Darcy was the first member of one of the syndrome variations to contact me about becoming an afflictee. And she's one of the few afflictees who updates her description on the page when stuff changes. If you're an afflictee, too, feel free to send me updates as your life changes if your story should along with it. Anyhow, let me be quiet and let Darcy talk:

Although I grew up in the Baltimore area, I never even heard about the Maryland Renaissance Festival until I was 23 years old. (I come from a family of athletes, not theatre types. I still have a pretty good jump shot!) At the time, I was working in a soul-destroying job editing documents about the Trident missile (shudder). Fortunately, though, I worked in the same department as Susan, who shared my love for literature, Shakespeare, art and just about anything else that was the polar opposite of what we were doing for a living. She had been a Maryland Ren Fest regular for years. Coincidentally, I was also dating a man who happened to work at the festival. Either relationship pretty much sealed my fate to visit MRF.

Now, Susan wasn't the type to show up at the fair in shorts and a t-shirt: she did that costume thing, and she was good friends with Cynthia Cole, who owns the Purple Unicorn (clothing) booth. On my first-ever visit in 1989 I borrowed Susan's burgundy velvet "medieval maid" style dress and dried flower hair garland. I still have the photo, and yes, it IS amusing.

I was absolutely overwhelmed when I walked into the festival for the first time. When I was a child, my parents often gave me a hell for having my "nose in a book" too often and for being "too dramatic." But, the festival... it was my books come to life! It was my favorite games, "Pretend" and "Dress Up" to the 10th power! Susan introduced me to Cynthia and the "P.U." folks, who were a lot of fun. More than once I was mistaken for someone who worked at the fair. But the highlight of my day was at the Boar's Head Tavern. This cute guy with glasses and a dark beard and mustache singled me out of the audience, made me stand on a bench, and SANG TO ME. That "cute guy" was Tim Shaw, and he was singing with The Pyrates. (Can't ya just hear the theme from the Twilight Zone right about now?)

Well, that did it: I was determined to return, but as a participant, not as a patron. I never was much for being a spectator. Everytime I see someone do something that I think is cool, I just gotta try it myself.

So, I conned my college a cappella singing buddy Elena, and our friend Izolda into auditioning as a madrigal group. We called ourselves Fleur de Lis, and we got a contract for the 1990 season!

Working at the fair was ten million, jillion times more fun than visiting. We jumped in with both feet -- going to acting workshops, making our costumes, inventing our own characters (middle class merchants' daughters! Egad!). A lot of folks on the cast were so welcoming and great friends to us. (And the flirting! Don't get me started!) It was the BEST summer and fall... I cried like a baby when it was over.

Later that year, however, I was invited to join The Pyrates. Someone shoved a mandolin into my hands and said, "learn to play this." I spent a number of seasons doing double-duty as a musician in both groups, until Fleur de Lis broke up. It was hectic, but I loved it!

The 2000 season was my 11th at MDRF, and, barring any number of catastrophes that I'm too superstitious to even mention in jest, I want to keep returning to Revel Grove. I've managed to keep growing and evolving over the years, so I never get bored. I even started playing hammered dulcimer in the lanes and selling my first solo recording!

Does this mean I was born in the wrong century? Not really: it wasn't nearly as much fun to be a woman then, and I like my teeth! I just love working with and playing with this group of people. And dressing funny, apparently. When I first walk onto the festival site in the summertime, it always feels like I never really left it.

Check out Darcy on her own solo music Web page or the Pyrates Royale Web page, too.