[dropcap3]I[/dropcap3]n September of 1984, the stars aligned and a great plague was visited upon the lands of the Barony of Settmour Swamp (Kingdom of the East). They reeked of beer, they called it Bheithir, and it was good. In March of 1985, The Clan was granted its charter by Baron Irik Rodbjörn, and swore loyalty to Baron Irik. When he woke up the next morning with an amazing hangover, he was heard to say, “I granted what?”
[dropcap3]W[/dropcap3]hen the founding members first joined the SCA, they discovered the Barony of Settmour Swamp and loved it as home. They believed that the best thing for them would be to form a self-governing splinter group (i.e., the place was ripe for rebellion). After discussing for many weeks with the powers that be, they discovered that the path was fraught with many trials (read: effort required), which later became known as “The Trail of Beers.” The largest hurdle to overcome was the simple fact that they were too few and the beers too many (if that’s possible). Even the smallest official group needed more than three members, and they just didn’t have them. Another daunting problem was the small matter of location. Unfortunately, they did not live in the barony of their choice, but rather, a mile south in the territory of Carillion. This was a dry and craggy land, where their seed could find no purchase. (At this point it should also be mentioned that the Carillionites said that they must join Carillion, and “must” was not in their vocabulary, along with a lot of other useless words that are in that big book, that…what do you call it?) They were Swampies by all the gods! The heartland of Carillon was miles away to the southeast, deep in territory none of them had ventured into before (besides which, the strongest thing that the Carillionites drank was tea, which was rather like having a bachelor party next door to a 12-step meeting). Faced by these perils, and gifted with an undeniable tendency toward lethargy, they decided to drink instead.
[dropcap3]W[/dropcap3]hile in a drunken stupor, one very early afternoon, (morning?) someone presented the idea of forming a household (which no one to this day will take credit for). At last they could form a group which included friends from the north, and all four of them could drink together in relative peace (or so they thought). Since that time, vows were taken never to make any important decisions while sober. This pledge has since then often led to interesting journeys, not to mention wicked hangovers.