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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.

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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."

"Not at all. I must know them at least a whole month -- longer if they want ice cream with it."

He lofts an eyebrow playfully, amusement still clear in his features.

"It is true, what you say. I wouldn't keep your company if I did not wish to, Faolan. Nor would Lily -- and Lily is quite a good judge of character."

Lily, expert judge of character that she is, is currently worming her face into Lancelot's lap -- nose tilted up just enough to hint that she is still interested more in what is on the table, rather than who sits at it.

Faolan continues eating as the other man talks, although he can't help the slight quirk of his lips as he does. Always the dog. Like she's almost some sort of security blanket for him, in a way. Perhaps she is, for that matter. He finishes his bite of pie -- ice cream included -- before looking up at the man, licking off his fork for a moment before he speaks up.

"She is, is she?" he asks, wryly. "What does she tell you about me, then? Since you speak dog as well as you do, that is." He takes another bite of his pie, watching the other man expectantly, waiting for his answer.

It's rude to ignore a lady, Faolan! Why would he leave Lily out of this?

"I'm not about to spread her secrets," he protests, "what sort of man do you think I am?"

He looks scandalised for a moment, studies Faolan a second longer before grinning and eating the last of his own food -- dusting off his hands and pushing to his feet. Lily gets up immediatel, nearly tripping him in the process, and Lancelot holds up a hand for her to sit and wait.

Which she does, somewhat anxiously.

"I'll grab you something for the cut?" Lancelot offers, half as a question.

Perhaps it's for the fact that Lily is a dog and therefore cannot speak for herself, even if she did understand the questions he was asking. Which he's fairly certain that she doesn't, for the record.

Faolan's working on finishing his own food, but he's slower. Perhaps because he's only got the one good hand to eat with, perhaps because he's been a little otherwise preoccupied. Cutting himself off another bite, he glances up at Lancelot as the other man moves to stand, before nodding slightly.

"If you wouldn't mind. And if you'll take pity on me. It'll be difficult to do it on my own later on," he says, honestly. He doesn't even consider asking someone else to help him with it. He's not the sort of man to ask for help on much of anything. That Lancelot has managed this much with him really is an accomplishment, even if the other man may not realize it as such.

"It isn't pity," he protests lightly, and gives Lily a last scritch of reassurance before setting off across the grass. She sits watching, tensed -- waiting for a sign to follow. Surely it will come! Should would not leave him! They should travel together, in a pack! That is safer! Why is he leaving? Will he be back soon? She looks over and up at Faolan for reassurance, twitches her ears at him before pinning her gaze back across the park. Lancelot tries a few stands before seeming to find one that has what he wants, gesturing expansively and digging a moment for his wallet. He ambles back a few moments later with a small paper bag (which contains cookies, which he bought as thanks for the borrowed bits) and his salvaged medical supplies.

Lily stands up immediately and fusses around his feet (he's back! He's back! She waited patiently! Is he pleased? She was good!) and Lancelot slides the bag onto the table, gently encourages her to sit again before sliding into the chair.

"Here we go, this should do it. Let me see it again?"

He holds out a hand, tilting his head a little questioningly. Faolan had said it would be difficult to do on his own, so he assumes he'd like the help.

Faolan holds his hand out towards the other man, at Lancelot's encouraging. He would like the help, it's true. It's a moment that's a bit reminiscent of their first meeting, but Faolan feels less hesitant now in his company here than he did on that first day. Perhaps it is because he is less injured and there is not the looming threat of hospital visit nor wolf attack in the air around them. Or perhaps it is because he is coming to trust this man, for better or worse. He does not know, and is not sure that he wants to analyze such things. Not now, at least.

"It isn't too bad," he hazards, softly. Although Faolan's definition of 'not too bad' could mean anything, really. It's only bleeding lightly now though, and probably would have stopped if it had been taken care of properly earlier.

Lancelot studies it a moment to assess the truth of this, finally seems to decide he does indeed agree and twists open a tube of saline -- begins to dab the cut clean carefully with some tissue paper before drying it and fixing some gauze over it -- carefully taping it down.

