Arthur Kirkland
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Post by England on Feb 7, 2013 4:53:27 GMT -6
Everything was in place. He'd set out the bait, so to speak, and now it was a matter of seeing who was clever enough to puzzle their way to finding him. Arthur had borrowed a tactic out of a superhero comic; throughout the corridors that he'd traveled he left a symbol behind. The Union Jack smeared upon walls, scratched into wood furniture or etched in layers of dust. It was the Englishman's way of letting the world know that he still lived, that these walls had not defeated his spirit. Arthur added the extra image of billiard balls in a rack; vague enough that it'd take a sentient being to put the pieces together, eliminating (he hoped) the likelihood of a monster using it for navigation.
Arthur was also paranoid about the offhand chance that the creatures could read. Nothing worse than a literate beast with sharp teeth.
Now it was just a matter of waiting. He'd brought along an aged bottle of whiskey pilfered from a forgotten liquor cabinet in the study, and glasses secured from the kitchen. An intended reward for the ones that would come stumbling in to locate him. Or, if he had no takers, more for himself. The Englishman kept an eye on the door, on his guard because he didn't know what could come through it. His gun was positioned upon the corner of the billiard table that dominated the room, within easy reach, so Arthur wouldn't have to hesitate to fire. For the time being nothing had come charging through with the intent to harm him.
He sat on the lip of the billiard table, a glass of scotch already poured. Just getting the balls settled into place in the anticipation of starting a game. If he drew the attention of an enemy, so be it. At least he'd get to have one sliver of fun before his demise. Arthur was determined that he'd die on his own terms if it became his fate. Like hell would he let the possibility put a damper on his relaxation. If he didn't take this time to unwind the tension inside of him then it was likely he'd burst.
Arthur grabbed up an old piece of chalk to scrub at the tip of a pool cue he'd located from the dusty furnishings in the space. Getting it ready wouldn't hurt. He put the piece of chalk down, hand casually reaching to grip hold of his gun when the door swung open. The Englishman's eyes hardened briefly on the door until he recognized the one who came through it. Just because it was a familiar face didn't cause him to relax his tension any. Or to release his grasp on his weapon. Not yet. Because looks here could be deceiving. Arthur stared warily at the first arrival, murmuring out a cautious greeting. "There's whiskey in the bottle and a few extra cues. You're the first to make it here -- hopefully not the last."
[Let's get this party started.]
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Post by Deleted on Feb 10, 2013 15:06:58 GMT -6
It was curious how environments could alter the same action. Howell had been walking endlessly through the halls of the manor, his back straight and he used his cane on occasion, and with his attire he fitted the setting of the era that the mansion was built in. Still, how interesting it was that he was walking, the same activity he did often amongst his Welsh hills, but now each step was filled with fear, adrenaline, nerves, and paranoia. Not too long before his current situation the man woken up, groggy, and without much recollection of anything. Steadily, he had gained back most of what he thought he knew his name, his family, his status as a nation and his history, but pertaining the events within the manor, that was all of a blur; still, Wales had the sickening feeling in his gut that he didn’t remember because he didn’t want to remember, that something awful had happened to him and his mind was forcefully protecting his frayed insanity. Howell was scared, hell he was terrified, and he was completely alone, which did not help his situation at all. He had subjected himself to murmuring songs in his native language and repetitively sliding his cane’s sword in and out of its hidden sheath, as if to keep himself reassured that he had a sharp piece of steel at his disposal for his own protection. During his wonderings he had heard sounds, heard scraping footsteps and had even smelt something so foul, that he had instantly turned the other direction, but he had yet to actually see something, a fact that he was thankful for. Still, it had made him cautious of every turn, jump at every sound, and he was having a hard time trying not to cry. It was both a good thing that his brothers weren’t here, and at the same time it as horrible. As much as he wanted his space from the annoying buggers, god it would be so much better if he knew that they were safe and had his back; funny how irony works. “Spaekin’ of which…” the Welshman began, having turned a corner and had almost run into a small table holding an empty vase, his green eyes had stumbled upon an odd marking in the dust upon the table, and regrettably he recognized it instantly. Drawn out hurriedly in the dust, was the Union Jack and beside it was a symbol he didn’t quite understand. Rolling his eyes, Howell knew that only his younger brother, England, would be daft enough to draw out the flag because any other brother, Wales included, hated the fact that they were all tied under that flag and that England represented all of them, the baby brother seen by the world in his siblings’ stead. Howell traced out the weird symbol with his fingers, slowly something popped into his mind and the man mumbled, “Billiard?” Leaning back against the wall, he searched his memory because during his wondering of the halls, he had seen somewhere a sign above a door that had read “Billiard Room”. At the time, he had thought nothing of it, not really in the mood for a game of pool, but he cursed at himself at the thought that he could have been literally feet away from his younger brother, and possibly other siblings, and hadn’t even known it. “Jyst mae luck…” he mumbled, before he set off again down the hall, back the way he had come and cautiously made his way back to the huge grand staircase and descended to the second floor; he didn’t know exactly where he had seen the room but he did know it was on the second floor. Keep his hand upon the carved head of the dragon at the end of his cane, ready to draw out the sheathed blade from within the walking stick, Howell set out into the interior of the floor once more. His eyes and ears were being strained for sounds, for presences, but he was still alone. Letting out a shaky breath, he came to a corner with his options being left or right. Keeping his back to the wall, he tilted out his head to gaze out down the left-hand hallway and upon seeing nothing, hesitantly turned his head to look down he right. He still didn’t’ see anything so looking back down the hall that he had come from, he slithered around the corner and exhaled, having completed another corner safely. That is until he heard the growl. In an instant Wales’ heart skipped a beat before throwing itself into overdrive, pumping adrenaline into his veins, sweat crept own his neck, and his expression grew tight with fight. Slowly, his eyes shifted to the right and there, standing in the middle of the hall, was a beast of true horrific magnitude. It was…. A tiger, or no, one of those cats one sees in the museum, from the Ice Age or something, but this thing, oh god… it had no head. Well, it had a head but it was a bloody skull! Howell’s mouth fell open; his eyes grew wide, as he watched the cat-thing’s ears flicker towards him direction, followed by the turn of the beast’s head. Howell couldn’t breathe, but he did see that the cat’ s eye sockets were empty, that the thing was blind, but obviously it had caught on to his presence for a deep growl emanated from the beast, and a clawed paw took a step forward. “Ah…. Fookin’ ‘ell…”~~~ The halls, previously silent, were now filled with the sounds of chase, of a victim and a pursuer, predator and prey. Leather boots pounded upon the carpet and hard wood, scraping and sliding around corners, while close before claws and paw pads bounded with speed in response, scratching the wood in order to follow. Howell was now crying, his cries, curses, and terrified screams filling the halls and he sprinted and pushed his built up endurance to his limits, using his exhausted adrenaline as fuel. He dared not look back for to do that would surely mean his end and from what he could hear; his imagination was fueling his mind with a clear enough image. Growls, roars and claws reached his ears from feet behind him, only kept at bay because of the Welshman’s constant twists and turns down hallways, desperately trying to find that stupid door! His eyes frantically grazed every door he passed, knowing that at any turn could prove his luck run out with a dead end, but as that still hadn’t happened, Wales continued to run. His crying was making his vision blurry, he was thinking of his brothers and that if he tripped or fell, then that would be the end of quiet Wales, and no one would know. It was getting hard to breathe and his lungs were screaming for a proper breath but his screams weren’t exactly helping his cause. Rounding a corner nearly falling from a slip of the floor’s carpet, he just was able to keep running forward when barely a second later he heard the cat crash into the wall, meaning that Howell was losing his frail lead, that he was growing tired. Still, he soldiered on and pushed his legs into lengthening his strides, his cane clasped in his sweaty hand, and he closed his eyes against the strain and when he opened them, Howell again almost tripped at what he saw. There above one of the doors, was the famed sign of the “Billiard Room,” but there was no time to stop. “Lloegr! Os ydych chi'n ffycin mewn yno, cael eich ass allan yma ac yn fy helpu i! Er mwyn Crist! Helpu! Os gwelwch yn dda!”His voice was drawn tight and fast, frantic, unable to show any strength, only fear and desperation, this surely shown that he had immediately screamed in Welsh, forgoing English. As he passed the door, he wailed on the door a couple times with his cane before he ran passed and rounded yet another corner, his beasty pursuer right on his heels roaring loud with irritation and spirit of the hunt. His feet pounded down the corridor, hoping to any god that his brother or brothers had been in that room, but at the same time hoping that they weren’t, that by yelling like he had hadn’t triggered a series of events that would lead to any of his family members getting killed. Shaking his head at such thoughts, Wales turned another corner and dread filled his chest. A dead end in front of him and that cat was directly behind him. “Crist… Ay’m nawt gohwin’ down layke this!”His expression tuned hard, his eyes narrowed and he focused on the table staring him tauntingly at the end of the hall; if this cat wanted some Welsh steak, he’d have to work harder for it! Pacing himself perfectly, using the last of his strength, Wales sped up even more as he sprinted towards the opposing wall and at the last moment, launched himself into the air. Timing himself correctly, his foot came in contact with the wood of the table, vaulting upwards even more, before his other foot touched upon the wall. His momentum drew his leg into a crouch but with a shout, he exploded his leg back, pushing himself against the wall and his velocity, so that he was now flying backwards through the air, parallel to the ceiling and floor, and over the cat’s head. Howell craned his neck back to look back up the hall, and he tried to focus on his next course of action as gravity took back control and he was falling towards the ground, but he hadn’t exactly planned that part out and hearing the immense crash of the cat smashing into the wall was distracting. So that he wouldn’t fall on his head, Howell flexed his spine to somewhat spin his body, so when he did crash back down to the ground, his back was the first to hit, and god did it hurt. He tumbled and rolled a good ten feet before he became still, groaning and muttering in pain and gasping from having the wind knocked out of him so violently. Squeezing his eyes shut, he managed to roll over onto his stomach and bring himself up onto all fours, dazed from hitting his head and nauseous from the fall. Now everything hurt and he was beyond tired. A ringing in his ears seconded a blow to his head and wearily, he raised his head, still trying to gasp in a breath, and through narrowed eyes he could se the cat on the ground and not moving. Clenching his fists, he jerked back when he found his hand empty and looking about, he saw his cane laying a couple of feet away. Catching his breath and wiping the sweat away from his lip, his sleeve came back red since he had cut his lip in the fall. Crawling forward, he took back his cane, struggled to stand before he unsteadily retreated back into the main hall and away from the downed cat, intending to head back to the Billiard Room, but a soft body with hands he met as he rounded the corner stopped him. Translation: England! If you're fucking in there, get your ass out here and help me! For Christ's sake! Help! Please!
