Arthur Kirkland
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Post by England on Sept 16, 2013 17:45:22 GMT -6
It was so hard to think. His skull felt like he had one thousand sharp nails rattling around inside it, stabbing at his nerves. Arthur wanted to vomit, or scream, or cry. Those were just unseemly options. He closed his eyes against Howell's terror-filled face and tears. What a farce. All of this had twisted beyond Arthur's hopes for them to get out of here together. Within minutes all of that had been torn asunder. And it certainly wasn't getting any better. He opened his eyes to see Hamish approaching him.
His slumped body recoiled when Scotland came for him, limbs pulling tighter into his tense, protective position there on the floor. Arthur's pale face was horrified when the man spoke those words to him. How had this been his fault? Why was he suddenly the one at fault here, when it was Howell that had attacked him out of the blue so viciously? Emerald green stared at Hamish, noting the emptiness of his older brother's eyes.
“Urr ye aff tae shoot him 'n' become whit ye fear maist? Th' mighty empire wha finally silenced his brother. 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? Gang ahead 'n' pull th' trigger 'n' see whit ye fix. Oor blood wull be oan yer hauns 'n' ye'll truly be alone.”
That crazy smile, those words from the Scotsman -- that pool of despair inside of Arthur expanded, rising up to swallow him. He searched Hamish's face as that last shred of hope inside of him guttered, snuffed out like a frail candle's light. A long, low sigh pushed itself through his lips; the sound of England's surrender. "You're going to protect him? He's the one that lost control, that hurt me, and even now you're acting like I'm the monster in the room. Is that the case? I tried to protect him from that creature outside and now you want to protect him from the monster in here?"
Arthur slowly uncocked his gun, erasing the threat of a bullet going directly into Hamish's mouth. The expression on his face was one he had not shown in centuries. A look of abject defeat. That's the crux of it. They'll always think you monstrous. His addled head heard a whispering voice inside, preying off his conflicted feelings. The Englishman was listening to it instead of anything else the other two men might have had to say. Arthur didn't even notice the fact that the voice didn't belong to him. It was an outside influence, perhaps even the one that had possessed Howell, moving on to the Englishman now that his defenses had been shattered, leaving him vulnerable.
You're nothing more than a tyrant in their eyes. Look at their faces. Howell staring at you like the monster you are. And Hamish treating you like a spiteful creature. They hate you. They will never forgive you. Never accept you. Even if you let them walk away now you're still truly alone. Do them a favor and give them what they want. Save them from the monster, England. Kill the monster. Maybe then they'll love you for finally ridding them of what they hate the most in this world.
Outwardly, tears began welling in Arthur's eyes that he didn't acknowledge. They spilled out of the corners of them to fall down his cheeks, glistening as that salty liquid mixed with the blood Hamish had smeared on his skin. He swallowed thickly to force the muscles in his throat to work again. Arthur nodded faintly in answer to that voice inside his head, decided. The Englishman surfaced out of that stillness, wet eyes lifting to sweep over the faces of his elder brothers.
Arthur's pale face suddenly lit with a rare smile. Melancholy yet angelic, and he felt very much at peace. "I'm sorry for everything. May you both find the peace that you've been so long denied because of me. Hwyl Fawr, Howell. Slan, Hamish. Farewell."
That angelic smile of peace was still curved on his lips as he turned the barrel away from Hamish to rest against his temple. I never did get around to finishing that embroidery panel. Or trying that new recipe out. I hope that someone is kind enough to water the roses for me or else they're going to end up dy--
BLAM!
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Post by Ireland on Sept 17, 2013 16:02:58 GMT -6
Smoke tendrils curled throughout the air, dancing patterns in the atmosphere as they formed a cloudy ring around the head of the tall man standing in the empty, damaged corridor. There were at least three ghosts looming around him that Michael staunchly ignored. His attention was on the small puzzle of symbols he'd come across in his wanderings. That damned flag. No doubt one of his younger siblings had scratched the etching of that national symbol into this wall. The missing part of the puzzle was deciding what the other image represented in such a foreign place.
Fortunately, the Irishman had considerable experience in pubs with tables both for pool and the older style of billiards. He was an excellent player at the game. With the handy arrow pointing him in a direction, Michael turned his body to steer it in the proper direction. If this was meant to be a party for the nations of the United Kingdom he was keen on crashing it. No one ever invited them to their posh British parties anymore. The only reason he'd even arrived for America's shindig was because he'd been casually stalking North at the time and seeing the other nation seeking a costume had prompted Michael to hold the other nation in a loving headlock until North had given up the information.
It took him longer than he cared for to locate the Billiards room. The house was a fun house, twisting this way and that, getting him turned around in the wrong directions. Navigating this place was as chaotic as a leaf spinning in storm waters. Michael went through three cigarettes along the way. Each one of those used butts had been dropped to the floor to be crushed under the heel of a boot. He couldn't be sure if he was the first or the last one that would be arriving. That haphazard trail would at least offer those who knew him a sign as to which direction the Irishman had traveled.
Michael stopped in front of the closed door of the room. His impulse to go barging in was checked by the knowledge that this could be a trap. Not that the Irishman was afraid of a trap being sprung. It would have been inconvenient to fall into a situation he didn't like because he didn't take a second to check ahead. His long, lean body pressed lightly to the wood of the door as Michael turned an ear to press to the outside. There were voices inside speaking. He could hear the muffled drone through the depth of the wood blocking him out. They were familiar even if the words were inaudible.
A quick test of the knob with his hand revealed that it was locked against him. Typical. Leave it to the snooty Brits and their attempts to keep him out of the loop. Michael crouched down level with the keyhole of the room to squint in through that tiny space. What he saw made his blood turn several degrees colder. There was a stand-off taking place inside as far as Michael could tell. And since England was the only one with a weapon drawn that the Irishman could see it was apparent that Arthur had the upper hand against the other two in the room. He couldn't get a good enough angle to see what Scotland was doing on the floor near England. Wales looked horrified, with tears flooding down his cheeks.
God. Was England being a bully even in a place like this?
He needed to get inside and put a stop to this. If he needed to punt England's ass across this entire place to drive sense into it with his boot he would. Michael stood up slowly, hands both gripping the knob to yank at it. No one inside seemed to hear him struggling with the thing. He thought about pounding on the door but didn't want to risk having Arthur shoot Hamish or Howell because of him. From his glimpse in through the keyhole it looked like there was a piece of furniture blocking the doorway. Even if he could break the lock then there was no guarantee that he could get in.
He'd just have to break his way inside through the top the hard way. Michael searched around the corridor for anything heavy he could use to bash at the wood. There was a metal wall sconce nearby that looked like it had some sturdiness to it. He gripped it, booted foot pressing to the crumbling wallpaper, and a grin spread over his face as he yanked it directly out with a groan of the metal. The Irishman hefted it in his hands to test its weight. Metal was effective against wood. And if the thing survived him breaking in then he'd use it to smack Arthur over the head.
