#ended up coming to cornwall for a number of reasons

[padfootastic]

(modern) prongsfoot!!!

hello! so, this is a multi chapter fic i was really excited about a while ago (started it, got to a few thousand works and then it fizzled out lol the basic premise is this:

muggle AU with single dad James and model Sirius who’s fed up of his ~meaningless life (feeling some…ennui, if u will) and ends up taking off to like. a seaside city where he runs into harry and then, james. it was such a fun premise because A. i was writing it to ‘have we met before’ which is the perfect j/s song, B. i wanted it to be low pressure and chill, a simple meet cute romance type situation.

there’s also aunt cassiopeia who sirius is temporarily living with and she’s like this. ‘spinster’ who’s cut off from her family, has a pet cheetah she rescued one time, and has three blades on her at all times. a Character. i love her. she loves james. tries to match make. sirius is so baffled?? because aunty cassie doesn’t like anyone??

this is what my notes look like for this fic

i have. clearly. put an unnecessary amount of thought into it lol

[twola]

Devil’s Backbone - Owanjila III

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila III: Be Not A Fool For Love

The gang continues to get back on its feet after the ferry robbery. Meanwhile, in Blackwater, the law is picking up the pieces after the massacre. Abigail, try as she might, cannot let her concern for John go.

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“No, no, Fraulein, you’re forgetting the interest on the loan. The amount should be much higher.”

The older man leers over the book you’re writing in, his glasses low on his nose. You frown, looking up at him, “I did add interest, Mister Strauss.”

“At what percent?”

“Ten…?” You state, but by the end of the syllable, your tone sounds much more unsure.

“What do you think we are, a church? No, no - we keep these people out of debtor’s prisons - and we need to be paid for the good work we are doing.” Strauss eyes you critically, then points at a figure you wrote next to a name, “Make it thirty percent.”

“ Thirty ?!”

“Yes. They know what they are getting into when I provide them the loan. And what it expected to be collected.” The man waves his hand dismissively as you go to recalculate your figures. The sums were not huge, but asking a desperate man for another thirty percent…? That seemed… predatory.

You breathe out your nose, adding and multiplying numbers in your head to redo the loan ledger. Five lines, currently , with the names and amounts owed written in neat cursive. “Here, Mister Strauss.”

He leans over the table, having seated himself in the chair opposite you, and slides the ledger over to his side. His eyes dart around the page, and his frown lessens before he looks back at you, the sunlight glinting off the lenses of his glasses. “Yes, these figures look correct. Now we must collect.”

“Collect?”

“Yes, but not us. People are much more likely to take a loan from someone like me, or you,” He waves his hand at you, “But are more likely to repay someone a little more menacing.”

“Ah.” You say, the logic being sound in your head.

“Speaking of which,” Strauss sits up, and points off in the direction behind you, “Herr Morgan, come here. When you have a chance, Miss Shaw has a list of collectors for you to visit.”

You turn in your seat, to see Arthur striding toward you, a persistent scowl on his face. Indeed, Strauss was right - Arthur was menacing - tall and broad, his arms bursting with corded muscle…

You blink, catching yourself, and look back at the ledger, watching Strauss tear out the page you wrote on and fold it, holding it out for Arthur as the man approached. “Got another sucker pulled into your loansharking there, Herr Strauss?”

“Hosea said Miss Shaw here had bookkeeping experience. A rare find among this group.”

“And somehow it's always me that you find to do your collecting - despite the abundance of bull-headed muscle in this group.” Arthur takes the paper from Strauss’s hand, scowling as he tucks it into his satchel on his hip. “Y’done with her now? Or you have more money to count?”

Strauss gives a dismissive wave as he closes his ledger and walks toward his wagon. You stand from your seat, eyes following the older man for a moment before turning back to Arthur as you straighten your skirts.

“Dutch seems to think loansharkin’ is beneath us for some reason - he prefers robbin’. But money is money.” Arthur drawls, grabbing a cigarette from his satchel and leaning over to strike the match on his boot, cupping his hand around the cigarette to light it before tossing the match to the ground.

“I suppose. I guess usury is less bloody though?” You ask, rubbing at your arms somewhat nervously.

“Depends. If I’m collectin’, it tends not to be.”  

You wait for him to say he’s being sarcastic. But no, he’s dead serious.

Arthur doesn’t notice the tumult in your eyes. He takes a drag of the cigarette, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, before leaning back and exhaling a cloud of smoke to the side. 

“You ready to go shoot? Or you got somethin’ better you’re working on?” He turns back to you, and fortunately, you’ve mostly regained your composure.

“N-no. I can shoot.” You say, eyes shooting to the gleaming revolver on his hip.

“C’mon then. We’ll head a bit north of here, round the lake.” Arthur motions for you to follow him, and you both pace slowly toward his tent, where the gang’s weapons and ammunition are stored. 

“Y’ever shot a gun? I mean, besides when you almost blew my ears out a few weeks ago?” He asks as he reaches the wagon, letting down the back hitch and looking over the numerous firearms within a long crate in the bed of the wagon.

“I’ve shot a game rifle before if that’s what you’re asking.” You say, trying not to be annoyed by his jab.

Arthur drops his cigarette on the ground, crushing it under his boot, before grabbing a small rifle from the crate and holding it out to you. “Like this?”

You take it, looking it up and down, and nod your head, holding it back out to him.

He slings it over his shoulder and grabs another gun from the crate, holding it out for you to take, and you do, taking his lead and pulling the strap of the gun over your head, letting it fall across your chest, the firearm hanging across your back. Arthur grabs a box of cartridges and tucks it into his satchel.

“Alrigh’, Missus Shaw. I’ve got the varmint rifle and a repeater. Reckon we’ll start you on those.”

You eye one of the revolvers within the crate for a moment before the slamming of the lid shut loudly jolts you.

"C'mon, over to the horses. We'll get a little bit outta camp. Bit north of here there's plenty of things to shoot at." 

You follow him to where the horses are tied up, to that old roan Walker that Arthur was still riding. He grabs your waist without giving you much of a chance, heaving you up on the Walker’s rump. You scowl down at him, “You do know I can get on a horse myself.”

“Oh, well then be my guest next time, Missus Shaw.” Arthur snipes back as he pulls himself up into the saddle.

You murmur a curse under your breath as he digs his spurs into the horse’s side, leading him down the side of the hill toward Owanjila, then hooking northward after crossing the small mountain stream that fed the lake.

The rest of the ride is relatively silent until you reach an area to the north that almost looks burned-out, where the tree trunks are white and sparse in an eerie silence. Of course, this is where Arthur decides to stop the horse, swinging himself down and holding up a hand to you. You grasp it and slide yourself down from the horse, only realizing later that he offered you help instead of simply grasping your waist and pulling you down himself

Little steps, one at a time.

“So… what are we shooting?”

Arthur grunts and pulls a half-drunk bottle of Kentucky bourbon from his satchel, uncorking it and unabashedly polishing off the liquor as you stare in disgust. He's drinking it like water - completely unfazed by the burn of the alcohol going down. You'd think he was completely unaffected by it were it not for him swallowing and gritting his teeth slightly before walking several steps away and placing the bottle upon the flat surface of a stump from a fallen tree. 

"There y'go. Go on and stand o'er there," He points several steps away, which you stride over to dutifully, holding the rifle in your hands. You feel your palms start to sweat in nervous anticipation. Truth be told, you can't remember the last time you shot a rifle like this. Several years ago, at this point. Back when you were another woman.

Arthur stands to the side, holds his hand out in invitation, and you sigh and orient yourself toward the bottle several feet away.

You hold up the small rifle ahead of you, the butt of the gun against your shoulder as you point it toward the bottle. Closing one eye, your finger hovers for a moment over the trigger, and then you take a breath and squeeze.

A snap rings out after a moment, dust on the stump swirling upward. You lower the barrel, opening your other eye and frowning to see the bottle intact. 

"Y'hit the stump, at least. Give it a few more tries." Arthur stands to the side, thumbs wound around his belt buckle, swaying back and forth slowly as he glances between you and the bottle.

You do. Four more times you pull the trigger to the small rifle, to varying degrees of success, on the last round you swear you can hear the pellet clink against the glass. You frown and look at Arthur, dripping in weaponry, sure that he could hit this target not ten steps away with his eyes closed.

“Ain’t half bad with that.” Arthur nods, taking his hand off his belt and pointing at you, “Now take that repeater from your back and try that. Won’t kill anything bigger than a jackrabbit with the varmint rifle.”

“What do I need to shoot bigger than a rabbit?” You ask as he holds out his hand for the rifle. You pass it to him and start to swing the repeater over your back.

Arthur takes the varmint rifle, placing it on the ground next to him. He lowers his head, the shadow of an ironic smirk peaking out from under the rim of his black gambler hat.

“Men like me, Missus Shaw. You gotta be ready to shoot men like me.”

You frown in return, before glancing back to the bottle, hefting the repeater ahead of you, heavier than the game rifle you had just shot with.

You hold the repeater up, settling it into your shoulder as you aim at the bottle balanced on the tree stump paces away. You close one eye, the gun swaying slightly before pulling the trigger. 

The sound hits you before the recoil, slamming your shoulder back as you stumble half a step. You have no idea where the bullet went, but the bottle was completely unfazed. A groan escapes your lips as you lower the repeater.

“Not bad, but look ‘ere,” Arthur steps up behind you, reaching around you to grab the rifle and bring it to position again. You hold in a gasp as his large hands move over yours and you feel his barrel chest flush against your back. 

His arms hover over yours, and your thoughts from before come racing back - his corded muscles straining the blue cotton of his work shirt…

Stop it, damnit.

God, hopefully, he doesn’t notice the flush blooming on your cheeks and down your neck. You grit your teeth within your mouth for a moment before the searing pain in your chest returns, as if he pointed that big old revolver straight into your heart and pulled the trigger.

You’re a widow. Not even three months gone. You were still in mourning, Frederick’s gold ring tucked away safe among your sparse belongings. Wasn’t it him behind you, telling you to aim at a stupid-looking clump of Spanish moss outside of Saint Denis all those years ago?

You could almost hear him, rasping in your ear, holding that old game rifle up and following where he pointed to.  You only got one shot off before the man had fully wrapped his arms around you, nibbling at your earlobe, laughing in the summer sun…

You frown, trying to bring yourself back from the edge of melancholy.

“Both eyes open.”  Arthur rumbles, jerking you back to the present, and you open your other eye, not even realizing you had closed it.

Arthur’s arms pull away from yours, and the warmth emitted from his frame retreats as well.

You breathe in. You breathe out.

“Go ahead, Missus Shaw.”

You pull the trigger.

-

The bell on the door rings, the warm air blowing into the small lobby of the office from the street. Springtime has fully settled in, with blustering winds rolling through the town from the south.

“Be right with you!”

From the hallway comes a stout, middle-aged woman, with dark, braided hair and a work apron over her dress. She stops in the small lobby, sizing up the stranger who walked in as she wipes her hands on her apron.

Tall, dark-haired, and mustached, the man in a fine suit holds his hat in one hand as he waits for the woman to settle herself.

“Do you need to see the doctor?” She asks, noting that this man does not look sick or injured.

“I am looking for Doctor Smith, yes. I need to talk to him. And his wife. Do you happen to be Rosalia Smith?”

Rosalia purses her lips slightly, her eyebrows furrowing. “Let me get my husband.”

A silver badge gleams brightly on his chest.

She turns and walks down the short hallway to the examination room, where her bespectacled husband cleans a scalpel in the sink.

“Amor, a man is asking for you up front.” 

The doctor turns around, smiling tiredly. “Thank you, Rosa. Did he tell you what’s wrong?”

Rosalia shakes her head, but it is obvious by her expression that she isn’t telling him everything.

The doctor purses his lips, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Un hombre de la ley,” She whispers, “Says he wants to talk to both of us.”

He frowns, wiping his wet hands on his apron while walking past his wife and down the hallway. He reaches the lobby, finding the tall, imposing man waiting patiently.

“Silas Smith,” He reaches his hand out to the man, who grasps it and shakes heartily, “My wife said you were looking to speak to me?”

“Yes, yes.” The man replies. He places his hat on the windowsill and pulls a field notebook from his jacket’s inner pocket, opening it to a pre-marked page.

“My name is Angus Carmody, agent with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. I have the understanding that you two were one of the last people to see a Missus Ruth Shaw about a month ago.”

Rosalia gasps at her husband’s side, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. “Missus Ruth! Is she alright?”

Silas places a hand on Rosalia’s back to calm her. 

“No one has seen her. We are trying to track her down to…” The lawman swallows, pulling a pen from his pocket, “Straighten out some business details from her late husband’s estate. For her benefit, of course. There are funds that Frederick Shaw had set aside that can be used for the care of his widow.”

Angus Carmody clicks his pen open, licking his thumb to turn the page of his field notebook to a blank one. He hopes that these people bought his story and that Shaw hadn’t told them about Limpany, Cornwall, or their incident out in Tall Trees. 

Silas frowns, shaking his head, “I’m sorry - she was boarding the ferry for Saint Denis the same day we went to Mexico. We’ve only just returned yesterday. We haven’t heard from her - I would have to think she’s in Saint Denis.”

“Unfortunately,” Angus looks at Silas, then at a horrified Rosalia, “She did not board the ferry that day. We have reason to think she may be in danger.”

“¿Peligro?” Rosalia gasps again.

“Yes. Please let me or another Pinkerton Agent know if you hear from Missus Shaw.” Carmody produces a printed card, handing it to Silas, “We’ve set up office in the old tailor’s shop next to the police station. Someone should always be there.”

Silas takes the card and nods. “We will be sure to reach out should we hear anything. We certainly want Ruth to be found safe.” He places his hand on his wife’s back, her face pale.

Carmody nods, placing his field notebook back into his vest pocket. “Thank you for your help. I’ll be sure to inform you should we find Missus Shaw.”

“Doctor, Ma’am.” The Pinkerton nods again in thanks as he reaches for the door.

“Agent,” Silas replies in farewell as the door closes and latches behind Carmody.

“E-esa pobre mujer… tiene mala suerte…” Rosalia breathes out slowly, placing her hands over her forehead as if to stave away oncoming pain.

Silas has no response, simply continuing to rub his hand over his wife’s upper back, watching the Pinkerton continue down the dusty Blackwater street.

-

“Unfortunately the Doctor and his wife had no leads on Shaw.” Carmody rubs his brow as he stares at the worn wooden floor. He knew that answer would not satisfy his supervisor. Nothing but that woman on a silver platter would satisfy Milton, and even then, he would still find a way to be cross about it.

“You should be happy that Cornwall’s attention is now on this robbery.” Andrew Milton sneers up from his desk, which was full of newspapers, handwritten notes, and a map of West Elizabeth. 

Carmody remains silent, his eyes flitting to the papers on the desk.

“It was Dutch Van der Linde and his gang.” Milton leans back in his chair, cracking his knuckles together. “The man that the city police picked up? That was Mac Callendar.”

“Was?” 

“He was going to die anyway. Full of bullet holes. I did the merciful thing and put him out of his misery… after he made it clear he wasn’t going to give us anything.” Milton says, very nonchalantly for speaking about killing a man.

Carmody’s mouth pulls into a tight line.

“Anyway - Edgar Ross and I are going to run this Van der Linde thing. Evidently, the money that was on board that ferry included Cornwall’s payroll for workers trying to expand his rail line toward New Austin.” The senior agent stands, rolling his shoulders before rounding his desk to stand in front of Carmody.

“You,” Milton points his finger at Carmody’s face, “Are to find this damn woman. She’s not in Blackwater. I’ve locked down this damn town and have had agents and the police interview every damn person around, and nothing. ” 

“I’ll expand my search,” Carmody states, his eyebrows setting as he seems to gain some sort of annoyed confidence,  “Strawberry, Valentine. The agents in Saint Denis are keeping me apprised if she should end up there.” 

“Take two or three men with you. Between the contingent here and the Blackwater police, we should have enough.” Milton replies as he turns around, pacing toward the coat rack where his black suit jacket hung. 

He slides his arms into the jacket and pulls it on, adjusting the sleeves to his liking. Looking up again, he narrows his eyes at his subordinate as Carmody places his hat atop his head.

“You do know that continued failure will result in your being sent back to Chicago.”