Hey! I thought that because of the time warp in this place, it could be either one or all of the siblings who were in the room and/or found Wales... I just wanted to start him off with a bang XD
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Arthur Kirkland
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Post by England on Feb 24, 2013 5:18:23 GMT -6
It was hard to miss the sounds of shouting that were outside of the door. Apparently it wasn't a visitor coming to join him at all. Arthur stared with a slackened face as the unlatched door continued to swing open. No one had opened it -- the old wood frame had merely been loosened from time and the naturally effect of regular elements. And whatever the loud disturbance was taking place outside in that ominous rumbling sound managed to vibrate the aged door free of its latch. The phenomenon was nothing new. Especially not at humid locations like this, where the particles in the wood would shrink and expand with the fluctuations in temperature. However, even while Arthur was mentally examining away the cause for the door's opening, his interest was pushing beyond it to what was taking place in the corridor.
He jolted, the glass of scotch in his hand nearly shaking right out of his hand, when a cane came smashing against the outside of the door in urgency. The Englishman's experience as a professional drinker was the only thing that prevented him from sloshing the contents of his glass. Any loss of a drop was a blasphemy in the world of a more-than-casual alcoholic. Howell's blurred figure went flashing by so quickly in the crack in the ajar door that Arthur hardly had time to register it. Those shouted words were just now filtering in through the opening of the door that separated him from a full view of the hallway; pursued by the echo of the beast that was currently chasing down the Welshman. Arthur gaped further when he saw the hulking cat that sought to make Howell into a meal. There was no way of knowing what the monster was capable of. Lacking the knowledge of what it could do made attacking it unappealing. The alternative was remaining idle while it ate Howell. As tempting as the thought was when it flickered in his brain, Arthur knew he'd never live it down.
The Englishman grabbed his gun, keeping the pool stick in his other hand as he exited the Billiard Room in pursuit of the pursuer that was pursuing his sibling. A game of Cat and Welshie and Englishman. Arthur holstered his Magnum as he ran forward, polished shoes thumping down more muffled on the carpeted runner that lined the hallway. His police cap flew off due to his haste, to tumble backwards behind him to the floor. That piece of his attire was left abandoned in favour of trying to catch up with where Howell had gone. Unless the Manor had pulled another of its parlour tricks, Arthur knew that just around the corner would be a dead end. Howell would be cornered, yet so would the cat beast. He felt his heart leap up into his throat when the Englishman heard the crash just around the bend in front of him. Hopefully he was not too late to be of some assistance in the rescue of his elder brother. As often as they bickered, family as family.
Arthur was suddenly brought into a collision course with Howell as the Welshman came heading back in his direction. He could tell that his brother was in a dodgy condition from his ordeal. The pool cue was pinched high up beneath his arm so that the Englishman could reach with both hands to catch hold of Howell's tottering figure to steady the man. Just a glimpse let him see the wild look in the Welshman's eyes from the terror he was feeling. Flushed, struggling for breath, Arthur didn't believe that Howell would do well making a second effort to flee from the beast that sounded like it was incapacitated -- for now. His fingers curled their grips into the fabric of Howell's shirt, to vice lightly on his brother's upper arms. "Hey. Hey! Easy. Easy now. It's me."
Further words would have to wait. Arthur was already ushering the Welshman along to the opened door of the Billiard Room. There was no sense sticking about waiting for the cat to wake up. And the Englishman's curiosity to set eyes upon the unnatural creature more solidly was overwritten with concern for Howell. This was one of those instances where Arthur's demeanor softened from gruff to supportive; getting his sibling tended to became his number one priority. As they walked back briskly for the room, Arthur quickly stooped to snare his hat so that it wouldn't get left behind. He could have survived without it but it went against his nature to keep any resource available to him. Arthur's head whipped around the corridor as they arrived at the door, his hands shifting their motions from stabilizing Howell to shoving the Welshman ahead of him into that room.
He shut the door decisively behind them. Flipped the lock to it. And for added reassurance, Arthur positioned himself behind one of the billiard tables. His shoulder set against the wooden exterior of the heavy piece of furniture and shoved. It wasn't often that the Englishman had any excuse to use his strength. Feats of unnatural labour struck him as inelegant behaviour for a gentleman. Arthur kept pushing the the table until it was wedged against the inside of the door. If the cat did wake up to come stalking them then at least they'd have some time to plan. He wasn't going to wait for Howell to say anything on the matter. Both of their heads were on the line here.
His eyes flitted to where he'd propelled Howell to check on him. They had time to breathe. It might end up being a short amount of it, but Arthur would take what he could get. Green eyes made a sweeping assessment over Howell, as he tried to catch his own breath from the exertion. "Awright there, Howell? I think that cat liked you."
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Post by Deleted on May 18, 2013 18:34:59 GMT -6
Claws gripped the front of Howell’s shirt and dread and terror filled his system once more and blindly, he wildly began to thrash and shout in high-pitched Welsh. His hand bearing his cane began to flail to try and strike his captor while his eyes frantically focused on the creature in front of him. Words dully struck his ears and confusion crossed his terrified expression, for the creature in front of him was talking and looked almost exactly like him, but didn’t. Blinking repeatedly, the haziness in his vision lifted momentarily and Howell managed to mumble hoarsely, “Artteh?” Before he nearly collapsed against his brother just as the Englishman took him into his embrace and was leading the exhausted Welshman back down the maze of hallways. Howell was fading in and out of unconsciousness, spurred on by exhausted and fear. He had no recollection what directions and turns they took and focused as much as he could on his brother’s arms around him and his swordstick in his white-knuckles fist.
After what felt like only seconds, Howell looked up just as they were entering through a doorway before he was gruffly shoved forward. Too tired and out of reality to catch himself, the blonde crashed to the floor without protest, his mouth still mumbling incoherent words to himself and trembling form his ordeal. His breathing was shallow, unsure pants, the burning in his lungs demanding full breaths but the tightness in his chest making complete inhalation difficult. Somewhere behind him, Arthur was making a world of racket but Howell had managed to curl himself a fetal position with his arms around his head, eyes shut tight. Each passing moment announced a new, steadier breath taken by Howell until finally his heart slowed to a healthier rate.
The nation however continued to tremble like a leaf in an autumn windstorm in his rather pathetic form on the floor.
"Awright there, Howell? I think that cat liked you."
The drone of the annoying voice Howell had regrettable been familiar with for centuries roused his eyes open but in his weakened state, a the mark of hurt form such mocking, calm words was written plainly across his expression as he stiffly unraveled to look up at his baby brother. Seeing England’s judgmental and snobbish self only made Howell frown and cast his gaze own before he slowly got up and sat in a defeated stance upon the floor, his back towards the ridiculous phony policeman. In any other situation, Howell would have given England a good beating over the head for being such a jerk but, at the moment, he just did not care. Shaking his head slowly, wringing his hands anxiously across his cane-sword, Wales tried to get a grip but his eyes began to water and blinking didn’t help, but at least England couldn’t se him or rather, Howell couldn’t see his ugly mug.
Click, slide… Click, slide….
Over and over, Howell pulled a few inches of the cane’s concealed blade from its mahogany sheath, before it popped it back in. The action was helping him man, who was a boy in so many ways, settle his nerves but for all his trying he couldn’t get the growls and roars of the skull-cat from his head. Minutes ticked by and after a while, Wales wet his lips and manages to mutter a quiet, “You bettah wahtch ya mouth, Arthur… Et bae… nawt verreh noyce of yah of mayke light of such an ordayl…” His voice was quiet but it held the hardness common amongst older brothers disciplining their younger siblings. However, the weakness of his voice lessened the harshness of the words but at least he had managed to talk. Out of the British clan, Howell was by far the steadiest, calmest, shyest and was the least likely to randomly hit or wail on England.
Taking a deep breath, Howell turned to look up at his brother for as much of a bastard the twat was, the Welshman was glad he had showed up and was about to say something when a sudden noise banged against the door and an instant, the whites of Howell’s eyes flashed his terror. With a holler of fright and panic, the Blonde scrambled for his feet, screaming in Welsh and English that the cat was back, and fence he found his footing he literally bolted towards the solid form of the bar and vaulted himself over it, causing bottled and glass to shatter off the wall and counter. “Nawt again! Dim! Dim! No!” Scurrying into a corner and slapping his arms around his head, the usually smiling nation shook in terror as the banging upon the door intensified.
Terror was deafening Howell’s ears; the beast was still after him. Tears, previously fought against fell freely down his pale cheeks and the man was reduced to a terrified boy in the corner, eyes shut tight, trying to drown out the roars calling his name with his arms and the pounding of his quickened blood in his ears. After a moment, Wales remembered that he had completely left his brother, who had previously saved him, but Wales couldn’t move. His muscles, too tense and tight from overused adrenaline and stress, resisting fluid motion and his exhaustion rebelled against him standing anytime soon. Whatever demon was at the door, England would have to face alone for the time being.
Translation: Dim=no
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Hamish Kirkland
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Post by Scotland on Jun 29, 2013 11:05:46 GMT -6
How long had this hellish nightmare been going on? The normally relaxed Scotsman felt his body growing sluggish as he tried to navigate his way through the labyrinth of a mansion. Thus far Hamish had been fortunate enough to avoid the creatures found within the confines of this hellhole but at the same time he failed to find any of the nations wondering his same path. The only sign of life from the other nations were the occasional screams, whether they are from pain or fear wasn’t any of Hamish’s concern. Deep down he prayed his brothers weren’t the ones screaming but each time the thought arose he shook it off. Did his brothers even attend the idiotic American’s party? Everything was slowly beginning to blur. Everything before he entered the mansion was clear but his memory began to fade ever since the lights went out.
With each step Hamish took he found himself feeling the need to look over his shoulder to see if one of the creatures were following. At any moment something could jump out and turn the thin nation into a quick snack if he didn’t keep his guard up. Hearing a soft creaking of the floorboards his pale fingers wrapped tight around his scythe; he was prepared for whatever might appear.
Each sound that Scotland heard he tried to convince himself that it was another nation but he kept finding himself tightening his grip until his knuckles turned white. Hamish had to admit he wasn’t close to many other nations but they were better than some blood thirst monster right? A nation would kill another would they? He couldn’t continue thinking of such things unless he wanted to turn his blade against the others. Removing a hand from his scythe he used it to run his fingers threw his fiery locks in hopes of calming his nerves a bit.
