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chere-indolente · 1 year

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Newlyn Fisher Clothing Set

I come to you today with this little historical seaside fashion interlude (before going back to work on more 1880′s sets). This set includes cable knit sweaters in high and low waisted, and variations on traditional fishermen smocks. More pics and download below

This set is partly inspired by the works of the school of Newlyn, a group of painters known to have depicted the surrounding of Newlyn, a Cornish coastal town, and its many fishermen in the 1880′s to 1900′s. And here is the painting that I referenced in the promo picture.

————————— Cableknit Sweater ————————

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This is the sweater from the Werewolf pack without the little laced up strings on the shoulders (why do you always add these unnecessary details EA ? 😅). I’ve made a short version (S) for my high waisted needs and a long (L) version, for both masc and fem frames, as well as both adult and children.

Cableknit sweaters originated from Ireland, in the Aran Islands, though other types of knitted jumpers called gansey already existed in the British, Irish and Channel isles. They were created between the 1890′s and 1900′s. They were initially knitted with unwashed and undied wool. Both the natural lanolin from the virgin wool and the knitted patterns made for water resistant sweaters and as such : good alternatives to the previously used ganseys made of oiled wool died with indigo.

These Aran sweaters slowly became some fashionable sportswear item during the 20′s and 30′s, and later reached its peak popularity in the 50s’ and 60′s worn by the likes of Grace Kelly and Steve McQueen.

40 solid swatches

for adults and children

2 lenghts : S & L

——————————— Vareuse V1 ——————————

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Vareuses are a style of fishermen smocks with a V neck. This style was typical of Brittany fishermen though I have seen depiction of Norwegian fishermen for example sporting this style of smocks on 1880s paintings too. While I couldn’t find substancial informations on their origins and date of appereance, vareuses seem to have been used at least as far as mid 19th century and were still worn as work wear up til the mid 20th.

It is said that traditionally fishers wore different colors depending on their fishing style : yellow ones for those shellfish picking, rust colored ones for those using fish traps, red ones for oyster farmers and blue ones for those fishing in the open seas.

Fishermen smocks were oiled to be water repellant and worn on top of clothes and knitted garments to protect them from water and keep them relatively clean.

On this 1st version of the vareuse I’ve not put any clothing “underneath” to allow for warm weather and for combinations with accessory shirts or turtlenecks.

33 solid swatches

for adults and children

——————————— Vareuse V2 ——————————

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This 2nd version of a vareuse include a cableknit jumper sticking out of the V neck collar. The set also includes an overlay to pick the color of said cableknit jumper.

33 solid swatches

39 solid swatches on the cableknit overlay (located in the right wrist section)

for all ages

————————— Cornish Crewneck ————————

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Similarly to the vareuse, the crewneck is a style of fishermen smocks. This style is traditionally associated with Cornwall, in the north west of England. Cornish crewneck smocks were used similarly to vareuses.

33 solid swatches

for all ages

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Download : dropbox — simfileshare

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jungle-angel · 9 months

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His Little Doodlebug (Rhett Abbott x Reader)

Summary: There's a damn good reason you gave Amy the nickname "Doodlebug"

Rhett had always had a deep love-hate relationship with Wal Mart in the month of August. Usually you would go and take Amy on a little excursion by yourself while Rhett and Royal ran down to Tractor Supply to get parts for the neighbors' farming equipment, but ever since you had gotten pregnant, that task had fallen on Rhett while Wes, his best friend, had decided to help Royal.

Amy hurried off towards the clothing section, her little sandals flapping against the tiled floor with her little circus-clown ragdoll tucked under her arm. "Hey, slow down there Doodlebug," Rhett called after her.

Amy giggled, excited as ever as Rhett pushed the cart that already had a few extra garden things in it. He didn't really have much of an idea about what kinds of clothes would be the best fit for Amy, but he was damn sure gonna try.

It was a whole back and forth mess of texting you pictures of all the clothes he could find that hadn't already been cleared out, little pairs of shorts with the lace trim around the legs, pretty little gingham dresses in pink, blue, yellow, green, orange, purple and red, plenty of jeans and little sweaters that would serve her well in late fall and early winter. However, what you knew you couldn't get in the store, you'd make by hand which would include plenty of Irish knit sweaters for Amy and the new babies.

"Hey!" Rhett called playfully to Amy as she zoomed from one end of the aisle and back to him. "Don't you run from me Doodlebug."

Amy giggled again. "Can we get more clothes Daddy?"

"Not right now Doodlebug," Rhett told her. "We've still gotta go to the other place and get your other stuff for school."

"No we don't," Amy giggled.

"Yeah we do, you're goin into preschool at the hippie school where Momma teaches," Rhett told her.

Amy held onto her ragdoll with one hand and her other one gripping the beltloop of Rhett's jeans with her little fingers. As soon as the clothes and the plant stuff had been purchased, Rhett loaded Amy and the bags up into the truck to head for the next destination.

Back into the center of town he went with Amy in tow, to the little shop owned by Mrs. Newman, who in turn would be Amy's preschool teacher. You and Rhett absolutely loved her store and all the supplies she carried, the cozy building with its knotty pine floors, shelves full of yarn, brightly colored wools, stones, books, pastel colored cloth and a whole host of other things that the children at the school you taught at would need for the coming year.

Two boxes of block crayons, a little case of beeswax and a basket of wool later, Rhett finally had what he needed and even let Amy pick a few items for later. He thanked Mrs. Newman, promising that over the weekend he, Royal and Wes would be down to help her husband fix his horse trailer.

Home he went and finally pulled up the driveway just as the sun had begun to set. Wes's truck was no longer there, a sign that he had gone back over the hill to the reservation to bed down his own horses and cattle for the night, yet the porch light had remained on. Royal and Cecelia would most likely be sitting out in the porch rockers, Royal smoking a hand rolled cigar while Cecelia told him about everything that had happened in the day.

"Alright sweet pea, out," Rhett said, opening the truck door so Amy could get out.

Amy practically jumped out of the truck and ran for the house, yanking open the door as Rhett unloaded the truck and kicked off his shoes in the mudroom. The house smelled so good with the steaks just having been pulled off the grill along with the smells of white rice and green beans trailing it its wake.

"Oh jeez! Somebody's happy," Cecelia chuckled as Amy rushed to hug her.

"I was hoping the trip would tire her out," Rhett answered. "Hannah-Banana go to bed?"

"Nope," Cecelia answered. "She just ate, but I'll give her a bath in a few minutes."

