4738/Samhain in Dun Realtai

Samhain in Dun Realtai
Date of Scene:	01 November 2016
Location:	Dun Realtai
Synopsis:	The various denizens of Dun Realtai celebrate Samhain.
Cast of Characters:	482, Eithne Sullivan, Inga, 206, 639

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Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  The village square of Dun Realtai has been transformed into a festival ground. Ragged banners in earth tones are strewn about for the wind to snap. Tables, tents, and other fixtures have been hauled out and line the open-air commons. There's food, there's drink, there's games of a mediaeval nature... fun for all!

  A lot of the food reflects autumn, with selections of choice pies, different types of tea, and other goodies. There's also wine and mead, and ale; some of the lower-grade mead was even produced in Dun Realtai, this year.

  Standing off to one side is the steward himself, dressed in his armour -- it's been lined in fur for the winter, along with his mantled cloak, similarly lined; a hood has also been attached, though it's swept back from his face. He's in quiet conversation with a strange-looking woman, wearing a rich dress of dark brown fabrics, strikingly red hair shot through here and there with white, and eyes pale as a winter sky.

  They're also glowing, which suggests she's probably not human at all.

  Those who've lived here for a while would recognise her as Alaia, the rightful owner of this place. Whatever they're talking about, they do so in hushed and urgent voices, and Bedivere doesn't seem to notice the festivities around him at all.

  That's okay. The Black One is. He's over at the food table in the familiar guise of a big war horse, eyeing the offerings with his head cocked.

  There is a disappointing lack of blackberries at this table, a fact that hasn't gone unnoticed by him.

  Some enterprising or bold children have woven together a garland of the season's last flowers and green things, which he wears around his neck with practised tolerance. Legend says the pooka can tell fortune and future, on the day after All Hallow's Eve. It's probably a crock but he seems to be enjoying himself... for a faerie.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    It's really hard for Eithne to pick a favorite season. At first she thinks summer, because it's sunny and everything grows so easily. But then there's spring, which is the easing of winter's grasping coldness, a thaw after a long freeze, flowers blooming and trees budding. Even winter has its own comforts, though most of them are all about 'relief from it', like warm hearths and thick clothing and rich foods. Autumn is a time all its own, the time when the veil between worlds becomes very, very thin, when harvests are brought in and stored away.

    She's been working hard, especially with school back in session - go to school, come home, do her homework and her work in the castle and on the weekends she helps put up preserves and canned foods. She bought a pressure canner and several books! Now they'll have all kinds of nice things to eat this winter that were grown right here.

    But today she's just going to relax and goof off and have fun.

    She sewed her costume herself, somehow, despite so much of her time being eaten up by chores and work. It's a two-layered dress made of rough, homespun cloth. Sleeveless, it comes down to mid-thigh, and there's a borrowed breastplate over the top of it. Her hair's been braided into submission, beads and trinkets threaded in.

    She looks a little bit like a trading post exploded on her, but she's having fun and that's what's important.

Inga has posed:
Astride Jodis, Inga arrives wrapped in her grey/blue cloak, a black hangerok style dress beneath. She's decked out in all her usual jewels and talismans, her hair in two braids over her shoulder, a black velvet headscarf around her head to keep her ears warm. She smiles and greets those she passes, enjoying the sight of the villagers relaxing and playing after all their hard work. After being stopped a few times to be pulled into conversation, Inga leaves Jodis nearby Black One, moving in to great the puuka with an offering of an apple and a scritch behind the ears.

Once that's been done, Inga approaches Eithne, her staff in hand as always. "Eithne, that's an interesting outfit...aren't you cold?" she inquires, raising a brow.

She's noticed Bedivere of course, and will soon make her way to greet him and Alaia. They look fairly engaged at the moment.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Bedivere leaves off his conversation, at least for a few minutes, once he recognises some of the people milling about the makeshift festival ground. Bedivere turns with a rustling of his cloak, armour clattering softly as he makes his way to Eithne and lifts a hand in greeting. He even has a faint smile.

  And there's Inga, too. Offering an apple to the Black One. The apple vanishes in record time, and she's left with the sound of delighted crunching at her back.