Michael returned to the door. His empty hand felt along the surface of the door, tapping a knuckle to select the weakest point of the wood. He found a hollow part towards the center that distorted the quiet sound. That would be his point of entry. Michael rolled his shoulders in their sockets to limber them up, head twisting to the left until the bones of his neck popped. His muscles bunched up to control their strength, and the Irishman drove that sconce forward into the wood of the door with an explosive sound.
BLAM!
He paused for a few seconds after that to listen for a reaction from inside. Hopefully no one decided to shoot him through the door. It seemed prudent to bellow a disclaimer through the breaking wood when Michael repeated the action to deliver another splintering blow to the door. "If any one o' y'bastards shoot me, s'help me Gawd Aye'll break yer spoines o'er m'knee from slappin' yer feckin' arses t'at hard! Let me t'feck in!"
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Post by Deleted on Sept 28, 2013 12:39:09 GMT -6
Everything was going to hell, things were getting worse by the minute, and Wales had no bloody idea what to do anymore. He had sought some sort of comfort from his elder brother, but all Scotland had done in reply was giving him a hard looked that discouraged disobedience and shoved him back into his chair, like he were a child and Scotland had to go clean up his mess, which this exactly was. This was all Howell's fault, though at the same time it wasn’t, it hadn’t been his fault! He didn’t mean, or want…. Okay, perhaps he had wanted to hurt England a bit but not to hack off his head, just maybe a smack across the top of his head. Now, he had a gun aimed at his head from across the room and there was nothing Howell could do to change that because sob-filed words were doing nothing, falling on deaf ears. Damp eyes, a tense body, and a emotionally disturbed Welshman watched on edge as Hamish knelt before their brother and the gun disappeared from sight.
Howell tried to lean in, but he refused to move from his chair just in case his brother had a plan, but he could not hear what they were saying, just faint syllables. The blonde shut his eyes tight and focused on centring himself, settling his breathing, and wiping away his tears. He was no longer a child but a full-grown man, a nation, one who was known for his independent nature yet he was snivelling like a child who wet the bed. Pathetic, he thought to himself, ashamed that he wasn’t owning up for his own mistakes and that his big brother had to go save him while he sat useless on the sidelines. Sighing, he wearily reopened his eyes to look over by the pair, once more unable to fully deduce what exactly what going on due to the Scotsman’s broad as a baker’s wife’s behind back. The more he watched, however, the more the sickened feeling in the pit in his stomach increased and he knew, something was amiss. He almost stood up right then and then, to at least get a better view of them, but hesitation swirled through him against making any sudden movements because it was evident that Arthur was off his rocker. Gripping the chair’s armrest tightly, the pressure of the clenching of his teeth made his jaw ache, and Wale’s heart began to hammer once more, though know it was with adrenaline. He didn’t know what was going to happen but the air was growing tenser and it felt that at any moment something was going to happen like the blast of a revolver, though Wales truly hoped that this was completely metaphorical.
BLAM!
As tightly wound up as Howell had been, the instant the explosive sound disruptive the fiddle string’s tenseness of the room’s air, Wales was moving even before second thinking could set in. It had been proven many years ago and after many competitions that amongst his brothers, Wales was the fastest, the best sprinter and also had great endurance which came in handy during the brothers’ occasional rugby or football game, or even escaping some freaking skull-head feline, so when he jolted from his chair, he bloody well knocked the damned thing over and was sliding in beside Scotland a single moment after the initial blast of sound against the thick wooden door. What was his plan? Well…. He had reacted so fast that his brain hadn’t even had a chance to think of one but it seemed reasonable that he’d reach his brothers and somehow drag them back to give the trio a far bit of space from the door so they could fight more easy, that seemed some bit of logical at least, however once Howell slid in beside Scotland, he finally saw the his brothers' interactions and it made his plans of defence within in his mind break apart.
For the second time within that damned Billiard Room, rage erupted in Howell’s veins and once again, it was directed at his little brother, and it was this anger that tightened his fist and swung his arm. His fist was aimed directly at Arthur’s hand that was holding the muzzle of his again against his temple. The force of the blow sent the weapon flying across the room, where it hit a poker table and a single round went off, astray, causing a lamp to explode and the sound of shattering glass filled the room. Wales paid no more attention of the gun for all his focus was on Arthur and his hands were at his brother’s collar and he gripped him close to his face, their noses touching. Wales was trembling so bad that more tears shook loose and he had completely forgotten about the threat at the door and about Scotland for that matter, and all he had able was to comprehend was the fact that his brother had been holding a gun to his head.
“Ya’ stupid, fookin’ idiot! The ‘ell were ya thinking? Arthur! No, Arthur, no! Bad! Nevah do thayt agayn, yah ‘ear mae! Ay’m sorreh! The ‘elll…. Oh fah christ’s sayke!” Howell was half shouting, half chastising, and half desperately crying into his brother’s face when once more a thud rattled the wood of the against the door, interrupting Wales and making him frown with annoyance as well as making his eyes go wide. In a flurry of movement and surprising strength, the man was once again on his feet but this time he held Arthur tightly against his chest, his arms beneath the Englishman’ armpits, like a little girlie holding her beloved dolly. He had started to backpedal away from the door when the most unexpected, yet familiar voice shouted from the other side of the now damaged door.
"If any one o' y'bastards shoot me, s'help me Gawd Aye'll break yer spoines o'er m'knee from slappin' yer feckin' arses t'at hard! Let me t'feck in!"
“Michael?”
Wales shouted in surprise, shock, and bewildered enlightenment, just before his heel caught something soft and before he knew what was going on, Howell holding Arthur fell back onto something soft and lumpy, also known as Scotland. The brother pile was awkward, uncomfortable, but all Wales did was grip Arthur harder, blinking incredulously, before a wild and light chuckle escaped past his lips before he was rattling with relief-enriched laughter, though it would take a lot to get England out of his arms; his hands gently fell to the back of Arthur's neck, applying pressure to the wound his hand made. He felt the wet, sticky warmth of the wound and of England's blood and Howell's laughter faltered and he sank his head back, closing his eyes, feeling awful, relieved yes, but so damn guilt ridden he didn't even know what to say at that point.
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Hamish Kirkland
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Post by Scotland on Sept 28, 2013 16:06:08 GMT -6
"You're going to protect him? He's the one that lost control, that hurt me, and even now you're acting like I'm the monster in the room. Is that the case? I tried to protect him from that creature outside and now you want to protect him from the monster in here?"
The words drew Hamish back to his normal state, his face softened as if he were happened upon a wounded animal trying to back into a corner. The youngest blonde always did seem to lash out when he feared he was alone, this interpretation of his elder brother’s words leading him to thoughts of being a monster. “You’re nae th' monster Arthur bit yer fear is aff tae turn ye intae yin. If ye shoot him thare is na undo button.” Keeping his tone low he peered into Arthur’s eyes wanting the young nation to understand what he meant. None of them were monsters in his eyes but one false move and each of them could change this. Somewhere inside the redhead he believed Arthur had the knowledge that Howell hadn’t been himself.
