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Harvest Festival

Harvest Festival, 19th September 2015
Welcome to the Ealing Harvest Festival! Sponsored by Sylvia Redbright, this event takes place on a bright autumn day in Elthorne Park, Hanwell.

(Images for reference: One. Two. Three.)

FESTIVAL
The park has been transformed into a hub of colourful tents and stalls, a country-style fair selling wood carvings, paintings, baubles, baskets, plant pots and flowers, pretty tin boxes and knick-knacks of all kinds. Of course, this is all to give it an air of legitimacy should the general public wander by. The real wares on offer are those sold by witches: stalls crowded with incense, candles, precious stones, herbs, good-luck charms, spelled trinkets and magical jewellery. Gain entry to one of the small tents and you may be able to buy yourself a low-level spell or potion. It's all there if you know where to look.

Meanwhile, the centrepiece of the festival is the harvest altar: five large bales of hay, stacked around each other, where the festival-goers are encouraged to donate food and other gifts in thanks for the harvest. Tinned food is typically offered. Children attending can make a corn dolly and offer it to the harvest altar. There's food and drink to buy too, of course: vegetable and pumpkin soup, baskets of fruit and seasonal vegetables, home-made bread and jam, tea cakes, fruit cakes, seed cakes, scones and apple pie. Drinks include coffee, tea, cider and fruit juice. In short, it's all very wholesome. And decidedly not vampire-friendly.

A COMMUNITY IN MOURNING
It's not all about giving thanks. Following the hostile takeover by the fae in Croydon and the hard-fought conflict in Barnet, many witches have been displaced and are in desperate need of aid. The poster by the harvest altar says that all donations will be given to the homeless and vulnerable communities in London.

Meanwhile the entrance to the summer house has been disguised by a glamour to prevent the general public from entering. Only supernatural types may climb the steps to pay their respects at the memorial that has been set up to mourn the Daybreak witches and their allies who have recently passed. There are candles, flowers, wreaths and cards jostling for space with pictures of the fallen witches.

RITUAL AT SUNSET
The general public have disappeared but the witches have an important ritual to perform. As the sun sets, they gather up all the donations from the harvest and join hands around the altar. One witch will light a flame. Sylvia herself will invite volunteers of different species to step forward and offer their blood, as a symbol of unity between supernatural communities.

As the hay burns, the witches dance around the altar, their last ritual of the evening.

NB. Sunset is at 18:51.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Faolan turns to give the other man a long, withering look. 'Keep up with the younger crowd'. "Ha ha," he says aloud, not laughing at all. "Just because I don't know how to enjoy myself at a festival, you're going to be poking fun at my age? For that, you do owe me a slice of pie then, I think..."

Truth be told, after all, Faolan was only 28. And while the last ten years of his life he would concede had been hard, Lancelot isn't the first one to imply, even in jest, that he had aged himself thus. He'd been mistaken for being in his 30's more times than he could count, and he hoped it was more for his demeanor than for the way that he looked. He thought he looked pretty good, until people made comments about it anyway.

"I'll buy you two if it would make you smile."

Lancelot's eyes slide sideways to Faolan again, taking in his demeanour. The way he holds himself, the expression he wears. He lets his expression fade to something more serious a moment, looks back out at the path ahead as he thinks.

"I know it has not been an easy past few weeks," Lancelot offers, voice quiet enough to not carry much beyond Faolan. "Do not think me immune to it, Faolan. I remember carrying the body of one of those witches. I remember watching them weep for their sister. Yet... We cannot change the past. Our tears will not bring them back. We must focus on what we still have. We lost Croydon, but we defended Barnet. Redbright won control of Haringey. We have tasted hard won victories and defeat both, and we will learn from both. We will do better next time."

Faolan glances sideways at the other man as he sombers. Its sweet, in a way, for him to be concerned about him like this. Sweet to assume that Faolan is shaken up because of the skirmishes over the territories that have happened, in the recent weeks. He isn't about to correct the other man's assumptions -- he's not about to face his own demons in such a way, certainly not aloud in public, when he's buried them deep and locked them away tight for nearly a decade now.

