Barak Ravensfuri

Also known as: Barak de Noirville. His highest award was Lion of An Tir. He was a Knight, a Pelican and a Royal Peer. He was one of the Ravensfuri brothers: Mischka Ravensfuri, Davin Steingrimsson, Dungadar Ravensfuri, Garan Steingrimson, Gunther Ravensfuri, Skeggi Hrafensfuri, and Skapti Thorinsson, Gideon Hrafensfuri.

• Reigned once as King of An Tir

This gentle's name has been added to the Scroll of Honor.

"Barak is picked on by his Ravensfuri brethren, who are currently dictating this posting while drinking good red wine. They would like to share another photo, but I will not be party to the inadvertent exposure of gratuitous obnoxiousness to unsuspecting viewers of this page. However, the boys feel the photo (below right) to be indicative of Barak and I find it less offensive than the first suggestion."

Memorials

Chuck Davenport’s family will be holding a memorial service on November 29 at 2 PM at St. Michael’s Church, 4733 West Saanich Road, in Victoria. His family welcomes all who knew him to join them in celebrating his life. Please dress in mundane clothing for this event.

James and Glynis are hosting an after-memorial gathering at their home November 29 at 7 PM in Victoria. BYOB, dress as you wish.

The Ravensfuri Brothers are planning an SCA gathering for sometime after the first of the year. Details will be posted as they are firmed up.

If you are holding a memorial event or tournament, please share it here or contact laohats(at)hotmail(dot)com.

== In the Before Time; In the Long Ago == by Rafny / young_raven Many years ago, Barak Jarl made an oath. To Duke Steingrim and in front of the assembled Varangian Guard, he swore that one day he would become a duke, or else he would pay over one hundred ounces of silver to His Grace to be used for the benefit of the Guard. In the years that followed, there was much gentle ribbing between Steingrim and Barak, and the oath was never forgotten.

As his friends -as a very real part of his family- we could see this oath fulfilled for him. We could gather together, in one place, one hundred ounces of silver. And when this is done and Steingrim holds Barak to have fulfilled his oath, the funds thus raised would go to an organization that helps to prevent suicide. Maybe half on the Canadian side and half on the US side. We could do this as part of the way in which we remember and honor our friend who is gone.

Silver will be collected by any of the Ravensfuri Brothers at events.

(A fundraiser for the Raven Travel Fund is also in the works...)

Memories

Greetings, AnTir. I am greatly saddened to announce the passing of one of AnTir's leading lights, Jarl Barak Ravensfuri. Please join with me in offering our condolences to Duchess Lao and the rest of Barak's family and friends, who are now grieving. Their pain is surely immeasurable. (edited by Lao to read:) You may send condolences for the Ravensfury Brothers and his family directly to laohats(at)hotmail(dot)com

In Service, Master Andras Truemark Squire to Jarl Barak Ravensfuri, Lion of AnTir Posted to the Steps November 18, 2008

Pictures

Here's some recent photos from his Facebook album (forwarded by Lao). Additional pics are available at Special Pages - Uploaded Images:

== The History of Barak Bucks == Reprinted by permission of Ian Cnulle, the Moneyer of Silberbyrg

At Barak and Lao's Coronation, there were half a dozen of us An Tirian moneyers, although we had not yet started the process of seeking Guild status. This was the second time we presented Royal largesse coins. They were very special - hot struck Byzantine style coppers (as appropriate for a Varangian) - the first (to the best of our knowledge) hot striking done in the Knowne Worlde - and we had all participated in minting them. There hadn't been time to do the presentation in Court, but TRMs graciously arranged a private audience to receive them. Still splendidly garbed all in white, TRMs awaited us at the end of a hallway, Barak doing his best to look regal enthroned on a plastic chair. We approached as a group, bearing our tools and banner, and knelt, proffering a small wooden pyx containing a hundred heavy pieces. Barak leaned foreward, gravely peering into the box, and then broke out with "WHOA! COOL!!!"

Kings are generally - and sometimes demonstratively - happy to receive coins, but Barak's response was the most memorable. The king bust die from that coin was later used with a new die with the +H emblem of St. Hildegard's (designed by Lao) to strike the first of the St. Hildegard circulating copper $1 tokens. For the first couple of years, it was the only design type (out of ultimately 44 different designs). At 30th Year Celebration, Barak told us that {we} had made him the most famous man in the SCA by virtue of minting about 6,000 coins with his (iconic) image and name on them, traveling to the ends of the Knowne Worlde. Naturally, people spontaneously called them "Barak Bucks" (and the name stuck for all types, regardless of design, issued over a dozen years), and we heard usages occur, such as "putting in my two Barak's worth" in conversations.