A crudely drawn picture on the wall caught the attention of the Kelly green eyes. The drawing was smeared a bit but it appeared to be a drawing of the Union Jack and something else Hamish couldn’t quite make out. “Arthur,” he growled lowly knowing no other had the gall to use such symbol. The longer his eyes stayed focused on the poorly drawn Union Jack he could feel all his anger and frustration from being trapped begin to be directed toward England. Hitting his head for even thinking of blaming the English brat, tried to brush off the thought and turn his attention to the other drawing. What the hell did Arthur intend with such a drawing? Leaning forward Hamish inspected the drawing as if he was expecting it to tell him what he was looking at. Maybe this was telling him where his baby brother was headed. Then it came to him. Billiards! England had been found of billiards hadn’t he?
Thinking back to his adventure through the mansion he tried to remember if he had yet to stumble upon the billiard room. Continuing down the hall Scotland let his guard drop a little. Thoughts of his brothers began to fill his head helping him to relax a little. The thought of being alone with England wasn’t something that had occurred to Hamish but he knew if he were first to find the brat there would be awkward silence between them. Even if the two were brothers Hamish had a difficult time communicating with his youngest brother. After all of the history between the two he hadn’t forgiven England for everything. Lost in his thoughts about being reunited with his brothers Hamish hadn’t realized he was about to walk into a wall until his face collided with the scratched surfaces and he felt the blade of his scythe bite into his shoulder. All he was able to do was mutter a curse and remove the blade from his skin. Blood stained the white dress shirt he wore and began to run down leaving a crimson trail along his skirt. Anger bubbling up for his own stupidity Hamish kicked the wall cursing it for appearing in his path. Letting out another low growl he turned and continued through the halls eyes now forcing on what was ahead. Kelly green eyes darted from surface to surface as he continued on; England might have made a few marks to help guide others. The billiard room had to be around here somewhere!
By the time Scotland eyes caught sight of the sign above the billiards room he was about to give up hope. His once sluggish pace picked up and became a full out run as he tried to reach the room before it could disappear without a trace. Even his he were to only be greeted by Arthur’s sorry mug Hamish still found himself thrilled to finally be able to hold one of his brothers again. This excitement was dashed when he found the door locked.
“Ye hae tae be shitting me! Arthur ye better open this door afore ah break it doon!” The Scotsman roared as his foot collided with the blocked door.
I hope this is alright with you two
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Arthur Kirkland
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Post by England on Jul 17, 2013 4:11:12 GMT -6
Considering the circumstances, Arthur was still fully prepared to leave the Billiards room to take his chances with the cat. Sure, it might eat him. That beast outside wasn't armed with a potentially lethal cane or a personal grudge. The steady sound of that swordstick's button releasing felt attuned to the thrum of his pulse. He imagined the swift, sudden strike it would take to send his jugular spreading red all around. Arthur forcibly cleared his throat, chiding by his brother's terse upbraiding.
"I was trying to lighten the mood. Apparently I have failed fantastically. Here. Drink this for your nerves." The Englishman spoke in his own somber tone as he poured a tumbler three fingers full of whiskey to press at Howell's hands. Now that he didn't have the Welshman sagging against him Arthur kept his distance. With other families it might have felt natural to comfort his elder brother with an embrace. There was simply too much history of conflict, too much bad blood, for Arthur to bridge that distance. "The beast was only rendered unconscious. It might track your scent here. We'll need to be on guard for anything. You don't know what else might try to get through that door."
The sudden explosion of noise against the door caused Arthur to lose his grip on that tumbler of alcohol, sending it dropping to the floor to splash across an aged Turkish rug, the glass shattering audibly amongst the din of that ruckus. He took a hurried evasive step when Howell went scrambling away screaming, green eyes widened as they watched his sibling go tossing himself behind the bar. Arthur's mouth opened to call after him, then snapped shut on its hinges.
So much for safety in numbers. He'd have to step up and be the last line of defense all on his own. This was nothing new. Arthur reached into his jacket to withdraw his pistol and quickly checked how many bullets he had left. Maybe enough to take down the cat with a few well-aimed shots. Maybe not enough at all. That weapon was cocked up into the air, the Englishman's elbow bent to align the barrel of his gun level with the creature's massive skull if that was what waited for him on the other side of this shuddering panel of wood.
He winced when the door thundered again. There was a voice to accompany it. Hamish's distinct brogue was unmistakeable. He spoke over his shoulder in the direction of the bar. "It's just a sodding Scotsman rampaging. I shouldn't let him in just for the fact that he's going to draw every damned thing within earshot to this door."
With a grumbling under his breath, Arthur quickly turned the lock on the door to crack it open. His free hand reached out to snag hold of Hamish's arm to yank the Scotsman inside. While the redhead was his elder brother, that didn't mean that Arthur wasn't used to occasionally lecturing the older nation. "Get your arse in here and keep your voice down before you alert the whole blasted place to where we're at!"
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Post by Deleted on Jul 17, 2013 17:10:29 GMT -6
“It’s just a sodding Scotsman rampaging. I shouldn’t let him in just for the fact that he’s going to draw every damned thing within earshot to this door”.
England’s annoying voice managed to wedge itself into Howell’s ears and made the Welshman pause in his rocking, his body however remained trembling. Warily opening his eyes, stars flashing in his vision form his panic, the blonde took an unsteady breath and blinked a few times to try an clear his head but with every blink the image of the demon cat flashed its ugly head in his mind’s eye. Still, his senses cleared enough that he had to admit that Arthur was right and that the eldest brother of the United Kingdom clan was yowling his rough voice from the other side of the door. A flutter of relief and hope brightened the man’s pale cheeks with the thought that, for one, their assailant wasn’t the demon cat and two, Scotland was strong and burly and being the eldest brother meant that the rest of the British Brothers have always looked up to him in some form or way.
Using his shaking arms to support himself upright before reaching up to grip the wood of the bar, his swordstick in his other hand, a moment of thought made him hesitate: what if it was a trick? Eyes widening Howell started to yell and scurry over the top of the bar to warn England, panic once more consuming him, when he saw that he was too late and that the door was open already. “Get your arse in here and keep your voice down before you alert the whole blasted place to where we’re at!”
“Arthur! Wayt...! Hamish!”
Wales’ voice shifted from panic to surprise while his body continued to vault itself over the old wooden bar, but with his attention shaking at seeing that it really was their older, red-haired brother, Howell’s concentration on lifting his legs to follow through with the vault failed and the blonde ended up falling hard to the ground arms first before his legs came crashing down afterwards, sending him into an awkward sprawl. Pain…. So much pain doubled his already darkened bruises from his Matrix moves to evade the cat so Howell just remained where he lay. The intense aching of his older than appearance body snapped Wales out of his craziness and cleared his head and shifting his head to rest his cheek on the floor t look up at his brothers, he spoke up in a lower than usual voice, “Don’eyvan sae et….”
Rolling his eyes, the usually chipper blonde groaned and moved his arm which gripped his cane out in front of him and out of a very uncomfortable position. His head throbbed and so did his irritation. This was just…. A beyond awful day and the metaphorical cherry on top would be hearing his brother’s jeering at his rare clumsiness. For the time being, he’d just stay where he was, maybe Scotland would pick him up off the floor…. then again, maybe not.
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Hamish Kirkland
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Post by Scotland on Jul 18, 2013 0:27:10 GMT -6
Since when was it like Arthur to leave an invitation to join him and then lock out one of his guests? “Some gentleman he is,” Hamish mumbled under his breath. A true gentleman would be waiting to greet everyone who was kind enough to grace him with their presence instead of making them pound on the door.
With an annoyed sigh the Scotsman lifted his foot again to slam it against the locked door once more. If the self-proclaimed gentleman wasn’t going to let him in he’d kick at the door until he managed to break it loose from the hinges or the lazy Englishman opened it for him. Seconds before his sneaker could collide with the wood again the door cracked open and a hand reached for him. Hearing the irritating lecturing from the youngest brother a smirked graced his thin lips. Leaning down Hamish ran his tongue over Arthur's pale fingers. “Ah wouldn't be yelling if ye didnae fuckin' lock th' door!”
Carefully Hamish slid past the door into the billiards room before shutting it behind him and flicking the lock back into place. His scythe was set down against the wall where he felt he would be able to access it if needed but out of the way. Turning back toward the sandy blond the thought of punching him ran through Hamish’s mind. Even if he wasn’t sure why he knew Arthur could use a good smack to put him back in his place. Clenching his fist he was about to pull back and let his fist acquaint itself with Arthur’s cheek but stopped when he heard another voice. Seeing the Welshman brightened Hamish’s mood slightly. He hated being alone with most of his family members unless that meant he could spend time with Howell. When they were little Hamish favored the chipper blond and always found himself wanting to baby the younger nation. Even after all the brothers had been through Hamish always felt like he wanted to baby Howell every chance he got.
“Howell!” A soft smile came to Scotland’s face when he saw his favorite brother jumping over the bar toward him. The smile was replaced with a cringe when he saw the blonde’s feet catch on the bar and cause the small male to crash against the floor. Just seeing how Wales landed Scotland was able to feel his pain and know how it had to feel to be sprawled out on the floor like that. Hamish was sure having two brothers watching you fall to the floor must have added to the embarrassment Howell must have been feeling at the moment.
It was rare to see Howell do something clumsy but he expected to see the male pop back up as if nothing happened. A thought didn’t have to enter his mind to make his feet move forward and carry him to the side of his injured brother. The normal scowl on his face was softened into a caring look. Carefully Hamish shifted the Welshman into a sitting position before lifting his bridal style. “Dinna fash yirsel ah git ye,” Hamish whispered softly to Howell. Once Hamish felt he had a good hold on Howell he moved over to the bar and sat on one of the bar stools. Slowly he shifted Wales so the blond had his head rested against his chest. Long pale fingers began to comb through the soft locks, detangling the hair as they worked through the strands.
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Arthur Kirkland
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Post by England on Jul 18, 2013 15:51:55 GMT -6
"I locked the door because there are evil things seeking to get i--ugh!" Arthur squealed in displeasure when his fingers were licked by the Scotsman. He retreated his hand immediately to start rubbing that saliva in at the fabric of his jacket. It was just like Hamish to do something like that. The Englishman was rendered pink-cheeked and scowling. Despite that, just seeing the familiar face of the redhead -- Alive! Oh, thank God they're both alright. -- made Arthur feel the childish urge to reach out and cling to his eldest brother.