Carmody nods. “Yes, sir.”

Milton turns his back on Carmody as he hears the door open and close. Letting out a breath, he smooths his pomaded hair down on top of his head before stepping toward his desk again. Leaning on his fists, he overviews all of the scattered paper on the desk, mind hard at work connecting events and leads and where the hell an entire outlaw gang fled to…

The door opens again. Instead of one of his agents, an older man, in the dark woolen overcoat of the Blackwater Police, gold badge gleaming against the light of the lamp hanging from the ceiling of the dusty old room.

“Ah, Chief Dunbar. Come in. Do you or your officers have any updates?” Milton waved the elder lawman in, noting the dark bags under his eyes, the tired look on his face, and the tension held in his shoulders.

Oswald Dunbar, who looked like he had been doing this job for far too long, in Milton’s opinion, stepped forward and took a heavy seat in the chair in front of the desk.

“Unfortunately not, Agent Milton. Been dealin’ with the McCourts. That poor girl. Half her face blown off.” The aged policeman ran his hand down his face, smoothing down his large mustache.

“I’ve developed the information that it was Van der Linde himself that pulled the trigger.”

“Just find them. Whole town is on edge. Hell, whole state is on edge. Blackwater isn’t supposed to be some wild west town where shootouts happen. It’s supposed to be civilized.”

Milton grinds his teeth behind his lips. “Civilized.”

Dunbar nods his head. “I know we ain’t Saint Denis. But this town - it’s gonna be the gateway to the West. New Austin. Even to California. But things like this happen, and we’re no different from any cowtown full of outlaws.” 

“Rest assured, the Pinkerton Detective Agency has made this a priority,” Milton states, attempting to assuage the police chief’s unsettled mind.

“We will make this area civilized. The days of lawlessness are over.”

-

It’s been days. Several days. And as much as she didn’t mind not having to scream at him for ignoring his son, Abigail’s patience had begun to fray. Fear crept into her chest, clutching around her heart like a set of claws of some ragged beast.

It was a lie, deep down she knew, to say that she didn’t care for the outlaw - of course she did. Despite his scraggly hair that she constantly wanted to cut, his gruff demeanor toward his son, the lack of ardor between them… John Marston had placed his claws into her heart long ago, ones that she was not able to release. Maybe he was the ragged beast.

“You alright? That’s the fourth time you’ve sighed this morning.”

Abigail blinks, staring over the table where you stand opposite, chopping carrots for the evening’s meal. The potatoes she was supposed to be quartering remain whole, her hand on the knife.

She stares back down at the table, placing the knife down and placing her hand on her forehead. She sighs, again, and you raise your eyebrows, placing your knife down as well. She looks up at you, a guilty, concerned look in her eyes.

“It’s John… he’s been gone for days now ‘nd…” She trails off, looking over her shoulder to see Jack laying in the grass, playing with the wooden horse toy that seemed to take up the boy’s attention recently.

Abigail exhales a ragged breath. “Ain’t no love lost between us, I know - but he’s my boy’s father…”

You round the table and place your hands on her shoulders. “C’mon - maybe we can go talk to Dutch and he’ll send one of the men to go look for him.”

Abigail lets out a heavy breath, steeling herself, and nods. You let your arms from her shoulder and take one of hers in your own, walking toward the middle of camp, to the leader’s tent.

Your voice gets low as you lean in next to her, “Do you want me-…”

“No, I got it,” Abigail says, unlacing her arms from yours and stepping ahead of you without a trace of the reservations from earlier. 

“Dutch.”

The outlaw looks up from his chair within the large tent and places the book he was reading face down on the cot opposite of him. Molly O’Shea sits upon that cot, her cold eyes regarding Abigail with disdain as she enters.

“Abigail, my dear,” Dutch stands up, placing an arm on Abigail’s back, leading her a step away from the tent, “What can I do for you?”

He walks them to the campfire, where you have taken to standing next to where Hosea sits, feeding kindling to the fire. Arthur polishes his pistol across the circle.

“It’s John, Dutch.  He ain’t been back. I… I’m worried.”

Dutch frowns for a second, then a smile returns under his mustache.

“John can fend for himself, Miss Roberts,” Dutch waves, almost dismissively, “He was just going up to scout.”

“It’s been days , Dutch. And in Strawberry there was talk of a blizzard that rolled through.” Abigail pleads, near uncharacteristic for the rough and tumble woman. You make eye contact with Hosea, whose mouth is drawn in a tight line.

Frowning, your brow quivers as you stare at him, and you know your face betrays worry on behalf of the poor woman.

“Dutch…” Hosea calls out to the retreating man, “It has been a while. If the weather’s as bad as they are sayin’ in Strawberry, the boy may need some help.”

Arthur, whose arms are now crossed and a scowl set in on his face, takes the opportunity to enter the conversation. “Sure, let’s all go save little Johnny Marston, damsel in distress.”

You’ve stepped closer to Abigail, placing your hands on her shoulders, trying to provide a bit of comfort, “ Arthur,” You snap, feeling Abigail tense under your fingers.

Dutch surveils the scene, the distraught Abigail pleading for the father of her son, you trying to console her, Hosea obviously taking Abigail’s side. And Arthur, perpetually annoyed at anything to do with John.

“I know the area.” You rub at Abigail’s back, trying one last attempt to convince the outlaw to help, “I traveled south through the Grizzlies about a year ago with my husband. There’s an abandoned mining town where someone could take refuge.”

Dutch purses his lips in thought.

“Dutch, please,”  Abigail begs, one final time, wringing her hands.

“Alright, alright. Miss Roberts, we’ll go find John. Ruth, you’re coming with us,” He points to you and you nod, “Arthur, go grab Micah and Javier.”

Arthur scowls, his eyes falling on you and Abigail. You glare in return, turning Abigail away and starting to walk her toward her own tent, where Jack lies atop a blanket, playing with his wooden horse.

“We’re gonna find John. ‘Nd you and he can get back to squabbling just like normal.” You say lightly, hands upon her shoulders. Abigail laughs mirthlessly.

By the time the two of you reach her tent, Abigail turns to face you, eyes downcast on the ground. 

“I guess it looks kinda silly for me to be beggin’ to bring him back when all we do is yell at each other.”

You shake your head, “He’s the father of your son. And somethin’ tells me Jack didn’t come from only one night.” 

Abigail snorts, another mirthless laugh under her breath. 

“Well, if you’re goin’ up north with them, at least let me give you my coat, ‘nd you need a scarf. And gloves.” She says, changing the subject before she opened herself up to further vulnerability.

You nod, and follow her over to the small chest of her clothing, preparing you for a ride north into the Grizzlies.

[mycological-mariner]

Dude dude dude. Wdym you know lots about Cornish history. Please share. I want this info dump. I want to know more. I will beg on my knees if necessary.

!!!!

I guess it depends on which period of Cornish history you wanna know about! I admit I don’t know a great deal about say Dunmonia or the really properly ancient culture in Cornwall. I take more of an interest in the social and industrial side of Cornish history. But I can give you a run-down of some parts of Cornish history you’ll never shut me up about!

The Cornish Jacobites and their rebellion in 1715! It actually had an impact on the 1745 rebellion, as well, as one of the Cornish Jacobite leaders’ (who was tossed in Newgate prison) family were suspected of harbouring Prince Charles Stuart, though it’s unlikely this did in fact occur. Actually this whole period is really interesting!

Cornwall during the French Rev wars!! So actually. In Cornwall, the ideas of Liberté, égalité, fraternité we’re quite popular. So popular in that in St. Just which was on the Tin Coast, a group of men planted a Liberty Tree. There was also a great deal of economic struggle (Cornwall has always been one of the poorest regions in the UK, however it was particularly drastic at this time, so much so that if you were a working family, you’d likely not be able to afford wheat for bread as it was extraordinarily highly priced). In fact, the officials of the area feared an uprising. I don’t have the number off the top of my head, but the reason they feared an uprising in Cornwall so much was because they’d be extremely outnumbered. Like I said, don’t have the precise number but it would’ve been a blood bath. Though luckily enough, the wars would very soon come to an end. Until the Napoleonic Wars kicked off.

Cornwall during the Napoleonic Wars is just. I could write a book or a very, very long essay. It’s also a very important time for industry. However Cornwall also held a unique position, being so close to France. French refugees trying to flee the war would be snuck across the channel and into Cornwall. They would also be given English names and set up with work. Not official, by the way. This wasn’t exactly a government approved activity. However there were also a few prisoner of war camps in Cornwall, a notable one in Roskrow. Detectorists must have a blast there… I’m also extremely emotional about one Captain James Quick, a St. Ives merchant captain who was taken a prisoner of war after setting sail from Falmouth and his ship, the Hopewell, becoming extremely damaged, losing all sails and being driven to the French coast and grounded in November 1810. He married his wife in just September. I actually have read the letters he wrote to his wife Harriett during this time and Christ. It’s a hell of a thing. He eventually made it home in 1814.

Industry in Cornwall is something I’ve touched on already a bit. But mining, fishing and farming were the biggest. And there’s the technology developed for it. One day I’ll need to talk in depth about the submarine mines, specifically Levant Mine (though it is a truly horrific story). Levant was actually 600 meters deep and before the “man engine” men and boys would have to climb around 80 sets of ladders up and down every single day, twice a day, in extremely hot mines that, at their longest stretched a mile beneath the sea floor. It wasn’t uncommon for men to just pass out from exhaustion on the ladders. A beam engine was introduced, which is still there. The only one in Cornwall.

By WWI, Cornwall has been pretty well established as a major entryway for trade into and out of the UK. Falmouth was THE port of call for ages. However, there was something called spy mania. Officials were worried German spies may use Cornwall to get into the country. This led to mass incarcerations of “spies” (many of whom were proven innocent) and subsequent executions. However even if you weren’t a spy, people coming into the country could be detained, thrown into a jail/workhouse and then drafted against their will into the war. It would have been a horrifying time to try and come into the country. On the topic of world wars and Cornwall, there are some places — one, I actually believe around Falmouth — where coastal defences managed to sink German uboats and at low tide you can even walk out to them (or at least they become exposed enough you can clearly make them out).

Once the tin and copper dried up, many Cornish miners were told they could have free land in places like Australia (and if this sounds a bit like what the US government told labourers in the mid 19thc, well it’s a theme). Besides Australia, many MANY miners also went to North America. In Mexico there’s even a town called Real de Monte, sometimes called “Little Cornwall” for its Cornish heritage there. Some Cornish miners also went as far West into America as California — again, which has a number of Cornish names about — and into the Appalachians and all along the east coast. The Hoosac Tunnel Disaster in 1853 was heavily being worked by Cornish immigrants and took over 20 years to complete.

I’ve not even touched on the language and the rebuilding thereof, nor cultural history or festivals. Or the smuggling!!! Or the civil war!!! Or it’s number of rebellions!! As I say, it really depends on which era and what aspect of Cornish history you’d be interested in learning about! I just kinda did a quick play by play, highlights! I highly recommend going to Kresen Kernow’s website (archives in Redruth) as well as the Royal Cornwall Museum which has quite a few digitised records in their online archives. Bodmin War Museum and the Falmouth Maritime Museum are also very useful! And if you ever go to Cornwall, PLEASE go to the local museum! You won’t believe the kind of things the volunteers will tell you or the absolute wild history of some of the objects. I can also recommend some reading, too.

[semper-legens]

197. Over Sea, Under Stone, by Susan Cooper

Owned?: Yes Page count: 175 My summary: On holiday in Cornwall, the three Drew children are bored on a rainy day when they discover a long-forgotten secret hidden in the attic. With their great-uncle Merriman, they are soon pulled into a world of legend, when great kings walked the land and did battle with their foes. But there are enemies after their secret. Will the children find the holy grail, or lose it forever? My rating: 4/5 My commentary:

Another year, another reread of the Dark Is Rising sequence. Look, I know that a limited number of people are interested in this series, or even have heard of it, but I love it. It's Arthuriana, it's impossibly earnest, it's experimental and mystical, and it features a bunch of weird little autistic children doing magical quests. What's not to love, really?

The thing that strikes me in this particular reread is how Merriman really, really should not be allowed near children. No, but for real, I was thinking about this, and I have a theory about Merriman's actions in this book. Merry brings the kids to the Grey House in the hope that they'll stumble over the plot, because he's not going to find it on his own. He then decides that it's their quest, and his part in it is to be their guardian, to help them from the sidelines but not to be involved. And then he runs off following an obvious trap and only comes in at the end to help the kids out. Now, in the next book, we see Merry and Will going back to the day when Merry's ward/servant Hawkins betrays him. Merry knows this, but cannot in the moment do anything about it, because it's what happens. I wonder if something like that is happening here? Merry lives out of time, he knows the past, the present, and the future all at once. He knows that the kids find the grail, so he can't do anything about it, all he can do is give the help he can. I'd call it Merriman almost trusting the kids' maturity, except he goes and nonconsensually erases their minds at the end of the series anyway, so what the hell man.

Speaking of the kids, it still makes me laugh how Susan Cooper does a reasonably good job at portraying three very credible children, but it's still the 1960s and they're posh, so it seems so weird to me. Did kids ever say 'golly!'? Like, actually? That said, Simon, Jane, and Barney are wonderfully characterised, it always amazes me how well they are distinguished from each other, to the point where you can still tell who is speaking even in dialogue without tags. And they're all just shitty kids at the end of it. Barney is autistic about Arthuriana and kind of out of it, Jane is a little stuck up, Simon is proud and thinks he's hot shit. It's cute, is what I mean.

Really, I think the Dark comes off the worst here. They can't stop three children? Hastings has Barney in his clutches at one point and not only fails to get any good info from him, but Barney gets snapped out of it by a literal actual dog. They can't outsmart kids? These are just normal kids! It's not like Will and Bran, who are magic, these are just three normal posh children! Come on, the Dark, you could totally have just murdered them and called it a day. The kids are unsubtle about having found a map, and the next day they find that the house has been ransacked. Did the Dark never...think to look in there before? A little breaking and entering? Do the Dark obey the fucking laws of the mortal world? Even Macavity doesn't do that, and he's a cat. Get it together, lads.

Next up, the Dark rises, and Will Stanton is there to meet it.

[liminalpsych]

I did it! I read the *entirety* of Historia regum Britanniae by Geoffrey of Monmouth.

Would I recommend reading the whole thing? I'm not really sure. I think the original founding of Britain by the Trojans is kind of interesting to read about. Then it gets markedly less interesting for a while, with some gems such as a necromancer king and his school of necromancy, and a number of very powerful queens which I also didn't expect from a medieval Chrisian author (but he may have been writing in support of Matilda as heir to the throne during Geoffrey's time). Eventually the Arthurian section begins, and that's a reasonably engaging read. Certainly all the lead-up provides *context* for Arthur's reign.

Michael Faletra's translation was highly readable and I'd recommend it, though it can be a little hard to find. (The only ebook version I found still actually available was on Google Play books. Couldn't find it on Kindle or iBooks.) I found Faletra's introduction and translator's notes as interesting (or more so) as the book itself, and his copious footnotes are very helpful at providing further context.

The biggest bonus to Faletra's translation, though? The appendices! He has a translation of the Vita Merlini (Life of Merlin) by Geoffrey of Monmouth, as well as translations of relevant excerpts from Welsh poems, pre-Galfridian texts, medieval reactions to Geoffrey's History, and so on.

If you're just interested in the Arthurian-specific bits, Geoffrey of Monmouth dedicates about 1/5th of the text to Arthur. I'd start with Book 6 (they're called Books but they're more like chapters, very short); Arthur's father Uther shows up a few pages into it. You'll get the introduction to Merlin, the whole reign of Vortigern, and the influx of Saxons across the kingdom which sets up for one of the big achievements of Arthur's reign.

Book 7 is very Merlin focused, and covers his prophecies. They're obscure, as prophecies often are. Faletra's footnotes contextualize the ones that reference events prior to Geoffrey's time, which is handy.

Book 8 covers Uther, Gorlois, Igerna (Igraine in later texts), and Arthur's conception and birth along with his sister Anna (later called Morgana, I'm guessing). All of Uther's reign. The reign of Uther's brother Aurelius comes first though.