Toward the end of the reign, Barak led the Army of An Tir at An Tir/West War. Another member of the Moneyers' Guild, Thomas Nothelm had, on his own initiative, minted several thousand fighter pay tokens to give to everybody who fought for An Tir at that war. Unfortunately, Thomas decided to distribute the coins to all of the fighters on the battlefield just before the first battle of the war. The problem is that people in armor don't have their pouches (or accessible pockets) to put such things in. After some general confusion, the question of what to do was referred to His Majesty for an executive decision. Barak's response was, "Tell them to put them in their cup!". The mental image of the Army of An Tir charging across the field with their crotches jingling will live with me forever.

== The Wave and Cliff == Copyright November 2008, reprinted by permission of John R. Schmidt, aka Sir John Theophilous

Grey sea and grey cliff in grey month
wave upon wave upon wave beating foam
Sometimes in rain, sometimes in dark.
The cliff eternal, the wave renewed--
both echos of distant turmoiled birthing.
The cliff, distant in time, the time of gods;
the wave, distant in place, beyond memory.
The ephemeral wave always returns, permanent.
The permanent cliff erodes, ephemeral.
To the God's eyes.

Winter comes. Some hold homesteads hard;
some willingly withstand weather.
Some seek surer shelter--
May great gods gather them in.
No decision is born of weakness;
though we may judge strength misused
What man may judge another's choice in this,
Truely. Without self, at night's dark,
all have some urge to move on.

The largest wave hits stone the hardest;
Against endurance great strength can be destroyed.
Waves remain even after the cliff;
waves of words and memory, like Odin's ravens.
Hold high the memories, let the words surge.
Remember the oaths, the victories, the times.
Remember the man who brought them about.

I will cast two ounces of silver to redeem his word;
I never found it false, though I may not have found it pleasing.

Letters to a Squire

Excerpted from a series of letters written by Countess Lao (circa 1987-88), to Squire Barak, whose courage and perseverance in the lists, inspired her to write them...Printed by permission of lao yu, lion duchess

The Fourth...
As mortal cloth surrounds the man,
so virtue must enrobe the soul.
The richest robe that can be worn
is virtue’s cloak---noblest of all...

...Refinement and propriety
imbues with grace your every deed.
Compassion towards less-fortuned men
will more empower than impede...

...With diligence pursue your goal
with vigor that is unrelenting;
With inner strength of titan scale---
formidable and never ending...

The Last...
Such sagas spring from courtly love:
all words are writ to contemplate,
all motions made to stir and wake,
all favors held in innocence.
Emotions stayed by obeisance
to those who hold eachother’s hearts.

The time has come for swords to sing,
for shields to clash and steel helms ring
with valiant deed. In battle’s din
all foes vanquished --- one left standing
to lay claim to the Throne and Crown ---
the next Crown Prince, heir soon to reign.

As others were, so shall we be:
magnificent in epic deed,
nobility in high esteem,
the gardeners of chivalry,
the keepers of the Crown and Dream,
when you are King, and I am Queen...

---

A Tale of The Watcher

In a ger in a lonely sheltered valley, the little nomad woman wakes suddenly.

‘something’ has changed, she senses it. Crawling out of the warm furs doesn’t disturb her partner, who rolls over into the warm spot with a contented sigh. She isn’t worried about getting warm again when she returns to the bed – he’s easily convinced to yield the warm spot by the careful application of cold feet.....

The uneasy feeling grows as she shrugs into a sheepskin outer robe and slips out of the ger.

She is not all that surprised to see a figure waiting outside, and even less surprised that the visitor is The Watcher. It has been a while, after all. He lifts a torch and motions for her to walk with him. Silently they climb the slight rise to the notch in the hills, the next low valley should be visible in the bright moonlight.

Only it is not there! It is a valley, but not the one she knows in daylight and dark. This one is bathed in a mix of shadow, moonlight, and drifting fog. And again, the difference is that the valley is not a pasture of grazing yak and horses, but is now holding a large camp of tents and people! The sound is muted, but she can hear drumming, voices raised in song, and an odd jingling sound.

