#i have two scots we needed an irish its only right

[kanos]

RIAN BRENNAN || CALL OF DUTY.

WHO GETS TO CHOOSE WHO DIES AN HONORABLE DEATH? war hadn't always been on his mind and he wasn't especially prepared to land a position on a task force as covert as 141. however, with his skills, it would be fatal not to have him on the team.

taglist: @imogenkol @statichvm @tommyarashikage @risingsh0t @strangefable

@ravensgard @firstaidspray @pitchmoss @pavus @florbelles

@carrionsflower @josephzeppeli @thedeadthree @leviiackrman @roberthouse69

@confidentandgood @carlosoliveiraa @g0dspeeed @jamessunderlandgf @bigbywlf

@hollytanaka @shellibisshe

[taglist opt in]

[unseelie-grimalkin]

How do you write magic the way you do? Your MC seems to have a grab bag of abilities that make sense but don't make sense, you feel me? I'm not being aggro, I just wanna know the things and how your brain works.

So this ask has been sitting in my ask box for ages, and I've been fiddling with it in my drafts while I've been suffering in math.

So okay: we know NDM deals with seasonal magic.

But seasonal affiliations aren’t necessarily a whole thing in the Mythological Cycle of Irish Mythology. It’s more of a newer association with the fey folk in general; as Morgan Daimler mentions in 21st Century Fairy: The Good Folk in the new millennium,

“This [the idea of Seasonal Fairy Courts] is something that has grown out of urban fantasy across the last several decades, jumping off the older ideas of the Scottish Seelie and Unseelie courts but removing any moral implications in the names and simply tying them to seasons.”

Another good note Daimler makes that’s relevant to NDM as a whole (and, despite everything, is relevant to answering your question):

“The Seelie and Unseelie Courts themselves and the entire idea of two courts as such is probably comparatively newer as well only really coming in within the last 200 years or so.”

So, with this being a relatively modern idea, I assume that this choice for the seasonal is a world-building feature of Na Daoine Maithe rather than a misrepresentation or anything less than charitable. Why? Because they’ve made the Seelie/Unseelie labels a world-building choice as well, incorporating the inherent morality of the labels (since I believe that in Scots, Seelie can mean Blessed/Holy/Good depending on the context, while Unseelie can mean Mischievous/Evil-Doing) into the general spin that Seelie courtiers and the like put on the current political conflict in the setting.

Like, while I’m not here with a tin-foil hat and a set of pedestals for the developers with a blanket statement carved into said pedestals that declare that they can do no wrong (gods, what a ridiculous curse that one could put on any person...), Moirai Myths has shown that they’ve got a solid bit of research under their belts, so the most charitable assumption I am going to make both out of respect and for my own fun is that things are on purpose, actually.

So: seasonal magic.

The ask we have with the most information about magic in our setting is this one right here. Let’s break it down, shall we?

There are a few kinds of magic in our game overall, but that run down would be long and semi-spoilery, so let’s focus on the main magic system that the Tuatha Dé Danann are known for: Seasonal magic. Seasonal magic is regarded most highly among the TDD, since it was taught to the Tuatha Dé by the goddess Danu herself. It can involve rituals or incantations, but strongly relies on the power of voice (i.e., song) as a medium through which this form of magic is cast. Ergo, the range of one’s voice impacts your affinity or aptitude toward a given seasonal discipline, so high ranging voices tend to yield stronger results with spring or summer magic, and conversely, low ranging voices yield stronger results with autumn or winter magic.

So, important bullet points already:

Seasonal magic is simply what the TDD are known for, stylistically (with the implication that there are non-seasonal styles as well, which we need to keep a pin in for Aífe, specifically)

Seasonal magic is thought to be given by Danu (which is. Such a HOT BUTTON for me and my brain, given Danu’s...EVERYTHING! I’ll get into that later)

Somatic components (your voice) is the medium of seasonal magic. Singing is given as the example, and it’s one that I cannot and shan’t dispute: the game draws a lot of inspiration from Lebor Gabála Érenn, which has its clearest example of an incantation called The Song of Amergin so like...yeah, I want to see some early 2000’s song-fics up in this bitch! I wanna have people incorporate lyrics of their favorite songs into the prose! It’s textually supported! Grimalkin-Approved!

Vocal ranges impact your seasonal affinity/aptitude (we know from the RO affinities and their vocal ranges [speaking {this was before VO work, so take that ask as you wish} & singing] that spring probably has the highest pitch, summer a high pitch, autumn a low pitch, and winter the lowest pitch)

It is worth noting that seasonal magic is not exclusively “nature magic”, but rather covers a broad range of concepts associated with the “essence” of a season as well. For example, spring magic denotes growth and renewal, ergo it can entail the manipulation of plant life as well as healing magic, among other things. There’s a lot of variance and overlap in places, though - especially with the aligned seasons. If you’re a top notch winter magic sort of person, for instance, chances are you’ll be able to dabble in some autumn magic as well.

So the italics are what was originally there, but that bolded formatting is mine because I really want to draw attention to that word in particular as I start to probe your brain with thoughts and questions.

This supports my usual take on magic: that magic should not be treated as a cut-and-dry formalized system but as a living narrative force where the more you try to make rules, the more magic defies said rules. To put you into the mindset of how I think about magic, I’m going to borrow some words from @/cryptotheism (not actually tagging them in this fandom meta-analysis post for a niche dating sim, but credit needs to be given):

“What is a home without a house? A painting without a canvas? A lover without a body?”

It is extremely tempting to answer that the answer is emotions, that emotions are the answer. But that's not entirely true, is it? Because then what emotions would make a home without a house, a painting without a canvas, a lover without a body? No, the answer is in the narrative force that surrounds those things and how our minds process the stories we tell ourselves, and how there are layers to those stories that make having exacting answers troublesome. Because it's not simply just the stories we tell ourselves and each other. It's in how we have these concepts and in how we communicate these concepts: a home is different from a house and can be further specialized into different things that all mean something else; a cottage is different than a shack and a shack is different from a condo and a condo is different from a hotel room, but they can all be home to someone, and we can all understand that and what that concept can be. But we also know that all those things (a cottage, a shack, a condo, a hotel room) aren't all automatically someone's home; just that they can be and that the state of home can be as permanent or as temporary as things shake out for any one person.

And, with this idea of narrative magic, this idea of liminality in concepts fresh in your head and rotating (because that's not really a thing I can teach or fully explain so much plant and let you digest it), I need to get into the rest of that paragraph from that ask.

We have this textual emphasis that seasonal magic is not exclusively nature magic but is tied to each season’s essence. But I ask anyone reading this: who defines each season’s essence? Was it Danu when she gifted it? Was it the druids who potentially formalized the style? Like. My tin-foil hat theory is that this is all a mythologized fabrication by the Order of the Eternal Flame to stagnate and control the flow of the populace’s magic, but really? We don’t know. For as much noise as I’ll make beating my metaphorical pans together and yelling about druids at 2 am in the liminal hallway that we call the NDM Discord Server, that’s speculation at best, and I know it.

This paragraph gives us an example for spring: since spring’s essence is defined as growth and renewal, it can do plant magic, healing magic, and “other things”. So, say you are writing a fic and want to define those other things yourself and ask yourself, “What would an Unseelie Grimalkin do in my place?”

My usual first step for this is, admittedly, unorthodox.

I make my merry way down to the Superpower Wiki. I find the seasonal-related wiki pages that I’m looking for (in this case: anything to do with Spring), see what has been assembled, and pick what I want and what is relevant to my writing. So, if I wanted to give Shae a potential spell that’s not in the listed things the ask on magic lists for spring magic, I’d cross reference things I’d guess would be passed down in their family (something domestic, I’d wager), and then brainstorm from there. For example, maybe I’d deal with Spring’s association with Purification and wonder if Shae might have a spell to keep away and get rid of mold or similar impurities in their food, passed down from generation to generation.

To break down what spells I’ve had Tríona cast in particular, you can look at the Autumn pages on the Superpower Wiki. The parts of Autumn she has a natural inclination for have mainly been what the Wiki notes as “Enhanced Preparedness”: you can trace the concept of Hunter’s Intuition in Chapter 4 of The Five Times He Had to Engage in Purely Tactical Revision, While She Turned From a Fairy Tale, while she juggles between Prey Instinct and Predator Instinct in Meeting the Pack as she spars with Dermot. The summoning of the nearby dire wolf isn't listed on the Wiki, because I then asked myself: what else do I associate with autumn? And the answer was hunting. And what pack animal, one laden in magical association, do I associate with hunting? Wolves.

But therein lies the trickiness of this system, one that the devs have addressed: there’s overlap between the seasons (take hunting as a concept: sure, there’s a lot of hunting done in autumn to prepare for winter, but you can hunt in any season. I’d argue the season specifies what kind of hunting takes place and how it’s characterized, and I want you to think about that with NDM’s magic system a lot because it unlocks a lot of potentials). I think there’s an overlap more considerable than what is addressed (which is not bad! Not only is it fun for fics, it could be a plot point).

So, here's where they address it (and give us more lore nuggets to crunch):

Contrary to gut-impulse, no one discipline is inherently regarded as more “good” or “evil” than the other, as there is no inherent “good” or “evil” in nature. As such, it is possible to create blessings and curses from any of the seasons, and curses are broadly regarded as a taboo no matter what form they take. Protective wards are associated with winter magic, denoting perseverance and repose. Summer magic, denoting zeal and freedom, can be used to inflict insomnia.

There is no morality in nature (aye, true, the wolf isn't exactly apologizing to the deer for eating it), so any seasonal style can do blessings and curses. Fair and valid and honestly refreshing (I am. So tired. Of winter magic being considered the evil magic in fantasy).

But I'd like to inspire a counterthought in your head: the protective wards outlined here come from perseverance and repose. Valid. I'm not disputing that. But can't that same zeal from summer be used defensively? Especially in a land of eternal summer, where summer is not associated with a flitting moment but a timeless burn? Maybe not in the exact same way as winter, but to note another potential example: autumn's associated with preservation and preparation. Can't that be used in the same manner as perseverance and repose, to be funneled into protective wards?

And even the earlier idea that spring magic is the only magic that can heal because spring is associated with growth and renewal: maybe the healing isn't the same, but isn't there a healing quality to the restful hibernation of winter?

The semantics can go on forever, for as many questions as you and I can come up with. They can get as petty and niche as you'd like, because, the more you put a microscope on this all, the more questions come up that all come back to the big one:

“Who, in the setting of Na Daoine Maithe, defines what each season's essence is?”

And I legitimately think that's a plot question that goes back to my originally noted hot button: Danu.

As the seasonal magics are regarded as Danu’s gift to her people, it is commonly regarded as exclusive to the Tuatha Dé, but… Well. Danu did choose her people, after all. Have you tried asking?

That “Have you tried asking?” prompted me to write my first NDM fic, for the record. Thanks, Clotho! You did that! To me! Thanks, legitimately!

But yeah, let's get into Danu quickly because her context is...honestly? Vitally important for how I interpret NDM's magical landscape.

So, the name Danu itself is a reconstructed name, built off of the Danann from the title Tuatha Dé Danann. However, you must understand that this is a hypothetical name not found in any medieval Irish text. Largely, you see the Danann slapped onto the name Tuatha Dé because it CHANGES the whole meaning of the title.

Tuatha Dé means “The God Tribe”. Tuatha Dé Danann means “The Tribe of the Goddess Danu” in the reconstructed sense. This title change actively takes away the divinity in the title. In IRL scripts, we see Tuatha Dé Danann overtake the title Tuatha Dé because it made the Christian scribes feel more comfortable about what they were writing.

Danu never makes an appearance in the Lebor Gabála Érenn. At all! So, where does she come from? That’s! A hotly debated topic! One that’s been around since the 19th century. It doesn’t help that the Victorians did as they were want to do: overwrite existing folklore of the people they oppressed with whatever the hell they wanted (Danu made for a good comparison point to Demeter, and this is a standard colonialist system: overwrite other gods by shallow comparisons to Greek/Roman gods [a page directly taken from Roman trade books]. I believe this is where we get Sun God Lugh from, despite all text suggesting otherwise: people went Lugh = Apollo/Hermes/Thoth for too long, and it baked into some folks).

Now, for the closest possible equivalents to Danu that could've been recycled into her, we’ve got:

Anu from Cormac’s Glossary, who is noted as the mother of the gods of Ireland (which should sound familiar to the credit Danu is given, but also…Anu is sometimes another name for the Morrígan, and the name is conflated with many other goddesses, and it’s never clear in the text which potential one they’re referring to).

Danand, who actually appears in the Lebor Gabála Érenn and is actually accredited in that work for where the Danann comes from (at least, from a Watsonian perspective): Danand has three sons. They may be familiar to any who has studied Lugh: they’re the same three who kill Lugh’s father and get sent off on a suicide mission, actually. And these three are, in specific, called “The Gods of Dannan”.

So uh…this is where we have to ask: is the story we’re being told, that Danu is the mother goddess of the TD in NDM…is that true? Do we take that as truth, or is that simply the information we’re being presented because it’s the societal truth primarily believed by the populace? And if it is the latter, then…are seasonal magic styles actually given and taught by the Order of the Eternal Flame, who provided this fantastical story to avoid seeming too powerful, to prevent something? Or maybe…to power something?

This is my bit and bindle here: we have to interrogate the limitations of this system. Play in the mud of semantics. Because, for me at least, it makes you realize that something is very wrong here, and it’s nothing fey related: it’s not the magic of true names, it's not the locking of life to a realm through food, it’s not the weakness to iron. Instead, it’s absolute stagnation, apparent not only in TNN’s sky that acts more as a stage prop than anything living but also in how regions are held in eternal seasons.

And…well, we have seasonal magic.

How powerful do you reckon a spell is one that could hold a network of regions locked in specific seasons? I’d say pretty powerful, given its size and scope of it. How clever would it be, to power this spell, by locking the populace into the same stagnation as the regions by tricking them into limiting their magic through seasonal spellcasting, through locking them into specific associations based on something as arbitrary as vocal range?

Like. I cannot stress this enough. When the magic being used by the TD is described in Irish folklore, there is no seasonal association. The Morrigan just Does Shit. The Dagda? Just Fucks Things Up (he literally stops everyone from perceiving that 9 months go by just so Boan is not caught having his baby). Aengus? Just sings, and things Happen. Fúamnach quite literally turns a woman into a fly because she's angry. Whenever you read about a druid sorcerer, they just Do Things. Without limit. Their only limit is their skill, knowledge, and who taught them. Maybe their parentage? But there is no moment they ponder the essence of a season and if this is in their wheelhouse.

And while yes, you can point at that ask and go, “But there’s not just seasonal magic in NDM, Grim, please look at the ask before you lose your mind.” I also have to point out that seasonal magic is noted as the primary magic system that the NDM TDD are best known for, is the most highly regarded, and has the most ties to the central religion of current-day TNN.

Just like the discrepancy in using the Seelie/Unseelie titles in a game labeled and marketed as based on Irish mythology and making that discrepancy mean something (I do know the official site also says Celtic folklore, I know this, I have that statement in front of me as I type this, but also when I've got this ask right here that cites Lebor Gabála Érenn and the other cycles as main inspirations for world-building, I gotta focus on that rather than barking up unnamed and unknown trees because just saying Celtic is like saying they've got umbrellas made of swords: what kind of swords? Greatswords? Gladium? Parrying swords? The answer changes that umbrella for you, in your head, doesn't it? Same thing with Celtic: Celtic's a damn big umbrella word), this focus on the TD of the setting having normalized and mythologized seasonal magic probably means something.

I also want to draw attention to my absolute favorite sorceress: Aífe

Let's Talk About Aífe & How Her Takes Expand What Magic Is Like In My Head

You probably thought I name-dropped Aífe earlier and would never get back to her. Nope!

Because not only is she the one in the demo to note that you do not have to be a druid to learn magic, but she also has a couple of interestingly anti-Eternal Flame stances. Like yes, yes we all know about Time Conspiracist Aífe, we love Time Conspiracist Aífe, but I mean that she's a noted atheist and has a hidden talent for taboo magic (which could mean seasonal curses, I mean, she knows what a very specifically relevant one to her feels like to cast, but also remember: seasonal magic isn't the only type of magic, and Aífe has this association with magic we don't see play out in fey-typical media [I went THIS LONG without mentioning Warlock of the Fiend Aífe, I'm getting myself a treat for self-control, but I also mean the magical girl ask too]).

Like. All these puzzle pieces together and the whole magic system makes me like

So YEAH this is why magic comes up in my NDM fics so much and why it's probably a little wild, I think about the socio-political everything of NDM magic a lot.

[midnightartemis]

Chapter Two

On A03

TW: Attempted Assault, Abuse, Language

The Past, Time Uncertain

There were two things that I remember about passing through time. The first was the feeling of falling, though I could see nothing around me to signify my fall, just black, murky darkness. The second was the sound, muffled language that passed quickly by me, too fast for me to comprehend what was being said or sung. It was as if I was hearing every snippet of conversation spoken to the rocks since they were first placed there to stand as silent guardians.

My fall was ended suddenly as I hit the ground, dazed and confused. Had I passed out? The sky above me was now dark violet and filled with stars. There was nothing that I could remember that would have caused me to faint, so did someone hit me with something? Had I been robbed? I looked down at my finger to see that my simple wedding band was still there. Where there was once a small diamond, it was now missing. I sat up suddenly and scrambled my fingers through the grass searching for it desperately. The small band with the tiny diamond had been all that Henry could afford on a soldier’s pension. He had always promised to replace it with a bigger, better ring, but I had refused. It was our wedding ring. I didn’t care how much it cost or what it looked like as long as it meant that him and me became a we. But now the diamond was gone.

Did I lose it on the hike up the hill? Or worse, somewhere along the road? Even in the bright light of the full moon, it was hopeless trying to find it. We would have to come back tomorrow and search for it, even if it was so tiny that we would never be able to find it. I had to try. We had to try.

I hurried down the gravelly path, desperately trying to get back to my motorcycle and back home. I didn’t really know what time it was, though if I stopped to stare at the sky, I could probably figure it out. Navigating by the stars had become like second nature to me during the war.

If I hadn’t been so eager to get back home, perhaps I would have noticed that where there once was a fence for the pasture, there was now nothing. And the path that I traveled on was less worn down and muddier than before.

Maybe I would have gone back to the circle to see if I had gone the wrong way. Maybe I would have kept searching for my diamond. Maybe I would have touched the stone once more, and my time trespassing into a different life would have been brief and unnoticed.

My feet raced down the path until it ended suddenly and my confusion began. The road should have been there. My motorcycle should have been not two meters away. I turned around trying to orient myself again. Had I gone down the wrong path? Taken a turn that I hadn’t seen before on my way up?

A gunshot ripped through the air and the ground beside me exploded. My next reactions were ones that had been ingrained in me nearly every day for the last four years. Run. Hide. Cover. No time for thinking. Thinking means death.

My eyes search the skies for bomber planes as I race towards the closest available cover, the thick trees of a heavily wooded area. Had I been in my right mindset, I may have noticed that these trees were much older and thicker than the modern forests of Scotland. But it was hard to think when all I heard were the muffled sounds of gunshots and men’s yells that echoed through the forest. I kept running, kept moving, until the land descended to a stream bathed in moonlight, but otherwise hidden by large juts of rough, mossy stone.

I pressed myself against the rock and tried to calm my breathing. I could still hear the gunshots and yells, but they sounded more like pistols than machine guns. One shot at a time, long pauses between. But the war is done. The war is over. My brain tried to think rationally. I knew that the Scots didn’t really like the English, but much of the tension was between the Irish and the English. And who would call for infighting so soon after the end of the Great War?

None of that much mattered when they were shooting at me. It didn’t matter why if I was just going to get shot anyway and die.

See? Think later. Run. Hide. Cover. I was about to make my move to skirt through the forest and around the edge of Craigh na dun to find my bike and get the hell out of here when I heard the undeniable click of a hammer being pulled back.

“Turn. Slowly.” The voice is rough but oddly familiar.

I slowly raise my hands and turn to face my attacker. The moonlight is faint, but my eyes have adjusted well enough to see the man standing in front of me holding a gun to my head. “Henry? Henry, what the hell?”

He was dressed very strangely in what seemed to be an old British uniform, though this one seemed brand new. His eyes were hard and furious. “What’s an English woman like you doing in the middle of the woods?”

“What do you mean? Henry, what are you playing at? This isn’t funny.”

“Henry? There’s no Henry here. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in with those Scottish scum,” he eyes me with a leering eye and I slowly take a step back. “Though you are half-naked in strange clothes. Don’t you miss a British man? Refined? Less hairy? Or maybe you prefer wild savagery.”

“Henry, please stop, you’re scaring me.”

“My name is Captain Johnathan Snoke.”

My heart stops completely and my feet turn to run, but he’s on me before I can take a step. He throws me against the ground, and I scrape at the dirt to get away but he’s on top of me and tearing at the top of my pants and there’s a hand on my mouth to keep me from screaming so I scream on the inside. “Prancing around the Queen’s countryside pretending to be a man won't keep you-“

A loud crack above me cuts off his words, and his weight is lifted from me. I don’t have a second to think or breathe before I’m hauled to my feet by a different hand and dragged through the dark forest. I desperately try to pull away from my rescuer, but his hand remains firm around my arm. He’s a giant beside me, nearly seven feet tall, all bushy hair and wild-looking in the dark. He’s not wearing the British uniform, but something darker and more rugged.

“Stop yer fussing if ye don’t want a bullet to your head or a cock in your cunt.”

I freeze, but this only prompts the man to tug me harder along with him. “I’ll scream.”

“Do that and I'll leave ye here for the dogs. Ye come with me quietly and I can at least keep ye safe 'til morning.”

More gunshots ring out in the distance and it takes me an instant to realize that if I am to survive the night and wake up from this nightmare, then I should comply with this beast of a man. I let him lead me through the dark woods which he seems to know like the back of his hand and it isn’t long until we come to a small dark cottage. He opens the door and throws me inside, and I’m suddenly basked in candlelight. A dozen eyes focus on me.

“Who’s this.”

“British lass. Caught her being attacked by none other than Captain Jack.”

“I hope ye sliced his throat for me.”

“No chance.”

My mind is racing to take in the information that is surrounding me. There’s nothing but a group of men, but they’re unlike any men I had ever seen. They seemed to be playing dress-up, wearing knives and swords and pistols and clothes that looked like they were pulled out of a history book and dragged through the mud.

“She could be a spy.” There’s a short, dark-haired man leaning against the wall of the small stone house. He moves in a way that tells me he’s the leader of this lot.

“I’m not a spy,” I say and the reaction in the room tells me that they’re surprised I can even speak. “Did no one tell you that the war is over and it wasn’t against the British?”

A hearty chuckle goes around the room and I’m beginning to move beyond scared and into pissed.

“The war is just beginning, lassie.” Another man chimes in.

The leader of the group sends him a look that could kill and the man immediately shuts up and turns his eyes down. The leader takes a sip of something that I don’t think is water. “Would ye tell us what a young English woman like yourself is doing dressed as a man in the middle of the woods at night in times like these? Speaking to Captain Jack of all people?”

“I wasn’t speaking to him. ” I spit out.

The man’s eyes narrow. “That dinna answer my question, lass.”