Book 9 is the really Arthur-focused book. We get his kingship, the shield Pridwen, the "greatest of swords" Caliburn (later Excalibur), and mentions of Avalon. We're also introduced to Gawain and Mordred, sons of Loth, who was married to Arthur's sister Anna. Arthur marries Guinevere, born of a Roman family and raised in the household of the Duke of Cornwall. And then Arthur works on conquering practically the entirety of Northern Europe, and his court becomes a popular destination for glory-seeking young men wanting to be knights. We additionally meet Bedivere the Cup-Bearer and Kay the Seneschal, and travel to Caerleon.

Book 10 is a conflict with Rome (with whom Britain has had a long and complicated history before this point in the Historia). Arthur leaves Britain to Guinevere and Mordred's care and goes to Rome. On the way he randomly fights and kills a giant in single combat, like you do. In the war against Rome, Bedivere is slain and Kay receives a mortal wound. And at the very end, they learn that Mordred has seized the throne for himself and is hooking up with Guinevere. (To quote: "news reached Arthur that his nephew Mordred, in whose keeping he had left the governance of Britain, had proven himself to be a tyrant and a traitor. Mordred had seized the throne of Britain and now took his wicked pleasure with Guinevere, who had broken her marriage vows.")

Book 11 is the Battle of Camlann. Ywain is first mentioned here (later called Yvain in works by Chretien de Troyes). Mordred is killed at Camlann, and Arthur is mortally wounded but carried away to Avalon to be healed. The next king is crowned, Constantine, who kills Mordred's two sons in the churches they were hiding in. The rest of Book 11 is a rapid series of following kings and conflicts.

Book 12 has a final drawn-out conflict between kinsfolk over the throne, and wraps up the end of the History; it really isn't necessary to read book 12 if you're just here for Arthurian content. I found it an absolute slog and struggled to keep my eyes from skipping over paragraphs.

[olderthannetfic]

Could you shout out a couple of your favourite m/m authors or books, please? (nw if you don’t like reccing things tho, I find it stressful myself.)

I also find the one ship per book in a series not my cup of tea tbh. I find it too jarring to switch over to other characters I’m not as emotionally invested in within a world.

--

I don't mind side stories that wrap up supporting characters' romances, but I tend to like a main series that's about the same characters/ship most of the time.

I recced a few in response to another ask. That should be posting... some time. (You can tell how well I keep track of my queue.)

Who haven't I mentioned... let's see... Jenn Burke's Not Dead Yet series is pretty interesting, though it eventually angered me with a side character death.

E.J. Russell has a lot of books with different ships but that are all in the same universe. They work better for me than most such books because there's an urban fantasy arc plot about missing fae running through them. Some are a bit too ultra-fluff for my taste. Many are pretty funny. A lot of them feature things like supernatural dating agencies or event planners.

Integrate by Thea Hayworth is only available on Smashwords and is a one-off, but I can't say no to an alien-human buddy cop duo. Both the case and the romance are reasonably fleshed out for this short length, and the worldbuilding is fascinating. I want more! Come back usually-fic-author and write original!

I enjoyed AJ Sherwood's Jon's Downright Ridiculous Shooting Case and sequels/stuff in the same universe.

I've only checked out Beth Bolden a little bit. I met her at a conference, and she seems cool. (Definitely a recent fic fandom person, like many of us writing original m/m.) I read part of a boy band romance of hers that she admitted was 1D with the serial numbers filed. Filed well, I might add: the original version is sufficiently SoCal that I wasn't positive which boy band it was riffing off of. But what I really enjoyed was her fairytale-ish fantasy novel Yours, Forever After.

Meghan Maslow's Starfig Investigations was an instant favorite for me. I'm not sure if younger people will even be familiar with the genre of fantasy it is. It didn't click for me until I heard her talking about it, but the series is basically a take off of Robert Asprin's Myth series: oldschool secondary world fantasy full of dumb puns and jokes that only make sense in relation to the real world. Like that series, Maslow's features portals between realms and a lot of magic tech in advanced cities even if the trappings are Ren Faire-ish. The sense of humor style was pretty common in early 90s sff publishing and turns up in old games like Monkey Island, but it's not something I see all that much in m/m fantasy novels.

Harper Fox's Tyack & Frayne series is about a cop and a psychic in small town Cornwall. Lots of pagan vibes in this one, and some of the supernatural stuff picks up as the series goes along, but the basic structure is contemporary British mysteries.

The Plumber's Mate series by J.L. Merrow is a much more comedic take on UK village mysteries. I'm not usually into stories where people end up with their bully from school, but I liked how it was handled here. The side characters are a hoot, especially the camp best friend and the dwarf porn star turned vegetable salesman.

Morgan Brice I'm not as fond of, but she has a bunch of series including one that feels like early seasons Supernatural.

I don't think I ever read the sequels to My Zombie Boyfriend by T. Strange. It's... well... about a dude who finds a hot corpse and decides to revive him as a zombie. The lead is a weird little perv with an ex who's a goth mortician, a horrible undead pet cat, and an obsession for his new zombie project. I found this one while looking for creepy books after reading one too many bits of ultra-fluff with barely any plot.

I was enjoying the Hours of the Night series by Irene Preston and Liv Rancourt, but it seems like they stopped writing it without resolving anything? A lot of the books I've read are good but would have been better with more sequels, so they don't spring to mind here.

There are seriously a shitton of writers working in this space. I just found a few authors and started trying books and seeing what else was on the same goodreads lists and so on. You need to have a tolerance for hideous cover art, but plenty of the actual books are fine.

[rumblelibrary]

Kinky stuff you said?

so... i have this idea

I know we all collectively as a fandom have decided that Andrea is a fluff ball lmao

but I'm rooting for him because...I don't know, like when he got angry when he found out about the letter and started to play the violin all annoyed and how he raised his voice and there is also the look that he gave Olga he gives me the feelings like~

Andrea spank me with that violin bow (we can buy a new one later)

Something like Teach me a lesson sweet boy

Dancing the dance [Andrea Marowski x Reader]

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Smut (fingering, spanking, mentions of cheating)

Author’s note: Do I have to say something? I mean the request is amazing enough

It was just a day like any other in the little village, you opened your bookshop, a small little thing that your uncle run and you were proud to call it your precious jewel. 

You worked hard to keep it afloat, you went by bicycle to the bigger cities nearby to get the best books yourself or the classics, you were determined not to let it die on you, but it was every day harder.

It was almost the end of your day when you saw Mr Barnes come inside, he was a war veteran that suffered terrible injuries, but also an avid reader who would come even twice a week.

“Don’t you tell me you have already finished it, James”

You smiled at him and he shrugged, his playful smirk running over his lips. “I like this Agatha Christie author and her Belgian detective, what can I say?”

He was a player, you knew it and didn’t expect anything less from him, he is handsome and he knows it. But you never took him seriously and even less since a certain shipwrecked violinist made his way to your heart, but truth to be told, you indulged him. Sure, he was a passionate reader, but he loved to come and flirt with you and you need him and his coins to call it a day.

“Well, what’s next then?”

“I don’t know, you tell me, you’re the bookworm, aren’t you?”

His smirk was playful but you ignored it and smiled only moving away from the counter, making your away around the books to try the one you were meaning to offer him next. You always planned one in advance, or even two, just to make sure to give him enough attention but not too much.

“What about…” you begun, your tongue sticking a little put as you’re focused, eyebrows furrowed as you read the titles.

“You’d look even more the part with glasses” he interrupted you and you chuckled 

“I know, I know, I should wear them but..”

“No, I mean that you’d look even more attractive with them on”

You kept quiet as he moved closer, his arm leaning against the shelf in front of you as you mumbled a thank you.

He stared at you following your every move, your hand picking a thin book and handing it to him.

“The Great Gatsby” he read out loud “Is it new?” “No, just American, it was published in 1925”

He nodded looking at it as he moved page after page, his lips pursed in concentration as you tried to move past him, but he just stood still and board in front of you.

“What do you do after work?”

“Oh, well I have some chores to do at home, study new purchases for the shop”

“You always do” he said closing the book with a loud snap making you jolt in your spot

“Let’s have a date night, we could dine at the tavern and you can tell me more about those orders you always have to do” he said taking a step forward as you mimicked him taking a step back.

“Y/N” he murmured “we are dancing this dance from a long time, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what you mean”

You replied only as you tried to move past him

“You’re very attractive, still unmarried, incredibly tempting for every man in town, you should expect it”

The truth was that you weren’t completely far from anything love related, but Dr Mead advised you to keep your little ‘entanglement’ with Andrea s secret for the time being. Most people still didn’t get the difference of him being Polish and not German and it would only make your life harder for no reason. So you obliged, you closed the curtains at night when he sneaked into your room, you visited him often with the excuse of bringing him books, you pretend not to wish his touch on you every time of the day.

“I said I can’t already”

You took the chance to move past James and take the broom to clean.

He took a deep breath, gritting his teeth as his eyes travelled on you. He was patient, but not that patient, nevertheless you were a delicious eye candy to his eyes. He put his hand to his pocket still holding the book into the other one. He pulled out some coins and left them on the table, there was also a tip from you.

“I like this game Y/N” he said bluntly to you and he looked at the book “also. such a small book makes me think you want me to come back soon”

You looked at him, you matched his smirk, oh he loved to be kept on the edge, didn’t he?

“See you next week” you only said and he gave you a light military salutation to you saying something about being at your orders.

You smirked biting the inside of your cheek as you enjoyed the game for sure, or the dance as he called it, but you were realising how you had to probably tone it down. He was liking it a bit too much and going over the simple play, plus you were losing the plot of it since Andrea came into the picture.

After you closed the day, recorded all the sells and cleaned the shop you wrapped yourself up in a coat, taking an easy children book for Andrea to practice with. On your way out you noticed some scattered flowers on the ground, but you didn’t pay much attention to it.

You made your way to Ursula and Janet’s house, the violin being played out loud, a very dramatic and strong melody going off, almost violent.

As you knocked at the door Janet welcomed you quickly.

“Oh Y/N, please try to talk to him, at least you know German” she said and you looked at her confused “he went out for a walk and came back so angry, he shouted at poor Ursula, she is so bumped, I can’t look after the two of them” Janet said in her own way that made it sound almost funny, if not sarcastic.

You nodded taking off your coat and hat, you walked upstairs holding the book with you, the music getting louder as you took the stairs until his room, you got inside without knocking because it would be impossible for him to hear anyway. The first thing you noticed was his back wrapped in that white shirt and the pants kept up by his suspenders. You still remember vividly the first time you pulled those suspenders off his shoulders, it is still one of your favourite things to do as a prelude of what is about to come.

“Andrea” you called him as you closed the door behind your back, locking it just because you know how much Ursula likes to peak in.

He turned around suddenly, almost scaring you off as he held his violin in one hand and the thin bow into his other hand, his eyes on fire, jaw clenched and his back straight like a soldier.

“You bezwstydny” he shouted at you and you looked at him even more confused “schamlos” he said then in German.

“Shameless? Why?” You asked frowning, you had the luck to know German because your family immigrated to Cornwall before the WWI to join your uncle’s business, but that didn’t help when Andrea was so mad to decide not to tolerate any other language by his own like now.

“I saw you” he said spitting venom “You think funny?”

“But what?”

“You with that man in bookshop!” He growled putting down the violin because it was at serious risk of being thrown on the floor.

You parted your lips in shock as he said that, so those flowers were his? 

“Did you come to pick me up?”

He nodded but his lips pressed against each other in disgust.

“Andrea, don’t make that face, he is just a client acting up”

“You act up”

You looked at him shaking your head “you don’t understand” you said.

He raised his eyebrows.

“oh no, I do understand”

His voice was different, his accent thicker than ever, there was no trace of the usual sweet smile, almost mischievous, that he always had on his lips.

He sat down on the chair were Ursula watched him for nights on “on my lap”

You frowned “no”

He raised his eyebrows “I think you not understand” he said threateningly “Are you playing with two men?”

You shook your head vehemently “You know it is not like this” you stated “I want only you”

He didn’t seem impressed, he pursed his lips in disbelief and let out a sarcastic chuckle twirling the bow between his fingers.

“Then prove it”

His accent hitting you again, you loved it, but the way he said it, that didn’t feel comforting.

You stared at him, you didn’t want to argue with him, he was already too mad and to hold a conversation was to ask too much.

So you obliged leaving the book aside and making your way to his lap sitting on it.

“No this way” he said wiggling underneath you to make you stand up

“gebückt” he said in German waving the bow to you. Oh, so he wanted you bent over it?

You stood uncomfortable for a moment but then you nodded again, you needed to get past this crisis, no?

So you moved your dress a bit to make your way onto his lap, you wanted to ask what now but then you felt distinctively the way he pulled your skirts up.

“Andrea” you hissed at him but by now he held you in that position pushing your panties down, the cold air hitting your bum, your cheeks bringing from embarrassment.

“You like play, so you get to be punish like little kid”

You blushed even more if possible, you wiggled but he held you down firmly until you stopped struggling and settled in the position he wanted.

“Repeat numbers in English for me” he said and you whimpered as he smacked that bow onto your ass earning a gasp, your shoulders trembled inward as it was more painful than expected.

“Number?”

“One” you replied immediately, how much do you have to count, you wondered.

You whimpered as other two snaps to the stick followed very quick together

“Andrea, please stop” “If you wanted me to stop you’d not act to earn it” his words an hiss between his teeth “we begin again now, you didn’t count”

You groaned but another slap reduced you to a forced obedience “one”

He smirked widely as he twirled the bow in his hand, you could’t see him but you could ear the way it cut the air around.

You obeyed and counted all the three snaps that followed, your breath itching and your hands trying to reach out to the floor to gain some advantage in the positioning, which still felt too embarrassing, the constrictive exposure of your bottom making you feel uneasy.

Andrea saw that movement and he reached down with his free hand clasping onto your jaw making you look up like some animal in need to be tamed. Another whip hit you.

“Five” you groaned as now your position felt even more humiliating, you shivered as he chuckled

“Now you will be good during more strokes, if you manage to come to dziesięć then you’ll be free”

You groaned, how much is that? The confusion in you was showing as your body stiffened. The unknown scaring you, your core clenched shamelessly, your wetness revealing a pleasure that was evident, a dirtiness of your own that you didn’t expect to meet.

“Only five more”

He whispered and smacked your ass again, you whined squeezing your eyes

“Six”

Oh, to see you so obedient.

“You like to be a tease, don’t you? You love it, showing off like a whore to that man, to all the men, you sell them the whole experience for few coins? You make them believe they can fuck you?”

He smirked hitting your ass again, your hips buckling against his leg as you were looking for relief from that desire

“Seven”

“You love it, you love to be desired by many don’t you?”

“Eight”

“You want them to dream of you at night, to desire to fuck you and smack your ass like I am doing now, these skirts only making them dream more”

“Nine”

You were sobbing by now, his hand on your jaw making it hard to breathe and speak

“Who is a whore?” “I am”

“Who is my whore?

“I am”

He smirked, he was pleased giving you one last whip, the hair of the bow falling down as some of them broke, oh you know too well how much that will cost you, Andrea wasn’t one to easily ruin something like that.

“Ten!”

You almost shouted it, your thighs trembling and knees kept closing and parting trying to find some relief.

Andrea leaned down kissing the back of your neck as he gave you time to calm down, let the humiliation sink in.

“Andrea” Ursula’s voice rang from behind the door “Are you quite alright? Dinner is almost ready”

“I am! Y/N and I need a moment” he said, his voice completely different and far from the dark threatening voice that poured over you a second before “We will be down in ten!” As he spoke he touched over your wet slit, how shamelessly you were patching his pants with all that excitement, so slowly began playing with you, you winced biting on the fabric of his tailored cloths trying to hold back any sound while those skilled violist fingers kept scissoring inside of you. “We haven’t done yet”

Tagged @cazzyimagines​ @lieutenantn​ @handmaiden-of-mischief​ @thesunflowersutra​ @zemomybeloved​​ @fictionlandslanddreams​ @charistory​ @greeneyedblondie44​ @apparrio​ @hb8301​ @whatawildone​ @rhymerhymerhyme @thehuiabird @lilith-blackrose @unbeatablecurlgirl

Let me know if you want to get tagged to my publications too <3

[oumaheroes]

hii its bougie <3 if you're still taking hc requests, i was wondering if you'd have thoughts on something that's been on my mind for a while. i was interested in the nuance to english culture due to regional differences. eg.,dinner being called "tea" in the north of england, rugby being more popular in the south, the difference in how scones with jam and cream are enjoyed in Devon and Cornwall?? or how certain english accents are perceived as... "less attractive" i guess (the black country accents are unpopular apparently?) -- you'd probably know more about these particularities than me ;u;

i was wondering how these cultural differences might map onto hws England's character, and how they might influence his attitudes and behaviours. because there's such a clearly defined stereotype of the english that i think shape people's expectations of what the english are like, i usually think that Arthur usually consciously acts according to what counts as positive interpretations of himself. however, i love nuanced and somewhat subversive interpretations of his character, and am very curious if you might have any ideas on how these kind of internal regional differences might shape him.