A glimmer of hope came to Hamish at the uncocking of the gun. England was going to stop! Leaning forward thin arms were going to wrap around his baby brother and hold him close. After they escaped this was something they could laugh about and use to sew shut another hole in the fragile relationship they had. This hell could be the savior of their relationship or curse it only added to the torn family history.
Tears? Something was wrong now, Arthur had been a crybaby for as long as Hamish could remember but something about this wasn’t normal. Ceasing movement, wide green eyes watched closely not sure as to what was about to happen.
Mouth going dry Scotland found himself frozen in place only able to watch the Englishman in horror. Peace? How do you intend to give us peace by dying? Y-you’re my… no our little angel! Anything he wanted to yell at the idiotic blonde was trapped within his head unable to find its way out. Realizing there was nothing he could do to stop Arthur his mind blanked leaving only one thought.
This is entirely my fault…
Hamish hadn’t realized his eyes had fallen shut waiting until they flew open at the sound of something colliding with the door. Had the beast the two younger blondes been telling him about return to catch its prey? Being too weak to stop the destruction of his family within didn’t mean he wasn’t able to save them from some fowl beast. They didn’t need the help of some monster at tearing the family apart; Hamish knew from past experiences they were rather experts at destroying their own relationships.
A gunshot made Hamish curl in on himself and look toward Arthur as if expecting to see the blonde now fallen over dead. Realizing the gun was no longer in England’s possession Scotland’s eyes searched around the room trying to locate the gun. Giving a sigh of relief seeing now that the weapon couldn’t be turned against any of the brothers.
“Ya’ stupid, fookin’ idiot! The ‘ell were ya thinking! Arthur! No, Arthur no! Bad! Nevah do thayt agayn, yah ‘ear! Ay’m sorreh! The ‘elll…. Oh fah christ’s sayke!”
The dramatic scene that had just been unfolding was forgotten upon hearing Howell’s scolding. Each frantic word brought a smile back to his face knowing that this wasn’t the end of their family just yet. Within the family each of their brothers had their strengths and Howell’s always seemed to be the ability to comfort his siblings. Seeing how the mess haired blonde could always fix things made Hamish jealous but also appreciate the usually silent brother. How many fights had Wales had to end for them?
"If any one o' y'bastards shoot me, s'help me Gawd Aye'll break yer spoines o'er m'knee from slappin' yer feckin' arses t'at hard! Let me t'feck in!"
The familiarity of the voice caused the redhead to light up, it didn’t matter that the eldest brother was threatening to take them over his knee. As he was about to dart toward the door the two blonde fell on him pinning his body to the floor. Squirming and fighting to push the small brothers off Hamish pulled his body across the floor in an attempt to free himself. Giving one last shove at the giggling blonde he managed to free himself but not yet gaining his foot toppled back to the floor. His body had yet to leave the shocked state but that wasn’t going to stop the Scotsman from letting in his eldest brother.
Peeling his body off the floor and stabilizing using the billiards table the awkward redhead ran to the blocked door. Presses his back against the side of the table Hamish dug his feet into the floor and pushed at the table gradually moving it out of the way.
Flipping the lock pale fingers wrapped around the knob he threw open the door before the angry Irishman could take another swing at the door. The door was a means to keep any of the creatures trying to kill them out and give them time to prepare so he wasn’t going to allow Michael to break that down. Throwing his arms around the other ginger man tears form in the corners of Hamish’s eyes.
“Mìcheal thank god ye'r 'ere!” Relaxing his grip a bit the younger redhead gave Michael a sloppy kiss.
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Arthur Kirkland
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Post by England on Oct 3, 2013 16:47:20 GMT -6
The events of the room had become a haze. Hearing the explosive sound of the door nearly caused him to squeeze the trigger on reflex, yet Arthur was too seasoned a marksman to make such a blunder. His wet eyes were wide when Howell came hurrying at him to knock that gun away. He flinched at the sound of it going off. The bullet meant for his skull shattered the lamp. Arthur didn't even have time to really look at it before his body was being hauled up in Howell's grip. His eyes squinted with pain as the grip on his collar further smeared the blood oozing from the wound on his neck, and Arthur had to clench his teeth in order to keep from crying out from the burning ache.
His feet went stumbling along as the Welshman hauled him up to move away from the door, when that thunderous sound came again. He wasn't prepared for the beast to get inside! Arthur's confused brain was spinning on its wheels, too many thoughts racing out of order all at once, like a flip-book with pages being fanned through rapidly. All the Englishman could do was cling numbly to Howell as he was forced to stumble along under the older man's control. When they fell forward, he heard both Howell and Hamish speak on the heels of Michael's voice. No, no, no -- not him too. That was the singular thought that managed to rise from the others at the idea that the Irishman might be joining them here.
It was just one more piece clicking into place that further convinced Arthur this place was hell.
When he felt a hand press down on his neck to apply pressure to the wound, his instinct was to slap it away. He was coiled too tightly for that contact on such a vulnerable point. His hand sought to move to do so but Arthur's energy was taxed too much for him to manage even that small motion. He surrendered down onto the warmth of Howell's chest instead of seeking his escape, face tucked into the fabric of the Welshman's costume. Arthur didn't even pay the slightest attention to Hamish letting Michael inside the room.
If it was a trap, then they'd all die. However, when he did turn his head just enough to peek at the door, Michael's familiar figure seemed real enough. If it was an illusion, they had certainly copied the Irishman's cocky swagger well. He grunted, speaking the first words he'd spoken since making his farewells. "Don't... leave the door open."
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Post by Ireland on Oct 3, 2013 16:51:56 GMT -6
Michael's efforts to get the door open had results. Smashing things and making loud noises tended to make other people respond; the formula didn't fail him this time either. He heard the sound of his name from inside the room, recognizing Howell's voice. The Welshman sounded happy(?), though there was an edge to it that sounded off. Whatever had been going on in this room had created an aura of tension so thick it could be cut. It was probably Arthur up to his usual tricks. The English bastard was always making trouble for them in one way or another.
Though he had spent all this time in the Manor perfectly content to be on his own, it came as a relief that Michael would never admit to that he'd succeeded in finding his siblings. That mentality regarding his kin wasn't too different from the world outside of here. The Irish nation could go for weeks or months living his life before any thoughts of his brothers surfaced. He'd created that distance between them deliberately when he'd broken off from all their unions, and even further when Eoin had informed him that he was casting his lost with the Kingdom. Michael had made the conscious decision then to let them all fumble along with out him.
There were just those occasional circumstances -- like this -- where the Irishman couldn't leave them to fend for themselves. Even if he was technically different now from their little family, those old blood ties remained. As the eldest of them, Michael felt obligated to step in when the chips were down and this lot seemed like they couldn't muddle through without a guiding hand. As much as it irritated him that he felt that lingering concern for his brothers (Grown up as they were, they should have known by now how to stay out of trouble like this.), the Irishman couldn't turn it off, and if it dragged him into their chaos then so be it. If they dropped too much trouble into his lap then he'd just take it out of their hides later to make up for it, as that implied threat of spanking was not a false one.