Then he noticed that fist, along with the promised threat in Hamish's eyes. His hands stalled in motion where they were just lifting from his sides. Emerald eyes flitted hurriedly to that balled fist with accurate recollection of how it felt when it hit, then flew upwards to the Scotsman's face. His heels slide fractionally backwards before standing his ground. The corner of his eyes puckered as he squared his shoulders, body braced for that blow. Days upon days of isolation, of running for his life and fighting for his sanity, of being so horribly lonely; now the second familial face he'd seen was greeting him with the same menace, the same dismissive hate.
His held breath pushed quietly out of his lungs when Hamish's attention snapped in the direction of Howell. Arthur heard the clatter of his sibling taking that spill further in the room. He didn't turn to witness it. Instead, the Englishman watched his eldest brother's eyes light up for the Welshman, and his figure budged aside when Hamish went hurrying off to help the other man. He listened to their interactions taking place behind him while reaching to lock the door up again, arm feeling like weighted lead, fingers lingering their grip on the mechanism.
What did you expect? No, really, what did you expect from them? The isolation he'd experienced since coming here was more profound than ever, threatening to overwhelm him completely. Into the cracks of his armoured composure, melancholy threaded itself, along with the inarguable realization: In this place, he couldn't even find solace in his family. With his face towards the door those emotions threatened to crest inside of him, Arthur's eyes lifting skyward beneath the brim of his hat. They flitted in their view of the ceiling, misted, then closed. Just a few seconds. That's all he needed. Just a few seconds to get it all back under control.
He bit down hard on his bottom lip until that pain chased those threatening tears away. The Englishman swallowed hard upon the lump in his throat before clearing it with a couple forced, quiet sounds. His hand dropped from the lock as he finally turned away from the door to head straight for the tumbler he'd poured for himself earlier. Arthur's darkened gaze drifted to where Hamish was comfortingly Howell so sweetly, face blank. He remained away from the pair, lifting the rim of the glass to his lips to drink that burning liquid down in one swallow. Then repeated the action of filling and downing it a second time. If he couldn't erase this feeling then he'd drown it. Chin up, Arthur, old boy. Soldier on. Never give them the satisfaction of seeing you break.
Arthur's voice was steady, neutral, clear of emotion when he spoke with bottle and glass still in either hand near the billiard table. "Sorry to put a damper on your merry reunion. There's a creature outside, however, that wants to kill us. The sooner we barricade the door, the better off we'll be."
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Post by Deleted on Jul 27, 2013 21:06:37 GMT -6
Howell blinked, his face blushing a beet red, but was unable to avoid the attack. Just like that, the Welshman was turned into his brother’s personal doll. Even though his brother was obviously trying to be gentle, Howell cringed and sucked in a tight breath as he was shifted from his awkward position. The grip on his swordstick never faltered and he was just too sore to even struggle against being lifted like such a woman. “Dinna fash yirsel ah git ye”. Wales just gave his brother the oddest of looks, that clearly said, ‘You’re crazy and no one can understand you,’ but all the same, a smile brightened Wales’ expression and for the first time since sometime before he was chased by that cat, the Welsh nation felt somewhat relaxed.
Being carried didn’t last long and soon Howell was set upon a bar stool, which was all right. Howell though that that would be the end of Scotland’s coddling, that the red-head would rub his back with a pat and let him know how good it was to see him or something. That however… was not the case, not even close. The blonde’s face instantly twisted with embarrassment and discomfort when Hamish abducted his head and began to pet his untamed and crazy locks like he was some sort of dog. A small groan rumbled from his chest and Howell just sighed, throwing in the metaphorical towel and sank against his brother’s broad chest. He’d been through hell, his nerves were shot, he’d been crying like a sniveling girl, and while is dignity was still intact, he could shave off a bit from being a baby brother for a moment.
The rhythm of Hamish’s finger, gently tugging his hair over and over, was helping settle Howell to the point that his ears actually were filled with the thud of his own frantic heartbeat and he could take a simple breath of relief and calm. The blonde’s eyes grew heavily lidded, his cheeks still burning from the entire scene but, for a moment, Wales felt centuries younger and this sort of thing happened a lot between his elder brother and him. It was no secret amongst the United Kingdom clan that Wales and Scotland had always gotten along the best, that Wales was the favorite of sorts and while it was England who was truly the baby of the family, history has robbed him of ever being the favorite.
Thinking about the arrogant Englishman, Howell opened his eyes to look across the room at their younger brother, and what he saw made a tightness occur in the man’s chest. Arthur was facing the door, busing himself with the locks, but the Welsh’s keen eyes saw the tenseness in the other’s back, the stiffness in his movements and legs, the unusual quietness instead of the tirade of annoyance that was usually spewing from his mouth. It was then that Howell truly began to realize the amount of distance between the three and a heat of what may have been guilt bubbled up in Howell’s chest and he glanced up at Hamish’s chin while the Scot continued to comfort him. Wales had always been a little…a little different form his brothers, whether it be his independence, his lack of absurdly thick eyebrows, or his overall joyfully personality, he had always been the calmness of them all and certainly not as loud or obnoxious.
A determined gleam shone in Howell’s eyes as he smoothly slid from the bar stool, or as smooth as he could do for his bruised body revolted against all of his movements, grabbed Scot’s collar and in a surprisingly tight grip, crossed the room with his taller brother in tow just as Arthur had turned and was uttering some stuck-up Arthur bullshit, when Howell swung his cane handling arm around him and hugged him close, forcing Hamish into the spontaneous hug by sheer force. A smile as wide as the English Channel adorned Howell’s lips and he chuckled and gave a big wet kiss on the side of Arthur’s cheek, “Jyst layke our Arthur… Thaynkin’ thayt ahl of the trouble is ahl on you. Silleh braht ya bae…. Thayt caht wants mae, nayt yah!”
Howell’s thick accent came out thicker than usual and he ended with a jolly flutter of light chuckles, squeezing his younger brother and forcing his head down so Howell could kiss it. The moment was fleeting but it was enough for Wales to look up over Arthur’s blonde head and for him to lock eyes with Hamish. It as in that moment that Howell allowed for is brother too see the raw terror he felt, that Scotland had no idea what he had just been through. The hand on Scotland’s neck tightened in his grip and it was his brother’s height that was truly keeping the Welshman upright. The moment was over and Wales pulled away to look at his baby brother in the eye. The pair, from afar could easily be mistaken for twins: same shade of blonde hair, almost identical physiques and heights, but that was where the similarities ended.
“Now…. Stahp dranking yah alcoholic or ya’ll bae as useless as your America”.
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Post by Scotland on Jul 29, 2013 16:23:53 GMT -6
Hamish let loose a low chuckle hearing the squeal coming from Arthur, it always caused him to laugh when he heard the younger nation squeal in such a feminine way. Even if having disgusted Arthur by covering his fingers in saliva seeing his usually stern face turn pink made the Scotsman think of how adorable his youngest brother could be. It was rare that he got to see Arthur not acting stuck up or trying to take charge. No matter what he did love his youngest brother Hamish only put on a façade that the Englishman was nothing more than an annoyance.
After turning his attention to Welshman the redhead nearly forgot Arthur was still present. His attention was completely focused on the injured blond that was now cradled carefully in his arms. It was common that his brothers gave him looks telling him that he wasn’t making sense or that they can’t understand his thick accent. This time his words weren’t that necessary so he didn’t waste time struggling to speak with his accent so his brother would be able to understand. Instead he looked at the smile that made the once frightened Welshman look bright and cheery as he did before they entered the manor. The smiling blond almost caused Hamish to forget that they all were trapped and being hunted by monsters.
The groan went unnoticed by the lanky Scotsman as he worked on fixing the blond untamed locked as his fingers ran through them. Being able to hold onto his brother was what he needed. When Wales was safe and they were able to have a few moments together Scotland always found himself at ease and not snapping over everything per usual. Every time Hamish sees his little brother his nerves calm and he is able to relax and not worry about what is happening around him. When Arthur forced Howell to join his empire was when Hamish began to baby the Welshman as he does now. He blamed himself for not being able to prevent Arthur from taking away their quiet brother’s freedom. As they all grew older Howell remained the only sibling that Hamish never wanted to strike or see cower away from him.
Even if Hamish had spent centuries with his brothers he didn’t always find himself able to notice the pain they felt. Arthur might have been the baby but he was an empire in his youth and took down two of his elder brothers to force them to join his empire. The Scotsman nearly died at the hands of his baby brother and began seeing the youngest member of the UK as being able to handle anything. Hamish believed Arthur didn’t need his eldest brother holding him and telling him that he loved him or any of that nonsense. Even when he looked toward the his youngest brother Hamish just assumed that Arthur was tense due to the fear of being in a manor killed of monsters hungry for his blood.
Scotland bent to place a loving kiss on Howell’s head as his collar was pull and used to drag him across the room to the tense blond. Not knowing what to do Hamish raised one of his thick red eyebrows but still wrapped his arms around his two brothers. There was something he wasn’t noticing but if Howell dragged him into this Arthur must need some comfort after what happened before the large Scotsman arrived. Following Howell’s actions the redhead leaned down toward Arthur’s cheek. As his lips were able to make contact with the pale skin Hamish took hold of Arthur’s chin and turned the young blond toward him and pressed their lips together in a sloppy kiss. Pulling back a smirk graced the elder brother’s freckled face making him look like a cheeky brat.
Hamish’s green eyes only moved off Arthur when he felt Howell making eye contact with him. There was no need for a word to be said between the two of them, in his brothers eyes Hamish could see the terror that the younger nation felt. Even seeing the fear he couldn’t ever understand how his brother felt but he felt even more need to protect the Welshman. Thoughts began to run through Hamish’s head as he wondered why he couldn’t get his brothers out of this hell and if he would be able to protect them from what chased them.
Looking away from the blond brothers Scotland stared off at the door as if expecting something to come through and break this moment apart.
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Post by England on Jul 29, 2013 22:10:22 GMT -6
The Englishman's muscles were coiled with such tension that when Howell dragged Hamish over for that embrace, his entire body sprang in a startled jolt as the Welshman's arm touched him. He released the glass gripped in either hand to avoid breaking it, one of them lifting automatically to touch upon Howell's elbow in momentary disbelief that it was really there. Green eyes had widened to double their normal size, round as saucers, to lift to the Welshman in confusion. Having his elder brothers suddenly so close flipped an internal switch in Arthur that flooded his pale cheeks with red.
