#archiving parf

[parf-fan]

Masterlist of recent PARF videographers

Inspired by a comment on my update of sorts in which the commenter stated that it had never occurred to them to see if anyone had filmed PARF, I present to you a post I have been intending to make literally since starting this blog.

● Michael Ulrich – PARF footage as far back as 2004, hitting stride around 2015, stopping at the end of 2022. Most of the older stuff is scattered in amongst the 2018 footage and again between 2020 and 2021. An excellent source for a one-off example of most in-house shows each year. Quite important for reviewing the Megan-Zach-Mary 'verse. Some of the highest-quality footage. ● Renaissance Road Trips (formerly known as maddog015) – PARF footage as far back as 2007. More out-of-house stuff than in-house, though they've been expanding to include a little more in-house in recent years. Contains footage from many different Faires, so sifting will be required if you are exclusively interested in PARF. Divides shows up into many pieces, which is handy if you want to reference a specific moment, but cumbersome if you want to just watch a whole show. Footage quality is perfectly reasonable, though not professional-level. Home of THE Halloween Finale of 2017.

● PARF Performers (formerly known as wavking) – PARF footage from 2011 through 2021, excepting 2014 and 2020. Filming is somewhat scattered and not systematic until around 2016. Occasional videos from NJRF and from non-Faire events taking place on PARF grounds. Overall the best source for Finales and an even selection of everything else for 2016-2018, petering off in 2019. Indispensable for reviewing the Megan-Zach-Mary 'verse, though less so the Mary part. Footage quality is perfectly reasonable, though not professional-level.

● Steve Kossor – PARF footage as far back as 2013. Very little in-house stuff; mostly focused on the artists who fall under the heading of “musicians of the shire”, both individually and as a whole. Plenty of stuff from other Faires, too. Most videos are clearly labeled. If you never got to witness the actual Pub Sing from the Before Times, this is where to look, particularly 2019. Very fancy filming, often including multiple cameras at different angles on the same day (goals tbh). Occasional interviews and such. Scattered throughout are videos completely unrelated to Faire, 'cause he's gotta put 'em somewhere.

● MerlinWinchestr – PARF footage as far back as 2013. Hits stride in 2016 (I think), at which point she carefully archives one example of each main-season plotline show, and sometimes Halloween, as well as scattered highlights. Literally the only person besides me to actually bother with non-Halloween plot before 2018, for which I owe her a small portion of my soul. Indispensable for reviewing the Megan-Zach part of the Megan-Zach-Mary 'verse. Nothing from PARF in 2018 or 2019 due to moving to a different state, but filmed stuff from other Faires in the interim. Picked up again in 2020, and expanded the number of shows filmed. Recent videos are carefully labeled. Footage quality is perfectly reasonable, though not professional-level. Scattered throughout are many clips from various unrelated concerts and cons and sometimes reenactment, as well as quite a lot of fandom edits of (predictably) both Merlin and Supernatural.

● Joseph Germano – PARF footage as far back as 2015. Almost entirely in-house; largely storyline, combat, improv. Initially filmed things exclusively for himself and his family, not listing the videos publicly for years. As such, the quality of camerawork can occasionally leave something to be desired (though much less, in my opinion, than he claims), hence his playlist called “MeadVision”. Filled the void left by PARF Performers's petering off, and is owed a small portion of my soul for archiving so much Disasterpiece in 2019. Footage quality is perfectly reasonable, though not professional-level. Chronology is a mere suggestion until 2021.

● PARF fan – If you're interested in 2017 plotline and combat, I've got everything I filmed up on the YouTube except for Halloween Joust and Halloween Finale. I've also got loads of raw footage of in-house stuff from the first half the 2020 season over on the Facebook. Effort is made with cinematography, though it sometimes backfires. Videos are carefully labeled, but only in the titles, not the thumbnails. Footage quality is perfectly tolerable, though far from professional-level, and the sound is sometimes bad (didn't have a fancy camera until the 2022 season). Indispensable for reviewing 2017, frankly.

● PA Renaissance Faire – PARF footage from 2018 only. One each Court, Melee, Bloody Best, some of the main-season individual Chess fights, Halloween Court, Halloween Chess, and a whole bunch of in-house songs from sundry Finales, many of which were not archived in any other form elsewhere (that I know of).

● Ren Faire with Rose – PARF footage as far back as 2018. Nigh-on exclusively in-house. Mostly highlights rather than entire shows. Features occasional streetwork, particularly from 2019, which is beyond value. Mostly chronological, but 2022 and 2023 and 2024 are intermittently jumbled. Tbh, I haven't gotten around to watching enough of their footage to comment on the quality of camera or camerawork.

● Dan Gualtieri – The newest member of this “team” (none of us actually coordinate or otherwise work together, though we should). Videos from 2022, 2023, and 2024. Mixture of highlights and full shows. Has already filled several gaps. I haven't actually watched any of his videos yet, so I cannot provide comment on camera or camerawork.

[wordspin-shares]

On Tolkien-verse Fanfiction Research, Part 1

Writing fanfiction often requires research (if one is interested in a degree of canonical accuracy, of course). When it comes to writing fanfiction set in Tolkien’s invented universe, that research sometimes needs to be extensive, since the amount of detail the Professor poured into his work is quite mind-boggling.

Thankfully, if a fanfic writer is not of those people who are dubbed ‘Tolkien nerds’, or if one doesn’t have Tolkien’s books at hand, there are some excellent websites and very good essays to be found on the internet, and I myself have written a few essays on subjects that no-one else had delved deeply into.

A few years ago, after joining a Tolkien forum on Fanfiction.net, I made a thread with online resources to help fellow writers save time on research. I list those favourite go-to websites and articles below, along with new additions, with an asterisk marking my own contributions.

Various Tolkien encyclopaedias and blogs:

• Tolkien Gateway

• Henneth Annûn Research Archive

• Thain's Book (accessed through archive.org)

• Middle-earth & JRR Tolkien Blog

• Ask About Middle-earth

Character Sketches:

• Arwen

• Boromir

• Celeborn

• Denethor

• Elladan and Elrohir (some dates are wrong but the rest is sound)

• Éomer

*• Éothain

• Éowyn

• Faramir

• Fëanor

• Legolas 1; Legolas 2

• Pippin

• Thranduil

Languages and Naming:

• Eldamo – perhaps the most comprehensive lexicon of Tolkien’s invented languages

• Parf Edhellen – a dictionary of Tolkien's many languages

• RealElvish – a website featuring Elvish phrasebooks and name-lists, as well as various essays

• Elven Naming Traditions

• Dwarven Naming Traditions

• Naming Hobbits

• Rohirric Naming Traditions

• Naming Traditions of the Númenóreans and their Descendants

• Names for Dwarven Characters

• Using Foreign Tongues in Fanfiction

Miscellanea:

• Does Middle-earth Look Mediaeval?

• Currency in Middle-earth

• Elvish Wedding Customs

• Funerary Practices in Middle-earth

• The Eye of Sauron

• The History of Orcs

*• Titles and Forms of Address in JRR Tolkien's Legendarium

*• Diminutive Name-Forms in Arda

• Tolkien's Usage of 'Thou' and 'Thee'

• Healing in Middle-earth

• Magic in Middle-earth 1; Magic in Middle-earth 2

• Religion in Middle-earth

*• Costume and Armour of the Peoples of Arda

*• Alfirin, Simbelmynë, Uilos

*• Shieldmaidens in Rohan

• Do Tolkien's Elves Have Pointed Ears?

• Hobbit Ears

• Hair and Eye Colour of Various Characters (accessed through archive.org)

• Distances and Travel Routes in Middle-earth [by Horse and Wagon] (accessed through archive.org)

• Anachronisms in Tolkien's Works

[cequilaimait]

Les chroniques de Vojolakta – 2ème Aar’on (le Sensuel) – Les voyages et passions du jeune Aaron – 1. La soif de vengeance du Kémèt Da’mien

Au matin, je me lève et marche sur le sable

Mes pieds nus frissonnent, et mon regard se fixe

Sur cette douce chaleur, s’échappant du Styx

Le jour triomphe de la nuit, impitoyable

Première strophe du poème « L’obsession du soleil », d’Aaron Arié, archives personnelles.

*****

Susanoo avait un petit côté poisseux et poussiéreux. En foulant son sol pour la première fois, Da’mien se fit la réflexion que rien ne valait son chez soi.

Il n’avait pas choisi d’être nommé ambassadeur. Il n’avait accepté cette charge que pour honorer la mémoire de son père. Voyager entre les étoiles était un rêve qui n’avait jamais fait vibrer son peuple. Les Kémèts préféraient vivre tranquillement une vie de civilisation avancée sous la protection de leur soleil, « Dès ». Les Humains, cette étrange espèce qui avait déchiré le ciel, l’avait renommé Amounré, en honneur paraissait-il à certaines de leurs propres croyances éteintes… Da’mien trouvait ce peuple fascinant, mais plutôt dans un sens perfide et morbide. Après avoir épuisé et détruit leur monde, ces habitants d’une planète lointaine s’étaient lancés à l’assaut d’un tout nouveau. Ou de plusieurs, plutôt. Avant de poser le pied sur Dàs – Horus dans leur propre langage – avec des intentions perfides et peu claires, ils avaient conquis le système voisin et y avaient installé leur première colonie. Officiellement pour la science et le futur de leur genre. Officieusement pour piller les ressources locales et les restes d’une technologie puissante, celle d’un peuple qui s’était brulé les ailes des années plus tôt en voulant s’approcher trop près des étoiles. Les Humains avaient eu de la chance de tomber sur ces ruines. Elles les avaient renforcés, tout comme leur appétit pour la puissance et le pouvoir. Susanoo était devenu leur poste avancé dans la conquête de la galaxie.

