#south armagh

[seachranaidhe]

Glenanne Gang boss Jim Mitchell so well connected he used RUC officers to provide security on his Armagh farm - SundayWorld.com

https://www.sundayworld.com/news/northern-ireland-news/glenanne-gang-boss-so-well-connected-he-used-ruc-to-provide-security-on-his-farm/a1542575299.html

[transthadymacdermot]

Reading in this history of ulster that gaels in south down in the 1790s were still wearing bratanna... new level of oc drawings about to drop

[khaperai]

[adhd-merlin]

x

it's mentioned in david crystal's The Cambridge Encyclopedia of the English Language as a feature of hiberno english — which is just irish english in general (as spoken in both nothern ireland and ROI) so it's not super specific. but I guess it'll do

0:43 "firsht" 😭😭😭

[captain-price-unofficially]

A mobile sniper platform in a Mazda 626 with a Barrett M90, used by the South Armagh Sniper (1997)

[panoramicireland]

Slieve Gullion panorama, view of the geology of South Armagh inside the UNESCO Geopark.

[wildfallproject]

Campaign Summary's (2/4)

The following is a summary of a finished Campaign of D&D 5e which unfolded within Wildfall...

Wildfall Janus | 32 Sessions + Epilogue

Southern Armagh, temperate, gentle, caring, the land gave and the world took. The Rikash Empire, home of innovation and endless progress formed through the destruction of constant cultural conflict; the scattered peoples of the seven settlements attempted to find intellectual and philosophical happiness through domination of the land not unity. Opus Luminas, thought otherwise, and despite its almost guarantee to fail he offered the worlds leaders a chance to find real sanctuary as one. One Empire. He reasoned, rationed, and divided the lucrative south into beaurcratic systems, cultures diffused and ideals became the plight of one ruling class, a Council of leaders, some elected, some grandfathered. The ancient city of Riti, their awing Aeternum Institute and endless farm fields of the Redtile Ward offered to be the new states Capitol, now a symbol of what the whole continent may become. Bureaucratic levels govern every aspect of life in the city, allowing for the individual to dissolve into its orderly current. However, the current is beginning to show its wear in the old walls of Stone Ward, the forbidden word cut into its reliefs, “Change.” Some think it will come in a philosophical revolution, some think War is on the horizon. But change in Riti is subtle, hiding in the forgotten cracks with its people.

PC's (The Six of Hearts)

Pendragon (Fairytale Human, Glory Paly/Eldritch Fighter)

Silvestri (Tiefling, Twilight Cleric)

Azure (Kobold, Bladesinger Wizard)

Rook (Firbolg, Life Cleric/Mastermind Rogue)

Fiero (Fire Genasi, Phoenix Sorcerer)

Yennefer (High Elf, Eloquence Bard)

When a story ends what is made of its hero's? A question posed at the beging of the campaign. The Empire was promised to be a end of the chaos of the world, the levels of checks and balances ensuring the suffering to be a thing of the past. These characters stories should be over, retired, old, fated and/or doomed. However, fate has pulled them together, drawing them into a Temple to Dragsol now turned nightclub better known as the "Whispered Prayer." Someone has doubled crossed Rook, a once smuggler, who is now themselves double dipping their spying between the Silvereye Smugglers and Marble Consort Governors. The owner of the nightclub, the retired pit fighter Silvestri threatened to have their bar closed once and for all due to such a mishap; pissing off the wrong group of magical investigators, accidentally killing one in the process. This string of bad luck could be called just that, if it were not for the very real threat that has wormed their way into Riti, someone alighting the streets with destructive purpose, a person of destiny it may seem, Vea.

Through an exploration of the self, we turned our attention to the small fates of the small few, wading through the wake of grander fates. Vea, a powerful aasimar, sees themselves as a destroyer, told from birth they were made only for the purpose to hurt, even if they were to run from it or not. Passed that, The Empire has sparked a war with the growing magocracy of Axyindor to the North, bringing into question if the people are those that truly makes the decisions. Our small folk, the Six of Hearts, assist those just as small make their lives the slightest lighter. Heading to the ancestral homes of Azure, the industrialized Torval, and helping those there, family included, lead a proper campaign to succeed from the Empire in good faith. Returning home excited, a new force move overhead, the forgotten sins of the Empire home at last to see it ended.