He couldn't possibly keep up that forced demeanor he had presented when resolved to stand strong apart from them. Even if Arthur believed in his heart that he needed to maintain an image of unflagging strength for the sake of his siblings, this entire ordeal had weighted too heavily on stubborn shoulders for his convictions to stand secure. He pushed out a shuddering breath as Howell chided him, giving himself permission to lean into the warmth of the embrace that both of them had wrapped him into. That feeling of security made Arthur feel like it was safer to speak honestly. "I don't care whether that cat wants you or not. I have no intention of letting it have you -- either of you. I shall take whatever measures I need to protect you, Howell."
Arthur was docile in turning his face to receive Howell's affection, even if a heated cheek burnt a little hotter from the touch of lips on it. He'd never been great with processing this type of attention from others; not without the liquid courage of alcohol in his veins, of which there was a definite lack even with those few swallows he'd been allowed. When Howell teased him about that comparison to America, Arthur's lowered head shot upwards with a tiny scowl to protest it. Before the words could leave his opening mouth the words were stolen by the unexpected touch of warm, wet lips that touched his in a clumsy claim when Hamish kissed him.
It was brief enough to be over as soon as it started. However, the effect of it lingered. Arthur had gone a deep scarlet clear up to the roots of his hair. Whatever he had intended to answer Howell with was reduced to a few choked sounds of unrealized words. Needless to say, his comfort zone had been successfully invaded, the land scorched, and little smirking redheads were doing a victory dance on the remains. His instinct was to stomp down on Hamish's foot as hard as he could in retaliation for such a bold action.
The only thing that saved his violence was the minute tremors he could feel vibrating through the arm that Howell had around him. Arthur could feel the weight of the Welshman on his shoulder. It wouldn't do for him to lose his temper or melt into the floorboards in embarrassment. Even if melting into primordial ooze would solve most of his problems here. He settled for a huff of exasperation, lifting a fist to gently cuff Hamish on his jaw with a surfacing smirk. "Keep it in your kilt, ginger. A-and, for the record . . ." Arthur trailed off, hands touching both of the men to apply subtle, grateful pressure, ". . .thanks for this. I had started to despair that I might never see you both again. Or anyone, for that matter. I'm alright now."
The Englishman's gaze moved to the door as well. He absently petted fingers into Howell's hairs to ruffle them, taking the comfort offered by their warmth and affection to repair those patches in himself for the time being. Arthur could be strong for them because they were the most important things to protect in this place. Of course he was going to take charge to give them all their best chance. He pecked a quick kiss to each man's cheek, chaste but sweet, before his voice spoke again with a commanding edge. "Howell, you need to get some rest before you topple over. Bunker down somewhere until your legs and lungs get sorted. Hamish -- help me move these billiard tables against the door, would you? That beastie was big. If he breaks through the door, the tables will block him and buy us enough time to wage a counterattack."
His eyes, steady emerald, caught Howell's as the Englishman squeezed his shoulder, determined. "No sodding feline is going to be making you his meal on my watch. I promise."
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Post by Deleted on Aug 7, 2013 20:44:20 GMT -6
"Keep it in your kilt, ginger. A-and, for the record . . ."
Leave it to Hamish to take it to the incest level, still Howell chuckled at how red Arthur had gotten and that, at least for the moment, he had lost the ability to speak. A genuinely wide smile lightened Howell’s pale features even ore and within the arms and embraces of his two brothers, he felt warm and very much safe. Turning his attention at his blonde, baby brother, who was the exact same height as he, the Welshman’s smile faltered upon hearing his brother’s soft confession. A sense of guilt and warmth filled Howell’s chest. As much as he and his brothers looked down upon their youngest because of various events of history that spurred hatred and grudges, Arthur was still their brother after all and it was no secret that Wales was the softest of the brothers.
So it would be his denial to claim that Arthur’s words of confession that he was happy that they were there with and for him didn’t touch Howell’s heart and made his slight affection for his brother swell a bit.
That feeling faltered a bit when he realized that Arthur had begun to run this fingers through the Welshman’s famous hair similar to how Hamish had, though without as much. A sense of unease filtered down Wales’ spine but, giving their situation, Howell let the feeling slide with a silent sigh; why ruin the moment by swatting away his little brother’s hand when it was evident that the younger nation needed their close presences. A silence began to spread between the three man and Wales joined his brothers in their fearful gaze of the solid form of the wooden door, the only one in and out of the Billiard Room. While they were all together and in somewhat safety, it was clearly evident that their safe room was also their prison, with the only exit the entrance to anything and all that were hunting them. Not a comforting silence that’s for sure.
And that was how the loving and rare brotherly moment between Wales and his brothers, England and Scotland, ended.
"Howell, you need to get some rest before you topple over. Bunker down somewhere until your legs and lungs get sorted. Hamish -- help me move these billiard tables against the door, would you? That beastie was big. If he breaks through the door, the tables will block him and buy us enough time to wage a counterattack."
In an instant, a flame of rebellion and independence surge through Howell’s veins and turned his cheerful expression hard, darkening his family’s trademark green eyes dark. "No sodding feline is going to be making you his meal on my watch. I promise."
Even with the usually comforting gesture of Arthur lightly gripping his shoulder as he told him that there was no need to worry any longer, that his little brother was going to save him like a knight in shining armor saving a damsel from a dragon, though that analogy was completely ridiculous since dragons were Howell’s closet of friends. That thoroughly bugged Howell, it right ticked the blonde off, and with a harsh jerk, he freed himself from his brother’s hands and took a few steps back from the pair, using his weapon’s cane appearance to support himself.
“I cayne fookin’ tayke care of myself…” he said in his singsong, beautiful voice turned hard with maturity and a dry throat. Making a scoffing sound form the back of his throat, the Welshman turned his back upon his brothers and walked a few feet towards the bar before stopping. To his left, was the pair of large, velveteen covered billiard tables with their overhanging mood lighting and on the right side of the room, was sitting chairs and a grandiose poker table. Howell, just stood there however, looking over are the comfortable looking sitting chairs with his chin held high with pride and dignity, even though his body was screaming at him.
It had been a long time since Wales had felt so… sore. Being a nation meant that he like his British brethren could withstand strain and wounds that would kill humans, and in fact Howell had died a few times but it took more than a bullet to kill a country personified, though it hurt like a motherfucking bitch and a half. Casting his eyes down at his hands folded neatly overtop the intricate carving of a dragon’s head of his swordstick. His arms were shaking. Howell hadn’t felt so roughed up since… well, actually he felt like he’d just endured a battle or something. The man just felt tender and sore all over, from his heart bursting sprint all over this bloody house, to his Matrix moves evading that feline menace, to his multiple vaulting anf falling all over the bar, Wales certainly felt the centuries he bore in his bones and this truly unnerved him.
‘I fayl... layke a bloodeh human…’ he thought impossibly, blinking his eyes and flexing his one hand, before he stiffly made his way to one of the comfy chairs, the thuds of his cane mingled in with his strides, ignoring his brothers and their likely stares.
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Post by Scotland on Aug 16, 2013 18:59:17 GMT -6
The wet pink muscle poked out from between his lips and began tracing the lips of the redheaded man. A sound that was mixture of a whimper and a moan came from Scotland’s slightly parted lips. From the kiss Hamish tasted a small amount of alcohol present on Arthur’s lips and a sense of euphoria seemed to come over the Scotsman. The feeling disappeared almost in an instant as his body woke to the realization that he wanted, no he needed to have the ember liquid sliding down his throat.
Watching Arthur’s already pink tinted cheeks change to a deep scarlet helped take his mind off his sudden need to drink but the thought still remained. His finger began to drum against his brothers to give himself something else to focus on to keep his temper under control for a little longer. No matter what it took Scotland did not wish to be blamed for ending this rare moment between the three of them. Arthur needed to be embraced for once and shown that his brothers were well aware of how week and fragile he could be at times. It was their duty to protect England even if that meant their own lives were to be endangered.
"Keep it in your kilt, ginger. A-and, for the record . . ."
The comment made a devilish grin come to Hamish’s face. The youngest of the union seemed to always know how to cause Scotland to want to take things another step farther than he had. Rules made by others were not something the ginger man was a fan of and he loved to do the opposite of what he was told to do.
Leaning forward he placed his lip against the lob of the youngest blonde’s ear and nipped the flesh. “Tis hard tae whin ye'r aroond Arthur,” Hamish held out England’s name in his teasing tone. Pulling away he couldn’t wipe the smirk from his thin lips as he watched his brother’s reaction.
The moment was dying now as Howell was dismissed by Arthur and told to simply sit down while Scotland and England did the work. Scotland thought about voicing that they would also be blocking off their only escape but being trapped in the room was the only chance they seemed to have at surviving. “Fine ah will hulp bit if a beast breaks thro' that door,” Hamish pointed one of his thin fingers at the door, “ye better tak' Howell 'n' run while ah haud it aff git it?” Though said as if it were a question the serious glare showed it was a demand. Howell was currently hurt and there was a chance he wouldn’t be able to escape alone if the other two held off a creature so it was up to Arthur to make sure the quiet brother made it out alive.
“I cayne fookin’ tayke care of myself…” The sound of Howell’s no longer singsong voice almost caused Scotland pain to hear. Wales’ voice was usually something that usually calmed the angered Scotsman but now it only made him grow nervous. His body screamed for him to find a cigarette to demand alcohol, it was in need of his normal pleasures. “We ken ye kin Howell. Ye'r a dragon in a human form.” Even if Wales was known for being silent compared to his brothers Scotland knew better than to think the blonde was helpless or needed someone to care for him. If he were as fragile as the other treated him Hamish was sure Howell would have died long ago.
Sharp green eyes didn’t dare to look at Wales as he stumbled through the room using his cane as support. He knew if he looked at the pained nation he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from running to their aid. “C'moan Arthur let's git tae wirk,” he grumbled as he turned his attention the billiard tables. He could feel his anger starting to bubble forth but Scotland didn’t want his brothers to see him punching holes in a wall when he was suppose to be there protecting them. Clenching his fists the ginger let his nails break the skin of the palms of his hands. Hurting himself was better than hurting his loved ones wasn’t it?
((I'm so sorry this took so long for me to post! If either of you have any trouble understanding Scotland's horrible English just tell me and I'll put translations.))
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Post by England on Aug 18, 2013 6:21:12 GMT -6
Hamish's teasing was a distraction for Arthur when he finished giving his suggestions. He growled in his throat in exasperation from the bite to his ear and rubbed the heel of his palm against the skin to chase away the sensation. That wasn't a vulnerable point that he wanted to expose to the Scotsman. Hamish would likely exploit it whenever it suited him. The Englishman definitely did not want to reward the ginger's leering words with a response since that would only encourage him to continue. Arthur's hand dropped away when Howell's manner suddenly changed. He blinked in genuine confusion at the harsh reaction as the Welshman sought to put distance between them. This was more familiar territory than the warm embrace they'd been sharing just a minute ago.