Les Kémèts avaient naturellement vu d’un très mauvais œil l’arrivée dans leur monde d’une espèce douée de raison et dotée d’une science qui lui permettait de traverser la galaxie à une vitesse folle à travers des sortes de trous de ver nommés Vortico et dont l’existence défiait la logique et les croyances. Les plus grands savants de Dàs s’étaient immédiatement mis au travail afin de comprendre cette aberration. Le père de Da’mien faisait partie de l’équipe de recherche. Il mourut dans les bras de son fils, adolescent, assassiné pour s’être trop rapproché de la vérité.

– L’amour… C’est l’amour qui a rendu possible ce miracle… Un amour trop fort qui nous anéantira tous, si tu n’agis pas…

La consigne était peu claire, bien moins en tout cas que la rage qui avait parcouru à cette instant le corps de Da’mien. Il fallut de nombreuses années au jeune Kémèts pour enquêter, se plonger dans les recherches de l’équipe scientifique, comprendre et se rapprocher suffisamment des instances politiques de son peuple pour pouvoir mettre son plan de vengeance à exécution. Une tache particulièrement compliquée en soit. Son gouvernement, aveuglé par la douceur du Nutella, avait fermé les yeux sur les nombreux crimes des envahisseurs pour signer avec eux un pacte commercial et un de non-agression militaire. Seuls un député du peuple, Ja’ake avait fait confiance au jeune Kémèt et l’avait pris sous son aile. Ils partageaient la même détestation du genre humain et le même but : assassiner les deux garçons qui, de leurs ébats, avaient fait naître cette aberration capable de détruire le monde tel que les Kémèts le connaissaient. À l’abris au fond d’un bar poisseux de la capitale de Dàs, ils avaient discuté de tout, mais surtout de ça.

– L’un se nomme Aaron, l’autre Kilian… – expliqua Ja’ake à son disciple. D’après les calculs retrouvés dans les notes de ton père, ils sont les deux éléments ayant causé l’aberration. Ils seraient nés sur la planète d’origine des Humains, que nous n’avons toujours pas réussi à localiser, et leur rapprochement aurait brisé l’espace-temps tel que nous pensions le connaître. Leur existence est gardée secrète par les instances humaines et seuls quelques hauts dignitaires de nos deux peuples sont au courant. Mais si tu les détruits, ainsi que tout ce qui peut ressembler à une descendance, nous serons peut-être sauvés. Sinon, s’ils continuent à développer leurs pouvoirs, notre propre espèce est condamnée…

– Comment les tuer, alors, si on ne sait pas où ils se trouvent ? – avait demandé Da’mien, à moitié abattu, mais déterminé à protéger son peuple, jusqu’à la mort si besoin. Mon rêve, ma raison de vivre, est de les massacrer l’un dans les bras de l’autre, et je donnerais tout pour qu’il se réalise…

Devant l’air nerveux du jeunot, le vieux Kémèt ne put s’empêcher de sourire. Lui savait. Une discussion à l’assemblée lui avait révélé une information d’une importance capitale dans la mise en place de leur plan.

– Les Humains ont comme projet d’amener un des deux garçons sur Susanoo, officiellement pour lui montrer ce nouveau monde, officieusement pour exploiter ses pouvoirs et le garder captif loin de sa planète d’origine. Seuls les membres les plus importants de notre peuple pourra l’approcher. Et tu en feras partie. Je me suis arrangé pour qu’on te nomme ambassadeur. L’avenir de notre espèce repose sur toi.

Da’mien avait accepté sans discuter. Il n’était pas attiré par les honneurs, simplement ivre de sang. Et cette planète Susanoo était réellement trop poisseuse et sombre à son goût pour qu’il s’y sente bien.

Lors de son arrivée, il fut accueilli plutôt chaleureusement par quelques imbéciles censés faire bonne figure, à qui il répondit toujours avec une hypocrite amabilité. Puis commença la période la plus douloureuse de son existence. En guise d’ambassade, les humains avaient offert aux Kémèts une large bâtisse luxueuse proche du centre d’Heian-kyo, leur jeune capitale battit sur les ruines de la civilisation précédente. Une prison dorée, située à deux doigts d’une autre en construction, encore plus grande. Une bâtisse majestueuse censée accueillir les plus grandes réceptions et aussi servir de cage à un certain garçon. Tous les jours, Da’mien admira l’avancée des travaux en notant les entrées, les sorties et les faiblesses du bâtiment, le tout en trépignant d’impatience en pensant à l’heure de sa vengeance. Le reste n’était que courbettes et agilités crasses. Qu’est-ce que le Kémèt pouvait détester ce peuple Humain stupide et arrogant, ses mœurs et ses lubies. Pas à leur place, ces créatures semblaient errer sans but sur une terre qui n’était pas la leur, à innover culinairement et à régresser intellectuellement. Enfin, parfois, et c’était le plus détestable, ils étaient attendrissants. Comme lorsqu’ils copiaient bêtement les noms Kémèts, en marquant une pause lors de leurs énoncés, symbolisée à l’écrit par un petit symbole, nommée apostrophe. C’était ridicule, mais intrigant, comme s’ils n’étaient uniquement dotés de mauvaises intentions et étaient capables de sincèrement s’ouvrir aux autres et à leur culture.

Et puis il y avait eu ce petit garçon aux cheveux noirs.

Deux ans après son arrivée sur Susanoo, alors que celui qu’il devait assassiner ne semblait toujours pas vouloir se montrer, Da’mien avait croisé dans une allée du grand palais un tout petit garçon à la peau très claire, presque blanche comme du lait, et aux cheveux très noirs, comme la nuit la plus intense. Il était un peu gauche, haut comme trois pommes, âgé de trois ans sans doute et jouait tranquillement à empiler des pierres sur le bas-côté, sans jamais desserrer sa petite paume gauche, qui semblait contenir un trésor de la plus haute importance.

Il n’aurait fallu à Da’mien qu’un seul geste pour décapiter cette faible créature. Cet Humain fragile et minuscule. À plusieurs reprises, le Kémèt hésita. D’un côté, ses pulsions de haine le poussaient à serrer ses doigts autour de ce cou innocent. De l’autre, son cœur lui interdisait de s’en prendre à un être aussi faible qui ne lui avait fait aucun mal et qui, pire encore, réussissait à le faire sourire en s’extasiant devant chaque fleur, chaque insecte et chaque rayon de soleil.

Sans qu’il ne s’en rende compte, Da’mien s’était retrouvé à passer de plus en plus de temps en compagnie de l’enfant, guettant la pluie, le vent et la neige pour le couvrir d’un drap protecteur, et faisant fuir les quelques curieux venant fouiner trop près. Rapidement, il lui consacra la majorité de son temps libre, celui où il n’était pas obligé de jouer aux ambassadeurs pour s’assurer d’une paix dont il ne voulait pas au fond de son cœur.

Cet étrange manège dura plus d’un an, avant qu’un banal accident ne change le destin de Da’mien à tout jamais. Il faisait beau et chaud. L’enfant aux cheveux noirs jouait sur une terrasse, les doigts toujours recroquevillés dans sa paume. Puis une rafale lui arracha de la main ce qu’il y gardait caché. Le petit garçon sursauta et se jeta bouche ouverte au-dessus de la balustrade pour rattraper son bien, avant de tomber à la renverse, emporté par son élan. La scène ne dura que quelques secondes. Assis dans les jardins, Da’mien avait vu son corps bondir d’un seul coup, sans même qu’il ne le lui commande. Les bras ouverts, il avait rattrapé le jeune garçon avant qu’il ne finisse dans un état de bouillit semblable à celui d’un pot de Nutella resté trop longtemps au soleil. Bien trop choqué pour réaliser qu’il venait de survivre à une chute potentiellement mortelle, le tout petit hurla et tendit les bras vers le sol, où se tenait l’objet pour lequel il aurait été prêt à donner sa vie. Choqué, Da’mien se pencha pour le ramasser, et découvrit qu’il s’agissait en réalité d’une simple mèche de cheveux. Une mèche blonde comme les blés, cette plante que les Humains avaient amenée sur Susanoo pour la cultiver. Incrédule, le Kémèt trembla, gloussa, puis rendit le doux crin à son propriétaire, qui ne se calma enfin que lorsqu’il le serra près de son cœur.

La vérité a parfois cela de capricieuse qu’elle adore se cacher sous le nez de ceux qui la recherche. Da’mien ne savait pas s’il devait en rire ou en pleurer. Comprendre l’avait brisé. Perdu, il ne savait plus quoi faire ni penser. Une voix accompagnant quelques applaudissements le firent sursauter. Elles provenaient d’une ombre. Un adolescent Humain aux cheveux châtains, aux yeux bleus et à la cape violette, assis sur le banc même où Da’mien avait passé une partie de la matinée à observer l’enfant jouer avant de se jeter pour le sauver.

– Bravo ! – s’exclama l’inconnu, avant de se lever et de se diriger vers la sortie. À un moment, j’ai eu peur que tu ne l’étrangles… quand tu as compris qu’il était ta cible. Mais tu as fait le bon choix. J’ai eu raison de croire que tu avais un cœur. Maintenant, je peux te le confier et retourner à la maison m’occuper des derniers détails, comme le souhaitait son père…

– Attends ! – cria Da’mien, la main tendue vers l’Humain. Son père, tu veux dire…

Un sourire sincère et triste à la fois, l’inconnu baissa la tête et relâcha ses poings, puis replaça sa capuche sur sa crinière. D’un soupir, il confirma la vérité.

