Summary: The Coccham Crew has recently relocated to Rumcofa, where they are finalizing plans for their first Blood Month celebration. Finan speaks of things that may be better left unsaid.
TW: None, really. Some suggestive stuff.
The alehouse was bustling and alive with animated, drunken conversations. Laughter rang out almost constantly from the various groups of patrons gathered there that evening. In one corner sat Uhtred and his men, discussing various plans for the upcoming Blood Month livestock slaughter and feast. In Rumcofa, so near the borders of western Mercia and Wealas with Northumbria to the north, some of the old pagan traditions held fast, despite the rise of Christianity through Angleland.
It reminded Finan much of Eire in that respect. Somehow, some way, his forebears had retained and incorporated their ancient Celtic beliefs and superstitions to work in concert with Christianity for the past 400 years - far longer than the Angles and Saxons had even been Christianized.
His attention drifted from the conversation at hand as he pondered this, and realized that it was, in fact, Samhain, the night to feast the dead. A slight chill ran down his spine as he thought about the belief that the veil between the living and dead was lifted on such a night. He hadn’t observed it much, if at all, after being sold into slavery; not that he had been all that observant of the church, either. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have unsettled him in the slightest, but something about it began niggling in his mind. Shifting in his seat, Finan grabbed his ale and lifted it to his mouth, a frown pulling on his brow.
As he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth to ensure no ale clung to his whiskers, Finan realized three sets of eyes were trained on him and no one was speaking. He slowly lowered the mug to the table and glanced between his friends. “What?"
