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distant--shadow · 2 months ago

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The witch and the widow chapters 1-4 author’s notes

Ok, so first off I feel I gotta preface this by saying I am absolutely not a history buff. Kinda the opposite of one really. I was one of less than 10% of the kids in my year of 300 or so that didn’t take history at GCSEs, mostly caus a subject taught and based around names and dates etc is the definition of something not suited for my type of brain, also I hugely lost interest in it caus we moved past the fun trebuchet eras and all that real fast and it became of slog of me falling asleep in lessons caus I had a teacher whose method was putting on movies and shutting the blinds (I’d always fall asleep and he was later jailed for being a p*edophile, so that’s a thing.) Anyway, all that to say I’m not good at this shit, but as ive gotten older I have taken a bigger interest in queer history in particular, and that often if not always links into other areas such as fashion, women’s rights, religion,the arts, class, and race etc. (I’m still not good at names and dates though!)

They are outfitted and arsenalled - the stones of the wall - in a manner to rival any army; tapestries of red and gold perhaps once brandished on battlefield as banners promenading around death now retired and indoor-still-air-still as taxidermy giving colour between all of the shades of metal, burnished and polished and in some cases rusting, some still purposefully left blood-stained, swords and pikes and maces arranged in wallpaper patterns as though flowers or fans, sword-sheath beams spreading from chest-plate armour suns.

Let’s start with something easy and recent. The Baron’s armoury was inspired by a few castles I’ve visited, these rooms are always so bizarre to me. I don’t know if this is at all of the time/how they were decorated or a more recent thing, but either way it’s pretty wild but I do love the visual and metaphor of it. In this one castle I found out from talking about the carpentry to an attendant that the decorative ceiling work around the chandelier above the dining room table actually hid a trapdoor - and there was other hidden doorways for passages and to secret rooms in this castle, that’s not that unusual - but this particular trapdoor was to allow for the chandeliers to be switched out. Why? Caus they had them in multiple colours of glass, and the lady of the castle liked the chandelier to co-ordinate with her dress if they were having guests round. Aint that such a flex? Definitely some food for future thought.

Aight. Clothing. So anyone that chats fic/au to me or is in my server has probably heard me yell to go watch Kaz Rowe’s videos many times. As I’ve said this fic aint meant to be historically accurate but it does kinda straddle histories, one of which being our own; so women wearing trousers and the like at this time would still be a crime, and draw a lot of attention . Imogen in men’s clothing genuinely isn’t meant to be much of a gender thing but a thing of practicality, and she has mostly lived in the countryside or in the outskirts, so she does not get into the trouble she would should she go into the towns and cities (another reason to keep away past the potential noise, but this Imogen will happily don a dress or skirts if she needs to, she’s just usually working – and maybe it’s a bonus that dressing as a man acts as a sort of flagging for any women who might be interested lol.)

I guess here I should mention how I think this version of Imogen's powers and how they’ve manifested (along with everyone else being unaware of them) will have somewhat changed her disposition and personality, it is a lot more aligned with later campaign Imogen who has more confidence and empowerment, she hasn’t been ostracised for her abilities or particularly bombarded by them, think more like when she has her circlet on, she chooses to listen in (mostly), although of course she has still heard many terrible things (and her life has still been pretty brutal but that’s to be written still).

(it’ll be really fun in this regard getting to explore and explain this version of Laudna, but early days for giving much away on that yet!)

Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower lawn, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.

real impractical for how tending towards practical the Lady dares to be, hands on, too busy for errant hairs in piano key ivory and ebony windswept and loose from the high bun she pins in place with a cameo broach, a memento mori engraved in silver and inlayed with ruby eyes and tied with red ribbons. Her skin also proudly displays the age and perhaps trauma that her hair does, lines from laughter and furrowed brows and the feet of the crows that cry from the top of the chimney pots

A little note as to say that Laudna’s appearance is heavily influenced by Victorian mourning wear, with some of the clothes cuts altered to be a little bit more regency and earlier in places. (her attire is a little outdated, further suggesting her distancing from society and fashion)

A couple of days ago Imogen happened upon a bird with an injured wing, crying helplessly and rolling in circles, feathers taking flight away from the bird that could not, settling around it as it panicked itself bald-

The bird could not live without the use of its wing, and it didn’t, whether that was by Prosciutto or a fox, only its feathers were left in a pile.

Imogen had gathered them into an empty burlap sack; taken them to one of the maids downstairs to clean, repurpose them for filling pillows.

Here’s a silly little easter egg for my p(r)oof reader. Last time he visited we was enjoying a cinnamon roll from the local bakery by the city river (as you do) and a cyclist hit a seagull. It was real distressing, the seagull was distressed too. A handfull of middle aged women stood around it not wanting or knowing how to intervene as its wing was twisted at a crazy angle and it flapped about in a pile of its own feathers, there’s still bird flu about so it is wise to not touch wild birds, and as bleak as it is I was saying to freshy that a wild bird who’s wings broken like that is gonna die, and probably slowly and painfully. Some man came along and lifted up the bird to take the bird off the path and laid it to rest behind an old bridge building, I think he must have mercy killed it too as the bird was already dead when we walked past 10 or so minutes later after finishing our cinnamon roll and giving a cautious glance. So there’s a nice happy memory thrown in there for him.

what appears to be driftwood breaches the surface, then another point, then another

the water belches

Ceviche scares, whinnying as he rears onto his back legs, the Lady leaning forward and clinging to his harness. Imogen stands in her stirrups, leaning across the gap over to the black stallion, grasping his reins and cooing

“All good, boy, all good-”

What had appeared to be driftwood lands on the surface with a slap, looking like the carcass of an old boat left to rot in the muddy bed of a dock, timber ribcaged and leathered skin cladding.

A femur surfaces, followed by a jaw.

Second easter egg for the p(r)oof is a quick one (I’m such a considerate writer, I know.) On a train ride to a loch we went to for a day out there is a stop that is on another lake/body of water, and right by the train tracks (which are at water height) there are 4 or 5 old ships stuck in the mud, most of them just the frames/structures of the old boats, mostly wood and some bits of metal, but they’re pretty big boats! It really looks like whale carcasses. I’ve always wanted to get of there and check it out, and we were gonna stop by on the way back but my health being what it is was giving me some grief that day so we missed 2 trains and then soon the daylight, so hopefully next time buddy.

There’s alotta meat and gore talk and Imogen being a vegetarian without the label for such is just another way of me playing round with all of her complex feelings about what the Lady might be doing, her feelings towards Angharad butchering and nourishing the women with these communal stews and all of that. I’ve been vegetarian myself for 20 years now, and it was all triggered by an existential crisis in my mid teens (still a huge fan of leather and blood though) – Imogen greatly cares about animals, struggles with the thought of anything being slaughtered, she is in some ways more empathetic than most because she knows those she does on so much more of a personal level, really feels how someone is reacting to a situation they are in, but also because of this she knows humans are often corrupt and vile and she is spared such thoughts from animals, only knows their instincts and the love and comfort and service they bring – and yet she will obsess over the Lady’s (potential) tooling on that saddlework leather that’s really fucking brutal if she thinks about it one way and beautiful if she thinks about it another hmmm what if everything’s not black and white.