Elsyvra, The Dustbowl Sovereign, or better known now as Elsie Sov, leader of the Baldur Sov Gang. An Ancient Amber Dragon who once considered herself the protector the Reith badlands, now here to make good a promise. To put down a dying Empire, so that its memory may live in envy not infamy, as a state meant to look up too and not to look down upon. And do, then came the time to make choices, to draw cards. So that The Six of Hearts may ask themselves one last question; are the gods really the ones pulling the strings, or is fate in the hands of those that simply try; or some combination of both.

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1981 – At 2:11 am, Raymond McCreesh dies on hunger strike in the H Blocks of Long Kesh Prison. Later, the same day at 11:29 pm, he is joined in death by his friend and fellow hunger-striker, Patsy O’Hara.

The third of the resolutely determined IRA Volunteers to join the H-Block hunger strike for political status was twenty-four-year-old Raymond McCreesh, from Camlough in South Armagh: a quiet, shy and good-humoured republican, who although captured at the early age of nineteen, along with two other Volunteers in a British army ambush, had already almost three years active republican involvement…

[primordialsoundmeditation]

From @tourismireland

Rush hour traffic in Mountnorris, South Armagh 🐑😄

Thanks @eclectic.eyes for this charming photo.

https://lovetovisitireland.com/county-armagh-northern-ireland-top-things-to-see-and-do/

Love

[miraculousmitzi]

JJK characters and where I think they might be from if the series was based in the UK with no explanation:

Satoru Gojo: London, England (Kensington specifically).

Megumi Fushiguro: London, England (Hackney specifically).

Yuji Itadori: Newcastle, England.

Nobara Kugisaki: South Wales Valleys, Wales.

Kento Nanami: Edinburgh, Scotland.

Suguru Geto: Bradford, England.

Toji Fushiguro: Liverpool, England.

Utahime Iori: Cardiff, Wales.

Shoko Ieiri: Manchester, England.

Mei Mei: Chelmsford, England.

Aoi Todo: Armagh, N.Ireland.

Kasumi Miwa: Anglesey, Wales.

Noritoshi Kamo: Dundee, Scotland.

Momo Nishimiya: Blackpool, England.

Maki and Mai Zen'in: Liverpool, England.

Panda: Birmingham, England.

Toge Inumaki: Belfast, N.Ireland.

Yuta Okkotsu: Derry/Londonderry, N.Ireland.

I think the story would be set primarily in England, with Jujutsu High being located in Southern England, hence why many of the characters are from varying parts of England and also why many are from different parts of the UK- as students come to Jujustu High and Kyoto from all over.

I feel like the Zen'in family would be based in/around Liverpool, the Gojo family would be based in/around London and the Kamo family would be based in/around Dundee. Hence why I've made Toji, Mai and Maki all from Liverpool. Megumi is an exception as he was born after Toji left the clan.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Today in Christian History

Today is Wednesday, March 22nd, the 81st day of 2023. There are 284 days left in the year.

Today’s Highlight in History:

1556: Cardinal Reginald Pole is consecrated Archbishop of Canterbury, restoring Catholicism to England for a brief time between the Protestant reigns of Edward VI and Elizabeth I.

1593: Arrest of John Penry, an independent Welsh pastor, who will be hanged for sedition. He had criticized Church of England leaders for their neglect of Wales and among his papers was found the draft of a strongly worded letter to Queen Elizabeth.

1621: Hugo Grotius, a Dutch Arminian imprisoned by Calvinists, after spending an hour on his knees praying, steps into a book box by which he will escape prison.

1641: The Archbishop of Armagh convenes a provincial synod at Kells which almost unanimously pronounces the war undertaken by the Catholics of Ireland against the English “just and lawful.”

1720: John Gill is solemnly ordained as a Baptist pastor in Horsleydown in a lengthy public ceremony which involves much prayer and soul searching. Gill will remain at Horsleydown for 51 years and gain recognition as a great controversialist, sharply critical of Wesley’s theology because it placed the decision to follow Christ in a person’s own hands.

1758: Death in New Jersey from smallpox of Jonathan Edwards, Christian pastor, theologian, scientist, and educator.

1814: Beheading of the Orthodox monk Euthymius in Constantinople. He had abandoned Christianity for Islam in his youth but soon regretted it, returned to faith, became a monk on Mt. Athos, and practiced great austerities. Eventually he traveled to Constantinople where he testified of his faith.

