Lammas
Learn about the holiday of Lammas!
What is Lammas?
Lammas, Lammas Day, Loaf Mass, Loaf Mass Day—however you’d like to call it—is a holiday celebrated originally by Christian Anglo-Saxons. Lammas is also called “the feast of first fruits” and is a harvest festival taking place on August 1st in the northern hemisphere (February 1st in the southern hemisphere).
Some neopagan religions, namely Wicca, would later add this holiday to their sabbats (see: Wheel of the Year). Due to various reasons, the holiday Lughnasadh—a festival historically celebrated in Ireland—became conflated with Lammas, and the two are often used interchangeably. For a short explanation as to why this is an issue, please see this post.
Etymology
Lammas comes from the Old English hlāfmæsse, or “Loaf mass”. This most likely references the tradition of making a loaf of bread with the crop harvested on Lammastide.
History
In the past, it was customary to bring a loaf of bread to one’s local church to be blessed or to have a procession from the church to a bakery wherein those who are working will be blessed. The blessed bread may also be used for the Eucharist.
Throughout Britain in the Middle Ages fairs would be celebrated, feasts would be had, rent would be paid, and local elections held.
Note: Lammas may have pre-Christian influences but the festivities we know of and its name come from a distinctly English and Christina era. It was not “stolen” from pagans.
Modern Day Lammas
These are simply suggestions, anything that can be seen as traditional will be marked with a (T).
Correspondences
Deities
The Christian God (T), Lugh, Demeter, Freyr, Osiris, and many of the harvest/agricultural deities.
Rocks, Crystals, Minerals, Etc
Sunstone, amber, gold, iron
Herbs and Plants
Wheat, cereals, corn (T), blackberries, blueberries, bilberries
Activities
Bake bread (T)
Hold a bonfire
Harvest crops (T) or tend to houseplants
Practice divination
Create or cast spells involving equity and justice
Visit a bakery (and tip your bakers if possible!)
Pray for blessings
Feast (T)
Offerings
Beer
Bread or other baked goods (T)
Any of the herbs or rocks mentioned above
Support local farmers
Dance or sing
Honor your ancestors, gods, or spirits with an altar or a space at your feast
References and Resources
Lammas - Britannica
A Little History of Lammas - A Clerk of Oxford
Lammas - Wikipedia
Stations of the Sun - Ronald Hutton
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Notes From Corvo Bianco
Chapter: 4/5
Rating: M (implied/offscreen smut)
Words: 1.6k (chapter) /9.1k (total)
Relationships: Regis/Dettlaff/Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer
Summary: The retired life of Geralt and his family, as told through notes, transcripts, and found correspondences.
(read chapter 4 below, or on AO3)
Transcript of a conversation overheard near a table during Lammasday festivities, well after dark:
Lambert: (pushing himself out of his chair) ’m gonna go find another round. Any requests?
Yennefer: Thank you, but I’m fine.
(In the next chair over, Eskel smiles, but shakes his head no. Geralt similarly declines, studying the half-inch of cloudy liquor in the tumbler he holds. Dettlaff, having no drink to begin with, merely quirks an eyebrow in silence as Lambert meanders away into the crowd.)
Eskel: (slurring, but only a little) Someone should probably go with him. To... keep him out of trouble.
Yennefer: Is that your way of volunteering?
Eskel: Ha! Nah, I’ll stay right here. Night’s too young to start playing babysitter. Haven’t even beaten Geralt at cards yet.
Geralt: Looking to get back what I won off you yesterday? Your luck is dubious even when you’re sober.
Eskel: Ah, you’re all talk. Lay ‘em down, Wolf.
Geralt: Think I’ll pass. My coin is staying in my pockets.
Eskel: Bah, you’re no fun. (squinting at Dettlaff) What about you? They teach you how to play cards in Nazair? Or is that too much of a... y’know... human thing?