Oh, and the stew is a homage to @picturesofthegoneworlds’ pre-campaign fic Intertwined which I am lucky enough to co-parent and her writing is hugely influential on mine.

There’s a few things being bread crumb trailed here that I can’t explain in the author notes yet, but I’m looking forward to when I can. One small detail I will give away is just a silly thing about the chapter headings. They are something of significance from within the chapter, given in its ‘proper’ name – maybe someone gets access to some books to do research at some point?

anyways, thanks @astoriacolumnstaircase for enabling me. will do another post like this for future chapters if folks find it interesting.

#imodna #imogen temult #laudna #browz writes #critical role

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manicrouge · 1 year ago

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Episode One: A Deal Set in Stone

[𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛] || [𝙰𝚄: 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜] || 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 13/01/24

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Tensions between Price's and Fisher's gangs are seemingly settled upon a deal made between the two leaders. After a brief celebration alone, Price is informed that there is a new detective in town looking to put a stop to the cities Communist Revolutionaries.

[𝙲𝚠]: mild threats (nothing too extreme), brief mentions of religion.

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 6.7k

[𝙰/𝙽]: Hi !! This is the first part of what is going to be a series. As a pre-warning, the first few parts will be there to build relationships so this series will be a slowburn romance. Also, I have rewrote history a little here for the sake of plot, so please excuse that (I'm hoping my history GCSE and A level will make it somewhat coherent).

ENJOY!!

Comments are always appreciated !!

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

There's an illness in the air, a sickly disease running through the men surrounding the table.

They keep their heads raised, not daring to look down as they stare down their noses to the man sitting opposite to him.

A shadow is cast over his eyes, sockets and pupils disguised by the flat hat on the top of his head as he pulls his cigar from between his lips, a grey cloud of spoke escaping from out of his mouth.

Sitting across from him is a man, his hair lathered in hair gel, slicked back. A stray strand of ink back hair curls forward, pressing against his forehead as he offers the latter a tight-lipped smile. A thin moustache sits atop his upper lip, appearing as though the few fine hairs have been drawn on with a pen, and his blue eyes pierce through his soul as he assesses him.

As he shifts, dipping his hand in his pocket, he hears the shift of something behind him and then the clink of metal.

Such response in the sudden movement results in the men crowded behind the man sitting on the other side of the table to dip their hands into the inside of their blazer pockets, a gleam of metal greeting his eye. Only, such is resolved as the man holds up his hand, offering the view of a box of cigarettes.

Turning his head to the side, he catches the man with a mohawk standing behind him holding his pistol firmly aimed at the man's head. With a gentle sigh, he grabs his wrist with his hand, 'not now, Johnny,' he utters, looking at the man. Even in the dingy light of the room, he notes the red flush on the man's face, though, he doesn't elaborate on such a sight as his hold tightens on the man's wrist.

Johnny looks down at him and with a reluctant shrug, he puts his gun back into his holster, his arms falling back down to his side.

He’s got a good heart about him, wanting to protect him- did the very same thing during the war, and he feels his own heart ache slightly when he requests he does so. Nothing more than a stern father in that regard, though, when he turns his attention back to the group on the other side of the table, he's assured in his decision.

Can't fuck this up. Not now.

'A man can't even smoke wit' y'ur men,' snarls the man from the other side of the table, his voice notably pitchy as he strikes his match, holding it to the end of his cigarette.

Holding his arm out to the side, he waves his hand in the air quickly to extinguish the flame, tossing the match over his shoulder. ‘Is it a crime to smoke 'round here now, John?'

'Not at all,' he answers bluntly, 'sure you'd know it was though; it's a struggle to keep your nose out of my business, isn't it, Irving?' he asks with a smile forming on his face as he clears his throat, tapping his cigar, ash sprinkling into the ashtray beside him.

Drawn out laughter graces his ears as Irving leans back into his chair, elbow staying firmly placed against the table with his cigarette between his fingers.

'Very funny man, you are, Price,' he responds with a scoff, 'when I hear about the things you're doin' it is my business,' he states, 'never heard of your family until you came back from the war, I suppose that has something to do with the woman running the business while you boys were away, ey?'

The air freezes, none of them even muster up the courage to laugh at the man, instead, he narrows his eyes and takes another drag from his cigar.

There's a noise behind him, fortunately, for the sake of the deal, it isn't a gun this time.

'Not like you'd know that is it?' a voice from behind him emerges in a bitter tone.

The man sitting opposite to them stops laughing, looking through John to the man behind him.

'No, 'cause you didn't fight for your country, just stayed here at home sitting on your ass,' he continues, resting his hand at the back of Price’s chair.

His lip twitches at the comment, the wrinkles on the man's forehead being so telling of the mental turmoil in his mind, he reserves the pestering feeling to laugh for when they're free from the room.

'I was exempt, more honourable than what happened with your old Cap'n here, isn't it, Gaz?’ he asks, pointing his cigarette in his direction. 'Really ruined your chances of wanting to be a Captain, hey? And for what?’

In his veins, his blood grows hotter by the second, the disrespect directed towards him causing his throat to tighten. It’s as though he has a noose around his neck, each comment made in passing being said with the intent to pull the noose tighter until his neck eventually snaps from the pressure. It’s the oldest trick in the book, truly it is. If he snaps now, he knows he will carry the regret til his last breath. So, he takes a breath to calm his temper, shaking off the urge to reach for his pistol to put a bullet between the eyes of the smug faced prick sitting before him.

'We're not here to discuss that,’ he smoothly states.

Sinking further into his chair, Irving rubs the stubble on his chin with puckered lips as his eyes scan John. It's supposedly demeaning, the type of look a wolf gives to a defenceless lamb. It's a real shame that this wolf never gets blood on his own pristine coat; if such was not the case, he very well would have shuddered in his view.

'Please proceed then, Price,' he says briefly, 'you fought hard to get this meeting with me so I hope whatever it is you have to suggest is worth your efforts and my time.'

'I want you to rig the race in our favour,' he simply says.

'Rig the race in your favour?' snorts Irving, 'in your fucking dreams.'

'We've seen a 200% in increase in bets over the course of this week,' he simply says, 'people are votin' for the magical horse we've got and they commies are sneaking payments under the table to us to make sure they have a chance of the money if the horse does win.'

Rolling the cigarette between his fingers, he looks back to the men sitting behind him. There’s a look of amusement etched into his feature, although, the look on his face was as flattering as the sight of a name of a relative carved into a grave tone.

'And why would I do that for you?' he asks, ‘y’ haven't given me a single good reason why I should do something of convenience to you considering you've been nothing but an inconvenience to me since you returned from the war.'

Rubbing his mouth with his hands, he attempts to quell the brewing heat bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He's a difficult man to please, and had he been elsewhere, he very well would have succumb to the temptation wrecking his mind.

One shot and he’d be gone.

Yet, a man who is not trigger happy is much more of a man than one who goes around killing whoever. Killing with intent is what makes you a true threat.

'We've been tiring resources tryin' to get back at each other, you're missing out on making money and so am I... besides, with the communists, it's getting harder and harder for you to fund these events—'

'That's not true,' he cuts off, 'we have plenty of people investing in our horses.'

'Not what I've seen,' a gruff voice from behind John answers.

Irving sneers in the direction of the group. It's unflattering- the way his top lip lifts to exposes his yellow teeth, how the muscles in the face dent his appearance. Truly, all his charm is to be found in his money.