"Thanks Ma," Rhett said, hugging his mother.

Cecelia took the clothing and supplies from him to put them away while he made Amy a plate full of steak, rice and green beans for her to eat before her bath.

Upstairs he went to his room, which had become your shared bedroom. Even though you were only five months along, you had already begun nesting, preparing the crib at the foot of the bed for the two little boys resting in your belly.

Rhett wrapped his arms around you and kissed your cheek, his hands coming to rest on your swollen bump. "Boys give you any trouble?" he asked.

You hummed, delighted by the warm breath on your cheek. "Not really," you sighed.

You two were yanked from the moment by the sound of Amy running through the upstairs hall in nothing but her pink wrap towel. "Daddy, can I use Momma's bubble bath?"

You two laughed and shook your heads. "Give Momma a minute honey," you told her.

Amy zoomed back into the bathroom as the bathtub filled up. You grabbed the pink grapefruit bubble bath out of the medicine cabinet and poured a little bit of the slimy pink liquid in for her and watched it foam.

"Guess someone had a bad case of the zoomies tonight," you laughed.

"Yep," Rhett answered. "Guess that's why we call her 'Doodlebug'."

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #amy abbott #royal abbott #cecelia abbott #royal x cecelia abbott

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dingochef · 8 months

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Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x You (OFC)

Warnings: Swearing, Oral Sex (M receiving), Vaginal Fingering, Betting, Gratuitous Discussion of American Football

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: Football is serious business. Of course you and Jake take it to a new and sexy level.

One of my favorite seasons is underway! College football! And Notre Dame and Navy played the first game yesterday. Enjoy!

Masterlist

Touchdown

As the fall approached, you let Jake know the importance of watching Notre Dame football.

"It's how I spend most Saturdays in the fall. You're welcome to join me, Lydia and I tend to get together and watch a lot of them together, or do your own thing. No worries."

Jake, unsurprisingly, has opted to join you most of the time. A Texas boy at heart, football is written into his DNA. The upside is that when you go over to Lydia's or she and Rooster come over to your place, it is that he and Rooster get to spend some time together. Most of the time they're hanging out talking, whatever weird antagonism they had between them before resolved, half paying attention to the game, more amused by your and Lydia's reactions to the game.

Today Navy is playing at Notre Dame, finally the guys will have someone to root for.

You get a text from Lydia in the morning:

Lydia: We're going to have to bail on tonight's plans. Rooster has a nasty cold.

You: Bummer, next week then. Does one feed chicken soup to a sick Rooster? Seems a little cannibalistic.

Lydia: lol. This Rooster is definitely a fan of the O'Callahan family recipe.

You: That's not the only O'Callahan "recipe" he likes to eat. 😛

Lydia: Yup, 'insert smug smile here'

You: Well, tell Rooster to get well so we can get together.

Lydia: Will do. Go Irish! ☘️

You: Go Irish!☘️

You let Jake know that it'll be just you two watching the game today.

"Makes sense, he seemed a little under the weather at work yesterday," he replies.

You take advantage of the nice fall day and wander around a farmers market and grab lunch at a little cafe nearby. You're waiting for your food when you say,

"I think fall is the only time I really miss Michigan. I always loved the leaves changing, heading out to the cider mill for cider and donuts, and the cooling weather."

"What do you mean head out to the cider mill? That sounds hilariously peak Midwest, by the way," he teases.

"It's definitely a Michigan thing. A lot of apple orchards have cider mills and most have bakeries. It's a fall tradition, almost mandatory, to go to an orchard, pick your own apples, some of the places have farm animals to visit and pet, and get some fresh cider and donuts. They make the donuts with apple cider and they are so good."

"Huh, I've never really heard of that as a thing, but it sounds nice."

"One of my favorite things to do is people watch. My personal favorite is the Instagram mom who has dragged her family out in matching plaid to get some family pictures. The kids are bored and want to go pet the goats and Dad looks like he is nervously watching the clock for his college football game, but is there humoring his wife."

Jake laughs at the description.

"Or the basic white girl with knee high boots, skinny jeans, and a bulky sweater, usually in beige, and sometimes a wool hat. And don't forget the infinity scarf."

"So basically the people walking out of Starbucks with a pumpkin spice latte in San Diego."

"Yup, that's really one of the only markers that fall has arrived here. The PSL ads."

"El, I have to ask you a very personal question," he pauses for dramatic effect, "Do you like pumpkin spice lattes?"

"Unfortunately I do, I'm a sucker for them. I know that goes against your Navy ethic of coffee must be drunk black and terrible.

"Alright, I won't hold it against you," he replies and winks.

You head home and have a lazy afternoon. You and Jake spend some time reading on the couch which turns more into cuddling and making out.

A beep on your phone startles you and Jake out of your embrace.

"Time for the game," you chirp happily.

"Did I just get cock blocked by a football game?"

Jake asks, a bit whiny.

"Not any football game, the Notre Dame Game."

You chuckle at his tiny indignant harrumph as you turn on the TV and get the game up. The camera is panning over all the Navy cadets in the visitors section.

"Did you ever go to any football games?" you ask.

"A few of the home ones, I didn't travel with the team ever. Usually the other branches of the military were the big games of the season. I assume you went to many of the games."

"I had student season tickets all four years."

"So you're like an Irish super fan, like a little leprechaun," he says tickling your sides. You try to give him a death glare and it has no effect.

"I once tried out for the leprechaun. Didn't make it."

"Really, seems like you'd have some skills that would be very useful with the gymnastics and all."

"There's a lot more to being the leprechaun than just jumping around, it's getting the crowd excited, having the persona to get people into the game."

"You would look so cute in a leprechaun outfit." He laughs.

"Har, har. Are you thinking of that outfit," you reply pointing to the TV to the leprechaun mascot doing backflips, "or some slutty version you'd see at Halloween?"

Jake shrugs and says,

"Either or, but if you're going to force me to make a choice, I guess the slutty one."

You roll your eyes and direct your attention back to the TV as the opening kickoff is soaring high into the air. Snuggling into Jake's side you get comfy to watch the game with his arm around you.

"Why does someone as big as Notre Dame play Navy every year, it seems like they could get some names with more fan appeal?" Jake asks.

"It's history, paying back a favor to the Navy. Notre Dame during WWII, like most all male colleges, had trouble getting students and was coming close to shutting its doors. The Navy decided to use the campus for training cadets and that money kept Notre Dame afloat till the end of the war," you answer.