“I was at Craigh na dun. I took a wrong path down the hill and before I could trace my steps back, I was shot at. So I ran.”

“Nearest town is more than a fair walk away.”

“I rode.”

“Where’s your horse?”

“My horse? No- I rode a-“

A sharp cry of pain interrupts me and I stop to look at its source. There’s a figure by the fire doubled over in seemingly grand amounts of pain. I watch as the leader goes over to him and touches the figure’s shoulder. The figure winces. In the light, I can see now why he’s in so much pain. Dislocated shoulder.

“Let’s put that back where it belongs.” The leader takes the man’s arm and he groans in pain. He’s doing it wrong. He’s going to-

“Stop!” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. All eyes in the room turn to me, including the man at the fire. His eyes are dark and intense, wet with the pain he’s holding back. “You’re going to injure the tendons and muscles even more. Let me.”

I step forward and am met with a wall of heavily armed men about ready to place their blades in my side. I stop and eye the leader, completely unsure as to why I’m even bothering to help my now kidnappers. “I’ve been trained in first aid. I know how to reset his arm correctly.”

The leader eyes me for a moment then nods. I slowly inch forward until my hands are on the injured man's arm. He groans as I slowly maneuver his arm into the correct position. “I’m going to need you to resist me. Push when I push, okay? I’m not strong enough to do it on my own. And it’s going to hurt. A lot.”

The man says nothing, just quietly nods. I take a deep breath and still myself. “On three. One… two… three…”

I push with all my might and he pushes back, groaning as the joint slips back into place. His dark eyes are watching my every move. “Is there a long bit of cloth for a sling?”

Someone hands me a bit of dirty cloth and I suppose it’s the best we’ve got right now. I fashion him a sling. “Rest your arm for a few days. No strenuous activity or you’ll hurt it further.”

“We’ve best be going. Won’t be long until those bloody bastards find us again.” The leader says and all the men begin to move. I head toward the door ready to make my way through the night and back to the stones to find my bike and get very, very far away from here.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A hand grabs my arm and I yank away. I was getting very tired of strange men grabbing me whenever they pleased.

“Back to Craigh na dun and far away from you lot.”

His eyes narrow and I can tell he doesn’t like my answer. “I think you’re coming with us, lass.”

“Like hell I am.” I spit at his feet and this time blades are actually drawn. The leader of the group just laughs.

“Yer a feisty one,” he chuckles. “Until I get the truth of who ye are and whether or not yer a spy for the British, yer not going anywhere.”

“And what if I chose to go somewhere?”

“Then ye will be forcibly readjusted to the correct course.”

My heart pounds as I stare at the wild men before me. None of this made any sense. My head rebelled at the possible conclusions to this mess that I had already drawn. If that truly was Captain Johnathan Snoke back in those woods and not a horrible prank by my husband, then that meant that I was no longer in the safe hands of 1945. That somehow I had been transported through time to the mid-1700s.

Impossible.

It was all impossible.

My mind clung to the last possible sane explanation, that this was all a strange dream. And soon I would wake up in the too small, too squeaky bed of our bed and breakfast. I would roll over and tell Henry about the strangest dream I just had.

And then I remember that I hadn’t gone back to the bed and breakfast. That this couldn’t be a dream. That this all felt very, very, terrifyingly real.

[scotianostra]

On June 10th 1688 James Edward Stuart, "the Old Pretender", Anglo-Scottish prince, was born, Jacobites the world over remember it as White Rose Day.

It's not easy with these posts at times. For a start does he deserve to take his place in history of the Scots? Well I've included many others that were not born here in my posts, and the Stewart/Stuart name will always be synonymous with our Nation.  

Well the eighth of the Stuart James's was born in St Jame Palace, not long before his faither had to flee leaving the throne vacant so he was brought up in in Continental Europe, two of his sisters went on to be crowned, James was ignored by Parliament although he has next in line.

The name Old Pretender is commonly used to describe James ,to me it's a bit of an insult, the name Pretender came about as such, when James was born, a wild rumour took hold by James’ opponents that a male baby was smuggled into the Queen’s chamber in a warming pan to replace her stillborn child. Witnesses to the birth testified before a Privy Council meeting, but the rumours continued. As far as Protestant England was concerned, the “warming pan baby” was a pretender to the throne.

So James after the death of his Father was the rightful king of Scotland, England and Wales. In December 1688 James’ mother Mary, supposedly disguised as a laundress, escaped Britain taking James over to the relative safety of France. It was here that he was brought up with the French court regarding him and his family as the true monarchs. Of course, by right of birth James was the rightful heir to the throne.

When James’ father died in 1701 King Louis XIV of France along with Spain and the Papal States recognised James as James VII of Scotland and III of England. However, as a result of accepting this title he was at-tainted for treason in London and all his English estates were forfeited. The next twenty years would see James make various attempts to retake the throne which he felt was rightfully his. These have been wrongly called rebellions, but as the rightful King the correct term is uprisings, although most of you will only know of the final Uprising, The "45 they also took place in 1708, 1715 and 1719

In 1708 his first attack was launched. Initially delayed because James had contracted measles he set out from France with almost 30 ships carrying some 5,000 men to reach Scotland. This would be the largest ever French expedition to come within striking distance of Britain in support for James. Unfortunately, as the fleet approached the Royal Navy were ready. James’ measles may have given them the time needed to prepare for James’ attack. The French ships were forced to flee under the strength of the Royal Navy and took flight along the north coast of Scotland, with many ships being destroyed along the rocky coastline. After this James joined the French army for a while before he was asked to leave France in 1713 as part of the conditions of Frances peace agreement with Britain.

In 1715, James tried again. This time he reached mainland and most people suggest that this was the uprising that should have worked. Unfortunately, once again James was denied. Despite winning at the Battle of Sheriffmuir, and in Preston, James ultimately gave up the fight when he heard Government reinforcements were on the way. He fled Scotland and returned to the continent but his apparent abandonment of his men left a poor impression on many and his welcome back was not great.

After the failed 1715 invasion he eventually took up residence in Rome where the pope recognised him as the rightful king and gave him the Palazzo Muti to have as his home. James made one finally attempt on the British throne in 1719 with some Spanish support but this ultimately came to nothing. Then in May 1719 James married Maria Sobieska by proxy and later, in September, they renewed their vows in person. The following year they gave birth to their first son Charles Edward Stuart. This was followed five years later by another son Henry Benedict Stuart.

By 1745 it was Charles who was looking to take the British throne, for it was that prize he was after, make no mistake,  and it is said that James and Charles clashed many times over Charles plans to attempt his own rising. As we know the rising did not succeed and Charles returned to the continent. The relationship was further damaged when James helped his son Henry in his goal of becoming a cardinal. As such Henry would have no legitimate children to carry on the Stuart line and Charles was said to be angry that the decision had been made without him being consulted.

James lived in Rome for the rest of his life where he was well treated. He died on 1st January 1766 in his home there. Later he was buried in St Peters basilica in Vatican city and his tomb is marked by a monument to the Stuarts. After James’ death the Pope refused to recognise Charles as the rightful king and finally accepted the Hanoverian succession to the throne.

A couple of wee footnotes, I mentioned about James and the rumours about the bedpan, this led to all future royal births having to be witnessed by The Home Secretary, this practice went on until midway through the 20th century, the first one not to be witnessed was that of the current heir to the throne Charles!! 

And White Rose Day, well being a Jacobite in these times was not necessarily something to publicise. The term ‘Jacobite’ stems from the Latin ‘Jacobus’, which in turn means ‘James’, the Jacobite movement was effectively a political crusade to restore the House of Stuart to the English, Irish, and Scottish thrones. Discovery risked accusations of treason and the penalty of death. What they needed, therefore, were hidden signals of camaraderie spottable only by those ‘in the know’. 

The white rose, or the white cockade (white ribbon shaped as a rose in a hat), became one of those symbols either during or soon after The Glorious Revolution. And it continued to represent the Jacobites through to Bonnie Prince Charlie until the collapse of the movement after the 1745 Rising.

What did it symbolise? The reason for its choice as a symbol is unclear. However, when you consider that it’s a hardy wee shrub that thrives in poor soil and can tolerate shade and drought,you can get a sense of its subliminal messages.

[ollieofthebeholder]

for the fic meme: tell me of the whumptober wip

So, for starters, it’s a Criminal Minds fic.

The premise of it was based on a headcanon/plotiphant I’ve been carrying around for umpty-scoop years, and a big part of the reason I didn’t post it (or, y’know, really finish it) was that I stopped watching Criminal Minds regularly ages ago, so I knew that short of saying “This is when I stopped watching and I’m skimming the wiki/IMDB and taking the plot points I like to use and saying to hell with the rest”, I was going to end up writing something WILDLY implausible. I liked it, though. May finish it at some point.

First part under the cut if you’re interested.

Spencer hesitated for a brief second, barely long enough to register, then turned the corner and stepped back twenty years in time.

The street hadn't changed. All the houses were the same color, even the same degree of faded. The few cars in the driveways at this time of day were the ones that had always been there. Sunflowers still marched along the edges of those houses that didn't have shrubbery under the window. The curtains were positioned in exactly the way he was used to.

Rossi squinted at the nearest porch. “None of these houses have their numbers displayed. Or am I just missing them?”

“Nobody uses house numbers,” Spencer murmured absently, barely aware he had spoken. Hell, the swing dangling from the maple tree in front of the Babashanians' house was still crooked, its left side about an inch higher than the right. It twisted idly in the breeze above the scuffed and dusty divot in the grass, almost as though someone had just run off inside. Any second, little Chrissie would come skipping out the front door and throw herself on it, stomach-first, arms stretched out like she was Supergirl and shouting for—

He caught himself firmly. “Little Chrissie” was in her early twenties now, and her brother was even older. Time moved on, even if it didn't look like it here.

Swallowing, he forced himself to at least try and speak normally. “It's a small town. Everybody knows where everybody else lives. Addresses are just for census purposes.”

“Well, then, how the hell are we supposed to know which house is 204?”

Spencer froze. For just a minute, it was hard to breathe.

204. Well, there were a few answers to that question. It's the one with a privacy fence on the right side and a row of rosebushes on the left. It's the one with an apple tree growing by the front corner. It's the one with the plants in the window.

It's the one that used to be home.

“Reid?” Rossi didn't sound annoyed, which was what Spencer half-expected from anybody any time he showed any kind of emotion beyond one hundred percent dedication to the case at hand. Instead, he sounded...concerned. Worried, even. He took a step closer and reached out like he was going to touch Spencer's arm, but stopped at the last second. “Spencer, is everything okay?”

Spencer honestly couldn't remember the last time someone had asked him that. Even JJ didn't usually bother, or if she did, she asked in a way that made it pretty clear she didn't really care about the answer, she was just asking because it was expected, and she also fully expected him to say yes even if it wasn't. But this was Rossi asking, Rossi who didn't cross the lines between personal and professional unless you did it first. Rossi, who was literally the only member of the team in the entire sixteen years Spencer had been a part of it to recognize, remember, and respect his boundaries and quirks from the beginning, consistently and without question or judgment.

“I used to live here,” he said softly. “Sort of. Part-time. It's...complicated.”

Spencer didn't have to turn his head to see Rossi's expression. He could feel him raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Just in town? Or specifically on this street?”

This time Spencer did turn his head, swallowing hard. “In 204.”

Rossi's face was hard to read, although Spencer wasn't sure if that was because he was schooling his emotions or because his own eyes were starting to blur with tears. He wasn't sure if he wanted Rossi to press him or wanted him to drop it, and he knew he wouldn't know for sure until Rossi reacted one way or the other and he was able to see his own response to that.

“So you know which one it is,” he finally murmured.

Nope, he'd been wrong. He still didn't know how he felt about Rossi not pushing for answers. “Yeah. It's that one.”

He pointed to the house catercorner from the Babashanians', aware that his finger was shaking, then lowered it quickly and started in that direction, Rossi at his side.

From somewhere nearby, Freddie Mercury began pleading with someone to find him somebody to love. Something in Spencer's chest twisted unpleasantly, caught by the memory, but before he could start hyperventilating, the music changed abruptly, mid-note. A short, too-familiar introduction, and then England Dan started telling someone that he'd really love to see them tonight.

Frankly, that was almost worse. Spencer flinched and glanced upwards briefly to mouth, Really? He was an agnostic, but if there was an all-powerful, all-seeing God, then She was kind of being a dick right about then. He pulled himself together, mostly, and headed for the porch.

The front walk needed sweeping, which wasn't all that unusual really, but the lawn bore signs of having been mowed recently, probably by a neighborhood kid who needed a few extra bucks for something or was looking for an easy community service project to get that next merit badge. The apples on the tree would probably be ready to pick in a week or two, and the potted plant in the window seemed cheerful and thriving. The curtains had evidently just stayed with the house, because they were the ones Spencer had made twenty years before, deep blue and streaked with silver like the night sky. He found himself wondering what had happened to the (admittedly few) things he'd left behind—things he hadn't been able to bring himself to go back up and clean out, because that would mean admitting—

The door knocker was the same.

Spencer brought himself up short, staring at the knocker. It had been something of an inside joke—a snake clutched in the talons of a bird, its head and tail jaunty and elated. Someone had cleaned it recently, or maybe it just saw a lot of use and stayed shiny, but it caught the sunlight. It was a good quality knocker, but it was still odd, and he'd been fully prepared for it to be gone. Except it wasn't.

Slowly, he reached for the knocker. His hand was shaking worse than it had when he'd been detoxing. He'd gotten good over the years at forcing the memories down, but he'd never been this close to them before. He wasn't prepared for what was on the other side, and for a split second, he didn't know if he could bring himself to knock—to knock on the door that he'd always just opened before, the one he was pretty sure he still had the key to.

But he had to. This wasn't his house anymore. And this was his job.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his hand around the snake's body, lifted it, and rapped on the door. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.

It was automatic—he hadn't even thought about it. He quickly let go of the knocker and stepped back, clenching his fists tightly and trying to school his reactions, trying to prepare himself. They had a name, but no picture—Ezra Fell was a notoriously reclusive and secretive author; that wasn't even his real name, not that anyone knew what his real name was—and all Spencer had to go on were the few clues he'd gleaned from the books he'd been drawn to from the start, since he saw the name and recognized the reference immediately and picked up the novel even though it hurt to think about.

Irish. The mystic language that Coelynth used for his magic was obviously based on Irish, maybe with a little bit of Scots Gaelic mixed in occasionally, so Fell had to be Irish or of Irish ancestry. Probably an older gentleman, white hair, bushy but neatly trimmed beard, horn-rimmed glasses, tall and broad-shouldered and fond of alcohol, or at least pretending to be. Or would, if he socialized. He would likely be annoyed at having been interrupted and hostile about answering their questions.

There was a faint clunking sound, like the bolts were being shot back. Spencer couldn't explain the feeling that washed over him all of a sudden, as though his soul had clicked into place like a magnet jumping from the fingers to a metal board. It was like a piece that had been missing for ages had been replaced. It was like coming home. Which was ridiculous, and he needed to stop being stupid about it. This wasn't home, hadn't been for a long time. Would never be home again.

Then the door opened, and Spencer's breath caught in his throat. It wasn't just that the man standing at the door was exactly the opposite of what he'd envisioned—around Spencer's age, dark brown hair, a roughly two-day growth of stubble, eyes clear and unadorned, same height and general build as Spencer was, a polite but faintly bemused expression on his face. It was that he wasn't supposed to be there at all.

“Zira?” he blurted.

The man's head snapped around. His eyes—warm and brown—widened, his lips parting in shock. Spencer knew he had the same expression on his own face.

It seemed an eternity between one heartbeat and the next, but it couldn't have been any longer than that split second before the man breathed out a single word, in a familiar voice he'd never expected to hear again. “Spencer.”

[stusbunker]

WW - S06 E04 Weekend At Bobby's 😘

(Weird Wednesdays are brought to by bastardizing the wiki)

One year ago and shortly after trapping Lucifer and Michael in Lucifer's Cage, Bobby summons Crowley and demands the return of his soul. Crowley refuses and smugly quotes his contract, which states that he only has to "make best efforts" to give Bobby his soul back. He agrees to give Bobby ten years of life, but that is all. Bobby then reveals he has trapped Crowley in a devil's trap made with black light paint, but Crowley threatens him with his hellhound until Bobby releases him.

Bobby’s junkyard dog, Rumsfeld, who everyone forgot about, perks up at the sound of a new friend and Crowley relents and summons Juliet for a playdate. The dogs run the perimeter of the salvage yard and the owner’s discuss training and stories of when they were pups. Bobby brings out some glasses and Crowley falls for the holy water in his scotch. Eventually, they laugh it off.

In the present day, Sam and Dean are in Wisconsin (namely Kenosha, where my husband was born) on the trail of a monster that cracks open the bodies of its victims. It leaves a large black claw in the chest cavity of the latest victim, and they call Bobby for help. Even though Bobby says that he's busy. And Sam always has wifi. Bobby steps up and spends hours researching, going so far as to break into a University library to find a book that he needs. I mean, they’re his kids, who else would he go to jail for?

And we wonder why he was the one with all the drunk and disorderlies...

It's early morning the next day when he calls Dean to tell him that they're hunting a lamia. Usually only in Greece, a lamia "juices hearts and chugs the blood." Which Sam quickly jots down, because that could be the next step in his smoothie fixation. Bobby tells them it can be killed by a silver knife blessed by a priest. What kind of priest? Who knows, who cares. Probably an acolyte of Apollo or some shit. But, they can do their own research now, moochers.

After he's off the phone, Bobby goes down to his basement, where he has a crossroads demon tied up and caught in a devil's trap. He wants to know Crowley's true name - the name he had as a human before he died and became a demon in Hell - so he tortures the demon by using a blowtorch to singe its bones. Finally, she admits that Crowley, who is now the King of Hell, was a Scottish man named Fergus MacLeod in life. The other demons call him "Lucky the Leprechaun" behind his back.

Which just goes to prove that demons are stupid and unofficially most Scots and Irish end up in heaven, because there is no way it was that funny of a joke.

Once Bobby has the information he needs, he burns the demon's bones, killing it and its host. And no one is really surprised, we are only allowed to worry about vessels when it’s a recurring character.

After killing the demon, Bobby answers phones and backs up other hunters posing as various law enforcement officials until Rufus knocks on his door. Rufus has the police on his tail and needs Bobby's help burying the body of a Snorlax, a monster usually only seen in Japan. They bury the body on Bobby's property and Rufus leaves just before Sheriff Jody Mills shows up with an FBI agent, Agent Adams. Agent Adams is looking for Rufus.

And as exhausting as this episode is, it just shows what Bobby Singer’s life really is like. It wasn’t a single week of annoyance, it was always like that. He’s a goddamn saint in a cantankerous facade. Bobby is a fucking hero.

Dean calls while the FBI agent is there and asks for help killing the lamia because they couldn't kill it with a silver knife blessed by a priest. Bobby tells him to find salt and rosemary and "blend the herbs, saute over a high heat, and cook well," and hangs up when Dean finishes his audition for Cutthroat Kitchen and flambes the lamia. Agent Adams is persistent, and Sheriff Jody Mills tries to distract him, but Adams finds the spot where the Snorlax was buried. Fortunately, there is no longer any evidence of a crime because the damn thing is gone. Unfortunately, Rufus didn't stab it enough times to kill it, and it has been feeding on single white gamers while they sleep.

Rufus and Bobby deserved a fucking spin off for this episode alone. Jesus these two were perfect.

While Bobby was interrogating the crossroads demon, Marcy Ward rang his doorbell with a homemade peach cobbler. She has been his neighbor for six months now, and seems to be interested in him romantically, asking him over for dinner and a movie and then, when he seemed hesitant, asking him to come over and take a look at her wood chipper, which has broken down. When he learns that the Snorlax might be after her, he breaks down her door with a shotgun, scaring her, but drawing out the Snorlax, which had been waiting in her bedroom to kill her. Her playstation still paused to the final boss.

When the Snorlax is killed in Marcy's (obviously functioning) wood chipper, she is covered in blood. Bobby still tries to salvage a relationship with her, but she turns him down. He never was as cavalier as he wanted to be and victims are rarely as grateful as they are in fanfic.

Rufus thanks Bobby for helping him with the pokemon, and tells him what his contacts in Scotland have learned about Fergus MacLeod, aka Crowley. Crowley had a son named Gavin MacLeod, whose signet ring is now on display in a maritime museum in Andover, Massachusetts. Rufus is already there willing to steal the ring for Bobby. Because, that’s what friends do. And no matter how annoying or argumentative they are, both of those ornery bastards listen when the other is talking or dealing with their own problems.

Dean calls to talk about Sam and how he's changed in the past year, Dean can’t stand his new manscaping regimen especially, but when Bobby puts Dean on hold to talk to Rufus (who is fleeing law enforcement after stealing the ring), Dean accuses him of being selfish.

I have seen people go off on Bobby for this rant and I just want you all to know, FUCK OFF. Bobby had every right to say what he did in this episode. We all knew Sam was “WRONG”, Dean should have picked a different way to unload on Bobby about it.

Bobby asks for Sam and he yells at the brothers over speakerphone, calling them "whiny, self-absorbed, sons-of-bitches" that he does everything for without a word of thanks. He reminds them Crowley still has his soul and tells them to "sack up" and help him for once. Sam says all Bobby had to do was ask. While Dean pouts in the corner because he didn’t want to talk TO SAM about SAM. He wanted to gossip.

As a favor to Bobby, Sheriff Mills extradites Rufus and allows him to "escape custody" so that Rufus can deliver the signet ring to Bobby. You just gonna gloss over how he got it to South Dakota safely? Really? That level of dedication is just overlooked these days.

Bobby uses the ring to summon Gavin's ghost, and they "have a chat." He then summons Crowley, who arrives and discovers he is trapped in another devil's trap. Which, why isn’t he always at this point? Summon him constantly gents, it’s like a round of musical Crowley. No? Too much? Eh, what do you know.

Crowley repeats his position that he won't give Bobby his soul, but Bobby counters by revealing his son Gavin's ghost. Fergus, aka Crowley, and Gavin hated each other so Gavin is useless as a bargaining chip, but he gave Bobby all the information he wanted about Crowley, including where his bowling shoes were buried. Which I don’t think Gavin would have known, but that’s just more confusing shit for a later episode where we time travel to find the real Gavin and not just a bitter old spirit.

Bobby hands Crowley the phone so that he can talk to Dean, who tells him that he and Sam are standing over Crowley's comical size sevens in Scotland. Bobby makes Crowley an offer: his beloved shoes in exchange for Bobby's soul, and Crowley agrees. Bobby makes sure that he will still have the use of his legs before releasing him from the devil's trap, with a pat on the ass for good measure.

Crowley appears in Scotland moments later, where Sam and Dean are still standing over his supposed grave. Dean threatens to burn the lucky bowling shoes anyway, but Sam tells him to stand down, saying "a deal's a deal." Crowley picks up his personalized bag and disappears, and Bobby thanks Sam and Dean for flying to Scotland and helping him get his soul back.

Dean was on a plane for 8 hours? Sam must have given him that good shit, because aint no other way that was happening....

[blackswaneuroparedux]

walaw17 asked: Any thoughts on Scottish independence?  