Had he been a poor man, Price is convinced he would die alone.

'You need us,' John says, 'I'm willing to put aside our differences, I'm willing to help you make money- besides, with the way the Adams' have been acting recently, you need us to make sure your business stays intact.'

'I have other people who are offering me a handsome sum of money for my services,’ he says with a smile, ‘and I can deal with the Adams’ anyway, they’re not a threat to me nor my business.’

'Can you?' John asks, 'you've been promising to kill him for months and he's still walkin' around actin' like he runs shit,' he scoffs, leaning further over the desk. 'I'm offering to pay you out of my pocket to ensure we keep making money and you're going to get share of that; more business for me means more business for you.'

The cogs are turning in his thick skull as he turns his head to the side, looking at a man standing at the front of the group surrounding him.

Circular glasses sit on the edge of his protruding nose, his thin lips pressing together as the man before him looks at him. Small dots for eyes grow wide from the shift of attention as John also looks to the man. His boney fingers clench around the leather book in his hands as he steps forward.

'How much will you be making Mr. Fisher?' he asks, his tone coming explicitly from his nose.

John hears Johnny snicker behind him, followed by a small 'oof' as fabric shifts.

'Three hundred guineas,' he answers, 'and if we continue to work together, that amount will only go up.'

The man looks down at the book in his hand, flipping it open with a short 'hm'. His fist clenches at the sight, though he busies himself with the changing look on the wrinkled brow of the man.

'You can sink the Adams' if you do this,' prompts another voice from behind him.

Good lad, Simon.

Pursing his lips, he pulls out his chair, standing up. For a moment, Price feels his heart sink at the very sight of the man preparing to leave the room, yet, such doubt is salvaged as the man places his hands against the table, leaning forward.

'Speak with my lawyer,' he says, 'if I do this for you, I want all the men you have working under me gone; I know you have some snooping around in business that does not concern them.’

Price smiles.

'Only if you do the same for me.’

Irving’s bottom lips tighten as he sneers at Price.

'Fine,' he exhales sharply, 'you go against your word, Price, I'll have all of you hanged on the leashes you need to keep your men on.'

'Been through this hundreds of times before, y' don't have to tell me twice,' he answers with a smile.

Irving takes a moment to look at the man before pulling away, straightening his posture. As though he's a stroppy toddler, he juts out his bottom lip at his words, turning his nose up upwards while pressing his arms against his torso. Without another word, he walks out of the room, three men following behind him, leaving the lawyer shakily sitting down in the chair alongside two men standing behind him.

Placing the book in his hands down, he opens his mouth and lets out a short breath. Sweat gathers on his brow as he turns his attention towards Price.

'You promise no foul play, right?' gulps the man, 'c- cause if you do something that messes everything up, then you're risking—'

'No foul play,' calmly answers the latter, 'you're safe; we're not gonna do anything, are we boys?' he asks, lifting his head up, motioning towards the three standing behind him.

'Nae,' Johnny confirms, 'got no reason t' risk a decent deal.’

'See?' Price asks, holding his arms out either side of him, causing the man sitting in front of him to flinch. 'Y' can trust us. Men of our word, we are.'

Pulling a pen from out of the front pocket of his blazer, he gulps, flicking through pages in his notepad. John watches with narrow eyes, lifting his hand to grab the edge of the flat cap sitting on his head. Tugging it down, the tips of his fingers ghost the metal sewed into the hat, and when he look back to the man sitting in front of him, he offers him a tight-lipped smile.

'So lets talk business, ey?'

─

Smoke pours from the chimneys of the homes and factories in the street as he travels down the road. The smoke billowing from his cigar in his mouth mixes with the spouts of smog blowing in the breeze.

Houses tightly-knitted either side of him contain the laughter of children, the calling of working men, and the conversations of the women passing by. Yet, their talk is muted as they cup their hands around their mouths. Such secrecy does not contain the content of what they’re discussing as Price catches them occasionally glancing at him as he walk. He’s not disheartened by such, in fact welcomes them.

Besides, secrecy only got as far as a shilling does.

It’s a noose around the neck of the speaking user by the time that shilling is tucked in a pocket of the Peeping Tom; that's simply how the business works, and of course he knows that.

He has to considering some of the eyes on him.

Fortunately, that's where he likes to be; had he been someone who disliked the eyes on someone else, then he definitely chose the wrong career to pursue.

Pulling the cigar from out of his mouth, he tugs on his waistcoat, jacket trailing behind him as he walks down the main street, flames from the blacksmiths firing back as the ting of a shovel hitting the pile of coal sitting on the street fills his ears.

Its been a while since he's seen the sun, and his dull mind aches as he attempts to figure out the last time he's seen the glowing orb in the sky. Perhaps it might have been last week, though, he never really looks up, only downward.

'Mornin', Mr. Price,' calls a voice brightly.

Lifting his head up, he looks at the man adorned in the uniform of the law and he watches as he holds the tip of his helmet, tilting it in his direction. A smile beckons upon his lips, though he doesn't let it show as he exhales a mouthful of smoke, giving a short nod in the direction of the man.

Coppa's were blind, a quids enough to make them forget whatever they saw, sweep it under the table and into a grave.

Flicking the cigar onto the street, he holds his arms up, pushing open the wooden doors to the pub, the faint smell of booze greeting him before he even steps foot through the door.

It's difficult to breathe in the Hindsight; the air is pumped with the hot breath of the generous patrons and the smoke from the cigarettes in the hands of them. It’s not something he would change about it though; the burn in his lungs was simply just a reminder that he's indeed alive, away from Flanders Fields and home.

Pushing open the door to the pub, all heads in the surrounding area snap around to see him.

It's silent as he walks in, the chatter and laughter he heard while standing outside the doors of the pub being nothing but a flaking memory. They look at him with doe eyes, even the wrinkled skin of the weathered men he recalls seeing on the battlefield look to him with the same fear he spies in the eyes of the women.

Without a word, he moves up to the bar, the talking resuming, though, no longer to the level it had been prior to his arrival.

Digging his hand into the pocket of his coat, he pulls out one coin, as the man behind the bar quickly approaches him with worn sunk in eyes looking at him with a bated breath. 'What can I get you today, Mr. Price?' he sweetly asks, his voice wobbling as he looks at him.

'Scotch,' Price answers.

'Yes, right away, on the house as always,' he says with a nod, though, when he turns his back to retrieve the bottle from behind him, Price settling a coin down onto the counter.

Placing the glass down, he pops off the diamond lid on the bottle, pouring some into the glass he grabbed from under the bar.

'I was readin' the paper this morning,' begins the man, grabbing the glass one the stream of liquor stops. 'Saw you've been looking for a barmaid in here.'

'Yeah... with the constant freak outs from Blake, Melissa didn't want to stay after he hit her,' he confesses, 'can't blame the girl not wantin' to be here, but I doubt she'll find a man to marry her; she was a barmaid for a reason,' he stiffly explains, busying himself with cleaning an unmarked glass. 'What had you readin' the paper?'

'Looking at the races,' he says, 'business as usual.'

'You see the thing in the paper about the States?' asks the man, leaning in closer, lowering his tone, 'there's a rumour that Mr. Churchill is in a deal with them; one of the reporters spoke on their close relations. Can you believe that? The government are doing this, even after we've refused to give 'em the money back from the First World War.'