1874: Ordination in Calcutta of Mathura Kath Bose, who will minister to the Chandal people of Gopalgunge near the Ganges, winning many to Christ. He lives on a meagre income, having relinquished opportunities for commercial advancement by becoming a Christian.

1918: Death in Berlin of Alexander Merensky, who had served as a missionary to the Transvaal, South Africa, and written many books about missions.

1920: Death in Guayaquil, Ecuador, of George S. Fisher, founder of the Gospel Missionary Union. He had contracted typhoid fever while visiting the work in Ecuador.

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 10: Red Right Hand

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Grace Burgess x OC

Summary: A situation with the IRA pushes Tommy and Lucy to seek out Grace for help.

Word Count: 3,220

Notes: Warnings for depictions of violence and blood.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 13: The Sixth Chime

The red lighting around them caught against Lucy’s skin, turning it a red that was a shade or two lighter than that of her hair. Tommy looked back and forth at the crowds moving about in the marketplace as Campbell unfolded the Most Wanted paper for him to take a look at the photos. He scanned the faces staring back at him, then tapped the one in the top left.

“Malachi Byrne,” Campbell sounded almost impressed. “Brigade Commander of the South Armagh IRA. You hooked yourself a big fish there.”

“With these guns as bait, who knows what we’ll catch?” Tommy said. Lucy shifted from foot to foot beside him. 

“We?” Campbell looked incensed. “Are you suggesting that you and I could work together as a team?”

“Isn’t that what we’re already doing?” Lucy asked around her cigarette. He had asked her to come along, both for the simple reminder that not everyone in the world despised him, and because he needed someone around to make sure that he didn’t pull out his revolver and shoot Campbell at the first opportunity.  

Despite his protests at them working as a team, Campbell seemed amiable to the plan and requests Tommy laid out for him. But as a sweetener, he made a point of reminding him of that medal he seemed so eager to earn. 

Campbell chuckled. “If I get a medal, I will have your initials engraved on the backside.”

He really couldn’t help himself, there. “My initials on your backside. That’s quite an image.”

Lucy choked and clapped a hand over her laugh in a helpless attempt to cover her cackle at the joke. Tommy elbowed her good naturedly, which only prolonged her stifled giggles. It might have caused a bit of a blow to his relationship with Campbell, but it was worth it to get to hear Lucy laugh like that.

Though even Campbell didn’t seem particularly angered at the comment, just turning away. That was something.

“Inspector,” Tommy called out before he could leave. “Since we’re getting on so well, can you answer me a question? Who gave you Freddie Thorne?” perhaps, if he could bring the name of whoever had actually turned Freddie in to the rest of the family, they wouldn’t be so angry with him anymore.

“As everyone in the city knows, it was you, Mr. Shelby,” Campbell flashed him a cruel, half smirk, and began to walk away. Tommy watched him for a moment, trying to discern if that was just an attempt to get under his skin, or if it was an actual, legitimate answer. To his frustration, he wasn’t sure. 

“The fuck did he mean by that?” Lucy asked as they began to move through the market in the opposite direction that Campbell had gone. 

“I want you to start keeping a closer eye on our men. Especially any of the new ones.”

Lucy’s steps stuttered. “You think we have a mole?”

He grunted.

“Campbell is probably just fucking with you.”

“Maybe. Just keep your eyes open for anything that seems off.”

“Yeah. Okay,” she tossed her cigarette away and slipped her arm into his. “He makes my skin crawl.”

“Who? Campbell?”

“Yeah,” she shook her head, pressing her side closer to his instinctively. “I don’t even know what it is. There’s just something…” she trailed off, biting her lip.

“What?”

“He’s cruel,” she said finally, shaking her head.  

∗ ∗ ∗ 

“Shit,” she heard Tommy mumble the moment he’d set the phone receiver down in its cradle. Looking up from the last bit of paperwork she was finishing up before they stopped for the day and went to bed, she found him fumbling in a drawer, pulling out a map and making a few hasty markings on it with a pen. 

“What’s wrong?”

“That was Byrne,” he nodded to the phone. “He’s coming now with two IRA men to collect the location of the guns,” he folded the map and tucked it into his pocket. 

“At this hour?”

“Yes. And they want you and me to come alone.”

“Because they mean to kill us once you give them what they want,” she finished for him. “Fuck.”