"'We'," Faolan repeats, softly, watching the crowd around them for a long moment before he turns to look back at Lancelot himself once more. "Have you forgotten that I am Hillingdon? That I am human? Or is this a mark of my character in some way, that you assume I will be there in the other territorial disputes that are yet to arise." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows that he's been too harsh, too bitter. Lancelot has been nothing if not kind to him, and if this is the way that he should return the favor. By letting his temper, his bitterness, get the better of him, by lashing out at the one person he knows that he can count on these days... He turns away, taking a deep breath in and letting it out in a sigh.

"Sorry," he apologizes awkwardly, "I. Didn't mean it like that." He steps forward, faster, trying to shake the moment off as best he can. "C'mon. Where did you say this stall was?"

Lancelot slows a moment even as Faolan speeds up, frowns after him in thought. It's true, Faolan is Hillingdon. He's a hunter. He has no obligation to Daybreak, to Redbright. Yet he's a Night Council Guardian too. Lancelot supposes... well, he supposes he thought that might make him feel a part of things. Make him want to spread the safe zone too, to protect people. Perhaps not. Perhaps he feels tired of it, perhaps he never wanted to be drawn into the disputes and Lancelot has asked too much of him.

His eyes drop down to Lily, and Lancelot gently ruffles at her ears to distract himself before stepping after Faolan -- a little more subdued now.

"This way," he offers quietly, and moves to lead them over toward one of the rows of food stalls. There are tables and chairs scattered around the area, some still littered with empty cups and plates. The stalls sell a range of things -- home-made pies, soups, breads, freshly made pancakes and waffles, apple juices of various kinds. He pauses in front of one near the end that has apple pies with various additional spices (cinnamon, rum and raisin, caramel, walnut...) being served warm with ice cream and cream, digs absently for his wallet and flicks through it. "Have a preference?" he asks, although it's a little faux-light this time.

Faolan had known that he had misspoke, as soon as the words had come out of his mouth. And at the other mans reaction, he needed no further proof of that. He runs a hand through his hair, over his face, before continuing after the other man as he leads them to the food stalls and on to the one with the pies. And winces slightly, as he knows that the other man is forcing it, and that it's all his fault.

"Nothing fancy," he murmurs, gruffly. "Just plain apple, if it's an option. ...with the ice cream, if that's alright," he adds, his voice softer at the request, glancing to the other man again. Especially now that he's bungled things, it feels awkward, for him to pay for his food like this. "I can spot the change in price, if you like," he offers, hesitantly. Awkwardly. God, he's going to need to figure out how to fix this, but standing here at the stand for food is neither the time nor the place for it.

"It's fine. Find us a table?"

Lancelot looks up long enough to flash a thin smile at Faolan, turns back to the stall-holder and picks out some cinnamon apple for himself -- hands over the money and waits with his hands pushed into his pockets. He hesitates as the man gives him an estimate, nods and fishes for his wallet as he moves down a few stalls to buy a bottle of cider -- balances clear plastic cups over the cap and comes back to retrieve the two neat boxes and cutlery. He balances them carefully, smiling a little at the smell of cinnamon, and takes a deep breath before looking up and around for Faolan. Hopefully he's found a reasonably clean table.

Faolan nods slightly, not wanting to argue with the other man over the money, not wanting to argue with him about anything really. His hand hurts, it's been a long day, and he genuinely does feel pretty terrible about ruining what had been a good mood coming from the other man, up until he'd opened his mouth. Grabbing a handful of paper napkins from the stall, with another quiet glance back at the other man, Faolan does as he's told. He could insist on staying behind, on helping to carry, considering Lancelot is paying for them as well, but he figures they could both use the recovery time.

So instead he finds them a table and does his best to clean it off with some of the napkins. The rest of them he folds together in something of a makeshift bandage and presses into the palm of his hand. Sylvia had had to cut deep enough to spill blood into the fire, after all. It probably wasn't going to leave a scar, but it was definitely going to give him trouble until it properly scabbed over.