--------------------

Bougieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee <3

I’m not gonna lie this sent me down a RABBIT HOLE of thoughts, so hang on tight cos we're gonna get messy.

Accents:

Let’s start with my personal favourite, so excuse me whilst I geek out for a second. I’ve gone into this area already in this headcanon, but I personally see England being a very proud little dragon regarding English accents, those both native and non-native to the British Isles. Focusing just on accents within England for this post, the way Arthur himself sees them, (regarding class and general preference), comes a lot down to how I see him feeling about language and the unification of England in general.

England is a tiny country. It’s really teeny, compared to some, and yet holds an incredible number of regional accents and dialects (from digging about the internet for a good source, I keep finding numbers ranging from 37 to 43). There are a number of reasons for this, but the one that I love the most is that accents are influenced by the previous/ influential other languages spoken in a given area. Accents on the East of England are more influenced by Viking invaders, both phonologically and via the dialectal words used, and accents/ dialects in the West are more influenced by Welsh, for example.

Accents and dialects tell the history of a place, all who ever came there and influenced it to some degree. The map of English accents is a patchwork quilt of old cultures and people now lost to time, but their ways of speaking have been preserved in the modern tongue. The old English kingdoms might now be mere counties- Kent, Essex, Sussex, East Anglia, etc- they may not have their own influence or language these days as they used to, but their old ways have been imprinted on their people of today whether they know it or not and they carry pieces of the past in their words and how they speak them. Older speakers of the Northern English dialects liek the Yorkshire dialect still use ‘thou/thee’ where this has fallen out in other areas, the Midlands and parts of the South-East still keep the ‘-n’ ending for possessive pronouns (‘yourn’ instead of ‘yours’, ‘ourn’ instead of ‘ours’), and there’s even some linguistic research into how Brittonic, the ancestor of Modern Welsh, influenced English structure and phonology (for references, see notes at the end).

Back to England the person (to contain myself slightly), his regional accents are a story of himself, his history being kept alive in all of its variety every day. He doesn’t hold a classist view of a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ accent because he knows why they’re all there- what languages and people influenced them and how these events affected him- the older generations now lost and forgotten being kept alive in the smallest of phonemes.

Every dialect, every accent, and every language tells the story of a people, from the smallest phonological marker right up to a language as a whole and England takes comfort and pride in his dialects and accents’ longevity and variety. He is as much of the North as he is the South, as much of the East as the West and a patchwork man born of patchwork cultures it makes no sense for him to favour one particular accent over another.

That being said, he is aware that there is a common cultural stance on accents as well as an opinion regarding ‘ugly’ ones, ‘common’ ones, and ‘classy’ ones, but he himself doesn’t partake in these ideas. I like to think that a nation takes on the speech of the people and the area they’re in, matching the person they speak to or the area they visit to relate to their people. So, for me a Chav Arthur exists as much as a Brummie one does, or a Scouser, or a Geordie, or a Cockney. They’re all English, and thus they’re all a part of him.

Class

I have to include this one, if only to touch on it lightly regarding accents and dialects. Class does influence which words you speak, arguably just as much as which accent (this is known as a sociolect). Although I said that England adopts the accent of whatever area he’s in, or whomever he’s talking to if they’re English, the class people are will also affect which words he choses to use.

Here’s a short example from here:

'It is pudding for the upper class. Dessert is sometimes used by upper middles, but afters and sweets very clearly put you below stairs.'

Have some more!

Upper class: Spectacles, Lavatory or loo, Die, Napkin, Sofa

Middle class: Glasses, Toilet , Pass on, Serviette, Settee or couch

(Working class is a mix but harder to find sources for).

This is where England treads a fine line. It could be that he again adopts more of a class lexicon regarding who he is speaking to, matching his people word for word. However, England is not unaware of the affects of class, regardless of how he himself feels, and also although class snobbery and divide frustrate him, he cannot deny using this understanding to benefit himself, which also conforms to how his own people behave. (I myself have, many times, diluted and filtered my speech to be seen as ‘better’).

Want to be seen as more reliable and powerful? Want to be taken more seriously? RP and Estuary English (a lot more so these days), hold undeniable sway and England is not above adopting a manner of speaking to come across ‘better’ or more polite, or a more ‘common’ accent to fit in with the working classes. I think of England as leaning more towards a working-class mindset- he’s very hands on, very up for and used to manual labour and this particular English class has always made up the bulk of his population. It makes no sense for a nation, who represents all of their people, to have a snide view or a preference for a particular group and England as a person I see is someone who does not enjoy the foppery and false airs of aristocracy.

That being said, England is an intelligent man. He knows how to work a room and use a crowd to his advantage, knows what must be done and what he needs to do to achieve a goal and if this entails courting the upper classes for a time then he will do so. He’s adepts at switching himself like a chameleon, blending his behaviours, accent, and dialect to match who he’s talking to to achieve a goal or to fit in with someone’s perception of him, or to gain influence or prestige. He also doesn’t hate his upper classes- they are of him too, and the middle and working class have their own prejudices and ideas against the others. But he doesn’t adopt a stereotypical distain of lower classes because to him, it really doesn’t make much sense.

Abroad, this need to cultivate a particular perception defiantly comes under greater pressure. RP and Estuary English are more well know, more heard and taught, and more recognisably ‘British’, and so these are what he uses when speaking English to other nations or foreigners, either wanting to uphold an image of himself (more so in the Victorian/ Edwardian period than nowadays) or just for the ease of being understood.

Regional Differences

Okay, this one is a lot more fun. Does England put in his milk first or last when making tea? Does he put jam first, or clotted cream when having a scone? Does he have chips with gravy, or curry sauce? Does he have dinner at 6, or 9? To marmite, or not to marmite.

Ah, that is the question, and England does not know the answer. Does he do what he does because that’s what he likes, or because that’s what his people do? He didn’t grow up with these habits, after all, they’re all relatively recent in his lifetime, and so these habits are defiantly things he cultures for a particular audience.

I’m not really sure if the above preferences are class based, (well, milk first when making tea is argued to be, but I can't find any sources I'd consider entirely credible. I put the ones I did find in the notes below, in case any one's interested), so it’s hard to get a sense of which one to use. Overall, it doesn’t matter which you do and neither is right or wrong, but the English feel strongly about them, one way or another, and often Arthur the man isn’t sure at all which one he himself actually thinks is better.

Food in another sense though is something he can be surer of. A Cornish pastie not from Cornwall is not worth eating, nor is a Bakewell tart outside of Bakewell. England can be very particular about this sort of thing and enjoys maintaining and supporting the ‘original’ flavour or recipe of a thing where he can, considering this to be the ‘best’. Sally Lunn Buns from Bath, Gypsy tarts from Kent, Eccles Cakes from Eccles.

England wants to preserve his food and culture and has what could be considered a snobbish view on the ‘best’ way of creating or eating his national foods. Some things he is more lenient with: he will eat cheddar cheese, whether or not it is from Cheddar, same from Cumberland sausages not from Cumbria. But he certainly has a preference and he is not afraid to voice this when asked for his opinion.

Okay, we're done

Phew! This had me digging out my old linguistic student brain. To anyone who has made it this far down, gosh golly miss molly thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the ride, and especially @prickyy who was kind enough to want to hear my opinions about all of this <3

----------------------------------------

Notes:

Brittonic influence on English:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brittonicisms_in_English

https://scholar.google.co.uk/scholar_url?url=http://journals.mountaintopuniversity.edu.ng/English%2520Language/Celtic%2520Influences%2520in%2520English%2520A%2520Re-evaluation.pdf&hl=en&sa=X&ei=2ohDYdq3BoWImwHn6oWQAg&scisig=AAGBfm29zTF0FBCpd1KqDiAbjM-0X7nfoA&oi=scholarr (PDF)

https://scholar.google.co.uk/scholar_url?url=http://www.oppi.uef.fi/wanda/unicont/abstracts/14ICEHL_MF.pdf&hl=en&sa=X&ei=2ohDYdq3BoWImwHn6oWQAg&scisig=AAGBfm3UvOXbJEb0b51J73eBnTJvgGaQOA&oi=scholarr (PDF)

Sociolects and class distinction within language in English:

https://languageawarenessbyrosalie.weebly.com/social-dialects.html

https://www.grin.com/document/313937

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/U_and_non-U_English

Milk in tea first and the potential class reason:

https://www.theteaclub.com/blog/milk-in-tea/

https://qmhistoryoftea.wordpress.com/2017/05/11/milk-in-first-a-miffy-question/

[niall-noigiallach]

The Nature and Extent of Irish Raids on Britain after the Retreat of Rome

Some basic background: The Roman Empire had been waning in Britain for hears and finally retreated for good in 407 AD. When Rome first conquered Britain, they of course couldn't allow them to retain an independent army, which risked revolt. Rome was their army. When Rome left the Britons were left with their warrior caste carved out of society. Laws set by the Romans had prohibited the natives from bearing arms at all outside of the military. This ban was lifted in 410 AD when Emperor Honorius told the British cities to "look after themselves." Britain was now ruled by local princes, who often petitioned Rome for military aid, begging for help against encroaching invaders. Saxons from the East, Picts from the North, and the Irish from the West, each as vicious as the other.

That is no exaggeration. We often play up the power of the Saxon at the expense of the others. Roman writer Ammianus Marcellinus called the raids a conspiratio barbarica, and the Annals record almost as many Irish and Pictish raids as Saxon ones. Outside the reach of Rome, men were still wild.

The five kingdoms of Ireland (cóiceda) were fighting amongst themselves, but like the Norwegians centuries later, internal conflict never deterred expansion. The most Irish-afflicted areas of Britain were the south west of Wales (Pembrokeshire, a.k.a. Dyfed), Cornwall (Dumnonnia), and Argyll (Dál Riata). How extensive were these raids? They were settlements. The ruling dynasty of Dyfed came from Leinster. Many places such as Dyfed or Lleyn were bilingual with Gaelic, at least among the nobility.  Many ogham stones from this area (the most in all of Britain) are written in Gaelic, not Brythonic. Many place names in Wales to this day derive from Irish or reference Ireland, such as Llyn Iwerddon, "Lake of Ireland", in Caernarvonshire. Another is Dolwyddelan (Dole-with-eh-lahn), which derives from Gwyddelan and Gwyddel, which is a Welsh term for a Gael or Goidel. Many such terms. A Welsh poet might call another poet's work "diseisnig" and "diwyddelig", that is, untainted by English or Irish. But make no mistake, the Irish in the end left no major genetic impression on the Welsh population. In this instances it was merely a temporary occupation of the upper classes by nobles funded by Irish kings.

The raids of the Irish did not begin once the Romans left. It was continuous, and the Romans and Welshmen had previously constructed defensive forts at Caerleon and Caerwent, and later at Cardiff. A fort at Segontium was used to guard the Roman copper mines on Ynys Mona from the Irish raiding parties.  Nonetheless the Irish broke through once Rome left. Cormac's Glossary tells us the following:

"The power of the Irish over Britain was great, and they divided Britain between them into estates... and the Irish lived as much east of the [Celtic] sea as they did in Ireland... and their dwellings and their royal fortresses were made there. Hence Dind Tradui... the triple rampart of Crimthann Mór, son of Fidach, king of Ireland and Britain as far as the English Channel... and they were in control for a long time, even after the coming of Patrick."

Now what could this mean, that the Irish lived as must east of the sea as west? Perhaps the Britons, like the Picts under the Gaels and the East Britons under Saxons, began to call themselves "Irish", while maintaining a Welsh underground identity. We have to remember that after Britain had been militarily and culturally dominated by Rome, it was easy for barbarians to impress a new culture onto the Britons. The Romano-Britons spoke Latin (mostly) and wanted to have Roman culture, but this was a one-sided and unstable relationship ripe for replacement with a nearer culture.

The territories of Devon and Lancashire were strongholds against the encroaching Irish powers, stopping the Gael from traveling further inland or northward. The threat of an Adventus Scottorum kept the western kings awake at night. The Severn Sea (modern Bristol Channel) was the stage for major Irish settlement into Devon. Linguistic and historical evidence shows that most of the Britons who fled to Brittany originated in Devon, contrary to Gildas' accounts of Central and Eastern Wales. The traditional narrative of Saxon invaders forcing the Britons of the Welsh Marches across the sea can't be true. The Armorican migration was occurring in the 4th, 5th, and 6th centuries, but Saxon power hadn't reached Wales until the after the Battle of Mount Badon c. 500. Yet the Roman Armoricans had begun allying with and giving land to immigrant Bretons in 409 AD, to bolster their numbers against a continental Saxon scare. The eastern Anglo-Saxons could not have been the cause of the Breton migration, but the western Irish were. The Irish settlements and raids on the Cornish coast of the Severn Sea depopulated the area of its inhabitants. When the Anglo-Saxons reached the area, there were no Celts to retain place names, hence the strange preponderance of English toponymy in Devon.

North Wales and Cumbria (Rheged) formed twin kingdoms to repel Irish and Saxon raids. The south called Deheubarth meaning "the Right Hand", and the north called Gwyr y Gogledd meaning "the Left Hand." These brother peoples often relied heavily on each other for defense.

The Irish settlement of Argyll and the surrounding Isles left a much more distinct genetic and cultural mark. The raiders into Argyll and Galloway established the kingdom of Dál Riata, with its power center at the modern ruins of Dunolly Castle at Oban, and it's monastery at Iona. Before the invasions into Argyll in the 5th century, all of Alba was ruled by Picts and Pictish families. In the East, Picts ruled until the 9th century. The "Picts" (which is a Latin name) likely called themselves Cruithni, and spoke a maybe-not-Indo-European tongue, though it had much in common with Brythonic. The conquest of Pictland began when King Fergus Mór and his two brothers led a fleet of 150 men to conquer a number of Western Scottish Isles. They set up their clifftop fortress at the Rock of Dunadd, and expanded eastward from there. The next great King was Aedán Mac Gabráin, who went out to conquer the Orkneys, Hebrides, and all of mainland Scotland as far as Perthshire. These maps don't really show it, but Aedán won a battle in the Orkneys against a Pictish King in 580 AD and won. Dál Riata was powerful. A few generation after the death of Aedán, the Dál Riatic Kingdom was starting to conquer or merge with the Eastern Pictish kingdoms to form the modern kingdom of Scotland. Aedán's immediate successor, Eochaid Buide, was already called "Rex Pictorum.” Irish Gaelic (which would morph into Scots Gaelic) was the language of the royal courts in Pictland, and eventually trickled down to the lower classes, as languages usually do. Folklore also spread from Ireland into Pictland; Scottish folklore today is from the same root as Irish. And although the Ulster Irish kings left a large genetic mark on the western highlands and Galloway, the main expansion of the Irish was political, linguistic, and cultural, adopted by the Picts or Britons from above.

Infighting between the Ulaid dynasty within Ulster, along with later Viking maritime power, eventually severed the Scottish Gaels from the Irish Gaels, and Dál Riata was free to focus its attention on uniting Scotland against Vikings and Bernicians. And for some reason, the Irish raiders never had much interest in Rheged. It was left mostly untouched, even in the early days. Though today this area has a strange preponderance of Scandinavian place names instead of Saxon ones. This is because in 902, the Irish Kings repelled the Vikings from Dublin, who then migrated across the sea into Cunbria and Rheged. So there was no difficulty in physically going there, but for some reason the Irish didn't.

[into-the-daniverse]

The Strait of Sirens

When the game map doesn’t give you the waterways you want, just carve them out yourself, am I right?

