It is not for glory or riches
or honours that we fight, but only for liberty, which no good man will consent to lose but with his life.


Awrite.

Name's Séamus Dùbhghlas, otherwise knoon as th'wonderful coontry a Scotland.
Now, please ho ye 's I raise a bit o' Hell.
...
Aw, fuck it. Rather kick back wi' a brain new cuppae tea, if ya' dorn't min'.

Scotland

heavenintherain started following you

…Evenin’, pigtails.

Not ta be rude, like, on’y haven’t ye’ got some paperwork ta be hot ‘n bothered over?

freshprinceofbelfast:

nuairathigairduinethigairuile:

freshprinceofbelfast:

nuairathigairduinethigairuile:

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Oh, jings, crivvens…

Th’ wee Frenchie lass is round again.

Hi Da.

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Thought I heard yer dulcet tones ‘round, like.

And hurried ta hide whot it was ye were doin’, aye?

…S’pose tha’s guid enough life plannin’, like. Spare ye’ th’ boxin’ fer today.

Stan’ like ye’ proud, right.

Weren’t doin’ nothin’ indecent.

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…likely.

And how’s that?

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Proud enough then?

Feck if I care if ye doin’ somethin’ indecent. Just don’t wanna see, like.

Bairn’s far ta’ young to be mindin’ a rubber, oi.

….Th’ hell is tha’, some sorta episode? Ye’ look like a feckin’ poofter.

aux-armes-citoyens started following you

Wha’s tha’?

Gettin’ inta’ trouble, are we?

i-am-shamrocked started following you

Smells like tatties and regrets.

Must be Eire, aye?

freshprinceofbelfast:

nuairathigairduinethigairuile:

image

Oh, jings, crivvens…

Th’ wee Frenchie lass is round again.

Hi Da.

image

Thought I heard yer dulcet tones ‘round, like.

And hurried ta hide whot it was ye were doin’, aye?

…S’pose tha’s guid enough life plannin’, like. Spare ye’ th’ boxin’ fer today.

Stan’ like ye’ proud, right.

Oh, jings, crivvens…

Th’ wee Frenchie lass is round again.

leurcoupdefoudre:

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“Hm. That is a suspicious request.”

(Or so he says, and yet he’s doing as asked, extra sugar and all.)

“Though I’ve no idea why you want more sugar; the fruit and crepe batter are sweet enough as it is…”

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"Leery? Jings, ye oought be used tae it noo, wi’ all ye goin’ on abit cookin’, aye?"

(Really, he’s grinning ear to ear and hunching over to have himself be heard.)

"I coods eat it as is, but all I’d be tastin’ is th’ fag I’d got earlier." 

"Fiiiiigured yer tastes ought go fer a bit more, eh, mate?"

leurcoupdefoudre:

nuairathigairduinethigairuile:

leurcoupdefoudre:

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A predicament.

So many vegetables are coming into season now and I did so little in the way of cooking what with…everything being the way it was. And thus I’m keen to indulge myself, and yet…

…I feel that if I were to begin, I would find myself with many uninvitedexpected guests.

Well tha’s hardly th’ kinda welcome ye’ favourite houseguests should ‘ave, eh?

Michty me, have ya’ no’ missed us, ‘en? Shaem, mate.

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I’ll ‘ave one o’ those pancake thin’s fur th’ road, aye?

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…mon grand, this is not Canada. 

Did you mean, perhaps, a crepe…?

Creep, pancake, ‘sall th’ saem.

Ye’ min’ puttin’ th’ strawberries on it this time? On’y it tastes better when s’ got sugar on, like.

leurcoupdefoudre:

image

A predicament.

So many vegetables are coming into season now and I did so little in the way of cooking what with…everything being the way it was. And thus I’m keen to indulge myself, and yet…

…I feel that if I were to begin, I would find myself with many uninvitedexpected guests.

Well tha’s hardly th’ kinda welcome ye’ favourite houseguests should ‘ave, eh?

Michty me, have ya’ no’ missed us, ‘en? Shaem, mate.

I’ll ‘ave one o’ those pancake thin’s fur th’ road, aye?

It was nearly seven in the morning, and the house was still.

This in and of itself was a bit of an abnormality in that Séamus could generally be counted upon to rise by five so that he might take a brisk morning walk- up a sheer ridge- and watch the sun rise over the Highlands, his trusty (and inscrutably sturdy) ankle biter of a dig by his side. 

The only things moving were gold-white flecks of dust making swirling patterns in the beams of sun streaming through the coverings, and the only sound was the soft puff of air of every exhale that left his lips, and the house was still.

Angus lay discontentedly by the foot of his master’s bed, occasionally making a series of very quiet whining noises (because Master would hardly be pleased if his dumb animal was being so dramatic)and lifting his head hopefully with every snore.

Evidently the animal decided that being berated by a grumpy Scotsman was preferable to going another hour without breakfast, and planted his feet firmly upon Séamus’ cheeks. To his part, he erupted upward with a yell, a great amount of impromptu swearing, and a leap from the bed that sent a certain ball of white fluff cartwheeling across the room.

A fair bit of stretching and groaning and scratching in unmentionable places later, Angus was being rewarded with the clattering of Pard’s kibbles into his woebegone and much dented food dish, and Séamus was lighting the third fag that morning, his tea entirely untouched.

In truth, he’d never felt quite so tired. His bones ached, his muscles were sore, his flesh felt…hollow, almost, as if he’d desiccated over night, and those were all such paltry complaints, except that he felt as if he’d woken from a long nap only to discover that the world had gone on without him. Perhaps that was it, he thought idly. The world was turning, and he was set resolutely, obstinately, foolishly in the same spot he’d been languishing in for the past six centuries.  

It was embarrassing, really.

But it was easy, and it was comfortable. It was what he knew, and to do without surely would only bring more…but what would it bring? What had it ever brought? What use was being everyone’s favourite toy if he was never of use when he needed to be?

Séamus was tired. Exhausted, really, and played out. There was no pain, save for the odd sensation of nervousness and foreboding and Oh God Does This Mean-, but there was no second-guessing, and it was a bit of a relief to have made a decision on his own, for once.

He certainly needed to be on his own.

And so, before he could talk himself out of it, he boarded a train to King’s Cross Station (and slept quite a bit of his guilt at leaving Angus behind, comforting himself with the notion that he wouldn’t be staying. No matter how much he was tempted, mind, and that was quite a bit; soft blonde locks, familiar sheets, cigarette smoke and some damned cologne or another…but there was a bitter aftertaste he’d never quite noticed before.)

And then there were the irritating guards at the Chunnel, where he may or may not have stopped for a newspaper column of chips, and the overtly pompous train to St. Aclair, and the stomping about in the rain until one of the fucking useless cabbies elected to take the sodden shaved bear for a stroll.

This was all rather stupid, he thought, and so in pure Séamus fashion, he elected to carry on with it anyway with three knocks of a large, tempered fist.

“Oy, Etienne. Lemme in. We need tae chit.”