"Huh, never knew that. So you can thank the Navy for your education and in an indirect way, me." He jokes and continues,

"I've got an idea, since we're both obviously rooting for opposite teams," he points to your respective sweatshirts,

"How about a bet?"

"Sure, what did you have in mind?"

"Every time the opposing team scores you have to forfeit a clothing item. Overall winner at the end gets oral, no reciprocity required."

"You know Notre Dame has beaten Navy for the past 43 years," you remind him, a bit smugly.

"I've got a feeling about this one. Besides, if I lose I have to give you oral. Oh no, the travesty."

He slaps his hands to his face as he opens his mouth ala the kid from Home Alone.

"Alright, it's a fool's bet, but it's on."

You shake hands and settle in to watch the game.

The first piece of clothing to go is Jake's sweatshirt, the Irish scoring a touchdown early in the first quarter. You're off the couch cheering. Jake is smiling at your enthusiasm as he peels his sweatshirt off and tosses it to the opposite end of the couch. Underneath the discarded Navy sweatshirt is another Navy tee.

"How many Navy shirts do you own?" you ask, jokingly.

He laughs,

"A majority of my wardrobe is courtesy of the United States Government, but I make government issue look good," he responds, sweeping a hand down his body. Jake's shirt is snug enough to see his muscles defined through the fabric.

"That you do," you say as you give him a quick peck of a kiss sitting back down on the couch.

The rest of the first quarter is uneventful, neither of the two teams scoring. The game rolls into the second quarter and things start to get more interesting.

Navy rolls out a touchdown early in the quarter and Jake is whooping and cheering as you take your sweatshirt off and add it to his on the couch.

"Yeah, yeah, one lousy touchdown. We gave it to you to keep your self esteem up, can't have a less than confident military can we?" you grumble out.

"Whatever you say, dear," he says as he kisses your temple. You sit back down and cuddle up on the couch.

The calm doesn't last long, as Notre Dame scores another touchdown on a long pass.

"That is how you do it!" you shout, pumping your arms in the air. Jake rolls his eyes at your display and pulls off his sweats and throws them into the growing pile.

Your elation is short lived as Navy runs another touchdown into the end zone tying the score. You wiggle off your leggings and add them to the heap. Jake is smirking at your frustration.

"Come on, come, let's go Irish!" you cheer, trying to will the game in Notre Dame's favor.

Apparently, your cheering has helped and Notre Dame runs in a touchdown with three minutes to go in the half.

You're off the couch dancing around cheering and Jake is now really rolling his eyes. He takes off his shirt and you are momentarily distracted by the sight of his perfect chest ornamented only by his dog tags. He catches your eye as you ogle him and smirks,

"You see something you like, leprechaun?" he asks in a long drawl.

"Maybe," you reply as you sit down and tuck under his arm. Notre Dame is up seven on Navy with the score 21 to 14 as the half ends.

You and Jake check other college games and refresh your drinks during halftime. When the third quarter starts, you are already cheering,

"Alright Irish, let's get this done. Finish them."

Jake laughs and says,

"I've never been with a girl who is this enthusiastic about football."

"It's contractually required if you graduate from Notre Dame. It's in a tiny font on the bottom of your diploma."

You have to forfeit your shirt in the 3rd quarter, but Notre Dame still is in the lead by one because of a missed extra point by Navy.

"We're still winning," you say, only a little bit petulantly, with my arms crossed.

"Keep making yourself feel better," Jake humors you.

The fourth quarter is where the game starts to unravel for the Irish. Navy scores a touchdown and goes for the two point conversion and takes the lead. Jake lets out an enthusiastic,

"Woo!" next to you.

"Cough it up," he extends his hand for your bra. I take it off and toss it at him, it lands on his head comically. He is quick to discard it with the other clothing.

You're really cheering as hard as you can and finally, Notre Dame throws a long pass for a touchdown.

"So do you think they'll have the guts to go for the conversion or are they going to play it safe and kick the extra point?" he asks casually as he stands to pull down his boxer briefs adding them to the clothing mountain.

You are slow to reply as you take in the whole vision that is Jake naked.

"Extra point, live to fight another day," you stutter out earning yet another smirk from Jake.

Your prediction is correct and the fourth quarter ends with the game tied 28 to 28. Overtime starts quickly and Notre Dame has the first possession. They run it in and make the extra point. You look over to Jake for his part of the bet,

He laughs,

"I'm already naked."

"Fair, but I've still got my underwear," you brag.

"Not for long, I have a feeling," Jake replies.

He is annoyingly right. You shimmy out of your underwear as Navy kicks the extra point for their touchdown.

You are starting to lose your mind, Notre Dame has beaten Navy for 43 years in a row and now it's going into a second overtime?

Jake is laughing maniacally at your absolute shock,

"This is why you don't ever count a Navy man out!" he shouts at the TV.

The second overtime is useless as the teams trade field goals and the game remains tied.

"Come on Irish, let's do this," you plead as the third overtime starts . You are perched on the edge of the couch nervously bouncing your knee up and down.

Navy runs it in for a touchdown and you curse. You are not surprised that they go for the two point conversion as their kicking hasn't been good today. You're temporarily elated as Notre Dame scores another touchdown. Before you can blink, Notre Dame has set up for a two point conversion. A Navy lineman breaks through the Notre Dame line and sacks the quarterback. The game ends 46 to 44, Navy the winner.

"Holy shit, they just broke a 43 year record." You sit down stunned on the couch.

You look over at Jake, completely naked and still as confident as ever, his hands on the back of his head.

"I told you I had a feeling," he says smugly.

"Yeah apparently you should have bet some real money on it. I bet there are some bookies going nuts right now."

Jake catches your eye and says,

"I'm ready when you are sweetheart to claim my winnings."

He winks to complete the wolfish look he has on his face.

It's your turn to take the lead.

"You're right, it was a handshake agreement,"

you say as you slide over to him on the couch. Leaning over you catch his lips for a kiss that catches on fire quickly. You and Jake's arms reach out for each other by instinct, before you become too entwined Jake pulls back from the kiss.

"You're tempting me towards other ideas and we have to settle up before we can do anything else," he says, running his hand down your belly, placing his whole hand over your mound and teasing one finger into your folds before pulling back. You try to hold back the moan.

"Okay, if that's the way you want to go," you breathily reply.