He finds a smile meeting his face as he looks down at the glass in his hand, bringing it to his mouth, pouring the contents of the drink down. A warmth spreads through his chest as he places it down, all for it to be refilled immediately, the man nearly shattering the glass in his hand as he fumbled to pick the bottle back up.

'Wouldn't put it past 'em,' answers the other, 'the Americans were like bumbling idiots in the fuckin' trenches.'

Memories crop up from his time in the war, the difference of the Yanks to the Brits and the French. He recalls how his skin was branded with thick clumps of congealed blood and dirt, how his feet were sore and cut up from the thick mud from the flooded trenches. They enjoyed to call out for mercy, to point their fingers and make demands when they weren't even in the thick of it.

They didn't know war.

They weren't soldiers.

'I remember them being like that- came into war prim and proper they did while we rotted in those fucking trenches for years before they even bothered to join the fight,' he scoffs, placing the bottle down, 'and they have the cheek to tell us that we owe them money? It's because of our fuckin' fight that they're still allowed to be the oh so great country they are,' he snarls.

'Never lost yourself in those trenches, did you, James?' he asks with a smile, 'good to see y' still got that fight in you.'

'Only because of you, Cap'n,' he answers with a small nod of his head as Price drinks some more of his drink. 'Say, John, don't suppose you could do me a favour, ey?' he asks, dipping his hands into the front of his dirty white apron, pulling out a coin, 'I'm workin' til late all week so I won't be able to put money down for the races, could you pick a horse for me?'

Holding his hand out, the coin is dropped in his palm and he looks down at it, 'what horse?' he asks, looking at him.

'Heard Johnny's gonna have a spell cast on Midnight Willow, that true?' he asks, 'horse is supposed to be blessed if that happens, I heard. Never thought a witch would be one for dealing blessings, but I suppose I might as well not judge a book by its cover.'

Pressing his thumb down onto the coin, his tongue trailed on the back of his teeth as he takes a deep breath. 'Yeah, it is,' he says, nodding his head, 'she's gonna be the fastest horse in the race,' he says so with a grin.

The doors behind him creak with the force of which they're pushed open, and the chatter falls quiet as footsteps fill his ears.

Picking up his glass, he brings it to his mouth once again. His eyebrows raise as he catches sight of the same flat cap on his own head as the man approaches him, leaning against the countertop.

'Kyle, can I get you something to drink?' the man behind the bar promptly asks.

'No; not staying long,' responds Kyle with a small smile, 'thanks though,' he adds, looking at Price.

'What's wrong?'

'Kate wants to see you; she said it's urgent,' he promptly says.

Standing up, he tilts his head back as he finishes the rest of his drink, placing the glass against the counter. Offering a short nod to the man, the pair of them begin to head towards the exit of the pub.

'She say what she wants?'

'No, but she sounds pissed. What have you done?' he asks with an amused smile on his face.

Tucking his hands into his pockets, he takes a moment to ponder the possibilities of what could have the woman in such a foul mood, although, as he thinks of recent events, he struggles to think about what exactly he could have done to antagonise her.

'Nothing I can think of; she was more than happy with the peace deal between us and Irving,' he says, 'never know with her though; sticks her nose into all sorts, goes where she has no business going.’

Kyle raises an eyebrow.

'You saying you've done something you don't want her to know about recently?'

His expression remains stoic as they continue through the street. Flames from the iron works fan against them, and he lifts his head upwards as the sound of cheers fill his ears. Kyle scoffs, dipping his hand into his blazer, grabbing a box of cigarettes.

'Fuckin' commies,' he snarls, opening the box of cigarettes in his hands. 'They've been gettin' worse too; they trashed a cart in the train station the other week.'

'I saw it in the news,' answers the other with a prompt nod of his head, 'causin' more trouble than we are.'

'I don't know why they even bother,' Kyle says.

‘They're angry,' John answers, 'not surprised; fought to keep the country a float and the reward the common man gets is a cut in wages.’

Kyle laughs.

'Should go and get a sign and join the crowd if that's how you feel about them.’

'I'm not an idiot,' he retorts, 'nothings gonna change no matter how much paint and ply wood they use.'

As the crowd progresses down the street, the pair of them move from off of the road onto the pathway. Kyle lights his cigarette, placing it between his lips, taking a drag. People on the path move quickly out of the pairs way as they turn towards a house, moving up a step.

Pushing the door open, Kyle takes another drag from the cigarette in his hand, holding the door for a moment for John to follow in behind. Progressing through the cramped living room, John watches for a moment as he closes the door behind him.

Despite the small space, there's a thudding from beyond the room which translates to many footsteps and he 's bemused at the thought of the business happening beyond the tiny living room.

Shrugging his jacket off of his shoulders, he placed it on the clothes rack, progressing further through the house, following the scent of the lit cigarette with ease. He tucks his hands into the pocket of his blazer as he rounds the corner into the dining room, seeing the doors against the far wall of the living room have been opened.

A busy bustling strikes him as a knife would, wounding him with a weeping wound of pride as he lifts his head, lazily trotting into the room with a smug smile on his face. Kyle stands in the middle of the busy room, his hand placed on the shoulder of a blonde haired woman who turns her head upwards to Price as he enters.

Her lips are pressed firmly against one another as her brows furrow before she looks back at Kyle positioned behind her. As far as he can see, the look on her face doesn't shift- instead, it stays the same as she slowly starts to raise from the chair. Moving past the crowds of men, parting them as Moses did the red sea, she crosses her arms, her black boots clunking against the ground as she approaches him.

'Took your time,' she comments, 'thought you would have come right back here after making that deal with Irving.'

'Wasn't in the mood for a verbal beating,' he confesses, pulling his hat from off of his head, 'went to the Hindsight instead.'

She rolls her eyes.

'Kyle said you have something important to tell me.'

'I do,' she confirms, nodding her head. She pauses for a moment as she raises her hand, the sleeve of her black cardigan falling down her arm as she brushed her hands through his hair, taking a short moment to look at him before shortly nodding. 'I wouldn't call a meeting for no reason,' she adds, pulling her hand away from him.

'Alright!' he calls, addressing the room of people.

The ticking of the typewriters and the low chatter all comes to a sudden stop and it's as though he has frozen time. Beady eyes look to him and Kate standing at the front of the room, all aside from one man standing in the corner of the room, far too focused on the knife in his hand.

'Everyone take twenty, got something important to discuss with the lady,' he sharply states.

The air thickens as people quickly pick up their belongings. Fortunately, they're smart enough to know who he expects too stay and who he expects to leave, and as the crowd files through the doors, Kate moves past him, closing the door behind the last worker who leaves.

It closes with a click and the emptiness of the room is notable as he finds only three men standing. Walking further in, he rests against one of the desks, looking at the blonde-haired woman.

'You have the floor,' he says, motioning to her, ‘go on.’

'I got news from the boys working in London,' she begins, walking back into the room, her hands dipping into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. 'Apparently, they're sending a detective here to look for something- boy's heard something about it having something to do with the communists.'

His eyebrows raise.

'And this concerns us because?'

'The detective they're sending is from the States, John,' she confirms, 'got a familiar name, I've read about him in the papers when I visited home after the war... infamous detective when it comes to crushing crime and commies.'