He was relieved when the door was opened for him. Getting greeted by a kiss from Hamish was an especially nice touch. His hand raised up, the broken metal weight in his other one left to hang at his side while Michael ruffled fingers through the Scotsman's hair. "A'roight t'ere, HamFace?" The Irishman's taller, broader body muscled Hamish back inside while he took another kiss from the redhead. That kind of affection with his siblings -- the ones on his good side -- wasn't unfamiliar to him.
Once their bodies were inside, he kicked the battered door shut behind them. Bright green eyes took in the situation from within now that the door wasn't obscuring most of his view. Howell and Arthur were in a tangle, and Howell seemed to be fussing over the English brat for some reason. Michael squinted (he would never admit to needing glasses in his old age), until he noticed the blood that was seeping from Arthur's neck across Howell's fingers. "Whit t'hell have y'miscreants been gettin' up to in hare? Are y'foinally killin' him off? Can Aye watch?"
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Post by Deleted on Oct 11, 2013 18:27:34 GMT -6
Even when England flinched at his touch and it would seemed like he was going to pull away, Howell kept pressure on the very wound he had inflicted, his hold remained strong, though his lower lip quivered with suppressed tears and heartbreak. To his surprise however, Arthur settled again, relaxing upon him, almost tenderly, and Wales lessoned his grip to be less holding his baby brother but more embracing, all the while keeping his hand firmly on the back of the Englishman’s neck. It was true that all of England’s brothers had their ill feelings towards him, Howell included, but he was still his brother and he loved him…. mostly, sometimes, like right now. Within these walls of evil there was no time for trivial feuds among brothers, that could wait for when they got out. A shaken breath heaved out of Wales’ chest as he tried desperately not to disturb the settled blonde on him but he would be lying if having Arthur on his chest didn’t hurt, his bruises wee quite annoyed with the weight, but it was a brother’s weight to bear.
His head is throbbing, his body is sore, and his eyes itch with the cravings to shed tears, but Wales just sighed and dully looked up at the ceiling, a frown on his lips. Somewhere towards the door, he can hear the two oldest of the brothers speaking, Ireland and Scotland, but Wales wasn’t paying them much attention. He knew of their relationship, as odd as he thought it was, and didn’t delve too deeply in it and kept to himself in his own country. His brothers were weird; the whole lot of them, and Howell very much considered himself the sanest. Not far away was his sheath of his cane and he knew that eventually he would need to retrieve his weapon, because it was the only one he had and was quite good at wielding it, perhaps too good.
"Don't... leave the door open."
His eyes shifted down to the crown of Arthur’s head, gentleness eased his expression, and his eyes flickered over towards Michael and Hamish, the tall brutes that they were. Howell’s own green eyes watched the pair enter the room and close and relock the door behind them. Michael, with his composure of uncaring indifference and arrogance, came into view with his orange tinted hair and all.
"Whit t'hell have y'miscreants been gettin' up to in hare? Are y'foinally killin' him off? Can Aye watch?"
Howell’s eyes shot wide, as did his mouth, and creasing his brow he spat out with so much venom that he rarely, if ever, used, “You shut ya fayce there, Michael! Ay'mayn et! Now shove off!” His expression of disgust and anger hopefully left a mark, because Howell didn’t hold it for long as another huge wave of guilt washed over his and he dropped his head back onto the floor with a dull thud. Michael’s words rocked him to the core and shook free the tears from his eyes. Bastard… sick, sick bastard… Why did he have to make him feel even worse? He retracted his one arm from Arthur but kept his hand on his neck; as soon and Arthur left him, he’d go collect his cane and sword and go sit in the corner.
He had a lot to think about…
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Arthur Kirkland
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Post by England on Oct 15, 2013 1:41:02 GMT -6
The presence of Ireland always tended to shatter any kind of peace England might be feeling at any given time. Right now was no exception. He had been prepared just to remain rested there with Howell, to let his mind rebuild itself from the earlier chaos. And part of him was embarrassed. How would he explain to his siblings that it had not been him pulling such a dangerous, dramatic stunt there with his gun? Whatever had possessed him -- just as it had done to Howell -- had amplified his emotions beyond the point of his control.
It bothered Arthur that he'd opened himself up to the outside influences in this place. His aura felt tainted from whatever impure energy had passed through it, leaving those shields smeared with a residue of evil. He had been doing so well in keeping it all at bay, too. Leave it to his brothers, the few men that had control over his feelings in ways no one else did, to be the cause for him to lose his grip enough for some unwelcome force to slip into his brain and play him like a puppet. Most of all, it unnerved Arthur that it had dragged up feelings that he wouldn't normally acknowledge; his depression, his guilt -- those unpleasant emotions that the Englishman kept buried deep beneath his gruff outward demeanour. Having a foreign entity sort through his secrets and hidden emotions felt like he'd been violated.
Hearing Howell speak so harshly to Michael surprised him. Arthur wasn't expecting for the other man to speak up on his behalf. These three rarely demonstrated any fondness or loyalty to him. He certainly wasn't expecting anything different now. That earlier hope was completely erased. Now he was just numb, and the venom in Howell's voice when he snapped at the Irishman offered the Englishman no comfort.
Because Arthur also knew, with an aching heart, that if his sadness and guilt had been amplified from that force, then Howell's anger and hate wasn't merely made up. It was as real in the Welshman as Arthur's own feelings. He sighed out quietly, pushing himself up free of Howell's embrace. His hand pushed away that other one, replacing it with his own. Arthur sat with his back to the other men, distracting himself with the task of trying to get fabric torn from the bottom of his shirt so he could wrap that wound. He answered Michael's question over his shoulder. "I'm not dead yet, that's for sure. Everyone will have to try a little harder. And I'm not about to let my shields drop enough to let a nasty possessing spirit put my own bleeding gun to my head again. Just give me another minute here while I'm in my own right mind to think. If Michael made it here, then that's nearly everyone."
Arthur's head was throbbing in pain. His whole body ached. He had come in here strong, and confident to face whatever dangers would be directed at him by the Manor. What he had not anticipated was that seeking a reunion with his brothers was going to damage him more than any other trial in this place that he'd encountered so far. Arthur tied a knot in the strip of fabric he'd wrapped around his throat. He'd just have to ignore the fact that a perfectly good button down had been ruined for this. Just like his far-fetched notion of any repairs being made to their relationships for the sake of getting out of here. That was in tatters too.
He pressed up on his feet, walking with halting steps to go locate his gun from where it had fallen. One less bullet to protect himself with if he needed it. Arthur opened the chamber to check how many were left, and sighed quietly before pressing the clip back into place. "You lot figure out what you're doing. I'm going to make my own way out from here."
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Hamish Kirkland
Administrator
Homosexual.