By the time Lancelot finds him, he will have settled himself at the table. Pressing the napkins into the wound on his hand, he's been trying to keep himself from watching Lancelot, trying to keep himself from looking as guilty as he feels, and so instead he's stuck to staring at the tabletop. No doubt he looks rather pathetic and miserable, he thinks. Hardly anyone's idea of a good time. Maybe Lancelot would be better off just leaving him there to himself. Maybe he'd be better off just giving up on him completely...

He slides the two boxes onto the table, sets down the bottle and quickly checks before flipping one open and pushing it toward Faolan. The slice has been heated up a little more before the ice cream was added, so it's beginning to melt into it already. Lancelot's box smells strongly of cinnamon as soon as he opens it. He pushes some cutlery and napkins toward Faolan, turns over the two cups and pours out some cider before finally dropping himself into a chair and taking a sip.

It's at this point that he finally focuses on Faolan properly, notices his hand and frowns in concern.

"Do you want me to ask if they have a first aid kit?" he prompts, "there must be one somewhere, they're sure to have some plasters."

Faolan slides the pie towards himself with his good hand, balancing the box with his bad one, poising to start eating when the other man proposes to find the first aid kit. He raises an eyebrow slightly, glancing down to his hand. Well, he's only bled through the napkins a little, although it's only been a few minutes, and the napkins are rather thin. He could do with a proper bandage, some plasters...

"We're going to start making this a habit, if we're not too careful," Faolan murmurs, trying to stay casual, despite the fact that he's still feeling guilty about his misstep earlier. Although, if Lancelot's focusing on his hand, then perhaps he'll forgive him his earlier error. After a moment, he nods. "If you would like, it couldn't hurt to get it properly wrapped up. I won't be able to do nearly as good a job one-handed once I get back home. You. Don't have to though. You can wait until after you've eaten, if you'd rather." He doesn't want to ruin the other man's food. And he's got ice cream that's going to melt if he doesn't start on it soon himself.

"A better habit than you not getting these things looked at. Let me see --"

Lancelot shuffles around the table with his food and glass, scooting his chair along the grass closer to Faolan and cutting a quick spoonful of apple pie to chew on before reaching out and gesturing for Faolan's hand. He chews thoughtfully as he examines the cut, gently peeling away paper sticking to the blood.

"It should stop soon," he says after a moment, "but it'll keep opening every time you move your hand for a while. A bandage would help."

He shrugs in a gesture that says it's Faolan's call, cuts another bit of apple pie to feed himself. He can't force plasters on him, after all, and it's hardly fatal either way. Just an irritation.

Faolan lets the other man look at the wound, allows him to peel the napkin off and inspect it. Exposing the cut to the open air again, peeling the napkin away, it does hurt some. But Faolan is no stranger to pain, and he has had worse injuries. He's fairly certain this one will be okay, without sutures this time. Although cleaning it out, bandaging it properly, it isn't a bad idea. Seeing that Lancelot has left the decision up to him, he wants to choose properly.

Folding the napkin back against his hand for the time being, Faolan pokes at his pie for a moment, before he speaks up to say, "If you could, I. Would appreciate it. Eat first, though. I do not want to spoil your food." He glances sideways at the other man, through lowered lashes, before back at the pie itself and managing to eek out the next words. "Thank you." For taking care of him. In more ways than just the one, all things considered.

He jerks an eyebrow in reply to that, studies Faolan a moment before dropping his eyes back down to his food.

"That's what friends do," he offers lightly, and there's something pointed about it that Lancelot well suspects Faolan can pick up on without further prompting. Lancelot is quiet a moment, toying with his apple pie a moment before lifting his eyes again -- considering the man beside him. Trying to find the right words. "I know you're Hillingdon," he says finally. "You aren't under any... obligation to help me. I suppose I just thought... you might anyway. Not every time, of course. Just... we might help each other, now and then. If I was wrong, then... forgive me for that."