“Call Campbell,” he pointed at the phone, standing. “Tell him we’re doing it tonight at the Garrison. I’ll be right back,” he didn’t give her an opportunity to ask anymore questions, already dashing out the door. She grabbed the phone, dialing the number for the police station. Campbell answered on the first ring, listened quietly to what she had to say, and informed her that he would send Sergeant Moss and some officers down to arrest the IRA men. 

“Alright,” she looked up as Tommy reentered the room. “Thank you. I have to go,” she hung up before he could respond.

“He’s sending Moss and some men. They’ll come in on the sixth chime of the clock,” taking the coat he handed her, she pulled it on while following him to the door.

“Grace will still be at the Garrison, won’t she?” Tommy asked, checking his watch. 

“Probably just closing up, but yeah.”

“Good. We’re going to need her help.”

“What–?”

“She won’t have to do anything but stand there and point a gun, don’t worry.”

There was no time to ask any follow-up questions. Not that she really needed to. She trusted him. Tommy banged his fist hard against the Garrison’s door once they arrived, the other hand clutching her fingers tightly.        

“I still don’t like getting her involved,” Lucy said softly.

“I know,” Tommy sighed, banging on the door again. A moment later the locks clicked, and Grace opened the door. Tommy went barreling in, half dragging Lucy behind him.

“Leave that open,” he called over his shoulder to Grace when she moved to lock the door again. He let go of Lucy’s hand to check the door in the back, and she set to work arranging the tables and chairs. A moment later Tommy rushed over to help her. Moving to the bar, they removed their caps, Lucy running her fingers through her curls in an attempt to somewhat tame them. Grace moved to begin pouring them each a glass of whiskey, but Tommy held up a hand. “No.”

“Are you expecting trouble?”

“Yeah,” he pulled a revolver from his pocket. Grace eyed it when he set it down on the bar while beginning to explain the situation to her, and what he was going to need her to do.  

“Now, you’re gonna be in that back room,” he pointed. “I’m going to be sitting there. Lucy’s sitting with me. They insisted that she be in on the meeting.”

“Because they know she’s your assassin,” Grace said simply. “And they want her somewhere they can see her.”

“Yes,” he affirmed before continuing to explain the rest of the plan. It really was just as simple as he had said; all she had to do was come out of the back on her cue, and point the gun at the right people. Easy enough.  

Tommy grabbed at her arms, holding them up with the gun aimed, his chest to her back. “Just point. Right?”

Grace nodded. Outside, the clock chimed. 

“All right, go. Go on. Go!” Tommy pushed at Grace gently, and she rushed towards the back.

“It’s going to be alright,” Lucy told her. After she’d disappeared to the back, Lucy went about helping Tommy grab glasses and bottles of booze, preparing the table, arranging everything to look normal. They sat down, side by side, Tommy’s fingers slipping into his pocket to check his watch. Lucy’s heart was hammering away in her chest. Glancing over her shoulder once, she squinted at the back of the pub. She couldn’t see Grace. Please, don’t let us get shot.

Tommy’s hand smoothed over her thigh, squeezing once before drawing back. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she forced her muscles to relax. The shadows of three men appeared in the window, the doors creaking as Byrne and his two comrades stepped in.

“Have your girl remove her gun and the bullets inside it,” Byrne ordered, hands clasped in front of him. Lucy glanced at Tommy. That was to be expected, but still the idea unnerved her. Tommy nodded, and she sighed, reaching into her jacket and pulling out her revolver, emptying the bullets out onto the table with little metallic clinks, placing the gun down onto the wood. She felt naked without it in her hand or snug against her ribs. Satisfied, the men sat down. Tommy poured them each drinks, though none of the men moved to touch them. At Byrne’s impatient demand for the location of the guns, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out the folded map. He held it up in one hand.

“Give me the cash.”

Byrne nodded, and the other man pulled a package from his coat and slid it across the table towards them. Tommy tossed the map down in front of Byrne.

“You’re going to need a shovel.”

Byrne took the map, glancing down at it, and then nodded to the man to his right. He began smiling, chuckling softly, taunting them as he lifted a gun to Tommy’s head. 

“Make your peace, Mr. Shelby,” Byrne said. “You too, Ms. Winters.”

“I will make peace my own way,” Tommy picked up the glass Byrne’s man had pushed away, raising it into the air. Here we go. “To barmaids who don’t count,” he took a sip from the glass. Lucy heard the door behind them open, the sound of Grace’s footsteps approaching.

