"The Fire Beneath the Hearth: Imbolc at the Moody Badger Tavern, 1550 AD"

February 2nd, 1550 — The Feast of Imbolc

The snow still clung to the edges of the Thames like a forgotten dream, but within the walls of the Moody Badger Tavern, warmth pulsed like a heartbeat through the ancient stone and enchanted timbers. The hearth roared with white fire—a spirit-flame gifted by a Sidhe lord from County Meath—and over it Genma the Chef stirred a bubbling cauldron of root-vegetable stew kissed with thyme, garlic, and a faint shimmer of glamour.

On this Imbolc, the old and sacred day of the rekindling, the tavern was more than a safe haven. It was the heart of Albion, beating in time with the old rites. Above the bar, garlands of snowdrops and woven straw dolls of Brigid’s likeness were strung with bright red thread. The music of lutes and harp floated through the air—soft at first, then swelling as the Band struck up a lively reel known as “The First Fire’s Whisper.”

Stonehenge at Dawn

Earlier that morning, as the first gold washed over Salisbury Plain, the ancient stones of Stonehenge glowed with an inner blue. There, a circle of Garou, Changelings, and Druids had come together to greet the sun. A Fianna Theurge named Rian ap Faolan poured sacred milk over the Heel Stone while an ancient Boggan matron known only as Auntie Della lit a tallow candle for every soul who had passed in winter’s grip. As the sun rose, spirits of the land stirred and whispered promises of renewal.

A group of students from Oxford’s Arcane Collegium—mortal and prodigal alike—watched in silence. Some took notes. Others wept. At the circle’s edge, a Mage known only as Logan the Ymir, wrapped in a mantle of wolf-fur and woven silver, drew a sigil of flame into the frost with the butt of his staff. “The fire under the earth stirs now,” he said. “Even the dead soil remembers the promise of spring.”

They departed shortly after, stepping through Myrddin Portals back to their studies—or straight to the tavern.

The Freehold in Kent: The Ember Tree

That afternoon in Kent County, the Freehold of Lord Lucas Quint stood under the boughs of the great Ember Tree, an oak that had not shed a leaf in four centuries. Here, the Unseelie Pooka known as Lady Jessica Quint led a troop of children in crafting Brigid’s crosses from straw and vine. Each child’s name was whispered into the wind, and a gift left at the root of the tree: a lock of hair, a wish, or a drawing scrawled in charcoal.

A Garou kinfolk choir sang old Irish hymns in a minor key, harmonizing with the hum of glamour that pulsed through the Freehold. From across the county, fae-born knights, forest spirits, and wandering hedge-witches gathered in peace. Word had spread that the Moody Badger was hosting the largest Imbolc gathering in over a hundred years.

At dusk, the Freehold’s flame—a lantern of bronze and garnet—was carried on horseback to the Tower of London, guarded by two Satyrs, a Get of Fenris blacksmith, and a tiny Nocker riding in the saddlebags yelling directions.

Evening at the Moody Badger Tavern

By nightfall, the tavern glowed like a star against the Tower’s gloom. Spirits of air and wood flitted through the rafters, and small flickers of dancing light leapt between candle flames. The Badger, the small dragon-spirit who named the place, curled near the hearth, purring in time with the music. Oberon the Irish Wolfhound lounged nearby, head on his paws, ears alert for any ill intent (there would be none tonight).

A Brigid Flame, brought from the Freehold, now danced at the center of the tavern. No ordinary fire, it was said to burn away despair and light paths through sorrow. All were invited to place offerings nearby—beeswax, poetry, runes etched in wood, drops of blood freely given. A Changeling bard named Elyra Foxglove sang in the Old Tongue of Éire, her voice threading warmth into every heart. A circle of druids passed around a bowl of milk and honey, sharing it with spirit guests none could see.

Edward Tudor, the boy king, entered quietly near midnight with his retinue, cloaked in grey and silver. At his side, Lord Lucas Quint bore a lantern and a blue rose carved from ice. They said little. They didn't need to. Even royalty must kneel before fire when seeking spring.

And so, under banners of gold and white, within the magic-woven walls of a tavern bound by oath and wonder, the Prodigals of Albion feasted, danced, and whispered ancient prayers to the Light of Renewal.

At the End of the Night

Near dawn, as the last notes of music fell into silence, the youngest student from Oxford—barely thirteen and shaking with power she didn’t yet understand—was chosen to carry a coal from the Brigid Flame back through the portal to the halls of her academy.

Genma handed her a small covered lantern and a boiled egg seasoned with cumin.

“For strength,” he said. “And light.”

And so Imbolc passed, not just marked, but honored—across Stonehenge and Kent, across fae courts and mage halls, across bloodlines and breeds. The Moody Badger had, once again, stood as the hearth of a kingdom unseen.