Dettlaff: It is not. (plucking the deck out of Eskel’s hands; Eskel huffs, his reaction a half-second too slow. Dettlaff chuckles at him.) Let us hope that your luck is better than your reflexes. What—
(a hand thuds on the table between them, supporting the weight of its owner, more inebriated by far than those already present)
Jaskier: Hellooooo to my lovely companions, on this, an equally lovely night! You’re as fair as the weather, each and every one of you. And as charming as the music! Which isn’t nearly so charming as what I could produce, of course, but the point remains.
Yennefer: (laughing) Bard. I see you’re enjoying yourself.
Jaskier: Oh I am, my lovely sorceress. I am indeed.
(circling behind Eskel’s back, he deposits himself with a flourish into the chair previously occupied by Lambert, next to Geralt. Tilting across Geralt’s lap, he nuzzles his face against Yennefer’s shoulder and into her hair.)
Geralt: (indignant) Jask. Why.
Yennefer: Oh, don’t pretend you don’t love it when he’s like this.
Eskel: I mind. He just kicked me in the knee.
Jaskier: (voice somewhat muffled by hair) I apologize, my dear witcher. My feet simply cannot control themselves. I was made for dancing! (clumsily extracting himself from his perch on Yennefer’s shoulder; he turns his affectionate—if slightly bleary—gaze upon Geralt) It’s such a noble and amusing way to pass the time, really, we should do it more often. Geralt, darling. Won’t you come and dance with me?
Geralt: (grumbling) You can’t even stand upright.
Jaskier: You wound me. I can stand—perfectly—well— (he keels to the left, shuffling his feet under him. Staggering a little, he manages to stand, leaning one arm on Geralt’s shoulder) See!
Geralt: The picture of grace. I take it all back.
Jaskier: Hmph. With an attitude like that, you’re only fortunate I like you. (betraying his tone, he leans down to press a kiss to the side of Geralt’s temple; then he rounds on Eskel) Well, if I can’t have one charming witcher, perhaps I’ll have luck with another. Eskel, my friend!
Eskel: No.
Jaskier: Why, the nerve. I haven’t even asked you yet.
Eskel: Ah, my mistake. Go on.
Jaskier: Won’t you dance with me?
Eskel: …
Eskel: No.
Jaskier: (melodramatic) A travesty, is what this is. Why you’re all so dour on Lammas, of all days, I can’t fathom. It’s a harvest festival, by the gods! You’re meant to make merry. Yennefer. Charming, beautiful, terrifying Yennefer. Would you perhaps...?
Yennefer: (having relocated herself to Geralt’s lap in Jaskier’s wake, and stealing his drink) Not just now, bardling. I’m afraid I’m quite comfortable.
(Jaskier heaves himself out from between Eskel and Geralt with a sigh. Stumbling back a pace, he catches a hand on the back of Eskel’s chair. He sinks to the ground behind it, leaving him roughly at eye level to Dettlaff’s knees.)
Jaskier: This is ridiculous. I’ve never felt so betrayed. (propping his chin on Dettlaff’s leg; he rolls his eyes up toward him) Don’t worry, I know what you’ll say already. You’re always brooding.
Dettlaff: (returning his gaze with something that, on anyone else, might almost be fond amusement) I do not brood, Jaskier.
Jaskier: You do too! You’re the very model of a broody... brooding... something-or-other.
Dettlaff: Eloquent.
Jaskier: No question who you learned your manners from, either. (he scrambles up, depositing himself with more exuberance than grace onto the vampire’s lap) Come on, you must know why they do it. You’re just like them. With your ridiculous—(he gently pokes Dettlaff’s chin)—charming—(taps him on the end of the nose)—broody face.
[Eskel, aside: Survival instincts aren’t his greatest strength, are they?
Geralt: That’s one way to put it.]
Dettlaff: Hmm.
(sounds of a commotion)
Jaskier: (upside down, over a shoulder) Hey!
