to play some Chieftains also. I picked up my pace so I could be part of this obviously excited discourse between loving brothers. As I got closer, their words filtered through the background din.

“I hate your G*dam guts.” M screamed at Q. “You’re nothing but a f**king no good two-note prima-donna.”

“You suck.” Q responded. “I could play better violin doubled over a toilet.”

Together they closed into each other’s face and shouted in unison. “I QUIT!”

I was stunned. What had been my rescue from disillusionment and despair a moment before was now an even deeper hole for me to fall in. We had only been a band for about 6 months and already it was falling apart. Oh the pain. Oh the misery. Oh where was Skylar?

Skylar was their cousin. He could talk some sense into them. He could get them to realize their differences were insignificant compared to the depth of their familial attachments. Skylar could save the band.

Wheeling off before I reached Q & M, I went off in search of Skylar.

All my hopes were placed on him. It all looked so bad. I had lost my spot in the battle, my band was breaking up, and I had to search through a haystack of 8,000 costumed people to find a needle shaped guitar player. It didn’t look good. Then, it got worse.

I wandered about aimlessly for about an hour shouting out “Skylar.” Suddenly, in the dim light of a couple of tiki torches, I saw something. In the distance, on the side of the road, lying in a ditch, face down, was a thin young man with flowing yellow hair. Next to him was a dark shell guitar. He was wearing the simple white poofy shirt, black vest and black pants that we had decided to use as our band costumes for that evening. In my mind, above his prostrate body I could see the words “ABANDON YE ALL HOPE.”

That was it. I had reached my limit. I could take no more. Someone was going to pay for all the pain I was suffering. My anguish would be shared by another and it was going to be Skylar. I walked up to the motionless figure and stood over him. The mud pooled around his limp body. “You stupid son-of-a-bitch!” I screamed at him. “Why couldn’t you stay sober one more hour?” Blindly, I kicked him hard in the thigh. The body stirred but did not rouse. “You bastard.” I continued in my rage. “You could have fixed it. You could have made us a band again!” One more time I kicked him. Harder then before. Again he groaned but did not roll over. I decided that enough was enough. Skylar was going to suffer the booting of his life.

Just as I raised my foot to give him one final blow, a quite voice spoke behind me.

“Hey Fatty. Who you kicking?”

I spun around and looked directly into the face of Skylar.

The night wind whistled gently through my open mouth. Beneath us, the abused and broken body finally rolled over and revealed himself to be someone other than Skylar.

“Uh, time to go.” I said as I grabbed Skylar’s arm and pulled him down the road.

As it turned out, M & Q had this argument regularly. At that very moment they were  warming up a crowd at a party and had sent Skylar out to look for me.

The night ended with one more bizarre event that has something to do with an infamous dagger, a naked lady and feathered hat.

You do the math.

The next morning, over a cup of screaming hot black coffee, Q, M and I decided that this partnership with the Black Guard was not in our best interest. Marching across Cooper’s campground, protecting the royal outhouse and being cut from the list was about all we could take. We weren't keen on seeing what other tragedy could befall us as a result of this union. We decided that later that afternoon, we would go see Baron Robert and resign our commissions.

However, word got out. So when we made our trek to see him, the road was lined with Black Guard fighters and camp-followers. It was the first time anyone had ever quit the Black Guard and everyone wanted to see it.

We were greeted with all the pomp and circumstance Baron Robert could muster. He explained to us that he was so very sorry for the way things had turned out with regard to the marching about, the standing around watching brass hats and the missed battle. In fact, he was so sorry that he was going to promote us.

Q and I looked at each other. Promotions eh? “And what would these promotions involve?” we asked, fully aware that we weren't going to take them.

After 10 minutes of glorious promises and styrene compliments, we said...

“Naaa, maybe not.”

As a result of our experiences with the Black Guard and Baron Bobby, we were fortunate enough to meet Jung Mei, Daphane, Krakesbone, Divers and the Greenwood Muse. These are good things.

All-in-all, it was a positive experience. Like finally pulling the sharp stick from your eye.


Because of my citizenship in the Artisan’s Colony of Revelwood, I was able to be part of a magical journey.  Twice.

This is a good thing and I recommend it to everyone who has a chance.

However, be prepared to change.