You give him one more kiss before sliding off the couch to get on my knees in front of him. He is hard and ready, the anticipation already built up, a gorgeous bead of pearly precum forming at the top. You slot easily into his widely spread thighs.

You start by kissing his inner thigh and running your hands along his quads. When you get close to his balls you breeze past them letting a huff of hot breath out. He lets out a little frustrated whine above you. Kissing at his other thigh you run your tongue up to the crease in his pelvis. Jake gently threads his fingers in your hair, holding it out of the way of your face. You kiss up the golden hair of his treasure trail up to his navel.

"Please, El, I've been wanting you since before the game," Jake pants. You smile into his skin, and lick down to his very ready cock. You want to take him apart and make him melt with pleasure. Tracing your tongue up his length you tease him just a little bit more, just a hint of what is to come. Jake's hips buck up trying to get more contact.

You start licking him around the tip of his cock, gently. You haven't put him in your mouth and he's pleading, "Please, El, please."

You finally take him in your mouth and slowly slide down the shaft.

"Fuck, that's good," he grunts, a small degree of the tension and buildup released.

Pushing him all the way to the back of your throat and you are rewarded with a long groan. His hands are flexing and grabbing at your hair. You finally start to bob up and down on him and his breath hitches.

"Oh God, El. Fuck you're so good at that," he groans as he lightly thrusts his hips up chasing more.

You keep a steady pace, not fast enough to get him off yet, but definitely enough to get him closer. You place one hand at the base of his cock to take care of the length you can't fit in your mouth and move it in sync with your mouth while the other gently cradles his balls. You're rewarded with more moaning and his running mouth,

"You know if Notre Dame played as well as you suck cock, they would've blown Navy out of the water."

You make sure he sees your eyes roll when he looks down at you, in a slightly bratty move you press hard at his taint earning a startled grunt. A laughing moan escapes his lips before he retorts,

"Is someone a sore loser, El?"

You pull off his dick, smart mouth ready in other ways,

"Seems like I'm a pretty good loser, considering your dick is in my mouth. Which I mean, I could leave you hanging, Hangman."

"You wouldn't dare–," his reply is cut short as you take him down to the root, the golden curls tickling your nose, his cock sliding down your relaxed throat. You bob your head up and down as he lightly thrusts to fuck your throat.

You increase your pace adding some actual sucking to increase the intensity. Jake moans are turning into pants, you look up and he is trying to keep his head from falling back so he can watch you.

"Oh fuck, keep going, so close," he pleads as an incoherent string of words comes out. His body tightens and then he floods your mouth with his release. You swallow it all. Keeping your mouth on him, you ride out his orgasm with him. You let his softening cock slip out gently and you give the tip one last sweet kiss. When you look up his head is slung back on the couch and his chest is heaving as he catches his breath.

You stand up and take in the view, an absolutely ravished Jake Seresin. He is completely limp on the couch, eyes closed in the afterglow. You step over his right leg to get your clothes.

He snaps out of his near catatonic state and grabs you with his hands pulling you down on top of him, your back to his chest.

"Do you really think I'd let you get away without getting off? Leave you hanging?" he whispers into your ear as he slides his hand down your stomach.

"This was all about you, winner," you reply.

"I may have won, but I'll definitely be a good sport about it," he says as his strong fingers circle your clit. He continues down and dips a finger into your pussy, feeling how wet you are.

"My my my, you're very wet, were you turned on sucking my cock?" he asks.

You whine with need more than answer him.

"Answer me, El," he commands as he slowly circles your clit.

"I was, it's such a nice cock. I was thinking about it inside me, fucking me."

This is the answer he is looking for as he starts to rub faster and his other hand comes up to play with your tits.

"God damn, El, you are so sexy, so beautiful. I love watching you come apart."

The tightness in you is building, you crest and shatter when Jake dips one of his large fingers into your slit. He holds his fingers still against your clit riding out the aftershocks. Pretty soon you fall limp against his body satisfied for the moment

He starts kissing the side of your neck as you come down.

"Want to bet on next week's game?" he asks with a cheeky grin against your skin.

"Why wait till next week? I think you're ready for round two," you reply, grinding against his already hard dick. The kiss deepens until a beeping is heard from the pile of clothes at the end of the couch. He grabs his phone and shuts the reminder off while you're still in lap.

"Too bad it's time for Texas to play, darling," he smugly answers, enjoying the look of instant frustration on your face.

"Did I just get cock blocked by football?" you ask, repeating his words from earlier.

"Not any football game, the Texas game, sweetheart."

"Same bet?" you ask.

"You're on, El.'

This is the gameplay from the 2007 ND vs. Navy game where Navy did indeed upset ND.

@kmc1989

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered

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@dempy

@hangmanscoming

@lanie-k

@callsign-viper

@senjoritanana

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#top gun maverick #hangman #hangman fanfiction #jake seresin fanfiction #top gun fanfiction #top gun smut #hangman x you #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x you #jake seresin x you #hangman smut

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ltwilliammowett · 2 years

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The Aran Sweater

There are clothes of a sailor that are unique and even limited to a region and even part of a myth. Like the Aran Sweater/ Fishermen Sweater or Jumper (Geansaí Árann), named after one of the three islands off Ireland. The jumper was traditionally knitted from the unbleached wool of the sheep living there and each family, so one myth said, had its own pattern.

Irish Fishermen with their Sweaters (x)

However, there were always recurring elements that could be found in every jumper. The moss stitch is said to signify an abundance of growth. The blackberry stitch represents nature. The honeycomb is said to stand for work and the cables are a lucky stitch, both signifying plenty. Lattice or basket stitches to represent the old wicker basket patterns. The Ladder of Life and Tree of Life represent the stages of life.

Now there is a myth that the Sailor and Fishermen were given these jumpers not only because they were very warm but also because a drowned person can be assigned to the respective family by the pattern.

Modern Aran Sweaters (x)

The year of invention is also mythical. Some historians think it was the late 1800s, others think it was early to mid 1800s and if you ask the families living there they think it was even older and they confirm the myth of matching their loved ones by patterns. Whether it is true or not, it seems to have worked from time to time and it is a really warm sweater.

Whether it was really knitted so late or not is a mystery, but I think that women will have knitted their husbands thick wool jumpers before that, and certainly with their own patterns. It's up to you whether you want to see this as the predecessor of the Aran jumper.

