#writing brits
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millificent · 6 months ago
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This is a PSA for (usually) American authors writing British characters, from a Brit.
The standard British tea is English Breakfast Tea, sold by brands like Yorkshire Tea, and PG tips, or Barry’s if you’re Irish. It is NOT Earl Grey. In fact, it’s quite unusual for someone to actually drink Earl Grey. The two teas are not interchangeable.
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If someone offers you a cup of tea, they mean English breakfast - if they have something other than English breakfast, they will specify. Most British households will keep teabags of English breakfast tea and instant coffee as standard (even if they personally don’t like it, it’s usually polite to keep it to offer to guests).
Having worked in a coffee shop, in my experience, it is only middle class people (and usually white women) who order Earl Grey teas, whereas English breakfast is far more universal. A ‘builder’s tea’ - aka a strong cup of English breakfast with very little milk - is commonly associated with working class men, but can equally be enjoyed by everyone (like me). If someone orders a black tea, this will usually mean an English breakfast tea without milk, as opposed to the type of tea. Making a weak cup of tea which has not been allowed to brew for long enough or which has too much milk will result in being mocked, and offering a weak tea to guests is very rude.
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Along a similar vein, we do not have cream/creamer in our coffees here. For both tea and coffee, the usual options are milk, sugar, or sweeteners. I live in London and yet I’ve never even seen coffee creamer in the fridge of Tesco.
Of course, I am sure that there are people who prefer Earl Grey and keep it stocked in their homes. Equally, I’m sure there’s someone who went to America and now orders coffee creamer from Amazon or something, but that is the 0.01% of the population. Not the majority.
Yes, this is a weird reader pet peeve of mine because it really takes away from the realism of the story. So small and yet so telling😂
Thank you for reading my rant! If you have any more questions, please ask. Now go forth and write accurate Brits!
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theabigailthorn · 9 months ago
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British producers be like: THEM: "We love this! Let us put our heads together and get back to you early next week!" SIX MONTHS LATER UNPAID INTERN FOR THAT COMPANY: "Everyone you spoke to has been sacked, we hate you fuck off."
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American producers be like:
THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON YOU'VE EVER MET: Hey kiddo do you wanna meet The Rock? Do you wanna meet Margot Robbie? Do you want to fuck my wife? I can't give you a job but gosh darn it you've got moxxy, let me put you in touch with Doug Bigcheese, the biggest producer in Hollywood! DOUG BIGCHEESE, EMAILING YOU BACK WITHIN 20 MINUTES: Hey kiddo, that guy said you're awesome! Lemme ask round town and in the meantime you can live in my house borrow my car and by the way have you met my wife?!
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lilartifex · 2 months ago
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Saw a post by @khorazir and couldn't resist XD
I'd like to imagine the reason Crystal is wearing a Christmas hat is because Charles made her.
Crystal: I'm not wearing that thing, Charles. Charles: Aw, c'mon, one of us has to, and Edwin and I are ghosts, so most of the people we pass won't see it. But if you wear it, then everyone gets a little bit of Christmas cheer from the Dead Boy Detectives! Crystal: I'm NOT wearing - Crystal, three seconds later:
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ceilidho · 1 year ago
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prompt: reader is a large animal vet making a house call to a certain ex-SAS member's ranch.
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It’s the first time you’ve been called out to this ranch. 
You’ve been to some others in the surrounding area—just last week you stopped by a ranch just half an hour away—but never this one. It’s far out of the way, almost tough to find—you miss the turnoff twice, each time forced to turn back around and squint to find the poorly marked dirt road leading to the ranch. Your shoulders only unclench when the ranch house finally crests over the horizon and you spot the horses milling around in the fenced-off enclosure. 
They must have had an in-house vet prior to calling you out. None of your colleagues remember ever visiting and the ranch is big enough to necessitate one. It sprawls across the landscape, acres upon acres. The kind of ranch that deals in thoroughbreds, horses that go on to graded stakes races. In the pen already, you can pick out Thoroughbreds and American Warmblood, the distinctive spotting of an Appaloosa, even a couple Hanoverians. 
There are men working around the ranch outside of the main enclosure that you park just a dozen or so yards away from, but something about the man standing by his lonesome with the horses makes you pause. 