  Alaia seems to just... meld back into the crowd, somehow. It's a little eerie.

  "Surely you must be cold," Bedivere agrees, having caught Inga's comment to Eithne. "Welcome. Eat, drink!" the knight calls, with an expansive sweep of an arm. "We celebrate today the harvest, for after this, the snows will descend."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    Eithne has yet to meet Alaia, though even she can tell that Bedivere's in conversation with someone who probably isn't of this world. It's not her business though, so she doesn't want to interrupt!

    And it turns out to be a non-issue anyway, because the faerie queen disappears soon after Bedivere notices the two of them. "I'm not, actually," Eithne replies, though she doesn't look particularly convinced about it. But neither is she puzzled, nor shivering! Looks like she just realized it recently. "Cousin Merlin showed me a nice trick fer keepin' warm. Somethin' about magecraft?" And also healing some truly gross injuries, but this is a party and even Eithne knows you aren't supposed to mention melting limbs when there's food and drinks around.

    Everyone looks so nice! "That scarf suits yeh well," she grins. "Velvet's so luxurious~" The Scion doesn't seem to care that she's the only person in costume. "I'm dressed as a shieldmaiden!" There is indeed a small, round shield hung at her back, which she shows off with a little spin.

    "Sir Bedivere," she greets the knight as he approaches. "It doesn't even feel cold," she shrugs, but wanders off for a moment to help herself to a big mug of steaming cider anyway, bringing another pair of mugs back with her. She hopes Inga drinks stuff besides just mead.

Inga has posed:
Inga grins, looking Eithne over. "You are!" she agrees, deciding not to mention the shield maidens she knew wore far more clothing. Eithne was happy, it was adorable. "Ah, Merlin should be so kind as to teach me that trick," she says with a wry smile, bundled up as she is.

Inga gratefully takes the cider, having a sip. "Mmmm, I do love cider. Don't suppose there is any rum about...I've become rather addicted to apple cider with rum," she confesses.

"I have a costume as well...Riva bought it for me. I feel silly though," she says, looking away. "The skirt is /much/ too short."

Back to Bedivere, she smiles and pats him on the arm in greeting. "A lovely celebration per usual...perhaps you might tell me more about this Samhain?" she asks, looking between them.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Master Merlin knows many things," Bedivere comments, head tilting slightly to one side. The Scion may not feel cold, but he does; when the wind blows and rustles his cloak, he shivers, slightly. Dun Realtai's winter is a thing of famous savagery. "Some he chooses to share, some he does not. It is for him to choose, I suppose, but I would take it all with a grain of salt. He is perhaps the finest filidh I have known, or known of, but I do not trust such power, and neither should you."

  Is that a swirl of power about the knight? Just the faintest trace of a knotwork lit up in bright cyan energy; flickering in his eyes, luminous? Surely a trick of the light. So is that half-smile of his.

  No sooner is it noticed, possibly, than it's gone, and he folds his arms, tilting his head in place of a shrug. "But he is very wise, and sometimes it is worth listening to what he has to say."

  Bedivere is not wearing a costume, to the surprise of nobody.

  "Samhain," he offers, simply. "'Tis a time when the spirit world is closer than any other to our own. Not very Christian, mayhap, but the people here follow other traditions, and anyway, I have never been so strict as some of the others of Camelot, mayhap because I came from other lands." Also because he himself is a filidh, sort of. He shrugs, gesturing to the festival at large. "We honour all, here, so long as it does no harm to any. Samhain honours the dead, and the winter, and the bitter chill that will soon be upon us. It honours the flame that warms us--" Indeed, there's a big pile of wood arranged in the midst of the square, unlit, "--and that will warm us through the winter."

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    It's a lot closer to how modern pop culture depicts such things (with a heavy dash of 'fantasy novel cover' thrown in) than the real thing; if Eithne ever finds out, she'll be a bit embarrassed. It could have been worse, though - at least she didn't decide to go with 'sexy witch' or something. She's got some sort of costume standards, strange and esoteric as they must be.