In this case, I’ve carved a strait from the Sea of Persephia to the Salty Sea, purely so my pirates can cross paths more. And it wouldn’t be a fantasy location in my canon if it didn't have something supernatural—so there’s also sirens.

This would come up in my canon specifically in Muriel’s route, where he and MC (Alec or Viviane depending) need to travel south. But before the events of the game, this gets used a lot by the band traveling back and forth over years, and obviously, by the pirates.

Gonna put most of this under the cut to save your dash!

Let’s start with the name of the strait.

The Strait of Sirens is inhabited and guarded by fairly neutral aligned sirens. Neutral as in they hate all humans equally. They’ve been there for a very long time, and they don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.

The strait itself is fairly big. Traveling through the strait takes about a week to cross from one end to the other on an average sized ship, so there are a number of small towns scattered across on both sides with at least one substantial inn for travelers to rest at along the way. The towns all have enchantments on them, so once a ship is docked, it is considered safe, and the sirens can’t affect it or any of the crew members.

Both entrances to the strait are guarded by sirens from two different clans. One clan guards the entrance to the Sea of Persephia, and the other the entrance to the Salty Seas. The entrances look like this; large jagged rocks meant to discourage ships from entering.

For this reason, only experienced sailors usually attempt to enter. Though, once past the entrance, it’s pretty smooth sailing. Because the sirens themselves are enough of a threat. 

Onto the sirens themselves; they don't look human. 

Well, they kind of do, in the same way that Valdemar does. 

Their skin is translucent, and their fins glow in the dead of night. Their teeth are too sharp to offer a comforting smile, and their eyes are too much like fish eyes to give any warmth as they peek over the waves. They all have long hair, but hair is a loose term, as it’s more like another appendage, laced with seaweed and rope from wrecked ships. 

Not all of them have fish tails, some have tentacles, some beaks like squids. Some of them look more human than others, and they act as lures, sometimes pretending to be drowning so a naive sailor will jump in to “save” them.

They are not considered attractive (conventionally) and they don’t lure travelers into the depths by appealing to their sexual appetite. Instead, they use illusion magic in their songs to show their victims either their wildest fantasy, most horrible fear, or best kept secret. Whatever is the strongest pull is what will be shown to them.

They sing in a style similar to Kulning, an ancient Swedish herding call, except they’re herding the travelers off their ships, instead of calling cows home. This is an excellent example of what they would sound like.

They don’t speak in any known language, those who have heard it say it sounds more like clicking. They are not easily reasoned with, highly temperamental, and prone to feeding frenzies. If some poor unfortunate slips over the railing, they are to be considered dead the moment they hit the water.

And here’s a little siren moodboard for the aesthetics.

Generally, all ships that pass through the strait have to do the old “plug your ears and hope for the best” routine as they sail through, but the closer you get to the towns, the safer you are. 

Some ships employ magicians for the purpose of counteracting the sirens, as a seven day journey is a long time for most vessels to go without hearing. When the band travels on supply ships Alec is usually sought after, as her vocal magic works directly against them.

She can use her magic to sing over them, and to cancel out their illusions. This takes a lot of concentration, and she can’t sing for seven days straight, so it’s only used when absolutely necessary.

For my pirates, they each have their own way to cross the strait safely.

For Meredith, she has Saoirse. They are the only thing the sirens fear, as all seas feed into each other, and the water from the Frozen Sea has a lot of stories to tell about the Pirate Queen’s quartermaster. The crew is still encouraged to keep quiet, and to keep away from the railings, as the sirens will try to snatch any distracted crew member. She usually stops at a few towns on their way to let the crew rest.

Rodrigo doesn’t know the extent of his magic, but he knows how to use it well enough to challenge the illusions that the sirens cast. It takes a ridiculous amount of energy, and he hates doing it, but in the case that the crew can’t just plug their ears, he can redirect the sirens illusions. He can even cast illusions on the sirens, though not for very long. His crew is the only one who’s been able to retrieve members after they fell into the water, as he can make the sirens think the crew member fell in a different spot just long enough for Jacqui or someone else to fish them out. He’ll stop at villages frequently just to get away from the sirens as much as possible.

The sirens hate Syd, and seeing Inuwashi on the horizon will send them into a frenzy. But he has agreements with both clan leaders (agreements, thinly veiled threats, hostages—the Sea Palace has a few sirens hidden in the catacombs) so they let him and his crew pass. Because his ship is much smaller and faster, it takes him closer to four days to cross the strait, so usually he’ll only stop at one town to rest up, or he’ll just push through for the four days straight.

Now as mentioned above, there are a handful of towns across both sides of the strait for travelers to stop at. There’s at least one town within a day’s range of each other on the North side, around seven total, and on the South side they are spread further apart, around four total.

On the North side, the biggest town (and the only one with a ferry to take you South) is called Hinode. This is where the Koizumi Inn is located, run by Manolo and Manuela Koizumi.

Hinode, and a few more villages that are closer to Venterre, would look similar to this picture of the fishing village Ine in Japan.

Hinode is simultaneously the safest and most dangerous village, as it is directly between both clans territories, and the only thing the sirens hate as much as humans is their rival clan. 90% of the time, this means that you are unlikely to see either clan in the waters, as they will just avoid each other, but the other 10% of the time will see bloodshed. 

Once every 2 years or so, during a blue moon, the clans will fight, and Hinode is in the “splash zone” for lack of a better term. All ships will need to be properly secured and enchanted for protection, or they will be turned to splinters as the sirens fight, and people living directly on the water will often move inland for the duration of the fight. Or, the day before, they will take the day travel across the strait to the South side.

On the South side, the biggest town is called Sólsetur, and it would look more like Portloe, Cornwall, shown below. 

There are a few more towns on the South side, but Sólsetur is the only one that will ferry you across to the North side, and the only one directly on the water. It’s not as centralized as Hinode, and because it’s hidden in a cove it is safer to be here during the blue moon.

All the villages along the strait have protections on them, especially the closer they are to the water, that keeps the sirens from attacking them. But, travel too far outside the barriers of the spells, and you are on your own. 

Both Hinode and Sólsetur are very welcoming of travelers, sailors and pirates alike, and though the people on the South side are generally colder, it’s not hard to find a warm place to sleep and a good meal to eat. 

[magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics]

Baghdad gone wrong - Request

Request: @green-spotlight I was wondering if you could do a Sherlock x wife! reader one? Where, instead of Mary jumping in front of Sherlock, Reader does, but she survives

Word count: No idea, but it’s long.

Warnings: (Y/N) gets shot.

A/N: HI! Long time no see. I know I always say I’ll come back and then I disappear but it’s just because I need a job and I have to look for it and bla bla bla. Anyway, here it is. This one is fresh, it’s the first fics I’ve written in months (the past ones were kept in my drafts) so I hope you like it and I hope I’m not too rusty for this.

Enjoy!

The London aquarium was quite a flabbergasting experience to anyone who visited. The big tanks filled with different fish, the blue illumination, and the distinctive smell of chlorine made it a rather peaceful place to meditate.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Aquarium will be closing in five minutes. Please make your way to the exit. Thank you.” The voice from the tannoy announced.

Sherlock ignored it and kept going onward along the blue-lit corridors, through the glass tunnels, up until an area with benches for people to sit. There, a lonely woman sat tranquilly. 

“Your office said I’d find you here,” he said. 

“This was always my favourite spot for agents to meet,” the woman replied. “We’re like them; ghostly, living in the shadows.”

She finally looked at him. 

“Predatory,” Sherlock granted.   

“Well, it depends which side you’re on.” She turned away to look into the shark thank again. “Also, we have to keep moving or we die.”

“Nice location for the final act. Couldn’t have chosen it better myself. But then I never could resist a touch of the dramatic.” Sherlock cocked his eyebrow, rejoicing in his own skin.

“I just come here to look at the fish,” the secretary said.

How dull she was, how boring. Sherlock was starting to get sick just by the mere existence of that woman. It was obvious to him what was going on, and yet there was no one else to show it off to. Where were his companions? He had texted them not longer than five minutes ago the exact location and they weren’t there just yet. 

“I knew this would happen one day,” the secretary continued. She stood up and took a few steps closer to the tank. “It’s like that old story,” she said. She turned to face him.

She was small, just small. She was not a beautiful woman and evidently never had been, she was poorly-dressed, and her whole body expressed how small she was and felt.

It was no wonder to Sherlock why she had done it. She was a nobody, always had been and always would be. She worked for a powerful, beautiful woman who was a constant reminder of how insignificant she was. Of course, she had done it.

“I am a very busy man. Would you mind cutting to the chase?” Sherlock insisted. A rush inside of him needed the whole thing to end quickly.

“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“With good reason,” Sherlock said precisely. “Unlike you,” he thought.

“There was once a merchant in fa famous market in Baghdad…” The woman started.

Sherlock closed his eyes and lowered his head. It was that bloody story again. What was it with people liking it? Perhaps it was the fact that nobody wants to be entirely responsible for their acts and decide to call them upon fate, or just that dumb believing of superior power. In any case, Sherlock was sick of it.

“I really have never liked this story” he sentenced.

“I’m just like the merchant in the story. I thought I could outrun the inevitable. I’ve always been looking over my shoulder; always expecting to see the grim figure of…”

“Death.” A third voice completed. 

(Y/N).

The rush inside Sherlock increased its intensity. She wasn’t supposed to be there, John and Mary were but not her. 

She entered the room and stopped a couple of feet away from Sherlock’s side.

“Hello, love,” Sherlock greeted without looking at her.

“Hey,” she greeted back.

“John?” 

“On his way,” (Y/N) replied.

“Mary?” 

“On her way.” Sherlock shrugged and attempted no to look scattered. She was not supposed to be there. “Who am I looking at?”

“Let me introduce Amo.”

(Y/N) opened her eyes widely. She knew all about that time, Mary had told her just before escaping to try and fix things. 

“I can’t say I’m impressed,” (Y/N) said. Sherlock chuckled at the thought of how obvious it was, feeling good that his partner had caught it too. “So you were Amo? You were that voice on the phone?”

“Using AGRA as her private assassination unit,” Sherlock completed.

“Why did you betray them?” (Y/N) grunted. She could be too emotional sometimes. “Do you know what you caused? The people you hurt? Do you know how that ended? WHY DID YOU BETRAY THEM?”

“Why does anyone do anything?” The secretary asked, knowing well what she had done. She didn’t seem to regret a single thing.

(Y/N) was fuming, Sherlock could hear her breathing and was getting ready to stop her in case she tried to punch the secretary. 

“Let me guess,” he said in an attempt to control the room. “Selling secrets?”

“Well, it would be churlish to refuse,” the secretary admitted and Sherlock couldn’t blame her. “Worked very well for a few years. I bought a nice cottage in Cornwall on the back of it. But the ambassador in Tbilisi found out. I thought I’d had it.” She looked towards (Y/N) before returning her gaze to Sherlock. “Then she was taken hostage in that coup,” she laughed. “I couldn’t believe my luck! That bought me a little time.”

“But then you found out your boss had sent AGRA in,” Sherlock stated. He finally had an audience to show off with.

“Very handy,” the woman replied in a bitter tone. “They were always such reliable killers.”

“What you didn’t know, (Y/N), was that this one also tipped off the hostage-takers,” Sherlock explained to (Y/N). “Actually,” he said, “I don’t think Mary knows that either.”

The secretary sat back down and rested her handbag on her lap. 

“Lady Smallwood gave the order, but I sent another one to the terrorists with a nice little clue about her code name should anyone have an enquiring mind.” She was proud of her doings. “Seemed to do the trick!”

“And you thought your troubles were over.” (Y/N) was furious.

“I was tired; tired of the mess of it all,” she sighed. “I just wanted some peace, some clarity.”

(Y/N) was about to go on and punch the light out of her, but Sherlock stopped her before she had even given two steps forward.

“The hostages were killed, AGRA too…” She looked across to (Y/N), “or so I thought. My secret was safe. But apparently not. Just a little peace. That’s all your friend wanted too, wasn’t it? A family, home. Really, I understand.”

(Y/N) glanced across to Sherlock, but his gaze was fixed on the secretary who lifted her handbag as if in preparation to stand, and rests one hand on the open top of it.

“So just let me get out of here, right? Let me just walk away. I’ll vanish. I’ll go forever. What d’you say?”

“After what you did?!” (Y/N) roared furiously. She once again started walking towards the woman.

“(Y/N), no!” Sherlock yelled. That’s why he didn’t take her to her cases.

In a fluid moment, the secretary stood up, pulling a pistol from her handbag and aiming it at (Y/N), who stopped and backed away. 

(Y/N) considered her options for a second before obliging. “Okay.” She moved back to stand at the other side of Sherlock.

The secretary stopped pointing with her pistol and looked at it as if it was a toy. 

“I was never a field agent. I always thought I’d be rather good.” 

(Y/N) scoffed. She was upset and she knew they were wasting their time by trying to reason with her. She never understood why Sherlock insisted on talking to the criminals first.

“Well, you handled the operation in Tbilisi very well,” Sherlock complimented and (Y/N) rolled her eyes.

“Thanks.”

“For a secretary.” 

(Y/N) and the secretary looked at him with wide eyes. 

“What?” The woman frowned.

“Can’t have been easy all those years, sitting in the back, keeping your mouth shut when you knew you were cleverer than most of the people in the room,” he blurted out.

“I didn’t do this out of jealousy!” She defended herself.

“No?” Sherlock smirked. “Same old drudge, day in day out, never getting out there where all the excitement was. Just back to your little flat on Wigmore Street.”

The secretary gaped.

“They’ve taken up the pavement outside the Post Office there. The local clay on your shoes is very distinctive.”

The woman looked down to her dusty shoes. She looked like a rag, no wonder why he thought she was jealous.

“Yes, your little flat.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock was ready for a quickfire session to kill time and show off to the woman he married. He cocked his head and smirked as if he had already won.

“Well, on your salary it would have to be modest and you spent all the money on that cottage, didn’t you? And what are you? Widowed or divorced?” He focused in on a plain gold band on the index finger of her left hand. “Wedding ring’s at least thirty years old and you’ve moved it to another finger. That means you’re sentimentally attached to it but you’re not still married. I favour widowed, given the number of cats you shared your life with.”

(Y/N) watched the woman closely. She knew that look, that void of fear, that confidence. The woman wasn’t shaking, nor she was feeling vulnerable. No, she was starting to burn in anger. She was a crazy woman who thought she was better than anyone else, of course, she would burn if anyone told her she was anything less than that.

She hadn’t done it out of jealousy, she had done it because she could. 

“Sherlock…” (Y/N) warned.

“Two Burmese and a tortoiseshell, judging by the cat hairs on your cardigan,” Sherlock continued. “A divorcee’s more likely to look for a new partner; a widow to fill the void left by her dead husband.”

“Sherlock, don’t,” (Y/N) insisted with a louder tone.

But instead of listening, Sherlock rose his voice ad he got fully into his stride. “Pets do that, or so I’m told, and there’s clearly no-one new in your life, otherwise you wouldn’t be spending your Friday nights in an aquarium. That probably accounts for the drinking problem too: the slight tremor in your hand… The red wine stain ghosting your top lip. So yes. I say jealousy was your motive after all - to prove how good you are...”

The secretary turned to gaze at the entrance as Mycroft walked in.

“... To make up for the inadequacies of your little life.”

The secretary was still looking at the entrance. Inspector Lestrade came in followed by three uniformed police officers.

“Well, Mrs Norbury. I must admit this is unexpected,” Mycroft said, hiding away his true feelings.

“Vivian Norbury, who outsmarted them all,” Sherlock slurred, dripping in sarcasm. “All except Sherlock Holmes.”

He took a step forward, holding out his left hand. (Y/N) and the police officers behind her also stepped forward.

“There’s no way out,” he whispered.

“So it would seem,” Mrs Norbury smiled. “You’ve seen right through me, Mr Holmes.”

“It’s what I do.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Maybe I can still surprise you.”

Swiftly, she brought up the gun and aimed it at Sherlock. Everyone got defensive instantly. 

“C’mon,” Lestrade pointed at her, “be sensible.”

Sherlock held his hands out to the side. Mrs Norbury shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so.”