A head taller than the rest, and built like a redwood. Bandana affixed around the lower half of his face, almost bandit-like. You shake those thoughts out of your head. You’re not here to pass judgement on people; you’re here for the horses. Whatever scars mar his face are hardly your concern (still, rugged, you think, a bit breathless even sitting in the front seat of your truck). 
When he turns in your direction, eyes locked on your truck and then locked on you when you pop into the back to grab your bag, your back straightens. Imperceptibly, yet still. Compelled to measure up somehow, to whatever standard he expects.
He strikes you as the man in charge. “Mister Riley?” you call out, shielding your eyes from the sun. 
He beckons you over with a gloved hand. Even from the distance, he leaves you unsure of yourself, quick to stumble when his stare starts to burn. 
“Doc,” Riley greets you when you’re close enough, and you fight back a shiver. His voice rumbles like thunder, like hooves pounding into the freshly tamped earth, into the dirt. 
“You called about a pregnant mare,” you remind him. 
The bag in front of your legs puts a bit of distance between the two of you, a needed buffer. Up close, he towers like sequoia, in fact, sleeves rolled up past his forearms, old tattoos on his left arm faded like beaten leather. He holds out a hand though, forcing you to take a step forward out of politeness and shake it. Your lips tighten at the touch of his skin. It’s weathered too, coarse palms and fingertips; there’s dirt caked around his nail beds, the kind that never comes out, the world’s indelible mark on the skin. 
He stares at you for a moment without speaking. There’s no helping the way you squirm under his gaze.
“The horse,” you remind him, cheeks hot.
“She’s in the stables; I’ll bring ya to her.”
You struggle to keep up with him, bag bumping against your leg as you haul ass after him. Big as he is, he moves quickly, fast on his feet—used to quick beasts, you know, probably used to anticipating their movements, always one step ahead. Your last shred of decency keeps you from staring at his ass the entire walk to the stables. 
Her coat is a rich coal colour, mane sun-bleached. Inky eyes peer back at you when Riley lets you into her stall. It’s cooler inside somehow, out of the inescapable glare of the sun; the sweat on the back of your neck stays wet under Riley’s eyes though, nervous rather than weather-born. 
She’s gorgeous though, the mare. Pretty as can be. Heavily pregnant too, you can see. Obviously well taken care of too, still decently muscled like she’s still been taken for walks and rides during her pregnancy. 
“She’s too far along now to ride,” he tells you when you remark on that, his voice carrying in the confined space. He doesn’t raise his voice, but it makes you perk up again, at attention, head whipping over your shoulder to look at him. 
“I can tell. A little over two months ‘till she delivers,” you say with a nod, looking down at the chart you have on her. “I can come back for her last deworming before she foals, if you want.”
He grunts, doesn’t answer. You take it as an affirmative. 
It doesn’t take you long to run through her check-up. A docile girl, you coo when she lets you touch her without any sign of aggression, sweet-tempered thing. It’s second nature after all, at this point in your life. 
Still, you find yourself watching Riley out of the corner of your eye, careful under his watchful gaze. Not that you usually aren’t, but still. Your movements feel intentional, precise. 
When he walks you out, you get a bit bolder in the sunlight. Freer to pester him with questions. 
“Did your last vet retire or something?” you ask, fishing for information. It’s probably none of your business, but you find yourself curious anyway. There are a few different vet practices operating in the area, so it’s always helpful to know who’s going to your competitors. 
He shakes his head. “Friend of mine went to school for this—been with me as long as I’ve had the ranch. He got hitched a couple weeks ago though.”
“Moving away?” you guess.
“Opening up a practice,” he corrects, making you frown. That’s worse, at least for you. “On his honeymoon this month though, so he gave me your name.”
“My boss’ name, you mean.”
“That’s right,” he says, and you realize that he’s walked you all the way to your car, half-pinning you to the door of your truck. Just close enough that a new layer of sweat breaks out on the back of your neck. You have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. “Don’t know if I caught yours, little filly.”
Now that makes you stutter over your name, confidence finally failing you. When he hums like he’s caught your name in his head now, mapped it to you with his sharp eyes, you feel yourself swallow reflexively. 
“Not like you’ll need it for long,” you tease, trying to gain back some semblance of control. “Just until your friend gets back and sets up his practice, at least.”