    "What kind of costume is it? I bet the skirt's not really /that/ short..." Eithne doesn't know Riva well at all, but surely she wouldn't buy something /very/ out of character for Inga? They're supposed to be friends, right?? "Ah, I didn't think to bring any rum." She doesn't drink it herself, but knows where it's kept in Inga's home. It /does/ sound kind of tasty, though.

    To Bedivere's talk of Merlin being untrustworthy (and a great bard-mage), she merely turns a skeptical eye. Perhaps she's been hoodwinked, and it wouldn't be the first time, but the sorcerer has treated her with nothing but respect (aside from his default everybody-gets-some level of trickery). Eithne will trust him as long as her trust isn't betrayed, which is what she gives anybody.

    Also, bedivere may be teasing her himself; it's hard to tell because he's a very subtle sort. The faint glow of magecraft (or something of the like) around his eyes and aura just makes her suspicious! "This is the time of year when the dead come back over lots more," she nods, his explanation of the holiday much more agreeable talk. "So I'll be out late tonight, sendin' naughty ones back home and helping others find their way."

Inga has posed:
Inga finds a nearby seat. "Harry told me some about Samhain, but I thought it would be nice to learn more from those who have experienced it," she admits, smiling to Bedivere. "In my culture, it is Yule time when the veil between worlds is at its thinnest. We honor the gods and the dead at Yule--it is our biggest celebration, 12 nights," she explains briefly, sipping her cider. "But I have observed what is said about Samhain to also be true. The spirit world is closer. Perhaps it is simply those darkest months...the days will grow shorter and shorter," she comments, looking toward the big pile for the bonfire. She hopes to perhaps have the honor of lighting it and leading some of the more pagan villagers in a little harvest-end rite.

As to Merlin... "I will say, Merlin has...grown on me. He has been respectful and well behaved to Eithne," Inga says, raising her chin a bit. "If he were not he would be hearing from me," she assures Bedivere. Inga's keeping and eye on her like a mother/big sister would.

Inga laughs and nods to Eithne. "I see. I'll keep a light on for you."

Harry Dresden (206) has posed:
    There's a grump and grumble from somewhere behind Inga, over by the food tables. Someone has dressed up as Merlin from the Disney Version of The Sword In The Stone, and he is currently cramming a pie in his face. "AND NOTHING HAPPENED ON HALLOWEEN! IT WAS GREAT."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Ah, our own daughter of the Mórrígan." Bedivere's eyes are serious when he acknowledges Eithne's dedication to the spirits. If ever there were any here who could do something like that, it would be a child bearing the blood of the Goddess of Death and War. "I am certain they appreciate such consideration," the steward intones solemnly. "The most I can do is to pray for them at Mass, but I do not know that it is such consolation for these people of a strange land."

  Still, good intent has to count for something, right? The intervention of Bedivere and his friend and allies must have saved many lives, even if not all of them could be saved.

  He shifts his weight, a flick of his wrist pulling the cloak closer around him. How do those women stand the cold? Maybe it's the ichor in Eithne's veins; maybe it's the strings of fate (and maybe the lingering echo of bees' wings buzzing) that surround Inga.

  Bedivere quickly makes a mental note to never look directly at Inga with the sight of the Otherworld. It would probably leave him with terrible nightmares, and he has enough of those to deal with.

  Glancing over, Bedivere cocks his head as he regards Inga with some skepticism of his own. "Mayhap. I would still regard what he has to say with a grain of salt," he insists, in his own soft-spoken way. "That he has good intentions, I do not doubt, but his methods may not always be for the best." Look at the mess that happened in Camelot. Merlin probably could have intervened with some of that stuff, if he hadn't been off chasing Nimue's pretty, ethereal skirt. "'Ware his methods; that is all I ask."

  A grump and a grumble means that a certain city wizard has come to visit, and Harry earns a faint half-smile from the understated knight. "Master Dresden. Welcome again to Dun Realtai." Sure hope he dressed warmly, too. "Pray do not eat it all." He'll have a terrible stomachache if he does. That's okay, though. The Black One will help. In fact, there is a huge war horse not too far away from Harry. It has a garland of faded flowers and sheaves of wheat woven with the clumsy care of the village children, and he seems darned proud to be wearing it. He's black as soot, but the smoky gold luminance of his eyes suggests the Otherworld.