I have tried avoiding answers about Scottish independence and by proxy Brexit because like everyone else I am just bored into numbness by the whole on-going soap opera saga. There’s no escaping it. Even within families the conversation around the dinner table is about the next referendum and by proxy, Brexit.

I have Scottish roots on my father’s side and so when I meet my Scottish cousins up in Scotland for weddings, funerals and the like the topic does come up. This summer I was up in the Angus glens for the annual ‘Glorious 12th’ - the start of the shooting season - to join a family shooting party to shoot grouse and share a feast afterwards.

Most of the clan and family friends gathered would be High Tory. Thus they are very much in favour of the Union as they are strong monarchists to boot - even if they have fought for and against the crown at different times in their gilded past. They remain fierce Scottish patriots to the extent that they (good naturedly!) admonish me for taking my Scottish ancestry for granted and being ‘Anglicised’ on my father’s side.

I believe the Scots are for the largely loyal to the Union and they proved that at the last referendum on Scottish independence. But Brexit is now added into the mix and its has clouded the picture somewhat for many Scots. It’s easy to see why.

If I take the Scottish part of my family and their clan. As loyal as they are to the Union there were grumblings about how Scotland seems to be pushed to the margins as Little Englanders run around and use the cover of nationalist fervour to concentrate wealth and power in the City of London to become a free market Singapore 2.0. Even worse leave the United Kingdom vulnerable to the whimsical mercies of Donald Trump if we ever did a trade deal. 

Where the Scots differ from the English is that they are natural Euro-philes. Scotland has always been close to France - even shared past Queens. The Scots are naturally outward looking people who in their proud history have always been travelers to the world - to seek work, or settle in new lands, or to trade. Look at the the British Empire, the Scots virtualy ran the empire and even populated it as far as India and North America. So one can’t ignore the impulse of the Scots to not turn its back on Europe.

The first minister of Scotland, Nicola Sturgeon, now proposes a second Scottish referendum. While politically justifiable even if it’s opportunistic, this is not the best way forward.

Less than three years removed from the first referendum, in which Scotland voted to remain in the UK by 55%, the question of national sovereignty returns to the political forefront. While 52% of the UK opted to leave the EU, 62% of Scots voted to remain Citing the manifesto of her Scottish National Party (SNP), which holds the majority in the Scottish Parliament, Ms. Sturgeon stated that Brexit constitutes a significant and material change from the 2014 vote and a new referendum is necessary. In this, the first minister is right to call for a referendum, as circumstances have unquestionably changed. Forced to leave a union most Scots prefer, the nation should have the right to reevaluate the partnership with their southern neighbours.

Scotland is better off remaining part of the UK than leaving it. The SNP, a separatist group at heart, is misleading its countrymen by saying otherwise. The timetable set by Ms. Sturgeon places undue pressure to resolve Brexit during an already tight window of two years. With Greenland taking roughly seven years to finalise its departure from the European Economic Community, it is hard to believe the UK, a political and economic behemoth in the region, departing in a mere couple. The timetable also provides Scots with little ability to make an informed decision. Much uncertainty exists regarding Brexit and its future ramifications for the UK after Oct 31st. These are not empty words, as Scots increasingly believe that there should not be another referendum in the next few years.

Even for a leader with high approval ratings like Ms. Sturgeon, referendums are risky. The first minister need not look further than her European counterparts, where referendums in the UK and Italy led to the self-inflicted downfalls of David Cameron and Matteo Renzi. Ms. Sturgeon would be wise to learn from the past, as referendums can have dire and unpredictable consequences on a political career. She should act more like the citizens she was elected to represent, who currently have little appetite for another vote. Even if one were held, the most recent polls shows only 37% of Scots supporting Scottish independence.

Arguing for departure from the UK may play well politically, but it would have disastrous ramifications for the small northern nation.

How did we get here?

Through the inattention of the leaders of the British government of the two major political parties is one obvious answer. Labour Prime Minister Tony Blair was eager to devolve power from London to representative assemblies in Scotland and Wales, despite the constitutional problems. Large majorities of Scottish and Welsh parliamentary constituencies elect Labour members of the House of Commons, and particularly in Scotland there was deep discontent with the policies of Conservative Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. They associated them with the inevitable decline of Scotland’s heavy industries — steel, shipbuilding — and the high unemployment that resulted. Glasgow, once the proud “Second City of the Empire,” as you can readily imagine when you see its impressive century-old downtown office buildings, was particularly hard hit. Scotland, since the Act of Union of 1707, has provided a disproportionate share of Britain’s philosophers, statesmen (11 prime ministers including its most recent in Blair, Brown, and even Cameron), colonial administrators and military officers and men.

Now the Scottish economy is dominated by the public sector, and the Scots are suffused with self-pity over what they regard as the underfunding of the welfare state. Scotland’s second Parliament went into operation in 1999, with Labour party stalwart Donald Dewar as chief minister and with power over much of Scottish domestic policy, including the ability to raise taxes. Indeed under the 1707 Act of Union, Scotland retained Scottish law rather than the English common law, kept the Presbyterian established Church of Scotland rather than the episcopal established Church of England; and under later legislation ran its own education system.

But in 2007, as Labour’s popularity was declining in the UK generally, Labour lost its majority in the Scottish Parliament and the Scottish National Party’s Alex Salmond became chief minister. With a Scots Nats majority, Salmond pushed for the referendum and he got an apparently absent-minded Conservative Prime Minister David Cameron to agree to terms favourable to the separatists: the 16-year-old vote, the exclusion of Scots in the military or otherwise living outside Scotland, the fact that a “yes” vote favours separation rather than continuation of a relationship that has produced one of the world’s greatest nations for 307 years.

Scottish independence advocates argue that an independent Scotland will be able to tax itself to its heart’s content and will be able to draw on endless North Sea oil revenues to pay for whatever level of social services and community provision Scots want. But that’s unlikely. North Sea oil production is declining, and a pro-independence vote would be followed by negotiations between England (or rUK, rest of United Kingdom, as some dub it) over the division of oil resources — and division of the national debt.

UK authorities have made it plain that Scotland is not welcome to retain the UK pound, and that if it does (as Panama and Ecuador have the U.S. dollar as their currency), Scottish financial institutions won’t get a bailout if they get into trouble. So it seems likely that the two major Scottish banks and other financial institutions will move their headquarters and legal residence to London if Scotland votes for independence.

The EU’s doctrine of ‘subsidiarity’ seems superficially pro-devolution and the Treaty of Maastricht created the ‘European Committee of the Regions’ to promote regional identities against national capitals. But what is the reality? Neither Spain nor France will permit the precedent of secessionists joining the EU. During the 2014 Scottish Independence referendum, the European Commission said Scotland would not inherit the UK’s membership of the EU.

Brussels instinctively backed Madrid against Catalonia, prompting famous Breton musician Alan Stivell to lament “Catalonia’s political prisoners represents the suicide of the idea of Europe”. And the EU has a poor track record of looking after small states like Ireland. Brussels forced two ‘People’s Votes’ after Irish referendums went against the Nice and Lisbon treaties. The bail-out imposed on Irish taxpayers, politicisation of the Irish border and Corporation Tax harmonisation fuel rising Irish Euro-scepticism.

For all this politics are about passion and not reason, especially when you deal in mobilising (low information fed) populist sentiment.

This is why I fear that the economic arguments against Scottish independence, while strong on the merits, are less likely to be persuasive than an appeal to cosmopolitanism and history: the fact that Scotland, as part of the United Kingdom, has in many ways led the world over the last 307 years, intellectually in the Scottish Enlightenment of the eighteenth century (which helped inspire America’s Founding Fathers), economically in the industrial revolution, politically in the British Empire and then the British Commonwealth of Nations. Scotland looms larger in the world as part of the UK than it would as a separate nation.

The first minister of Scotland, Nicola Sturgeon, has the right and perhaps may even be right to hold a Scottish referendum in the near future, but she should not do so at the expense of her citizens’ prosperity. Once the ramifications of Brexit and voting to leave the UK are fully known, then Sturgeon could consider proposing another referendum.

But I hope the arguments against independence prove successful and that whenever Scotland has a second referendum the vast majority of Scots vote ’No’. And if or when that happens the Scots will cease to be transfixed by the idea of secession, as have voters in Canada’s Quebec. Casting aside a working relationship which has had such outstanding results for the (by no means assured) chance of a slightly higher-spending welfare state seems like a foolish idea.

I have argued with Scottish family and friends that Scottish independence would disturb our identities more profoundly, in ways that few yet grasp.

Our modern politics are Whiggish. Even the name “Whig” comes from the term “whiggamor” meaning a Scots cattle-driver. As someone who was raised High Tory values from an early age, I find that hard to concede but it’s painfully true certainly from the 17th and 18th Centuries onwards with the rise of parliamentary democracy. I suspect it’s even harder for Marxist inspired leftists to stomach given the socialist driven Labour Party have traditionally worked within Whiggish principles despite their fiery rhetoric being matched only by their incompetence to actually govern.

Whiggism favouring the theories and practices that evolved in the formation of the British constitution. But a lot of Whiggish ideas evolved out of High Toryism and so as a committed British royalist I have a strong attachment to the Anglican Church, and of course the British constitution is modelled upon and arose directly from Anglican theories of governance. But it is British, not English.  Perhaps because her name begins with E, Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg and Gotha is sometimes thought of as an English monarch.  But she is Elizabeth I of Scotland, of a German family introduced to rule in Britain not just in England.  We have little, if any, reason to imagine that, absent the joining of crowns in 1603 or the Union of 1707, the constitution of England (or England and Wales) would have evolved remotely to resemble the British constitution as we have had it.  

British Whiggism has not only slowly seeped into and eroded the ideological underpinnings of High Toryism (think of Thatcherism rather than Lord Salisbury) but it has also ben entrenching a Whiggish inspired constitution over the past 400 years or so. But if Scotland leaves, that constitution and its history are over. There is little reason at base to imagine an English-only constitution any more (or less) likely to evolve in a future direction I would favour than, say, a European constitution. If Britain is literally finished – if the Union is broken and our constitution is no more – why would an England-alone future be any better than, say, membership of the Single European State? England survived perfectly happily as a component of a larger Union within Britain. Why should it be any less content as part of a larger union in the EU Federation?

The reality is that despite the marginalising of High Toryism, it is the Conservative party as the party of Britain, that has been the inheritor of the Whiggish tradition and appointed protector of the Whiggish constitution. If Scotland leaves the Union the Conservative Party would be finished in its present form, because it would dominate England so overwhelmingly that it would inevitably split. To be sure, it would perhaps last two or three more General Elections, in which with huge majorities it would govern in England (Wales doubtless becoming semi-autonomous and Northern Ireland departing to join Scotland forthwith). But no party that won 75 per cent and more of the seats in the House of Commons could last for long. Our adversarial politics needs an opposition as well as a governing party. So the Conservative Party would split, perhaps into Tories and the rest.

This is why ironically I believe in Brexit even if our current crop of incompetent politicians are making a real dog’s dinner out of it.

Passions aside, for me Brexit is an opportunity to reboot unionism between England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland.

It may twitch my High Tory nerves a little but I am coming around to the view that Brexit, the biggest ever vote of confidence in the political project of the United Kingdom, is an opportunity to fashion a new unionism. This new unionism might well have a sharper focus on citizenship and rights but it might also trash the canard that Brexiteers are little Englanders. A clean Brexit can rejuvenate marginalised and fraying institutions that were once the bedrock of a collective national identity. But only if we re-orienteer ourselves and go back to the original principle that allegiances of Unionism are to institutions and symbols of nationhood  and shared national values. If we can do that as a union then one might be able to capture a greater diversity that narrow nationalisms rather than widening them - under of course a unifying national figure of a monarch.

Even the most ardent of the free market Brexiteers will have to accept that the best one can hope for is a Unionism as the quintessential one nation politics. Here such Unionism acknowledges the reality of an inegalitarian society made up of people with different talents but tempered by roles and responsibilities that has an ingrained sense of a duty of care to others. But equally Unionism stands for equality amongst citizens governed by the same rules and respecting the authority of enduring institutions. All votes are of equal value in one of the world’s oldest and most successful democracies where MPs serve constituents rather than outside sectional or multi-national corporate interests.

Ironically then the best chance Scotland for its future is Brexit. Brexit will protect the Union that puts the ‘Great’ into Britain. Unionists can be confident we will stay better together in the good Union of the United Kingdom as we leave the bad union of the EU.

Thanks for your question.

[downtonabbeyrevisited]

Series One - Episode Seven

One thing that seasoned Downton viewers will know is that either the plot moves so fast that you get whiplash moving from point to point and have to perform a fair amount of mental gymnastics to recall single lines that were (canonically speaking) made months and sometimes years ago, or it’s so slow that you think you’ve slipped into a coma and are having a strange dream about the coming of electricity. This instalment is a whopping 65 minutes long and  defiantly falls into the former category of episode. Don’t be fooled by the slow start of dusting chandeliers, every single plot point that King Julian has ever thought of is about to be covered in rapid succession whilst the July 1914 stamped ominously at the bottom of the screen indicates that the shit is about to get real. The main topic of conversation in Downton Village is apparently the murder of the Austrian Arch-duke. Who knew that rural Yorkshire with its still broadly illiterate population during this time period was so switched on to international relations? 

William’s mother has (predictably) died and Anna has made an armband which is utterly indistinguishable from his livery in her honour. Another soul unable to appreciate this is Mrs Patmore who is now so blind that it has been brought to the attention of those who dwell upstairs. Mrs Patmore is summoned to the library where she collapses into the nearest available chair after chewing off Robert’s ear and he arranges to send her up to London. I doubt this was quite the reaction he was expecting but there we go. In Beryl’s absence, Mrs Bird comes to hold the fort and test Daisy’s loyalties to provide a bit of light relief in what is, when you think about it, quite a grim episode. 

Despite being slow on the uptake, Daisy soon gets into the swing of launching the Downton scullery equivalent of chemical warfare whilst Mrs Bird makes disparaging comments about the kitchen and staff. But Daisy soon falls foul of a bit of bait and switch and only succeeds in almost giving Thomas’ colon a thorough clean out. 

Whilst Mrs Patmore sits in Moorfields reeling at the fact that cataracts can’t be removed by whatever the 1914 equivalent of homeopathy is, Anna is determined to get to the bottom of why Bates was in prison. Thomas and O’Brien’s written confirmation of Bates’ previous misdeeds have only served to light a fire under her and with a confidence to which I can only aspire, she marches into Greenwich. Or is it Chelsea? My knowledge of barracks isn’t what it used to be despite the fact that I am typing this a stones throw away from one now. My superiors are weeping somewhere. In true British Army fashion, a man with an impressive hat brings out a massive book which he never refers to for any information that he could not hold in his head. He then gives out Mrs Bates Senior’s address 104 years before GDPR kicks in. 

A meeting with Ma Bates confirms that it was Vera who stole the regimental silver rather than John but he took the fall, apparently feeling that he had ruined her life. However I can’t be the only person who is still a little unclear as to why he did go to prison for Vera as there doesn’t seem to be much evidence that he had ruined her life unless I’ve missed something, which is entirely possible. Anna returns to Downton and appeals to Robert to keep Bates on. Because he is a useful character for pivoting plot points around, Robert agrees, and our favourite self-sabotaging valet lives to survive another series. 

Considerably less eager to stay at Downton is Thomas who has a right old time of it this episode, roaring through all of his typical behaviours: smoking in archways, leaving tables with entire plates of food in-front of him to go and perch on a crate and plot with O’Brien, stealing from Carson in an inept manner, having at least two other characters discuss just how awful he is and finally take shots at William. Except this time, they aren’t snide remarks. These are actual shots involving pre-German sniper mangled fists. Having volunteered for the Army medical corps with Dr Clarkson, Thomas is riding high on his way out the door and makes inappropriate marks about a combination of dead mothers and babies. William takes him on and the two roll around a bit on a table then the floor. Carson calls for a halt but doesn’t actually intervene: its up to the Irish Radical to bring about peace. Some irony there one feels. 

But perhaps Carson’s inaction is connected to the emotional upheaval that of course comes with owning a telephone. I should know; mine has been on ‘Do Not Disturb’ for at least a year now. Presumably seeing the phone as an affront to his skills as a butler, there are a fair number amount of him looking perplexed at the new arrival. But with a bit of practice under his belt, he is ready to reluctantly shuffle into the twentieth century. Oh I do love him. 

The coming of the telephone is good news for Gwen through who manages to bag herself an interview out of its installation in the Abbey. However she neglects to say that she was a housemaid on her application form. The manager of the company scoffs at this upon learning she works at Downton “you thought that would put me off!”. Well yes, because less then twenty minutes ago you were bemoaning the fact that you couldn’t find any secretaries with experience which is what you needed. King Julian is now struggling to maintain continuity within an episode never mind between. Lord. 

After 18 years, and presumably a lot of hormonal shifting, Cora is pregnant. Robert sounds incredulous and frankly, we all are. Robert doesn’t understand what’s been done differently to bring about this major shift in plot, but Cora brings him to an abrupt halt before he can pick along any further down that particular line of enquiry and an entire nation, nay the world, exhales. However Foetus C’s appearance on the scene coincides with the departure of Simmons and through a convoluted chain of events, their fates are inextricably linked. O’Brein overhears that a new lady’s maid is required and immediately jumps head first into the wrong end of the stick. But to be fair to her, Violet and Cora seem to only talk about their quest when either Thomas or O’Brien are in earshot which is asking for trouble really. But that does not excuse O’Brien committing infanticide by proxy via the medium of Imperial Leather. With a bar of poor quality soap that breaks alarmingly easily and an off-screen yelp, it’s all over and another massive plot point that has a whole lifecycle within less than an episode. 

Although Foetus C didn’t hang around long, he made quite the impact and along with the influence of Aunt Rosamund manages to unsettle the romance that Matthew and Mary have been carefully cultivating since Episode One. St James Park provides a backdrop for Rosamund, following the tradition of all Aunts worldwide, to winkle out the truth about their nieces and nephew’s love lives. As they glide through London, and pass two men sat on a bench trying to divert the apocalypse, Rosamund plants the seeds of doubt that will eventually blossom into a full blown crisis in about thirty minutes time with the mere suggestion that Mary might have to live in a cottage. 

With the prospect of another male heir on the horizon, Matthew considers moving back to Manchester but not before he can have the first of two emotionally charged conversations under a tree. Matthew witters on about ‘prospects’ whilst Mary looks increasingly desperate. That tree and the accompanying bench have seen an awful lot of drama: people have sobbed under it, plotted beside it and stared artfully into the middle distance beneath its shadow and its only series one. 

But even when it’s clear that Matthew’s inheritance is not in danger, he returns to the tree with Mary to assert the fact that he is leaving Downton for reasons that I can’t entirely fathom but are mainly based around the fact that he doesn’t want to be socially engineered and that he can’t be sure of anything. Wearing the world’s most pointless gloves, Mary covers her face and weeps in what is fast becoming a signature move. The ‘tree’ scenes between her and Matthew have been a real chance for both actors to get their teeth into a bit of decent uninterrupted dialogue. I have loved Michelle Dockery since she stole my twelve year old heart as Susan in Hogfather and she has not failed me yet. 

Carson comes to comforts Mary under the ’tree of emotional conflict’ and in one shot we have captured the charm of Downton. Ahh. Now, back onto the nonsense. 

The garden party is suddenly upon us and with it, the tying up of as many loose ends as possible just incase the series isn’t renewed. Hold onto your hats folks! Mrs Patmore returns in a cracking pair of sunglasses, Clarkson gives Thomas his papers who then promptly resigns, William and Daisy reconcile, Mrs Hughes warns Branson off Sybil whilst Sir Anthony pegs it out of Downton before Edith is allowed any measure of happiness, O’Brein attends to Cora’s every need and then learns that she was never in the firing line anyway, Branson plucks up the courage to answer a telephone, Gwen gets the job and proceeds to hug Branson and Sybil hug in a manner that you would think would be enough to cause a scandal, we learn of Ma Bates’ approval of Anna but Bates is still a stubborn idiot , Mr Moseley wants to crack on with Anna and if you squint a bit Downton Abbey briefly looks like The Villa. Oh and WW1 breaks out.  

Romantic declaration of the moment 

“I’d say he’s keen. Very keen indeed” Well then TeLl HeR JohN! Anna and Bates must be up there for slow-burn romance of the millennia and for my money is a better love story than Mary and Matthew but that could just be my gritty scots and northern heritage rooting for the little guy. 

Expressive eyebrow of the week 

Robert won last episode but nevertheless his face during the menopause chat with the accompanying “please” wins this one. THIS is why Fleabag Season 2 Episode 3 had to happen. 

Wait, what? 

“Is there anything worse than losing one’s maid” Erm…maybe the oncoming death of 17 million people with 11.5% of the British Army told by the upper echelons of society to walk slowly towards the guns? 

“Oy” is Mrs Patmore Jewish? 

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to sit in your presence my lord” That is a surprising amount of respect from someone who only two episodes fed him a chicken that had both been on the floor and nibbled by a cat…. 

“Try not to miss me, it will be good practice” Bates is a lovely man but ultimately he is a masochistic twat. 

“First electricity, now telephones. Sometimes I feel as if I were living in a H.G. Wells novel” Julian really does reserve his best for Maggie. 

“I’m not much good at building my life on shifting sands”  Calm down, Matthew. 

“He had a right to know how his countryman died, in the arms of a slut” Calm down, Edith. 

[cowgirlontheloose]

Hello Central, Give Me Heaven

Hello Central, give me Heaven

For I know my mother’s there…

And you’ll find her with the angels

Over on the golden stair...

How did Bluegrass get a hold on a clan of middle class Scottish Presbyterians in rural Quebec during the 1950s? I’ve long wondered why my brothers and I, my son, a sprinkling of nephews and now my two granddaughters — the eldest who is aiming for a science degree at university — fell under its high lonesome spell.

I can’t speak for my brothers, but Bluegrass has been a godsend for this repressed black sheep girl-child growing up in the miasma of “Father Knows Best” and “I Love Lucy”.  Where else could I safely wallow in lyrics such as  …Get that dust off the Bible and redeem your poor, poor soul. Plus Bluegrass brings death to the conversation with every breath, something that White Anglo Saxon Protestants prefer to ignore until far too late. I’ve always admired those who address elephants in the room. Go tell that ball room lady/ All dressed in worldly pride/ That death’s dark train is coming/ Prepare to take a ride.

Before the Hamilton clan met Bluegrass, however, came the rock n’ roll revolution. My hormones exploded. Hello Bill Hayley, Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis! In a tossing sea of ponytails and tinkling charm bracelets I shrieked at Elvis during “Jailhouse Rock" in Ottawa’s jam-packed Capitol Theatre. Goodbye to music charts topped by crooners Perry Como and Doris Day. Farewell to Dad’s stack of blues and jazz records:  Billie Holiday, Cab Calloway and Woody Herman.