Faolan shakes his head quickly, not wanting the other man to get the wrong idea, like he has made the mistake of already. "It's not that. It's not. That's not it. I can, I. I will. I hadn't meant it like that before, forgive me. It's..." He takes in a deep breath, poking at his pie slightly. He's going to need to start eating soon, otherwise he'll have pie soup, in a matter of speaking. But he leaves it for now.

"I don't belong here. The losses suffered, they weren't mine. This is a community rallying together in mourning, and I. Am an outsider. I was there for the battle, but." He shrugs slightly. "It's uncomfortable, I guess. For ridiculous reasons." Those being only the icing on the cake. He's not about to admit to the rest of the reasons why their feelings have made him feel uncomfortable. It is true that he counts Lancelot as a friend, but he has kept himself to himself for far too long to admit such things so openly, even to another as close to him as that. "And I have taken it out on you. I'm sorry," he finishes, lamely.

He watches Faolan in silence, considering this. Considering how to reply. It's strange, to Lancelot, simply because... well, he supposes he'd never really spoken to the other man about this. About his feelings on factions. Yet all the same...

"Do you think I feel that much more at home?" he prompts. "I am not a witch, Faolan. I have never cast a spell in my life, could not if I wished to. I thought I the world was as mundane as it seemed to me for years. Now I do not seem to fit in with the mundane, yet... Where do I fit? Not with the fae, that is clear enough. They cast me out. Perhaps..." His lips twitch up, amused for a second. "You have not considered, that I might want someone else here who feels as adrift as I do."

Lancelot nudges Faolan's plate an inch closer to him encouragingly, lofts an eyebrow.

"Now eat that, or Lily will have it off you. Then I will hold you responsible for clearing up when she throws it back up."

Faolan is somewhat at a loss for words in response to the other man's words at first. It... Makes sense, in an odd sort of a way. And almost makes him feel better for it. Makes him feel more of a sense of camaraderie for the other man, in a way. A pair of misfits they are, Night Council Guardians both, trying their best to find their way in this world. Perhaps at times together, if circumstances allow.

Of course, then Lancelot continues to mention the pie and the dog and her vomiting it back up and the tentative moment between them is broken. Faolan lofts an eyebrow at the other man, shooting him something of a look as he does, but he also does as he's told and sections himself off a bite of pie to then shovel into his mouth. With a side of ice cream of course. And it is good. As he has said before, he has never been too difficult to please.

"You certainly know how to charm a man," he says, airily. Whether he means it about the previous comments or whether he's being sarcastic about the words about the dog though is up for Lancelot himself to decide.

"If you have objections," he counters lightly, "I am happy to take that pie off you and send you on your way. I could eat more."

The smile he flashes Faolan is pleased, though, happy to have somehow broken the awkward tension between them and repaired the situation to... well, whatever it was before. Their version of friendship. Lily fusses between them, tail wagging as she stands looking at Faolan's plate then Lancelot's. Where is hers? Where is her apple pie? This is not at all right!

"Now, now, Faolan has decided to eat his. I'm afraid you're out of luck."

Her ears flick back and she glances over her shoulder at the stands. Perhaps there is something else for dogs? Perhaps someone else will feed her, since they will not!

Edited 2015-09-30 22:41 (UTC)

"You're going to make me the villain in this because I've decided to eat the food given me," Faolan counters, raising an eyebrow at the other man over another careful bite. "I see how it is. You could have gotten her her own food, you're just in this to make me feel guilty. I'm on to you," Faolan warns. Although despite the nature of his words, they're considerably light. He doesn't mean anything by any of it. Grumpy is pretty much his default state, even when it comes to humor, it would seem.

He carries on eating his pie, feeling a bit less awkward about the whole thing now, before speaking up and asking the other man, over another bite, "How have you spent your day then? A man like you, you seem to fit right in to a gathering like this. I'm surprised that I've got you to myself again, for all I knew you could have found yourself a new...friend." He stumbles over the word slightly, the feel of it foreign to his vocabulary, all things considered.