A small 'hm' escapes his mouth as he raises his hand to rub the scruff of his beard, tilting his head to the side as he watches the woman light her cigarette.

'How'd he treat the gangs back home?' asks the man stationed in the corner of the room, pushing himself off of the desk. 'He cruel to them?'

'From what I know,' she begins, pulling her cigarette from her mouth, 'he's had a lot of people put behind bars. Although, supposedly, he's here to deal with the raising threat of the communists; you know how it's been recently, the governments scared to do anything about them in case they upset Russia.'

'So, they're sendin' a random guy from the States to sort it out?' asks Simon, 'bit odd.'

Keeping her eyes trained on John, the man shifts under her view, turning his attention to behind him to Johnny. The man chews on his bottom lip.

'Y' sure he's not coming here for us?' Johnny asks.

Kate simply looks at him with a raised eyebrow before turning to John, 'what have you done?' she asks with narrow eyes.

A prompt smile appears on the man's face as he shrugs his shoulders, looking at the woman. 'What?' he says politely.

'Boys, do you mind giving us some space?' Kate says, though, all of them know she is not asking them to leave, rather, telling them. At the very least, she can't get tripped on her attitude, and fortunately for themselves, they know better than to question her judgement as the three of them are quick to leave the room.

John watches as they move through the room, and as they step through the same door as all of the other workers, the door closes with a click.

Immediately, her eyes are back on him, the look similar to one he was familiar with in his prime years of youth before he cared to sort his act out. Ironically, he found that the older he grew, the more he found himself falling back into the same habits he had had during his teenage years, only, this time, the police didn't attempt to trip him up on his petty crimes.

Lessened the blow of the more serious ones too.

'What have you done?' she cautiously asks, 'clearly, you've done something; I can see it in your eyes.'

'Read me like a fuckin' book don't you?' he snorts, placing his hands against the edge of the table he was leaning against, not daring to have his eyes leave hers. Her smugness is elegant, frankly a tad disturbing too as he knows the brewing anger in her stomach is sure to be boiling the impending vitriol bubbling in her throat.

'A robbery went wrong- nothin' I can't handle by myself.'

'What?' she asks, 'John—'

'Told my men to steal me four bikes,' he begins, pushing himself up from off of the table, plucking the cigarette out of her hand and placing it in his mouth. 'Y'know, the yard that Dean owns in London, gets loads of shipments every day and I had them tracking a shipment of bikes; thought it'd be better than them havin' to take my car everywhere—'

'What happened?'

'They stole the wrong thing,' he answers quickly, 'got the shipment, moved it to Alex's scrapyard, and when they opened it, they didn't find bikes, no,' he laughs, taking another drag from the cigarette, 'instead of the bikes, inside the shipment we found twenty-five Lewis machine guns, ten-thousand rounds of ammunition, fifty semi-automatic rifles, and two-hundred pistols with shells.’

The words leave his mouth as a mouthful of bile would, though, he doesn't flinch at his confession. Kate's face pales as she stares at him while he busies himself with putting the cigarette out in the ashtray.

'Christ, John,' she exhales.

'All bound for here- England. They were sent by someone, probably something concerning government officials; you know what they're like, y' can't trust anythin' they say.'

'You stupid boy,' she scolds, catching the edge of his blazer in her hand, balling his fist around the fabric, 'tell me you threw them into the dock.'

He pauses.

‘We put them back in the factory to keep them out of the rain- they hadn't even been greased yet.'

Her grip on his blazer falls loose as she raises her hand, slapping his chest harshly.

Instead of catching her wrists, he allows her to do so, simply standing and taking every blow she delivers to him. After a short while, she relents, turning her back to him, brushing her hand through her blonde hair, huffing. She pauses, looking over her shoulder at him.

'So that's why they're sending a cop from the States?' she asks, 'to get the missing shipment of guns back?'

'Maybe, maybe not; the crate was unmarked, whoever was sending the guns clearly didn't wanna be known. They were in London, so, whoever was getting the shipment is there- I don't know anything else.'

'John,' she lowly says, 'you're going to make unnecessary enemies- do you even know who they belong to?' she asks, 'they could be anyones- what if that shipment was for the Corallo's? Or even worse, what if they are meant for the government? Then what?' Her voice swells in her throat as she paces back and forward, rubbing her hands together. ‘You have lost enough through stupid actions, I'm not going to let you ruin the business I managed while you were away at war.'

'I'm not going to,' he reassures softly, although, with the tone she was carrying (had it been anyone else), he would have fancied cutting her tongue out of her mouth for just a short period of silence. 'I'll get rid of them after everything with Fisher has been sorted. I'll drop them in the dock n' no one will have to worry about them.'

She looks at him with a weary glint in her eyes, something he can only liken to a frightened small animal. It's a rarity to see genuine uneasiness in her eyes; he's become far too acquainted with the familiarity of her stoic, cold gaze. Only time ‘er eyes ever light up is when she sees her missus.

But this time, it's different; she's scared.

'I'll get rid of them, Kate, you have my word,' he says firmly, resting his hand against her should in an attempt to comfort her. 'Don't tell any of the boys f'r me, eh? Don't need to make it any harder than it has to be.'

There's trouble brewing behind her eyes, the brewing acid of an argument lingering on her mouth as she trails her tongue across her bottom lip, wetting it with saliva before pressing her lips firmly together. The tension in her brow remains as she eyes him.

'Three days time,' she says, 'I want them gone in three days; you're a capable man, John, you're not a fool and I don't want you to do something that could cause more trouble than it's worth.'

Of course, she's right, and his preemptive interest falls short at the sound of her voice.

'I won't,' he says, 'keep it a secret for me, eh?'

'Three days, and if they're not gone, I'm telling the boys,' she warns sharply, turning on her heel towards the door. 'Keep your head down with this detective coming as well; if he's here for the communists make sure you don’t change his aim.'

He watches as she walks away, her black skirt swaying as she marches towards the door. Pushing himself up off of the table, he exhales, crossing his arms. 'Did they say the name of the detective?'

'Phillip Graves,' she calls, not bothering to turn her head as she walks out of the door.

His brow creases upon hearing the name of the man leaving her mouth. It met his ears as an old friend meets another for a drink, sitting comfortably, acting as though time never passed them by.

'Phillip Graves,' he utters to himself, narrowing his eyes as he follows after Kate.

─

You sit on a park bench, your hands pressed against your knees, a navy blue hat atop your head as you look forward. When a figure moves to sit beside you, you don't flinch, instead, you busy yourself with the view of the ducks in the pond before you, only shifting to cross your legs.

The fabric of his suit settles as he lets out a sharp breath, spreading his legs a little. Leaning forward, he rests his forearms against his thighs, keeping his eyes glued in the same direction as yours, only, you're sure he has very little concern for the ducks in the pond.

'Nice to finally meet ya in person,' he utters, 'though, I suppose we could have met in some other way,' he says quietly under his breath.

'As far as people are concerned, we're not working together,' you respond.

'I know, just... British intelligence shit goes over my head; we usually just go in guns blazin’ and hope for the best,' he admits.

'Can't do that- not if you're right about who has the guns.'

You don't miss the chuckle that escapes his mouth. It's demeaning, one that states that he knows better than you do.

He doesn’t.