He sighed heavily at Howell's claim about being able to care for himself. Two fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose. "I know that you can take care of your sodding self, Howell. But it's obvious that you're exhausted from fleeing the beast. If you're going to be so stubborn that you won't take a few minutes to recharge, you'll be useless in a fight because your energy is going to be sapped in no time at all. I didn't suggest that you rest out of pity. We need to be tactical about this in case the beast returns to make a meal out of the three of us. So stop sulking and be reasonable or else you're going to jeopardize us all with your pride."
Arthur's hand lowered to his side as he nodded to Hamish. He didn't really agree with the Scotsman's suggestion of running if the creature tried to break inside. Their forces were stronger combined than not. Standing together against a threat with a united front had saved them several times in the past. "If it comes to that. I would rather just buy us time enough to wear the creature down. Its mass is large compared to the door. We are armed with plenty of resources in here. Even the pool cues could be fashioned into crude spears as additional weapons if we needed them. We're not defenseless. And if the creature doesn't come after us then we'll at least have a base to sit together and plan our next move -- together."
His head turned back and forth slowly, eyes touching on both of the older men in the room. "Look, I know that I haven't always been the best brother to you both. If you want to hold those grudges against me even in a place such as this then I won't blame you. However, please believe me when I say that I sincerely want all of us to get out of this situation together. I'm exhausted. I'm hungry. This place is making me miserable as hell. All I want is for us to find the means to make our escape so we can go home. I'd even let you lot send me cursed packages without any protest. You both wish to go home too, right?"
He turned to grip one side of the billiard table, seeking to heft its weight. His strength wasn't what it used to be. Certainly not in this hellhole. The Englishman strained with it even though he had just confessed to his exhaustion with the intention to muscle it over to the door. Now that he had spoken those open words he found it safer to slip into an embarrassed silence and listen to their responses.
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Post by Deleted on Sept 5, 2013 11:46:51 GMT -6
With each new word England spoke, the darker Wale’s gaze became, the tighter the grip on his swordstick became, and the tenser his muscles became. Howell had never truly been an angry person, true he could have a temper and anger just like any other nation, but typically he was calm, joyful, and quiet: the oddball of the British Brothers. All of England’s siblings found him annoying, some more than others, and while Wales had always been the least of them all, the least likely to beat his brother, the more Arthur spoke the more vivid ad violent the images in Howell’s mind became. He just wanted to brat to shut his trap! Arthur’s words stung and irritated him, mostly because deep down he knew them to be true, but he bloody hell didn’t need his little brother lecturing him!
His face was mostly hidden by his wild bangs and the dimness of the room, but Howell’s normally bright and shining green eyes had grown lidded from his furrowed brow and even the shade of green almost appeared to have darkened. His thumb stroked the small expanse of exposed blade of his cane, the sheath pulled off a bit in his frustration, and for a moment Wales even had the image of using his cane upon England, but it was that image that finally made him blink with slight horror and guilt. Using his cane to spank the little kid that was England was one thing, but it was a complete different situation when the swordstick was missing a sheath and in his hands was a rather sharp blade aiming towards his kin. Fluttering his eyelids, Howell finally looked down at his hands and his lips fell slight agape as his eyes glaze over the delicate contours of his cane’s dragonhead. He frowned, ashamed in himself for thinking of such terrible things, and a few words by Scotland made him look up with the ghost of a smile; leave it to Hamish to recognize him as an independent nation.
Howell sighed, his anger ebbing, when he heard it. At first, he thought it was imagination or his brothers, but they were busy talking about blocking the door and were to do just that, when Wales heard the voice again. He looked around, saw nothing, reached up to clean his ear with his pinky, but still he heard a distinct, quiet voice.
Show him…. Show him how you feel….
Howell opened his mouth, his eyes widening in fear to alert his brother or to question his sanity, when his body went stiff. and frozen Clenching his teeth together with a snap, his eyes squeezed shut, his grip on his cane went white knuckle as an electric shock shot from the floor, through Howell's feet, throughout his entire body. His muscles were rigid, his heart was hammering, but Wales could not make a sound in pain or warning to his siblings, who had no idea that he was being silently electrocuted. A burning sensation erupted in his chest and spread like liquid fire to his limbs, and with a sudden gust of wind coming from the floor, Wales was released from whatever power that had gripped in. His eyelids wavered and he slumped forward, bearing freedom over his body again, but the fire within his veins had not disappeared. It was anger, it was rage, and Howell’s eyes flew open to reveal darker than normal irises.
The next time Howell blinked he found himself standing right behind England. How did he get across the room so fast and so quietly? The thought momentarily passed through the hot haze in his mind, quiet and drowsy-like, as he watched Arthur drop the billiard table in front of the door, before he struck. His left hand flew to Arthur’s hair, gripping the blonde locks, before he slammed the Englishman’s head down onto the table, hard. Instantly his other hand bearing his cane pressed the length of the gentleman’s weapon down upon the nape of his brother’s neck. A wide grin appeared on the Welshman’s lips and his eyes held a dark, seductive look to them that was not the norm for Howell; however, his eyes remained mostly hidden in shadows by his bangs. All soreness and pain from his injuries had been burned away from the fire in his body and Howell felt like his national self, able to snap a human’s arm with minimal effort or last through centuries of war and hell.
“Ya’ jyst… don’know whayne ta sh’tup, doo yah Lloegr…” He said in a smooth, heavily accented voice, that held a sliver of dark oil that to any sensitive ear would know that it not belong to the gentle Welshman.
Sweet satisfaction simmered through Howell at seeing how powerless his younger, arrogant, fucking annoying brother was and he pressed a little harder upon the blonde’s temple, grinning in almost an aroused manner at causing his brother pain. He could have remained there for longer, torturing his helpless sibling with insults and reminding him how awful he was, how terrible of a brother he was, and how much none of his siblings liked him, but the colour red caught his attention and it froze his tongue. Wale's brows flickered downwards for a moment, before more heat simmered through his chest, but Howell could see it, the blood seeping down England’s neck. How could there be blood… Like an eternal smack to the face Wales realized that he was staring at the entire length of his swordstick’s blade pressed against the fragile skin of his brother. How had… where was the sheath? When had he removed it? Why couldn't he see the blade before? He'd been so focused on hurting England that... he didn't realize that he was actually holding his blade to his brother's neck! What... What was going on? Howell went to turn his head to look on the floor, to find his sheath, but couldn’t, fire stopped him. His arm began to shake, his eyes grew wider, as the Welshman began to fight against the haze in his head, beginning to realizing what he was doing, what he wanted to do to his brother, but he couldn’t move.
The seductive expression twisted in anger and sweat appeared on his brow, but he could not pull away. The anger he felt, he realized was not normal, and with growing internal horror realized that he could still hear that distant voice, whispering him to press harder, to stop denying his anger towards hi brother, encouraging him, ordering him. “Ha…mish...” he managed in the weakest of voices, wondering why his brother hadn’t already saved them both, Arthur from his pain and Wales was spilling his brother’s blood even more. With floundering strength, Howell began to realize how weak he really was, how much he needed his brothers, that he wasn’t strong by himself, and it was this weakness that enabled the darkness of the Manor seep into his senses and it wanted England’s blood. Tears began to stream down his cheeks, hot almost boiling salty tears that burned with his internal fire, and Wales could only scream in his head for his vocal cords were beyond his control, as his pressure upon Arthur increased.
Translation: LLoegr=England
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Hamish Kirkland
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Post by Scotland on Sept 7, 2013 21:04:15 GMT -6
The beast that had attacked Howell before still had yet to appear before Hamish but he wasn’t feeling optimistic like Arthur. Howell had his swordstick, Hamish had his scythe, and Arthur had a gun was that enough to take down anything? If the beast broke in would they be able to take it or would it eat them one by one? “We ur a' weak 'ere! A'd ower die 'n' ken that ye baith escaped 'n' kin keep oan living than huvin tae lose either o' ye!” Scotland hissed a bit knowing England didn’t seem to notice that they weren’t the strong nations they normally were. If they were back home they could take on anything but this wasn’t home. Hearing the youngest nation present comment on how he wasn’t the best brother to his sibling only made Hamish snort. If they weren’t trapped and fighting for their lives he would have gotten into the brats face and reminded him how they all never thought of him as a good brother. Arthur might have been his brother but Hamish did still hold his past actions against the Englishman. Clenching his teeth a bit he thought about asking the young blonde if he knew what it felt like to starve as someone he loved tried to take what little he had left. Did the brat know what if felt like to see his own people suffer and realize that even with an alliance he was all alone? Did England know what if felt like to lose his freedom and surrender to someone he trusted and loved? There was a soft voice nagging at him to say what he felt and always feared since he joined the union. The sharp usually angry features of Scotland’s face softened a bit and his eyes grew almost lifeless, “Dae pure waant us tae escape th'gither arthur? If Howell 'n' ah weren't able tae lea you'd juist finally git oor land wi'oot huvin us rammy back anymair.”No one could tell how long they had been trapped in the manor at this point. Screams were beginning to come from Hamish’s body as he felt himself growing tired and want to lay down to rest. It has been a while since he had to fight like this and the thought of never being able to escape was getting to him. What if a nation didn’t attend the party was now taking over all the land? Were his people strong enough to protect the land without him by their side? His face darkened even more as he glanced down at Arthur, “Is hame even still thare?”Shaking off the thoughts he followed Arthur’s lead and gripped the other side of the billiard table. Outside of this manor Scotland knew single-handed England could move the table but inside this manor they all felt as nothing more than human. Lifting his side he could feel his muscles telling him to drop the billiard table but he continued forcing his body to move forward. As the billiard table was dropped in front of the door Hamish looked as his fingers and rubbed at them a bit trying to massage the pain away. His attention was too forced on his own hands to notice Howell moving behind Arthur ready to strike. The silence was odd to the Scotsman, he was sure that his youngest brother was going to start spitting out a plan at them and want the two elder brothers to follow through with his plan even if he said they were to plan together. The sound of Arthur’s head being slammed against the billiard table grabbed Hamish’s attention. It wasn’t often he saw Howell lay a finger on Arthur but he couldn’t say the brat didn’t have this coming after counting Howell out. Even if it wasn’t that uncommon for one of the siblings to attack Arthur for something he said the grin wasn’t Howell’s and Hamish knew it. Through all the years every time Howell put Arthur in his place he usually looked angered or emotionless not like he was going to fuck the young blond. Shadows created from Howell’s bangs made it almost impossible for Scotland to see the look in his eyes but from what he could see made his body shiver, whether it was of fear or excitement the Scotsman wasn’t sure. “Ya’ jyst… don’know whayne ta sh’tup, doo yah Lloegr…”Any excitement that Hamish had felt before was gone hearing his brother’s voice. This wasn’t Howell! There was something in the voice that he had never heard before and he knew it couldn’t have come from Howell. If they were back home Hamish wouldn’t lift a finger to help out Arthur but things were different here. Normally Howell knew when to stop if he was going to harm Arthur but something about his actions were off. When it came to their family usually he couldn’t remember a time he had to stop anyone from hurting their youngest brother too much but he knew there was more than once he found himself being dragged away from the blonde as he screamed about making him sorry. Stepping around the billiards table he walked with a determined look toward his brothers. “Sorry aboot this,” Hamish whispered in Howell’s ear. Wrapping his arm around Wales’ neck he pressed on his neck so he could still breathe but would have trouble doing so. His free hand grabbed the blade and pulled it away from Arthur’s neck. As he tightened his grip on the blade he could feel the blade cutting into his skin but it didn’t matter as long as he prevented Arthur from losing his head. Stepping backward he pulled Howell along with him keeping his arms wrapped around Howell’s neck. Slowly he released Howell and the blade and set the blond down in a chair. Leaving Howell was not really an option at the moment. He needed to watch the blonde to make sure whatever came over him was gone. Now that the two blondes were separated he turned his attention to Arthur. Normally he wouldn’t feel bad for Arthur when he was attacked for saying something but this time he wanted to cradle the youngest brother and make sure he was okay. “Arthur urr ye okay ower thare?”Blood dripped from the palm of his hand making a small puddle next to him on the floor. The manor made them human but the pain wasn't enough to get a reaction from the elder nation. After he was sure his brothers were okay he could deal with his wound but he wasn't sure he was going to find anything to clean it with in this hellhole.