And then two shots rang out from the gun clutched in her hands. Tommy jerked forward, hands flung half up to cover his head. The man who’d been holding a gun to Tommy went limp as a bullet caught him in the chest. Byrne lunged across the table towards Tommy and the pair began wrestling, sending the glasses on the table flying before slamming into the bar. Lucy flung herself across the table at the other man, grabbing her empty revolver from the table and aiming a strike at his head with it, but he caught her arms, attempting to wrench the gun from her hands. Sweeping her leg out, she knocked his feet out from under him, but his grasp he had on her meant that she went tumbling down with him.

Struggling to wrench herself from her assailant’s grasp, the gun was knocked from her hands to skid across the floor, and an elbow to the stomach pushed all the air from her lungs, leaving her to gasp and cough while he climbed on top of her, large hands locking around her neck. Lucy’s fingers dug into his wrists, trying to pry them away as he started to squeeze. Black dots appeared in her vision, and before he could react she thrust a hand up, grabbing the side of his face, and plunged her thumb into his eye. It popped beneath her nail like a grape, blood spurting out to cover her hand. He let out a wailing scream, grip loosening on her enough that she was able to curl her legs up and kick him away. Coughing rapidly as air whooshed back into her chest, she scrambled up, climbing on top of him and reaching into her shoe for the blade she kept concealed there. He had one hand pressed to his eye, the other held up as he watched her draw the knife. Had she allowed him enough time to speak, she wondered if he would have begged for his life.

She cut his throat, slicing straight through the vocal cords, before he ever got the chance.

The blood poured out wetly all over her hands and onto the floor, his body making little gurgling, choking sounds before finally going still.

Head turning, knife still ready to cut anyone who came near her, she spotted Tommy on top of Byrne, slamming one of the spittoons over and over against his head. Grace was huddled against the bar, looking at Lucy and Tommy with enormous eyes. Tommy was still bringing the spittoon down. Over and over again.

“Tommy,” she croaked out, trying to stand, feet slipping in the blood pooling around her. “Tommy!”

He finally tossed the spittoon, dented and stained with blood, to the ground, doubling over, breathing hard. Scrambling to her feet, Lucy staggered towards Grace, kneeling next to her, hand seizing tightly at her shoulder. Tommy had pulled himself to his feet, glass crunching under his shoes as he moved towards them. Using two fingers, Lucy gently turned Grace’s face so she could examine the gash that had opened up across her forehead. She must have hit her head sometime in the struggle. Grace’s fingers traced lightly across Lucy’s neck, where she was sure that bruises in the shape of hands were already beginning to appear. Tommy made a sound that was close to a sob, reaching down to help pull both of them to their feet. One of his hands brushed carefully against Grace’s face, checking her head. The other grasped tightly onto Lucy’s shoulder to keep her steady. He grabbed Grace by the face, pulling her close.

“Why did you shoot?” he whispered. Grace whimpered. “Why did you shoot, Grace?”

Grace’s face crumpled, and she began to cry. Lucy wrapped one arm around each of them, clinging tightly. 

“I didn’t know I had it in me like that,” Grace sobbed. Tommy’s lower lip trembled. He pulled them both closer.

“Now you’ve seen me. You’ve seen both of us.”

“And you’ve seen me,” Grace’s eyes moved between them, the hand around Lucy’s waist tightened, the other grasping Tommy’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

Tommy just pulled them both closer, the three of them squeezed into a fierce hug, heads resting against shoulders, arms wrapped around one another. The door creaked, and Tommy’s brows pinched. Lucy was the first to notice, giving Tommy and Grace one last firm squeeze before pulling away just before the police officers strode in. Moss’s eyebrows rose at the sight of Tommy and Grace still embracing, Lucy hovering nearby. When Tommy let Grace go and pulled away to face the officers, Grace grabbed tightly onto Lucy’s arm.

“You were supposed to come on the sixth chime!” Tommy bellowed. “You were supposed to come on the fucking sixth chime!”

Sergeant Moss didn’t say anything, just stared at the bodies before him. Tommy leaned back against the bar, eyes focused up. The white collar of his shirt was splattered with spots of blood.

Not caring what the officers might think, Lucy looped her arm around Grace while Tommy spoke with Moss. 

“Are you alright?” Grace whispered, staring in quiet horror at Lucy’s throat. Reaching up with her free hand, Lucy winced when her fingertips made contact with the tender skin. 