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Post by Scotland on Oct 15, 2013 13:15:55 GMT -6
The gentle feel of fingers running through his hair dampened by sweat was helped relax the tallest brother but thoughts of just what took place still roamed his mind. Even if he was not going to help with the situation the presence of Ireland was something that, as usual, calmed Hamish some from whatever this chaos made him feel. It was rather uncertain to the Scot whether he was feeling anger, fear, or even guilt, perhaps a mixture of all for what just happened. Part of him wanted to just cling to Michael in hopes he would be able to help. The Irishman had helped him overcome famines and mascaras but he wasn’t going to be much of a hand when trapped in this place.
"A'roight t'ere, HamFace?" Inside he wished he could claim it was all fine, it was always all fine with their family. No matter the event they always seemed to pull through. Flashing a glance back toward the two blondes he knew this wasn’t like the rest of those times. “Na, this hell hole is daein' something tae us. It's destroying whit we worked sae hard tae become.” There was a slight crack in his voice as he felt himself almost just wanting to give in to the evil that surrounded them. Nothing was pure about him anymore, his hands, long ago, stained with the blood of his brothers. Why had whatever evil only used the other two so far? How could he protect his family from something he couldn’t see?
Feeling the first push of the broader body moving his backwards Scotland just complied and began taking small steps back allowing Ireland to lead him back into the room, trusting the male to stop him when they were safely inside. During this slow movement thin arms snaked around Michael’s neck using him as support for if he was forced to a sudden stop. Sharing a second kiss with Michael, the feeling of their lips pressed together was a familiar sensation that was another comfort to the Scotsman.
"Whit t'hell have y'miscreants been gettin' up to in hare? Are y'foinally killin' him off? Can Aye watch?" Any loving and calm feeling that had once been present within Hamish were dashed with Michael’s words. His limbs were ripped away from the other ginger and his bottle green eyes narrowed at the eldest brother as if daring him to repeat himself. While Hamish didn’t have the same muscled frame as Michael he did often find himself in bar fights and learned where to hit if he wanted to cause pain to the broad man. Moving slightly to the side of Michael he gave a hook to the Irishman’s lower back aiming to hit one of his kidneys. Shifting around the male he took hold of the scythe he had left leaning against the wall during all the madness. Pressing the blade to Michael’s neck, making sure to only use enough pressure to make the presence known but not cut the skin, he gave the ginger a warning look, “Gonnae say that again Mìcheal?” The look he gave his elder brother told him it was not time to joke, something had happened before he found them.
Even through his anger the red head could understand why his brother didn’t show concern for Arthur’s wellbeing. They were nations after all a scratch like that was normally nothing but things weren’t the same here as they were back home. Also he always believed Michael to be the only that held a grudge against Arthur more than the rest, they all had their fair share of horrible acts to each other but something told Hamish that Michael never forgave one of Arthur’s actions. Pulling the blade from Michael’s neck one more look was flashed between the two gingers, one asking for Michael just to help them.
Moving away from the eldest Hamish dropped his scythe not feeling he needed it anymore and moved toward the bar. Stopping along his path he collected Howell’s sword and the cane like sheath it normally was kept inside. Giving a glance at the bloodied sword he ran the blade along his pant leg in hopes of cleansing it of some of the blood soaking it. Sliding it back into the sheath he continued to the bar and grabbed the first bottle his hands found, vodka it would work for his purpose. Still not uttering a single word Scotland found himself next to the two blondes that had only moment before been a tangle of limbs. Once the cane traded hands and once again was in Howell’s possession Hamish turned his attention back to Arthur, the baby of the family who after getting them together begun to push them all away once more. Snatching Arthur’s arm with his now free hand the blonde was pulled to the floor along with him. “Ye'r nae goin awa us. Arthur please.”
“This is aff tae hurt. A'm sorry,” Were his only words before he snatched the fabric from around the bloodied neck he opened the bottle. Holding the small blonde against his chest the clear liquid was poured over the wound. Giving a small cringe himself getting some of the liquid in the wound on his hand he knew this had to hurt but it was the only way he could be sure the wound was treated. The once full bottle was nearly empty by the time thin fingers placed it on the ground. Reaching out the thing fingers wrapped around Howell pulling him into the embrace. "Mìcheal come jyne," Not removing his glance from the two blondes he gave a weak call to Ireland.
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Post by Ireland on Oct 29, 2013 21:35:05 GMT -6
Apparently his sense of humor did not earn him any fans. Michael's attempt to lighten the mood resulted in such powerful negative reactions that the Irishman was thrown into silence. He grunted when Hamish punched his side with a fist, and the only thing that stopped him from retaliating with pounding his fists into the Scotsman's face until he saw nothing except blood was the presence of that scythe to his throat. Narrowed green was directed at Hamish in warning. Whatever he might have just walked into, Michael wasn't the type to take kindly to this kind of violence out of the blue. It was fortunate that Hamish took that blade away and turned when he did. Otherwise there would have been a brawl right there on the floor of the billiard room that Michael was sure he would have won judging by how haggard the other man looked.
"S'sarry if Aye interrupted y'ladies cryin' int'yer teacups. T'is place must rally have got t'all o' ye if yer all in such pissy moods." The Irishman finally observed once their attention had turned away from him. He twitched his head to the left until there was an audible pop in the bones. It was the fastest way to release his tension. Obviously anger wasn't going to help this situation when the other three were already cross. Though checking that rage of his was never an easy task. It remained beneath the surface of his demeanor as Michael looked around the room to take note of all the blood and ruin that was visible here.
The door at least was locked. The Irishman showed no real interest in joining their close huddling that Hamish pulled the two blondes into. Affectionate familial bonding was not a concept he was comfortable with. Instead, he strode over to stand a small distance away from the three to watch as Hamish poured all that alcohol on Arthur's neck wound. The injury probably didn't hurt as badly as the Scotsman's method of cleaning it did. Michael had been forced to use liquor in the past to clean a wound and the impurities in the alcohol made the burn even worse. He passively pulled out a lighter and cigarette to start smoking. This room reeked of old cigars anyway beneath the layer of dust.
This was usually how things worked out whenever they got together. He had never been attached as the other three were. Perhaps because his land was removed from them. They were locked together there in the middle of the water, while Michael was the outsider looking in that merely shared history and cultures in bits and pieces. The only person that he could identify with was little North Ireland. But even that man had more interest in the dealings of these three than he did in Michael. So as much as the Irishman might have liked to offer them the comfort that they clearly needed, it didn't feel like his place to do so. He was the black sheep here, the outsider, and nothing aside from a major facelift to the planet was going to bring him into unity with the trio.
Michael watched them cling together, tapping out ashes onto the floor near their feet. "Y'all look loike ye've been t'rough hell. Apparently Aye'm t'only one t'at has managed t'stay out o' trouble? T'at's got t'be a farst. And if t'English brat wants t'go scurryin' off back t'his hole, let 'em. In t'meantoime -- Hamish, Howell -- y'want t'explain why yer all lookin' so spooked? Aye jus' got hare."