“Not sure about that. Might find some use for you yet,” Riley says, close enough now that you can tell he smells of hay and silage, peppery when you breathe in too heavily. 
And you breathe too heavily. Hard not to when he crowds you up against the truck, hand laying flat on the roof, boxing you in. You wonder if any of the ranch hands are looking over at the two of you, curious. 
“What do you mean?” you ask, head empty. Mouth dry enough now that it hurts a bit to swallow. 
His brown eyes glint in the sun. Honey gold under the light. “I can think of a few reasons to keep you around.”
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ultravioletbrit · 1 month ago
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“ball” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 305 words
Regulus is sitting on the couch with one foot tucked under him and James’ feet in his lap and he’s absentmindedly playing with the hem of James’ joggers. He’s reading a fascinating book Pandora got him about the interconnection between Greek philosophy and mythology; James is reading a magazine that Regulus has never heard of. Regulus is getting lost in the moment until he hears Sirius snickering from across the room, he tries to ignore it, but Sirius doesn’t stop.
“What?” Regulus looks up, annoyed.
“You guys are the literal embodiment of ‘you know how to ball, I know Aristotle’.” Sirius chuckles.
“Did you just compare us to a Taylor Swift lyric?” Regulus raises an eyebrow.
“I mean…” Sirius gestures between Regulus and James.
“You mean what?” Regulus narrows his eyes.
“What are you reading?” Sirius asks instead of answering.  
Regulus reluctantly looks at his book about Greek philosophy then just glares at Sirius who cackles in response. “So? James is also reading?” Regulus tries to justify.
“James, what are you reading?” Sirius asks.
Regulus looks at James who’s trying very hard not to giggle when he says, “FourFourTwo.”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s my football magazine, love.” James tells him with a chuckle.
“Face it, Reggie. Your relationship is a walking, talking Taylor song.” Sirius leans back with a smug smile.
Before Regulus can respond, Barty and Evan walk in the living room and throw themselves on the other couch. “Hey, Sirius? You want to play video games with me and Ev?” Barty asks, unaware of the current conversation.
James and Sirius look at each other and burst out laughing.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Regulus mumbles and rolls his eyes.
“What?” Barty looks between the three of them.
“It’s Taylor’s world, Barty. We’re just living in it.” Sirius tells him.
“Well, obviously.” Barty rolls his eyes.
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clockwayswrites · 6 months ago
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Do you also have an original story that you keep putting off writing? Are you stuck in a worry cycle about it? Maybe getting to know your characters better will help! Consider writing about them/their:
Morning routine
Conversation with a ‘coworker’
After a long/hard day
Sharing a room/space with someone
Receiving a gift
Ordering a drink
Picking someone up
In a 'bar' fight
Seeing a new place for the first time (describe it)
And when in doubt:
“Wind them up, put them down, and simply write down what they do, say, and think.” -Terry Pratchett
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antaripirate · 8 months ago
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maxim maresh, red london father of all time
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balrogballs · 1 month ago
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nooo balls nooo don’t take your crack idea so seriously that you’ve fleshed out a 15 chapter period AU nooo you’re too sexy
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bumblydumbly · 6 months ago
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I want to publish dbda fics but I’m so worried that i won’t know the slang for something simple and be outed as an American. After which I will be eaten alive
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skitskatdacat63 · 8 months ago
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"Arrogant, ruthless, and by all reports (including his own) utterly charming."
(I don't know why I drew this but please take Revolutionary War British officer George, I think it suits him, okay!!!)
+ George Russell the type of guy to t-pose in front of rebels
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+ the usual
Okay first of all, process, as always:
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I drew this in one day hahaha....Actually really fun! I haven't finished anything in almost a month, and haven't painted for even longer, so I'm kinda dying at the fact that 18th century George Russell got me motivated 😭 Sometimes when painting, I realize I have free will and can actually just start painting over the lineart, and that's the best moment of every drawing process 🙏
Also I'm very proud of his face!!! I've said before, but art progression is such a weird thing. You'll keep repeating to your self "I'm no good at [insert art thing.]" And then randomly realized you can in fact do it. That's me with drawing real people's faces 😭 I'm just so shocked I got his face pretty good in one try!!!