The first trip to Ireland with a group of Revelwooders changed everyone who went. The second trip also changed everyone who went. The third trip resulted in changes also. This is a pattern. My guess is that it’ll probably change you too. Of course, there are those who believe that there is a pattern after something happens only once. But they are a silly lot.

But change is good. That is why you are reading these memoirs. Because of change.

One for the Money

The IB, M, Marita and I walked into the ticket area of John F. Kennedy Airport at about 7:00 PM. Our flight didn’t leave until 11:00 PM but you have to remember, we were traveling with M. The flight was not remarkable in any way. When we got off the plane, it began to be remarkable. I’d never seen such green landscape. This was a condition that continued throughout the journey. Just when I thought I had seen every shade of green there ever was, I was proved wrong.

We got our rented cars and made our way out of the parking lot. This was administrative behavior and M and I made short work of it. The trip from Shannon Airport to Killarny was about two hours. About 30 minutes into the trip M hit a parked car.

We were traveling through a village called Rathkeale. A typical Irish town, it had some stores, a church and a smattering of pubs. The IB and I were driving the car behind M and Marita, and we saw the whole thing. Coming towards us was a lorry. It was a full size truck and the street was kind of tight. Just the same way that Olaf’s truck is kind of loud. Actually, all the streets, roads, lanes and super highways in Ireland are tight. But this particular street had cars parked on both sides and that made it even smaller. Combine this with the fact that he was driving on the opposite side of the road for the first time in his life, and you can understand how the lorry crowded M. In an attempt to avoid the truck, he clipped the passenger side view mirror on his car and the driver’s side mirror from a little white Ford Fiesta. There was some scraping involved too. Finally, our two-car caravan pulled over at the first available spot. We got out and inspected the damage. There was enough to be grateful we had the collision coverage. But it didn’t look too bad.

However, M carried on like he’d derailed a train. “Oh my God.” He lamented. “My insurance rates. My credit card rates. I’ll be stuck in a court. I’ll have to this and I’ll have to that.” He took a deep breath and went on. “I’m an American. I’ll have to spend three times the normal amount to get this guy’s car fixed. It’ll take all my vacation money getting this repaired. I need to find the owner. ”  Marita just sighed and let him go on. She was used to this.

The IB shared a moment of baronial compassion. “Well, at least I didn’t have the first accident.”

I was despairing because I wanted to finish our journey and team up with Q, Skylar, Stonewall, Jung Mei and Kerry waiting for us in Killarny. It was the General hormones pushing me. I wanted our mission to continue. Leave the wounded I thought. Let God sort it out.

Around us a small gathering of native children had appeared. They leaned like a line up of waifs against a nearby brick wall.

“Alright.” M announced aloud. “There must be a way to get this resolved. We’re not the first tourists this has happened to. There must be a system in place. We need a cop!”

We all looked around. Where do you find a cop on another planet? Well, I thought, you ask the indigenous life. So M and I walked to the gathering of kids and asked politely. “Do you know where we can find the Guarda?”

Hearing this, two of the kids took off from the wall. The future Irish Olympians vanished from sight.

“Awww and you won’t be needing the Guarda now.” A boy of about ten said in an adorable Liam Neeson accent. “I know whose car this is and he won’t mind, don’t you know.”

“That’s all well and good but I will need to report this to the insurance company and I’ll need a police report and I need to tell the owner and I…” M kept going.

The young boy listened to M explain his needs for a few moments and then looked up at me. “50 P.”

“Pardon me?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

“I’ll take you to the Guarda post for 50 P.” He answered as M slowed down to breathe.

I was impressed. Here was an example of the local economy at work. And such a young entrepreneur also. “What’s your name?” I asked him as I reached in my pocket and pulled out two coins that I thought were twenty-five pence pieces. In reality they were 50p each and I was giving the kid about three dollars American. That happened a lot the first few days.

“He’s Colin,” a girl answered from the pack. “Colin Jenks.” She was a bit older then Colin and stood almost a foot taller then him. I handed the two coins to Colin and he tried to stuff them in his pocket as discreetly as possible. But this slight of hand was lost on her. She glared at him with the look of the Iron Maiden right before a serious castigation.