  A big velvety nose settles on Harry's shoulder. The Black One's head, in fact, is kind of heavy.

  <So kind of you to come, Master Dresden. This one has heard much and more of you.> Horses can't grin, but one gets the impression the pooka might be grinning. <You smell like magic. Oh, yes.>

  Folding his arms, Bedivere turns his attention back to Eithne, ignoring his Noble Steed (who is in reality just a jerk fairy that likes to mess with people). "Mm. There is mead, if you wanted rum." If she's old enough to fight for the Union she's old enough to drink, right? "It is not the same, but it has... a... certain... charm," he offers, with extreme grudging reluctance, and probably to the amusement of Inga.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    "We celebrate Yule too, back home. It's all wrapped up in Christmas though, since the Christians came. Everybody's traditions got all mixed together." Sometimes it's fun, because Eithne liked exchanging presents with her father and grandparents, and sometimes it's confusing because nobody ever wrote anything down and a lot of traditions were lost over the centuries. For someone like her that loves to learn things, it's frustrating to know that she can't just look it up in a book somewhere.

    And then, Harry Dresden appears in his finest robe and wizard hat. "Oh, let him eat it," she laughs. After all, she's been led to understand that Halloween isn't something he usually gets to spend calmly. "He's celebratin' too."

    Something occurs to her, even as a crow is winging its way down from the sky toward her. "An' if Merlin were to get fresh, I'd punch him." So violent! Sheela lands on Eithne's head in a flutter of wings, 'KRAAAA'ing down at his mistress. "Huh? A birthday present?" She transfers him to her wrist; the bird croaks at her before spreading his wings again and flying away. "Oh! I'll be back soon, everyone, Ma left me somethin' at the house! Sheela says it's too heavy fer him to carry over." Eithne practically /runs/ back toward the cottage, rum and mead and manners all forgotten in the excitement.

Harry Dresden (206) has posed:
    Harry waves vaguely into the direction of Bedi, and snorts in surprise at the touch of the Black One. "Hnnrrfff!" He swallows and coughs and punds his chest. "Oh, hi there, Mr. Pooka. I uh... Hi. Sorry I havne't been around much. Stuff's... uh... I..."
    "Hi." Sorry, he's not used to pookas.

Inga has posed:
Inga looks over toward Harry....and facepalms. She laughs though, shaking her head, looking back to Eithne and Bedivere, giving a look that communicates; 'yup, I sleep with him for some reason' before moving on. "Mmm I have done work with spirits as well...but I shall leave it to you unless you ask for my assistance. I've much to do elsewhere as well," she sighs. She's been a busy witch lately.

Inga /is/ dressed for the cold weather, gloves and all. Once the fire is going, she might shed a couple of layers.

Gazing at Inga with the Sight might just give him nightmares, yes. Bright, honey-drenched nightmares. It would only be fair though, with what she's seen from his wyrd. All the things she's seen...they don't just go away. They're all stored inside, somewhere.

In regard to Merlin, Inga nods. "Of course. I am merely saying he seems as though he has been....better behaved as of late," she says. Indeed, that's actually kind of suspicious! He hasn't tried to kiss or grope or flirt with her in any way. Puzzling.

Inga grins as Bedi mentions mead. "Perhaps you should partake. It /is/ a special occasion," she reminds.

Then Eithne runs off. "Uh oh," she comments, then looks to Harry. Woops, she might have let slip about his birthday...

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "I had never been one to celebrate much of anything, before," Bedivere observes with a faint shrug. "If I were present at any festivities, it was strictly in the role of marshal. I was there to ensure that whatever celebrations were present did not become too rowdy... and that a dagger did not find its way to my king." He took his duties seriously. For most of his life, the thought of participating in anything was completely alien to him. That still shows through. His presence seems thoroughly reserved compared to his guests.

  That's probably not surprising either, though. He's a subtle man, given to quiescence and understatement.