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Okay about the pose and quote. God its so fun to misappropriate quotes for my own evil deeds. Both of these are from this one officer from the Revolution: Banastre Tarleton. Idk, I randomly saw his painting in a history video, and it's stuck in my mind ever since. And then yesterday, bcs I spent a lot of time looking at George, I'm like "hey you know what he kinda reminds me of-" and thus we have this.
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I just found that quote about him from some historian to be funny, so I put it as a caption, as I would with Napoleon. This won't be an AU by any means but. I think if George was in the Revolution, he'd be the most stereotypical, evil British villain in American media type guy ever. And Tarleton is kinda that guy tbh, to the point where him and others like Arnold Benedict are the poster boys of evil Revolution guys. He even has a mocking nickname! "Bloody Tarleton/Ban", very "Osama bin Russell," no? 😭
Some notable moments from Tarleton's campaign that I think fit George: Apparently killed a bunch of American soldiers after they surrendered, making sure everyone was dead(😭😭), threatened to burn an American general's house down to make him surrender and then took him hostage, went toe to toe with George Washington himself and Washington even taunted him and Tarleton got a shot in, has a helmet named after him(very slayful.)
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lululandd · 2 years ago
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whiskey sour;
pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x gn!reader
word count: 1577
warnings: meet..cute(?)
note: my heart said angst but my brain said fluff, and i cant write without a brain so… (also on ao3)
summary: the man at the bar never talks. not to women hitting on him, not to the men squaring him up for fights.
You see him every weekend for 3 months straight, sitting at the same place, wearing some rotation of dark hoodies, and sporting some manly drink that seem like they taste as angry as he looks. You notice the only one he talks to is the bartender. And now you, apparently.
You trudged into the bar with a sour face and a sour mood and sat next to him, which you wouldn’t do if there was legitimately any other seat. “I’ll have whatever he’s having.” You pointed at his drink after getting the barkeep’s attention.
It surprised you when the drink came less than a third of the glass it came in. Did the bartender think you’re a pussy and gave you less? Whatever.
So you downed it in one go.
Horrible idea. It burned from your tongue down to your esophagus, and you coughed your lungs out for a solid minute while tears streamed down your face before the fire dissipates.
“You’re supposed to sip.” You heard someone mutter after your body stopped being dramatic over the drink.
Who the fuc—
“You savour it.” He chided. Oh, it’s the quiet man. So the reason no one talked to him is because he’s some kind of obnoxious fuck?
“No ‘you allright’ or ‘you okay’? Straight to the lecture?” You bit back. Fuck, you feel like purposefully bumping into him as you slid off your seat, but he’s built like a tank and you’re not going to test whether you’re wet noodle or wet tissue against him right now. You trudged out of the bar you entered not fifteen minutes ago, and out of anger you promise to never go back.
And by never you mean like two years. You’ve changed jobs, moved closer to work, and now you literally live above said bar you never wanna go back to.
Fuck.
A few weeks went by before seeing him again. Still sitting in the same place, still wearing dark hoodies, still staring daggers at everyone. You changed your mind on drinking that day, not when he’s around.
But the next day you weren’t so lucky. Thinking he wouldn’t be there—since it was a weekday—you plopped right in front of the barkeep and asked him about rumours and gossips of the week.
“Well, that hot widow I kinda fancy got a date yesterday, seemed like it went well.”
You rolled your eyes, “If only you asked her out first.”
He laughed as he slides you a glass of water. “Did that at a previous place, people think they get free drinks when they date a bartender.”
“Wait, you don’t?”
“Nah. I mean, I’ll give them some but lots take it too far and think they can order for a group.”
You scrunched you nose, “I think you just dated shit people, Sam.”
He scoffed, “Shut the fuck up.”
His attention was away from your a second and you decided to take a glance at who ordered. It’s him. You didn’t even notice when he came, to think someone his size would make a lot of noise when they walk. But you were too caught up in conversation, you guess.
When he got back he grabbed two glasses and filled it with a big ball of ice and poured very little of what you think was bourbon into the glasses. You had learnt a little here and there, since you do live above and spend some time with Sam on slow days. To your surprise he handed one to you.
You immediately looked towards the man’s direction and he waved his glass at you.
Oh no.
Taking a deep breath, you grab the glass and place yourself next to him.
“Allright?”
You sighed, “Yeah, don’t worry, I remember this is a sippy drink and not a gulpy drink.”