I turned to M and we spoke for a moment about our next steps. While we spoke, the older girl grabbed Colin by the back of the head and pulled him against a whitewashed cinderblock wall. Then she started to roust him for the money I had just delivered. Through that beautiful Irish brogue, she was demanding her cut. When Colin objected, she punched him in the chest. Fairly hard. He took it in stride and told her to fook off. When she drew her hand back further, he reluctantly agreed and gave her one of the coins. I was impressed with my first impression of Ireland. They even had organized crime.

Colin broke free of his mugger and told us to follow him. M asked me to go with him, and that IB and Marita stay there in case the owner of the car appeared. Off we went behind this young pirate. In a couple of blocks, no more than three, we were at a quaint little cottage. Colin stayed half a block away, remotely directing us to right place. Over the door was a semi-official looking sign that read… “Guarda.” M and I looked at each other bewildered. The building was no more than a Photomat with a wooden door. And in it sat Andy of Mayberry.

The police officer (Guarda) sat behind a rather unimpressive desk, in a bleak room with an Irish Tourist Board poster fastened by yellowed tape on one wall. The other wall had a clipboard with a dozen or so papers attached to it. The third wall had a window with pleasant lace curtains. The police officer wore a blue shirt and nearly matching blue pants. No gun, no badge, no nametag, no radio, nothing official looking at all. Were it not for the tattered epaulets on his pale blue shirt, we would have thought him the telephone repairman.

As M entered, I waited in the doorway, as there wasn’t enough room for all three of us in the room. The officer asked how he could help us. M began to explain what had happened and that he needed a report for his insurance company. The officer asked if there was anyone hurt to which M replied no. The officer looked visibly relaxed, leaned back and said that a report wasn’t necessary. M froze. No paperwork? Who was this guy fooling? He wasn’t a cop. M began again and finally convinced the cop to go with us to the scene. Reluctantly, the Guarda grabbed his pseudo-cop hat from within a drawer in the desk, tilted it ever so Irish-like on his head and we started back to the cars. On the way, the officer saw Colin Jenks ahead and called out to him. Colin stopped and waited for us to catch-up.

“You’ll not be doing the Americans again will you Colin?” The officer said to the visibly disturbed little boy.

“Ah… no sir.” Colin answered with a pleading look to M and me. We kept our silence.

“I hope not.” The officer offered. “If you do, your sister won’t be the only one you’ll be feeling the boot from.”

His sister? Egad. The strong arm was his sister. Less than an hour in Ireland and already M and I were no longer the scariest people we knew. We were impressed.

When we got back to the cars, most of the kiddy crowd had dispersed. I expect they deduced the opportunity for fund raising was over. Even the little Miss Iron Maiden had left. The Guarda recognized the car immediately.

“Ah, you won’t be having any trouble from this fellow.” The cop explained, running his hand over the scrape marks on the Fiesta. “He doesn’t have a license and the car hasn’t been registered for years.” The Iron Baron then explained that the owner had shown up. All the IB could say was that he looked Beefy. And not in the lean sirloin cut kind of way. He said he was a giant of a man that looked over the damage. When the IB told him that we were getting the Guarda, he vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

“What about the insurance company?” M asked again, in a standard American worry tone.

“You won’t having any trouble from them either. Tisn’t much of an accident.” The cop took off his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “You can just go on and have a good time here in Ireland. Enjoy the Guinness and be careful driving.”

He started to walk back toward the Guarda house, but suddenly stopped and turned around. He spoke right at Colin. “And you better be remembering what I told you Colin.”

Colin smiled and nodded his head. When the cop turned back around, Colin flashed him a ten-year-old finger. Then he smiled at us, waved and ran off in search of new game.

We were mesmerized. We felt like extras in a James Joyce novel.

Silently, we climbed back into our cars and continued our search for the rest of Revelwood waiting for us in Killarney at the Guadeloupe Birthing Center. That’s right. The Guadeloupe Birthing Center. Hostels? We don’t need no stinking hostels.

Two for the Show

Who knew that a moment of kindness at the Pennsic War two years before would result in five carloads of Revelwooders making their way up the narrow streets of Killarney, seeking out the one and only Guadeloupe Birthing Center? The sequence of events leading up to this created the very first quantum jump in the science of cause and effect. Here is what I mean.
Our hosts in this early part of our adventure were Pirosh (the first and only Revelwood Chieftain of Mumu), and his beautiful wife Monica.