#naval history #sailors clothing #aran sweater #19th century #age of sail #age of steam

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shitty-check-please-aus · 7 months

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more things I'm learning in my quest to update my winter style

I think I have a short torso? at least compared to the torso length a lot of these clothes seem to expect me to have. I just don't think it's possible that all of these pants are supposed to come up to just below my bra. I think I'm supposed to have about 6 more inches of just torso, because the legs of stuff rarely need to be hemmed. I'm just going to keep trying to find ways to make the waistline not look like a neckline.

I am going into all of this knowing that I will lose the battle to not have cat hair on all my clothes. I knew when I got Popcorn that everything I own would be covered in cat hair, I just got some really good lint rollers. I should put one on a loop and hang it up next to the front door with my keys and umbrellas actually.

I personally feel better about myself when I'm wearing more colorful items, so I need to keep that in mind when I'm shopping. Neutral color people, live your best life, but I feel so drab and boring when I'm not wearing something that makes a statement.

only tangentially related to the actual clothes, I'm realizing that I don't think I've fully processed the death of one of my aunts. I'm going to her memorial this weekend and I caught myself thinking about how much she'd love talking about these wool sweaters I got (she was a member of the local Irish American Heritage Society or something and she was the genealogy person on this side of the family). I want to hear her talk about sweaters that she got when she went to Ireland or to hear her tell me that my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was a professional sweater knitter. But I won't be able to, so I need to process that a bit more. Not sure how to do that? but I'll figure it out.

similarly I am tempted to get back into knitting, even though the only things I've ever knit (except for loom knitting) are 1.5 fingerless gloves that I did in the round. I will not actually attempt this. Though maybe I'll try to copy a friend and do a granny square cardigan? I've been crocheting for literally 20 years and I've never done a granny square though.

#hitting the point in life where I can say I've been doing things for 20 years and it's wild!#anyways shoutout to the library for having a multi-week crochet class for all ages when I was 8

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ohwynne · 6 days

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TIMING: Current PARTIES: Elias @eliaskahtri and Wynne @ohwynne LOCATION: A pub in Drogheda SUMMARY: Elias and Wynne have not had much luck trying to find Saol Eile, but at a random pub they find a man who knows quite a bit about the women in the Moors. CONTENT WARNINGS: None.

Elias had only been on one international flight before, and that was to visit his sister after she’d moved to London. There had been low stakes with that. He was just visiting, going to Ireland? This felt like a mission. No, a quest! He was on his first ever quest to rescue Regan from Saol Eile. He’d spent the flight on edge. He’d tried to read and nap, but ultimately, he always kept thinking back to something terrible that had happened to Regan. Their last interaction had been bittersweet– they had hugged. She had actually hugged him. He hadn’t been left to the worms. He had been embraced. He’d said the truth of how he felt about her, that he’d go to the end of the earth for her. She’d still left. She had to. It was about duty. But she’d made such progress just to shove herself back into that world that wanted to mold her to be the perfect banshee.

Elias shook his head, returning to the present in the back of a cab headed for a local pub. Wynne and he had been searching for a lead in Dublin, but nothing was working. After striking out for what felt like the millionth time, Elias suggested they try a small town outside Dublin. “Take us to your favorite pub!” Elias had told the driver, who simply shrugged and began driving them to a pub in Drogheda. He looked to Wynne, shrugging his shoulders. It was better than nothing, and they needed to get food in them. They couldn’t keep searching and not take care of their basic needs, even though Elias desperately wanted to keep looking for Regan.

When they’d reached their destination, Elias paid the cab fare and exited the cab, waiting for Wynne before he pushed the door open to the pub. It wasn’t that crowded, as it was early in the day, and most people didn’t start drinking until at least 5. Well, he didn’t know how true that was for Ireland. Something caught his eye, though. A small, old man was sitting in the corner booth surrounded by books and newspaper clippings. He wore large wireframe glasses that made his eyes appear comically large. He had a wisp of white hair on the top of his head and a thick wool sweater. Elias looked to Wynne, eyes widening. “Come on, he’s the stereotype of the perfect Irishman! We’ve got to talk to him!” He whispered to Wynne before turning around to the bartender with a grin.

“Hello! We’ll take another pint for the man in the corner.” He told the man, who grunted and poured him a beer from the tap. “Careful with that one. He’ll talk your ears off about the folk.” Elias’s eyes widened, looking over to Wynne with a knowing look. They finally had a lead. As the bartender handed the drink, Elias snatched it up and gave the man a thankful nod before hightailing it over to the man in the corner.

They felt like they were dreaming. All of this felt surreal, as if their mind was still stuck in Maine and none of the steps they took on Irish soil were real. Wynne was glad to have Elias on their side, at least — he seemed to know a little better what they were doing while they were still trying to process having been on a plane. They felt more than out of their depth here, but they had a purpose. And with purpose, Wynne Hughes always managed to get quite far.

Besides, they owed it to Regan to help her out. She’d come so willingly to their own commune, aiding them without much question even if they’d turned out to not be like her. But there were similarities, weren’t there? There had to have been, for this kind of confusion to have risen. Something about Wynne’s home had resonated with Regan, and that combined with Nora’s messages and everything else the banshee had told them was ground for worry. Ground for a returned favor, a determination to extend a helping hand. And then there was Nora, stuck in there as an outsider, and it was not just because they knew that the bugbear would help them out that they were coming for her. They were because it was what friends did, irregardless of such things.

They left the cab with wide eyes, looking at the man who’d driven them as if he was an alien. Maybe this wasn’t a dream. Maybe this just was another planet. They’d traveled through the air to get here, after all. Elias seemed to be more at ease, though, which made them follow him with a little confidence into the pub. They’d read online that Ireland had great pubs with great food and a lot of beers, but their attention wasn’t directed at the menu as they entered. In stead they looked at the man in the pub Elias had pointed at. They were quiet, but nodded, and felt a little hint of thrill pulse through their body at the prospect of someone being knowledgeable. “Thanks!,” they piped up to the bartender, before cursing themself for saying that exact word.

The two of them sat down across the stranger and Wynne watched Elias slide the glass towards him. “Hi, good afternoon. We heard you’re a real local?” They thought for a moment about how to best approach it. “We’re – um, we’re here on a hiking trip and we want to find all the best spots to go. The ones you might not find on the world wide web.” They crossed their legs. “Like … maybe more obscure?”

The stranger seemed satisfied with his offering and took a long gulp from his glass before answering, “Honeymoonin’, then?”

Wynne shook their head fervently. “Just friends.”