“Good.”
“Thanks, by the way.” You raised your glass and started sipping. You can’t hide your wince. This would definitely be a good if you were depressed or sad or trying to forget a horrible incident or getting over a breakup, but things are way too nice in your life for you to enjoy it properly. “Would you be offended if I asked the barkeep to make this into a whiskey sour?”
He answered by waving Sam down.
As your drinks slowly diminish, you learn exactly two things about him. His name is Simon and he likes dogs. The man dodged so many questions like Neo and those fucking bullets, and if Sam didn’t somehow made the previously godawful whiskey taste so goddamn tasty you would’ve probably gone upstairs and to bed by now.
But Simon is a good listener, so whenever you feel like having a drink, you sit next to him. It’s definitely a biased opinion, but you think it’s highly unfair that he is as funny as he is attractive. He’s cracking jokes as if his life depended on it, like an ugly kid that had to make his way through school being funny to avoid getting bullied. You also learnt one new thing about him, he has a friend called Soap. Of course you didn’t ask about him, because you know he doesn’t divulge any information, but it’s really funny that the other man calls him quite often lately and then hearing them bantering back and forth for a couple minutes before you can hear the scot on the other end of the phone yell something so scottish you couldn’t understand a word. For a little while you fall into this fun routine, until he stopped coming one day. You think nothing of it at first, like he is a grown man and he could have those seasonal jobs, but weeks turned to months and you miss your drinking buddy.
~
It was a rainy afternoon, and you opted to wait at the office an extra two hours for the rain to lighten up at least a little. Regret settled deep in your bones for rejecting so many ride home offers, as you wrung what you could of your wet clothes. Some fucker in a pickup truck thought it would be funny to drive at sixty by some puddles and splash everyone at the sidewalk. Everyone huddled under the same awning to try and clean themselves up and share their plight. After feeling dry enough, you started to head back when you heard your name being called by a familiar voice, and then a hand on your shoulder.
“You look like a wet rat.”
Fighting words. Those are fighting words. You did the one thing you know is appropriate for such a greeting.
You hugged him. Wet clothes and all.
He was tense for the duration of the hug, and ended it quickly with pats to your upper back. A wide smirk graced your face as you looked up at him, and you can immediately tell—albeit covered by a face mask—that he’s unhappy of the outcome.
“Hi.” You greeted, the smirk getting wider at his apparent annoyance.
“There’s a kebab place nearby. Let’s go.”
It was a seven minute walk, and you were glad the place he led you to was rather dirty, cramped, and two girls were doing their homework on a table at the back. The food will definitely be good. You looked around for a place to sit after telling him what you wanted. Scouting for a table with no food left, you stood near a family of four and waited for them to leave.
Simon came back with the food you ordered and some drinks you definitely didn’t tell him to get. But it was apparently some foreign soda that you’ve never seen, and you were happy to get to try it. Halfway through your meal someone clapped his shoulders and you swear he was about to stand up and do something until he saw the other man’s face.
The man with a mohawk started, “Who’s this, LT?”
Simon skipped too many beats to answer, and looking at his face, you swear he was legitimately about to throw down, so you did what you think would be natural at a time like this.
“Oh, uhh… I don’t know him, I just sat here because the place was full.”
He then introduces himself. “Hi, I’m Johnny. This here is my mate, Simon.”
“Piss off, Johnny.”
Johnny laughed, and when he went to the cashier you were afraid he would join you, but he said goodbye as soon as he got his order.
Both of you ate in silence for a bit. “So you don’t know me, huh?” He finally cracked, smiling at you.
Oh thank god, you thought he was mad, “Sorry, you looked really uncomfortable.”
“That bad?”
You slowly nodded, “Honestly, yeah. Scared you were gonna beat him up on the spot.”
“Nah.” He sipped on his soda, contemplating something. “Do that at work though, not here.”
You blinked. “You’re gonna beat him up.. At work?”
He raised his eyebrows as a confirmation, and you can see he’s not gonna elaborate.
Leaving the place, he walked you back to your place, under the guise of needing a drink after having such a ‘rough night’.
“Why?” You teased him as you two walked in, “Is it rough because now your friend thinks you like people that looks like a wet rat?”
“Nah. He already knows I do.”
“What?”
He doesn’t say anything else, but he did tell Sam to make two whiskey sours.