My girlfriend Joanie and I jived in our living room caroling:  …we’re gonna rock, rock, rock till ba-rod daylight…  Mum observed, her face a blank. Our two hounds rose from their snooze and left the room. Upstairs my older brother, Ian, a Johnny Cash wannabe, whaled on his guitar, moaning “…his earthly race is over and the curtains round him fall, We’ll carry him home to Dixie on the Wabash Cannonball.” Then there was Dad, quite likely downstairs soaking up a chunky stack of 78 rpms. I can see him now, a long leg cocked over one arm of his favourite chair, rustling through the newspaper to Glenn Miller’s  “Tuxedo Junction”:  Feelin’ low, rockin’ slow, I want to go right back where I belong…

My father had a 4-string Silver Belle banjo which he never played. He was sheepish about it; said he’d only played when he was courting Mum. He wore a straw boater then and a bow-tie too. “Well, it worked” he said, waggling his hands like some vaudeville gigolo.

My younger brother, Derek, showed no musical leanings whatever until the day he vanished into his room with the Silver Belle and a Pete Seeger record on learning the banjo. He taped  “Do Not Enter” to his door and was incommunicado for six months. My friend Jane still remembers listening to him struggle through “Darling Cory” played to a dangling phone receiver. 

“No wait — I gotta start again. Wait! Listen to this!” 

But one day he emerged, purchased a 5-string long necked banjo and wowed us all with his Scruggs 3-finger picking style. 

Our friends were soaking up Bob Dylan, Joan Baez or The Brothers Four, but we fell like miserable sinners, my brothers and I, to the down-home delivery and heartache harmonies of Bluegrass. We gloried in graves in the valley, Memphis trains, bootleg likker, burdens and lonesome souls. We worshipped like hungry hounds at the feet of Bill Munroe, The Greenbriar Boys and Flat and Scruggs. We need a whole lot more a’ Jesus and a lot less rock n’ roll.

My mother, whose middle name was Cultured, did her best to steer us right. Had she been a Bluegrass lover, she would have played Vince Gill singing Come to Jesus today, let him show you the way/ You’re drifting too far from the shore…   Instead she put Beethoven or Mozart on our stereo player, then served up bacon and eggs to my brothers and I at our glossy dining room table. Morning sun spattered rainbows from glass prisms in a girandole on the sideboard while we sat like lumps, barely awake. We rolled our eyes.

My Presbyterian ancestors I suspect viewed all emotions with narrowed eyes. The notion of long-gone generations of Elizabeths and Johns stomping along to “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” or “Rollin’ In My Sweet Baby’s Arms” seems a stretch. Yet according to many sources, including Bluegrass aficionado Pastor Fred Martie of Missouri’s KJAB 88.3 Christian Radio, that soulful Bluegrass energy lurks in my DNA. The Irish and Scots who came to America in the 1600s brought the roots of Bluegrass with them. So did the African American slaves. Over centuries the two traditions entwined, evolved, but it took Kentuckian Bill Munroe’s musical genius to braid those tangled roots into Bluegrass. In 1939, he swerved away from traditional country music with his group The Bluegrass Boys. They sang hard-driven harmonies accompanied by mandolin, banjo, fiddle, guitar and bass. When Earl Scruggs joined the band in 1945 with his innovative banjo-picking, classic Bluegrass was born.

I am now pushing 80 and Bluegrass still rambles round my soul.  I’m a long-gone Christian, lapsed dabbler in Hinduism, a Buddhist groupie and a traveller in Western mysteries plus friend to Tarot archetypes (call me The Fool) along with a heavenly host of gods, goddesses and deities. 

Like Walt Whitman, I am large; I contain multitudes. 

I’ve had epiphanies and train wrecks with all of it. Yet running like a mountain echo throughout has been Bluegrass, especially the gospel tunes. There’s nothing like it to soothe this wandering soul:  …Sometimes it’s dark, sometimes you’ll swear you’re blind/ But I believe that we'll be all right/ As long as you keep on/ Lookin’ for the light.

Or as some Bluegrass tenor named Slim or maybe Doc nailed it:  I’m just a pilgrim on this road, boy,/ This ain’t never been my home.

[jamlally]

A Lucky Man

The club is trying to get out of the deal with the Cartel, Tig Trager and his Old Lady are content, but Tig worries about what might happen if something happens to him, then he comes up with a plan

This was supposed to be a short one shot that was inspired by some Tig Trager images I had seen. It turns out I ramble

Tig sat with his old lady in his lap, whisky in hand while he contemplated just how well things seemed to have worked out. The club had managed to get out of a lot of the shit that they had been dealing with, The drugs were mostly handed over to the Mayan’s, the gun trade from the Irish was flowing smoothly and he had, least ways in his opinion, one of the hottest old ladies going

Janna was a petite dark haired quiet young thing that had ended up calling for a tow when her broken down SUV had final decided enough was enough and had packed up when she needed to go home with her groceries.   Tig hadn’t been on tow duty that day but he had been there when they unloaded the hunk of junk that she called a car and he had seem the petite woman with frankly awesome curves that had stumbled out of the cab. He had picked up the paperwork and headed over there to see what he could learn about the pretty young car owner. They had struck up a fun conversation, she was new to the area and would be opening a massage parlour. Not that kind of massage parlour she had informed him when he wiggled his eyebrows in response, It took him some convincing, a few coffees and a bouquet of flowers before she agreed to date him. She had been warned about the Son’s and had not been keen to get involved with them. When anyone asked her how on earth she ended up with the SAA of a motorcycle club she would just smile and say they were motorcycle enthusiasts and that Tig had beautiful eyes,

She had made him work for every step on their journey, After their first date it took another 4 before he managed to charm her pants off and his way into her bed, The sex had been phenomenal. She had been open to trying almost everything he wanted. She had admitted that while she wasn’t some simmering virgin, she didn’t have that much experience and what experience she did have wasn’t something she was keen to repeat. Tig had taken great delights in adding to her sexual education trying new positions, toys and even roll play. For the first time in a long time he was content. He didn’t want crow eaters, he looked forward to coming home just so he could be with his Old Lady.

It took him 2 years of serious dating and moving in with Janna before he officially asked her to take his crow. Neither had been in a rush to get married but the crow solidified her place in the club. It let everyone know she was his and that they needed to keep their hands off of her.

Janna seemed to enjoy the club, She got on as well as anyone could with Gemma and took the teasing from the guys with good nature. She understood the risks and dangers that came with the club and trusted Tig to try and make smart choices.

Of course getting out of the drug business had bought its share of issues and dangers, He had come home bloody and bruised on more than one occasion, but when she saw that look in his eyes she knew not to push and she would help him clean up with soft hands, and give him the spaces that he needed.

One night they had been lying in bed talking, him stroking her hair, her running her fingers over his chest, occasionally twirling her fingers in the hair she found there, when he had asked “How did an Old Fella like me charm a pretty little thing into my life huh? She had hummed and then given him a look from through her eye lashes “ Well I guess your just lucky that it was you that came over that day, there were other of your brothers there who could have beaten you to the punch Alex”

That had caught his attention, there had been another brother that she had considered rather than him. He scowled a little feeling the first stirrings of jealousy. “Really?” “Easy there Tigger. It’s only you that i want in my life and my bed, But sure, that day someone else kind of caught me eye”

He had felt soothed by her reassurance and relaxed back down “Hmmm let me think” his brain ran through what he could remember about the day, and to be fair most of hsi memories of that say centred on the naked woman who was in his bed right now “I really don’t get why all you ladies throw yourselves at Jax and Juice I mean, sure they’re pretty but experience counts baby “

Janna had laughed at his suggestion “Oh god Tig. Juice and Jax, really! I’d spend my days fighting over bathroom and time and dealing with either Mommy issues or well what ever issues it is Juice has at any given moment Thanks but no thanks ”

“What you gonna tell me that you suddenly got a think for Tubby hairy blokes. I’m supposed to believe that you had your eye on Bobby?”

“No! Jesus Tig” “Well then who? Come on tell me !” He had tickled and poked at her but still she wouldn’t fess up. Eventually while they stood together in the kitchen he had tried again making guesses while drinking beer “So not Bobby, Jax or Juice, so that leaves, Opie, Clay, Happy and Chibs. I think the rest of the Club was out that day” She had blushed when he listed the names and he took a moment to work out

“So it wouldn’t be Clay. You would have never dared face the wrath of Gemma and Opie totally isn’t your kind, Honestly doll I guess it could be either of the other two Come on give me a clue, You know its gonna bug me forever”

She had smiled at him then “Alex you know that you are who I want to be with right? That’s why I have your Crow, it’s why I’m your Old Lady,”

“I know Doll but I just gotta know” “If I tell you I don’t want you making a big thing about this. I’m serious Alex. I don’t want to feel uncomfortable and I don’t want them feeling that way either” Her eyes had been serious as she looked at him gauging whether or not this was a good idea Tig had just nodded “Scouts honour babe” “Alex I seriously doubt you were in the scouts, and even if you were they would have kicked you out within the first month” “Look I promise ok!” She had sighed and put the knife down that she had been using before turning to rest her hip on the work surface “It was Chibs OK When we first pulled in and i got out of the truck it was Chibs that caught my eye. He was explaining something to one of the other mechanics, showing them what to do. He’s an attractive man and then I heard him talking and he was firm and direct but not unkind” “The Scots man, huh, Well I guess I’m lucky he was busy or it could be another crow you had on you” “Tig….” “Its all good doll, You want another beer?”

Nothing more had been said of it, though that night he knew that he had been more dominant and forceful i bed. Janna was naturally more submissive and it turned him the hell on, and, as much as he hadn’t wanted to admit it, he was a little jealous of the fact that he hadn’t been the one to catch her eye first.

They had not talked about it again and mostly Tig had put it out of his mind. Janna was his and they were perfectly happy with each other. He had watched on a couple of occasions when Janna and Chibs were together, There was never anything suspicious in what they did, they were friendly and no more, but he did notice that sometime his Scottish brothers eyes would linger a little longer on her cleavage, or ass, and that he seemed a little more gentle when she was around.

They had been working on getting out of the Cartel. Clay was long gone, Gemma was with Nero and Jax was president now, Tig didn’t wear the SAA patch but he was content with his role in the club. They had been on a run and he had spoken with Janna and was now set on getting drunk before he crashed out for the night. He had settled next to Chibs and they were working their way through a bottle of Whisky talking about upgrades they might want to make to their bikes. They were about half way through the bottle when Tig suddenly stopped talking glanced at Chibs and it just slipped out “Yah know she had her eye on you brother” “What the hell you talking about Tiggy?” Chibs was clearly lost by the sudden turn in conversation “Janna, we talked about it, like moths ago, when she got out the truck, she saw you and thought you were hot man” Chibs looked a little uncomfortable for a moment before he smoothed a hand over his goatee and gave a small smile “Well brotha you know y magnetism knows no bounds. You’re just lucky that one of the guys screwed up his repair and I was busy” Tig swallowed down his shot and turned so he was facing Chibs more directly. He looked down at the table and folded his hands together. Chibs looked concerned when he didn’t laugh “Tig you know that I’d not go there brotha, she’s your old lady”

Tig didn’t look up, he sucked his lip for a second before he continued “If anything were ever to happy to me, you know that I’d want you to look out for her right. If there was ever a reason that I couldn’t be there, you’re the only brother I would trust with her” He looked up then his cold blue eyes meeting Chib’s brown ones “Of course brotha , what ever you need. But Tiggy, nothings gonna happen, right?” Tig had taken a drink and smiled “Sure”

He had of course told her, she had of course been mad and the sex they had a couple of days later had been epic. They had been lying in bed when he had brought it up something that had been going on in his head for a while “ So the Chib’s thing, there was a reason I told him, you know” Janna had sighed and rolled to look at him “Ok i’ll bite why did you tell him Alex” “He’s lonely doll. He has been for a long time and I wanted him to know that ladies still had an interest in him., Look things can go south pretty quickly. This shit with the Cartel, we’re working on getting out of it, but this isn’t going to be some clean break, Things will get messy and there is a good chance we don’t all get to come out of this whole, or without jail time, I’m going to try my best to come back to you, but if I can’t, well Doll there is not another man I would rather intrust my Old Lady too and if it became more, well then I would rather it be him than anyone else. He’ll treat you right “

“Alex!” Janna had sat up then, sheet pulled up oboe her chest and her eyes wide “You make it sound like its a done deal, It’s always been dangerous but baby I need you to not think like that . You need to be positive and come back to me, Besides how is that even fair to Chib’s? What if he has someone in his life, you cant expect him to drop that for me Hell if you’re all in jail he’s probably gonna be right there with you . Even if he’s not then your assuming a lot Alex, you know people have to be compatible for things to work out”

“Baby” Tig reached to pill her close “Chibby, he doesn’t have anyone right now, but if he did then sure I wouldn’t expect him to be more than a friend, but if I end up in jail on drug charges, well there’s a good chance I’m not coming out again. God willing it doesn’t come to that but we need to be prepared, I get what you’re saying it may take a while but if it comes to it I think you two would be good together. That’s all I’m saying “

“Alex please, look thinking we’d be good together is different than being good together. Chibs and I might not have chemistry and baby I love how we are together, The way we do things. You make me feel great Alex and you look after me and know just what I want and need, That’s what I want,”

He had kissed her and hugged her close but in his mind he planned for what he knew was likely coming.

He spoke with Chibs one night. Explained the conversations that he and Janna had been through, Chibs had listened and had protested as vehemently as Janna had. “Brotha, she’s your old lady and incarcerated or not I can’t be with her” “But would you, if I was gone, would you want to be with her” “Jeysus Tig “ “It’s a simple question man, do you find her attractive , would you have been interested if she had come to you first” “Yes! of course I would, what man wouldn’t but your missing then point” “No brother you’re the one missing the point. We know this Cartel shit wont be smooth and I need to know that she’s taken care of man, What I’m saying brother is I’m willing to share if you are” “What?” “You heard me. We’ve shared a crow eater before but I’m telling you that I’m willing to share Janna too. She’s still attracted to you. If she’s up for this I’m not talking a one of thing - I’m thinking long term. Just think about it man”. He’d left Chibs then wondering how he brought this up to Janna

It had taken a couple of weeks and a close call where Chibs had taken a bullet to the shoulder and Tig was covered in scrapes and cuts before they spoke of it again Chibs had waited until Tig went through to his dorm to clean up before he approached him

“Tigger hang on, you got a sec to talk” Chibs gestured to the dorm room “Whats up ?” “Look I’ve been thinking about what you said, How are you going to be ok with Janna being with me. Say we went ahead - i don’t want to loose you as a brother for a woman.” Tig smiled - he knew that he was on board now if he’d thought this much about it “ So to start with I figure its the 3 of us. we work it out, and I guess we talk” “And Janna she’s up for this?” “She’s not opposed to it, has she accepted it - not one hundred percent but I figure we can convince her without trying too hard” “I need to be healed, before we try anything” “Sure thing brother”

Tig knew he had to start getting Janna on board, A couple of nights after his discussion with Chibs there had beeb a club party. He made sure that he knew where Chibs was most of the night so that he and Jana could be close by. After a couple of drinks he stood behind her, arm banded tightly around her waste, mouth by her ear as he whispered “You like it when I hold you really tight, so you cant move don’t you doll” She had hummed her acceptance and pushed back into him “Your such a good girl for Daddy aren’t you. You know how to do what your told, how to ask for what you want hmm” He licked the shell of her ear and he felt her breathing pick up “Yes you are.Look over there Doll, Do you see CHibs, see how he’s making sure that Crow eater makes him feel good His hand in hr hair as she moved, How would that feel doll, me behind you holding you tight, making sure you cant move, Chibby with his hand sigh in your hair, controlling how you move, what do you think huh, my dick in your pussy, his in your mouth. You’d be a good girl for daddy and earn your reward wouldn’t you” She was panting by the end of it, her ass pushing back into him, his hard on pushing back and her breath coming out in soft pants . He had taken her back to his dorm room and fucked her hard, holding her tightly telling her how to move and what to do. She had begged him to let her come but he had held off until she nearly cried with frustration and then she had come so hard he had worried she would be done for the night. Later on when they were recovered he had taken her back out and gotten them both drinks before guiding her to sit o na couch between himself and Chibs. Chibs had leant over close to her ear and whispered to her. What ever he said her checks went pink and she had seemed flustered.

Their game as he liked to think if it had gone on for another couple of weeks, there were whispered words, ideas that he thought she might find hot, comments and looks that let her know he was having fun teasing her. He didn’t think that she had worked out that Chibs was in on the whole thing. He would position himself somewhere that he knew Tig and Janna would be able to see him. When a crow eater was spending time with him, sucking him off he would hold their head but look up and make eye contact with Janna, He played it off as if it were incidental, but Tig new different, He let the tension build, The sex he and his Old Lady had was beyond hot. She was obviously getting wore dup, and he knew, were it not for her more submissive nature then she would probably have been far more aggressive with him in dealing with her needs.

He let things build slowly and then he had approached her telling her what he wanted to happen “I love you doll, your my old lady and I want you to be happy, and I think that I know what would make you happy. Do you trust me?” “Of course I do Alex, always” “Ok Doll, get undressed, leave on your bra and panties and then close our eyes for me” He had moved around her touching, caressing, pinching, licking. He could see her becoming more excited, Her hips jerked towards him anytime he was close enough, her nipples were tight and prominent and her pulse was through the roof. It was then he had gone and opened the door, allowing Chibs to come in and then he had moved to stand behind her. He banded his arm tightly around her body below her breasts, pushing them up slightly, his other hand gripped her hip as he spoke into her ear. “Do you remember that night where we watched Chibs and we talked about you being trapped between us, your hair wrapped around his hand, his cock going in and out your mouth, Tell Daddy baby, do you remember”

He felt Janna swallow “Yes I remember” “And it got you hot” “Yes” He had looked at Chibs who had nodded and moved forward wrapping his hand tightly in her hair, pulling her head back before he ran his nose up her neck. “Hmmm is that right. Does your wee lassie want you to fuck her body while I fuck her mouth brotha” Janna’s eyes had flown open at the new voice but Tig kept control “Remember baby you trust me. You want this to end then you say red, yellow if your unsure. Tell me where you are baby” She had stumbled for a second before stuttering “Green” “Good girl” Tig smirked at Chibs from over Janna’s shoulder. “After you brother”.   He watched as Chibs ran his nose back up Janna’s neck stopping at the hollow under her ear where he licked and sucked on the skin. Tig felt her moan before he heard it. A deep vibration that came from low in her chest. He ran his hands up pulling at her bra cups until her breasts were exposed his hands moving to her nipples where he tweaked and twisted, Janna’s groans becoming moans. Chibs stepped back and looked down. He licked at his lips as he took in the sight before him. Janna’s beasts rose and fell as she panted with desire, her nipples already taught from his fingers her panties already starting to look damp. “Ah Tiggy your girl is a sight brother, look at her there so needy. She’s a sight for sure brother. Where do you want to do this?” Tig gestured to the bed “On you go little girl, to the bed, and take those panties off , on your hands and knees”

He watched as she moved as he asked. Her eyes immediately going to the floor as she moved. Stood shoulder to shoulder with Chibs “See brother she likes to be told wha to do, She’s a good girl who needs someone to look after her. Keep her safe” Chibs just grunted his agreement his hand going to his crotch to palm his already hard dick. The truth was he had always found Janna beautiful, but Tig had claimed her, made her his Old Lady and Chibs had accepted the fact that friendship would be the best he would get, If he was being really honest then there had been more than one occasion where he had gotten himself off to thoughts of her. Usually naked and begging him to fuck her, He knew that this was going to hurt, when it was over he would have had his taste of paradise and he would never be admitted again, but for now he would relish what he had, there would be time enough later for tears.

He waited for Tig to move first, to set the tone but as soon as he did Chibs moved towards the head of the bed. “See baby, I told you that Chibs would want to join us. He needs a name though hmm what do you think? You can’t have two daddies, How about a papa hmm” When she didn’t answer tig raised his hand and brought it down with a resounding slap on her right ass cheek. “Don’t forget your manners baby, I asked you a question, what do you think?” “I, i think he should pick Daddy, Just like you picked” Her words came out with a moan and she relished the sting. “Lets see how we go first, don’t you think lassie. Now open wide and show me how you can take care of me, Eyes on me wee girl” Tig watched as Janna raised her head and made eye contact. He knew her large expressive eyes would be full of desire and he could image the way her tongue would lick her lips in anticipation. He knew that she wouldn’t make a move until Chibs told her too, it was just the way she liked things to be.

He watched Chibs wrap her hair around his hand and then guide his dick to her mouth. The groan that came from his mouth as she engulfed his cock had Tig undoing his pants and moving behind her. He ran his hand down over her ass before sliding his fingers further round and into her warm depths. As his fingers sank in knuckle deep her heard her groan around Chibs. “Thats it lass, good girl”. He listened to his brothers words as he wiped his damp fingers over his cock in preparation . Learning forward he wrapped one arm in a band around her midsection “That’s a good girl” he crooned as he sank his cock into her “Yeah baby just like that” She moved between them back and forth her moans and sighs muffled by Chibs. Tig pounded into her from behind, He found the whole thing beyond hot. He had never imagined sharing his woman with another man, but here he was and he wasn’t going to deny that it got him off. He heard Chibs grunts become more forceful “Good girl just like that, thats it lass” and he knew that his brother would be finishing soon. He spend up his thrusts sitting back up into his knees and bringing his hand down again on Janna’s ass cheek “Damn good girl, you show Chibs how you know how to look after him. Make me proud baby” His words seemed to have an effect based on Chibs muttered curse of “Jeysus” and then he was lost in his own bliss.

They lay together each on one side of Janna recovering. Tig pondered the fact that this didn’t feel odd. He had no desire to touch Chibs, or do anything with just him, but the idea of sharing his Old Lady didn’t creep him out at all. Even now, after the fact he was ok with what was happening. He leant his head closer to Janna’s ear talking quietly, not quiet a whisper, making sure Chibs could hear, but sure that no one snooping outside would “Tell me did you enjoy that baby?” Janna had smiled and nodded “Very much so” “Hmm” he rubbed his goatee against her shoulder “So you would be happy to do this again, if Chibs wanted” He watched as his old lady bit on her bottom lip and thought before nodding again “Yes, if you were ok with that” . He had smiled then, a broad grin, “Sure thing Doll” He pulled himself from the warmth of the bed “ i meed to piss, then I’m going to bring back some drink You two should sort out what ever you need to”

He had taken his time out in the bar. He talked shit for a while before demanding that the prospect hand him a bottle of whiskey and then heading back towards the dorm. When a crow eater had stopped him to ask if he had seen Chibs he had snarled and told her that Chibs was busy and he wouldn’t have time for her tonight. In his dorm he had found Chibs straddling Janna, hands tied up in her hair her legs pushed ups by her ears as he slowly thrust into her. “Good girl lass, just like that. You make your Da feel so good baby. You listen so well, Tighten up now, thats a girl, use your muscles God …Yes ! just like that. CHibs had moved the hand that held up her leg to grad her jaw and force her to look at him “Eye’s on me lass. Thats it don’t you look away now. This, what we’re doing here if just for me and your Daddy, you hear me, You don’t need to be looking at the others. These eyes, your mouth, this pussy, it belongs to us, yeah!” Tig had been entranced, seeing the way that she listened and was so desperate to please Chibs, the same as she was with him. He sat in the chair at his desk, and took a pull of the drink he brought with him His eyes didn’t leave his old lady, he watched as she created higher on her wave of pleasure, getting closer and closer to coming. When he was sure she was dancing on the edge he called out “ Don’t you come little girl, not until he tells you to” He watched her fight then, to hold herself on the edge without falling over. He watched her tits bounce and her hands clenched he felt himself grow hard. Whisky in one hadn’t, dick in the other he stroked himself as he watched her ride the edge, until Chibs told her to cum, and as she did so did he.