“I’ll be fine,” it didn’t feel like anything was severely damaged. She would just be bruised and probably hoarse for a day or two. Shaking her head, she pushed back Grace’s blonde hair to again check the cut on her head. “Come with me,” taking Grace’s hand, she started to lead the way towards the washrooms. “Gonna go wash off the blood,” she explained to Tommy, trying to keep her voice soft to not further strain it. Already she was starting to feel a burn in her vocal cords. 

Grace showed her where they stored the rags, and she wetted one in the sink, the water hissing as it flowed from the tap. With ginger movements, she wiped at the cut on Grace’s forehead, cleaning away the blood and examining the wound.  

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches. Just keep and eye on it and try to keep it clean.”

Without a word, Grace nodded. There was a knock on the washroom door, and when Lucy pulled it open, Tommy was standing there, shoulders half hunched in and expression miserable.

“Moss says we can leave whenever,” he mumbled. Not speaking, Lucy pulled him into the room, using the rag to wipe off the worst of the blood splattered on his face. When she was done, Grace timidly shuffled closer, taking the cloth and brushing it across Lucy’s cheeks. For a moment, she was transported back in time, to the first moment she saw Grace, when the new pretty barmaid had reached across with a handkerchief to wipe a stray streak of blood off of her face. 

It felt like a thousand lifetimes ago. 

Once they were about as clean as they could all hope to be with only a single measly washbasin between the three of them, they filed out of the washroom. The officers were still in the pub, though a significant amount of the bloodied mess they’d made had already been cleaned away. 

“Go get your things. We’ll walk you home,” Lucy whispered to Grace. She nodded, going into the back for her bag and coat. “Tommy,” she approached him carefully. Speaking was definitely beginning to hurt a little, her throat aching. She took his hand firmly. “Come on,” as soon as Grace was ready, she led them both outside into the cold fresh air. Tommy lit a cigarette, the three of them passing it between them as they started to walk down the road. None of them said a word. Grace kept her hands clutched in tightly to her chest, coming to a stop at a simple little building. She took one last drag of the cigarette before handing it back to Tommy.

“Thank you,” Grace’s eyes darted between them. Lucy reached out to hug her tightly. Tommy just looked down.

“I’m sorry,” was all he said, before taking Lucy’s hand and pulling her along after him, and down the road.

They went to her apartment, the locks clicking firmly into place, and then Tommy’s hands were reaching to skim along the bruises on her throat.

“You’re not going to be able to talk tomorrow.”

“Probably not,” she agreed in a rasp. “But it’s not that bad.”

Hands dropping to wrap around her waist, Tommy pulled her closer until she was practically crushed against his chest. Lucy closed her eyes, winding her arms around him and snuggling closer. Tommy’s lips pressed into her hair, kissing gently, spreading the pecks along the entire crown of her head. Cradling the back of his skull, Lucy fisted her other hand in the front of his shirt, pulling him in even tighter, tugging his head back so she could kiss him.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, once they’d broken away. “Grace is okay. You’re okay,” she stroked his face. “It’s all going to be okay.”

Tommy closed his eyes, throat working, and then he nodded.

“I’m tired,” she said softly, taking his hand. His mouth began to pepper kisses along her jaw, hands grabbing at her as if trying to convince himself that she was still there. Still whole. “Bed.”

He insisted on helping her undress, even giving her one of his undershirts to wear without his usual halfhearted complaints. In just her knickers and his shirt, she pulled his clothes off of him until he was only in his boxers, and together they climbed into her bed, snuggling together in the middle of the mattress, holding onto each other tight, as if afraid that the other would disappear.  

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[transthadymacdermot]

Decided to finally bite the bullet and bravely send you an ask bc we've been following each other and silently interacting for weeks now but I just want to say I am SO curious about and invested in your OCs. Please talk to me about your favourite, I am desperate to know more, they seem so richly fleshed out!!!

Omg I'm so glad you like them! ok so my favourite, to probably no one's surprise, is my babygirl Eoin O'Donnell

Primarily he's just called by his first name or by his surname depending on who the speaker is but he is sometimes also called "Eoin Dubh" (pronounced roughly "owen doo" or "owen duff" depending on the dialect of Irish; the characters would pronounce it in the former way) which translates to "Black Eoin," black here being more akin to "evil" rather than anything about skin colour (as Irish that meaning is so much more prevalent that the word for Black as in skin colour is "gorm," literally meaning blue, to avoid calling someone evil).