– Il n’est plus de ce monde. Enfin, plus de la même manière que nous. Et pour ton information, il n’a jamais foulé Susanoo. Refusant de se soumettre aux dirigeants de notre planète, il a entraîné son bien aimé dans un sommeil éternel, après avoir donné la vie au petit bout que tu tiens dans tes bras. Nos deux amoureux reposent à présent chez eux, figés pour l’éternité et débarrassés de leurs mauvais côtés. Mais leur amour survivra. Par un jeu de réincarnation infini, c’est ce qu’ils ont décidé. Tu tiens dans tes bras une partie de cette passion éternelle. Moi, je rentre à la recherche de la seconde. Un jour, quand il aura quatorze ans, tu auras un choix à faire. Tuer cet enfant pour sauver ton peuple, où le libérer des hommes qui le retiennent prisonnier et le mener sur ma trace, à la recherche de son blond à lui… Tu tiens le destin de l’univers entre tes mains ! C’est marrant. J’trouve ça assez artistique, en fait…

Puis telle une ombre, l’Humain disparut derrière un mur, laissant Da’mien seul et figé, avec le tout jeune Aaron, deuxième de sa lignée, recroquevillée près de sa poitrine. Et les années passèrent. Une dizaine. Jusqu’à ce jour d’été où, réveillé par un jeune adolescent aux cheveux noirs comme le jais, le Kémèt ne pique et des mémorables colères qui avaient fait sa réputation dans le château d’Heian-kyo.

– AARON ! Je t’ai déjà dit de ne pas me sauter dessus quand je dors… Rha, sacripant !

– Mais… – fit mine de pleurnicher le pauvre garçon en pyjama avant de gonfler ses joues. C’est mon anniversaire ! J’ai quatorze ans ! Tu m’avais promis qu’aujourd’hui, tu me parlerais de mes origines… J’en ai marre, moi ! Ça fait des années que j’écoute tes leçons, coincé ici, à recevoir les visites de dignitaires à la con qui répètent en boucle « oh, c’est bien, il a bien grandi, on va bientôt pouvoir l’utiliser », persuadés que je suis sourd, vu qu’ils le meuglent devant mon nez à chaque fois. Sauf que moi, je ne sais même pas qui je suis vraiment ni ce qu’ils attendent de moi…

D’un râle, Da’mien repoussa l’adolescent de la main, puis secoua la tête pour se remettre les idées en place… Cela faisait donc déjà dix ans ? Dix ans qu’il avait abandonné son poste d’ambassadeur pour un bien plus propice à la réalisation de sa mission : tuteur du deuxième Aaron. Encore une fois, ses capacités à plaire et à cacher ses véritables attentions lui avaient été profitables. Les dignitaires Humains appréciaient son savoir, sa dévotion au travail et sa loyauté toute acquise. Tous les hauts gradés de cette espèce cherchaient tellement à manipuler ce môme pour mieux s’en servir un jour que, par soucis d’équité, ils avaient décidé d’en confier l’éducation à un Kémèt, doté d’une présomption d’ignorance au sujet de l’importance de cette tête brune, et donc réputé parfaitement neutre. Les imbéciles. Pendant dix ans, Da’mien avait ainsi pu œuvrer dans le sens de ses propres objectifs. Dix trop longues années avant qu’enfin l’adolescent soit en âge de partir à la recherche du garçon qui lui était destiné, et que le rêve que le Kémèt nourrissait depuis si longtemps se réalise. Dès que le blond et le brun seraient réunis, son plan connaîtrait son apothéose et mènerait à la fin de cette Humanité arrogante.

– Bon alors ! – s’impatienta le jeune adolescent en sautillant à genoux sur le matelas, son éternelle mèche dorée dans la main. Tu m’expliques pourquoi j’existe ?

– Tu te souviens de comment tu as obtenu ces cheveux ? – grommela Da’mien, pointant les crins des doigts tout en s’extirpant difficilement de son lit.

Sans hésiter, le garçon acquiesça :

– Oui ! C’est le seul souvenir que j’ai de mon père et c’est mon bien le plus précieux. J’étais bébé. Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais il me l’a confié comme son plus grand trésor en me disant d’en prendre le plus grand soin. Ça m’apaise de les renifler et de les caresser. Ça devait être à son animal de compagnie…

– C’était à son mec… – corrigea le tuteur. Plus précisément, à son Kilian, le garçon de sa vie. Je te passe les détails, mais c’est leur amour qui a permis à ton espèce de découvrir les Vorticos et de voyager dans l’infinité de l’espace. Et toi aussi, tu es censé avoir le tien, de Kilian quelque part perdu dans l’univers.

– Kwaaaaa ? – s’écria l’adolescent en écarquillant les yeux.

D’un pas ferme, Da’mien s’était lancé vers la fenêtre et l’avait ouverte. Un soleil voilé éclairait à peine les plaines de Susanoo. Il soupira, puis lâcha un sourire. Il était temps.

– On part demain à la découverte des nouveaux systèmes stellaires et à la recherche du garçon qui t’es destiné. Tu comprendras tout en te mirant dans ses pupilles. Même s’il s’agit de la dernière chose que tu doives observer de ta vie…

[phgq]

Int'l passengers bound for Cebu required to register online

#PHnews: Int'l passengers bound for Cebu required to register online

CEBU CITY – Passengers arriving at the Mactan-Cebu International Airport (MCIA) on board international sweeper or repatriation flights or rerouted from Manila due to quarantine processing limitations are now required to register online.

In a statement over the weekend, the GMR Megawide Cebu Airport Corporation (GMCAC) reminded arriving international passengers to strictly adhere to the latest protocols upon check-in at their port of origin and upon arrival at MCIA.

Starting June 15, all international passengers arriving at MCIA will be required to register using the online MCIA passenger arrival registration form (PARF) at least two days prior their departure.

GMCAC said the form is accessible through https://mactancebuairport.com/covid-19-registration. Once the passenger completes the online registration, he or she will get a system’s generated travel registration or reference number.

Those passengers who will arrive before July 15 are directed to follow the manual process of filling out the forms upon check-in at their ports of origin.

After checking in, all international passengers travelling to MCIA must present valid passport, valid visa with proof of filiation or marriage, if applicable, proof of pre-booked Cebu hotel accommodation for returning non-OFW Filipinos (ROFs) or foreign nationals.

The airport’s coronavirus disease 2019 (Covid-19) international arrival advisory page, https://mactancebuairport.com/covid-19-advisory, provides for a list of the accredited hotels in Cebu.

The airport management said overseas Filipino workers (OFWs) need to coordinate with the Overseas Workers Welfare Administration (OWWA) for specific requirements and other guidelines for their arrival in Cebu.

Also, international passengers are required to present their travel reference number (TRN) upon completion of the online MCIA PARF and the health declaration form (HDF) available upon check-in at the port of origin which must be filled out prior to the arrival in Cebu.

As earlier announced, the MCIA requires all passengers to undergo a reverse transcription polymerase chain reaction test upon arrival at the airport and must have confirmed hotel accommodation in Cebu for a specific number of days where the arriving international passenger can stay while waiting for their test result.

Each swab test for returning non-OFW Filipinos and foreign nationals is pegged at PHP4,900 to be shouldered by the passenger while the cost of test for land-based OFWs and seafarers is PHP4,400 to be shouldered by the OWWA.

Upon arrival, international passengers need to present their TRN at the validation counter and claim their barcode for identification and swab testing before they are allowed to proceed to thermal scanning by the Bureau of Quarantine (BOQ) and to submit their HDF.

After thermal scanning and submission of health form, the passengers will proceed to the Immigration booth for clearance and proceed to the OWWA counter for OFWs, to the cashier for swab test and to other government agencies counters at the Arrival Reclaim Hall.

The passengers will proceed to the waiting area and submit their respective barcode to the health personnel for the swab test. Once the test is completed, the passengers will be instructed to wear the orange band or sticker at the right wrist to indicate completion.

Once the test procedures are accomplished, the passengers will claim their baggage at the assigned reclaim belt and proceed to the waiting area to wait for a representative from the respective agencies for customs clearance.

The accredited hotel liaison officers will fetch ROFs and foreign nationals. After customs clearance is issued, they need to go to their designated vehicle with their respective agency representative for hotel drop-off and wait for the results of their PCR swab test from the BOQ to be released after 24 to 48 hours.

If the RT-PCR swab test result is negative, the passenger will receive an email from the BOQ.

The LGU may bring the passenger to their residence in Cebu or they may be allowed to go home through their private vehicle.

If the passenger is not based in Cebu, they may take their onward flight.

If the RT-PCR swab test result is positive, BOQ will get in touch with the passenger for specific instructions and compliance with mandated health, safety and treatment protocols of the bureau and Department of Health. (PNA)

  ***

References:

* Philippine News Agency. "Int'l passengers bound for Cebu required to register online." Philippine News Agency. https://www.pna.gov.ph/articles/1108713 (accessed July 13, 2020 at 12:13AM UTC+14).

* Philippine News Agency. "Int'l passengers bound for Cebu required to register online." Archive Today. https://archive.ph/?run=1&url=https://www.pna.gov.ph/articles/1108713 (archived).