"There you go. Forgive me, it's a little too big for plasters and I did not want to stick any over the cut."

Not that it would particularly bother Faolan, he's probably man enough to cope with peeling off something stuck onto a cut, but still -- it's the principle of the thing.

Faolan shakes his head slightly, bending his fingers carefully to test the limit of the movement of the bandage. "It's fine," he says, knowing that if Lancelot had gone for plasters he'd probably have them down the whole of his hand as well as over the cut. And while he could endure such a thing, he'd rather not, given the option. He'd have needed enough of them to end up looking rather ridiculous, anyway.

"Thanks," he says, raising the hand up slightly in something of a salute, before tucking it safely away, in his lap underneath the table. "I. I didn't know what to expect, of a ritual like that. It's just as well I'm used to getting myself beaten up, I suppose."

Edited (my icon choice mysteriously disappeared...?) 2015-10-20 02:29 (UTC)

"Well, I think you did very well. And I think you will recover to full health in no time."

He reaches out to pour a little more cider for both of them, taking a slow sip as he studies Faolan over the rim before offering him a smile.

"I suppose it might be a little too much to ask if you've enjoyed yourself."

Faolan can't help but let out something of a laugh at that, if a laugh is what it could be called. It is more the huffing release of air, and with it the release of some of his tensions. He can't tell for certain whether Lancelot is being facetious, whether he is poking fun a little, or whether he's truly asking the question, even if he knows something of the answer already. He supposes it's a little bit of several of the above, in the end.

He raises his eyebrows at the other man questioningly, in something of a look as if to say, 'Do you really want me to answer that?' But no, he supposes it isn't all that bad. It's just the atmosphere, that's getting to him. And the people. The way he doesn't feel as though he belongs there. Present company aside, of course.

So in the end Faolan shrugs slightly, and says, vaguely, "I suppose that today had its moments." He swirls his cider in his cup, raising it to take a sip, his eyes on the drink itself, as he goes on to continue, "At least I can say that it ended well." Was that a bit of flirtation there? Perhaps.

"Good enough. That much I will agree with, and drink too."

He quirks a smile, lifts his drink in a toast and takes a sip himself. Lily swishes her tail a little, finally settles to stretch out on the ground between them and rest her head on her paws. No food is coming, so she may as well take a rest while they do and wait to see what happens.

Faolan turns his sipping into a toast as well, the expression on his face lightening slightly in response to the other man's smile. At least he hasn't been so miserable on that night that he's made the other man miserable as well. And truth be told, he does enjoy his company. Even after a very long and trying day, Faolan still finds himself enjoying Lancelot's company. Even his sense of humor, for that matter.

Setting his injured hand on the table in front of him again, Faolan leans forward on the table. "What about yourself?" he asks. "I have spent enough time whining about my own experiences of the day. What of yours? The festival, the ritual. This is a new world for you, after all. And yet it is not, at the same time," he posits gently, regarding the other man closely.

"Well, this festival is definitely new. Or at least, I think it is."

He squints thoughtfully at Faolan, then around at the remains of the tents being packed up.

"Things are still... not entirely clear. Most of what I remember is the other realm, and even that is not so much. Perhaps I will never remember it all, but perhaps it will come back in drips."

Lancelot shrugs finally, takes another sip of his drink and flashes a more rueful smile.

"Either way, I enjoyed it. People were kind and I learnt a lot, and it was good to meet new people."

Comes back in drips. Like when he had shocked the memories back into him, getting him chased down by a werewolf. Faolan glances down at his hands, resting before him on the table, with something of a sardonic smile at the thought of it, as he says, "Well. Here's to hoping that the next time you are forced to remember such things, it will be in slightly better circumstances than those I had forced you into."