As if there was any doubt, she knows she is not standing in An Tir at the moment......

The Watcher speaks: “One comes tonight to pass through the Gate, and you will tell of it”. She asks why is the Watcher is up here with her and not down at the Gate. “Another asked for the honor of meeting this one, I could not refuse. It might make his passage easier to see a familiar face. Watch now, he comes......”.

The full moon breaks free of clouds and bathes the road to the camp in light. Now she sees him, a large figure in splendid Viking garb – a rich red wool cloak clasped with a hand-worked brooch the likes of which Torgul himself might dream of creating. He bears no sword or helm, and walks like one unsure of a welcome. She notices he has a slight ‘pigeon-toed’ walk.

The man approaches the Gate – in this place and time it is merely Viking timber, with a row of carved rune-staves lining the path. Another man steps from the shadows and stands astride the path, a helm tucked under one arm and a bared sword in hand.

The approaching man falters – until the moonlight reveals the waiting man’s forge-built body and familiar face. A cry of joy escapes him as he steps eagerly toward him, then he stops uncertainly as the sword is raised. Three paces seperate them, and although the smith speaks too low for the words to carry to where she is, she can tell the tone is reproving.

The Watcher speaks:”As happy as he is to see his Brother, he is giving him a bit of a hard time for coming early to the Gate. He would have preferred to wait longer – something about the tent not being ready yet. He offers room in his own tent to his Brother until then”.

She is not surprised to actually see the big man drop his head and dig a toe into the ground like a child taking a tongue-lashing he knows he deserves. It was so like him in life.....

Lecture over, the blacksmith now holds the sword out for the man to take. With reverence he looks the blade over – it is a masterwork of craftsmanship. Every art has been worked to the utmost. The steel is pattern-welded damascus, the hilt worked and set with gems – but the grip is for use and not for show, a true warrior’s weapon.

The smith then holds out the helm for inspection, taking the sword back so that the helm can be turned by both hands. It is of the same matchless artistry as the sword, and the newcomer traces the strawberry leaves engraved around the crown of the helm with a finger, marveling at the perfection of it all. A King would wear such a helm.

But.......

Reluctantly, he hands back the helm and speaks – but too low for her mortal ears to catch. The Watcher sums up the words missed: “He would like nothing more than to receive this King’s ransom in warrior’s weapons and fight every day for the honor of those left behind – but he has a task laid upon him that follows him even here. He will take up the sword and helm only after his task has been accomplished back in the land of the living. There was a sworn oath that he would become a Duke or pay to Duke Steingrim one hundred ounces of silver. As he has not become a duke, the debt is now one of honor to pay. When one hundred ounces of silver have been gathered, it will be up to Steingrim to choose where to spread the bounty, in the name of the newest addition to this camp beyond the Gate”.

“Well said”, he adds, “very well said......”.

The little nomad womans eyes mist – or is it the moon on the fog? – “Witness.....” she whispers.

Below, the smith nods and smiles. Laying aside the sword and helm, he opens his arms and envelops the bigger man in a bear hug that would leave a grizzly bear breathless. Throwing a brotherly arm around the big man, they head for the camp and the warmth of friends.

A cheer goes up from the crowd at the new arrival, and they part to admit him to the circle in front of one particularly large tent. She starts in surprise as she recognizes a familiar onion-domed structure. The Watcher smiles: “It was set more deeply in the ground than mere stone, it exists here as well”.

A full horn is passed to the newcomer, and doumbek drums start up again. The odd jingling sound is revealed to be finger cymbals. Dancers gather on the carpets in front of the tent, and the smith strips down and takes up his hammer. Stepping to his forge, between the dancers and the tent, he begins ringing blows down on a piece of red-hot steel. He is making tent pegs.....

Suddenly the air above her is rent by the shriek of a bird. Startled, she whips around to see a pair of very large ravens circling above her ger. One of them has something shiny in it’s claws, which falls as they pass over her head and toward the camp in the valley below. She catches the dropped silvery item in both hands, then looks up. The camp, the road, the Gate, and the Watcher are all gone. She looks down now into the familiar valley with drowsing yak and horses waiting for the sunrise.

It is over, and she has Seen – and now she will tell of this passing, so that there will be some happiness to this sad time. The Brothers are together, and will wait to be reunited with lovers and loved ones – in time.

Before she stumbles back to her warm bed, she looks at what the raven dropped into her hand:

It is an ounce of silver......