[parf-fan]

PARF-fan's 2022 raw footage masterlist

These links all lead to the PARF-fan Facebook, as I am unwilling to muck about with chronology on the PARF-fan YouTube, or put completely raw footage there. As it was unfair of me to sit on this footage just because it wasn't to my standards, this is my compromise. You need not be logged onto Facebook to view these.

Disasterpiece: The Moral Allegory and Fantastical Tale of the Fair Young Maiden and the Goblin King and the Confounding Maze – August 28th – Pyrate Invasion

Rakish Rogues – September 10th – Wizarding Weekend

Midday Revels – September 10th – Wizarding Weekend

Sirens and Rogues – September 10th – Wizarding Weekend

Ultimate Joust – September 10th – Wizarding Weekend

Disasterpiece – September 4th – Heroes & Villains – The Moral Allegory and Fantastical Tale of the Fair Young Maiden and the Goblin King and the Confounding Maze

The Sirens – October 2nd – Oktoberfest

Sirens and Rogues – October 2nd – Oktoberfest

Tournament of Arms – October 8th – Celtic Weekend

Ultimate Joust – October 8th – Celtic Weekend

Finale in Pub Song – October 8th – Celtic Weekend

Queen's Court – October 9th – Celtic Weekend

Boarshead Brawl – October 9th – Celtic Weekend

Tournament of Arms – October 9th – Celtic Weekend

Halloween Queen's Court – October 29th – Halloweekend III

Halloween Boarshead Brawl – October 29th – Halloweekend III

The Sirens (Halloween) – October 29th – Halloweekend III

Rakish Rogues (Halloween) – October 29th – Halloweekend III

Halloween Midday Revels – October 29th – Halloweekend III

Halloween Tournament of Arms – October 29th – Halloweekend III

Halloween Ultimate Joust – October 29th – Halloweekend III

Halloween Finale in Pub Song – October 29th – Halloweekend III

Halloween Boarshead Brawl – October 30th – Closing Day

Halloween Tournament of Arms – October 30th – Closing Day

Sirens and Rogues (Halloween) – October 30th – Closing Day

Halloween Ultimate Joust – October 30th – Closing Day

[parf-fan]

Illness hath decreed that I'm not attending Faire this weekend. Anybody wants anything archived, please make other arrangements for it now.

In fact, actively asking for somebody to please record Disasterpiece.

[parf-fan]

I come bearing an update of sorts, featuring my usual lack of brevity.

I have spoken previously on here about my grand and lofty multistepped video-editing plans that require learning and hefty investment of time and energy. I've also spoken about how Executive Function Deficit Disorder – more officially but misleadingly known as adhd – leaves me with a consistent deficit of time and energy, and brings about floundering on multistepped processes.

I captured a reasonable amount of footage in 2022, and quite a bit of footage in 2023. I am on track to capture quite a lot of footage in 2024, potentially even with minimal detracting from my own enjoyment of the shows at the time. Some of you may recall that I filmed more shows during the 2020 season than I did not, and posted about half of them on the PARF-fan Facebook, unscreened and unedited. I also still have unprocessed footage from 2018 and even 2017, the years on which I cut my metaphorical teeth as far as archiving the Faire goes. My intention is for all of this to land on the PARF-fan YouTube in one form or another, but I insist on it happening in chronological order. None of this jumping around year to year for me.

I've also spoken here before about how it is unfair of me to withhold what I've archived just because it's not yet to my standards. This season, I am resolved to have my shit together with filming more than ever before, and that makes such withholding even sillier. To that end, I shall be posting what I film this year more or less as I go, giving it a basic screening to ensure nothing is too objectionable, and leaving the proper editing for later. As stated, it shall be on the Facebook and not the YouTube, though YouTube plays videos better (almost like that's its purpose or something), because I am far more willing to play fast and loose with chronology on Facebook.

However! Because of personal reasons unrelated to chronology, I am unwilling to address 2022 after 2024. To that end, I shall begin this process with my 2022 footage and make my way through my 2023 footage before posting my 2024 footage. All footage from the Megan-Zach-Mary 'verse shall wait until I'm caught up on the Jules 'verse. I'm hoping to get at least two videos posted each day – which will still make it more than a month before I get to 2024, so I'll make every effort to post more frequently than that; but it simply won't be viable at all times.

I shall start the upload process as soon as I've posted this li'l update.

[parf-fan]

If anybody with the necessary equipment hasn't sold their soul to the combat track this year as I have, it appears that I only recorded the Sirens' stage set once this season, and from a talkative part of the audience, at that. I very much wanted to ensure that footage existed of at least two different iterations of that show, and I genuinely thought I had already filmed it twice, but the video folder on my computer says otherwise. Realistically, and with apologies to the Sirens, I know there is no way I'm missing any of the four remaining Brawls (same timeslot), particularly not with the constantly-changing endings. Many of the YouTube channels I'd come to rely on for PARF archivism do not seem to be recording things this year (unless they're simply holding off on processing their footage, as I am; which, fair), so there is no particular safety-net for shows I don't get. I've only been able thus far to find some of the individual numbers; which, while better than nothing, don't hold a candle to the whole show. I ask as much for the sake of the actors who don't get to see their performance as I do for patrons who will want somewhere to turn when nostalgia hits them suddenly in a couple months.

[parf-fan]

One year ago, Rob Condas posted in celebration of Shakespeare’s birthday.  A year later, I finally finished writing the fic that post (and comments thereupon) inspired.  This is the first Faire fic I’ve ever finished, and would reeeealllly like some feedback on it, please.  In addition to the ao3 link, the text of the fic is below the read-more.

Title: The More, the Marrier Words: 6,705 Chapters: 1/1 Pairings: Horace Tanningrove & William Shakespeare, Horace Tanningrove / John Hopfield Warnings: drunkenness, drunken shenanigans, canon-typical implied/referenced dubious consent (very mild though, if you were okay with the bender subsubsubplot of Myths and Legends 2019, you should be okay here)

Summary: "Happy Birthday Shakespeare ❤️ I hope you and Horace are painting the town tonight"  –Rob "Oh, if you thought Horace and Shakespeare went hard in the summer and fall of 1558, just WAIT till you see what they'll do for Will's birthday"  –Michael Having relocated the previous autumn when the R and J play was picked up by a producer in London, Will now celebrates his natal day by returning to visit his hometown of Mount Hope.  Much of the first day of this visit is, of course, spent in the company of Horace Tanningrove.   As the two become progressively drunker, they engage in shenanigans of sundry disaster variations.  In the morning, both are hellaciously hungover, and the night is a blur, at best.

Opening notes: This fic is dedicated in equal measure to Rob Condas and Michael Stahler, with thanks to the same for inspiring it through a Facebook post and comments on said post, respectively.  And, obviously, for partially creating and fully rendering such lovable and memorable characters, with such an exquisite dynamic and rapport.  The admiration I hold for you defies description.

Thanks to kaythehawk for the title, for proofreading and feedback, and for lowkey holding my hand through the posting process; and to my mom for assistance in devising phrases and combating lethologica.

To anybody unfamiliar with the 2019 season of the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire: First, what series of events in you life led you to this fic?  Second, you are quite welcome to read it, but you will undoubtedly be quite confused on many points.

This is a fanwork created out of love and admiration for the source material and those who brought it about.  Characters and setting belong to Zeno Creative Group PRF Productions.

The More, the Marrier

April 24th , mid-morning:

Will cracked an eyelid and his skull promptly split. Though he hastily undid the first, the second diminished but slightly. He cast about for words to describe it. “Uuhhhurrgh,” he eventually settled upon.

His eloquent critique was answered in kind from nearby, and Will decided that his desire for information would lend him the fortitude to bear the suffering. He opened his eyes – both this time, and all the way – albeit slowly. Only one of them appeared to work, but he filed that away as a problem for later. Instead, he took in his surroundings. Locks and bars and but the tiniest of windows. Wooden benches, pallets of straw. On some of the straw —

“Horace?” Will's voice rasped like a file, and it occurred to him that he was very thirsty.

Horace opened his eyes, promptly shut them, and said. “Prithee, extinguish the sun. Temporarily.”

“Would that I could, friend.”

Horace gave eyesight another try, amid much blurring and face-rubbing. At length, he got enough of a handle on it to look over to Will. “That garland is most becoming on thee,” he said. “Quite a jaunty angle.”

Will put a hand to his head and, feeling rapidly-wilting blossoms, found the cause of his partial blindness in the form of a flower-crown that had slipped over one eye. He gingerly adjusted it. “Thou lookst not o'er shabby in thine,” he observed.

Horace reached up and likewise discovered a ring of flowers encircling his brow, though his had not slipped. He considered it, then left it as it was.

Having solved the mystery of the halved eyesight, Will turned his intellect toward discerning their surroundings. In a moment, he'd concocted an ingenious scheme to that end. “Where thinkst thou we are?” he asked.

Horace, who'd been looking around despite the excruciating pain in his head and how damn bright the world was, answered, “I should fain think we be in the jailhouse.”

“The jailhouse? Nay!”

“Aye, there's bars and everything.”

A voice blared from out of eyeshot at a volume surely far higher necessary. “Well reasoned, master Tanningrove. I should consider thee for the position of deputy with detective brilliance like that.”

Horace, who'd pressed his hands to his ears and yet could hear every decibel with painful clarity, said, “Oh, well, that's very kind of thee, Sheriff Perry, but I fear I should find such work dreadfully boring.”

“It was a jest. I was makin' fun of thee.”

“Oh.”

By now, Will and Horace had both gotten themselves turned so as to see the sheriff standing near what was, upon slight inspection, the door to their cell.