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internetskiff · 1 year ago
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(Art below the cut btw)
TOPIC: INTELLIGENCE DAMPENING SPHERE POST-DETACHMENT RE-ASSIGNMENT
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Sphere's adapted surprisingly well to conditions outside of the Central AI Chamber. We've noticed a marginal increase in intelligence after it's exposure to "HER" neural imprint. It is now capable of recognizing (and even using) a "double entendre" in a sentence - likely picked it up from her (have you people considered attaching an "attitude suppression" sphere onto her yet? Would be great). It's been annoyingly talkative to the staff. Suggest re-assignment to Subject Caretaker duties. Quite literally the lowest hanging fruit - it's mostly automated anyways, even a toddler couldn't mess it up. Just find a use for it so it stops pestering me on the catwalks, thanks.
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oumaheroes · 1 year ago
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My soul cries out for Scotland and England being siblings; I love those two and their stormy sense of brotherhood. I may or may not be biased cos my favourite period is medieval, which is ripe for England and Scotland conflict and shenanigans.
Congratulations on 1000 followers! You deserve it!
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Thank you so much, Ballad!! And to you too Nonny, that's a high compliment indeed <3
I got a few requests for UK bros and England and Scotland as a pair, so there will be more than just this. I hope this quick little story fits the bill in the meantime!
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Currency
Alba nodded in satisfaction as he tilted the horse's face slightly to the side, its rubbery lips soft and warm against his bare palm.
'Teeth seem fine.'
'Let me see.'
Alba bent to hold Albion up to the animal, settling his weight against his hip.
'Careful.' He warned as his brother reached out for the horse's nose, 'Slowly. Or she'll bite.'
'I know.' Albion said sharply, but paused his hands in mid air before lowering them carefully down on the short fur, 'I'm not stupid.'
'Sure.'
'So what do you think.' The horse's owner, a traveller from Gaul unusual this far up north, peered at them with lowered brows. His accent was thick, more used to the Brythonic dialects of the south than the midland ones now quick on Alba's tongue. 'You take her? She's strong; good for distance.'
'She seems healthy.' Alba agreed, 'Perfect for the winter.'
'That what you need her for?'
Alba didn't reply.
The stranger raised his hands, conceding, 'Well, she is yours if you want. She can't have more foal so she no good to me, and no war mount either.' He patted his other horse on its thick neck, the creature a good few hands taller than the smaller female they were discussing. They were tied together with a long rope, the smaller horse further tethered to a loaded wooden wagon.
Alba ignored this comment too. 'What do you want for her?' He asked, switching to what he hoped was the man's native tongue, a language from Northern Gaul he had picked up from some sailors a few years ago. It was useful to know the closest ones from the mainland and he was rewarded for his rusty troubles with a wry smile.
‘125 denarii’, The Gaul said smoothly, ‘Or equivalent, if you have other currency.’
'Coins?' Alba shifted Albion's weight, his brother slipping from his grip in his attempt to lean closer to the horse, too interested in stroking her to pay any attention to the conversation. 'What about in trade?'
'I trade in coin for horses.'
'We don't use coin here.' (1)
'Then you don't trade with me.'
Alba silently cursed. They did not need a horse, not in the way they needed food or shelter, but it would certainly be useful. Winter was tightening its grip on the land and a horse would make tracking across snow and icy terrain between clans much easier. Alba and Ériu could cross the distances fine enough, but their brothers were too young to make as many long treks without either numerous breaks in between or long stops in settlements. Summer, with its days of generous light and warm weather, made the amount of travelling Alba wanted to do easier, but as soon as the days grew short it became more and more difficult to move safely at any decent speed. Mama always had them more settled at this time of year, but even Albion could feel a new restlessness in the air that hadn't been there in her time.
A mare would help.
Alba placed Albion down and felt discreetly for the pouch of assorted coins against his leg. 'Why do you want coin?'
The Gaul shrugged, 'Much of the mainland uses coin. It's common.'
'Not here.'
'Here is not the main land.'
'Why for horses?'
The man spread an arm in an arc over his wagon, the thick waterproof cover high over whatever was piled underneath, 'Everything else, I'll trade for in these parts. But horses are worth their weight in gold, here as much as anywhere else. The value is not tradeable.'