He finally relented from his initial anger. A large hand lowered to ruffle all three sets of hair into a tousled mess. He smiled big around the cigarette dangling in his mouth, in counter to their misery. "Tell big brot'er aaaaall about it. Aye'll make it all better. Maybe. Nor not. It depends. Y'should tell me anyway, 'cause Aye don't loike not knowin' when Aye'm involved in all t'is mess now. So somebody 'fess up. Why are y'all hare, why are we still hare, and whit are we goin' t'do next?"
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Post by Deleted on Nov 4, 2013 11:14:58 GMT -6
Howell was tired. The nation knew he was at his limits and that was causing him to not care anymore. That said, when England pried the Welshman’s fingers away, Howell let him, not even glancing at him, only swallowing down his hurt in silence and continued to lay where he was. The only ting he did do however was to carefully pry away the bloody leather gloves from his chilled fingers and threw them aside, leaving his fair fingers clean and untouched by the blood, though they were still dripping with it. Ironically, Macbeth had nothing to do with Wales but in that moment he felt like he could sit down with Lady Macbeth and have a coffee with some small talk. Sighing, Wales blinked slowly, still staring at the ceiling, while around him England was going off again all high and mighty like, while Scotland’s long stride announced his arrival by Howell’s side.
With his elder brother beside him, Howell made the attempt to sit up, a grimace flashing through his eyes and pain clamped his teeth together from the tight soreness in his abdominal muscles. Sitting upright was a struggle, so much so the blonde’s head spun and a wave of nausea clawed at his sore belly. While he focused not to vomit or make any sound whatsoever, Howell lost track of what his loud brothers were saying, so when Hamish wordlessly passed him his swordstick, Howell took it without a second though until he finally looked at it and his breath caught and his bright green eyes deepened with repressed age and terrible sadness. His thumb rubbed the side of the metal dragon head, its ornately carved deadly beauty made Howell shiver, but the man’s moment of grim nostalgia was short lived when all of sudden Arthur appeared in front of him and with surprised eyes, Howell glanced at his brother Hamish just when the Scotsman uttered, “This is aff tae hurt. A'm sorry”.
Slow to understand, Howell flinched back when the vodka was forcefully poured onto their little brother, words caught in his throat in some sort of reply. The cool splash of the liquor on his cheek was enough to kick Howell to react somehow, forgoing his own injuries and tiredness with caring entirely, to shrug out of his costume’s coat, undo his vest, to reveal his chemise. His brow was creased in determination and surprised pain, the boy, managed to pull the shirt over his head and began to tear long strips from the long shirt’s bottom. Unfortunately, the light of the room brought out the darkening tones of Wale’s skin, his bruises, the darkest of purples maturing across his back and his stomach. If Howell saw these, he didn’t acknowledge them at least, focusing on tying the strips of material into a makeshift bandage which he proceeded to wrap tenderly around England’s violently disinfected neck until Howell pull back his hands to leave his handiwork to be taken or ripped off, either way Howell wouldn’t speak up about it.
Silently, keeping to his own, Howell pulled the chemise back over his head, taking a moment when his head was hidden by the material of the shirt to allow the pain contort his features, before he continued to redress. Looming over the Scotland, England and himself was big brother Ireland, the whiff of his smoke an odd comfort, speaking in his low voice about wanting some kind of explanation. Howell was refastening his vest when Michael’s hand came to ruffle his already untamed locks but Wales gave him no glance. Slipping stiff arms into his coat, Howell gripped his seemingly harmless cane to help him stand, leaning heavily on its support. How cruel you are irony…. Standing full height before Ireland, the top of his head barely reaching his brothers chin. Meeting his brother’s eyes, he redid his coat with some shred of dignity, blinked with an indifference which was uncharacteristically his, before walking off without a sound from his brothers towards a small settee, the thump of his cane muffled by the floor’s carpet. He had a lot to think about after all and his brothers’ voices were much too loud for the throbbing headache prompting him to rest. It was neither the time nor place for story time for Ireland; Hamish could do that for him, he liked telling stories.
Sitting on the small sofa, comfortably was not a thought when it came to this furniture, the blonde sat back and set both his hand on his cane’s head, set back his head, shut his eyes, and hoped to any deity to just pass out from exhaustion. There were legitimate reasons why Howell segregated himself from his brothers on a normal basis, back in the real world. However sleep eluded him, mainly due to the droplet of water the plopped onto his nose which made him frown in irritation and his eyes peeked open a sliver. What now?
{Sorry for the post... I had trouble with this one, and feel free to import the flood event IF YOU GUYS WANT. I opened up that option if we wanted to start a PArt 2 thread)
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Arthur Kirkland
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Post by England on Nov 12, 2013 8:05:05 GMT -6
Arthur's mind was already far away from the other men in the room. He was thinking ahead for his next move. Michael's voice was an accented buzz that the Englishman tuned out automatically in habit. Whatever the Irishman had to say to him it was likely mocking, if not outright insulting, and none of that was what Arthur needed to hear right now. He was repairing his defenses. The shields in his aura that he'd put up as armour against the influences of the manor had taken severe damage with that temporary possession. Arthur felt tainted. There was no pure energy to use in order to patch those chinks. His blood had stained the location and the location had stained him.
He hadn't expected Hamish to take hold of him so suddenly. The grip of the Scotsman caused Arthur to jump in place, and a fist was lifted in the preview of a responding punch until the manhandling had him scrambling just to maintain his footing. Hamish was just too bloody strong. Arthur squirmed in the loop of the redhead's arm without comprehension of what the man was going to do -- until he spoke. “This is aff tae hurt. A'm sorry."
The Englishman's head twisted around just in time to catch a glimpse of that upraised bottle. Then white hot agony came raining down upon the wound on the back of his neck. He had sense enough to clap a hand tightly over his mouth. This muffled the noise that burst out of him, a choked howl of pain contained behind Arthur's palm. If he had let that sound come free then it might have alerted everything in the vicinity where their location was. Arthur went thrashing in Hamish's arm with even more force than before. The bastard could have warned him!
Tears were standing out on green eyes from the intensity of that pain. The crude method of disinfecting the wound was a harsh reminder of the times before advanced medicine. If Arthur thought it would heal on its own he would have just left the injury to scab over and heal on its own without bothering to cleanse it. Hamish appeared to believe that it wasn't such a temporary wound considering his decision to disinfect it. Who knew where Howell's blade had last been before it was slicing into his skin? It was better safe than sorry. Arthur was just very, very sorry already to have to go through this.
Once the flow of the vodka stopped, his hand remained clamped in place even when the trickle ceased. His body was trembling violently and the scent of the alcohol permeated the air around the Englishman. He slumped once Hamish gave him leeway to do so and fought hard not to vomit. That was the last thing he needed. Even if vomiting on Hamish's shoes felt like it would be poetic justice for putting him in this state. Arthur's chest heaved strongly as he fought not to hyperventilate, dizzy enough already.