“Good morrow, Sheriff!” said Will in as perky a voice as he could muster, for surely manners were paramount in such a situation as they found themselves.

“It is a good morrow, indeed,” agreed the sheriff. “It is not so good a morrow as it might have been if thou hadst not managed to lock the deputy in a cell and toss the key down a well, but it is a good morrow nonetheless.”

Will paled. “We erm, we stole the keys?”

“Aye, but Douglas had the spare set, so all was well. Of course, he insisted I release him a day or so early in exchange, but that is no great matter.”

“Oh.”

A silence followed, perhaps awkward for those who kept track of such things. At length, Will asked, “So, erm, are we locked in here for stealing from law enforcement?”

“Nay, nay, nah, thou are in 'ere for public drunkenness, possible debauchery, and general annoyance.”

“Ah.”

“But I be letting thee out now.”

“Oh! 'Tis generous of thee.”

Horace chimed in. “Be there a– a fine, or aught?”

The sheriff mucked about with his keys in an overly-loud manner. “Well,” he said, “if there were a fine, then it could be considered paid had young Will here had several pieces of jewelry upon his person last e'entide which have since vanished for reasons indiscernible.

Both men were interrupted in parsing that statement by the cell door swinging open with a din surely worthy of Typhon stirring beneath Mount Aetna. Horace clamped his eyes shut, his hands over his ears once more, grinding his teeth in spite of himself. At length, he managed to comprehend the words “...and thank thee so much for that glorious surprise thou didst leave stuffed in my seat cushion. There is nothing I like better when sitting down after locking up troublemakers at dawn than to find that I have crushed a mess of grapes of questionable freshness, and that the sour-yet-unfermented juice of said grapes is rapidly soaking my trousers. Truly appreciated that.”

“Ah. Yes. Well.” said Horace, glancing at Will. “That would likely have been, I am sure, mine idea.”

“It was mine.” interjected Will abruptly and vehemently – far too vehement for a muddled and hungover mind to be sure of.

Sheriff Perry gestured them out of the cell. As they struggled to their feet, he said, “I shall perceive it as Horace's idea nonetheless, for if it were, then I would consider it pardoned on account of him later turning himself in.”

Horace stared.

Will, whose headache was exacerbated somewhat less by the light and noise that Horace's, took his friend by the elbow and guided him from the cell. The touch on his arm caused Horace to look down, whereupon he realized he was in his shirtsleeves.

“Sheriff, I shudder to ask, but did I come here thus? or is my doublet somewhere hereabout?”

“Oh, aye!” answered the sheriff, clearly remembering. “I put it in the chimney, at thy request.”

Horace stared, this time with his mouth slightly agape, before finding words. “Where on Earth for would I ask such a thing of thee?”

The sheriff was messing about in the chimney. “You grinned and said 'This will confuse me so much on the morrow'.” He removed his arm from the chimney. “It would seem that drunk Horace doth enjoy playing pranks upon sober Horace.”

Horace caught the rather dusty doublet the sheriff tossed him. “That....explaineth so very much.” He gave the doublet a shake, instantly regretted the jolt to his headache, and shrugged into it regardless.

They had just made it outside the jailhouse and were dealing with the assault of the sunlight upon their very beings when Sheriff Perry stuck his head out the door and called after them. “Oh, Miles stopped by earlier. He asked me to tell thee that he'd done a little research and learned that the thing you hired him for is, in fact, entirely legal, and will thus cost double if thou art still interested.”

* * *

April 23 rd :

Memory was delicate and uncooperative, skittering out of reach like Tantalus's fruit if approached directly. A blur of celebration, an echo of good company, a haze of extensive alcohol. Quite likely they had begun sometime after midday, celebrating Will's visit home from London. Day had turned to evening, and as evening wore on, their revelry had perhaps bordered on debauchery, and they were presumably cast from whichever alehouse they'd been ensconced in. Now past wisdom, they had undoubtedly raided the Tanningrove winecellar. As evening faded into night, they had roamed the streets with no real goal besides pleasant existence and mutual company.

This was the state in which they found themselves investigating little sounds from the secondary structure of the forge.

Will gave a small gasp. “Is this true love? I finally found it after all these years.” A dusty grey kitten rubbed its face into his hand. “I would die for thee!” He picked the cat up and scratched its cheek. It gave a disconcerted squeal as it left the ground, but began purring once Will cradled it. “Horace, look!”

Horace's eyes widened and he reached out to pet the kitten, who seemed quite pleased with the additional attention. “Hath it a name?”

Will thought for a moment before saying, “Honeybee, for 'tis buzzing.”

“Mayhap Honey for short?”

“Aye.”

More meowing rose from near their feet. “There yet are more!” cried Will, as he passed Honey to Horace and knelt back down. This time, he reached toward a vaguely striped brown cat, who regarded him with ambivalence before allowing itself to be petted. “By Christ's calluses, I would bloody die for thee.”

Horace, whose shoulder was being kneaded by Honey, said, “That one doth look like a Priscilla.”

Will nodded, then winced as Priscilla lightly bit him. “Priscilla the Scylla,” he amended.

Horace frowned, thinking. “That, that's the whirlpool? The one Odsendus – Osdysa – the Odd guy went near?”

Will struggled with thought and word. “Mayhap? There were six heads.”

“But Priscilla hath one head only.”

“Aye, but she bites. Scylla did to chomp sailors.” He deposited the indifferent cat in Horace's arms with the first, and knelt again, holding his hand out to the final kitten. The final kitten – curled into a shape reminiscent of a turkey leg, and Will instantly named it accordingly – reacted not at all, so he tentatively placed his hand on the fluff's head. It let out a small squeak. Will's eyes were large and shining, his face aglow. “Thou art my muse,” he proclaimed. “I– I would live for thee.”

Horace repositioned Honey to allow for Priscilla climbing his shoulder. “Thou should write that down,” he muttered. “Such a declaration of love I ne'er have heard.”

Will did not seem to hear him. A look of pain was passing over his face. He looked up suddenly at Horace and said in a choked tone, “We cannot leave them here! This place be dustful and lonesome and– and there be sharplisome things about! What if one were to stab itself?”

Horace nodded gravely. “'Twould make the tragedy of Indigo's Investigations seem as unto a children's pageant by comparison.”

“We must save them!” Will stood swiftly, garnering a startled yowl from Legg. Horace was adjusting Honey and Priscilla. “As soon as I open the door, we run and we do not stop until we reach your home.”

“Aye.” Horace steeled himself. Will unlatched the little gate, or tried to. Either he could not open it one-handed, or it was twisting and writhing so as to sabotage his problem-solving. Or because he was drunk, he was vaguely aware of that as a possibility.

At length, he turned to Horace in defeat. “'Tis no use,” he declared. “We shall have to climb over the counter. Prithee, hold Legg.” He deposited the jet fluff in Horace's arms with the others before setting himself on the counter and swinging his legs over. Horace passed him the kittens, then hopped over in kind.

“Where are we running?” asked Will, as he handed Honey and Priscilla back to Horace.

“My house, I thought thou did say.”

“I said that?” asked Will. “I be quite clever, I suppose.”

“Thou hast thy moments.”

Yet scarce had they gone a dozen steps when they felt themselves joined by an unmistakable Presence. Almost without intending to, they slowed their steps to a standstill, and were at length able to make out the form of a cat darker than the blackened steel of an anvil. This cat that was not a cat looked upon them and spoke in human tongue.

“Inebriated mortals. Seek thou not to abduct these young ones. They yet are but kittens – babes, to thee – and are not yet ready to leave the care of my familiars at the forge.”

Will's voice was tremblesome and broken, yet he spoke. “But.... But there are sharp things there.”

If a cat could facepalm – and indeed, who is to say that a cat sìth cannot? – this one would've. “The humans of the forge make it their business to foster my mundane brethren until they may be taken in by ordinary humans as any other cat. Rest assured that their area is safe for them.”

The Being stepped closer. “Return the younglings to the forge, and I give you assurance that when the time comes, my familiars shall consider thee for their adoption. Otherwise,” and now the Being began to grow, “risk my wrath upon thee. Know that I can restore the dead to life; what thinkst thou, then, I can do to the living?”

Will stood mute in fear and anguish, but Horace had wit or sense slightly more. Holding all three kittens, he bowed respectfully to the cat sìth, then hastily retraced his steps to the forge, where the gate sprang open before him. He deposited the small fluffs as near their initial positions as he could gauge, then hastened back to his friend. The felinesque Presence dissipated as he returned, as did the force of terror holding Will.

* * *

April 24th , mid-morning:

The assault of the sun troubled Horace greatly, and he kept his eyes as closed as possible. The surrounding din was likewise torment. He stumbled somewhat over a chicken he couldn't see.

Will absently steadied him, but his focus was on the chicken. “That chicken hath a five upon its back,” he observed.

“How wondrous for it,” said Horace glumly, his eyes still mostly shut. Will's attention returned to his friend, and he realized that Horace was suffering from the light and noise even more than himself. On sudden inspiration, he reached up and adjusted Horace's flower-crown so it partially obscured his eyes.

Both men took one look at the Hellhill and decided that a longer walk would not be amiss. The streets were shadier and quieter along the Grove and Glen in any case.

After a while, Horace broke the silence. “What, precisely, was all that about, then?”

“Well, it would appear that we both got incredibly drunken last e'entide.”

“Clearly, but I was thinking more of that convoluted speech the sheriff gave about vanishing jewelry.”

A voice rang from somewhat off the street. “I'd be less worried about the sheriff and more worried about Bernadette Albright. She be on the warpath.”