Albion tugged at Alba's trousers, 'Let me back up.'
'We have quality things to trade.' Sticking to the stranger's language, Alba kept the Gaul's gaze. Albion tugged at him again and Alba gripped the shoulder of his cloak to hold him still, fingers digging down firm. 'Cloth, dyed. Jewellery, skins, meat-'
'I only trade horses in coin.'
The man spoke politely enough but Alba could hear the note of finality in his words.
'Adair-'
'Shh!' Alba pushed Albion away towards the horse, noting that she was still patient and calm despite the child by her feet. 'Go away.'
From his inner pocket, he lifted out the pouch which held their meagre collection of coins. They were all different: various sizes and colours, with different pictures on their sides. They found them along their travels by the sides of worn and well walked roads, usually in the south around port settlements and trade points. Albion and Ériu had a keen eye for them in the mud and grass and they had amassed a fair few.Alba selected the biggest one and held it out.
The man blinked at him.
'For the horse.' Alba said.
The man laughed loudly. Alba felt his cheeks flush and brought his hand back down, feeling wrong-footed. 'What?'
'You are serious?' The man shook his head and grinned, 'One coin?'
Alba frowned. 'You said you wanted coin. One horse, one coin.'
'By the Gods.' The man ran a hand through his hair and laughed again, 'If I didn't know you were serious, boy, I'd beat you for the cheek of it. One horse, one coin; my my.'
He huffed in amusement and gestured for the pouch, 'Show me those.'
He took the collection and tipped the contents into Alba's palm, moving the coins around with a thick index finger. 'You see the different faces and sizes? They all have different worth.'
Alba stared at them.
'They're not like pots, or furs, where the value is unique to what you’re trading.' The man continued, flipping over one of the coins, 'If one if shiny or newer, it doesn't change value. So long as it is the same weight. And the different sized coins represent different value, as well as what they’re made of.'
‘But some are gold.’
The man patted Alba hard on the shoulder, 'You need to learn money, boy, if you want to do proper trade.'
Alba forced his face to stay expressionless, 'Is it enough. For the mare.'
'No.'
Alba scoffed and tipped the money back into the pouch. 'Then this has been a waste of both our time.'
The Gaul sucked at his top lip behind his moustache and jerked his head over Alba's shoulder, 'They all yours?'
Ériu and Cymru were further away behind them on the muddy track, kicking a small rock back and forth between them. Ériu caught the rock between Crymu's feet and kicked it free with a shout of victory, dashing away to gain a clear advantage.
'Yes.' Alba said, watching them.
‘Parents? Clan?’
‘No.’
The man nodded. 'That's a lot of you. You’re all young to be alone as you are.'
Alba didn't reply.
‘Tell you what.’ Before Alba could react, too quick even to register exactly what happened, the man hunkered down and gripped a hand around Albion’s upper arm. He tugged him closer, hard enough so that Albion tripped over his feet, ‘I’ll take this one as payment. We’ll do it your way and make it a trade.’
He cupped a hand around Albion’s head to stare into his eyes, critical and cool as if assessing an animal, ‘He seems strong enough to grow into something worthwhile.’
‘Get off him!’ Alba’s voice cracked, surprise rendering him younger, and stepped forwards, one hand going to the dagger by his side.
The man put up a hand, eyes still on Albion, ‘Calm down. I’m only looking.’
‘He’s not for sale.’
‘You want to trade rather than pay? This is at least a fair exchange.’
Albion, the shock of being tugged about by a stranger finally having worn off, twisted sharply and bit down hard on the man’s wrist. The Gaul reacted in kind and stood with a yelp, sending Albion flying back with a wet thud into the muddy ground.
‘Vermin!’ He kicked out at Albion where he lay sprawled, catching him in the stomach.
Over Albion’s cry of pain, Alba heard Ériu shout something from behind him, then the sound of running.
The man returned his attention to Alba and cradled his wrist, his eyes flashing, ‘It was a true offer, made in kind faith. He would have had a better life with me and you’d know it, if you weren’t so damn foolish. Food, shelter; not this.’ He gestured to Alba’s worn clothes, travel stained and haphazardly repaired.
‘We don’t want the kindness, sir.’
‘Then by your own death be it.’ The Gaul shook out his hand and swung himself up onto his horse. Clicking his tongue, he kicked at its flank and moved them off without a look back.