We are all weak here. I'd rather die and know that you both escaped and can keep on living than having to lose either of you. Do really want us to escape together Arthur? If Howell and I weren't able to leave you'd just finally get our land without having us fight back anymore.
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Arthur Kirkland
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Post by England on Sept 12, 2013 17:15:10 GMT -6
Arthur had been surveying the door to judge how effective the billiard table would be as a barricade for the wood's structure. If the beast came through the door the weaker part of the door at the top would be its only option since they had just reinforced more than half of it with the weight of the table. He was satisfied by that. It would by them time and the advantage of having time to weaken the thing with their weapons before it finished bursting inside, and an escape through the door once the cat's bulk was inside the room could also give them time to get a head start on fleeing.
He felt a subtle shift in the energies of the room. Behind him, Howell's aura had taken an abrupt twist that the Englishman could feel rippling up his spine. Arthur had been about to turn to view the Welshman when fingers in his hair stopped that effort short. The breath fled out of his lungs because he could not brace his body in time to avoid it being forced forward so viciously. Pain blossomed throughout his skull when it slammed down on the solid structure of the table. The impact was hard enough that Arthur's vision was blinded momentarily by a flash of white. He grunted in pain, and the tension of his muscles that had been ready to fight was overridden by the stunned state the Englishman was left in.
Green eyes opened to stretch their gaze across the verdant felt of the billiard table. Red filigree was painted in static illusion across the image. It's just a concussion, probably. Even if it feels like your skull has been split you can't go down that path of thought or else you're going to panic, old boy. Arthur's internal voice of reason was as steady as ever even with the rest of his body already pitching in a rapid pulse and racing heart. Sometimes all that could be done was to let his body's instincts run their course until he got it all under control again. His hands trembled where they gripped at the edge of the table, fingers unable to find purchase as they slipped on the wood.
All of his motions stilled when Arthur felt the fresh sting of pain in a hot bloom across the nape of his neck. He felt twin tendrils creeping down his neck, hot and wet, to form a collar that dripped from his Adam's apple onto the table's surface. Blood. His blood. And the cold bite of sharp metal digging into the back of his neck like the promise of an executioner's axe. If the pain in his head had been any less then the Englishman could have truly appreciated the piercing agony that this caused. The throbbing ache of his head merely shared the territory in his pain sensors, confusing his signals and making the hurting travel between both areas without either being the dominant force of suffering.
“Ya’ jyst… don’know whayne ta sh’tup, doo yah Lloegr…”
At those words from his brother, Arthur was silent. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and felt the blade bite deeper in his skin. You knew this was how it was going to be in the end. A bitter voice spoke up from deep inside where his heart had gone cold and empty of all the concerned, fond feelings he'd been feeling earlier towards the men in this room with him. Even under the rain of Roman arrows or the cut of France's sword or the fire of America's cannons or the weight of Germany's million bombs -- you knew it was going to be one of them. You ought to have learnt your lesson a long time ago. When you reach your hand out it always leads to betrayal. And now they're going to get precisely what they always wanted from you.
His mind went back in memory to his historical past, sitting proudly with his monarch, a cocky fledgling empire in his finery watching the latest delegation from Scotland make their way out. The furious look on Hamish's face at the time when he'd left the negotiations stamped vividly into his memory, and though Arthur had worn a smug smile at the time he recalled the twist of disappointment that weighted down his heart.
"You have brought your neighbours to heel now, England. Your subjugation of this new kingdom is complete."
"Not subjugation." Arthur had corrected him with a shake of his head. "Whilst I have risen as the greater power, these are my brothers. They may loathe me for this and I am prepared to accept the weight of their hatred. However, this world is on the cusp of change. I intend to change with it. We're going to be very strong together, the lot of us. And even if I must use this new strength to conquer the face of this world I will do so, in the hopes that my brothers and I shall never face another long winter of starvation, or invasion from outsiders. I shall not have to witness them fade from the earth as our mother did, telling me to be strong even as her last breaths stole the last of hers. They are the only blood ties I have. My family, my brothers. So if they come to hate me, if they rise together to kill me, at least I will know that I did what I could to make us all strong."
Hearing Howell speak again, just the strained utterance of their brother's name, brought Arthur out of his dazed reverie. That pressure was increasing on his neck and the Englishman wasn't sure if the Scotsman would even lift a finger to help him. Hamish's words echoed back to him from after his sincere and embarrassing confession to his elder siblings. “Dae pure waant us tae escape th'gither Arthur? If Howell 'n' ah weren't able tae lea you'd juist finally git oor land wi'oot huvin us rammy back anymair.” Here was the Scotsman's chance to finally rid them all of his presence in their lives.
Arthur was flooded with relief when the pressure on the back of his neck was pulled away by the redhead. He heard Hamish struggling to get Howell away, the points of pressure on his body forced off. As soon as the other two men were clear of the space there beside the table, Arthur's knees buckled beneath him and he slumped gracelessly onto them on the floor. He saw how much of his blood had spread upon the table, a shaking hand clamping across the wound on the nape of his neck. It was a shallow slice. The Welshman had not cut down deep enough to sever bone or muscle. Arthur needed to get it wrapped before more blood was lost. He could feel it oozing out through his fingers, leaking down into the tidy fold of his shirt collar and making a path down his spine.
The room was spinning. His vision was a swirling mess, and even the figures of Hamish and Howell nearby were distorted images. He recognized the signs of shock in his own body. It was just too late for Arthur to pull himself out of it before it took over. He stared off away from the pair, eyes wide and face alarmingly pale, with trembling fingers trying to seal his skin since the blood would not stop coming out of it in slow trickles. His lips moved, words escaping them in low, halting murmurs that were as shaken as the rest of him. "No, I--.. I'm not. Keep him away, Hamish. If he t-takes another step at me, I'll..."
Arthur reached his hand inside of his jacket. The fingers pressing at his neck were unsteady. The ones he wrapped around his gun, however, were firm as iron. He pulled that weapon free from its holster inside his jacket to point it directly at Howell from his spot on the floor. His eyes narrowed, blazing when they locked on the other blonde's face, and Arthur deftly slid the safety off before cocking the hammer back. The Englishman might have faced numerous battles that trained him how to keep his cool when attacked. Right now, all of that might never have happened. Arthur may as well have been that wild little child hiding in the brush, hissing at hands reaching for him like a wounded animal cornered. His voice lacked the refinement that time had polished upon his accent, strained and ragged and seething. "I will fucking end him."
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Post by Deleted on Sept 13, 2013 21:22:10 GMT -6
“Sorry aboot this”.
Strong arms prohibited Howell’s arm to push the blade further into England’s tender neck and the blonde's tearful eyes darkened once more and his expression twisted into a malicious snarl as whatever that was occupying his mind overpowered his brotherly guilt of harming his brother and he struggled against Hamish. Thankfully, Scotland proved more powerful and pulled the Welshman away; causing him to thrash and try to break free, dark sounds biting from his mouth in dark rebellion. The further he was dragged away from England’s pathetic form the more Howell’s head began to clear however, his struggles lessened, and the more his vision began to blur. His eyelids fluttered, his body grew less tense and with a sudden intake of breath, Howell coughed violently, doubling over in Scotland’s arms, and for a moment he swore he saw through his blurred vision a dark shadow spirit away from his lips before it disappeared into the floor of the room; a faint tingly passed through his tongue almost like the remainder of a shock from a battery. The movement had been so quick, he wasn’t sure if it was just a side affect of how his head was swimming but Hamish’s strong presence rocked him from his thoughts, Wales half-tripped, and his sword cane innocently slipped from his fingers.
Gruffly Howell sat back into the chair he had left before but… why had he left it? Green eyes, bright and shaded a rare deep green, untainted by any unnatural darkness, blinked in succession in confusion. What? He had been sitting and then…. Howell reached a hand up and wiped his face, only to take it back to stare at the sheen of dampness on it; he was crying. His head was spinning, he felt sick, felt nauseous, so bad that he rocked forward and dry heaved a few times but nothing came up but an awful taste in his mouth. Opening his eyes, watering slightly as they were, Howell stared down at his hands to see that they were shaking violently. Frowning and wetting his lips, he turned his head a bit to gaze through his forest of wild hair up at his brother’s tall form, standing there almost protectively, hiding him from view from the remainder of the room. Howell had no idea how or why Hamish had been dragging him across the floor, back to where he was originally. Glancing, the Welshman saw that the billiard table was in place in front of the door because, that’s what his brothers had been doing and he had been sitting because Arthur had told him to sit…
“Arthur urr ye okay ower thare?”