When Howell began to redress his wound he was finally surfacing out of that daze. The burning still continued along the fringes of the cut but it was a manageable ache. He leaned his weight towards the Welshman as those calm, steady fingers moved gently to guide those makeshift linens into place. He angled a squint of pained gratitude to his elder brother when Howell finished and started to move away from him. Arthur wasn't making any move to get to his feet. Sitting right there on the floor seemed better than trying to test if his knees were steady enough to support him. The Englishman touched a trembling hand to the bandages. They'd hold well. Arthur guided the collar of his shirt higher to mask them, popping his jacket's collar up as an additional layer to shield the injury. His hand then settled upon the floor beside his hip.
That's when he felt the rumbling.
Something was amiss. Majorly so. He scowled as he tracked his gaze along the floor in the direction of the door. Had the beast finally come to hunt them down? Arthur was puzzled when he saw a slow trickle of water coming streaming in beneath the crack of the door. That liquid was traveling fast and the rumbling beneath his palm was getting worse.
Arthur gingerly pushed upwards. There was a low humming that he could hear now too. He couldn't place the direction. A dreadful feeling was quickly replacing his exhaustion. "Brothers. I think there's something coming. Do you lot see the water coming in through the door, or am I hallucinating?"
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Hamish Kirkland
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Post by Scotland on Nov 17, 2013 15:19:48 GMT -6
Michael’s narrowed eyes gave Hamish the only warning he needed when the Irishman was involved. Long ago when the two were children he learned never to challenge his elder brother if he didn’t want to be shown his place. The Scotsman had accepted his place as being submissive to Michael and somewhat felt nervous as he pulled the scythe from the ginger’s throat. He couldn’t be sure if Michael would attack once the blade was removed of if his punishment would even come into existence during the time with their brothers but either way he would be careful not to test the elder’s temper once more. If the two were to fight Hamish was aware that he wouldn’t be able to take on his brother, Michael had strength he didn’t possess.
The observation earned a slight chuckle from Hamish. Even in the serious moments such as this Michael managed to insult them with some sort of comment about them being effeminate men. Turning back to glance at the agitated Irishman, Hamish faced him one of his infamous shit eating grin, “Yer juist jealous Arthur didnae invite ye tae oor wee teaparty.” Trying to get a laugh out of Michael was one way Hamish believed he could defuse the tension and bring a little light back to the room. The manor seemed to turn them against each other, not that it was uncommon for the British Isles to fight amongst themselves.
Turning his attention back to cleansing the wound he held Arthur tight not allowing him to pull away from the liquid fire being poured over his wound. He knew the small blonde would only be able to struggle against the pain and scream in agony as the alcohol ran down his neck soaking the back of his shirt. Giving any form of warning didn’t seem as an option for Hamish, if Arthur knew what he planned he would have tried to fight more. Just getting the process over and done with was the other concern at the moment. If he continued to wait who knew what would find way into the wound and make the youngest brother sick. Tears forming in the emerald eyes did make Hamish question his own actions but he knew this was for the best. It was too late to back out now. Something within the manor told him they would heal as they once did. If the wound were to go untreated who could say it wouldn’t fester, as the human wounds seemed to do. The blade used to slice into the pale skin was aged and could have scratches holding any sort of disease from the outside just waiting to weak the Englishman and steal his life from him.
Glancing at the trembling form that remained in his arms Hamish peppered gentle kisses against the mess of blonde hair. It was all he could manage in hopes of calming his brother. It was over the pain had stopped and he would be there to hold his baby brother until the Englishman felt he could stand on his own. A silent hope within the ginger was the pain wouldn’t cause Arthur to vomit on him; it was the last thing he wished to deal with at this time. Bandages were not something Hamish had thought about when he formed his plan to cleanse the wound. The thought only came when Howell began to dress the wound protecting it to avoid needing to clean it once more. Looking at the serious blonde Hamish gave a short nod to show his thanks for the help at treating the wound. He wasn’t used to being the one taking care of anyone. Often he found one of his siblings caring for him as he managed to drink himself sick or injure himself during one of his many bar brawls.
Feeling Arthur was able to support himself Hamish released the blonde and allowed him to fuss with his collar trying to hide the bandages. Blood already appeared to have stained his once white shirt when he poured the vodka down the back of the blonde’s neck.
The hand ruffling the mess of red hair reminded Hamish that his eldest brother was still in the room with them. He cared for his brother but often forgot he was in the room due to having to focus on his younger siblings and the mess that always seemed to follow them. Even if the ruffle was a bit rough for his taste Hamish felt a bit relaxed once more being reminded that Michael appeared to not left them to deal with their own mess. Moving away from Arthur the Scots rested his head against Michael’s leg making the ginger his makeshift pillow. “This hell is daein' something tae us. Something awready tried tae mak' a meal o' Howell afore ah managed tae turn up 'n' it seems tae be magnifying negative feelin`s.” There was a long story to tell explaining all that happened in the room but Hamish knew he could shorten it to the little he understood. Even though he had been present the entire time he found himself struggling to explain what happened in the short amount of time. “Something git tae Howell 'n' he attempted tae murdurr Arthur fur yin o' his insults. Th' identical presense seemed tae gang tae Arthur 'n' he a'maist murdurred his-sel. Sae far it ainlie made me feel numb.” Michael wanted to know and this was the only reason Hamish bothered to explain what happened. No matter what they wouldn’t manage to change what had happened here or fix anything but Michael had a right to know.
Before Arthur’s voice managed to register Hamish could feel something, something calming. Closing his eyes and sucking in a breath he could feel something in the air that reminded him of home, rain. It was raining! At first he didn’t seem to notice how weird the rain was until he heard the youngest blonde speak.
"Brothers. I think there's something coming. Do you lot see the water coming in through the door, or am I hallucinating?" Bottle green eyes snapped open and turned toward the door seeing water began to pool underneath the wood. The rain was inside… It was raining inside the manor meaning if they didn’t move they could drown.
They had to escape before the water became too much for them. Arthur was the only one who had yet to learn to swim but Howell wasn’t doing so well himself. If it weren’t for Michael’s presence Hamish wasn’t sure what he would do. “Git up a' o' ye we need tae gang noo! A' o' ye hae tae be able tae smell it. If we bade 'ere we ur aff tae drown noo c'moan. Mìcheal please carry Howell ah will tak' Arthur.” Standing up the tallest brother moved toward the small blonde and bent down to his height as if to tell the youngest to get on his back.
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Post by Ireland on Nov 22, 2013 7:01:57 GMT -6
As difficult as it was for him to stay still for long, Michael took the time to listen to Hamish's explanation of everything that had been going on in the room before his arrival. He frowned at the description that Howell and Arthur might have been possessed. His hand moved of its own accord to sink deep into his pocket where the Irishman had moved his rosaries to once the true colors of the environment around them had shown. The evil here was strong and part of Michael knew that even if he adamantly kept all practice of those old magics buried deep beneath his modern life. Just the subject had him scraping the side of his index finger over the shapes of those rosary beads, and the ice cold metal with its engraving of the Virgin Mary. Michael wasn't frightened by anything he might experience here, no, yet there was no harm in clinging to beliefs at a time like this.
