I dreamed of this moment, sucking in a long breath and walking down the aisle—so security guards could check my purse for a crossbow.

I was entering the realm of the Age of Chivalry Renaissance Festival, in its prime after 21 years of bringing knights, sorceresses, jesters, gypsies, pirates and other fantastical archetypes to suburban Las Vegas. The fantasy covered Sunset Park, gnarled old trees looking like movie props among the shell of a castle, jousting ring, gauntlet of meat pies, sausages and more sausages, and winding rows of merchants barking the merits of their weapons, fairy wings, family crests and period costumes made of everything from supple leather to Batman-print cotton. The energy of so many fringe social groups letting it rip was intoxicating. It was dork heaven.

“This is enchanted,” a costumed man murmured as I passed, holding up what could have been a flute, wizard wand or set of travel chopsticks. I chuckled. “It truly is,” he said, deadpan. Forget being in character; some Ren faire regulars inhabit other realities, let alone centuries. The resulting vibe is pure delight. I feel sad for anyone who feels too cool for this, who misses the joy.

We approached a tent bristling with weapons, where a sign warned: “You bleed on it, you bought it.” No one under 18 is allowed near the arsenal, because the blades are no joke. While nunchucks and samurai katanas and even a Klingon bat’leth were in the mix, most items were in the vein of the rapier from The Princess Bride or the broadsword from Robin Hood. Wood practice blades kept most patrons entertained, but my noble companion lamented the lack of interactive axe throwing. He wanted to get his hands dirty like he did in Maryland, at a Ren faire that spanned nine weekends and conjured an entire 16th-century English village.

That’s cool, but does Maryland have epic turkey legs? For $11, we scored two massive drumsticks marinated and caramelized to the point of tasting like candied meat. We gnawed while we walked, the sweet, smoky bird begging for something to wash it down. Hard cider did the trick, the serving wenches yelling, “Huzzah!” when my tip hit the jar.

After a minstrel finished a set on the stage, a pint-sized sprite danced in front of it, wings and curls and gossamer skirt spinning in the light. I could swear she was real. I felt silly in my jeans, what with all the barbarians and elves, and the maidens in tight corset tops. I dig the style, but the last thing you want to do after a turkey leg is cinch up your goods.

Did I buy the $10 book of creepy William and Kate paper dolls? Hell yes. Did my companion buy the $155 leather pantaloons? No, but with hesitation. I was tempted to take home a Woodbaby, a handmade gryphon puppet controlled by a long wire and stuck to my shoulder like a parrot. The shopkeeper told me the invention was an actual midsummer night’s dream.

While we missed the Knights of Mayhem in the main arena, a commotion drew us to a patch of grass in front of the stadium seats, where a dirty horde of wrestlers waited for turns yanking each other around on either end of a bone. The men were rough, but when female contenders Rat and Mania stepped to the center, I pegged Mania as the victor for her imposing mohawk alone. She whipped and dragged poor Rat around by the bone until her arms looked like they might snap. I wished I’d bet on it. The last match was between the hulking champion, Brute, and the scrappier Gremlin. Just like a WWF story, the underdog prevailed as the bloodthirsty crowd chanted his name. “Get off our lawn,” the bawdy hostess growled into the mic afterward, sending us out into a night lit by cozy fires.

I was able to resist the anachronistic deep-fried peaches, but the Age of Chivalry is on my calendar for next year. Just look for the girl in the Family Guy bodice wielding the enchanted chopsticks.