Howell perked up in confusion, concern creasing his brow and he glanced at the back of Hamish’s redhead briefly, before he unsteadily stood to see exactly what he was talking about. Why wouldn’t Arthur be all right? Okay, he had just been going on about how thankful his brothers were there and so on, before he had started to say something to Howell about… something…. Coming to be by Scotland’s shoulder, Wales’ frown increased at the dizziness in his mind and the broken fragments of his memory. Weird… maybe he had a concussion but he could not for the life of him recall what England had said to him while he had sat down, or how he had been transported to be back across the room for that matter! No matter how much sense was applied about anything in this godforsaken house, nothing was right, nothing was making sense and thinking about it did nothing to help clear the static in his hurting head. He felt hung-over that’s what he like: the bad taste at the back of his throat, the sickness, the soreness in his bones, and the fuzziness of his memory, though hung-over from what he could not even begin to speculate as Howell shuffled to be behind his much taller brother.
"No, I--.. I'm not. Keep him away, Hamish. If he t-takes another step at me, I'll..."
The aches and pains in his body felt worse than ever and standing made him feel sicker but laying a gentle hand on Scotland’s shoulder and poked his head around the broad, caped shoulder only for time and reality to explode into silence, save for the distinct click of the pullback of the hammer of a gun, England’s gun, and the barrel was aimed directly for Howell’s head. A small intake of breath and the slow expansion of his irises as thick shock and intense confusion froze in his bright eyes. His grip upon Scotland’s shoulder tightened as Howell took in the disturbing and heart wrenching sight of his baby brother slumped on the ground like a feeble human, one hand gripping the back of his neck for some odd reason, and the other held the firearm, trained straight and on target; nations made up the best marksman in the world for no human with any amount of training can compete with a being who has lived for centuries. A glassy, hard expression was painted on the Englishman’s face and the mere sight of it terrified Wales more so than then revolver.
"I will fucking end him."
Every hair on Howell’s body stood on end and he spine straightened with a sickening crack and a forced intake of air filled his lungs. The temperature of the room dropped a good fifteen degrees, because suddenly the blonde was shivering, or maybe the cold was just within him and his trembling was from the steady pulses of fear icing his blood into painful shards. Frantic eyes wavered over Arthur’s form because, this was a joke right? Unfortunately, Arthur’s desperate tone obliterated any hope that this was some inappropriate attempt at lightening the mood. Howell searched and searched in the still of the room for some reason in his brother’s face why he had turned fratricidal, but all he saw was a man at the end of his rope like an animal backed into a corner, injured and willing to do anything to survive. The more Howell stared wide eyed and scared at England the more his heart pounded in his chest to the point that he was positive that Hamish could hear him; his breathing had become shallow, short spurts and his grip on his brother had increased so that the whites of his knuckles shone through his pale skin.
Finally after the initial few moments of shock, Wales cracked open his dry lips to say something, to say anything, but all he could manage was a weak whimper that sounded pathetic even in his own ears. If it weren’t for his hold upon Scotland, Wales would have collapsed to his knees, that’s how badly he was shaking from fear and confusion. His lips tapped each other slowly in his meek attempt to say something, to question why this was happening, but Howell had lost the ability to speak and glancing up quickly at Hamish, the sternness he saw in his brother’s features made him flinch and he had to look away. It was then that Howell finally saw it and all at once the recollections of the last few minutes, of what had just occurred in the room what he had just done, collided into his brain. There on the floor, lying innocently while the dim light of the room gleamed off the steel with the promise of death, was his very own swordstick and accenting the blade was the crimson of blood and Howell knew whose with a terrified shriek of knowing.
Hands gripped Scotland’s shoulder to keep him upright, thick streams of tears flowed down chalky pale cheeks, and Wales stared at his brother. Finally, he found the words while through his mind, the reel of the events of his deeds played endlessly, “Ay… ay ay ay d’dn’t mayne et! Ay… oh, no…. No! Et wasn’t mae! Playse! Os gwelwch yn dda…. Ay….” Panicked, terrified words, broken by sobs, heavily accented and with Welsh mixed in, Wales was officially hysterical. He continued to stammer off, trying to plead his innocence to make sense of it all, but he knew how it looked, he had attacked his brother! Made him bleed! Now, what was ironic was that England had made all of his brothers bleed, and vice versa, but this was different! Howell had wanted to…. Almost, could have…. Hot tears were burning the iciness of his skin and his nose was running bad but Howell could not take his eyes from his little brother, or more specifically, his gun.
“Os gwelwch yn dda, brawd .... Nid oedd yn fy fai .... Rwyf mor ddrwg .... Os gwelwch yn dda!” Desperation pitched his voice and Howell collapsed his head upon Scotland’s shoulder, fully weeping, completely a wreck and unable to move even to hide behind Hamish or to go towards his brother, that’s how scared he was, how big of a coward Wales was. With his tears soaking into the cloth of his elder brother’s costume, green eyes peered pleadingly over at the creature that was one flinch of a finger away from firing his gun and adding more blood into the antique carpet of the Billiard Room.
Translation: Please; Please, brother .... It was not my fault .... I am so sorry .... Please!
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Hamish Kirkland
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Post by Scotland on Sept 15, 2013 18:59:47 GMT -6
No matter the harsh words or the acts of hatred in he end Scotland did love his family no matter what they did to him. Years of suffering were not forgotten ever but what would striking down the child he secretly cheered from the sidelines accomplish? After losing his freedom and joining the union with his family he knew that he would never take his revenge on his brother. The love he felt for his brothers was not something he should have felt, his brothers were everything he had and all he could trust. Death was not something he wished for but if it meant his siblings could grow Hamish couldn’t say he was against dying if by their hands. Grudges and hate were nothing in comparison to his love for the men that made his family and helped him grow to what he was. In one-way or another they all made each other strong nations. Howell couldn’t end Arthur; Hamish could not live his life how he wished without having them both in his life. It didn’t matter if he knew his brothers rejected his affection they still were his.
No matter how much the small male struggled in his arms the grip didn’t loosen and his backwards strides didn’t halt. Any scratch, bite, or kick was worth prolonging the only thing he had left. Friends weren’t something the Scotsman had leaving family as the only source of affection in his life. Placing his lips against the shell of Howell’s ear he whispered to his brother, “That's nae ye Howell. Ye'r nae a killer 'n' ah ken it.” His tone grew loving as he increased the space between Arthur and Howell, “Ye'r th' tamer o' beast nae th' reaper o' ties. Dinnae forgoat wha yer.”
The sound of the blood soaked cane falling to the floor convinces the ginger that his brother was back. A blood thirst killer wouldn’t submit to this hold and release their weapon to fall limp within the thin arms. The messy haired blonde was back to the normal fragile appearance that Hamish had grown accustom to from the moment the small born was brought into his life. Everything within him screamed for him to embrace his brother and never let go but this wasn’t the time for brotherly love. No, now was the time to stop his family was falling down around him.
The pain and fear he saw coursing through Wales made the elder nation want to reach out and comfort his brother and tell him everything was going to be okay but was it? Could he knowingly lie to his brother and pretend that this didn’t happen. How could he fix things? Everything seemed to just stop around him. Hamish couldn’t deal with this anymore and just shut down. The normally plotting mind went dead and his face contorted into a raged filled glare. Why deal with things when he could just ignore things and just let himself feel anger like he always did? When things got to real for him Hamish always rather shut down and create a façade than deal with the matter at hand.
"No, I--.. I'm not. Keep him away, Hamish. If he t-takes another step at me, I'll..." Arthur wouldn’t dare say that next words would he? He could just stop Arthur from finished that sentence and make everything go back to normal couldn’t he? "I will fucking end him."
The false rage building became a reality. No longer did the male have to fake his rage when Arthur gave him a reason for it to become a reality. A low growl emitted from the back of his throat as his eyes narrowed. No one, not even his own flesh and blood was allowed to threaten the life of someone he lived for. What right did Arthur have to threaten to silence the quiet usually tame brother? He could hold onto the frighten blonde and tell Arthur if he is to die they will die together in a passionate embrace but that wouldn’t save him. Throwing away his life and not being able to prolong Howell’s was meaningless. He hadn’t fought through history just to die in such an anticlimactic way. If he were to be taken down protecting his brother he would die in glory and honor not helpless in a hellhole.
Loving and passion were not needed in a moment such as this and he would save that for after. Pushing Howell off and back into the chair he gave the young Welsh nation a stare that told all. His eyes expressed the fear and anger he felt at the thought of losing Howell but yet demanded absolute trust. Tears appeared for only a moment before they were blinked away as if they were never there to begin with. If Howell were to live he was going to have to stay where he was and trust that his elder brother knew what he was doing.
Turning to face Arthur he kept his body between the gun and Howell preventing a clear shot unless he were to be taken out in the process. Arthur wouldn’t dare shoot his savior would he? Hamish was going to test how much his brother trusted him before as he put his crazed plan into action.
Dropping down to his knees he lowered himself to the small blonde’s eye level. A crazed smile was plastered from ear to ear as he kept his eyes locked with the frightened forest green eyes. Scotland’s wide eyes were not devoid of any emotion they just appeared to be blank green mirrors reflecting Arthur’s face. Slowly he reached forward at a painfully slow pace as his fingers wrapped around Arthur’s wrist. Tilting Arthur’s hand the pistol was not pointed toward the ground; no Hamish tilted the barrel up toward his grinning mouth. “Urr ye aff tae shoot him 'n' become whit ye fear maist? Th' mighty empire wha finally silenced his brother.” Removing his wounded hand from Arthur’s he cupped the blonde’s cheek letting his blood run down the pale skin. “A'm na better than ye Arthur. Ah wance staun by yer side 'n' crushed mah ainlie kin beneath mah feet. Aren't ye better than that Arthur? Aren’t ye better than a fool wha kills th' ainlie men he kin trust?” Leaning forward he ran his tongue over the cold metal moaning at the metallic taste it gave off. “Gang ahead 'n' pull th' trigger 'n' see whit ye fix. Oor blood wull be oan yer hauns 'n' ye'll truly be alone.” Thin fingers stroked Arthur’s cheek smudging the blood with each small movement.
“Gang ahead Arthur decide, dae we live or dae we die?” Hamish never broke eye contact as he watched the wounded animal that was baby brother struggle before him. Refusing to even blink he wrapped his mouth around the barrel and kept his blank eyes locked with Arthur’s. If this didn’t work he was going to die watching his little brother. For a mere second fear flashed within the blank green mirrors but disappeared just as it came.
Okay I'm just going to go hide under a rock now
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