Pirosh Monica

In truth, Monica and Pirosh never saw it coming. Nobody did. It was against all odds that something like this would happen. But in Revelwood those odds are called even.
They met as a result of my discovering Pirosh while he wandered aimlessly in a massive crowd of purist medieval music makers. He actually looked frightened as they repeatedly raised their crumhorns, five-foot recorders and Dumbecks to begin another ridiculously long rendition of a 12th century instrumental inspired by the weaving guild. Poor Pirosh was armed with a bodhran in this sea of anti-bodhran musicians.
Sure enough, Pirosh had found a new home. At first, we thought that this fellow had a serious handle on the fake Irish brogue. As it turns out, he was from a sleepy little town in Ireland called Kilarney. After a few minutes, he was absorbed into the overall Pennsic/Revelwood experience and we paid him little attention. He played a decent bodhran and seemed to enjoy just hanging back. Later on in the evening, he met a woman and that changed his life. Monica was a member of one of the royal encampments that we played at. They struck up a conversation, disappeared for a while and a few weeks later were married. That is the short version. If you want the storybook romance version, you’ll have to contact Pirosh and Monica
Eventually, Monica left her home and family of upper middle-class Pennsylvania and went to live with Pirosh in a primitive cottage on the side of a mountain in Ireland. They had no electricity, no running water, no central heat and no indoor plumbing. Just candles, a well, a peat burning fireplace and an outhouse. They also had a mule by the name of Quantum. Suffice it to say it was beautiful. But I get ahead of myself. At this point in time, they were living on the upper floor of a two-story walk up row home in Kilarney. The lower floor had been the Guadeloupe Birthing Center, a sort of Irish Planned Parenthood.

We found ourselves there because Q and Skylar had maintained contact with Pirosh after the War. When the first Revelwood Irish trip was planned, Pirosh was the natural place to start out. Also, as a result of the patented Revelwood coincidence factor, the day after our arrival, Pirosh and Monica were hosting the opening of an art gallery that featured some of their work. They asked Jack in the Green to perform at the reception.

We agreed and the stage was set for chaos.
The reception was held on an open-air stage, with the art work hung in the semi-circle walls of the stage enclosure. The art show opening even had a visiting dignitary. The Lord Mayor of Cork, a patron of the arts and his delightful wife were in attendance to show their support of this monumental event. While setting up the various trays of cookies, scones and a bowl of punch, Marita (M’s wife) discovered a couple of bottles of a sweet smelling liquid in a brown paper bag. She mistakenly thought is was a unique Irish punch ingredient, and with a smile on her face and a song in her heart poured two liters of illegal home-made 100+ proof Pocheen into the punch bowl. Then nature took its course.
Finning with the Lord MayorBy the end of the third song, there was a fistfight at the punch bowl. The natives had discovered the Pocheen laden Hi-C and were trying to consume it before the alcohol evaporated. However, not before Skylar had gotten enough to make him a giggling mess. At one point, Skylar asked the Lord Mayor if he could see the ancient medallion of office that hung by a heavy gold chain around the mayor’s neck. It was the same
medallion that had since sometime in the early 18thy century been handed down from mayor to mayor until it found its way around this fellow's neck, and then into Skylar’s hand.
The mayor watched warily as Skylar looked it over, turning it around, letting it hang and swing, sniffing it and while looking straight into the eyes of the mayor, licking it lightly with the tip of his tongue. The Lord Mayor, and his wife, had enough. Graciously, the mayor extended his hand, in an obvious gesture to retrieve his medallion. Skylar extended the medallion to pass it back, but as the mayor just touched it, Skylar moved it back and forth and giggled… “Take it… Take it… Take it!” Needless to say, the Lord Mayor and his wife were not amused. Especially his wife. She broke into a tirade of quaint Irish curses as The Lord Mayor and Skylar played the “Take It” game.
Finally, when the mayor’s forced smile dissapeared, Skylar handed it back. It turned out well enough. The Mayor didn’t have to call the Guarda, Pirosh and Monica wern’t thrown out of the local artist’s collective and we got the whole congregation to do a Revelwood Fin.