  The arrival of Sheela, cawing and squawking, prompts him to look up. Oh, right. He had almost forgotten about Eithne's pet, lifting a brow as the bird obviously passes on some kind of message. Bird-speech is not a trick that Merlin has taught him, though, and so he only inclines his head to her in acknowledgement as she takes off.

  It's a little weird to think of something like the Mórrígan having half-mortal children, let alone interacting with them regularly. It requires a little bit of mental gymnastics on his part to accept.

  "I suppose." He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck at Inga's gentle admonishment. "That only makes me more suspcious, however, where Master Merlin is concerned. Perhaps his intentions are good, but I fear that is all that is good about him, some days. His methodology..." The knight grimaces. How Merlin goes about things leaves much to be desired, somehow, like 'the entire story of King Arthur.' Great for Britain, terrible for Arturia herself, and everybody loyal to Camelot and Arturia. "Do inform me if he /stops/ being well-behaved. I'm certain it's only a phase." The good behaviour, that is. Because Merlin.

  Bedivere may or may not privately imagine that Merlin will simply combust if he behaves himself for too long at a stretch.

  At mention of mead, though, the knight only gives Inga the fish-eye, and somewhat obliquely at that. He's very good at cold, bland looks. He's also not very good at hiding his shudder. "N-no. I do not think so." No. No drink. None whatsoever. By no means. /Especially/ in public. Okay, maybe a /little/ in private, but absolutely not in public, as he has no desire to behave like a braying ass. "Thank you, though."

Inga has posed:
Inga can't help but laugh. She hasn't known the wizard as long as Bedivere, but they both clearly know him well enough to be suspicious when he hasn't been in trouble for a long period of time. It is like looking after children. It is when it is silent that you must really worry!

Smiling, Inga sips her cider. "It is possible to indulge a little and not make a fool of oneself Bedivere. It is only practice you need. I am surprised you have such a low tolerance, surely you grew up drinking ale, even if it was watered down?" she asks. Bedivere needs to learn to relax, but that's a rather tall order. She understands. Duty and vigilance. It will take him time to learn to let go a little.

"Well, have a little cider--tis only apples and I know you love those," she adds. "So, I saw you speaking with Alaia...anything I should be concerned about?" Inga asks, settling into her seat while they wait for Eithne to return.

She glances to Harry again, smiling. She hopes Black One isn't freaking him out too much. Harry is not the most comfortable around fae.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  Over by the food tables, the Black One seems content to leave off his harassment of Harry with one last prod of that velvet nose, wandering off to go be the centre of attention from a nearby throng of children. The adoration of horses among small children seems to be universal.

  Given sufficient attention, the pooka doesn't seem to be a threat, but that doesn't dismiss Bedivere's concerns. The knight watches the pooka carefully, even as he listens to Inga.

  The Black One's managed to give the children the slip, though, and circles around to Harry's other side, incongruously scented of summer and faded grass. Maybe it's just the garland, right? <You may call this one the Black One, for this one does not have a name, and it is enough a truth to satisfy. This one serves the Steward of Dun Realtai in fulfillment of a debt.> The war horse cocks his huge head, studying Harry with one smoky gold eye. <Has the King of Cats got your tongue, Wizard...?>

  "So you say, but it takes only one slip of one's wits before trouble finds its way in," Bedivere points out, a little warily. He folds his arms, as much to huddle under his cloak as anything else. While it's not winter-cold just yet, the autumn wind makes it plain that the cold is not far behind. He eyes her, thoughtfully. "I would sooner not make that slip. Far more than my own well-being would be at risk."

  His eyes light up a little at the mention of cider, though, and he even manages a faint half-smile that's not completely reserved. He does love apples, something Arturia had sussed out of him early on in Camelot. The cold and stoic marshal had /indeed/ had a weakness in that armour of ice.

  Tilting his head, he flicks a quick sidelong glance at the folk around him enjoying themselves, before speaking quietly. "I spoke to her of the problems our pooka friend had encountered. I would know if there is a threat in this land I should be aware of, but she knew naught of it. I wonder, then, which land this creature has come from."