She fired. The bullet headed towards Sherlock who stood there unmoving. (Y/N), who had no doubt anticipated that this was going to happen, hurled herself sideways in front of him and the bullet impacted her lower chest. Blood sprayed outward and immediately there was a large bloodstain on her shirt. Crying out, she fell to the floor against a nearby bench.

“Surprise,” Mrs Norbury said, filled with spite.

(Y/N) rolled over to slump against the back of the bench, gasping in pain. As two of the police officers hurried over to Mrs Norbury to disarm her, Sherlock stared at (Y/N) in shock, then dropped to his knees to press his gloved hand against the wound. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and whimpered. 

“Everything’s fine. It’s gonna be okay,” he whispered. “Get an ambulance!” He commanded, looking round to Mycroft.

“You are such a cock,” (Y/N) whimpered.

“I know,” Sherlock smiled sadly. “But now, dare I say it, it’s not about me.”

“What do I do now, detective?”

Sherlock started checking her frantically just as John ran in. Without asking any questions, he checked her too and laid her down on the floor. 

“It’s all right,” Sherlock kept saying, “it’s all right.”

“You can do better than that,” (Y/N) groaned and John kept track of her vitals.

“Like what?”

“Like what about you shut up next time?” Sherlock chuckled and nodded.

“Noted,” he said. “Anything else?”

“If I don’t die…” She started and Sherlock interrupted her.

“Which you won’t.”

“IF I DON’T DIE,” she insisted, “I want you to be more loving towards me.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned and John laughed. “No.”

“Oh, oh, I think I’m losing her,” John joked, “(Y/N), stay with us!”

“Okay, fine,” Sherlock agreed. “But only when we’re alone.”

“That’s not how it works,” John coughed. 

“It is how it works!” Sherlock cried.

“It’s not!” Mary laughed and kneeled down next to (Y/N), helping John to keep her stable while the ambulance arrived.

“You two are too nosey,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Loving, you must be loving at all times or I’m going to die,” (Y/N) repeated. She was falling unconscious, so John and Mary urged Sherlock to keep her awake for just a couple of minutes now.

“Okay, what else?” Sherlock asked, “What else, (Y/N)?”

“Breakfast… in bed…” She mumbled.

“I already do that!”

“For me… breakfast in bed… for me,” (Y/N) insisted.

“You are such a cock” John mocked Sherlock.

“Yes, I’ve been told that twice in the last minute.”

Mary laughed and so the paramedics got there.

-

When (Y/N) woke up, she was surrounded by people. Mrs Hudson, Molly, John, Mary, and obviously Sherlock.

“We’re so glad you’re awake.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Look at you!”

All of them, talking to her nonstop. She only nodded and smiled, not knowing who to reply to first.

Her room was filled with flowers and balloons, and the dim light of midday snuck through the window, making it warm and cosy. She didn’t feel a thing because she was doped, but she faintly knew (by what she could catch hearing at least) that she had gone to surgery. 

“I’m glad you’re awake and fine,” Sherlock said after everyone shut up.

“That’s all?” She complained.

John hit Sherlock slightly. The detective rolled his eyes and pulled out little cardboard cards from his pocket. He cleared his throat and started reading in a painfully monotone voice.

“My love, I am delighted for your recovery and I can’t wait for you to come back home to me. I’ve missed having you in my arms, smelling your hair in the morning, and just looking at your… bright, beautiful eyes every day. You are my soulmate, and the thought of losing you was so painful I knew right then and there that I… Nevermind that part, it’s bullshit,” he skipped three cards while everyone else either rolled their eyes or chuckled at him. “You are the love of my life… My best friends… Kiss, kiss, kiss… Er… The message is clear I think.”

“That’s all?” (Y/N) asked again.

Yes, she had technically forced him to date her, and then to marry her, and she had kind of manipulated him to promise her to be more loving, so she couldn’t really complain if he didn’t get it right the first twenty times, but she was the one laying on a hospital bed because he couldn’t get his head out of his own arse!

Sherlock exhaled heavily and looked around. Curious and impatient eyes were all over him, making feel terribly uncomfortable.

“The thought of losing you is unbearable, I was very anxious during your surgery and have been like that up until now that you’ve woken up,” he admitted.

“He also spent the night right here,” Mrs Hudson added. (Y/N) then noticed an unused blanket by the visitor’s sofa.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock groaned and gave (Y/N) a cheeky look. “I’m not good with words, but do know that I’d be damned if you, my wife, died.”

“How romantic!” (Y/N) smirked sarcastically. Sherlock eyed her, knowing she was just messing with him.

“I love you, I truly do.”

“And I love you,” (Y/N) said.

Sherlock then walked closer to her and kissed her softly on the lips. “Don’t ever follow me on a case, please.”

“I can’t promise you that.”

“Then don’t jump in front of me if I get shot.”

“Better you stop being a massive cock, ey?” 

“I can’t promise that.” Sherlock smiled.

-

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[imjustthemechanic]

The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter

Of course Agent Russel isn’t who she said she was... but who is she really?  And what is the significance of the letter she left in Peggy’s purse?

-

It wasn’t until she was packing up her things to head home at the end of the day that Peggy noticed the envelope.

Peggy was used to finding envelopes on her desk – it had taken her a while to find a proper apartment in Los Angeles, so she’d used the SSR office as her address and still got mail there.  Her colleagues also left things for her.  But this wasn’t on her desk or even in her desk, it was in her purse, which had been sitting next to her desk all day, except for when it had been sitting next to Daniel’s desk in his office while she spoke with Agent Russel.  Peggy didn’t recall anyone coming near it, but then, she hadn’t been paying that much attention.  What she was sure of was that there had been no envelope in it when she’d left home that morning.

She pulled it out.  There was nothing written on it and the flap was not sealed.  Inside was a single sheet of typing paper.  Peggy unfolded it, and found two typewritten lines of numbers:

74 47 35 95 25 03

Below them was a quickly scrawled drawing of a five-pointed star with two circles around it.

Peggy’s breath caught.  Her first instinct upon just seeing the numbers was, of course, that it represented some kind of code or cipher, but noticing the star… perhaps she was biased, but she was fairly sure that represented Captain America’s shield.  And if it did, maybe the numbers were far simpler than a code.  Maybe somebody knew where the Valkyrie had crashed.  Ninety-five degrees was a long way to the west, and seventy-four was further north than Howard had ever looked.

Who had left her this?  Her initial idea was that it must have been Russel, but why would Russel do that and where would she have gotten such information?  If she had it, wouldn’t she give it to Daniel or to Chief Thompson in New York, or even to the joint chiefs or the president, rather than to Peggy Carter?  Everybody thought of her in association with Captain America, yes, but she’d been a comparatively minor figure in his career.  Maybe it was some kind of trap or a distraction?  But why do that?  It seemed entirely incompatible with Russel’s goal.  But if not her, who?

She folded the page up again.  She was getting ahead of herself, wasn’t she?  She didn’t yet know what those numbers meant.  Possibly she was jumping to conclusions.  She needed a map or a globe.  Peggy did not own one personally.  There was a large map of North America on one wall of the SSR office, but she didn’t want anyone seeing her poring over that and asking why.  Perhaps a public library?  But what if she were followed?

Remaining calm, Peggy put the page back into the envelope and the envelope into her purse.  She gave Daniel a kiss and wished him good night, and said goodbye to Rose on the way out, as if she were simply going home at the end of a tiring day and nothing was wrong in the world.

She did not go home, however.  She went to Howard Stark’s house.

Howard himself wasn’t home, but Edwin Jarvis answered the door and looked delighted to see Peggy, as he always was.  The man never seemed to learn.

“Agent Carter,” he said with a smile.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m afraid it’s a business call,” said Peggy.  “I need to borrow a book.”

“Of course, come right in,” Jarvis said, standing aside.  “I’ll make tea.  Can I interest you in a slice of apple torte?  Anna has the dog outside, so there’s no need to fear an immediate assault upon entering the kitchen.”

Peggy smiled – the Jarvises had recently acquired a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy, which Anna had named Zoltan.  It was already twice the size it had been when they brought it home and showed no signs of slowing down, while having no idea that it was already much too big to fit in a human lap.  Anna adored the monster, and Edwin pretended to be annoyed with the amount of hair it shed, but could not bring himself to truly dislike an animal that made his wife so happy.

“Thank you, Mr. Jarvis, apple torte sounds lovely.”

In the library she quickly found what she was looking for – an enormous leather-bound Atlas of the World, the sort of book Howard bought because he was supposed to have one and then never looked at because he had the entire geography of the earth memorized already.  Mr. Jarvis brought her pie and tea while she flipped pages, until she found one showing the islands of Northern Canada.

She took the paper out again and spread it out.  Seventy-four and a half degrees north was… just about there, and ninety-five degrees west was… just off the coast of Cornwallis Island, a place choked by sea ice for nearly the entire year.  As she’d suspected, it was very far north of where they’d thought the Valkyrie might have gone down based on its last known trajectory.  Perhaps they’d underestimated the speed of the craft?

Could it really be?  Could somebody have simply handed her the location of Steve Rogers’ body?

The only way to find out would be to look… but looking would be a big undertaking, with people and ships and winter gear.  Peggy did not yet have nearly enough information to start something like that.  Before she could even begin she had to find out who had given her these coordinates, where that person had gotten them from, and how many other people might know about them.  For all she knew, this was some kind of trap.

“Agent Carter?” asked Mr. Jarvis, coming to collect her empty teacup.  “Have you found what you needed?”

“I believe I’ve made a start,” Peggy replied.  “May I use the telephone?”

“Of course,” he said.

She pulled out the card Agent Russel had given her, and asked the operator for the number.  The phone rang… and then rang again… and rang again.  Peggy waited with increasing impatience until it had rung twelve times, and then hung up.  Maybe Russel was still busy, or perhaps she’d gone out for dinner or something.  There were plenty of explanations that didn’t involve her deliberately avoiding Peggy, and Peggy would not improve the situation by becoming paranoid.

She put the envelope back in her purse, thanked Mr. Jarvis, and headed home again.

When she arrived, she rang Russel’s number again but still got no answer.  This was annoying for several reasons, not the least of which was that Russel would be the easiest suspect to eliminate.  Peggy could just ask Russel about it, while her colleagues were a different matter.  If she asked the wrong person and they weren’t the culprit, they might spread the news around and then there would be a big fuss over what might turn out to be nothing.  Peggy didn’t want that.

It did occur to her that this might just be a ploy to distract her from looking for Dottie so that somebody else could take the credit.  That would have been infuriating if Peggy hadn’t long ago let go of caring who got credit for saving the world just so long as it ended up saved.

Before she turned in that evening, Peggy did try one last time to telephone Russel and still got no response.  She told herself not to get cranky about it.  She’d only met this woman yesterday, and an FBI agent was doubtless busy… especially a woman, who would have to be twice as good as the men to get half the respect.  Peggy herself could be almost impossible to contact sometimes.  Howard, Mr. Jarvis, Angie, and even Daniel had all complained of it.  When it was time to panic, she told herself as she shut off the lights, she would know.

- 

As it turned out, the time for panic was around four o’clock the following morning, when Peggy was awakened from a sound sleep by her phone ringing.  She turned the light back on and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” she asked.

“Peggy?” it was Daniel.  “Did I wake you up?”

“I should say you did – do you know what time it is?” she asked, having to turn her alarm clock in order to find out for herself.  Ten past four.  If Daniel were calling her now, it was something serious.  “What’s going on?”

“They found Agent Russel,” he said.

Peggy’s heart went into her throat.  “She’s dead?”  That had not been an expected outcome.

“No…” Daniel said.  “The woman who came to see you yesterday wasn’t Agent Russel.  Agent Nedrick Russel has been found tied up in the trunk of a car at the airport.”

Having only just leaped, Peggy’s heart now sank, all the way down to the floor and possibly through it into the apartment below.  “Bloody hell,” she said.

“Can you meet us at the police station?” asked Daniel.

“Absolutely.”  Peggy threw aside the covers and stood up.  “Give me a moment to get ready.”

She hung up without saying goodbye, because now was not a time for pleasantries.  In the washroom to give her hair a quick comb and put on makeup as best she could, Peggy caught her own eye in the mirror and scowled.

“Bloody bugger,” she declared.  “Bloody, bloody bugger.”

She might not know what was going on with the mysterious envelope, but she now knew in her gut exactly what had happened yesterday and it was not at all nice.  Peggy had always been as lenient as she could with Dottie Underwood, though that wasn’t very, because she knew Dottie had been brought up by cruel people who’d twisted her into a monster.  The same was doubtless true of this woman calling herself Nadine Russel… but Peggy was going to have a much more difficult time trying to be kind.

When Peggy arrived at the station near the airport, dressed and groomed but definitely not looking her best, a police officer escorted her into a room where three men from the SSR, including Daniel, and several more police were standing around watching a man devour a ham sandwich.  He was in his early fifties, with graying dark hair and a chisel-straight nose, wearing a white shirt with sweat stains under the arms, his tie and his blue plaid blazer draped over the back of his chair.  His audience didn’t seem to interest him at all.  He was entirely focused on his food.

“Agent Russel?” asked Peggy.

The man glanced up at her, then quickly swallowed his mouthful and washed it down with half a glass of water.  He’d clearly been imprisoned in the car trunk for some time, and it had left him both hungry and dehydrated.  “You must be Agent Carter,” he said.  “This isn’t how I pictured us meeting.”

“Nor I,” said Peggy.  She looked at the police.  “You questioned him?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said the nearest man.  “He says he was having a drink at the Coconut Club when a pretty blonde came up and started flirting with him, and the next thing he remembers was coming to locked in the trunk of his car.  His wallet and his briefcase are both missing.”

Peggy had heard of the Coconut Club, though she’d never been there.  It was a fairly swanky pub not too far away from the airport.  “Do we have a description of the suspect?”

“We’ve got a sketch artist on his way,” the policeman promised.

“She was about so tall,” said Russel with his mouth full, holding his hand at the height of his shoulders to suggest a woman significantly shorter than he.  “Blonde hair, blue eyes, great skin, nails like a tiger.  Black dress with a little bolero, and a choker necklace with a great big rock on it.”  He pointed to his adam’s apple to suggest where that had sat.

“Did she give her name?” Peggy asked.

“She said it was Katherine.  Told me to call her Kay,” Russel said.  “You’re not going to tell Alice, are you?”

Peggy rolled her eyes, and Daniel looked like he badly wanted to.  “Agent Russel,” he said, “the SSR wants to know who this woman is and why she’s interested in finding Olga Barynova.  We don’t care where your wife thinks you were last night.”

Russel had been about to bite into his sandwich again.  Now he hesitated.  “You mean Underwood?  She’s got a real name now?”

“Was that not in the information your assailant took from you?” asked Peggy.

“No…” said Russel.  “No, we’ve got a list of her aliases but none of them were Russian.”

Peggy had already been fairly sure this mysterious Miss Kay must be from the same organization as Dottie herself… now she suspected she knew it for certain.  Had she assumed that the SSR already knew Dottie’s real name?  Or had she only called her that by mistake?  Either way, she’d covered for herself very quickly.

Had Kay gotten the coordinates from Russel?  Peggy would have to find a more private moment to ask him.  In the meantime, she took out the business card her visitor had given her yesterday, and showed him the number.

“Does this telephone number mean anything to you, Agent Russel?” she asked.

His mouth was once again full.  He shook his head.

“Then that’s where I’d like to start,” said Peggy.  Maybe Kay hadn’t thought they would find the real Russel so soon, and was expecting Peggy to try to contact her.  Or maybe it had only been a ruse, to keep Peggy from being suspicious.  She offered the card to one of the policemen.  “Would somebody mind tracing this for me, please?”

The man looked at Daniel, who nodded.  “Do it,” he said.

“And I’ll want to speak to the sketch artist, myself,” Peggy added.  At the moment it was technically only a suspicion that ‘Nadine’ and ‘Kay’ were the same person, but it would be nice to have it confirmed.  Then she could decide what she would try to do next.

[rubysunnday]

Wait For Me

3rd September, 1939. 

That date would be stuck in your mind for years to come. 

The meanest dog you'll ever meet

You’d both been expecting it, you and Finn. Neither one of you was oblivious to the constant news reports on Nazi Germany and its rise. A naive part of you had hoped that maybe it would all die down and nothing would become of it. 