He sits back in his own seat, looking up to glance over at the people packing up around them. Is it really getting that late? He supposes he is going to have to go home, at some point. Although part of him really rather would not. "I cannot say for certain whether this particular festival is new or not," he says, honestly. "I've never attended it before, at least. But the holiday it honors is anything but new itself." He glances aside at Lancelot, before adding, "At least, that is my understanding anyway. I am no expert on witches."

"Neither am I, particularly."

For a moment he studies their surroundings, deep in thought -- idly tracking the movements of people clearing away their wares and closing up for the day.

"Yet I believe in Daybreak, all the same. Perhaps that is... naive, I don't know, but I believe they are making London a safer place. I believe what they do is the right thing. I believe helping them, and the Night Council, is the right thing for me to do."

He looks back around at Faolan, flashes him a smile.

"And it's how I ended up working with you, so it cannot be so wrong -- can it?"

Faolan doesn't speak up to try and tell Lancelot that yes, it is a little naive. It isn't his place to do so. And in theory, it is a good thing, what they're fighting for. Keeping the peace. Faolan's been through enough troubles to have his doubts, though time will tell he supposes, in the end. But in the face of the other man's hope, his smile... No, he will not be bitter in the face of such things.

"I suppose it cannot," he says, not able to help the corners of his mouth flicking up in return to the other man's smile. "You do not believe in coincidences after all, if memory serves. Perhaps we were both meant to be here. Both meant to be doing this..." he says, motioning around them generally.

"I think so," Lancelot agrees lightly -- dropping a hand to gently soothe over Lily's soft ears. "Perhaps you were even meant to be rude to me, I can't be sure you weren't."

He widens his eyes a little in mock-surprise at this supposed revelation, expression melting into a slight smirk after a moment as he sips a little more cider.

"Either way, I don't think it has turned out too badly. We're a good balance. I think we'll be fine."

Faolan makes something of a face at the other man in response to his teasing, half-frown, half-scowl, but Lancelot has probably seen enough frowning and scowling from him to know that the expression is really just for show. He really is in a better mood now that he's been placated with pie, cider, and good company.

"A good balance," he repeats to the other man, taking a moment to sip his cider and let the thought sink in. "If you say so. Perhaps we are. You have certainly balanced me out enough, these last few meetings of ours." He glances sideways at the other man. "I have yet to determine how I might be making a positive impact for you in return, however."

"You've taught me a lot, saved me from a werewolf, helped me home, tolerated my questions, tolerated my optimism..."

Lancelot quirks a smile, shrugs minutely.

"And been a good friend on top of that. I think that's a reasonably positive impact, don't you?"

Faolan takes in all of the other man's words, uncertain of what to do with the praise he's offered. Not really used to such treatment, all things considered. So of course he chooses the only route he knows, in the end.

"A good friend? Me? Hardly," he says, fidgeting with his cider. "You'd be better off with your dog here," he says, motioning to Lily. "At least she's not about to talk back, get into a mood, or drag you off into trouble -- not the trouble I seem to have a talent of finding myself in, at any rate."

"Oh, Lily can get into some good trouble if she really wants to."

Her tail swishes a little faster at the sound of her name, and she pushes to sit up -- rests her head in Lancelot's lap to encourage more attention.

"Besides which, I'm afraid to say she isn't nearly so good at conversation as you are. She tries, but..."

Lancelot shrugs helplessly, ruffling at her fur as she lifts a paw to rest on the edge of his chair.

Faolan takes in a deep breath, steadying himself as he does. "It's probably for the best that she isn't," he says, glancing down at Lily as he does. "Then I suppose that I would really have competition. What would you need me around for, once she learned how to do a thing like that."

He cocks his head to the side. "Even if she did I suppose, I'd hope to be a little more engaging regardless." He glances up at Lancelot. "Perhaps that's my goal to aspire to, here. So long as my conversation is more entertaining than your dog's might be, I know there's still hope for me yet."

"If that's your only goal, Faolan, you have long met it. Drink your cider."

Lancelot smiles at Faolan, something catlike to it -- pleased and a little smug.

"I will make it my goal to see you relax and enjoy yourself."

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Harvest Festival

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