Anyway he's a young (maybe mid 20s but his age is vague) man living in the south of Co. Armagh in what is today Northern Ireland in... a vague time in the late eighteenth to early nineteenth century when there's a war with France and widespread agrarian violence. His location is also vague (are u sensing a theme) but it's very rural, primarily catholic, and here's on the map roughly where it is on a map of Ulster, the northernmost province of Ireland. ignore the other stuff on the map this was the only one on my camera roll lmao

Eoin is... a deeply troubled young man. His childhood was marked by poverty and a father who he only learned wasn't called "da" when his name was announced at his execution. When he was in his mid teens his mother essentially kicked him out of the house to go earn some money, following which he descended as quickly as any 16 year old boy suddenly independent into crime. This eventually got him arrested and he was given the choice between the noose and the army; after choosing the army he successfully convinced several of his new comrades to desert with him and become highwaymen. When his aunt found out about it she dragged him home and forced him to join the local anti-landlord anti-protestant gang so that he could have a more. um. socially acceptable. outlet for what she saw as a natural inclination towards violence. Nowadays he leads this gang and generally terrorises the countryside with his friends.

Personality wise he's known for being a womaniser and kind of generally not right in the head. This second fact is mostly because he's autistic and therefore has a really really hard time connecting with people or controlling his emotions but has no idea why (and it frustrates him constantly because he knows something's wrong but he can't figure it out and causes him to lash out. horrid). His autism also causes him to throw himself wholesale into people pleasing in the weirdest way possible; essentially much of his whole gangster schtick is about trying to get the other lads to think he's cool and to get his neighbours to either deem him so necessary he can't be excluded or be so scared of him they don't dare piss him off by picking him last during a game of football again or whatever. Likewise, he sleeps around so much because he feels less like someone is trying to kick him out of the club for being strange & off-putting when he's literally on top of them. Also ❗ he has a whole complex surrounding the concept of evil because from day 1 he has been taught by everyone from The Establishment to his own damn aunt and uncle that he's horrible or evil or even actually demonic because he's autistic / he's Irish / he's poor / his dad was an awful person and it has caused him to spitefully throw himself into being the worst person possible and to, to quote my notes, "develop an abrasive personality and a tendency towards extreme violence and kinning the devil."

Some more stuff about him:

His special interest is in what we would probably term the natural sciences today... think Stephen Maturin but with fewer resources. He loves bones and skeletons and reconstructs models of birds using collected bones and wire in his spare time

He's illiterate. He speaks English and Irish fluently and has some Latin but he can't read or write at all, with the exception of being able to kind of scribble his own name

He lives with his girlfriend Aoife, but their relationship kind of sucks in that he mostly just uses her for someone to do his laundry and she primarily likes him because she thinks it's hot when he kills people. Also he's obsessed with his childhood friend Mary, a similarly troubled young woman who does love him back but REFUSES to even date him until he STOPS killing people (since it's dangerous etc). Aoife on the bottom right and Mary on the top left below

Eoin's best friends are his cousin Donal McCluskey and his friend Dan Maguire. Dan is like his partner in crime and they're close enough that. well. you look at them and think one drunken handjob in 2006 if you know what I mean. and then he kind of uses Donal as an emotional crutch because Donal is also a whole case unto himself and loves to flay himself alive emotionally for other people. Dan on the bottom left and Donal on the top right above

Ummm his other most important relationship is with Kathleen, the daughter of the local pub owner. She's a longtime fwb of his who he has a complex and sometimes extremely toxic relationship with. She helped him fake his own death once, he distracts her father while she smokes behind the pub rather than running the damn shop, etc. They have fun

He was of course raised catholic -- though he doesn't really attend mass as an adult for obvious reasons -- and his confirmation saint is Michael

If u have any more questions PLEASE ask them I could talk about him for 1000000 billion years. or I can answer questions about his friends too. genuinely they're like parasitic organisms in my brain atp

[breitzbachbea]

Having a normal one, having open the tabs "venetian nobility" and "provisional IRA south armagh brigade" during the grammar lecture.

[twelve-kinds-of-trouble]

what I hate about The 2 Jonnies’ music is that I hear it and I’m like pfff yeah another shitty song about a relatable topic to Irish people . whatever. But then it grows on me and suddenly I’m waking around my house like ‘SHE LIKES THE GAA THE SKA I THINK HER DAS IN THE RA CUZ HES A BIG SCARY FUCKER FROM SOUTH ARMAGH—‘