You’d only just been old enough to vaguely remember the First World War. The memories were vague and hazy. Bombs. Searchlights. Telegrams. The MIA on your brother. Your father. 

He ain't the hound dog in the street

He bares some teeth and tears some skin

Many families had lost husbands and sons in the war, yet many more had lost mothers too - lost to the pain of losing their lovers, their children. Your mother hadn’t made it past the five year anniversary. 

Your aunt took you in. That relationship was a rocky one from the beginning, the two of you often fighting and yelling at one another. By the time you’d turned eighteen, you’d grown estranged from your only serving family member, for many reasons. 

But brother, that's the worst of him

That’s when Finn had walked into your life. Well, knocked into your life. 

Neither one of you could agree on who’s fault it was. You insisted that he hadn’t been paying attention, too busy trying to show off to John and Arthur who were walking behind him. He insisted that you’d been walking backwards, to absorbed in looking around the market to see him.

The dog you really got to dread 

Is the one that howls inside your head

No matter who’s fault it was, you both ended up bumping into each other. Finn had caught you before you’d fallen onto the ground, his arms snaking around your waist and holding you against him. 

Small Heath wasn’t a big community. You’d known of Finn for a while and known of the Shelby’s for even longer. The two of you had sat next to each other in school until he’d dropped out. 

It's him whose howling drives men mad

 And a mind to its undoing

“Hi,” you said, looking up at Finn.

“Hi,” Finn replied, a dopey smile on his face. “Falling for me again, y/l/n?”

Wait for me, I'm comin'

“Never, Shelby,” you said, smacking his arm to tell him to let you go. “John, Arthur.”

“Morning, y/n,” Arthur said, tipping his hat to you. 

“Morning,” John added, winking. 

You rolled your eyes. “Never change, John.”

“Oh, I don’t plan on it,” John replied and you shook your head, 

You bent down to pick up your basket but Finn beat you too it, your hands brushing for a second. 

“I got it,” Finn said, putting everything back in. 

“I am capable, Finn.”

Wait, I'm comin' with you

Finn looked up at you, giving you his infamous smile, his eyes sparkling. “Never said you weren’t.”

You took the basket back from him, smiling a little. “I should go,” you said, nodding to the road where your aunt’s house was. 

Wait for me, I'm comin' too, I'm comin' too

“See you around,” Finn replied, walking backwards after his brothers as you nodded.

“Yeah, see you around Shelby.”

Show the way so we can see

Show the way the world could be

After that, you saw Finn every time you went to the market. He later admitted to you that the only reason he had been there was to see you. 

Finn followed you around as you did the weekly shop for your aunt, helping you to carry the items back to the house and keeping you company as you put them away. 

If you can do it, so can she

If she can do it, so can we

Your aunt didn’t approve of him or any of the Shelby’s. That was another thing you fell out about. 

The day before you turned nineteen, your aunt fell seriously ill. Despite your rocky relationship, you were worried. You went with her to the hospital, sitting with her through the time she was there. 

Somehow, the Shelby’s found out about your aunt because a day later, Finn and John appeared in the hospital canteen, the former bearing some flowers. 

Show the way so we believe

We will follow where you lead

We will follow with you

Show the way

“We heard about your aunt,” Finn had said upon you spotting them. He held out the flowers. “We got these for her.”

“We?” John muttered, to quiet for you to hear, but Finn smacked his stomach anyway, telling him to shut up. 

“Thank you,” you replied, accepting the bouquet. 

“How is she?” John asked, noticing Finn’s lack of attention as you brushed hands taking the flowers. 

“Not good. The doctors say she probably won’t be here by the end of the week.” 

“I’m sorry,” Finn said, suddenly discovering his voice again.

Think they'll make it?

“Yeah. We never really got along but, still, she’s the only family I’ve got left.” You paused. “I don’t really know what I’ll do once she’s gone.”

“We can help if you need us to,” Finn said suddenly, ignoring his brother’s stutter of surprise. 

I don't know

You looked at him, slightly surprised. “Thanks, Finn.” Finn blushed slightly as you hugged him, to busy trying to commit the smell of your perfume to memory to notice that you also hugged a very bemused and confused John. 

“I should probably go check on her,” you said quietly, picking up your bag and coat. “Thanks again.”

Hades, you let them go

Finn waved at you as you left the canteen, a smile on his face.

John smacked his brother on the arm. “What the hell was that?” 

Finn frowned. “What do you mean?” 

I let them try

“That!” John exclaimed, gesturing to where you'd been sitting.

“Oh, I was being nice,” Finn replied, pulling his coat closer.

“Since when?!”

Finn shrugged. “She’s nice.”

John rolled his eyes. “Ahuh,” he said, unconvinced by his brothers explanation but not wanting to jump any further down the rabbit hole. 

And how 'bout you and I? 

Are we gonna try again?

Your aunt passed away three days after Finn gave you the flowers. 

It's time for spring.

 We'll try again next fall

You'd stepped outside for a cigarette, needing some air, when you’d spotted Tommy Shelby and Polly Grey walking into the hospital.

“Hey, Mr Shelby,” you called, nodding at him.

“Good morning, y/n,” Tommy replied, walking towards you. “Haven’t seen you and Finn together for a while.”

You nodded to the hospital behind you. “Been stuck here. My aunt was admitted last week, she passed away this morning.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Polly said, joining her nephew.

“Nah, don't be. We weren't that close. But she was the only family I’ve got left...had left.” 

Polly smiled sympathetically. “You know where we are if you need us.” 

You nodded, bidding the both farewell. 

Wait for me?

The doctor informed you that your aunt’s funeral had been fully paid already and that there was nothing to worry about. You’d frowned, confused, but let it slide, happy not to have to part with any money.

It wasn’t until you’d gotten home from the hospital that you realised that Tommy Shelby and Polly Grey had been the ones to pay for the funeral. 

I will

Despite knowing Finn Shelby for ten years, you’d never been to number 6 Watery Lane. You’d been to the Garrison plenty of times with your friends, often getting drunk inside - you and John had sworn to each other to never mention the time you’d passed out on him - but you’d never ventured down to the house where the Shelby’s lived.

Wait for me, I'm comin'

Wait, I'm comin' with you

Wait for me, I'm comin' too

I'm comin' too

Finn had visibly lit up when he’d spotted you amongst the gamblers, weaving his way through the crowd and grabbing your hand. He’d dragged you into the safety of John’s office, shutting the door behind him. 

“Hey, y/l//n-”

“You didn’t have to do that, by the way,” you said, cutting him off.

Finn faltered. “Do what?”

Who are you?

Who do you think you are?

Who are you?

“Get Tommy and Polly to pay for my aunt’s funeral.”

“I didn’t,” Finn replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Shelby, I’ve known you for ten years, now, so I also know when you’re lying.”

Finn sighed. “Fine. I did, maybe, do that.”

You crossed your arms, not at all surprised or angry. “Why?”

“Because I care about you,” Finn admitted quietly. “Didn’t think you should have to pay for the funeral of someone you didn’t care about.”

You smiled. “Thank you, Finn, truly.” 

Finn nodded, trying his best not to blush. “No problem.” 

Who are you to lead her?

Who are you to lead them?

Who are you to think that you can hold your head up higher than your fellow man?

You and Finn became better friends after your aunt’s death and the Shelby’s soon began seeing more of you, your presence at 6 Watery Lane soon became normal. Neither one of you was prepared to acknowledge the blossoming romance between the two of you despite nearly all of Small Heath seeing it.

Everything had been fine and almost perfect.

You got a lonesome road to walk

And it ain't along the railroad track

And it ain't along the black-top tar

Until you lost your job and your house. 

Finn had become worried when you he’d turned up to your house one day only to find no one home. He’d gone to your work only to be told you’d been fired. He’d asked Tommy to send some Blinders out to look for you but other than that, there was nothing he could do.

It was only a week later that your turned up at the house, visibly exhausted. 

Typically, Finn hadn’t been there when you’d appeared. He’d gone off again to try and find you, not that he’d admit it. 

Arthur Shelby had ushered you in, immediately sitting you on the sofa in front of the fire and wrapping numerous blankets around you as you shivered. 

Finn had arrived back an hour later, all but throwing himself at you as he hugged you.

You've walked a hundred times before

I'll tell you where the real road lies:

Between your ears, behind your eyes

That is the path to Paradise

Likewise, the road to ruin

“What happened?” He asked, letting go of you.

“Turns out my aunt’s will wasn’t particular lovely to me,” you said quietly. “The only thing she left me was an old photo album. Everything else went to her nephew - in - law in Cornwall.”

“You went to Cornwall?”

You nodded. “Had to. His lawyer wanted to know why I was still living in the house when it wasn’t mine. Whole thing got messy and as a result I missed work for a week and ended up being fired.”

Finn sighed, putting an arm around your shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Wait for me, I'm comin'

Wait, I'm comin' with you

Wait for me, I'm comin' too

“Why do you keep saying that?” Finn asked softly.

“Because it is,” you answered. “Compared to the war, it is fine.” You leant your head on Finn’s shoulder and he rested his chin on your head. “Besides, I’ve got you.”

Finn felt his heart beat faster as your hair tickled his neck, the smell of your perfume making him smile. “Yeah, you have.”

Wait for me, I'm comin' too

Wait for me, I'm comin'

Wait, I'm comin' with you

You knew that Finn had said something to Tommy. 

But only because Tommy Shelby didn’t normally offer a secretary job out of the blue. 

“I’ve got a job for you, if you want it,” Tommy had said suddenly one Sunday afternoon as you drank tea in the living room. 

Wait, I'm comin'

Show her the way

You choked on the sip you’d taken, coughing much to Tommy’s amusement. “What?” You croaked.

“I’ve got a secretary job if you want it,” Tommy repeated. “Working for me, handling some very sensitive business.” Tommy gave you a knowing look and you nodded. 

“When?

“Tomorrow.”

I'm coming wait for me

I hear the walls repeating

That job quickly became your new normal. The Shelby’s soon became family and you felt at ease despite the horror stories that accompanied them. You also realised how you felt about Finn Shelby.

It’d been at one of the many races you’d attended when you’d admitted how you felt to Finn. You hadn’t planned on it. It’d been sudden and at an incredibly poor time but you’d still said it. 

“Finn,” you said as the horses turned into the final leg of the race.  “Yeah, y/n/n,” Finn replied, distracted by the race and the fact that John and Arthur were yelling next to him. 

“I love you.” 

The falling of our feet and

Finn’s head and shot to look at you, eyes wide, mouth open. He stammered, clearly torn. “I love you too,” he said, his eyes softening as you smiled. “God, I love you so much.”

He’d bent down and kissed you just as the horses crossed the finish line, the Blinders around you yelling in joy as they realised how much money they’d gotten. 

It sounds like drumming

Finn, never one to wait, had proposed six months later. 

“Marry me,” he said one night as the two of you laid on the sofa, warming your feet by the fire.

You turned your head to look at him, smiling. “Marry you?”

Finn nodded. “Marry me.”

You pressed your lips together, your smile growing. “Of course.” 

And we are not alone

It’d been the perfect wedding. Neither one of you were fussed about a big ceremony or reception, perfectly content with just the Shelby's. Both of you had wanted to elope but Polly and Ada had put their foot down, insisting on you both getting married properly.

Finn had cried when he saw Arthur walking you down the aisle. He’d lifted the veil off your face and you’d wiped away a tear from his cheek. Finn’s hand entwined with yours as Johnny Dogs began the ceremony and neither one of you let go until you got to Tommy’s house for the reception. 

Everything had been so perfect. 

I hear the rocks and stones

Until the 3rd of September 1939. 

You’d all been staying at Tommy’s house, all of you waiting for the dreaded news and no one wanting to be far away from anyone. 

You and Finn had been in the living room, hands entwined tightly, listening intently as the radio presenter announced that the government had declared war on Germany. 

One by one, the other Shelby’s had joined you, all listening, all terrified. 

When the day came for the men to go to war yet again, you and Finn pressed your foreheads together, hands entwined. 

“I’m going to miss you so much,” Finn whispered, closing his eyes to try and block out the sound of his crying family.

Echoing our song

“Me too,” you replied. “This is so much harder than it was before.”

Finn captured your lips in a kiss. “I’ll come back,” he said quietly, wiping away the tears falling down your face. “I promise.”

“I know you will, Finn,” you said, kissing him. “You all will.” You handed him a neatly folded photo and a handkerchief. “That’s the photo of me you took on the 15th July 1928, our first anniversary. That’s my handkerchief and I put my perfume on it so that I’m always with you. And when it fades, write to me and I’ll send you a fresh one.”

Finn tried his best not to cry as he engulfed you in a hug, holding you tight against him.

He sighed heavily as the train whistle blew. He kissed you one final time before he and his brothers clambered on board. Finn stuck his hand out the window and you grabbed it, pressing a kiss to his hand. The train slowly began to move and you walked along with him for as long as you could.

“Wait for me?” Finn called as your hands were ripped apart. 

“I will.”

I'm coming

[warninggraphiccontent]

16 July 2021

Food for thought

At last week's Data Bites, I noted how 'Wales' is a standard unit of area. This week, along comes a map which shows that all the built-up land in the UK is equivalent to one Wales:

The map is from the National Food Strategy, published yesterday (and the man has a point).

It has divided opinion, judging by the responses to this tweet. I understand where the sceptics are coming from - at first glance, it may be confusing, given Wales isn't actually entirely built up, Cornwall made of peat, or Shetland that close to the mainland (or home to all the UK's golf courses). And I'm often critical of people using maps just because the data is geographical in some way, when a different, non-map visualisation would be better.

But I actually think this one works. Using a familiar geography to represent areas given over to particular land use might help us grasp it more readily (urban areas = size of Wales, beef and lamb pastures = more of the country than anything else). It's also clear that a huge amount of overseas land is needed to feed the UK, too.

The map has grabbed people's attention and got them talking, which is no bad thing. And it tells the main stories I suspect its creators wanted to. In other words, it's made those messages... land.

Trash talk

Happy Take Out The Trash Day!

Yesterday saw A LOT of things published by Cabinet Office - data on special advisers, correspondence with parliamentarians, public bodies and major projects to name but a few, and the small matter of the new plans outlining departmental priorities and how their performance will be measured.

It's great that government is publishing this stuff. It's less great that too much of it still involves data being published in PDFs not spreadsheets. And it's even less great that the ignoble tradition of Take Out The Trash Day continues, for all the reasons here (written yesterday) and here (written in 2017).

I know this isn't (necessarily) deliberate, and it's a lot of good people working very hard to get things finished before the summer (as my 2017 piece acknowledges). And it's good to see government being transparent.

But it's 2021, for crying out loud. The data collection should be easier. The use of this data in government should be more widespread to begin with.

We should expect better.

In other news:

I was really pleased to have helped the excellent team at Transparency International UK (by way of some comments on a draft) with their new report exploring access and influence in UK housing policy, House of Cards. Read it here.

One of our recent Data Bites speakers, Doug Gurr, is apparently in the running to run the NHS. More here.

Any excuse to plug my Audrey Tang interview.

The good folk at ODI Leeds/The Data City/the ODI have picked up and run with my (and others') attempt to map the UK government data ecosystem. Do help them out.

Five years ago this week...

Regarding last week's headline of Three Lines on a Chart: obviously I was going to.