Buy the time he was cleaned up and back out in the room, Janna was asleep in the bed ad Chibs had his pants on and was sitting having smoke and a drink. Chibs offered him the booze before having another long draw on the cigarette. “Hell Tiggy she’s something else brotha” “She is at that. Now you’ve had a taste you need to decide man, Im happy for this to be a one time thing or for it to be more. I mean there are rules and things we need to work out, but if you want this can be a regular thing, You and her, me there me not. I’ll share brother. her body our bed, our life, but if we do this thing, then it’s just between us, and if something happens to me, then you have to be there for her”

Chibs had looked at him long and hard before tipping his head, “Let’s work out the details brother and go from there”

It took a while, there was undoubtably some jealousy but they found a way to make it work. More often than not their trysts would be outside of the club. Gemma had been too caught uo in her own business to pay all that much attention to what was happening, but neither man was foolish enough to think that would last, They had agreed that there could be occasional ouching in public, but only things that could be passed of as teasing, or friendly, In private well Chibs was Da and he was Daddy and they had a damed good time. Chibs more or less lived in their house now. They had a spare room with a bathroom attached and they had given it to Chibs, Janna delighted in having two people to look after and while things seemed odd for a while Tig realised that after a few months it was normal to come in and find his Old Lady lying on the couch reading, Chibs siting at the other end watching the TV and her feet pulled into his lap as he absentmindedly rubbed them. It gave him a sense of peace to know that he had a family, odd as it may be, to come home to away from all the shit.

As things at home became more normal, things in the club became more chaotic. Both men found themselves out on runs, or out dealing wit cartel shit more and more and there were disagreements around the table as to how to deal with what was happening. Things came to a head when Tara and Gemma had been followed and shot at on their way home from a shopping trip. Tara had called Jax and the club had gone onto high alert. There was discussion of a lock down, but they decided to hold off, the Son’s had more that one enemy and overreacting could be exactly what they had hoped for.

Janna had said she understood why they had to be away and why she had to be more careful but Tig could see that she worried about them, and she never seemed truly relaxed unless they were both home. On nights where one was later than they had planned the sex would be frantic and desperate, with hands, teeth and nails coming into play more than usual. They had found that Janna needed them to be more in control inside and outside of the bedroom to help alleviate her anxiety,

Chibs had been away up north dealing with gun running issues when things suddenly got much closer to home. Tig had been away on a run. They had guns that they were running across to Nevada which would be sold to make money for the Cartel. Jax had been in negotiation to get them out of the deal that Clay had made, This run they had the truck as well as the bikes, They had fully automatic assault rifles stored in with electronics. The deal was they made this shipment and drove back the truck packed with coke and they would be out. If they were caught, wen then the Son’s would take the fall and the jail time would probably have most of them not seeing the outside world again until they were very very old men. It was high risk with a high payout. They had been most of the way to Nevada, having avoided any issues when Tig’s phone started to ring, He couldn’t take the chance of pulling over and drawing attention to their convoy, so he knew he had to wait until they reached their next gas stop and he put the call out of his mind. After gassing up the bikes and truck and grabbing some awful gas station food he remembered to check his cell. He smiled when he saw Janna’s phone number, With Chibs having been away for a couple of weeks they had enjoyed their alone time, but today, when it came time to leave she had definitely been more clingy than he was used to. She had made him promise on multiple locations to be safe. He had promised her that he would be as cautious as was possible and reminded her that Chibs would be home in the next day or so and then sent her off to work, with a slap on the ass and a wink. Janna knew that he would call her back when they pulled over for the night he figure she was calling to live him a little message, She often did when he was on a run. Usually something a little sweet and a little sexy at the same time. He wanted to listen to it but at the same time he couldn’t afford to be distracted, so sent a quick message before pocketing the phone and getting back on his bike.

The closer that they got to the drop off in Nevada the more traffic they came across. Jax signalled for them to pull into the next gas station while he called to confirm the drop of location. With directions in hand they worked out that it was another hours drive and then they could head to one of their brother charters for the night. The initial hand off went quickly and every member of the club seems more at ease when they were no longer carrying weapon that could get them a stint in lock up. A quick run over to the charter house and a piss and Tig was ready to call home . He grabbed a beer, dodged the hands of one of the eager to please girls that were on hand and headed back to his dorm, They would be sharing rooms tonight, the smaller charter house having to double up on cots in smaller rooms. He was sharing with Juice tonight and the boy was likely to be up to his eyeballs in drink for the first half of the night and Tig planned to be too drunk and too asleep to pay any attention to who he brought back to the room.

He locked the door and shrugged out of hit kutte before flopping on the bunk furthest away from thee door before pulling out his phone and calling too his voice mail. He closed his eyes as he heard a soft sigh and his voice through the receiver “Alex, hey baby, I know you wont get this until tonight but I wanted to let you know that I’ll miss you, Even when Chibs is back it not, well its not the same when you aren’t both here. Be safe daddy, I love you and I’ll miss you. When you get home i’ll be waiting on my…” he heard the sound of the door chimes as the massage parlour and Janna offering greeting before asking them if they had an appointment. He didn’t recognise the very male voice that answered but he did recognise the scream that came through the receiver followed by a smashing noise. He was frozen as he listened to smashing sounds and the sobs he knew came from his girl He was miles away and something had happened to his girl and he could do anything. He listened to the end of the message, trying to work out whether or not someone had come to help her and the message just cut off, “Fuck!” jumping to his feet he grabbed his kutte and headed to the door, he hadn’t had too much to drink and it was an eight hour drive but he could be home by morning. What if she was lying there, hurt and alone? EIgth hours was of no use. He needed to think, not just run in. Running his hand through his hair he pulled on the strands. Why had he left her alone? He could have waited until Chibs came back and then caught up with the others. Chibs! maybe he was closer. With shaking fingers he went into his contacts and made the call, pacing back and forwards. He had been just about ready to hang up and he’d odd when the familiar exasperated tone came over the line “Aye” “Chibs, how close are you to Charming?” “Tig ? I thought you were on the run” “How fucking close are you to Charming?” “I’m about 20 minutes out, I was about to get back on the road when you called. Whats up?” “It’s Janna, she left a message it sounded like someone attacked her” “Shite! Did she call you back., did you manage to get a hold of her” “Nah, I, I didn’t call her back. Fuck! I should have called her work or the hospital Fuck!” Tig could hear Chibs moving around getting ready to leave “Look you call there work, see if she’s there , then call the club house, get someone to call the hospital, I’m going to head to her work, and then I’ll call you” Chibs didn’t waste time on goodbyes he just hung up Tig dialled the massage parlour “Come on baby, pick up, pick up” all he got was the engaged tone “FUCK!”. His heart was pounding in his chest, his hands shaking as he called the clubhouse. He barked at a crow eater and then got hold of Tara who said she would check the hospital and get back to him. He paced as he waited. He couldn’t stand still, his instinct was to be on the room to head home and look after his girl, not following through on it was hell but his head knew that heading home now would cause issues for the club and wouldn’t help his girl,

If felt like lifetime before his phone rang and he scrabbled to answer it, fumbling in his urgency. “Hello” “Hey brotha” “Chibs! What’s happening! How’s Janna” “Janna’s fine. We’re back at the club house, I found her at the parlour Someone did a number on it, smashed the shit out of it,, She’s battered, bruised and scared. They knocked her out and tied her up. It’s why she couldn’t call you back, From what I could see she might have a concussion she’s got cuts and scrapes and some rope burn, but she’s whole” “Fuck! Can I talk to her man. I need to … I just need to speak to her man” “Alex” The soft broken voice came through the phone speaker and Tig was sure a bit of his heat broke “Hey baby. It’s me. how you doing” “Alex” her voice broke on a sob “I was so scared Alex, They came in and smashed up the parlour. I didn’t know what to do and I couldn’t get to the gun. They said it was a message but I don’t know what for!” He could hear Chibs talking gently in the background trying to sooth her, “Baby” his own voice was rough and he felt tears run down his own face “You listen to me, your gonna stay with Chibs ok. No matter what you guys are in the club house or if you’re out you are together. No matter what. When I get back, me and the others - we’re gonna find these ass holes and we will deal with them ok.” “Ok” “Ok baby now I love you. I need you to listen to Chibs ok. You do what ever your Da tells you and i’ll be home soon. Now can you give the phone back to Chibs baby” “I love you too Alex” She sounded better, more composed he thought as he waited for Chibs “ Brotha” “I want you to stay with her, 24/7 man I don’t want her alone, The business can stay shut. I’ll speak to the others in the morning and we’ll be home when this deal is over and done with” “Sure thing, Listen I’m gonna get Tara to check her over and then we’ll sleep here Fact is I might see if we can get all the women in on lock down. I’ll call you tomorrow” Ending the call Tig cursed and threw his now empty beer bottle at the wall feeling a little better when it shattered. The morning couldn’t come soon enough.

He had spoken with the club, they agreed on the lockdown, Jax had spoken to his mother and Tara and go things in motion. They had to wait a couple of days for the guns to be tested and they were now heading home with a truck full of drugs. They had agreed, as much as it frustrated him, that they might draw less attention travelling at night,. They stuck to minor roads, followed the speed limits and took their time, When they hit Charming city limits Jax gestured for Tig to pull up along side him. “Go on ahead brother. The rest of us can get this to the safe house. You go and see to your lady”

Tig hadn’t stopped to ask if Jax was sure, he had just nodded, gunned the engine and headed straight for the club house. As he had expected the gates to the lot were locked, it was still early and while they needed to be opened for business later in the day lockdown meant they should be closed outside of that. He couldn't see a guard so he pulled out his cell and called Chibs. “Aye” He had obviously woken the Scot up “Do you have any idea how fucking early it is Tig!’ “I’m outside, send someone to open the gates” He hung up not bothering with pleasantries. He needed to see his girl with his own eyes grab a shower and then workout who he had to kill. When the gate opened he didn’t waste any time driving straight through, a nod to the man who was currently sliding the gate shut. He was off the bike, pulling off his riding glasses and helmet as he went striding towards the clubhouse. He more or less threw the door open and headed straight towards the dorm hall, slowing slightly as he saw Chibs, rumpled and tired in a wife beater and workout pants. “Brotha, everything ok on the run?” “Yeah fine, the others are heading to the safe house” He kept moving in no mood to discuss business. Chibs stepped in front of him “Easy there, we need to talk before you head in there” Tig stared at his friend, eyes suddenly cold “Are you telling me I cant see my old lady?” Chibs huffed in annoyance “Of course I’m fucking not you dumb ass. Jesus man. Look she’s doing ok, the Doc poached her up, her concussion was minor, but she has been having trouble sleeping. She doesn’t want to be away from me, she’s followed along or stayed in the room. She’s real delicate right now brotha and asking her a heap of questions ain’t gonna help shit. Now before you go and get all shitty with me remember that we agreed that this was an equal partnership. If you want to change that, well so be it, but you don’t get to go in there and upset her even more” Tig ran his hand over his face taking a second to try and compose himself “Look man, I don’t want to change anything, but I wasn’t here, She called and I put off answering it and she needed me man!” “I know that, I do, but you going in there hell for leather it’s gonna spiral her up and create a total shit storm. L:Look we’re through in my dorm. Grab a shower and come on through. I’ll stay until your sorted then I’ll get coffee”

When Tig had come through he had found his girl, curled up asleep in Chibs' bunk. She was bundled in a blanket with her face pushed up against Chibs’ side. Chibs was dozing sat against the headboard, glasses on and the occasional snore breaking the silence. At least some of the tension that Tig felt left at the sight of his girl at peace, Knowing that her injuries were hidden he could pretend that he was just in from a run and was coming back to spend the day relaxing with Janna and probably Chibs too. He cleared his throat making enough noise to rouse Chibs, who blinked slowly as he swam back to conciseness. Chibs nodded in his direction and bent down to rouse Janna with a gentle hand stroking her hair. “Hey lass. time to wake up a bit, you have a guest” Janna had groaned and rolled over turning her back as she tried to stay asleep for a little longer. Chibs slipped out from the bed and grabbed a hoodie and his pack of smokes before heading passed Tig. “She’s all yours brotha”

Tig had flopped onto the bed jostling his sleeping old lady and then pulling her back into his body. She had grunted and he had smiled “Hey baby, is this the way you really want to greet your old man who rushed home to see you?” She had mumbled and rolled over back to the warmth he offered, before pushing herself against him. She hummed in contentment wiggling closer before her eyes started to flutter open “Tiggy?” “Hey Doll” He had been prepared for laughter, hugs, even sex, what he hadn’t been ready for was the sudden deep sob wracked her body and she clung to him as if her life depended on it. He had held her, muttered gentle soothing words, stroked her hair and rubbed her back and just let her get it all out. When she had cried herself out she was sound asleep, s he took the chance to move her head so he could look at her face and her wrists and see some kf the damaged that had been inflicted on her body. HE felt the rage burning inside him, but he would let it burn, he would let it burn until it felt like it would consume him and then he would strike and ensure that anyone who had been involved in touching her would be left six feet under the ground.   Chibs brought them all coffee and they had discussed that they would do, how best to get vengeance. They agreed to wait until after the last of drug deal was done, but then between them then would make sure that this was dealt with,

It took a couple of weeks but eventually they were free of the drugs the cartel said that the club was out and it seemed like it was business as usual Janna had healed enough that she was able to be with them both, though through mutual agreement they had been more gentle than usual, they didn’t want to trigger any bad memories.

They were scheduled to make a gun drop in O’Town to 09’ers , but there was shit kicking off with the Mayans who couldn’t seem to come up with a suitable deal with the cartel. It was making things complicated and difficult for the club, meaning more late nights and high tension. Janna had gotten better about being alone. She often waited with Gemma to allow both of her men to deal with business. To try to make things go more smoothly Jax had ranged a meet with the Mayans to happen at the same time as the gun drop was set to happen. If they could keep both groups busy perhaps things could go more smoothly.

The Old Lady’s and prospects waited at the club for news that everything had gone to plan. The men were running late. Gemma had mobilised the Crow eaters to set up for a party and set the Old ladies to cooking and pulling together a feast to celebrate things getting back on an even keel. Dinner had been ready for an hour when the first sound of engines was heard. Chibs, Bobby, Juice and Happy had ridden into the lot. Their faces had been serious and Chibs had a frustrated and worried look. He had gathered the old ladies and explained that the meeting with the Mayans had been going to plan. Chibs had been explaining different ways that they could deal with the Cartel and refusing to get the Son’s mired back into drugs when his phone had started going. He had ignored the call, then it was Bobby’s phone. then Happy’s. He had barked at one of the men to check what was happening but the muffled Shit had told him all he needed to know, things had not gone to plan with the gun drop off. Laroy had been there with his boys, they had been about to complete the trade when suddenly there were bullets flying everywhere, Of course the Son’s and 09’ers had returned fire, at first on each other, then realising that someone else was firing at them both at whom ever had opened fire. They had been making their way back to the bikes when the sounds of police sirens had broken the air. They had been cursed, detailed and now faced weapons charges and some serious time, He needed to call the club lawyers and get a defence set up. Laroy might be willing to provide some protection in Chino but as it stood they guys were going to do time.

The trail had been quick and to the point. Jax, Tig, and the other club members who had been arrested were going to do time, 3 years with the possibility of parole in 15 months if they were on good behaviour. Tig had left letters for Janna and Chibs explaining that they knew that this was risk, and that he wanted Chibs to look after her. He had explained that Chibs was to act as her Old Man in the same way as he would. He had left a letter for Gemma too., explaining their unique situation in order to smooth the way.

He was used to doing time, it wasn’t the first time but it was the first time, in a long time, that he was leaving someone special to him outside. He had taken some comfort in knowing Chibs was looking after his girl but he missed her non the less. Eventually they had been released to gen pop and cleared for visitors. He met with Chibs who had gotten him up to speed on things tithe Club, and then they had focused on Janna. She had been clingy and didn’t want to let Chibs out of her sight, but Gemma and Tara had helped. He had found that he needed to be more strict, to be in charge more in order to reduce her anxiety. She had reopened her business again and he had a prospect with her when she was out. They were living at home full time now, They rarely stopped over at the club, feeling closer to Tig when they were in their house.   When Janna had come in, dressed in a long skirt and a tight, low cut, form fitting top. She had obviously dressed dup for him and even here in lock up , he felt his heart rate pick up and his dick start to harden. “Hey little girl” “Daddy” her voice had been soft and breathy and meant for his ears only. He had kissed her gently keeping his hands where the guards could see them, before whispering in her ear “I hear you’re being a good girl for your Da” She had smiled and blushed and then they had talked about the more mundane things of day to day life. As she stood to leave he lent in for another kiss, this one deeper and with a good dose of tongue. The Guard cleaning his throat pulled then apart. He had smiled and winked “I’ve sent you a letter, I expect to hear from Chibs that you’ve done as it asks. Follow it to the letter littler girl” Her grin was like the sun after at a storm “Yes Sir” He had winked and then stood as they called an end to visiting time. Chibs had come over from where he had been speaking with Jax , his hand went to the small of her back “Come on lass, time for us to go. Be safe Tigger”

A few days later a letter had arrived and the day after that a parcel. The letter contained very specific instructions that she was to wear what was in the parcel and detailed the acts that she had to perform when wearing the items. She had followed them exactly, with no variation. She had taken pictures in what turned out to be a beautiful set of black lingerie, to send to Tig and when Chibs had gotten home they had followed through on everything Tig had written. She had written him back detailing her thoughts and feelings and sending him the pictures. She visited each and every slot they were allocated, and in-between she wrote, sometimes it was to tell Tig about her thoughts and feelings during sex with Chibs, other times it was about her day to day life. On one of the visits they had taken some time to talk about how she felt being with Chibs without him, She loved him and made sure he knew that but he could tell she was also slowly falling for Chibs. They were building a life together and it couldn’t help but rankle a bit that he was stuck in here, and not a part of what they were building. Janna had started to detail plans for them all to do things together, as well as detailing what she wanted to do with just Tig, It soothed his soul somewhat over the long nights.

Eventually they hit the 15 month mark and the men of SAMCRO were granted parole. They had a whole set of conditions, but they were to be free. The club members who hadn’t been locked up met those who had, They brought the bikes and as a single unit, Jax in the lead the men of SAMCRO had driven back to Charming. They had a club meeting, and then the celebrations started. Tig had enjoyed the first couple of drinks and shooting the shit with his brothers, but his attention had been fully diverted elsewhere when his Old Lady walked out from the dorm rooms dressed to kill. She had a short skirt, a tight top that showed a lot, bit not too much and he could just make out the outline of that first set of underwear he had sent her.

He had put down his beer, slapped Happy on the shoulder and headed her way. focused only on her. It had been too long and her letters and pictures had kept the fires burning. He had licked his lips in anticipation as he stalked forward. He made eye contact and didn’t drop it. He stood just to the side of her, letting his pinky graze her hand. “Hmm little girl look at you. I missed you. Did you miss me hmm. Your letters they seemed to suggest you did” “So much Daddy, I missed you so much. I loved the gifts you sent me, but I would rather of had you” “Really now? I did like the photos you sent me my naughty girl. but are you sure you missed me. Did your Da not look after you” “Da was wonderful Daddy, he looked after me so well, but I missed you. I missed your hand, and your mouth, al of you “ “Is that so baby doll. Well why don’t you come and show me just how much”

They hadn’t left his dorm for the rest of the night. Tig had taken her in every position he could think of. They had recreated some of the things he had written to her about and fucked like animals until they couldn’t any more.

When Tig had surfaced the next morning he had sought out Chibs “Thank you brother. For looking after her so well. for keeping her safe and loving her, and for giving me last night” Chibs had slipped his glasses off and put down the paper that he had been reading. “It’s not a thank you thing Tigger, I couldn’t have walked away, not when you weren’t here. Now you’re back and the worst if over I take it you’ll want that spare room back” Tig had looked at him puzzled “Why the hell would we want that? Chibs you know that she loves you right. What you and she have, its different that what I have with her. You not being there, it would break a bit of her heart bother, and I don’t want that for her. You and i both know that the danger will never be over. I feel better knowing that there is someone there for her, no matter what” “What are you saying Tiggy” “I’m saying I think things don’t need to change. I think that Janna is happy and she’s getting what she needs with both of us. Unless you don’t want to be further involved, I think we let her decide when and if things change” Chibs had looked relieved and smiles a little “As you say brother. So whats in store for your first day of freedom?”

The returned members had settled back into their lives adjusting slowly but surely to their freedom even with the tethers of parole. Business picked up with the gun running and a show of force was needed to help move on the Arian Brotherhood when they had tried to move into Charming. Things settled into as much of a routine as they could when your day job was an outlaw. Friday night was still club party night and Tig found himself sitting again in the club house, whisky in hand and Old Lady on his lap, her legs resting across Chibs lap. He watched as his brothers hand ran up her calf, slowly rising up to her knee, then thigh and then higher and out of sight. Swallowing down the last of his shot, he put his glass on the floor and banded his arm under her breast. His tongue flicked out around the shell of her ear and he felts ass push back into him, He hummed in contentment, his hand trailing up into her cleavage, squeezing her breast over her top. “I think someone needs some alone time with her Daddies. Look at your Da hmm what do you think baby girl?” “Yes Daddy” He waited as she slid her legs around, supporting her as she stood, catching Chibs’ eye he tilted his head in the direction of the dorms. Chibs grinned “Get a bottle of whisky and we’ll see you there brotha”

Walking into his dorm room Tig paused, whisky bottle to his lips, as he took in the sight before him. His Old lady on her hand and knees, his brother pushing into her keeping a slow and steady pace,   “We started without you brotha, but maybe you could help keep her mouth busy” Tig grinned putting the bottle down and kicking the door shut as he undid his belt buckle, All things considered he was a very lucky man.

[andreagagner38-blog]

How Punk Shaped Digital Music

Genres in music are like branches of a tree. Based mostly in Perth, 27-12 months-old Laura Jane Lowther makes digital pop music, DJs, gives vocals for quite a few producers and creates sound installations. Wong is not saying that only bimusical individuals expertise music emotionally. All of us do this. It is extra that bimusicals may faucet into that area of the mind in an effort to toggle between multiple musical types. The primary ingredient in Uncover Weekly, it seems, is different folks. Spotify begins by wanting at the 2 billion or so playlists created by its users—each one a reflection of some music fan's tastes and sensibilities. Those human choices and groupings of songs type the core of Discover Weekly's recommendations. Well, I don't even know what this music genre is, but I can inform that it is fairly horrible. I'm just glad that prog rock isn't on this record. Other than just a few vivid spots, the industry is a wash with mindless drivel. It displays in their sales. Blame it on spotify if you'll. The rubbish that's forced on the plenty isn't nearly as popular as these doing it to us need us to consider. Take a look at one of the best selling albums of all time. Adelle, even Bruno Mars is proof enough that individuals can pay for actual music performed by a proficient artist. A form of American roots music with its personal roots in the English, Irish and Scottish conventional music of immigrants from the British Isles (particularly the Scots-Irish immigrants of Appalachia), as well as the music of rural African-Individuals, jazz, and blues. Like jazz, bluegrass is performed with each melody instrument switching off, taking part in the melody in flip while the others revert to backing; that is in distinction to previous-time music, wherein all instruments play the melody collectively or one instrument carried the lead throughout whereas the others provide accompaniment.

