His eyes dart to one side uneasily, weighing up the pros and cons of telling Faolan, then Lancelot takes a slow sip of his drink.

"Blood," he says finally. "The memories are... old, I was a child at the time, and they have been locked away so long they seem... detached from me. At the time I did not understand what was happening. Yet now..." He swallows, winces and tries to retrack what he's saying. "It must have been a turf war. I was too far too young to help. There were... wolves, running through the streets. My parents forced me to hide, left me to try and do what they could. They weren't... witches, weren't anything more than humans themselves -- although I think.. I think they knew what was going on. By the time I came out... everything had gone quiet."