'Oh, I'm right, doll,' he firmly says, 'John Price.'

He speaks his name with an unflattering tone, the words falling from is mouth as phlegm would. There's very little you really know about this man, and, had you not been informed by past police reports and various individuals, you very much would have been fooled by the mans outward appearance.

You recall the picture in the file you were handed during the meeting you attended with the Prime Minister and Mr. Churchill, how the man passed you the item and while they had been talking, you spent all your time reading through the notes on what they kept on him. Even then, in the eyes of those who ran the country, you commend his ability to keep the truth in the shadows.

Besides, he’s a war hero.

His photo was charming, though you know well the man has most definitely changed from the youthful boy who stared up at you from the page. He was a 'young juvenile' Churchill had remarked, always getting into trouble, until he joined the military.

But now he's back to his troublesome ways, striking a match without the true knowledge of how big the flame could be.

'Remember what we agreed on. He frequents the pub by his home address- so do the people in his group,' he explains, 'they're lookin' for a barmaid and, fortunately, you're looking for a job.'

Clutching the fabric of your blue skirt, you nod your head, watching as the Mallards in the water fight. Two males. The female watches idly, uninterested in their fight, opting to swim away from the chaos.

'I know,' you say firmly, 'don't get too close to the fire,' you warn, standing up from off of the bench.

You turn to him for a short moment, catching the grin on his face as he nods his head.

‘You're the one going into the monsters den, doll,' he says, 'fortunately, if it gets too hot, you've got me to fan the flame,' he says, offering a wink as you turn your head, grabbing your bag off of the bench with a sigh.

You say nothing else to him as you turn to follow the same path you used to get to the pond in the first place, leaving the grinning man to watch you as you walk away.

The smile on his face doesn't fade as you leave and he doesn't move from where he is sitting. Instead he leans further into the bench, tugging down his black tie with a small sigh, the straps of the holster holding his gun under his arm tightening as he moves his arms backwards to stretch.

There's a heat brewing in his chest, causing his heart to tighten and an exciting nausea to strike him like a blade. It's an odd feeling which causes sweat to pour from his pores, though, he's not fearful in the eyes of duty, and, when you're but a dot in the distance, he tugs at the hat on his head. It presses firmly against his forehead, a shadow cast over his eyes as he stands up and turns his back to the sun, walking in the opposite direction to which you went.

‘Duty calls,’ he utters with a smile, his eyes narrowing as he heads further and further away from the sun.

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

TAGS: (If you would like to be added to the tag list let me know!) @forever-twenty-two-years-old @iizx7y @phantomreadsandreblogs @talooolaaloolla

#cod #call of duty #alternate universe #john price x reader #captain john price #peakyblinder!johnprice #simon riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #phillip graves #john price x you #captain price #peaky blinders au #cod mw2 #john price #price cod #captain johnathan price #john price cod #kate laswell

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xxskyethetiredemoxx · 5 months ago

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Intro Post

Name: Skye

Age: 16

Pronouns: he/him

Gender: male

Sexuality: pansexual

Member of @cherry-medicine-hate-group

Hobbies and interests:

Music (I sing and play guitar, and I love listening to music constantly)

Drawing

Writing

Reading (I'm currently reading The Shining, by Stephen King)

Doctor Who (best show in existence)

DIY clothes

Things I want to get into doing:

Filmmaking and media production

Languages (I'm wanting to learn French, Spanish, and Polish, but I'm procrastinating)

Learning new instruments

Bands and artists I like:

My Chemical Romance

Bring Me The Horizon

NOAHFINNCE

Destroy Boys

YUNGBLUD

Evanescence

Palaye Royale

Pierce The Veil

Green Day

Black Flag

Paramore

The Misfits

Against Me!

GHØSTKID

The Used

Sex Pistols

Citizen Soldier

Icon for Hire

St Terrible

Madina Lake

Slipknot

And a lot of others, but those are some of my favourites

More info (DNI, tags, some things I post about, more info about me) under the cut

DNI: racists, homophobes, ableists, transphobes, TERFs, Israel supporters, sexists, anyone who hates other people for their religion or lack thereof, basically any bigots.

This is a pro Palestine blog, and I post fundraisers for Palestinians who need help due to their situations, so if you have money to donate, please check the fundraisers on my page.

I sometimes post vents, but I always put tws and tag them in case people don't wanna see them.

DMs and asks are open, I will block anyone who sends weird or hateful messages.

My tagging system:

#skye talks about stuff is my generic tag for any original posts or when I add to reblogs

#skye talks about emo shit & #skye is emo af are for emo related stuff

#skye needs therapy & #skye vents are for vent posts

#asks is for asks (obviously)

#i love my mutuals is anything related to my mutuals

#skye talk about politics is for political posts

#skye is gay af is for lgbtq+ posts

#music is life is for anything music related

#skye talks about punk shit is for punk related stuff

#diy is life is for my diy projects

#skye reblogs is for when I reblog posts

#skye does art is for my art

I haven't always had this tagging system, so any posts before (and a lot on) 12th October 2024 don't have this

I live in the UK, but I was born in Spain, and I'm half Polish. I was home schooled until I was 14, when I started my GCSEs.

I have been told by everyone I know that I most likely have ADHD and autism, but I haven't been able to get diagnosed. I struggle a lot with my mental health and trauma.

I have a little sister, she's two years younger than me. She's starting her GCSEs now. I live with her, my parents, and my amazing cat

I'm doing a levels, my subjects are Psychology, Biology, and Criminology. I'm somehow really good at making friends, but I'm also really good at getting people to hate me. And usually it's for no real reason.

In case you couldn't tell, I'm like really emo.

Credit for dividers used @fawndollie

#Skye talks about stuff #music is life #intro post #might update later #introductory post #introduction #blog intro #pinned intro #emo #music #trans guy

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la-galaxie-langblr · 7 months ago

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Hot Enby Language Summer 2024

It's that time of year again :D

I have about 3 months of summer holidays and I intend to make the most of them! My main priorities and the only languages I'll be writing goals for are French and Irish, but if a particular language takes my fancy I'll have a bit of fun with it :)

French 🇫🇷

Goal 1: Recap the past year of learning

Create flashcards for all vocab in Semester 1 reading booklet

" Semester 1 speaking booklet

" Semester 2 reading booklet

" Semester 2 speaking booklet

Do 2 weekly exercises on different grammar points

Goal 2: Learn 500 new words in a range of areas, including but not limited to:

Everyday objects

Working in retail

Religion

Linguistics

Gaming

This means about 6 words per day, I might create vocab list posts but it'll depend on my energy tbh

Goal 3: Have 5 conversations in French that last at least 15 minutes each, either with native French speakers or learners at a level similar to or above mine, so if you want to chat over voice or video call them hmu! I use Discord a lot but open to other options.

Irish 🇮🇪

Goal 1: Get comfortable with pronunciation and spelling. It's much more regular than it looks and it's an essential foundation!

Goal 2: Complete my beginner's workbook! My overall goal for Irish this year is to reach A2 level but since my learning has been so on-and-off I have quite a few knowledge gaps, so I want to finish a basic course before I buy the GCSE textbook.