"How do you know I haven't? Perhaps I have, but they're busy now -- so I'm forced back into your company."

Lancelot widens his eyes playfully at Faolan, flicks another amused smile before gently nudging the man with his elbow.

"We've already established I'm not as at home as you might think. Any more of this and I might think you fishing for compliments, that is usually Lily's domain."

She swishes her tail a little more enthusiastically at the sound of her name. Yes! Yes she is a beautiful dog, a pretty girl, a fine lady! She is sweet! Yes! Which is why he should give her some of that apple pie!

"Forced?" Faolan echoes, raising his eyebrows at the other man and his playful glances, his amused smiles, before Lancelot elbows him in the side and he's forced to concede that he's actually not as hurt as he's pretending to be. Mostly he supposes because at the level that Lancelot's playing it up, he knows that he's only joking.

He isn't. Fishing for compliments. He doesn't speak up to say as much, but it's true. He's just feeling a little insecure, in. Well, everything at that moment, really. At least Lancelot's company doesn't make him uncomfortable, like the festival around them does. But then, he still isn't quite sure what to think of the other man and this friendship that they have. So he turns to eat for a few moments, falling quiet, since he can't seem to manage anything as light-hearted as the other man seems to want or require.

Lancelot feeds himself some of his own pie in turn, Lily fussing between the two of them -- pacing and checking on them and then pacing again.

He isn't quite sure how to take the silence at first, although he doesn't think Faolan is reacting badly to the joke. He doesn't have that grumpy look about him any more. So what, then? Is he embarrassed by the remark? Just awkward, unsure what to say? Lancelot pauses to try and encourage Lily to sit, rubbing at her ears and under her collar once she relents.

"I could perhaps afford you one," he offers, eyebrow jerking. "If it would improve your mood."

Faolan glances sideways at the other man, half amused and half startled by the offer. Part of him is embarrassed by the offer, embarrassed by the fact that the other man has seen through him, seen that his mood isn't exactly light, but then again, he hasn't exactly made it less than obvious.

He glances down at his food again, pushing it around for a moment or two, before the next words out of his mouth are, "If you are about to poke fun at me, it's hardly going to have the affect you are after," he warns. Which perhaps isn't directly telling Lancelot off of the idea of such a thing, paying him a compliment. He hardly knows what the other man would say, perhaps that is why he's half intrigued to find out.

"You're right, of course, it's worked terribly so far."

He lofts an eyebrow in amusement, lips curling as he tucks Lily closer to himself so he can keep an arm around her while eating.

"I was only going to say you do sulk very handsomely. I'm surprised I didn't come back to women circling the table with how well you pulled it off."

Faolan stares at the other man for a moment, incredulous. He had for a moment half believed that the other man might actually pay him a true complement, something that might embarrass him, something he might not know quite how to respond to. Far be it from him to assume anything about this man. It takes him a few moments to formulate a response, as thrown as he is.

...sulk?

"Now I know that you're just taking the piss," Faolan grumbles at him, frowning perhaps even harder than before. "Women circling my table," he repeats, incredulously. "The only person I see about here is you, I will point out." He pokes grumpily at his pie. "Perhaps you do have a taste for surly assholes after all. A point in my favor, I suppose."

Lancelot laughs brightly at that, despite Faolan's grumbling -- offers the man a wolfish grin for a moment as he feeds himself apple pie.

"I suppose I must, since I constantly find myself in your company."

Faolan glances sideways at the other man, at the grin he has on his face and at the laugh that seems to echo through the darkest of the mood that he'd felt, washing it away to some extent. Damn the man, being so handsome and so bright and so full of life. Faolan can't help but feel drawn to him. Like a moth to a flame, he wonders, to some degree.

"You do," Faolan agrees. "And for all your fancy words about fate, I can't imagine anyone hanging around as much as you do without actually wanting to." He shovels another bite of food onto his fork (it's awkward, one-handed, but he manages it), eating it for a moment before commenting, around the food, "I suppose that I should be flattered. I should hope that you don't offer dessert to just anyone."

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