Alba lunged forwards and quickly dragged Albion out of the way of the wheels before they could clip him, hoisting him into his arms.
‘You’re alright.’ He told him, more to make it true than anything else, ‘It wasn’t that bad.’
‘What happened?’ Ériu came panting beside him, looking from Alba to Albion and then at the retreating caravan, ‘Did he-‘
‘Leave it.’
Ériu reached for his dagger as Cymru came breathless and horrified by his side, ‘Who does he thi-‘
‘Leave it.’ Alba, grabbed his arm. ‘It’s not worth it.’
He felt Albion press his face into his shoulder, arms tight about his neck, and swallowed back something hot and bitter, ‘He’s not one of ours.’
Ériu’s expression soured into disgust, ‘I don’t think that should change anything.’
‘Doesn’t matter what you think.’ Alba turned away so that Ériu couldn’t see the shame and anger on his face, ‘It fucking does.’
--------------------
‘Adair.’
Alba opened his eyes and stared at the dark ceiling of their makeshift shelter. The campfire Ériu was guarding outside made the shadows jump, the outlines of the branches supporting the skins above their heads jumping and lengthening into nothingness.
‘Ad-‘
‘What, Arthur.’ Alba turned his head to find Albion, wide-eyed and watchful between him and Cymru.
‘What that man said earlier-‘
Alba turned away. ‘Go to sleep.’
‘Is that how people see us now?’
Albion’s voice was quiet, smaller beyond trying not to wake Cymru fast asleep on his back. Alba rolled back to face him, ‘See us like what.’
Albion shrugged, a small movement under heavy furs, ‘Alone.’
More than simply alone, Alba knew he meant. ‘Alone’ as something bad, something less than. Something to be pitied. He cracked the knuckles of one hand with his thumb under the covers as he thought of what to say, ‘We are alone.’
‘Mama was alone.’ Albion said quietly, ‘She used to say so, before we were here. But-’
‘Mama was grown.’
‘She wasn’t always.’
‘Before then, there were more. Mama was the last one of her family before we came along.’
‘It wasn’t a bad thing then, though. For her to be alone.’
‘Were you born?’ Alba raised an eyebrow even though Albion likely couldn’t see it, ‘How do you know.’
Albion stayed silent. Alba thought of his belly, the purple bruises they had found bloomed into his pale skin from the boot that caught him earlier, and reached for his brother to gently pull him closer, ‘We are alone. That’s our fate now. Believing it to be good or bad won’t change it. It just is.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Nothing wrong with being alone, anyway.’ Alba tucked Albion’s head under his chin, his hair cool from the chilly air, and closed his eyes, ‘We’re alright on our own.’
‘We need to get better at it.’
‘I’ll take your advice when you can stay awake through a watch.’
‘...That was one time.’
‘The only time we let you try.’
Albion huffed and shifted closer. ‘I don’t want to go on watch anyway.’
‘Then I don’t want your advice.’
Albion fell silent, and Alba listened through Cymru’s snores as his breathing slowed and deepened. Every experience had something to learn, Mama had always said, and the day’s teaching was a valuable one, as hard as it was to take. The world beyond their lands was unknown, and something they’d need to learn to read and understand if they wanted to work with it successfully.
The next day, Alba spread the illegible coins of foreign kings onto the ground and began to learn.
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AN:
(1) Celts and trade. Celtic peoples used a bartering system of trading goods, rather than using money. Coins were used to store or show wealth but were also just as often used in jewellery. Celtic nations on the European mainland did eventually start minting their own currencies, followed by the British Celts much later, but it was a system quite late to take compared to their contemporaries
You can read more about it here, though as always please do your own research!
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borealing · 23 days ago
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the english in me wanting to write fag instead of cigarette like. hes literally taking a pull of the fag it sounds so coquettish to say he's taking a drag of the cigarette like what are you a 1920s slapper??? hes sucking a fag brother!!!
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shaylogic · 8 months ago
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So "brills" was new slang in Charles time?
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lyss-sketchbox · 1 year ago
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Thinking about before fontaine dropped people who wrote wriolette fics or did fontaine world building in general HEAVILY leaned on how theres a french / british split in the nation and did game of thrones level world building
Whoever did this in ao3 i love you it is such an experience to read
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