He laughed. “Sure, hen. But yer at the right address with me, yer at the right address here. Better than Dublin or Cork out there, that’s fer feckin’ sure. What kinda obscure thing are you thinkin’ of, then?”

As the old man questioned their relationship to each other, Elias shook his head alongside Wynne, glad that they were able to get the words out before he was. Elias placed down the pint in front of the man, and decided to get straight to the point. “Listen, what we’re looking for, it’s not what the average American tourist would look for.” Elias narrowed his eyes, trying to get the man to see his point. “Something more…” he trailed off, tilting his head back and forth as he searched for the words. “Mystical.” His eyes glinted with mischief, hoping he was getting his point across to the man.

Elias glanced at the books and newspaper clippings surrounding the man, then decided to be honest with him. “Look, we’re kind of on a rescue mission.” He said, giving a nervous glance over to Wynne, they would undoubtedly not like how honest he was being with this guy. The newspaper clippings were all reports of faeries and the fae folk in the area, the books were on different types of fae and fae encounters and how to defend oneself. Elias blinked. Had they just hit a gold mine? Was this guy a warden or just a really enthusiastic mirror of Elias?

“Holy shit.” Elias spoke, pointing to the newspaper clippings, then back at the man. “This. This is exactly what we’re looking for.” He spoke, tapping his finger at one of them. “These fae, we’re looking for one of their groups.” He explained, not wanting to get too technical. “They have our friend, and it’s important to us that we get there so we can save her.” After spending all day searching, Elias was desperate, and this guy just happened to have the answers? It was either divine intervention or one hell of a trap.

The man stared down at the drink, then over at Elias, a suspicious gaze flitting across his eyes. “So ye two know ‘bout the folk, hm?” The man slowly nodded, then gestured for the two to sit across from him. Elias, feeling a sense of relief, slid into the booth. “The name’s Sheamus.” The old man introduced, looking between the two of them. “What’s happened to this friend o’ yers?”

They had asked Emilio for some advice about these kind of things, as they trusted his expertise and he was good at these things. It was how he made money, after all. As Elias went and offered plenty of details and honesty, Wynne squirmed a little in their seat. Shouldn’t they be more subtle? Couldn’t this raise red flags with the exact people that had dug their claws into Regan’s flesh? Keep your cards close, Emilio had said. Elias had spread them all on the table.

But to argue with him would be foolish, would only cause more issues. They kept their eyes wide and blinking, impressionable and naive. That too Emilio had told them: that they should let people underestimate them. Maybe they were underestimating Elias too, though, because the Irishman gave quite a detailed and helpful reply. Their eyes were glued to an article as the other two spoke, skimming over the words and strange location names, foreign and unreal to them. It still felt like a dream.

Wynne sat down. “Yes, we know about them,” they said, nodding, “The good and bad.” They weren’t sure if Sheamus was empathetic or not towards fae. They tucked their feet under their chair, sat perfectly upright. “I’m Alys. It’s nice to meet you.” Another tip from Emilio. Axis investigations had gone international. They racked their brain for a moment before continuing, “She got caught up with a few of them. A rather private kind … it’s hard to find their community. But they intend to harm her.” Wynne swallowed, not sure if they were talking about Nora or Regan or both. “They liked bones, there.”

The man guffawed, took a long pull of his drink as if he needed it if he was going to venture into all of this, “Best off leaving those women alone,” he muttered, somewhat grave. “Don’t come back from ‘em. Bad luck, those. Hear one of ‘em scream and it’s a sentence.” They blinked at him, unconvinced. They hadn’t lied. They did think Regan’s family wanted to harm her, just as theirs had wanted to harm them. “But you gotta hear ‘em scream to get to ‘em, so ya know. You sure you want to get into all this? Might be yer friend’s already fecked.”

Where Wynne was cautious and gave a fake name, Elias was desperate. He was willing to risk everything if it meant finding Regan again. And this man, he knew something. He watched as the man seemed to know exactly what Wynne was talking about by the small amount of information he gave, mentioning the banshee’s scream. He knew. He knew. Elias leaned forward, eyes searching desperately for an answer that could be hidden on Sheamus’s face.

“My name is Elias,” he answered truthfully. “I know they’re dangerous, but she’s the best friend I’ve ever had. She saved me when everyone else saw me as a joke.” He spoke, eyes boring into Sheamus’s wary gaze. “Please, you’re the only lead we’ve had, we’ve been all across Ireland searching.”

Either Sheamus wanted to be left alone to his pint, or he was taking pity on the desperate look on Elias’s face. He sighed, taking another drink before slamming the glass down and pulling out a map he had folded underneath one of his books. “The washerwomen can be found just past the moors here.” Sheamus tapped the circled location on his map. “No one returns from here, lad.” He warned, eyes serious and hardened. “If ye make this trek, ye may not come back, ye understand?”

Without thinking about it, Elias nodded his head. If this was too much for Wynne, he would understand. But he had to do this. He wasn’t leaving Regan to be stuck somewhere she didn’t belong. “I understand,” Elias spoke in a low tone. “I told her I’d move mountains for her,” his voice grew soft, eyes glassy. “I intend to keep that promise.” Elias looked over to Wynne, then back to the map. “Can I?” He asked, pulling out his phone. Sheamus let out a weary sigh, then pushed the map over to Elias so he could take a picture.

Finally, they had a lead.

Elias wore his heart on his sleeve and it was admirable, the way he did it. So sure of his cause and motivations, so concerned about Regan. Wynne blinked at him for a moment, then looked back at Sheamus. Quieter, smaller, less in every regard but just as desperate. If everything in the world was truly about balance, this was something they had to do. Something they owed not only to Regan, but themself.

They watched the map with wide eyes, trying to remember it in full detail. Wynne was ready to gather all the euros they had to pay Sheamus for it, fully forgetting about the camera function their phone had. “Yes,” they said, nodding along with Elias. “We understand. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t.” They watched Elias take a picture of the map for a moment before turning their attention back to Sheamus.

“Is there anything else you could tell us about them? About what to expect, what to avoid?”

Sheamus lifted a finger towards Elias, “He’s gonna stand out there, they don’t get many men around there.” He guffawed. “Don’t think ye would make a convincing lass, anyway.” Wynne squirmed a little, wondering what the banshees would think of them. “Unless yer willing to part with that beard.”

They let out a nervous laugh. “We will figure something … out.” Maybe Elias could pose as a pending sacrifice, because they did do those, didn’t they? Wynne didn’t like the thought, but they at least had some expertise. “And how about … I know they can make you not see things. Is that something we should worry about?” They thought of Cass and Teagan, their true forms.