Some other resources I'll be using:

Clozemaster

Now You're Talking (series on YouTube focusing on Ulster Irish)

Speak Irish podcast

Collins Easy Learning Irish Grammar

Quizlet and Memrise for vocab

I clicked the poll function by accident and can't get rid of it, so poll for funsies!

Let's see how this goes :D

#no graphic design this year because i Cannot Be Bothered #heybenni #knife gang #langblr #studyblr #french #irish #galaxiegoals #language learning #goalsetting #goals #hot enby language summer

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cringengl · 7 days ago

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GCSEs that I feel like the Gallaghers would do bcus Shameless was a UK show first. Incase you don't know, everyone has to do English, Maths, and Science so I won't be including them on their lists.

Fiona- PE, Spanish, Food Tech, Geography

Lip- Triple Science, RE, History, Spanish

Ian- Triple Science, PE, Geography, RE

Debbie- Art, History, Design tech/woodwork/res mat, Food Tech

Carl- PE, Design tech/woodwork/res mat, Art, RE

Liam- Triple Science, RE, Geography, History

Explanations under the cut

Fiona is obviously going to do PE since she was doing track. I feel like she also would think that food tech would help her cooking. And then she kind of chose the other ones randomly and based off what she thought was easy/she was good at since she knew she probably wouldn't get her gcses anyway.

Lip would definitely be doing Higher Triple Science and would find it easy. History and RE would be because he loves to debate people and Spanish bcus Fiona left her old textbook lying around.

Ian's would be based off of what he would need for West Point, aka science PE, Geography and also RE to learn about religion.

Debbie is really artsy and creative and then she ends up as a welder and we see her baking a lot which is why I feel like she chose her subjects.

Carl chose his off of a mixture of what he'd need for West Point, but also what was supposed to be easy (somebody lied to him and told him art was easy). A dream of his has been to be in the design tech workshop for as much time as possible because of all the saws and machinery. I feel like he might get kicked off that course and do geography instead.

Liam probably chose very academic subjects based on what we see about how he feels about school so far.

#shameless #shameless us #fiona gallagher #lip gallagher #ian gallagher #debbie gallagher #carl gallagher #liam gallagher shameless

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ukrfeminism · 11 months ago

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Violet felt misunderstood and invisible when she was at school, as though teachers did not care or believe in her. She was permanently excluded aged 16, just before her GCSEs.

Racial injustice could have been to blame. New research from the charity Agenda Alliance has revealed that girls from a Black Caribbean background are excluded from school at double the rate of white girls.

A freedom of information request to the Department for Education found that in the 2021/2022 academic year, white girls were excluded at a rate of 0.06. That equates to six exclusions for every 10,000 pupils.

Black Caribbean girls were excluded at a rate of 0.12, while it was even higher for girls of a mixed white and Black Caribbean background at 0.14.

“Things were bad at school and sometimes things were bad at home but nobody ever gave me support,” Violet says. “When I was permanently excluded – just before my GCSEs – I didn’t know who I was going to be or what I’d do.

“I think there’s stigma around Black British girls. We’re treated differently with perceptions about us. We’re often punished just for being different. We get told off for the way uniforms look on our bodies, but they’re just not made for our body types and don’t fit us in the same way as white girls.

“Also, sometimes Black girls just have an opinion and it’s then taken as aggressive, or we’re just labelled ‘rude’. I could do the same thing as a white girl and I would get in 10 times more trouble.”

Research from charity Voyage Youth, which tackles racial imbalance in London, has found that around 70% of students had never been consulted on policies that affect them in school.

School rules can be “overly oppressive of self-expression”, with beauty products and hair styling often come up as valid reasons for punishing young people. Voyage Youth has seen that exclusions are often fuelled by “huge misunderstandings and misconceptions about young people of colour”.

Paul Anderson, the charity’s founder, explains that one of the key issues is ‘adultification’. He says: “Young people are mistreated as they are seen as mature, aggressive and more physical so their behaviours and actions are seen as intentional and not accidental.

“Many young people express they are not understood and valued by some teachers as many working in inner cities have no understanding of young peoples lived experiences, cultures, races and religions. This creates a disassociation and distance and can lead to teachers making recommendation to exclude due to a lack of understanding about diverse lives.”

Family background also plays a role – if parents are not present at school events, teachers might be able to “exploit this gap” and young people feel particularly targeted.

Anderson adds: “We are also concerned about new covert policies schools are also adopting such as managed moves. This is when one school partners with another to swap young people that are on the peripheries of exclusion. This helps them overcome being exposed as excludees.”

The situation is even worse for girls from Gypsy, Roma and Irish traveller girls, who are excluded at triple the rate of their white peers.

Pauline Anderson, the chair of trustees at the Traveller Movement, says: “Schools are legally required to have behaviour policies in place that address race-based bullying, yet these educational institutions are continuing to fail to protect our children.

“We need to see a zero-tolerance policy for racist bullying in schools from both pupils and staff. For our young girls, the combined discrimination of racism and ableism as well as sexism has a detrimental impact on them.”

Agenda Alliance is calling for schools to adopt improved behavioural policies, addressing how gender and racial stereotypes are disproportionately impacting girls.

The charity wants all specialist staff working with children at risk of exclusion to have better training that is aware of how culture, gender, age and experiences of trauma might impact behaviour.

Agenda Alliance also warns thatresponses to high rates of absenteeism “must avoid unnecessarily punitive approaches”, and instead work to address the root causes of girls’ absence from school alongside girls and specialist organisations that support them.

I ndy Cross, Chief Executive of Agenda Alliance, says: “These are extremely worrying findings. We are calling for zero tolerance to harmful behaviour policies which blight girls’ futures. We know schools do a tough job and that teachers are hard pressed. But by the government’s own measure, girls at the sharpest end of disadvantage are being set up to fail.

“Racial and gender stereotypes have no place in today’s education for young women. Enough is enough. No more excuses that poverty also inevitably jeopardises education. We can – and must – do better than this.”

Alba Kapoor, Head of Policy at the Runnymede Trust adds: “These disturbing statistics reflect the racism that continues to pervade every aspect of our school system. That girls from Black and minority ethnic backgrounds are being disproportionately punished and marginalised as a result, is something that needs to urgently be addressed.”

“That’s why we are calling on schools to implement a temporary halt on school exclusions, and to instead prioritise non-punitive, proactive approaches which actually address harm. This would of course need meaningful investment in education from the government.

“It will take whole-school approaches to root out racism, and embed anti-racism throughout school cultures, policies and curricula. This means improving racial literacy amongst teachers, broadening the curriculum to help students learn about race, migration and Empire, and doing away with discriminatory policies which disproportionately target Black and minority ethnic children.”

Fatima Ahmed, helpline coordinator at Southall Black Sisters, says: “In my experience, young black girls who have approached our services often struggle to remain focused or remain in schools at all due to their multi-faceted and consistent experiences of racial injustice. For example, those who experience violence at home or in any other setting are less likely to directly approach their schools for support, which is why they may approach a local domestic abuse agency to advocate on their behalf.

“There is no one proven way to challenge racial injustice in schools as, often, it depends on the school’s geographical location and willingness of institutions to prioritize the experiences of young black girls subject to racial injustice. One suggestion would be to take a synergistic approach by bringing together teachers, counsellors, and safeguarding professionals to create tools to tackle structural racism and embed racial injustice awareness into every subject possible.”

