Becoming a Renaissance Faire Lady

But I did know which soulful satyr god played the flute, and with a decisive shout of "Pan!" the game was mine to win. Take that, gamer nerd. Ren fair dork 0wnz j00. Further victory came soon after, while walking down the very same lane alongside Sir Daniel, a swagger in my bucket-booted step.

"WHISKEY!" shouted a middle-aged woman with a heavy Spanish accent, excited not about the sweet alcoholic nectar but about me, Magnificently Mediocre Monster Hunter in Training. Sir Daniel stopped in his tracks. When patrons remember your name, you've arrived.

"That is so cool," he gushed, slipping briefly out of character to congratulate the both of us—Whiskey and Andrea—on a job well done.

But being a monster hunter isn't all sex and slaying, parading around like a super smooth agent of the forces of good. It's a life of tough trials and lonely nights, not only because hanging out at Ren fairs is one of the best ways to ensure that you'll never get laid by a man without a ponytail again. And it's hard to start a family when you know how risky it is to bring into this world a child who could be stolen by a hag or transformed into a changeling.

It is, however, all worth it when a grown man in a baseball cap asks, "So, your concern is with vampires?" when he sees the stakes strapped to the sides of my legs. Or when a young mother with a baby far too young to care brings her kid in for a tour of the museum because Sir Daniel has advised her that the baby could have goblin blood. People turn to monster hunting for different reasons. Sir Daniel loves the look of wonder in a child's eye. I, on the other hand, prefer to incite the willful suspension of disbelief in adults who really ought to know better.

Just when I thought I'd hit my stride at the end of my first weekend as a monster hunter in training, Raptus and Krane told me of my final task: To become a full-fledged monster hunter, I would have to rescue Krane from the clutches of an ogre that he would allow to catch him. I would have to use my wile and skill, combining physical agility and monster knowledge to free my mentor. This would be much, much harder than defeating a World of Warcraft nerd in a game of words.

'Twas one week later in the year 1533. The village of Scarborough, having recently been cleansed of its troublesome zombie population, had but a moment's rest before another beastly plague befell it. A local ogre had been driven out of the nearby mountains by its clan because of its exceedingly bad breath (and the degree of badness of breath here cannot be understated if we are to believe an ogre was excommunicated because of said breath, as ogres smell terrible and terribly.) The people of Scarborough had but one choice: to call in a monster hunter.

Well, they had three choices, really. Magnus Krane, Sir Daniel Raptus and Whiskey Grimes were all available, as they'd hung round the village post-zombie vanquishing for a little monster hunter R&R, taking in the air and smashing fairies to pieces. Once the ogre began terrorizing the village, however, the fairy-smashing got put on the back burner (of the wood-burning stove). Ever reckless, Magnus Krane decided that Whiskey Grimes, monster hunter in training, should be the one to slay the ogre as part of her final lesson. Ever unorthodox, Krane decreed this test would be conducted under the most dangerous of circumstances: He would allow himself to be captured by the ogre, and it would be Whiskey's duty to track the ogre back to his lair, slay the beast and set Krane free.

Against his better judgment, Sir Daniel agreed to the plan, despite assuring all that it was folly: Not only would Whiskey receive a failing grade on the assignment, but Krane would likely lose one to three limbs in the process. Brave Krane wandered round the village unarmed, boasting of his innate tastiness, and was swiftly scooped into an iron cage by the great green ogre. Supervised by Sir Daniel Raptus, who would in actuality be totally inept in an ogre emergency because of his specialty in ghost-vanquishing and general unfamiliarity with beast-slaying, Whiskey tracked the ogre into the hills as it stumbled back to its lair with Krane encaged. 

Whiskey crept. She sneaked. She ooched. She loaded her mostly trusty blow-dart gun with poisoned darts that would tranquilize the ogre in his lair, just as she'd been taught by her instructors. And just at the right moment, just when the ogre turned his broad back, exposing his shoulders and making himself a prime target, Whiskey wasn't paying attention. But at the next-to-right moment, when the ogre was at a slightly less ideal angle, she spat out her poison darts in quick succession, bringing the ogre (and the cage it was carrying containing Magnus Krane) tumbling to the ground.

With several swift whacks of her axe, Whiskey severed the ogre's head and ran into the village of Scarborough with it lifted high above her head, proclaiming her success. She and Sir Daniel exchanged medieval high-fives. The town rejoiced. And Magnus Krane was stuck back in the ogre's lair, left to free himself from the cage with great difficulty. He arrived in the village of Scarborough some hours later, weary and covered in ogre's blood. He gave Whiskey Grimes a passing grade, but barely.