Will and Horace turned to see Eskarina Nutter lounging against a tree. Will frowned slightly. “Wherefore?”

“Oh, something about getting married several times over without consulting her even once.”

“Will and I got married?” Horace asked.

Eskarina stopped propping up the tree and began ambling over to them. “Not to each other, at least by my witness. You may well have done, but I didn't officiate it. Here.”

Horace and Will looked blankly at the small proffered bottles.

“Meadowsweet, woundwort, elfin thyme, and roseroot, boiled in nettle tea. Unless thou would prefer to retain the sensation of thy skulls splitting.”

Will took both bottles with thanks and handed one to Horace.

Eskarina continued. “I also recommend hefty quantities of boiled water. I'd eat something as well, were I thee.” The wise woman started off.

“Hold a mome', who did we wed, then?”

Eskarina called back, “Oh, thou wilt run into them soon enough,” and was gone.

They stood a moment, then Horace spoke. “Will?”

“Aye?”

“Wherefore do we still do this on thy natal day?”

“In truth, friend, I know not.”

* * *

April 23rd , nighttime:

Will sobbed into Horace's shoulder as Horace patted his back.

“I shall never see Honey and Priscilla and Legg again. My only loves, and they are gone.”

Horace cast about for comfort words. What were those? He thought there there was supposed to be good for something, but he passed it by. It's alright to cry? He was fairly sure Will already knew that. I know not what thou art going through, yet I am here for thee? But he did know, though to a lesser extent, it seemed, and it was obvious that he was there for Will.

Giving comfort words up as a bad job, he sought instead for cheering words. “Will,” he said, “I promise to spend the rest of the night, if need be, in finding thee a pet.”

Will sniffed. “Really?”

“Aye, verily!”

Will considered for a moment, then his face crumpled anew. “'Twill be of no use, we cannot replace Honey and Priscilla and Legg.”

“Nay, we shall not be replacing them,” Horace insisted, talking with his hands despite being in the midst of a hug. “We shall be seeking thee an additional companion, one to keep thee company until Honey and Priscilla and Legg might join thee.”

Will gave this some thought, eventually straightening up and looking Horace in the face. “Thou meanst it?”

“Aye, of course!”

Will's face split into a grin. “Oh, Horace, thou art the truest of friends!” he cried out as he hugged him again. After drawing away, he said, “Now, where are we to search for such a companion?”

Horace reflected, then his face lit up. “I believe I've an idea.”

* * *

April 24th , mid-morning:

They had hoped to make it quietly back to the Tanningrove homestead to at least recover, if not piece together what they might of the night before, but they hadn't gone more than a few paces before Douglas Johnson trotted up.

“Morrow to thee,” he called. “Much obliged for springing me a few days early like that. Shan't have to miss the next guild meeting now.”

Horace, still making faces over the less-than-savory taste of Eskarina's hangover antidote, said in a degree off from sarcasm, “Oh, aye, glad we could help.”

Douglas peered at Will for a moment. “You, er, I'm guessing that you don't remember. To be expected, I suppose. Well, you were clearly drunk at the time, so I don't think it would count anyway, I, er, I bid thee good day.” He hurried off.

“What on Earth?” began Will.

“I do believe you may have married Douglas last night,” said Horace.

Will was silent for a moment. “Ah.” he said at last. “Well, that is to say, I mean, I'm sure he's right, it likely counts not. I'm going to.... ” He gestured vaguely to continue walking.

* * *

April 23rd , nighttime:

Within an enclosure lay many small white hillocks. As they climbed the wall, Will took in the sight and murmured, “Who hath been unhooking the clouds without my permission to put them in the pasture in the guise of snow?”

Horace laughed. “Nay, good Will, these be not snow, but the fluffiest earthbound of God's creatures: Sheep!”

Will gazed upon the critters, then strode over to one and tentatively petted it. His face lit up. “'Tis the softest thing I e'er have touched!”

Horace grinned. “Unhooked clouds indeed.”

Will buried his face in the sheep, which gave a small bleat. “'Tis so fluffsome I believe I shall perish!” He tore himself away and darted to another sheep. “But thou art also so fluffsome as to beget my death!” Then another. “And thee! They're all.... How am I to decide?”

“Which one hath the best name?”

Will deliberated, then shook his head, blinked at the unexpected dizziness, and stopped. “I cannot discern their names here. We must take them to better lighting that I may see them more clearly.”

Horace thought for a moment. “The village lantern, perhaps?”

“Aye, that's it! We shall take them to the lantern.”

Horace nudged a sheep experimentally. It gave a bit of a bleat, and eventually began moving. Between the two of them, they managed to direct the three sheep to the gate, which they had completely missed on their way in and were, after some fumbling, able to open. Once all were through and the gate closed, they set about clumsily herding the sheep to the village proper.

After some time, Horace remarked, “Ought we have some means of telling them apart until we get there?”

Will thought a moment, then said, “We shall number them.” He drew from his pouch a bottle of ink. Using his fingers, for quills are hardly suited to write on wool unwoven, he rather unsteadily traced a '1' on the back of the first sheep he'd seen. He stood for a moment, apparently lost in thought. Horace eventually nudged him, and Will started and returned to his task, daubing a '3' and a '4' on the backs of the other sheep. Wiping his hand on the side of sheep number four, he resealed the bottle with some difficulty and replaced it in his pouch.

They successfully guided the sheep some distance more, within the village itself, before the animals spotted a flowerbed laden with green things fit for grazing. There they stopped and there they chomped, and neither Will nor Horace had the heart to move them on.

Will sighed and announced that he clearly was not meant to have so fluffsome a companion.

Horace was not deterred. “We shall take a few moments to collect ourselves,” he said, opening a bottle and passing it to Will, “then we shall set out once more. I've a notion near as fluffy and perhaps more interesting than sheep.”

***************

“Young Will, thou didst tell me there was a fire in the square.”

“Aye, mistress O'Bales, 'tis just there!”

“William, that be a lantern.”

“I– what?”

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. “A lantern, Will. One of the village lanterns, what be lit all night? that folk might find their way despite the darkness?”

“....Oh. But there's burning.”

“I be goin' back to bed now.” She turned to leave.

A call sounded from across the square. “Will, I got them! It'll be sour grapes for th— good Lord, the square's aflame!”

Emily blinked, then dashed the contents of her bucket upon the miscreants before her. “I bid thee good night, good masters.”

***************

Horace wasn't overly sure that stopping in the stables was wise, not with Will pining after an animal companion as he was. Even in his state of dubious clarity, Horace had the wit to know that stealing a horse was foolish, with dangerous consequences, even for them, even drunk. But Will had insisted, and did not thus far appear in imminent peril of emotional distress. He was petting a dappled grey belonging to goodness knows whom, telling it that it was such a good horse, such a beautiful horsey, so smooth and wonderful, yes you are.

The beast Horace had sought to pet unequivocally wanted nothing to do with him, so he cast about for something with which to occupy himself. A saddle and assorted tack hung on the door to the stall before him, and he began idly examining it. He accidentally unhooked it after a moment, spent several minutes investigating how he'd done such a thing, and sought to hang it back up. But it refused to hang, or perhaps he lacked the necessary dexterity. Needing somewhere else to leave it, he unhooked a different set of tack, and placed the first where the second had been. Then he stared in confusion at this new mess of leather and buckles unexpectedly in his hands. What was to be done but shift a third to make room for this one? Yet even then, he was still left with a rogue saddle.

By the time Will had finished cooing over the grey, every set of tack in the stable had changed position, and Horace still stared at a set stubbornly in his hands. Fortunately, Will was better able to convince it to settle onto the remaining hook, and they left the stable in perfect order, so far as they could tell.

* * *

April 24th , mid-late morning:

Amy Cooper was looking with mild curiosity at a pig with the number '3' on its back rooting around a flowerbed when she caught sight of the bearers of the flower-crowns. Instantly, she marched up to them, and, pausing only for breath, launched into speech.

“In O'Malley's last e'entide, the both of thee did sort of say vaguely marriage-type vows at me. That is, I think they were marriage-ish. They were somewhat difficult to understand. The words were intelligible enough, but they had not much substance in the strung-togetherness of them. Thou,” and here she gestured to Horace, “did proclaim me the most creative practical-thinker, least ineloquent non-wordsmith, and most enthusiastic non-changeling thou e'er did meet; and Will here did declare of me that he could not wish for a better verbal-sparring partner with whom to maintain an unmalicious bitter rivalry, which at any rate I can agree with. I am here to clarify that unsolicited vows do not a wedding make, and that I be willing to pretend none of it happened.”

“Oh. We, erm—”

“Most well, never happened. I shall be on my way, I've some new square prototypes to build.” She turned and sped off steadily, leaving Will and Horace both some lesser version of gobsmacked.

“Well,” said Horace after a time. “At least we paid her sincere compliments.”

* * *

April 23rd , nighttime:

“Where are we bound?”

“Wherefore ought I know? I be following thee?”

“Thou art?”

“Aye, thou did speak of a new idea since the sheep and chickens and rats did not work out.”

“I.... I was following thee. I must have forgot.”

There was a silence as they pondered the implications of this, then—

“Then I believe we are lost.”

Will thought on that, and said, “Then we shall have to use our wits and become unlost. We are both intelligent enough folk, are we not?”

“Decidedly,” replied Horace.

Will began to pace. “There be no buildings, nor firelight; thus we must be outside the village proper a good bit.”

“Indeed.”

“There be trees all about us. Mayhap we strayed into the forest?”