The difference between bluegrass and country is defined not solely by the sorts of instrumented used, but also in how these instruments are used. The composition of songs are significantly completely different, and really simply distinguishable once you hearken to a song in every type. Nation music consists primarily of dance tunes and ballads focusing mainly on a gentle rhythm. However with the numerous subgenres of country music that exist at the present time, there is also an limitless variety of paces and tones.

Listening to your favourite music can truly reduce stress and give you more power, since you're using actively providing your mind with pleasure. I additionally really feel that all types of musical bits equivalent to beat, http://www.audio-transcoder.com chord development, timbre, quantity, stereoshape, most famous music Genres 2017 sound high quality and so on. play an element in how the music influences me. This 1941 essay is probably the most accessible place to start studying Adorno on common music. Plex helps playback of virtually any music file format, together with lossless varieties like FLAC. No matter how many tracks you've got, you'll be able to play them wherever you go. deep liquid bass : Deeper cuts from liquid bass (for the serious enthusiast), which mix the glossy synth traces of liquid genres with the bass from drum and bass. Blues music, by origin, is African American folks music, whereas most Jazz music would not have the identical folk elements. I publish this knowing that immediately folks will disagree with a number of my examples and descriptions, as a result of people can't agree on something relating to electronic dance music. Led by The Utley Foundation, the campaign's web site gives details about a variety of musical actions - together with listening to music, creating playlists, making music and music remedy. Get your music video live on VEVO and begin earning royalties from the world's biggest music video web site. From channel setup to video uploads, we've got you lined. This musician is considered to be one of the best worldwide artists who perform in the genre of dancehall. Konshens worked with nicely-identified producers together with Chris Brown and Major Lazer. In 2017, such his hits as Right Back" and Turn Me On" had been launched and can be known as one the best dancehall songs of the previous 12 months. A number of philosophers think that fashionable music complicates the standard ontology of music because the established distinction between works and performances has been supplemented by music that exists as recorded sound. Reflecting on well-liked music's reliance on mass-mediation, Gracyk (1996, 2001), Fisher, Brown (2000), Davies (2001), and Kania argue that there are essential aesthetic dimensions to the processes by which in style music, particularly rock music, is created and shared as recorded music. It is right here, somewhat than in stylistic differences, that latest well-liked music differs most sharply from the classical repertoire.

If this is so, how are we to understand the simple existence of different musical genres? As humans dispersed out of Africa and across the world, they took their tradition with them. As they dispersed, they lost contact with their respective cultures. And because the new environments they encountered differed vastly from each other, an important variety of cultures developed in response - and proceed to develop all the time. The star of this dancehall artist additionally began to shine vivid in 2017 and he is considered as one of the most consistent dancehall artists in the historical past of this music genre. It was laborious to find a single dancehall celebration in 2017 that was held with out his songs Approach We Roll" and Careless Gal" that made the high temper. His different no much less well-known songs are Badness" and Reminiscence".

My favourite kind of style for music is post hardcore Rock and Punk Rock. My favourite from these two must be Punk Rock as a result of I love the way it always keeps you feeling good with its rhythm. To me it makes me want to dance even when I'm by myself. However I believe every kind of music should make you cheerful as a result of all types of music are good and it is best to recognize music for its art and musicians that work really exhausting. So in my view, all genres ought to be liked.

[sexlessrpmemes]

Call me Kevin quotes

’Call Me Kevin’ quotes, because this man is funny (and deserves more subscribers), and half of what he says is pure gold, and a lot of it works really well, for starters/ask memes:

Brackets like [] are for things that make sense to be replaced by a name, either of the character being spoken to or of another character.

{TEXT} are for things that could work well for being sent as a text

Sims 4 But My Restaurant Is To Die For:

‘does no one care? dude’s on fire yo IF only anyone cared, my plan would be perfect.“

“Sorry dude *nervous laughter/normal laughter* I hate to bring this realization to ya like this.”

’'don’t interact with me, go away.”

“yeah, i know, he’s dying, i don’t care, he was only meant to be a distraction anyway.”

{TEXT} “yES, my introduction made her leave, as soon as i introduced myself she’s like: i don’t really want to be around this guy.’'

’'YES! THE DISCO SYSTEM IS MINE - and had a great price; it only cost one human life.”

“maybe i should buy a boat.”

“[they/we/I] don’t even sell drinks… you can’t even wash down your death meal.”

“food quality: normal, oh wait.. no that was the water.”

“i want to be the last thing they hear (before they die; me, playing) on this piano.”

“i forgot i have a kid here.”

“I always feel like he’s up to something… I just – he’s thinking about something evil.”

“Why do they even got this old dude running the party? It should be this old dude running the party.”

“Oh! I have an idea!” *proceeds to set a person/thing on fire*

“Why are you laughing?!” *realises it’s about someone’s death* “Oh, I like [her/him/you/them]” *laughter*

“Plus, no-one’s in there so I can get away with it scot-free.”

{TEXT} “Well, now everyone’s come inside and they’re all just watching me do this now… they’re happy about it for some reason though.”

{TEXT}“Oh, no, they’re not so happy about it anymore.”

“Wait, what? What’s wrong with you – oh, yeah, I turned them all into vampires! Of course.”

“HEY! Get down behind the counter, people can see that you’re not wearing pants!”

“[He] takes everyone’s food for no reason. [He] doesn’t even need it – [he’s] a vampire!”

“Jesus, I pay [that guy] $2 an hour…”

“This is actually a huge, generous act I’m doing here; paying [him] at all.”

“If they eat the poisonous meal, and then I drink their blood… am I poisoned?”

“I don’t even try with this stuff, it just kinda happens.”

“Sorry [folks], I hope this inconsiderate bastard dying didn’t ruin your day.”

Bad Cooking: Baked Alaska:

“Join me, on this great adventure, as we pre-heat the oven.”

“Sometimes I just eat a whole stick of unsalted butter.”

“This is about the daily recommended dose of butter. You should be getting this into your system at least every… five hours.”

“It doesn’t matter, that step isn’t important.”

“Spoiler… it actually is… very important.”

“This is a special irish plastic lemon… they’re ah, quite rare.”

“Ah! Oh! Shit, stop!” *Pause.* “its fine. It doesn’t matter.”

“It really, really matters.”

“FECK! Every time…”

“I’ve never seen a cake look this good!” *shakes the tin.* “It… kinda jiggles a bit.”

“I call this the T-Rex Technique.”

“It’s as easy as that. Wow!” ß intended as sarcasm.

“This is the saddest cake I’ve ever seen.”

“This isn’t gonna work. This is gonna be bad, I know it is. I know it’s gonna be bad.”

“That sound is fine. That sound is supposed to happen… the sizzlin’.”

*is holding a fire extinguisher* *notices [you]* “Oh! It’s fine. We won’t be needing that. We’re just gonna be lighting some whiskey on fire.”

“Wow! [name] that looks great! That looks amazing!” ß intended as sarcasm.

“You’re not supposed to look at me. That’s supposed to be someone else.”

“Please don’t fall apart please don’t fall apart please don’t fall apart please don’t fall apart – It’s falling apart, wait, hold on.”

“Oh yes. Here we go. I feel like making a sand castle.”

“You could argue that it doesn’t look exactly like as in the picture. But I would say better – some would say better. I – I would say better.”

“Now we just need to light it on fire.”

“Realistically, it should be lit on fire. It’s the only –“ *laughs* “-It’s the only reasonable thing to do.”

“That’s not – that’s not gonna survive going the other way, so that’s how it is now.”

*drinks straight from whiskey bottle.*

*pours whiskey into saucepan/whatever it’s a thing on the hob* “Why are you backing away? WHY ARE YOU BACKING AWAY??” *suppressed laughter.”

“The [Meringue] was the downfall, that’s where it went wrong. As opposed to the rest, that – that went fine. That was great.”

“Okay. Well. That went well.”

Superhot VR But I’m More Like Super Not:

“Alright, let’s get started, I’m gonna… pick up, the gun.”

“And everything goes to hell right away.”

“So I can keep moving, do the ol’… roly-poly, and then shoot him. Easy.”

“Don’t shoot me, don’t shoot me!” *takes gun.* “Aha!”

“I’m just gonna stand here, I like the compliments.”

“Holy crap this is awesome! Floppy discs are back!”

“Oh god, I’m sorry, that was a bit unfair.” *saw you and shot you.*

“I smashed my wall so hard that I cut my hand. You should’a seen the wall though. I’m like… really really strong.”

“So this is what it’s like to feel cool. It’s pretty awesome, but disappointing to know I’ll never actually be this cool.”

“This is a nice bike shop, now that I look around. They don’t have many models, though, feels like a bit of wasted space.”

“Why am I throwing ninja stars? I have guns.”

“I am not a ninja. I am an action hero. Not. A. Ninja.”

“I need ninja stars now, all of a sudden.”

“That was probably a low blow anyway. It’s probably best I fail that part.”

“Like everything else I love in life, it disintegrated in my hand.”

“I don’t know why I just tried to catch a knife… by the sharp end.”

“Well I’m not gonna get a long life. Or maybe I will!”

“Once again, I am prepared for everything.”

“I had to look around me, because I was like, ‘this is the moment something comes behind me.’”

“I’ll just swat away their bullets like they’re just flies.”

“So maybe I’m actually a super villain as opposed to a super hero. I could believe that.”

Deathly Hallows Part 1 but we frustratingly finish the game:

“What the hell – what’s going on – why are you shooting at me?!”

“Wait – this is where we choose to camp; in this nuclear waste?!” *laughingly incredulous*

“Okay, fair enough… I mean, we were in a lovely forest but, I prefer nuclear reactors too.”

“I’d love to be able to count the days of two weeks on my hands.”

“Alright, you’re – apparently freed, now? I’m – not really sure how…”

“Like, do we not have anyone else that’s out here tryn’a help people? I mean, I’ve got a pretty important mission no-one else can do, can I not be doing that instead?”

“Oh my god, this guy’s strong, they’re just reflecting off him!”

“I’m just gonna keep running, it’s honestly not worth fighting from my experience.”

“Oh, this is the one that doesn’t sound as fun.”

“Oh. It’s just a newspaper. I thought it’d be like, a weapon.”

“That makes me sad, for numerous reasons.” *laughingly, but serious.*

“I’m not undesirable, lots of people desire me.” *mulish.* *pause.* “Alright, I lied, no-one does.”

“My god, he looks eerie as hell.”

“That doesn’t even look like what she’s saying, look at her lips. I think she’s possessed… Let’s kill her.”

“I’m not tryn’a be mean or anything, I know I just sound like a dick.”

“This is a lot of people to dedicate to just watching over my grave. Wait – my grave? No, my parents’ grave, my grave comes later.”

“Are you sure? It’s not like, obvious, at all.” ß sarcasm.

“That’s actually spooky as hell, not gonna lie.”

“Y’know, the house is just exploding… casual old lady stuff.”

*laughs* “I think I just got head-butted by a snake.”

“How many times am I gonna get head-butted? And how strong’s that snake’s head; he keeps head-butting me through walls.”

“Oh! Finally! You realise something’s amiss!”

“Here. Now you’re free. If you could help me, that’d be great.”

“Like anytime I kill people they drop like, random potions, and I keep wanting to drink them, but I don’t know, it seems dangerous.”

“At least he sounded thankful, the others just seem to go like ‘oh, cheers.’”

“Thank god the dead don’t know how to use stairs.”

“Like, what are you even doing? One, they’re not coming in, and two, you’re hitting the wall.”

“Sometimes you just gotta live with the consequences of your actions, y’know? [I] can’t always come save you. Even if [I] do have a bazooka.”

“Yeah, I think so too! Please!”

“Let’s see if you can handle it, then.”

“Oh. Okay, maybe you can.”

“Let’s choose the worst possible place we can find.”

“I mean, it’s nice and all, but it’s no nuclear waste, am I right?”

“Spiders I just ignore. Because they’re losers, and they have too many legs.”

“Is he following me? Or, is this following him? Either way, he’s got a lotta hazards to deal with, because I am not dealing with any of them.”

“Ah, thanks for just standing there.”

“I’m just gonna start nuking these snakes.”

“What are you doing?”

“Yeah, I think we can beat the rock.”

“Yeah but you don’t need to scream or – or do anything, to be honest, I think you’ve just won by being human.”

“The only thing good about this is hearing [] in pain. That’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

“Don’t bother attacking them buddy. They’re already dead. Just like my love for you…”

“Oh come on now don’t exaggerate, I was fine. [] just kinda stood there.”

“You’ve changed since you came back, [], you used to just be pathetic… now you’re pathetic and mean.”

“Why does [] have all these dead people in [] front yard?”

“Now even the guy try’na explode the side of the house isn’t hurting me.”

“What?! We didn’t even do anything, we just [exploded] and [died!]”

“You had about ten minutes to figure out who I was in that fight.”

“Yeah, just shout my name. Really makes messing up my face worth it, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah I’m gonna blow this house apart.”

“Ah, this is gonna be traumatic, isn’t it?”

[fightevilandthengetblownup]

Red Right Hand VII

—

Nothing of the last weekend had actually gone to plan - and Michael intended to resolve as many of the complications and insubordinate actions as quickly as possible before the next race.

He met with the short dark haired barman on the Tuesday morning, and a substantial amount of notes and looming later, he had the first part to his resolution started.

He had allowed too many mistakes, too many instructions only half followed, too many bar brawls that resulted in more damages than they accrued back for securing the facilities. Too many times had the loose cannon of the family been allowed to run unchallenged.

And as the family was heading towards bigger goals, great obstacles and larger risks, the volatile element had to be dealt with. Subdued somehow.

Michael had considered marrying him off. Finding some down on her luck girl who could hold up to his brother’s idiosyncracies out of desperation.

There had been that redhead cousin of the Catholic’s his brother had driven around a few times, which would have resolved that additional issue in one, but she had married some banker and left for America during the war. There had been the brunette - Bela something - however her little habit of finding herself with dead husbands was not something Michael was willing to risk with the other. There had been the dark haired American girl, Tessa, who weaved herself around the pub back when the Reapers visited Birmingham from London, however he did not believe that anything could convince her to return from the capital, no matter how badly the Reapers were doing.

So he was left to find another solution, and when he had the stroke of genius to occupy The Fort for their own legally, it gave him the opportunity to potentially instil some responsibility into the other.

He waited until after the surprisingly cold family meeting that moment to speak with the other. When discussing the outcome of the weekend, filling in their mother and sister of the results, Michael found the reaction from his younger brother a little off-putting considering he had seemed to have a pleasant time. That would be a topic to discuss again at a later point.

Jeffrey however, seemed much the same as usual - a little too glad at the bloodshed of the day despite instructions otherwise. He had weaved a tale for sister and nephew alike of the events of the betting tent, complete with cocky retelling of his ‘grand entrance’ to the ballroom. Michael exchanged a look of exasperation with Eleanor as the toast, eggs and bacon were shared around the table.

The rest of the meeting was spent discussing the original agreement crafted between himself and the previous leader for the Catholics; and then the tense peace agreement made prior to leaving the elegant home. Eleanor questioned why the original plan had to be changed, however the topic was dropped when Jackson stormed from the room to the work floor and Michael decided it would be best to discuss with her later the interuption to the plan. How was he to know that the girl would react so poorly, she had agreed to assist and follow orders after all.

“Jeffrey, you’re with me this morning.” “I’ve got a date with a blonde at eleven-” “You are coming with me this morning, I have got something to discuss with you.”

As the rest of the family had begun to peel off from the breakfast table, Michael had called his brother over to him and barely refrained from growling at the impetuous suggestion that a picture with some girl took precedence over business. The thought that the other may just abandon responsibility if given it did cross his mind, however Michael clapped a hand on the other’s shoulder with a commanding squeeze. “We have important business today, brother.”

The complaints at the change in plans from the other did not stop for a moment as they made their way towards the pub. As Michael pushed the doors open, he didn’t notice the barmaid setting the bar up for the day suddenly disappear into the store room at his entrance, before ushering his brother inside.

“Our important business is to go to the pub?” “No, Jeffrey. Our important business is The Fort. I believed it was time to introduce a legitimate avenue for our funds to be processed, and Spangler was willing to sell his ownership of the venue. For the right price.” “So.. why am I not having my cock sucked right now and instead here with you about some real estate purchase, Mikey? I would much rather not be here.” “Brother…”

The word came out as a growl as Michael found his arm wrapping around the other’s shoulders, grip tight on his upper arm, as he snarled the word in warming. This had been going on long enough. If France had not knocked some sense into the other, then he, Michael, would have to do it himself. “Brother, you are here to sign the paperwork into your name, and learn the ropes from Spangler.”

“Me?” “Yes, you.” “Why the fuck would I be runnin’ a bar, Mikey? I’ve got rounds to do on a night. I’ve got girls to do on a day. I’ve got standing bouts with Fitzgerald and Miles.” “And now, you’ve got a pub to run our funds through.”

The glare from the other was nothing on the looks Michael had received in the last few days, and brushing off the complaints as Jeffrey looked viable to begin throwing punches, the older gave his brother another pat on the shoulder before turning and leaving the location. The man would sink, or he would swim, and it was about time the Michael saw which way it would be.

—

The row house did not look any different from those to either side of it. The same black brick that built the city, and the same worn wood doors for the side of town. Fallen almost into neglect like its neighbours. It was the one building that those who sought out a way to dull the war and forget the screams could visit and walk away with a pocket of forgetfulness.

Jackson had visited the house once a week, to replenish his night time habit, since he had returned from the war and the long nights awake staring at the walls had worn him down to the dark embrace the house offered.

Rapping a short three knock on the door, it was opened moments later by a quiet boy, who then led him along the hall to what had once been a dining room.

Now it was the base of the dark haired Scot’s operation. Where he made deals and small talk with those that came to him for the little beads of forgetting. Jackson knew the way by heart, slumping into the seat opposite the other man with a sigh.

“Rough weekend, Jacky boy?” “You could say that.. What have you heard?” “Heard you boys went to the races. Somethin’ to do with those bloody Catholic wanks.” “You wouldn’t be wrong-” “Also heard that that old geezer, Zachariah, has gone missing since.”

Jackson frowned a little at that. He had thought the Catholics would be quiet about the death of their leader. It would appear as weakness if it had gotten out, even more so if the truth that a tiny woman had gone and done him in.

“Seemingly they don’t keep their mouths shut as well as I thought.” “Fear not, Jacky, they have. They just happen to have some servants with needs much like yours, who talk more than they should before their fix.” “So what exactly did you hear, Crowley?”

Sometimes when talking to the other it was like talking in riddles. Sometimes, it was like talking to the end of a gun pointed at your head. And others still was like being drawn into the numbing embrace of the opium he dealt - like you could share your secrets and none would leave the four walls. For the right price.

Today, it had been riddles but Jackson was in no mood for games.

The other man rose to his feet to the small decanter and two glasses before returning with two glasses. Scotch whisky. Irish whisky would never pass the front door, and that thought almost made him smile at the connotation.

“From what I heard, your brother engaged in a wager with the man, rest his soul, about that barmaid from The Fort. Zachariah had a tenner he would have her before the hour was out.”

Jackson’s hand froze where it was, glass halfway to his lips as the description came out. He had felt something telling him not to leave the billiard room that day, but Michael had told him it was part of the agreement as they sat around the card table in the lounge. That Zachariah demanded it and that Beth had agreed. To hear otherwise from an uninterested party, as well as the scene the day ended on, told him that was a lie.

“Seems that was true…” “What?” “Your reaction Jacky. So telling that thats all.” “Get on with it, Crowley.” “Yes yes. Well, if that is the case, from the little birdies I heard that Zachariah, the imbicile, didn’t quite win that wager. From what I hear, he in fact ended up in a pile on the floor.” “Served him right.”

He sipped at his drink as he listened to the other, dark look slipping over his face as he reflected on the bald man getting his dues. The way Michael had reacted at home when he returned from dropping Beth off made him think that something more was at stake than a simple wager, however that could just have been Michael’s disinterest in working with the soon-to-be leader instead of the devil he knew. Now, Jackson wanted nothing more than to take up this issue with him; especially when reflecting on the way Beth had behaved upon arriving at her rental flat.

“Regardless, what those Catholic fucks get up to does not factor into this discussion ‘ere. What I want to talk about is if you’re aware of the whereabouts of another of my companions.”

That got a brow raise in response as Jackson finished his drink and sat it on the desk before him. Crowley was not usually the type to concern himself with the comings and goings of those colleagues in the Black Eyes, and usually knew better than to question the Shadow about it during their handovers. Something had to be out of the ordinary for that to occur.

“Not that I’ve heard. Who’s missing?” “Oh they aren’t missing. I know exactly where they are. Lying six feet under with a bullet through his brain.” “And you think a Shadow had to do with it?” “I don’t think things, Jacky, I know things. What I don’t know is who caused Alastair’s brains to scramble in his skull. Nor to I know why.” “I’d say he probably deserved it too - knowing him.”

Crowley raised his glass in agreement at that, the smug knowing look on his face that used to make Jackson laugh more than it should have. It had always been delivered at the most inappropriate times, times when laughter would be wrong, or following a sadistic comment. However this time, it just added to the rolling dark feelings that had driven him there in the first place. As the other man finished his drink, Jackson leant forward and slid the folded bank notes across the desk to the other.

There was a brief minute as the other checked the value of the notes, before they were slid off into the breast pocket of Crowley’s vest. A key was drawn from the same pocket and slid into the top drawer before a glass vial with four balls of the substence, ready for use, was removed and slid across the besk in response.

Jackson held the vial carefully, finger holding the cork in place tightly as he tilted the vial to review before pocketing it in return. The other man poured another drink for the both of them now the business was completed, and both men reclined back to discuss other news for the next hour before either had other meetings.

—

She had been outside the flowershop on Albury Lane when the officer had approached, baton out already but not making a move to use it against her unless necessary. During the war, when only the barest number of officer remained to maintain the peace and she had been heavily involved in the operation of Shadow business, Shada had been used to such approaches to know fighting never got her anything but unsightly bruises and tears. However, since her brothers had returned, she had not found herself being escorted to the police building.

Following the constable towards the station, Shada didn’t know what to think of the situation other than her afternoon plans had been ruined until whatever was needed was resolved.

At the station, she was directed into a small interrogation room with a simple table and two chairs. As she sank into the seat facing the door, she chirped, “Ash tray, and a glass of water.” At the look she received, she clicked her fingers, “Now!”

The young officer fled the room quickly as Shada withdrew a cigarette, lighting and reclining back as she waited for whyever she had been accosted to be explained.

At the door opening, she looked up expectantly before staring darkly at the man that entered instead of the younger officer with her requested items. The man strode in as if he owned the place before sitting across from her, dark hands with fingers laced as he leant his elbows on the table and pressed his hands to his mouth. Shada raised a brow at him, letting the smoke slip gently from one side of her mouth before leaning back in her chair.