“Aye, like I said. Gotta hear ‘em scream, or so the myth goes. When you hear ‘em and yer watching, you’ll see. Or so I’ve heard.” He looked mournful, as if the person who’d told him that was long gone. It seemed likely.

“Do you want another drink?” Wynne looked at Elias. “If you don’t mind, maybe we can share a little bite and talk some more.” Food was always a great connector, wasn’t it?

Sheamus had a good point. How was he going to fit in? A hand fled to his beard, eyes widening at the idea of shaving it. “Oh, that’s not happening,” Elias told the pair with wild eyes. “I’ll be a sacrifice; I’ll be a wayward soul that got lost in the Moores, but I’m not shaving my beard off.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice. “Maybe we’ll go separately. That way when I get caught, you won’t get in as much trouble for being there.” He suggested a frown on his face. Dressing up as a girl was out of the question. He wasn’t shaving. “Can banshees see through enchantments? Is there someone that can make me look feminine?” He frowned, realizing how crazy that line of questioning was. “Never mind,” he murmured after seeing the look of Are you kidding me from Sheamus.

At the suggestion of sharing a meal with the pair, Sheamus seemed to sink back a bit. “I ain’ use’ta sharin’ my space with others.” He admitted that all the items they had spread out over the booth served as a deterrent for Elias. “But I’ll tell ye what,” He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then motioned for them to sit. “With the time it takes t’get yer food and finish, I’ll tell ye what I know, and in exchange, ye tell me about yer friend.”

Elias looked to Wynne, silently asking if this was a good idea. After all, they didn’t know what this guy really was. He could be a guy who knew a lot about fae, but what if he was a hunter? It was a gamble, but it wasn’t as if they were staying in Ireland after this. He was almost certain that once they infiltrated this place, the banshees would stop at nothing to see them gone. But with the idea of having another person on Regan’s tail, he wasn’t willing to put her in more danger at their expense.

A sacrifice. Wynne was quiet for a moment, remembered how both Siobhan and Regan had mistaken them as such a thing — a sacrifice for banshees. What were they getting themself into? “I can … I can prepare you for if you want to pretend to be a sacrifice. I know things about that. I … know. And we should split up, that might be best, yes.” What a strange thing to be an expert on. They looked at Sheamus, more certain of their cause: “He’ll be alright. We won’t see him get actually sacrificed.” No more sacrifices. They’d had enough for a lifetime. The thought of it had them so downtrodden that they forgot to laugh at Sheamus’ expression at Elias’ question. Maybe that was for the best.

As the other said he didn’t like to share his space Wynne was ready to nod their head and walk away, but the thought of Dr Kavanagh in trouble kept them where they stood. “Okay. We’ll not intrude too long,” they said solemnly. They almost made a promise, but caught themself. They looked up at Elias. “Some fish and chips? Coddle?” They’d grown familiar with the Irish pub cuisine since they’d arrived. They liked their stew especially. “I’ll get it

Sheamus cleared his throat, “The stew’s gonna treat ye real good. Get that.”

They gave a decisive nod, eyed the bar and then Elias. “You can tell him about the doctor.” Maybe it was their naivete and general tendency to trust people who were older and seemingly wiser, but they felt they should give Sheamus something. “And I’ll be right back?” Though it was posed as a question, Wynne was off, beelining to the bar to place their order and trusting Elias to not say too much.

As much as Elias wished he could leave the situation and get on with their quest, Elias knew it was better to collect as much information as possible instead of rushing off to the next part of the objective. Wynne was right about that much. He sighed, then scooted into the booth as Wynne walked off to order for the three of them. When they had given the okay to tell Sheamus about Elias, he found that he didn’t know where to start.

“She’s… naive about the world,” he began as he stared down at his hands. “Didn’t know what emojis were, thinks you’ll run out after you use them a certain amount.” He chuckled, remembering that whole escapade. “She’s extremely smart, I mean, she’s a doctor after all, right?” He finally looked up to Sheamus, who was hanging on his every word. “She wore a coat all summer for some reason, and she’s…” he trailed off, unsure how to continue.

“She’s a sister to me. I’ve never had someone be this close to me before, and I’ll be damned if something happens to her.” He ended by staring straight at Sheamus, who hummed in response before taking another swig from his dark beer. The man seemed satisfied with the information given. “So in other words, she’s an enigma.” He responded with a smirk as Wynne came back over to their booth.

Wynne ordered three pints of Guinness, two portions of stew and paid. Getting the three glasses to the table where Elias was taking charge of the conversation was a bit of a struggle, but they managed. There was something very strangely free about it, being in a different country because they had chosen for it. Getting dinner for themself and Elias because they had taken initiative without waiting for permission. The circumstances were dire, but there was something about it.

They placed the three glasses down and sat down. Pushing one glass to Elias and another to the Irishman, they blinked at both of them. “Did he tell you?” Sheamus nodded to confirm and Wynne was glad.

“Said she’s naive, but smart. Close to him,” he summarized. “What ‘bout you?”

They lifted a shoulder, “I agree, she’s clever. Very wise. She offered me guidance when I needed it, helped me out of a tight spot. I want to return the favor.” Wynne sipped their Guinness, still not sure whether they actually liked the drink. They looked at the papers spread between them. “So, um. Go ahead, if you’d like. We’re all ears.” And so, as the line cook worked on their meal, the songs kept playing and the wind outside softly slammed against the windows, Sheamus leaned closer to the table and told the pair all there was to know. A candle flickered and somewhere in a corner, a lad of twenty four won a game of cards while Elias and Wynne finally saw their plans growing concrete.

#elias.#a tip for a pint.#threads.#ireland.

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historia-vitae-magistras · 1 year

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Character Profile — Ireland

Character Name: Éire. The Republic of Ireland, the Island of Ireland. Brighid Kelly, Brid Ó Ceallaigh, Bridgie, Aunt Bridgie, Auntie, Mum, Mam. Imbolc or St. Brighid's Day is the spring festival in ancient times and under the Catholic Church and she kept it for that reason. The night will end.

Age: Late 30s, modern day.