Dettlaff: You wanted my company. I feel compelled to indulge you.
Yennefer: (chuckling) At close range, no doubt.
(he strides away in the direction of the estate, Jaskier still draped across his shoulder. Several steps away, the bard apparently decides he finds the situation agreeable, after all. The sounds of bawdy singing trail away after them, interspersed by the vampire’s quiet laughter.)
Eskel: … should we be worried about that?
Geralt: No. He’ll be fine.
Yennefer: Better than, even. I believe he’s found the entertainment he was so assiduously seeking.
Lambert: (reappearing at the side of the table, wine bottle in hand) What’d I miss? I thought I saw your bard headed this way, Wolf. Where’d he disappear to?
Eskel: (snickers)
Yennefer: (smirks)
Geralt: (straight-faced) Dancing lessons.
A memo from the assistant vintner, detailing the loss of a barrel of wine to “misadventure” incurred Lammas eve:
“...regarding the damage done, for the most part the cellar structure itself was left mercifully unscathed. None of the storage racks received more than light scorch marks and a few sword nicks. And, fortunately, none of the other barrels were damaged beyond the embedding of a few splinters. It could have been worse. We discovered this morning that one piece of shrapnel has embedded itself several inches deep into the ceiling, on the other side of the room. The workmen offered to extract it, but with your blessing, messere, I believe I’ll have them leave it there. As an object lesson.
The brunt of the cleanup has been the liquid, of course. Sixty gallons of Pomino doesn’t simply evaporate away into nothing (despite how often this otherwise appears to be the case). And while we’ve had spills in the cellar before, to my knowledge this is the first time anyone has ever detonated a barrel of wine by means of witcher signs. Or, to be frank, any other method.
I will leave the questioning of the witcher Lambert to your discretion, messere. In any case he was far enough into his cups last night, upon staggering out into the latter hours of the celebration drenched head-to-heel in wine, that we could not ascertain exactly what had compelled him to demonstrate his witchering within the confines of our cellar. All his lady would say on the subject (mysteriously dry herself, though she’d been in there with him; I suppose sorcery is good for some things) was to reassure him that he’d been very impressive.
As to where he is now, I’d check the cellar first. He’s been in there all morning, helping us scrub even through his hangover. He’s a man who cleans up his own messes, I give him that.”
Regis’ notebook, slightly scorched at the edges:
IV Lammas 1277
- Stock of burn poultices is now in excellent condition. Those prepared in advance of the Lammas celebration turned out to be unnecessary, as I suspected would be the case. Nevertheless, having them on hand did go quite some way to putting Barnabas-Basil's mind at ease. “An ounce of prevention,” as it were.
- The final mixture (batch 36) performed spectacularly. I don’t believe I flatter myself to suggest that no fireworks have ever been received with such delight. Lambert in particular was quite taken with the whole display. Geralt related to me that he has always maintained something of a professional curiosity regarding incendiary materials.
- Geralt further related to me that, unless I am prepared to take up traveling with him and attending to the inevitably resultant injuries, under no circumstances is Lambert to be allowed access to my notes.
A curl of parchment, slipped under the front door to one of the many cottages on the outskirts of Corvo Bianco. The message is penned in a hand that is obviously unpracticed, but just as obviously enthusiastic:
“Roderik & Mary & family:
On behaf of the happy couple, tis my honor to extend to you an invitation to a wedding. May it be known that Ida Zajac of Zevada & Ettore Agostini will wed a fortnight hence on the grounds of the vinyard. Also on behaf of Idas mum Rilka and myself, we’d wondered if little Joanna would like to carry flowers for the bride during the seremony?
Blessings and thank ye,
Malka Laska”
A hastily scribbled note, left atop the workbench in Regis’ laboratory:
“Just curious, old man—what was in those fireworks? That extended burn was incredible. You could do so much with that! Catch up with me before we hit the road, I’ve got some great ideas.
-Lambert”
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