He sucked it up and dove headfirst into responding to Hamish's words. "Jaysus, Mary and Joseph -- y'boys should know better t'an t'at. If it wants yer bad energy t'feed off of, t'one t'ing ye never do is give it whit it wants. Ye do t'opposite. Sare, we've all got plenty o' bad feelin's and we'll prob'ly have t'square it out one o' t'ese days. Now isn't t'toime t'dwell on all t'at. We have t'keep our heads toget'er or else it's goin' t'happen again. If it wants bad energy, ye give it good. If it wants in, ye push it out. It's fecking mad lettin' yer guards down long enough far any evil hare t'foind it's way into ye."
His empty hand lifted to pat at his chest. "Aye'm not lettin' any bad t'ing get itself in me. Aye refuse. Ye lot should be focusin' on doin' t'same, instead o' havin' rows and bein' stubborn and holdin' grudges. We can do t'at when we get home, alroight? Far now yer just goin' t'have to pull yer big boy britches on and rely on each ot'er if we're goin' t'get out o' hare. If ye can't do it t'en Aye'll knock yer feckin' skulls toget'er until it's wedged in yer brains. Y'got me?"
There was no question that the Irishman was being honest with that threat. He would smash their heads with casual violence and no sense of remorse if he thought it would knock sense into them. It didn't take any influence from the Manor to lean Michael towards cruel behavior. Michael was very much at home in such a place. If any of his brothers considered testing him to see if he were telling the truth then they'd be the first one to receive a blow to the skull.
He squinted over when the presence of water in the room became more noticeable. There was nothing natural about their environment. This sudden spill of water around them was a little new. If only he felt a little more surprised by the unnatural. Michael swore instead of marveling over the oddity of the water pooling in from above and from below the door. He waved Hamish off to signal that he'd heard the Scotsman, steps already slinking him over to where Howell was at rest.
Both hands lifted to beckon to the Welshman, urgent and no-nonsense. "Come on, Howell. Befare t'water gets too high. Aye hope y'remembered t'pack yer swimmin' trunks. It's about t'get wet in hare."
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Post by Deleted on Dec 7, 2013 19:23:20 GMT -6
The water dripping persisted onto his nose, so Wales just scooted over on the settee and shut his eyes. He practically fell asleep instantly, except for one nagging thing that disturbed his flight upon a dragon’s back, the fact that he could still hear his brother’s talking even over the roar of the wind. From afar, he swore he caught Scotland’s voice mix with Ireland’s brogue and it made Howell’s dream-self frown and cross his arms. Even thousands of feet up in the air, he still couldn’t get rid of his violent and loud family. What did a nation have to do for some peace and quite? Around him stretched out the landscape of his beloved country and its rolling hills. To his left, far out in the distance, stretched the presence of the Atlantic. The dragon that he rode was one he wasn’t faintly familiar with, for normally Wales rode a great green dragon that was a pleasant friend of Howell’s. This black dragon was smaller, sleeker, and somewhat more rigid than the blonde’s friend, whose name cannot be spelt out in English. Al the same, dream-Howell was just glad to be dreaming and be back in familiar spaces, wide-open skies, and the warmth of a dragon’s back. Sitting cross-legged, Howell was able to tap his chin thoughtfully, mulling over his experiences in the manor thus far. He’d been alone for a while, had a run-in with a nasty big kitty, got holed in with his brothers, wanted to kill Arthur, and felt like the football after a game, kicked a thousand times and thrown to the ground at least a hundred. Sighing, the blonde scratched his nose and patted the dragon beneath him, though he blinked when the beast didn’t say anything, instead began to decline down towards the ground headed towards a secluded lake in Wale’s hills. “Hm…” Howell muttered, a bit surprised but figured since it was a dream, it was supposed to be random and irregularity. Soon enough, he great dark creature was lightly skimming across the lake’s surface, making a lazy circling, before slipping into the water, closing in it’s winds and began to swim through the water like that of a serpent. Howell just sat on its back, being sprayed by water, as his dragon slowly plowed through the water, with its head, neck and back above the surface. Howell stared over into the dark depths, spun around in his seat to dip his shoes into the water. The coldness of the lake felt nice even though it was soaking his shoes and pants, but he didn’t mind. “Et bae so payseful ‘ere…” He muttered, smiling bright and looking at the dragon, “Oi! Yah kno’ow much ay could use yah and ye kin en thayt house? Ay fayl layke ay’ll die of fright any minute!”In response the dragon just turned it’s head to look down at the Welshman, it’s eyes blood red, which made Howell shiver having nothing to do with the rising water. “Noooooottttttt yetttttt…” The dragon’s deep rumbling thunder of a voice filled Wale’s ears and made him cringe as he stared wide-eyed up at the creature, feeling fear of a dragon for the first time since…. Since before he could remember actually. A jolt made him jump as the dragon began to thrash slightly, rousing waves and jostling Howell from his seat, and he realized that the beast was laughing. The water began to rise up his legs and the blonde gasped when he felt his ride begin to dip more into the water. “Howelllll… Come on Howelll… Befare t'water gets too high. Aye hope y'remembered t'pack yer swimmin' trunks. It's about t'get wet in hare."“Wha-?” He began before the dragon disappeared under the waves, throwing Howell into the drink and he opened his eyes with a start to behold a troubling sight, Ireland standing over him. Blinking sleepily, Howell’s adorableness came out gaping up at his biggest of brothers with a dopey expression. The mage of the blood-eyed dragon still held in his mind but, to be honest, even a evil, threatening dragon was better then this place. Hell, Howell would rather choose death by dragon then death from big-ass cat. "What?” He repeated, lifting a hand to rub the crud from his eyes, feeling as tired as he had been ten minutes before or so when he sat down. Idly, he continued to splash in the lake’s water, soaking his pants even more but, wait. No…. Squinting up at Michael then down at the floor, only to blink unimpressed to see that the room was flooding. “Oh…” He drawled, exasperated and visibly disappointed and had half a mind to curl up on the couch and fall back asleep. Looking back up at Michael, Howell was barely able to sigh with a groaning creak filled the room and a glance over at the main door, still barred by the billiard table, revealed that sprays of water was higher then the water within the room, about waist height or so, which meant… The explosion of the door’s wood breaking open was in sync with the voice of gallons of water surging into the room, the force strong enough to push the heavy wooden billiard table back a few inches. “Woah!” Howell screamed, scrambling up into Ireland’s arms as fast as any Stooge, though he went the distance to make his way more or less onto Ireland’s high shoulder. Curses and sounds of pain followed into his wake, the water rushing through the gaping hole of the door. “Oomph…” Howell groaned, high up on his brother, where he slumped limply, the adenine from the water already exhausted, the last of his reserves. Useless and weak, he had enough nerve to grip his swordstick like it was his lifeline. Well, here was the lake, now Howell had to wonder if his dragon would be appearing too right away... ~~~ End of Part/Chapter/Episode.... One! -cue Star Wars' Imperial March-
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