Harry Dresden (206) has posed:
    There's... a look at the horse, at the pooka at that last question, and then there's a soft, quiet smile, as Harry picks up a big old piece of venison jerky, and looks to the fae. "You ask that last question, Black One, and yet if you can see me for who I am... you know damn well who has my tongue, now don't you?"
    He chews on the jerky as he hears the Birthday Word and looks slightly pale. A glance over at Inga. Did she tell them? Did they figure it out or remember from years past? How could you?
    It all comes out as a very sad, forlorn look.

Inga has posed:
Inga grins, nodding. "Ah, words of the Wise One are similar and advise against partaking in too much drink--however, it is also said that all poetry and song comes from the mead Odin stole from Suttungr....so I think perhaps moderation is the key," she says with a wink.

Inga's expression turns thoughtful. "Indeed? He seems to come from a land Merlin is familiar with, yes?" she asks.

Inga's looks to Harry is both apologetic and vaguely annoyed. It's just a birthday, silly man!

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  <Perhaps this one does. Perhaps this one does not. After all,> the Black One states, in a bout of clarity, <there are many other worlds beyond this or those from which we hailed.> Ears prick forward; his face never moves, but the Black One nonetheless gives the impression of smirking. <Yes, you smell most interesting, Wizard. This one imagines you must have some fascinating stories to tell.>

  He seems harmless, if a little fond of messing with people.

  Over on the fringes of the gathering, Bedivere reaches up to tug at the red stud in his left ear. "Poetry and song are gifts of the Good Lord, and I hardly think that such things are to be found at the bottom of a bottle." Bedivere's counterargument is gentle, too gentle to be a proper reprimand. "Mayhap it is, mayhap it isn't. Whatever the case is, I suppose that mortal man is not meant to know."

  Bedivere leans against the wall of a nearby building, ignoring the chilled stone. "He does, but I do not think it the one we are familiar with. Shades of meaning, if you will; a place where some things are so, and some things are not so, I think it is." The knight gestures faintly, the articulated plates of his gauntlets ticking quietly. "I am not familiar with such a place, myself. Even if it were the same place, he seems to have come from Eire, not Albion."

Inga has posed:
Inga smiles, figuring Bedivere would say something like that. "It is a gift from the gods--even if we shall disagree on which one," she responds. "I mean to say, sometimes a bit of something is good to change the way one thinks..it helps you to open your mind because it helps you outside of yourself for just a little while...and I don't know anyone who couldn't use that every now and then," she sighs.

Inga needs a cider refill. Her cup is woefully empty. "Eire?" she asks, brow rising as she wracks her memory for mention of the place.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    "He means Ireland," Eithne helpfully supplies, striding back toward the two of them. Over her dress (somehow even the breastplate), she's wearing a black leather jacket, studded at the shoulders. A rose vine climbs the left arm, the largest blossom centered squarely over her upper arm. "Look what Ma sent me!" she beams, and spins around.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "I believe it is called 'Ireland,'" Bedivere says, at about the same time Eithne clears the issue up. Oh, well. At least it's nice and clear to the Wisewoman now. "I suppose."

  He glances back over as Eithne makes her reappearance, lifting a hand to her in greeting. "Very nice." He pauses, studying the jacket, and cocks his head to eye the rose vine. "Was the greenery part of the attire...?"

Inga has posed:
Inga's gaze turns to Eithne as she returns, her eyes widening slightly. "Oh, that's...very nice Eithne! Gods, is it your birthday as well?" she asks. Did she really not know her birthday? That seems like quite an oversight! Inga quietly freaks out inside, wondering what she could give Eithne...

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    "Part of...?" She looks down at her arm, the rose pattern set into the leather somehow. It's not sewn or painted, so maybe dyed...? Eithne can't tell, but she already loves it fiercely. "Well it's part of the jacket, if that's what yeh mean." Bedivere doesn't always make a lot of sense to her.

    There's a good reason that nobody knew Eithne's birthday. "Well, I didn't tell anyone," the girl shrugs, blinking. "But it's tomorrow, All Souls' Day. I suppose that's not a coincidence, after all..."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "Hm." Bedivere tilts his head. Eithne's birthday, is it?