Horace considered this, then shook his head, frowned, and quickly stopped. “Nay, for look, the sky be too visible. The trees be not near enough one another.”

“Ohhhhhh.”

“What, what's the thing where there's trees and they're tame and orderly and they grow things and someone looks after them?” Horace spoke with his hands, waggling his fingers as though he could grasp the truant term from the air.

Will mulled it over for some time, then said, “Orchid.”

“Aye, that's it! We must be in an orchid.”

Will thought some more, then moved toward one of the trees, and promptly slipped and fell.

Horace did not immediately see where he had gone. “Will? Will! Where art thou?”

“Merely fallen, but I have the answer. The ground be covered in apples. We be in an apple orchid.”

Horace considered that, then remarked, “Agnes's land be not far from some of mine own. I could more easily get my bearings there.” He held out a hand, and Will hoisted himself up.

“Let us skirt the fence until we find a path.”

They walked for several minutes, working their way toward what they hoped was a fence. The wind rattled the budding branches above their heads and close by their faces. At length, Horace said, “Will, it be thy natal day, aye?”

“Aye.”

“And thy natal day be in April.”

“Last that I did to make note.”

“Most well. But the last I did to note, apples grow not in these early months. Nor should they remain on the ground unrotted through all the winter.”

“Yet what I slipped upon was certes an apple, and as fresh and finely-formed as any e'er I saw.”

They slowly turned and looked back into the shadows of the orchard. The full moon cast twisted echoes of the branches, warping the ground into an unknowable writhing latticework. Suddenly, a sharp giggling cry pierced the air, and a glint as though of fangs caught their eyes from the foot of the tree under which Will had fallen. Both men started, calling out in alarm, then turned and fled as swift as their staggering steps might take them.

***************

“I hardly realized cows were so morose.”

“Moo.”

“See what I mean? Didst thou hear what she said, Will? She believes life is pointless.”

Will was across the field a way, in a different pasture entirely. “This one over here is despondent, but only because she cannot be with the love of her life. It's so sad, Horace, it's like R and J but worse.”

“Moo.”

“That is what I say, friend, 'tis not fair.”

By this time, Horace had joined Will, which included tripping over a fence. “What be her name?”

Will thought a moment. “This one be Ariadne. Her love, to whom you were just speaking,” he gestured, “is Meredith.”

Horace considered the prospect. “Were we to unite them, Meredith would stop being so morose.”

“We shall! 'Tis what they deserve.”

The two stumbled to the fence, where they puzzled over the ingeniously-constructed beams. It took at least ten minutes to divine how the beams connected and how to remove a few. These they tossed to the side, along the rest of the fence.

“Go, Ariadne!” Will called triumphantly. “Go meet thy love!”

Ariadne considered him, then turned around and continued sleeping.

Will nodded understandingly. “She wants her beauty sleep first, of course.”

“But once she's slept, she will join Meredith?”

“Of course. And A and M shall be united, and 'twill be most beauteous.”

“Moo,” said Meredith.

“Thou hast the right of it.”

* * *

April 24th , mid-late morning:

They did not cross paths with Theresa Ratchet until they'd passed by most of the shops and into the more residential area. She sat outside her little hut, the spic-and-spanness of which juxtaposed almost harshly with her appearance, repairing a trap. When she caught sight of the bedraggled duo, she smiled broadly and waved, calling out, “Good morrow to thee, good masters! And twice o'er to thee, Will!”

Will returned the wave. “God save, Theresa. I don't suppose I married thee last night, by any chance?”

Theresa's smile, if possible, widened. Several more gaps showed. “Aye, that thou did, good sir!”

“Ah,” he said, barely fazed at this point. “Sorry about that.”

Theresa waved it off. “Nay, 'tis most well. 'Tweren't more than vows, for thou wert clearly – what be that modern phrase? – drunk off thine arse.”

Will made to respond, but Horace hustled him along. “Best not hang about long enough for her to notice that we sprang some of her traps,” he muttered.

“Oh! Aye, not that I recall doing such a thing, nor indeed see how thou could recall it; but aye.” In a loud voice, he added, “Well, if there's no harm done, we shall be on our way. Eskarina suggested something called 'hydration'? We be on our way to try it out. Anon!”

The ratcatcher gave another wave and returned her attention to her traps.

* * *

April 23rd , nighttime:

After much struggle, Horace succeeded in undoing the shutters of his storeroom window, and he and Will climbed in. Climbed is a generous term, of course, for it was more akin to stumbling and staggering and even falling; but the point is, they made it through the window.

After some more fumbling, Horace declared, “The lamp hath vanished.”

Will, who was admittedly less familiar with the room, but had spent enough time there to have at least a working knowledge of it, added, “I believe the door hath moved, as well.”

“First my keys and now this.” Horace felt the walls. “Why is there so much dust? And what are these, chisels?”

Will snapped his fingers. “I have it! We be in the wrong building.”

Horace pondered this for a long moment. At last, he replied. “That....would rather explain wherefore none of my keys fit the door.”

Will's eyes had by now adjusted somewhat, and by the light of the moon shining through the casement, he managed to find a lamp. Several attempts with flint and steel later, they had it burning. Its light revealed shelves covered in tools, dust, rock fragments, and half-formed figures. Horace stared long an hard at a mallet before finally declaring, “I fancy we be in Millicent Goodenstone's workshop.”

Will did not seem to hear him. His eyes, wide and shining once more, rested on an unshaped stone somewhat smaller than his fist, which the lamplight had caught. He drew near it almost unconsciously.

“... had best leave a note and withdraw the way we arrived,” Horace was saying. “What're you....”

Will slowly touched the rock, then picked it up. “This.... This is it,” he whispered reverently. “My new companion, to tend mine heart until Honey and Priscilla and Legg may join me.” He gently caressed the stone. “What thinkst thou of Petra? Obvious, I know, yet it suits them.”

Horace had by this time joined him. “Petra the pet rock,” he said experimentally. “Know you, I believe that suits them delightfully.”

Will broke into a delighted grin. “We've done it! You did it! You found me the perfect pet!” And threw his arms once more around Horace, who gasped in pain when Petra whacked him in the side.

***************

“What in God's name dost thou think thou art doing!??!!!” The bellow awoke Horace with a start. In the pale light of barely-dawn, he could make out the form of Rosalind Anne Uxbridge towering over him, clutching a rake and quivering with rage.

“Knowst thou how long I have spent caring for these blossoms? The ones thou seemst to have mistaken for a mattress?”

Horace looked about and began to piece things together. He'd clearly passed out in a flowerbed, one of Rosalind's many prized patches. He cast about for Will but saw him not. “Where, what hast thou done with Will?” he asked.

“Change not the subject!”

The gravity of the situation downed on Horace. He was without ally in the midst of a garden he'd ruined, with naught betwixt him and the gardener's fury save his own wit. And just that moment, he felt he hadn't an ounce of wit to his name.

He struggled to his feet, desperately playing for time. “Now, erm, see here Rosalind, er, this is clearly a– a mistake of some sort, and if thou will but give me a mome', or several, I can explain myself and the context of this whole affair most succinctly. Or somewhat succinctly. I do not feel overly succinct at this particular moment. What must be understood...” He was standing, he'd more or less gotten his bearings, and he'd pieced together a plan. Without warning, he shot off, ducking the blow of the rake, and ran as fast as his shaking legs would carry him to the jailhouse, where he pounded the door, yelling, “Sheriff! I must report an incident of public drunkenness, accidental trespassing, and general bad behavior!”

* * *

April 24th , late morning:

At long last, Horace and Will made it to the Tanningrove homestead. Jack was out front, ostensibly weeding the small vegetable garden, but more probably waiting for them to put in an appearance. Sure enough, when he saw them approaching, he looked at his father and simply said “Why.” before turning and leaving, weeding abandoned.

Well, it was a reasonable enough reaction to their understanding of how the boy's father had spent his night. They made no move to stay his departure, instead continuing into the blessed dimness of the indoors.

At a table in the parlor sat John Hopfield, a cup of something in front of him. Upon hearing their entry, he looked up, and then beamed.

Horace stopped in his tracks. The color drained from his face.

“Oh.” he said.

Will looked from Horace to John several times, his mouth slightly agape, his sodden-but-drying mind working furiously. Finally, it clicked. “Oh my God,” he said quietly.

“Hello, Horace!” Had he not been sitting, John would've been bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Horace swallowed nervously and suddenly wished he had a hat to twist about in his hands. “Did– that is– erm, good morrow John. I.... ” And now his face was flushed as red as any of his wines.

John's face fell almost imperceptibly, but in a manner more resigned than disappointed. “You don't remember.”

“Erm, quite frankly no, I do not; but I can see it plain enough now, for all my fogged mind.” His hands, desperate to fidget, found their way to his flower-crown and began idly shredding a bloom.

John nodded. “Well, I know not that Eskarina's officiation be technically binding, so.... ” He trailed off.

“That's, erm.” Horace fiddled with the petals he'd pulled from his crown, seven in all. “That's probably for the best, I suppose.”

“Aye.”

There was a long silence. Will looked from John to Horace to the door, torn between fascination and social discomfort at the scene unfolding before him.

Horace shifted his weight. “I mean, it isn't that I'm strictly opposed to the notion, per se,” he semi burst out at length. “I'm not. But, I mean, I wasn't planning on it. At least not yet.”

Now even John was fidgeting, tracing the edge of the cup in front of him. “We– there wasn't, erm, that is — it weren't binding in the eyes of anyone, if thou takest my meaning,” he said awkwardly, blushing. “Thou wert clearly drunk, of course there wouldn't be....”