Height: 5''8/173cm

Physical Description: Brighid spent the most time with their mother and shared her looks the most. Her circumstances have changed in innumerable ways, but Brighid carries herself like the druid and warrior queen her mother raised her to be. Not hunger, hardship or her reduced place in the world ever bent her back, and now she stands free and tall in her own right. Very fair, she's got a smattering of freckles across her body, a sharp face with what can bee an otherworldly beauty to her. Her people populated much of her brother's children, and her looks have added a slightly ethereal look to them in the right light or surreal circumstances, resulting in both Alfred and Jack being mistaken for changelings.

Eye colour: Green. But not only the green of her isle but the churning blues and greys of the sea. Her eyes can't quite decide what colour they want to be and will vary on her clothes and the lighting.

Hair colour/style: Red. Hibernian gold was a red gold metal, likely mixed with copper, from Ireland in ancient times, and her hair is that exact shade. She has always worn it long, often bound up with ribbons, a snood, or just braided. It's curly, especially when she can care for it in modern times.

Personal Appearance/Style: In the modern day, she likes fine things. Irish-made linens and wools, and like most nations of her age, she doesn't like artificial products. Deprived of much of her dignity for much of history, she takes much pride in her appearance now and wears nice jewelry and clothes for most occasions. She wears many wool sweaters, high-waisted trousers and boots out in the country and still tends to wear a nightgown to sleep out of habit.

Verbal Style: Speaks English with her Irish accent and refuses to do otherwise. Speaks Irish in all the surviving dialects and some that are no longer alive.

Level of Education: A thousand years ago, she was the most educated person in Europe, with Irish monasteries and nunneries preserving much of European knowledge. But in the intervening centuries, stripped of much of her cultural knowledge and education increasingly only available in English, she felt somewhat behind in technology because she was trying to fucking survive, but always made a point to seek out new information when she could and probably taught a hedge school herself in the 18th century. From Alfred's independence, she kept a close correspondence with him. When she became independent in her own right, it was with a lot of American capital and encouragement, as well as infusions of cash from American institutions; she became one of the most educated countries in Western Europe and the world again by the end of the 20th century.

Occupation: These days, she works as an Irish teacher, sometimes even in the preschools when she's in a maternal mood, but she is also a diplomat, political activist, businesswoman and

Past Occupations: Weaver, farmer, nun, abbess, governess, union organizer, activist, labourer, teacher, social worker, factory worker, tailor, charwoman, cobbler, laundress, dressmaker, milliner, brewster, distiller, embroiderer, dyer. You name it; she's probably done it to survive.

Skills, Abilities or Talents: She's incredibly talented at all things textile. Embroidery, weaving, springing, making flax and fleece in to linen and wool. She's skilled at navigation and boats, but on a smaller scale than her brother or nephews, and prefers to stay closer to the shore. She's also incredibly musically and artistically gifted with her Celtic influence found across the world. Fiddle, harp and her voice are her favourites but she can just about play or sing anything put in front of her.

Admirable Personality Traits: Friendly, passionate, blunt, welcoming, warm, affectionate and witty.

Negative Personality Traits: Angry, moody, depressive, stubborn, and impatient but she has literally no reason not to be those things considering her history, christ.

Sense of Humor: Playful, subversive, a bit twisted, and loves a good use of word play or a pun.

Physical/Mental illness or affliction: She's been through so much, and it shows in her body. She's had problems with her digestive tract for decades, anemia, and a lot of trauma. She's remarkably well-adjusted, considering her history. However, her friends and her brother's children still get phone calls in what should be the dead of night for Brighid, and it is usually the morning for him because she's having a bad day. She'll call Alasdair more often than the other two of her brothers and Alfred, but her relationship with Alfred is a lot more of her giving him advice than him comforting her. A lot of the time, she calls Jack at the asscrack of dawn for him to wake him up and maybe accidentally hears a confused, sleepy "Mum?" like he's still small enough to cradle in her arms. But they talk a lot. She was probably the first of her siblings to go to therapy, second in the family only after Matt.

Hobbies/Interests: Reading, embroidery, knitting, hiking, shinty, hurling. She's getting more fit these days and more able to do exerting activities. Baseball was largely taken from a game called rounders, and she'll throw a ball around, but also dearly loves hurling and Gaelic football.

Favourite Foods: Brighid doesn't have a single favourite food. Bread, cheese, smoked salmon, boxty, barmbrack, soda bread, stew, colcannon and champ, spagbol, meat and veg, steak and chips, toasties, tikka masala, fish and chips. She was thrilled when Jack learned how to cook Greek and Italian and wanted to show it off, and she's always down to have some beers and go absolute ham on some pub food with Alfred.

Most important personal item: I don't think, with her insane history, she got to keep anything personal her entire life. But I think she has a set of very nice emeralds that Alfred gave her when she first came to America that she's incredibly fond of. A lot of her best jewelry is from Alfred.

Person/friend close to character: She's fairly close to her brothers all things considered, but things are certainly easier with Rhys and Alasdair than with Arthur. Two thousand years of fuckery isn't exactly water under the bridge, but it's not exactly brought up in every conversation, either if only because Brighid is tired. She's very close to Alfred, which I'm only recently exploring, but the sheer amount of Gaelic songs about America and Australia gives me fucking emotions. Her situation got so much less desperate after Alfred intervened at certain points, and I think he probably even gave her an allowance anonymously because she deserved so, so much more than his people or the United Kingdom was giving her, and he's very fond of her. Jack's her baby boy in every way, except he calls her his aunt most of the time because Arthur sorted it that way.

Brief family history: She was born to Brigantia/Brittania in the pre-roman period, she's not exactly sure how old she is, but she's older by at least 300 years than Alasdair and more like 500 for Rhys and Arthur. Her relationship with her siblings is difficult, to say the least, but she especially shares close linguistic ties with Alasdair. Her brother's children are also very important in her life, with Alfred forming an incredibly important part of her life, politics, history and economy. Things are occasionally difficult between her and Alfred, but generally, it's a good relationship. She's emotionally closest with Jack, feeling stronger maternal feelings with him than his brothers because of her role in both his earliest years and him being the most Irish nation outside of Ireland.

Most painful experiences in the character’s past: Where in god's name do I even start? When they buried their mother in the late ancient period, maybe the 4th century for her as a person? The famine would probably be the worst, how it hollowed her out for generations, the hell on earth of being rolled onto a coffin ship and burning with fever in a shed in Toronto before Matt and Alfred can finally get her to America. She's seen famine, plagues, invasions, and everything in between.

Their Song: The Voice by Celtic Woman

#Character Sheets || bodies and flesh of borders and fences #Brighid || An Bearna Bhaoil #hws ireland

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