Violet was referred to the charity Milk Honey Bees who offered support and empowered her to be herself. The charity supports Black girls who have been excluded and those who are at risk of exclusion and sees stories like Violet’s far too often.

Ebinehita Iyere, founder and managing director of Milk Honey Bees, says: “In my experience as a practitioner, racial biases are applied resulting in harsher punishment for things such as uniform or lateness.

“As an organisation, we are calling for support from policymakers, schools, funders and our wider community to understand and foster positive relationships between teachers and Black girls to stop them being marginalised by the education system.

“Only a joined up therapeutic approach will work. Creating safe spaces for Black girls to heal from their traumatic schooling experiences must be a priority, in order to prevent further risk of exclusion.”

With the right support, Violet found hope for her future. She says: “I got referred to Milk Honey Bees who worked with me and reassured me that it’s okay to be myself, without judging me from stuff on my form but going off my relationship with them. Now I see there’s a lot more I can offer in the world but, at school when I was excluded, I felt like if my school has given up on me, why should I believe in myself?”

#articles #education #organisations

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likeakiss · 11 months ago

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licking blood from your teeth. a raised scar. the old east end. testing the cut on your lip with your tongue. a loud bang from somewhere in the distance. ringing in your ears. refusing to change. slicking back your hair. whiskey and cigarillos. shoot first, ask questions later. remembering where you came from. having to fight for everything you’ve got. violence as a language that everyone understands. exit wounds. the pig-headed belief that you’re always right. struggling to let things go.

statistics.

full name: joaquin vidal nickname(s)/alias(es): keen, the crooked hand name meaning: established by god age: fifty-seven date of birth: april 16th star sign: aries place of birth: poplar, london (now tower hamlets) current location: lambeth, london gender: cis-male pronouns: he/him sexual orientation: bisexual religion: raised catholic (not a very good catholic) occupation: mob boss family: david flores (father, estranged), alejandra franklin (née vidal, mother), bernard “bernie” franklin (step-father, estranged), ricardo “ricky” franklin and antonio “tony” franklin (half-brothers, estranged), emilia franklin (half-sister, estranged) “sweeney todd” (ex-wife) education level: didn’t even get his o levels (old man equivalent to gcses) living arrangements: a modern warehouse conversion in stockwell financial status: wealthy spoken languages: english, spanish

inspirations.

reggie kray (legend) harry (in bruges) tyler durden (fight club) euron greyjoy (game of thrones) maxwell roth (assassin’s creed: syndicate) reyes vidal (mass effect: andromeda) bill sykes (oliver twist)

biography. (tws for poverty, xenophobia, violence, unhealthy relationship dynamics)

A third generation Peruvian immigrant, Joaquin Vidal has never known any home but London. Born and raised in Poplar (a notoriously impoverished area of the city) life was always going to be a struggle for his family - for stability, for money, for respect - but struggle they did. Joaquin’s grandparents went about things the old fashioned way, sacrificing every last shred of their dignity to scrape together enough money to take over the lease on the local newsagent after the previous owner passed away. They managed it, just barely, but even at the tail-end of the sixties, Poplar wasn’t the most tolerant of places, and the shopfront was regularly graffitied or worse.

By the time Joaquin was born, the Vidals had come to realise that London’s streets weren’t paved with gold, as they had hoped they would be when they arrived in England. They had their shop, true, but it wasn’t enough - the family was still living on top of each other, three generations packed into two rooms, living hand-to-mouth. His mother, Alejandra, was only sixteen when she discovered she was expecting, and a wedding was quickly organised in a desperate attempt to hang on to the precious little respectability the Vidals had garnered within their community. It was only two years before Joaquin's father vanished into the night, never to be seen again.

Joaquin was still young when he started looking for trouble (or when trouble started looking for him, as he’d always insist). He was a handsome, charismatic teenager, with a swagger in his step and an appetite for violence that only comes from feeling like you’ve got something to prove. It seemed as if he was destined for gang life from the get go, smoothly transitioning from playground bust-ups and brawling in the streets to the well-paid world of underground fighting. Joaquin was a workhorse in the ring, a surprisingly lithe figure that categorically refused to stay down, and it made him a hugely valuable commodity as a prize fighter. He would do whatever it took to win, and then some.

It was around this time that he set his sights on a woman known to the Jolly Rogers as Sweeney Todd. The former Crooked Hand, a man by the name of Alistair Winchester, had heard of Joaquin’s success on the underground fighting circuit, and was actively trying to recruit him to his cause. Sweeney was Alistair’s niece, and had been embroiled in the workings of the gang since she was very young, meaning she was already well established as a career assassin. Joaquin was drawn to her immediately - he knew they were made for each other.

As his relationship with Sweeney developed, Joaquin became as assimilated into the Jolly Roger lifestyle as she was, working his way up from pit fighter to contract killer in a matter of years. He would always prefer working with his hands (or, rather, his fists), but he learnt to wield a gun with precision and deadly force. As a rule, Joaquin and Sweeney were not supposed to work contracts together - they were both experts in their craft, but their dynamic was volatile and unpredictable, entirely inexplicable to anyone but themselves. People used to say that one day they’d either kill each other, or end up married - they chose the latter.

Realistically, it was never going to last between them - in fact, it’s some kind of miracle (or maybe a curse) that their marriage survived the eleven years it did. After one, final, explosive argument, the Vidals separated for good, but angry as they were, they couldn’t stay away from each other for long. Joaquin started taking contracts abroad, furthering his reputation with the Rogers while doing his best to forget about Sweeney. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t move on from her. He’s never been good at letting go.

When Alistair Winchester shit the bed and got himself nicked, it was only a matter of time before someone was called in to clean up his mess. Following the customary vote between senior members of the gang, Joaquin was compelled to return from his work overseas, not so much stepping into Alistair's shoes as kicking them out of his way. He never sought the title of the Crooked Hand, and his election came as a surprise, but who is he to spit in the face of democracy? If the Jolly Rogers wanted a show of force, Joaquin Vidal would be the one to give it to them.

He's been the head honcho for coming up on four years now, driving the Jolly Rogers into an era of prosperity that puts old man Winchester's legacy to shame. The treaty is starting to chafe at him, though, his patience for niceties running dangerously thin. No, he thinks its high time his people start making some more aggressive plays - show the Jabberwocks and everyone else who really runs the streets of London.

other things.

Before he was the Crooked Hand, Joaquin was known as Sykes, after the character from Oliver Twist. Not the most flattering of code names, but he’s never been much of a reader, and didn’t understand the connotations until much later on.

Joaquin calls in on his mother approximately once every six months. They didn’t have the best of relationships after she remarried and started a new better family, but she’s old now, and the only surviving relative he’s still in touch with.

He's not usually much of a gambler, but he goes out of his way to attend the Royal Ascot every year, delighting both in betting on the horse races and terrorising the unfortunate toffs forced to share space with him for the duration of the event.

He’s a passionate West Ham supporter, and will thank you not to remind him how poorly they’ve been performing in the premiere league.

To date, Joaquin has never seen a cow in real life.

There isn’t a single event that could convince Joaquin to wear a tie. He didn’t even wear one to his wedding.

#joaquin: about #poverty tw #violence tw #xenophobia tw #unhealthy relationship tw #lfl.intro #daddy? sorry. daddy? sorry. daddy? sorry.

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