Neither party talked for a long drawn out moment, Shada getting through almost half of her cigarette in disinterest and the man simply staring across at her as if trying to disect her with his eyes alone. If he had been attractive to her, she might have tried fluttering her eyes or forcing a blush to her cheeks or tried releasing the inhaled smoke more seductively; however the ominous feeling she got from the dark-skinned officer and the creeping of a disturbing smile upon his face.

Finally, the man spoke, leaning back in his own chair with a smirk, “So. You are the infamous Visyak sister.”

“What of it? What is this all about?” “Just doing some background research if you will.” “Well, whatever this is about I want my ash tray and my water.”

That got a laugh from the man, and the sound made goosebumps flood along her arms. It sounded like something no one should hear, as if he did not laugh often and when he did, it was the start of something horrible. Letting out a stream of smoke straight towards the other’s face, Shada forced herself not to shudder.

“Yes, I heard your demands - unfortunately, you are in a police station, being questioned in regards to an open investigation-” “Is that what this is?” “And as such, you are not in a position to be making demands.”

He reached a hand out, Shada thought he was about to hold her hand for a brief second as the shudder of fear finally moved through her, to pin her wrist onto the table top with more pressure than expected. It hurt, however the officer seemed to know exactly how to avoid leaving a mark of his actions behind as he released the pressure upon getting to his feet to loom over her.

“You are here to deliver a message, Miss Visyak. You are here to remind your brothers that they aren’t untouchable for you are not untouchable. So long as you are around, they are easy to control - and I need for you to ensure they remain as such until they fall into line.”

Shada jerked back at that, chair making a horrible scraping noise on the wooden floor of the room as she struggled to get back from the sneering officer. Tugging her coat closer around herself, as if that was a defense to words or looks alike, she snarled back at the man, “And who the fuck do you think you are to keep me here?”

“Dear girl, my name is Gordon Walker. Make sure to inform your brother Jackson that you and I spoke when you’re finally released from here. Remind him to contact me shortly when you get home, or I will be wanting to speak with you again. More physically that time.”

Gordon Walker reached a hand out to run along her jaw line, tilting her chin to look up at his wicked grin before he let her got and strode from the room. She could head the lock click from the outside as she slumped back into her seat, prepaing to be sat waiting for quite some time at this rate. Her fingers shook slightly as she lit her next cigarette, stamping the other out in the middle of the table top without a tray to use.

—

Something had been very wrong with her family for a long time, something was slowly pulling them all in different directions, separating the usually cohesive group. The Shadows and Visyak’s alike were stronger together, but thry weren’t right now, and Eleanor had seen it crack the hardest that week.

Something had to have happened at the races.

Since Sunday, Jackson had been withdrawn and since Wednesday refused to speak to anyone. Frosty silences and sequestering himself in his room like he had just after the war.

Jeffrey had been all over the place - satiated after his fighting Sunday and then infuriated from Tuesday. She had heard it was something to do with that rundown pub they frequented.

Michael seemed to be behaving normally, which meant he was the instigator of whatever problem was now splintering the whole - as children it had always been whomever was at fault showed no remorse or reaction to the behaviour of the others.

However the most troubling was that Shada had not returned home since Thursday. Eleanor had asked each of the boys if they knew where she was to no avail. She had checked all of Shada’s favourite stores and places, though no one had seen her since picking up flowers Thursday morning.

As Michael strode into the family quarters from the workroom, Eleanor is waiting, hands bridged on the table over her cold cup of tea and eyes pinning him to the spot. "What happened on Sunday, Michael?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Ma.” “Oh yes you do. I can sense it on you, boy. Now sit down and speak with me.” “It was nothing I cannot handle.” “There it is again - always thinking you can handle everything. Let me tell you, Mikey, you are losing your grip on this family. You need help.”

The bblond stared her down for a long moment, before he lowered himself calmly into the seat opposite his mother. Two fingers rubbed the bridge of his nose as he was forced to stare down the concern on her face. Eleanor had always been good at getting information from each of her children, and it had not changed with time.

"That fucking barmaid killed the head of the Catholics, Ma, after I’d gone and worked out a perfect solution for the next two years before we wiped them out completely.” “What? Why? What was she even doing there?” “I asked Jack to bring her, use her as bait or a distraction while Jeff sorted the rest of the plan.” “Jacky does seem to be sweet on her, last I saw.” “I thought that, which is why I asked him to bring her rather than ask myself.” “So how did she end up killing the Catholic?”

Eleanor could see the cogs working behind the icy blue eyes of her son, working hard to decide what elements to share, what to conceal. It was always a flaw of having smart children, they started to decide what would be a lie and what would be an omision. What would get them in trouble and what would get them a shake of the head but not more. After a minute Michael seemed to settle upon what to tell, and as he spoke Eleanor let out a gasp. “I made a wager with him about how long it would take to get in her skirts. She did not seem to be favourable to his approach and made it abundantly clear to us all how much she disapproved of the idea.”

“You wagered on a girl’s looseness?” “It was more wagering upon Zachariah’s seduction technique. Seemingly, he had none” “So you asked Jackson to bring someone he’s sweet on to assist your plans, and then left her with another man to attempt to defile her? No wonder he’s not speaking to you.” “It wasn’t exactly like that, Ma.” “Lying doesn’t become you, Michael.”

Eleanor stared him down, pushing for him to realise and acknowledge the problem with his thinking, as much as she could see him doing the same to her. It was the creak of the front door opening as the youngest brother finally returned home for the evening that broke the silence, Jackson’s slumped shoulders pulling back taunt and rigid as he spotted the other man before storming upstairs. With a raised brow, Eleanor looked back across at the other blond.

Standing, she moved around the table to stroke back the other’s hair with the same smile she had used when trying to soothe and coax each of her children into understanding her words over their arrogance or confusion. “You may be able to lie to yourself about the situation you created, Mikey. But the damage has been done, and you will need to unmake these mistakes.” Eleanor gave a sigh before she left to the workroom, leaving the other to think over her words.

—

It had been five days since he’d been dragged into the pub, forced into the position and stuck writig ledgers upon ledgers of ‘takings’ to filter the illegitimate and legitimate together. Bookkeeping. He had been reduced to bookkeeping.

The glass shattered against the wall of the small office, thrown in frustration as Jeffrey pushed back in the desk chair, close to pulling his hair out in anger, with a shout.

“Well, now you’re just goin’ta have ta clean that up.” The cheery voice called out, grating on his nerves even further. Five days, he had had the blonde teasing and cajolling him at greater lengths than before. Five days she had spun about him behind the bar to grab a bottle or pour a pint, leant over his shoulder in the office to point at a figure or help with the math of the ledgers, and joked in turn at each of his angry outbursts. “Shame ‘bout not bein’ a customer is ye have to take care of th’ messes!”

“I’m your boss, you clean it up.” “But how will you ever learn if I tidy your mess up for you?”

Beth was leaning against the back of his chair again, hip against his shoulder and a look upon her face that made his blood boil. Something about her, the almost always knowing look, since he had begun spending more time around her was slowly driving him insane. She knew something about him, more than he did her; but she was not willing to share the secret with him. Only surface jokes and teases.

“Beth, just clean it up.” He was weary. Usually on a Sunday morning he would be out brutalising some bookies, or fucking one of his weekend girls. He would not be listening to some barmaid tease him about cleaning the fucking floor.

The blonde rolled her eyes at him before moving to collect the glass up, her apron folded up to hold the pieces as she plucked each large shard. “Ye know gettin’ angry won’t help nothin’. It’s all ‘bout the patience. Bidin’ your time.”

“And what are you biding your time over, sweetie? Thought you got all your rage out last Sunday.” “That was just defendin’ meself.” “And it was beautiful. Did the runt tell you how lovely you looked all covered in blood and fury?” “Well now, flattery won’t get you knowhere wit’ me, Jeff.” “Where will it get me?”

Jeffrey moved around quietly behind her as the girl finally stood up, the back and forth smoothing down his anger. As she plucked the last shard, he offered a hand to help her to her feet as she bunched her apron together. His thumb rubbed over the inside of her wrist as the thought that perhaps he wouldn’t need to forego some of his usual Sunday morning activities.

“Not there it won’t.” “Sure it wouldn’t, sweetie. I know I’m better lookin’ than the runt, and you know that you could do with some fun before the crowds roll in today.” “Jeffrey, that isn’t-” “One good reason, Bethy, one good reason why you and I wouldn’t.” “Not with the likes of you, mister.”

Beth moved past him at that comment, headed from the office out to the front bar to dispose of the glass. Her words had frozen him. Something about them seemed familiar, as if he had heard her say them before, heard her words in the same voice while a blonde the same had stared up at him. It tickled at his mind as he found himself rubbing his thumb to fingers, remembering the warm skin that had been beneath it. He had heard it before.

“Besides, you’ve got your Sunday girl, and your Monday girl.. and how many other girls you ‘ctually got, Jeffrey?” Beth quipped as she returned, cloth in hand, as she moved to pat up and dry the brown liquid from the wall. “Some big hotshot king’a the world like you has a plenty.”

As the last words rang out, Jeffrey found himself moving, hand locked around the woman’s throat and pressing her up against the wall. Beth’s feet kicked out a bit as she stared at him in shock, hand flinging out to punch him but caught quickly in his hand and pinned to the wall as well. As she glared up at him in response, he knew where he had met her before, the dark bruises and split lip long healed but the glare was the same.

“I know you, sweetie.” Jeffrey practically purred the words out, thumb rubbing against her skin as she struggled to get away from him. “You’re not Beth Murphy, are you?”

“Who am I then?” “You’re that pikey horseman’s daughter. Your last name is Harvelle, isn’t it?”

Her eyes widened fractionally at that point, brown eyes glaring up at him flickering with surprise and fear for a brief moment. He shifted his hand to hold her jaw in his hand as he had before, “What are you doing here, sweetie? Why is a gypsy girl pretending to be a fancy girl on the run in our little pub? Lying pikey trash.”

The blonde’s eyes flickered back and forth between his own, chin pulling into a stubborn mulish set. “You gangsters ain’t particularly trusthworthy either, ye know? Me Da wanted to make sure we got paid.” Her lips twisted into a harsh smile as she kicked a foot out towards him as she had once before, though this time he was more prepared, laughing at her. “You goin’ to out me to everyone now? Tell’em that I’m not Beth Murphy, that I’m Joanna Harvelle?”

Jeffrey rolled the idea around in his thoughts. It made sense to out her - to let his brothers know they couldn’t trust the girl any more, that she was gypsy trash sent to monitor them - however, as he felt the muscle move under his hand, he felt a matching smile grow upon his own face. “No, sweetie, your secret is safe with me.” 

He let go of Joanna, stepping back as he heard the front door open and his younger brother’s voice call out in greeting. Smirking, he raised a brow back at the girl. “I look forward to seein’ how long you can keep it from others.”

—

[mst3kproject]

909: Gorgo

 I was surprised that Crow and Servo behaved as if Reptilicus was their first non-Japanese giant rubber monster movie… but then, it had been about twenty years and the bots didn’t spend it re-watching the old episodes like I did, so I guess I can forgive them.  You’d think they’d remember all that Dorkin’, though.

A volcano emerges from the ocean, damaging a salvage vessel crewed by identical English guys.  They put in for repairs at the unfriendly Irish island of Nara, where something shady seems to be afoot.  Something shady is, but it doesn’t really matter because the subplot comes to a sudden and premature end with the appearance of a giant finny-eared sea monster! Our heroes – a guy named Sam, played by William Sylvester, and another guy whose name is not Sam, played by a guy who looks exactly like William Sylvester – decide that the obvious thing to do is to capture this beast and take it to a major city.  It’s not like anything could go wrong with that.

I’m not sure why this movie needed the aborted subplot about the Viking treasure, because nobody comes out of that looking good.  Finding treasure in the UK is like finding a body – you have a legal duty to inform the local coroner.  Somebody from the government will then come and assess what you’ve found, and offer right of first purchase to any interested museums.  If the museums can’t afford it (which is very likely), it will be returned to you to dispose of as you please.  The law is intended to protect items whose historical value may be greater than their monetary value (like the tray-jurr chest in The Thing that Couldn’t Die).

Having done this research throws a slightly different light over the whole to-do with the treasure.  If Sam and Not-Sam had threatened to report the treasure to the authorities themselves, they’d still have been bullies but they’d have been doing their citizenly duty.  Instead they decide to steal from the criminals, knowing that the latter can’t complain about it without exposing their own wrongdoing.  Well done, movie, there’s some likable heroes right there!

Besides British treasure laws from the 60’s, the other thing I looked up for this review was Lemon Hart, which is seen in a big background advertisement in the Piccadilly Circus scenes.  Apparently it’s a type of rum.  I wish I’d known that before I watched the movie, and I’m disappointed it’s not an ingredient in @colleenrants ’s Gorgo.

Before I did that research, my first reaction to Gorgo is that this is another movie that looks terrible.  Maybe it’s just the decaying film stock but the whole thing is dark and washed-out to the point where the only noticeable colour besides a dull blue is the pink of flabby British faces that haven’t seen the sun in six months.  The bluescreen work is dreadful and so are the miniatures, and where black and white stock footage is inserted they didn’t even bother to tint it… which makes me suspect that the film stock was awful to begin with.

My second reaction was that for all Leonard Maltin calls this “kind of a British take on Godzilla”, this movie is not Godzilla.  This movie is King Kong.  The main characters put in at an island inhabited by unfriendly people, where they find a giant monster.  A victim is offered up as bait to lure the creature in and capture it, and it is then taken to a big city, where it causes mayhem among major landmarks as the army tries ineffectually to stop it.  This is exactly the plot of King Kong, with William Sylvester in his little diving bell as Fay Wray!

When you look at it this way, there are a few layers of interest in the movie using an Irish island.  The islanders in King Kong were stock savages. The ones in Gorgo are isolated fishermen… but for the last couple of thousand years, ‘unwashed barbarians’ is exactly how the English have perceived not only the Irish but the Scots and the Welsh as well.  These peoples have been treated in the same way as the English treated conquered Africans and Americans, forced to learn English and with their own languages and cultures outlawed (notice how the characters in Gorgo take the speaking of Gaeilge as a sort of insult).  Naturally this has led to large parts of the British Isles being troubled areas full of angry people, but we don’t really notice this in the Americas because we consider them all Brits.

So here’s Nara island thinking they’ve hit the jackpot with their Viking treasure, and then in come our mighty English heroes to do exactly what the English always do – steal what the Irish believe to be rightfully theirs.  It’s even worse than that, though, because these intruders are indirectly responsible for the destruction of the entire community! They take baby Gorgo away, and a few days later the angry Mama shows up to look for her offspring.  As usual, the arrival of Englishmen in boats is bad news for everybody they meet, both people and wildlife.

Having destroyed Nara Island, however, Mama Gorgo then turns her attention to London.  The entire British military cannot stop her and she just marches right in to take back what is hers.  When I was looking for this week’s bonus material, I happened across a post by @redmenaceofficial  suggesting that the movie is an Irish revenge fantasy.  That actually works pretty well, as we see Mama Gorgo destroy several icons of the British empire, including Big Ben and the Tower Bridge. In terms of psychological impact on the English people, this would be like tearing down the Statue of Liberty (which a giant monster did do in Cloverfield, but we didn’t get to watch).

Another level on which this works is the ending, which is actually a pretty surprising one for a monster movie.  Taking their cue from the endings of The Indestructible Man, Night of the Lepus, Killdozer, and heaven knows how many other films, the military decides to electrocute Mama Gorgo… and it doesn’t work.  She walks right through it, breaks Baby Gorgo out of his pen, and takes him back home to the ocean!  Maybe this is just meant to be sequel bait, but maybe it’s also a statement: the entire might of what was once the most powerful nation in the world cannot stand up against this creature.  Mama Gorgo has conquered the conquerors and taught them humility.

The third interesting thing about this ending is that it completes an evolution that’s been going on since Baby Gorgo was captured: although in his first attack on Nara Island, Baby Gorgo is treated as a monster, by the time the end credits roll he has become a suffering victim.  This happens somewhat to King Kong as well, but that’s a product of hindsight, in an age when we’ve come to think of gorillas as gentle forest-dwelling creatures instead of savage hairy beasts.  In Gorgo it’s intentional, as voiced through the character of Shaun, the little boy who wants to see Baby Gorgo returned to the sea.

While we may find an ape an inherently sympathetic creature due to its resemblance to a human, a dinosaur is much harder to anthropomorphize – especially a fire-breathing, city-smashing dinosaur!  When we first see Baby Gorgo attacking Nara Island, where he is driven away by fire, our sympathies are with the frightened Islanders. Likewise when the much more powerful Mama Gorgo comes to destroy the place.  By the time Baby Gorgo gets to Battersea Park, however, where he’s held back by flamethrowers as he’s put into his pen, we have come to see him as an abused and caged animal, something that deserves to be free.  The movie manages this shift without giving the creatures anthropomorphic faces or body language, which is quite an accomplishment.

It’s definitely more convincing than Sam’s character arc, in which he comes to realize that he has treated Baby Gorgo badly and gets drunk and tries to let the creature out!  I’d respect him more if he realized he’d treated the Nara Islanders badly, but nobody seems to care about them.  They’re just Irish, right?

I have remarked before that Asian monster movies seem to have a lower standard of believability than western ones.  This is true even of very recent entries: compare Legendary Pictures’ 2014 Godzilla movie to Toho’s 2016 Shin Gojira.  It is certainly true of Gorgo. While Japanese kaiju eiga of the 60’s were cartoony and colourful and didn’t care too much about scientific plausibility, Gorgo is staid and reserved and gray-blue.  Even the scenes of panicking Londoners seem weirdly low-key, perhaps because they’re narrated by a somber newscaster who spends so much effort coming up with poetic descriptions of what he’s seeing.

At the end, Mama and Baby Gorgo wander off into the ocean to look for Tokyo, London is in ruins, and I think Sam and Not-Sam get married and adopt Shaun.  Maybe it’s the fact that there’s only two women with lines in the whole movie and they only get one each… maybe it’s the fact that Sam and Not-Sam spend the whole movie side-by-side and later take joint charge of young Shaun, much like the two guys raising the kid together in Godzilla vs Megalon.  I don’t think I’m making it up this time.  The movie really is pretty gay.

[tanzmitmirsblog]