  He taps his fingers against the opposite forearm, metal ticking softly. "In that case, I will think of something suitable." The knight allows himself a faint half-smile.

Inga has posed:
Inga brightens, grinning. It's tomorrow. That's a whole evening to come up with something! Excellent. "All Souls Day?" Inga asks. "That is similar to Samhain?" she asks.

Inga looks over toward the wood pile once more after the wind blows and sends a shiver through her. "Hmm what do you say we light the fire. May I do te honors?" she asks.

"And tsk--not telling me it was your birthday soon...what is your favorite meal and I will make it," she asks Eithne. Inga's been doing a LOT of cooking lately...

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    wh-what's that smile for

    Eithne peers suspiciously at Bedivere. This kind of thing is why she didn't tell anyone!! Also because she can never think of how to say it without also feeling like she's saying 'please give me presents'. For someone so insistent on proving she can be independent...

    Even if she really would enjoy a little get-together. "I'll be visiting my Da in the afternoon, but in the evening maybe we could all have dinner together? I thought I'd like to make a cake to share with everyone." But what's her favorite food, other than that? What does Inga already make a lot of, that is easy, that Eithne also likes (because, contrarily, it IS her birthday and she would like something she really enjoys)?

    "Um... stew?" she hazards, because that /is/ actually a thing that she really likes.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
  "By all means, Wisewoman." Bedivere inclines his head, gaze flicking to the pile of unlit tinder and firewood. It's not very Christian, but he's inclined to allow the people to have their pagan displays, especially since it might warm up the square a little. Besides, there's no shortage of firewood. "Lead the way."

  He reserves comment on Eithne, though, and maintains an expression of such neutrality that he's got to be messing with her, right? Right? He allows himself a smile at Eithne's plans, though. "Certainly. I will see if I can bring something." Maybe he can cobble together a cobbler for dessert, ah hah hah. His skill in the kitchen isn't abysmal, but as he's told many others before, he learned his skills on the march and his cooking always was utilitarian, above all else.

Inga has posed:
Inga's birthday is coming up soon as well, toward the end of the month sometime. The actual day, she is pretty unclear on. So, they'll just make something up.

"Stew?" she asks, surprised. Stew is lovely, but hardly difficult to make or...special in any way. Ah well. "Stew it is then...and a get together. That would be very nice. We can do it at the cottage," she suggests. It isn't the hall at the keep, but its roomy enough and comfortable.

Inga takes her staff and stands, smiling to them before she walks toward the fire. She stops in front of the piled logs and raises her arms. "We give thanks to the gods for a bountiful harvest and pray we see the light of another spring. We honor our ancestors, all those who have passed and who watch over us still to pass through the veil and feast with us tonight! Let the fire lead the way," she calls, then thrusts her hands forward, releasing flame to kindle the bonfire, bathing the area in warm, golden light.

Eithne Sullivan has posed:
    It doesn't need to be special, as long as it's something she likes! And Inga's stew is particularly great in the way that only homecooked meals are.

    Besides, Eithne's not sure if Inga knows how to make mac-and-cheese.

    "If yeh can make it, that's all I'd ask fer," she grins, even if Bedivere /is/ messing with her. After all, if he steps on her toes too badly it's not like she can't just pick him up again.

    She's respectfully quiet when Inga begins the invocation, hands clasped in front of herself. This is something that's important to Inga, and to the other citizens, and to be fair... it's important to her, as well. When the logs go up in flames, Eithne lets out a loud whoop of victory, thrusting her fist up into the air.

    And because she's a teenage pagan, Eithne takes off to skip and run and jump around the bonfire, because Samhain comes once a year.

Merlin (639) has posed:
    And because he is the prankster that flaps in the night, a rather large bat flies high overhead - and lets go of a bright orange pumpkin halloween bucket full of candy that scatters around Inga and Enya and the others. It's quite good candy - it just also has a slightly...romantic side effect. Affection should bloom for those who sample them, although there's nothing to the effect htat's much more than the buzz of a large mug of mead. And a couple pseudo-rosaries of 'I Love You Man' of course.

    Flap flap flap, goes the bat, with an idle thought to a new friend of his. Your turn, Black One!