Horace took some time to process that. “I don't think I would have thought there was, had I known of this before now and thus had time to consider the possibility,” he said at length, now idly crumpling the petals in his hands, “yet I thank thee for, er, for clarifying it.”

Another silence, possibly even more awkward than the first, hovered between them. Making up his mind, Will carefully asked, “Horace, doest thou want me here just now?”

Horace started, reminded of his friend's presence. “Quite possibly not.”

“Most well.” Will nodded despite his splitting skull and turned immediately for the door. “I shall meet back up with thee perhaps around suppertime, then? To piece together, erm,” he glanced at John, “what remains to piece together.”

Horace waved vaguely in confirmation as Will hastened out the door, then looked back at John, still crumpling petals.

After a beat, John said, “As far as piecing together thine evening goeth, there be one or two other things thou likely ought to hear. In fact, I think mayhap thou had best sit for this.”

Several expressions crossed Horace's face, most notably steely resignation and dread. He slowly pulled a stool over and lowered himself onto it. “Yes?”

“When we, erm.... When thou didst marry me, thou also did to marry Stella.”

Horace relaxed. “I was honestly expecting far worse.”

“And then Sherry was jealous, so Stella and I married her after you left.”

Horace's face remained unchanged but for the widening of his eyes and his color draining once more. “Oh God.”

John spoke again, this time more hastily. “And, well, thou knowst well what Sherry be like, and while I suppose I technically know not for certain, I think she mayhap be taking it seriously.”

“Oh God.”

“Indeed.”

Horace passed his hands over his eyes and remained thus a long silent moment, cobbling together words that would suffice. At last, a long, deliberate breath. “John, 'tis clear that we must needs discuss some things. I am like to be obliged to put my part through writing so as to hone my meaning.”

John gave a brief tender smile at that.

Horace removed his head from his hands and stood, slowly and carefully. “I swear I am not avoiding thee, and shall face this anon; but now I am going to find something to eat, and I am going to drink some cleaned water, and I am going to bed, for I be in no fit state just now to cope with much of anything, least of all our, erm, situation.”

***************

Will had so often trod the path from the Tanningrove homestead back to his own house – more accurately simply his parents house, now that he'd moved to London – that his feet steered him thus without conscious thought. When he did finally notice, he pressed on, for he truly needed sustenance 'ere he did aught else. Still, he reflected, he had best make his meal quick, for he had another matter to attend to as soon as he might; though he was yet uncertain whether he looked to it in apprehension, or in anticipation.

He glanced down at his wrist and the initials freshly written thereon. He hadn't even known the noble was in the area. He would've expected him to still be in Hunsdon this time of year.

End notes: (.....The More the Marrier geddit like 'marry'?)

Thanks so friggin' much for reading!  This, the first PARF fic I ever finished, was incredibly difficult to write.  Not only was it a different style and tone to anything I've ever written before, but I began it after not writing anything (beyond journaling and approximately five textposts) for six months.  Thus, my first draft was the shittiest shitty first draft I e'er have made, the writing clunky and ill-fitting and excruciatingly slow.  There's a reason it took me a year.

Please, please, please leave a comment!  A line you really liked, a weak phrase, a character voice I absolutely nailed, typos and other corrections, something you found funny.  Reactions, impressions.  I cannot become a better writer without feedback.  At least leave kudos if you enjoyed it.

I'll be recording a podfic of this work over the next who-knows-how-many days, and will link it here when it's done.  Please note that I have zero notion of a timeline for that project.

In the meantime, notes on the content of this fic.

Much of the style and tone of this piece was inspired by the Storytime: Voltron is (Basically) a Disaster series by CaffeinatedFlumadiddle.  The scene with the forge kittens was based line-for-line on Basically Under Arrest (Part 1).

I have never been drunk or hungover, nor witnessed the same firsthand for any extended time.  This is based on other media representations of drunkenness.

The astute reader will notice that I mingle more modern methods of speech with the more Elizabethan dialogue.  This was intended to mimic the manner in which the actors do exactly that, particularly in interactions.

The notion of Sheriff Perry taking valuables from an arrested Will was derived from streetwork in week one, in which a rumor went around that the sheriff was taking money from his prisoners.  The wording of the rumor was ambiguous, and could've meant either stealing or accepting bribes.

Will abruptly and ardently claiming credit for pranking the sheriff  was inspired by Trial and Dunke closing weekend, when Will flung himself enthusiastically at punishment in Horace's stead.  I like the idea of Will recklessly throwing himself in potential harm's way for people he cares about, particularly for things of low consequence that everybody treats as though they are serious.

The idea of someone's drunk self pranking their sober self came from a Text From Last Night I have saved somewhere on my external hard-drive and cannot currently be bothered to find.

Streetwork on closing day indicated that the R and J play had been picked up by a producer in London, and that Will would be relocating there shortly.

To be clear, yes, I know the difference between Scylla (six heads, monch monch) and Charybdis (whoosh whoosh, motherfucker).  Horace and Will are drunk.

For folk not present at PARF 2017, the cat sìth is explained in this Myths and Legends Finale.

I am neither herbalist nor doctor.  I decided on Eskarina's hangover antidote by googling “herbal hangover remedy” or something like that, and selected some plants that I think would've been available in England at the time.  I know not if they can be safely mixed, nor even if they would taste foul if they were.  I also cannot vouch for their effectiveness.

You will note that I spelled the fire brigade's name as “Emily O'Bales” although it is spelled as “Emily O. Bales” in the program.  I altered the spelling thus because I frequently heard her referred to as “mistress O'Bales”, but cannot recall ever hearing he called “mistress Bales”.  If the cast made a mistake, I fear it was made to such an extent as to eclipse the technically-correct version.

Are village lanterns a thing?  I've heard the term and it makes sense as a thing, so I went with it.

The notion of our Amy Cooper building square barrels came from an episode of QuaranTeatime in which it was mentioned that Amy was expanding her trade into crate-making.  She would totally call them square barrels, though.

Speaking of QuaranTeatime.  Numbered animals with one creature less than the highest number were brought up in a QuaranTeatime episode as something that was happening in Mount Hope.  However, I had planned it into the story before they brought it up.

To be clear, yes, I know the difference between 'orchard' and 'orchid', as you will gather if you note that I spelled it correctly the one time it was in narration and not speech.  Will and Horace are drunk.

If you never heard the tale of the wereapple, I'm sorry, idk how to help you.

Horace and Will are in no danger of being mistaken for burglars or anything when they break into Millicent Goodenstone's studio.  Streetwork on closing day revealed that Millie was going to travel to Bath to further train and become a real master stonecarver, so this particular home would have been unoccupied at the time.

I am confident that I captured the voices of almost all the characters herein.  The exception is  Rosalind Anne Uxbridge, whose voice I had great trouble summoning to my mind.  I hope I did her justice, and apologize profusely if I did not.

“...it weren't binding in the eyes of anyone, if thou takest my meaning”.  The meaning here, of course, is, “It wasn't binding in the eyes of the law because we didn't go through the proper channels, and it wasn't binding in the eyes of God because we didn't fuck.”  (The notion that marriage must involve genital muckery in order to be recognized by the Divine is, of course, rubbish, but the idea was prevalent at the time.)

A note on Tanninghop.  I both do and do not ship it.  If I may be allowed to quote one of my posts: “Whether deliberately or incidentally, the actors subtly play the dynamic [between Horace and John] just a little bit differently every day.  Some days, they are as they appear in the plot’s basic premise: two individuals caught in baseless inherited hatred. But sometimes, it seems they were childhood friends before becoming caught in that inherited hatred.  Some days, they are exes, the animosity between them potentially beginning with their breakup.  A few times, it has seemed that the feud began with the two of them over some petty squabble in like third grade, and merely expanded from there.  Once or twice, they inherited the hatred, but each harbors a repressed attraction to the other.  Occasionally, they’ve even been secret lovers in the midst of the feud.  Watching their interaction has become my favorite part of Queen’s Court, and I always look forward to divining what their exact relationship is on any given day.”  Historically, I have always been trash for a unified canon, a specific continuity (or as much of one as is possible in repeated improvised interactive theatre).  But in 2019, I fell deeply in love with the kaleidoscope of  subtle differences in day-to-day dynamics.  Not just in love with each individual dynamic, but in love with the kaleidoscope as a whole, and with the very notion of that kaleidoscope.  I thus have no set headcanon about their relationship through which I interpret their story: I have a dozen.   That being said, John and Horace are totally in romantic-love in this fic.  However, this fic is not canon to my interpretation.

[parf-fan]

Alright, maybe somebody can help clear this up for me.

The Elizabethan Times for 2012 lists Queen Elizabeth’s actor as Jess Eppler.  The 2013 Elizabethan Times lists Queen Elizabeth’s actor as Marisa Lerman, and lists Jess Eppler as playing Nell Quickly.  But the photos of Queen Elizabeth from both those years on facebook are tagged as Jess Eppler, and do appear to me to all be the same actor.  In the final Finale of 2013, Queen Elizabeth said something about almost not being up here [the Globe, as the queen] again.

Does anybody know what happened?  My best guess is that Marisa Lerman was lined up to play Queen Elizabeth, but something prevented her from doing so at the last minute, and Jess Eppler, having played the role twice before and being already on cast, was able to step in.  But I have nothing more than best guesses.

If nothing else, I’d like to know whether Queen Elizabeth was played by Jess Eppler in both 2012 and 2013, so that I can tag my posts properly.  This has been eating away at me.