TUDORS

The Tudor dynasty has earned the title of the most brilliant period while adding strong monarchy foundations to the British state. There were members of the dynasty who contributed to this brilliant period: Henry VII, his son Henry VIII, Mary and Elizabeth.  Henry VII knew how to get along with neighboring countries. Also, his son Henry VIII was more ambitious than his father and he aimed to play an important role in European politics.  Mary united Spain and England by marriage. Elizabeth I defeated the powerful navy of Spain and she said officials posts to avoid asking Parliament for money. Elizabeth and her advisers considered trade the most important foreign policy matter. Whichever country was England’s greatest trade rival was also its greatest enemy. A fleet of merchant ships was started by Henry VII. Henry VIII traded guns. There was a merchant expansion in the time of Elizabeth. Although foreign trade progressed, there was a conflict between England and Spain. England sided with the Dutch rebels, the Protestants in their battle against Spain. English ships had already been attacking Spanish ships ad they returned from America loaded with silver and gold. This was the result of Spain’s refusal to allow England to trade freely with Spanish American colonies. The treasure was shared with the queen. Elizabeth apologized to Spain but kept her share of what had been taken from Spanish ships. Philip built a great fleet of ships, an “Armada”, to move his army across the English Channel from the Netherlands. However, in 1587 Francis Drake attacked and destroyed part of this fleet in Cadiz harbor. Philip started again and built the largest fleet that had ever gone to sea. But most ships were designed to carry soldiers, and the few fighting ships were not as good as the English ones. English ships were longer and narrower so that they were faster, and their guns could also shoot further than the Spanish ones. The Spanish Armada was defeated by bad weather. For England, it was a glorious moment, yet it did not lead to an end of the war with Spain, and England found itself having to spend more than ever on England’s defence. Peace was only made with Spain once Elizabeth was dead. Both before and after the Armada, Elizabeth followed two policies. She encouraged English sailors like John Hawkins and Francis Drake to continue to attack and destroy Spanish ships bringing gold, silver, and other treasures back from the newly discovered continent of America. She also encouraged English traders to settle abroad and to create colonies. Sir Walter Raleigh, one of the first English colonies, brought tobacco back to England. The settlers tried without success to start profitable colonies in Virginia, which was named after Elizabeth. England also began selling West African slaves to work for the Spanish in America. John Hawkins carried his first slave cargo in 1562. By 1650 slavery had become an important trade, bringing wealth particularly to Bristol in southwest England. It took until the end of the eighteenth century for this trade to be ended. Chartered companies were as common as slavery was. A charter gave a company the right to all the business in its particular trade or region. In return for this significant advantage, the chartered company gave some of its profits to the Crown. There was the Eastland company to trade with Scandinavia and the Baltic, the Levant company to trade with the Ottoman Empire, the Africa company to trade in slaves and the East India Company to trade with India. The Tudor dynasty ruled not only in England but also in some countries. For instance, closer to home, the Tudors did their best to bring Wales, Ireland, and Scotland under English control. Henry VII was half Welsh and he loves the Welsh. In contrast to his father, Henry VIII’s interest was in power and authority, through direct control. He wanted the Welsh to become English. Between 1536 and 1543 Wales became joined England under one administration. The Welsh gentry became part of the ruling English establishment. Welshmen entered the English parliament. English became the only official language, and Welsh was soon only spoken in the hills. Although Welsh was not allowed as an official language, Henry VIII permitted a Welsh bible to be printed, which became the basis on which the Welsh language survived. Henry VIII wanted to bring Ireland under his authority. He persuaded the Irish parliament to recognize him as king of Ireland. Henry also tried to make the Irish accept his English church reformation. Henry VIII failed to get what he wanted in Ireland. He made things worse by bringing Irish nationalism and Catholicism together against English rule. Ireland became England’s first important colony. The Protestant settlers took most of the good land in Ulster. This colonization did not make England richer, but it destroyed much of Ireland’s society and economy. Scottish rulers sought to promote the same kind of centralized monarchy that the Tudors had so successfully developed in England. Knowing how weak they were, the Scottish kings usually avoided war with England. By the time Mary returned as queen to Scotland from France, Scotland had become officially, and popularly protestant. The Scottish nobles who supported the friendship of England had welcomed Protestantism for both political and economic reasons. Unlike the English, the Scots were careful not to give monarch authority over the kirk. The reformation took place while the queen, Mary was not in Scotland and unable to interfere. Protestantism had spread quickly through the Scottish universities. The new kirk in Scotland disliked Mary and her French Catholicism. Mary was careful not to give the kirk any reason for actually opposing her. She made it clear she would try to bring back Catholicism. In addition to her Catholicism and her strong French culture, she had shown very poor judgment. When James VI who was Mary’s son was the Scottish king, he brought the Catholic and Protestant nobles and also the kirk more or less under royal control. Like the Tudors, he was a firm believer in the authority of the crown. He worked with small councils of ministers, rather than a parliament. James VI’s greatest success was in gaining the English throne when Elizabeth died in 1603 at the unusually old age of 70. The Tudor monarchs did not like governing through parliament. Henry VII had used parliament only for making law. Henry VIII had used it first to use the money for his military adventures. Tudor monarchs were certainly not more democratic than earlier kings, but they increased parliament’s authority while using parliament to strengthen their policy. During the century, power moved from the House of Lords to the House of Commons. The idea of getting rid of the House of Lords, still a real question in British politics, was first suggested in the sixteenth century. Parliament did not really represent the people. Few members of parliament followed the rule of living in the area they represented, and the monarchy used its influence to make sure that many MPS would support royal policy rather than the wishes of their electors. To control discussion in parliament, the Crown appointed a speaker. Even today the speaker is responsible for good behavior during debates in the House of Commons. Until the end of the Tudor period, parliament was supposed to some things such as agreeing to the taxes needed, making the laws which the Crown suggested, and advising the Crown but only when asked to do. In order for parliament to be able to do these things, members of parliament were given important rights. These were freedom from fear of arrest and freedom to meet and speak to the monarch. The Tudor monarchs realized that while asking parliament for money they were giving it power in the running of the kingdom. All the Tudor monarchs tried to get money in other ways. For example, Elizabeth sold monopolies that gave a particular person or company to take control over trade, and also, she sold official positions in government. During the sixteenth century, Tudors asked parliament to discuss, law-make, and advise on almost every subject. Parliament naturally began to think it had a right to discuss these questions. In the seventeenth century, when the gentry and merchant classes were far more aware of their own strength, it was obvious that parliament would challenge the Crown. Eventually, this resulted in war. If we look at the Tudors from a social and economic perspective, we can say there are many changes. The population increased. The unused land was cleared for sheep and large areas of forest were cut down to provide wood for the growing shipbuilding industry. England was beginning to experience greater social and economic problems than ever before. The price of food and other goods rose steeply during the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. This inflation was without equal until the twentieth century. A greater problem was the sudden increase in population. Twice the number of people needed twice the amount of food. It was not produced. Living conditions got worse as the population rose. In the countryside, the people who did best in this situation were the yeoman farmers. They produced food to sell and employed men to work in their area. They worked as farmers during the week but they were gentlemen on Sundays. Most people had to pay rent for the land because of the growing population, it was harder for a man to find work or to produce enough food for his family. Many landowners found they could make more money from sheep farming than from growing crops. In order to keep sheep, they fenced off land that had always belonged to the whole village. Enclosing land in this way was often against the law since JPS were themselves landlords and few peasants could prevent it. As a result, many poor people lost the land they farmed as well as the common land where they kept animals and the total amount of land used for growing food was reduced. All through the century the government tried to control enclosures but without much success. Many people became unemployed. The pilgrimage of Grace was cruelly put down and its leaders were executed. Without work to do, many people stole food in order to eat. It is thought that about 7,000 thieves were hanged during Henry VIII’s reign. In 1601, parliament passed the first poor law. This made local people responsible for the poor in their own area. It gave power to JPS to raise money in the parish to provide food housing and work for the poor and homeless of the same parish. The production of finished cloth, the most important of England’s products, reached its greatest importance during the sixteenth century. The successful men of this new capitalist class showed off their success while building magnificent houses and churches in the villages where they worked. By using cool instead of wood fires, Tudor England learned how to make greatly improved steel, necessary for modern weapons. Improved steel was used for making knives and forks, clocks, waters, nails, and pins. Birmingham, while using coal fires to make steel, grew in the sixteenth century from a village into an important industrial city. Speaking of economics so much, let's take a little bit of social life. Women in England had greater freedom than anywhere else in Europe. They were allowed free and easy ways with strangers. There was a dark side to married life. Most women bore between eight and fifteen children and many women died in childbirth. Deep emotional ties often seem to have been absent due to the fact that marriage was often an economic arrangement. When a wife died, a husband looked for another. Both rich and poor lived in small family groups. In spite of the hard conditions of life, most people had a larger and better home to live in than ever before. Chimneys that had only been found in the homes of the rich were now built-in every house. For the first time, more than one room could be used in winter. One group of people suffered badly during the Tudor period. These were unmarried women. This is a direct result of the dissolution of monasteries. Before the reformation, many of these women could become nuns and be assured that they would be safe and respected in religious life. After the dissolution of monasteries, thousands became beggars on the roads of England. In the future, an unmarried woman could only hope to be a servant in someone else’s house or to be kept by her own family. She had little choice in her life. Finally, I would like to mention the culture and language of the Tudor era. People started to think of London pronunciation as correct pronunciation. Until Tudor times the local forms of speech had been spoken by lord and peasant alike. From Tudor times, onwards the way people spoke begin to show the difference between them. Educated people began to speak correct English and uneducated people continued to speak the local dialect. Literacy increased greatly during the mid-sixteenth century. In the early years of the sixteenth century, English thinkers had become interested in the work of the Dutch, philosopher Erasmus is one of them, Thomas More wrote a study of the ideal nation called Utopia, which became extremely popular throughout Europe. The renaissance also influenced religion, encouraging the Protestant reformation as well as a freer approach to ways of thinking within the catholic church. Literature was England’s greatest art form. Playwrights like Christopher Marlowe, Ben Johnson, and William Shakespeare filled the theatres with their exciting new plays. Nothing shows the adventurous spirit of the age better than the soldier poets. These were true renaissance men who were both brave and cruel in the war, but also highly educated. Sir Edmund Spenser, who fought with the army in Ireland, was one. Sir Philip Sidney killed fighting the Spanish in the Netherlands, was another. A third was Sir Walter Raleigh, adventurer, and poet. They are founders of English nationalism in literature. To sum up, the Tudor dynasty, which has both bright and dark times, is one of the powerful dynasties that have survived for a long time.   -Tanzmitmirsblog                                                

[nightbringer24]

Nightbringer24′s (personal) guidlines on using arms and armour when writing Medieval/Fantasy fiction. Part 1: Weapons.

Before I begin, I want to make this clear: these are my own guidelines that I adhere to and what I personally like to see in fiction. They are by no means the be-all and end-all of writing fantasy fiction.

Fantasy is doing whatever the hell you want, and I by no means want to come across as saying that you can’t do this or that. But if I manage to inspire people in some form or another, I’m happy.

So let’s begin.

First off, we’re starting this whole thing with the fact that virtually every Western created fantasy story is basically Europe in some form or reflection of sorts. Now, while this can be seen as stagnating the fantasy genre, I do feel that this is a very narrow minded view of how diverse Medieval Europe actually was. One should not consider that every country was basically Medieval England/France, and fantasy should reflect this. Conversely, one should not consider that every fighter in the army of a king/prince/lord/duke/queen/princess/etc was a fully armoured knight on a tall horse armed with a lance, sword and shield (which is in itself an anachronistic combination in of itself, but I’ll touch on that later). Yes, there were many forms of arms and armour that were common throughout Europe, but that was simply because of one simple factor: they bloody worked. That’s it.

One should also consider one simple fact: no nation in Europe during the Middle Ages existed in a vacuum. Even if they didn’t fight against or with each other, they did certainly trade with each other, meaning that certain styles of armour from the European continent would certainly be found in places like Britain or Scandinavia, while even soldiers from the British Isles would be found fighting in armies as mercenaries in Germany or Italy (as did actually happen). The Middle Ages was the times when the biggest race was the arms race; as armour became stronger and more effective at covering a knight’s person, so too did the weapons have to become more effective at penetrating the armour in return.

Now, obviously, this little guideline does kind of run counter to the whole point of fantasy. While this obviously can be a good thing for the creator and the fans, for those of us who are inclined for a little bit of consistency in what they read, it can be very frustrating. Like, how is it that a civilization that can create full-plate armour and well-forged steel swords does not care one jot about armoured barding for their horses? No sense!

Anyway, let’s begin. For the purposes of generalization and ease, we’ll go with the assumption that all Medieval/Fantasy worlds are using the Late Middle Ages (14th century onwards) as their base.

We’ll start off with the basic thing: the weapons. Everyone needs weapons, but every weapon has a certain job that it can accomplish and some that it can’t. For example, a sword and an axe are just as good at killing an unarmoured or lightly armoured opponent, but the axe is also useful for other day-to-day activities while the sword is solely a fighting weapon.

So let’s start from the basic stuff and work our way up.

Daggers/Knives: this needs no improvement or great explanation on. Nearly everyone in the Medieval world had a dagger, from the lowliest serf to the greatest king. They were a tool of great utility and a great backup weapon as well. Knights were just as prone to carrying around daggers as were assassins. Although obviously certain limits are presented with these weapons: a peasant isn’t going to be carrying around a master-crafted dagger with intricate lion’s head adornments. If anything, it’ll be a simple cutting tool that was used for whittling wood or skinning an animal. However, one type of knife that would have seen much use in combat was the Rondel dagger.

This type of knife is the perfect example of what I mean about Europe in the Middle Ages being in an arms race. The Rondel dagger, while perfectly able to kill an unarmoured opponent with ease, one of its best uses was to kill an armoured knight, slipping through the joints under the armpit in to the rib-cage or through the visor of a helmet. English and Welsh longbowmen during the Hundred Years Wars were known to carry similar daggers and these would have also been the main backup weapon of the English and French knights and man-at-arms during the Wars.

Axes: An axe is an axe. There’s not a massive amount to elaborate on with the axe, but the point does need to be made that for the standard peasant levy, an axe would have been their go-to weapon. Everyone needs cut wood for a fire, so it’s not unreasonable to see peasants or lower-class fighters carrying around an axe. For civilizations that live in heavily wooded areas or groups that carry out raids for a living, like the vikings, the axe would have been their go-to weapon. Conversely, during the Mid to Late Middle Ages, the use of the axe by mounted knights did see a revival, since the force and power that could be carried through the swing of an axe could easily down an armoured opponent. Robert the Bruce of Scotland killed an English knight before the battle of Bannockburn by hitting him with such force that he broke the shaft of his axe (or so the story goes). There was another type of axe that was used almost exclusively by knights and man-at-arms, but I’ll touch on that later.

HOWEVER, I would like to make one thing clear: double-headed axes did not exist as combat weapons in large scales. They were large and very heavy, meaning that whoever used them was going to be a very tall and very strong individual. A good examples of an axe to give would be the simple two-handed axe, like the Sparth axe used by the Scots-Irish mercenaries known as the Gallowglass.

War hammers: War hammers are really another peasant weapon that when pressed in to combat prove to be a devastating weapon. While war hammers are traditionally single headed metal weapons with a spike on the rear, large two-handed variants called mauls existed, both of which saw use by knights and lower-ranking soldiers alike. In a quick pinch, stone mason hammers would easily be used to cave in plate armour.

Swords: Everyone knows a sword. Everyone knows what one looks like and how it is used (the accuracy of how will depend on how much you like watching fencing videos on YouTube). However, this does lead to a problem in that nearly every creator of fantasy decides to give every person in their world, regardless of station, a knightly longsword. You know the type I mean. You get the image of it in your head when you hear or read the word ‘knight’. That wouldn’t have happened. Even as smithing improved and plate armour became prevalent, the sword was still a status symbol of the nobility since it was an expensive weapon to produce and to equip and took a long time to master.

HOWEVER, this does not mean that a non-knight character couldn’t have a sword and there are some types of sword designs that could easily be used by a non-noble character.

First up, we have the falchion. 

This was single edged, heavy sword that could be used single handedly alongside a shield or by two hands. Now this was not an elegant weapon, as the design shows. This blade was purely designed for hacking and slashing your opponent to death. There is some dispute on whether this was a weapon that was used solely by the peasantry (since it would have been able to serve many peace-time jobs) or by knights as well. Personally, I consider this the go-to weapon for a mercenary character.

Next is the arming sword.

This sometimes called the Knightly Sword, since it was used right from the 10th century to the 15th century. This more the type of the sword that would be used in the sword and shield combination, since it was single-handed sword with a heavy-blade offset by a weighted pommel. However, with the creation of the two-handed longsword and the hand-and-a-half ‘bastard sword’ in the Late Middle ages, this sword became a backup weapon for knights and men-at-arms. These sort of swords evolved from Viking/Norman swords which had a small and more rectangular crossguard. This type of sword would work for characters that are in a city militia or are employed by a fairly wealthy noblemen as guards. Conversely, if it’s an older pattern sword, you could easily have it as a family heirloom. Or have a family of looters. Either one works.

Then there’s the great swords. Now, technically, there weren’t any swords that were historically called ‘great swords’, that’s a more modern pop culture invention. Claymores and zweihanders did exist as they were named, but they wouldn’t be called great swords either. But, they did have their uses. In combat, they wouldn’t have made great fencing swords; they were large, heavy and very unweildly. Their best use was in the mass attack, with armoured knights/man-at-arms charging in to massed enemy ranks of infantry and smashing in to them in a bloody melee. Another example is the more historical use of the zweihander which was their use to break enemy pike formations during the Italian Wars by the doppelsoldners of the Landsknecht mercenary regiments.

They could have been used to kill horses, but that would have probably been a rare occurrence and should probably only be used when the main protagonist is going up against a secondary or tertiary villain.

Also, one point needs to be made about the sword: in the right hands, every part of the sword was lethal. The pommel made a good bludgeon while effective use of the crossguard could disarm an opponent and also could be used to kill an opponent by gripping the blade and driving the crossguard in to the opponent’s face or head in the mordstreich or murder-stroke.

Spears: It’s a long staff of wood with a sharp metal point on the tip. However, that is not to say that a knight/man-at-arms wouldn’t be caught using a spear. It was a good offensive and defensive weapon, on horse or on foot. Since a spear could range from a simple wooden staff with a sharpened point to a staff with a metal tip, it could be used by a whole breadth of characters from peasant militia given weapons to professional men-at-arms.

Lance: Like the sword, this is also the main weapon that people envision when they hear or read the word ‘knight’. Basically, a length of wood at a midway length between the spear and the pike, it would be held underarm (or couched) by knights or other cavalry and would be used at the charge at full tilt. After the charge hit home, it would then be discarded and replaced with either a sword or a mace, since it was far too ungainly to be used in a close melee. Some lances, like those of the Polish Winged Hussars were constructed to be hollow, which meant they could be longer and could help in defeating formations in pike and spearmen.

Pikes: This is an even longer staff of wood with a sharp metal point on the tip. Usually between 3 and 7.5 metres at the extreme end (10 to 20 feet) in length, they were large and ungainly weapons primarily used as defensive weapons to guard against cavalry charges, although well trained fighters could use them as an offensive weapon. The main groups to use them in large numbers during the medieval period was the Lowland Scots and the Flemish, both of whom who lived in largely open geographical areas. Mercenaries are generally the best people to have pikes in a story.

Javelins: These were not used in great numbers past the Saxon conquest of England except in Ireland by light infantry known as kerns, but in a fantasy world, it wouldn’t be too obscure to have javelin armed troops in your armies, especially if they come from an area of low wealth.

Darts: This is kind of a midway point between an arrow and a javelin. It has a shorter reach than the javelin but is more accurate because of fletchings on the rear of the staff, making its flight more stable. Again, these would work more for soldiers from low wealthy areas.

Halberds: A mix of the spear and the axe, this was a brutal and brilliant all rounder weapon. Used predominantly by infantry by the later stages of the Middle Ages, it was an effective tool against cavalry, being able to spear horse, trip them with their blades or hook down their riders. Against infantry, it had all the uses of the spear and the axe in one tool that could easily be mastered.

Polearms: Now, this is a tricky one. The definition of a polearms as used by Wikipedia is: “...a close combat weapon in which the main fighting part of the weapon is fitted to the end of a long shaft, typically of wood, thereby extending the user's effective range. Spears, glaives, poleaxes, halberds, and naginata are all varieties of polearms.” However, since I’ve already covered spears and halberds above, I’ll go over the over ones now.

First is the glaive.

This is a single edged blade fitted on to a staff, primarily used as a cutting and thrusting weapon. There are historical artistic examples of glaives where the blade is longer than the staff it’s fitted to, so there’s a variety to create with them.

Next is the bill.

This the poor-mans halberd, but that doesn’t make it any less lethal. Used in significant numbers by the English forces from the Hundred Years War up to the reign of Elizabeth I, it was a wood cutters billhook attached to  a 5 to 6 foot long staff. As the centuries progressed, it took on more forms as elements were added to the billhook to turn it from a hacking weapon in a more halberd-esque weapon.

Then there’s the volgue.

Similar to the glaive and bill, it was a simple blade with a spike attached to a long piece of wood by binding it to the wood. The design and shape of the blade made it more of a hacking weapon than a cutting one, but it did its job well.

Then there’s the bardice.

This is basically an axe on steroids.

There are more examples, but if I added them, then this piece would run incredibly long.

All sorts of polearms are generally used by lower class soldiers, usually yeomen or levied soldiers.

Poleaxes: While this weapon would fall under the definition of ‘polearm’, I feel that the weapon deserves a mention of its own.

From the 14th century onwards, this weapon largely replaced the sword as the weapon of choice of armoured knights and men-at-arms because of one simple reason: it gave literally no fucks about armour. As shown on the example above, it was double headed, with one side having an axe-head while the other having a hammer head. Some examples replaced the axe or the hammer with a spike, but either example works. Mounted to a long piece of wood, usually 6 feet in length, it would be swung with two hands and could decimate unarmoured and lightly armoured infantry and would easily batter down armoured infantry and cavalry. During the Wars of the Roses, this was one the main weapons used by armoured infantry on both sides of the conflict, with many graves from the infamous Battle of Towton being shown to have many injuries inflicted by this weapon. If you don’t want to give a knight a sword, then I really suggest you give them a poleaxe.

Maces: We all know what a mace is. With either a metal or wooden shaft, a large metal head was attached to the head, transforming a simple club in to a brutal killing machine. Sometimes, the metal head would be given ridges, called flanges, which would help it in denting or breaking armour. A weapon generally favoured by knights/men-at-arms as a shock weapon, there were longer shafted variants that were exclusively used by mounted knights/men-at-arms. A spiked version of a mace is called a ‘morning star’, which is not a weapon that has the head attached to the shaft by a chain. That’s a flail which I will cover below.

Flails: Now, the name of this does get some people confused (I know it confused me when I was younger) between the flail and the morning star. In fact, the flail came in two variations: the peasant flail and the ball-and-chain flail.

First, the peasant flail.

Like the bill and the axe, this was originally a farming tool that was easily turned to warfare. Consisting of a long wooden shaft with a smaller wooden head attached by a short chain to the longer shaft. Some examples were studded while others were simply reinforced with metal bands. It was effective, as it was used with great effective by Hussite peasant forces against Catholic crusaders during the Hussite wars. It could easily bash aside a shield and unhorse a mounted opponent, but it lacked precision and was next to useless in a close-quarters melee. A good weapon to arm a peasant with.

Next we have the ball-and-chain flail.

This is another weapon that suffers from bit of the pop culture disease. From sources gathered, they weren’t a very common weapon but most likely came West from the Kingdoms of Rus. But even if they were used, they would require a HUGE amount of skill and strength to use correctly because it a swing is missed, the user runs the risk of injuring their hand or their own body when the ball comes back towards them from momentum.

Bows: Now we’ve covered the close-up weapons, let’s go on to the longrange weapons. Everyone knows the bow. It is, along with the sword, the quintessential weapon of the Medieval world and is also the quintessential weapon of the fantasy world too. But, like swords, they come in many flavours and styles and are often altered by pop culture. 

So let’s begin with the most basic and most well-known bow: the longbow.

Constructed from a bendy but strong type of wood, mainly yew heartwood, in a single piece (or self bow), it forms a recognizable D-shape when strung. Estimates of the draw weight vary but it’s generally accepted that the bow could achieve up to 100 lbs in draw weight, which is pretty hefty. However, this came with a trade off in that the user would have had to have begun training in the use of the bow from a very young age. Also, there is the myth about the amour penetration ability of the longbow. While it could have been able to penetrate softer armour (chainmail, padded jackets, leather, etc) with a bodkin point with relative ease, a fully armoured knight would have very much been able to shrug off a hit from a longbow loosed arrow with ease. So, if you’re writing a scene with longbows, bare that in mind (unless it’s a magic bow or magic arrows, then just go nuts).

Like the axe, the spear, the bill, the hammer and the flail, the longbow would have seen much use by peasants as, during the Middle Ages, the English monarchy made sure that all subjects were trained to use the longbow every Sunday, so it saw much use during the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381.

Next are shortbows. Now these could either be smaller versions of the D-shaped longbow or the more intricate recurve bow. Again, like the longbow, these bows could easily have a draw weight in excess of 100 lbs, but also had the advantage of being able to be used on horseback by light cavalry. However, they did lack the same ability to punch through plate armour as the longbow did.

If you want bows that can penetrate plate armour though, then look no further than:

Crossbows: While the longbow had the range and rate of fire, the crossbow had the power, being able to penetrate plate armour. While it was easy to train people with in comparison to a longbow (a matter of weeks for the crossbow vs half a lifetime for the longbow), it wasn’t without its drawbacks. In inclement weather, the longbow could easily be destrung and kept dry while destringing  the crossbow was a long and laborious task, meaning that many times the archers didn’t bother, which would lead to disastrous consequences (like at the battle of Crecy). There was also the fact that in the space of a minute, a well-trained longbowmen could easily loose off 10 to 12 arrows while a well-trained crossbowmen could at best manage half that. Again, like with the shortbow, smaller crossbows could be used on horseback but required massive amounts of skill to get it right when fighting on the move.

There is also another variant of the crossbow that was used in Europe, the arbalest.

Instead of the older style of crossbow which required the used to manually pull back the string to the trigger latch, which saw massive amounts of energy needed, the arbalest was fitted with a windlass which made drawing the string back easier. A well trained crossbowman, with a good vantage point, plenty of time and plenty of bolts, could wreak havoc on an enemy force.

Now, I’ve covered all the basic weapons, but I’m going to touch on one more aspect of medieval weaponry that is largely ignored and is something that I feel can really set apart your fantasy world from others if you decide to include it.

Black powder.

Now gunpowder weapons were used by European armies during the Medieval ages and, while they were very basic, they still caused massive amounts of damage to the enemy. Your gunpowder weapons came in three forms: bombards, handgonnes and ribaulds.

A bombard was your basic large bore cannon.

A long iron tube, it was mainly used in sieges where it would be placed in to a presighted position, then fired large stone balls at enemy castles and walls. It’s size made it slow to load and once it was set it was probably never going to move again for the duration of the battle. A perfect target for light infantry and cavalry.

Next is the handgonne.

Similar in design to a bombard (an iron tube with a vent hole for ignition), this one was smaller, being able to be carried by a man. Combine with a large stick as a stock for the back to make it easier to use, sometimes it was used by one or two men. Like the bombard, it would have been cumbersome to load and fire, especially in a pitched battle, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have been devastating to use.

And lastly, we have a very strange but no less destructive weapon, the ribauld, or as it was sometimes called, the organ gun.

As the name suggests, it had several barrels arrayed in a single line (although some sources say they were spread like a duck’s foot) like an organ which would all be fired simultaneously in a devastating burst of smoke, fire and lead. Compared to the bombard, they were designed to be more maneuverable but would still have been cumbersome to use, so would most likely have seen use when the army using them was in an entrenched or prepared position.  Like the handgonnes and bombards, the ribaulds would only be crewed by men that the commander of the army knew could use them.

And there we have it. A list of the various weapons and arms that you could use to arm members of the populace of a Medieval/Fantasy world and have them kill other members of the populace with. Again, I’m not saying that anyone who reads this must adhere to it, but it’s just a guideline of what someone who enjoys fantasy and history would like to see.