Have a great weekend

Gavin

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Today's links:

Graphic content

Vax populi

Why vaccine-shy French are suddenly rushing to get jabbed* (The Economist)

Morning update on Macron demolishing French anti-vax feeling (or at least vax-hesitant) (Sophie Pedder via Nicolas Berrod)

How Emmanuel Macron’s “health passes” have led to a surge in vaccine bookings in France* (New Statesman)

How effective are coronavirus vaccines against the Delta variant?* (FT)

England faces the sternest test of its vaccination strategy* (The Economist)

Where Are The Newest COVID Hot Spots? Mostly Places With Low Vaccination Rates (NPR)

There's A Stark Red-Blue Divide When It Comes To States' Vaccination Rates (NPR)

All talk, no jabs: the reality of global vaccine diplomacy* (Telegraph)

Vaccination burnout? (Reuters)

Viral content

COVID-19: Will the data allow the government to lift restrictions on 19 July? (Sky News)

UK Covid-19 rates are the highest of any European country after Cyprus* (New Statesman)

COVID-19: Cautionary tale from the Netherlands' coronavirus unlocking - what lessons can the UK learn? (Sky News)

‘Inadequate’: Covid breaches on the rise in Australia’s hotel quarantine (The Guardian)

Side effects

COVID-19: Why is there a surge in winter viruses at the moment? (Sky News)

London Beats New York Back to Office, by a Latte* (Bloomberg)

Outdoor dining reopened restaurants for all — but added to barriers for disabled* (Washington Post)

NYC Needs the Commuting Crowds That Have Yet to Fully Return* (Bloomberg)

Politics and government

Who will succeed Angela Merkel?* (The Economist)

Special advisers in government (Tim for IfG)

How stingy are the UK’s benefits? (Jamie Thunder)

A decade of change for children's services funding (Pro Bono Economics)

National Food Strategy (independent review for UK Government)

National Food Strategy: Tax sugar and salt and prescribe veg, report says (BBC News)

Air, space

Can Wizz challenge Ryanair as king of Europe’s skies?* (FT)

Air passengers have become much more confrontational during the pandemic* (The Economist)

Branson and Bezos in space: how their rocket ships compare* (FT)

Sport

Euro 2020: England expects — the long road back to a Wembley final* (FT)

Most football fans – and most voters – support the England team taking the knee* (New Statesman)

Domestic violence surges after a football match ends* (The Economist)

The Most Valuable Soccer Player In America Is A Goalkeeper (FiveThirtyEight)

Sport is still rife with doping* (The Economist)

Wimbledon wild card success does not disguise financial challenge* (FT)

Can The U.S. Women’s Swim Team Make A Gold Medal Sweep? (FiveThirtyEight)

Everything else

Smoking: How large of a global problem is it? And how can we make progress against it? (Our World in Data)

Record June heat in North America and Europe linked to climate change* (FT)

Here’s a list of open, non-code tools that I use for #dataviz, #dataforgood, charity data, maps, infographics... (Lisa Hornung)

Meta data

Identity crisis

A single sign-on and digital identity solution for government (GDS)

UK government set to unveil next steps in digital identity market plan (Computer Weekly)

BCS calls for social media platforms to verify users to curb abuse (IT Pro)

ID verification for social media as a solution to online abuse is a terrible idea (diginomica)

Who is behind the online abuse of black England players and how can we stop it?* (New Statesman)

Euro 2020: Why abuse remains rife on social media (BBC News)

UK government

Online Media Literacy Strategy (DCMS)

Privacy enhancing technologies: Adoption guide (CDEI)

The Longitudinal Education Outcomes (LEO) dataset is now available in the ONS Secure Research Service (ADR UK)

Our Home Office 2024 DDaT Strategy is published (Home Office)

The UK’s Digital Regulation Plan makes few concrete commitments (Tech Monitor)

OSR statement on data transparency and the role of Heads of Profession for Statistics (Office for Statistics Regulation)

Good data from any source can help us report on the global goals to the UN (ONS)

The state of the UK’s statistical system 2020/21 (Office for Statistics Regulation)

Far from average: How COVID-19 has impacted the Average Weekly Earnings data (ONS)

Health

Shock treatment: can the pandemic turn the NHS digital? (E&T)

Can Vaccine Passports Actually Work? (Slate)

UK supercomputer Cambridge-1 to hunt for medical breakthroughs (The Guardian)

AI got 'rithm

An Applied Research Agenda for Data Governance for AI (GPAI)

Taoiseach and Minister Troy launch Government Roadmap for AI in Ireland (Irish Government)

Tech

“I Don’t Think I’ll Ever Go Back”: Return-to-Office Agita Is Sweeping Silicon Valley (Vanity Fair)

Google boss Sundar Pichai warns of threats to internet freedom (BBC News)

The class of 2021: Welcome to POLITICO’s annual ranking of the 28 power players behind Europe’s tech revolution (Politico)

Inside Facebook’s Data Wars* (New York Times)

Concern trolls and power grabs: Inside Big Tech’s angry, geeky, often petty war for your privacy (Protocol)

Exclusive extract: how Facebook's engineers spied on women* (Telegraph)

Face off

Can facial analysis technology create a child-safe internet? (The Observer)

#Identity, #OnlineSafety & #AgeVerification – notes on “Can facial analysis technology create a child-safe internet?” (Alec Muffett)

Europe makes the case to ban biometric surveillance* (Wired)

Open government

From open data to joined-up government: driving efficiency with BA Obras (Open Contracting Partnership)

AVAILABLE NOW! DEMOCRACY IN A PANDEMIC: PARTICIPATION IN RESPONSE TO CRISIS (Involve)

Designing digital services for equitable access (Brookings)

Data

Trusting the Data: How do we reach a public settlement on the future of tech? (Demos)

"Why do we use R rather than Excel?" (Terence Eden)

Everything else

The world’s biggest ransomware gang just disappeared from the internet (MIT Technology Review)

Our Statistical Excellence Awards Ceremony has just kicked off! (Royal Statistical Society)

Pin resets wipe all data from over 100 Treasury mobile phones (The Guardian)

Data officers raid two properties over Matt Hancock CCTV footage leak (The Guardian)

How did my phone number end up for sale on a US database? (BBC News)

Gendered disinformation: 6 reasons why liberal democracies need to respond to this threat (Demos, Heinrich-Böll-Stiftung)

Opportunities

EVENT: Justice data in the digital age: Balancing risks and opportunities (The LEF)

JOBS: Senior Data Strategy - Data Innovation & Business Analysis Hub (MoJ)

JOB: Director of Evidence and Analytics (Natural England)

JOB: Policy and Research Associate (Open Ownership)

JOB: Research Officer in Data Science (LSE Department of Psychological and Behavioural Science)

JOB: Chief operating officer (Democracy Club, via Jukesie)

And finally...

me: can’t believe we didn’t date sooner... (@MNateShyamalan)

Are you closer to Georgia, or to Georgia? (@incunabula)

A masterpiece in FOIA (Chris Cook)

How K-Pop conquered the universe* (Washington Post)

Does everything really cost more? Find out with our inflation quiz.* (Washington Post)

[feigeroman]

Thomas OCs: Roscoe

Number: 54 (ex-BR 76042) Class: BR Standard 4MT 2-6-0 Built: 1954 Arrived on Sodor: 1966 Service (Shed): Norramby Branch (Norramby) Livery: NWR Goods Black

Roscoe is one of the two main goods engines working on the Norramby branch, alongside Arthur. Although just as competent in his work, when it comes to everything else, Roscoe is pretty much everything that Arthur isn’t - he’s wayward, free-spirited, and much more liberal with how he goes about his work. Not for him, Arthur’s method of following all the rules as near to the letter as possible. Oh no. In Roscoe’s mind, the end is far more important than the means, meaning he doesn’t care how the job is done, so long as he can, at some point, call it done.

Roscoe also likes to think of himself as a cool man, though to what extent this is actually true is a subject of hot debate between himself and his fellow engines. In any case, this also extends to his mode of speech - he tends to pepper his sentences with hip words and phrases, most of which are hideously outdated, and often nigh-on incomprehensible, even to anyone with any knowledge of beatnik slang. It’s worth noting that although they may sound similar, the terminology Roscoe throws around bears no relation whatsoever to that used by Saffron. For one thing, she’s more of a late-60s/early-70s flower child, whereas Roscoe is more like a late-50s/early-60s beatnik. And for another, Saffron actually knows what all her crazy words and phrases mean, whereas Roscoe most empathically doesn’t. Not that this stops him...

Roscoe’s BR days are shrouded in mystery, and not just because of his incessant use of slang when talking to us about it. Records indicate that he worked mainly in the London area, with occasional sojourns up to the Midlands. This would at least partly explain his cool guy attitude, as the beatnik scene was starting to pick up in London around this time, and he was built just late enough to be easily influenced by it. Later on, however, Roscoe must have spent a significant amount of time based in Cornwall, as his accent still carries a tinge of Cornish, and his name originated from this area.

At any rate, Cornwall was where Roscoe’s BR service ended, at St Blazey in 1966. Almost immediately, he was snapped up by Sir Topham Hatt as part of his bulk-purchasing scheme of the 1960s. At that time, the Norramby branch’s freight services were still a joint NWR/BR operation, and Sir Topham Hatt needed an engine to handle his half of the service. Roscoe turned out to fit the bill, and for the next few years, he was the line’s sole goods engine.

When the obedient, no-nonsense Arthur came on the scene in 1975, there was an immediate clash between him and the wayward, free-spirited Roscoe. Naturally, the two engines butted heads over just how important the rules were. After an especially heated argument on the subject - during which Roscoe called Arthur a square - they both resolved to prove that their’s was the way to do things on the branch line.

The consequences of this clash were predictably chaotic: Roscoe's liberal attitude to his work caused him to have a derailment, and Arthur's insistence on following the rules caused him to run late, as he had to work around the derailed Roscoe, and subjected his crew to all the requisite red tape. It was only then that both engines were finally able to apologize to each other, and agreed to disagree. Arthur accepted that sometimes you just had to break the rules to get the job done on time, while Roscoe accepted that some rules were there for a reason - as he put it, “Sometimes it is hip to be square!“

Trivia

Roscoe’s creation was inspired by this photo edit by Sleeper Agent on deviantART. Not so much the picture itself, as the number 41 edited onto the unfortunate engine’s tender - this was SA’s way of implying the existence of other NWR engines besides our heroes, same as I’ve done.

SA originally identified it as a Stanier 2-6-0, and so this was what I used for Roscoe. It wasn’t until much later, however, that it was realized that the engine was actually an Ivatt 2-6-0. By then, I’d already used that design for one of my other OCs, and I didn’t feel like adding another one. So Roscoe became a 4MT - similar-but-different was what I was going for here.

Obviously this connection has since been severed after, for reasons explained elsewhere, I rejigged the NWR’s numbering sequence - Roscoe is now #54.

Roscoe was originally known as Lorenzo, as I figured this was a suitably hip-sounding name. However, two things ended up forcing me to change my mind: Firstly, the actual show introduced its own character called Lorenzo, and as I’ve said before, I don’t much like duplicating character names. Secondly, as with various other OCs of mine, I felt it sounded too modern, and looked for something that fit better while still sounding hip. The name Roscoe fit that criteria, and it had the added benefit of being British in origin.

[dansnaturepictures]

8 of my favourite pictures I took in August 2020 

1. View at Magdalen Hill, Hampshire

2. Yellow flowers at Lakeside Country Park, Hampshire

3. Some of one of my favourite birds the Great Crested Grebe at Lakeside 

4. Water at Fingle Bridge, Dartmoor, Devon 

5. Meldon Reservour on Dartmoor 

6. Wall Brown at Cape Cornwall 

7. Orange Swift moth at home 

8. Woodpigeon out the back 

I must admit one thing that is easier when the world is normal and I am at work in the office and in an average week will only take photos the Saturday and Sunday is these posts. Had I been in the office from next Tuesday onwards I would have quite liked the fact that I would post this then to add something to my social media in a time I would not normally post on my wildlife/photography accounts probably. Don’t get me wrong, I am loving every minute of being able to have walks with my camera as part of my working day each day though and then have the weekends. But its meant it can be hard to find where to stick these posts, of which I can’t believe I only have two left after this as the idea is the amount of my photos I select corresponds to the number of the month and 10 is the maximum number for a Tumblr photoset this strange year is certainly going very fast. With my life as it is now, doing these posts the last few months have been a classic Saturday morning job which I’ve enjoyed and has allowed me to reflect on the amazing wildlife experiences I have had each day and so many photos taken. A little bit later than that today as I began writing early afternoon and couldn’t finish this blog before we went out today which I shall post about later, but I thought just two days until the end of the month I would just post it now I very often write it up a few days prior to posting and its a pre-what I did in my day post. 

August 2020 has been packed, thrilling and fantastic for me come rain or shine of the very hottest kind in a heatwave starting the month and patches within it. The above meant I didn’t really know where to turn at times for picking these eight standout photos I took this month and notable ones miss out in the interest of giving different pictures a chance. Photographically the first point to make is my yields of photos each day got higher and higher and this has to be the month when I finish it I’ll have produced most photos in and certainly had a couple of the days I produced my most photos ever in a day during last week. I have really enjoyed it. 

To summarise the month for wildlife its been an insect dominated one again. The butterfly season may be quieter now but this month I was able to put what I think is the crucial cherry on the top of an extraordinary and amazing butterfly year for me again by seeing my first Painted Lady (Farlington Marshes) and Silver-spotted Skippers and Clouded Yellow (Old Winchester Hill) of the year to take my butterfly year list to 43 making it my second highest ever behind last year’s 45. Leaving just three I’ve seen in my life I am yet to see this year. One of those despite trying we just couldn’t make happen and the other two are not immediately local to us so its ones we didn’t go anywhere we could see them this year. So that’s why I feel I’ve seen all the butterflies I have done, and that time at Old Winchester Hill at the height of the heatwave was a particularly memorable day one of my best this year as I saw an abundance of insect life in a thriving flower meadow and much more wildlife in one of the most beautiful spots in Hampshire on the South Downs. What a start to the month I’ll keep that time with me always in memory. Its got to the stage the last few wet in places days I didn’t see a butterfly which is probably for the first time since well before the summer showing how crucial butterflies have been for me this month and the others this year with how many seen especially. I concluded my Big Butterfly Count surveys spanning July into August that national survey I contribute to well that day at Old Winchester Hill with so many seen. 

I think a big part of my August has been the amount of moths we have seen mostly coming in the house but outside too, with so many I managed to photograph and enjoy and of the ones I identified mostly with the kind help of others online six were new to me so far this month continuing a strong trend of my 2020 as I did in 2018 and 2019 really of noticing moths, yearning to know what they are and learning and celebrating them. Fitting 10 years on from when my butterfly and side interest in moths began too. 

But I cannot say August hasn’t been a birding month at all because it has, and compared to July I saw so much more. Year list wise seven year ticks to date renergised my year a little for this its always quieter over the summer with my bogey bird seen and another candidate for it ones I normally and can see easily but don’t in a year for whatever reason and two of my favourite birds and one on my B list seen gloriously during our weekend away in the West Country last week. I could add more bird year ticks yet and its meant my bird year list is competing with my last two years again being the third highest amount of birds I’ve seen on given dates lately. But bird wise alongside many other great species seen locally in the garden at Lakeside, and getting to visit the Peregrines of Winchester Cathedral due to something I was required to go to the office for in Winchester for the first time seeing them or any in the flesh since March, the big story has been those Great Crested Grebe chicks at Lakeside. I craved seeing this pair I’d followed before this year produce chicks and when they did at the end of July I was beyond excited and through this month I have taken many moments of pure joy and fascination at seeing these adorable youngsters of one of my favourite birds grow. Some of the best bits of my walks locally whilst working from home. I took so many pictures of them too. 

Other wildlife wise I had some great dragonfly moments in August a couple of Golden-ringed Dragonfly one of my very favourites sightings standing out that day at Old Winchester Hill we went to Cadman’s Pool in the New Forest and saw one a key place for them the forest is and we saw one in similar surroundings at Dartmeet, Dartmoor on Monday. Other insects have been seen by us like the Buff-tip moth caterpillar at the start of the month at Baddesley Common and Emer Bog and the Common Green lacewing in the kitchen yesterday. I’ve seen nice mammals this month too most notably my first bats of the year out the window and then I enjoyed a glorious dusk walk seeing them skim over beach lake at Lakeside what a moment. 

I’ve taken in many breathtaking landscapes this month producing so many photos of them I’ve seen some wonderful habitats in vibrant summer colour and the early autumnal signs I’ve been noticing have come on more fully with so many colourful leaves and berries observed. 

Finally a focal point of August was that instead of going to Rutland Water for the Bird Fair which we had done every year since 2008 obviously it was cancelled and held virtually which was good to bits of, we went to Devon staying in Dartmoor and visiting special locations we found last year in Cornwall too on Sunday. It was a sensational and needed few days away, where I had magical experiences for seeing birds, butterflies, some of my best views this year and much more in weather that we got so much sunshine out of in the end. I really enjoyed relaxing and taking in one of the best bits of the country wildlife and landscape wise some of my favourite habitats that weekend. Here’s to September! Stay safe and well all.