#sim: alasdair mccarrick | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

windermeresimblr · 3 months

Note

List 5 facts about a favorite sim of yours, and send this to simblrs whose sims you adore 💜

We're going with Alasdair, because he needs more attention all the time.

His birthday can coincide with Mardi Gras! His mother, never one for age-appropriate parties for children, or age-appropriate behavior around children in general, used to celebrate this in lavish style. His first loose tooth came out on the bean in a king cake. Does he appreciate the costume I've so lovingly dressed him in? Absolutely not!

His mother used to powder his hair excessively as a child so that it would look pink, similar to this gentleman's, rather than his very brilliant red. After all, for some strange reason, red hair was considered ugly! The rest of his siblings, when they were old enough to tolerate it, got a lighter touch of powder, with their natural hair tones ranging from strawberry blonde to mousy brown.

Alasdair learned quickly not to mention his "less-visible friends" at home, because when he told one of his governesses about the man in the ruff, she thought he meant an actual man and was reasonably alarmed at the prospect of a stranger roaming around! Once the house was torn apart and nobody could find anyone unaccounted for, especially not in fancy dress--Papa had some choice words for Mama's choices of entertainment there--he was punished for "telling lies" and "scaring the help" and "making a scene" and sent to bed without any supper. The governess was given a day off for her very frazzled nerves.

He enjoys climbing, and in a modern AU, would perhaps have been one of those people who tries to set records for climbing various cliffs and mountains. (As an adult in Spain, he looked forwards to perhaps going on a nice hike in the mountains if he had the chance, until something derailed that. Will have looked forward to? He's hard to give a proper tense to.)

As a very young child, probably between Catherine's and Gramps' Graham's age, he once came upon his mother's snuff-box unattended, and took a largish handful and ate it, believing it was a new variety of brown sugar. It was a horrendous surprise to him that tobacco did not taste like brown sugar, and the whole thing promptly came back up all over the very expensive carpet. His nurse was sacked for not watching him closely (one of the very few times the sacking was deserved), and he was laid up in bed with a stomachache for the next day. As an adult, he has an instinctive horror of snuff and chewing tobacco, preferring a pipe if he absolutely must engage in smoking. Surprisingly, he has no such qualms about brown sugar!

#sim: alasdair mccarrick #i know i said he was a different star sign but he's a pisces now #if the man in the ruff isn't one of his real ancestors he is his ancestor in spirit #for someone who's firmly of the enlightenment he has an awful lot of encounters with strange and unexplainable things...#as an adult he pretends a lot of these things never happened or he must have misunderstood what happened #he didn't REALLY see a kelpie it was just a very wild feral horse and similar rationalizations

10 notes · View notes

windermeresimblr · 9 months

Text

The Scotsman and the Culdee of Innish Breacaimsir, Chapter Two

“Yes. I get supplies every so often from one of the brothers on Iona,” Caedmon said.

“Iona!” Alasdair said, standing up and wrapping the blanket around himself. He at least knew where Iona was, although there was a strange feeling at the back of his head, as if he wasn’t remembering something correctly. “And how far by boat is that? When will the brother arrive?”

“Oh…” Caedmon said. “Uh, on the quarter-days and cross-quarter days, usually. He last came in on Saint John’s Eve. And it’s just after Lammas…so he’ll next be in on Michaelmas.”

“So that’s a month,” Alasdair said. He looked again at the cell they were in–there was barely enough room for one of them, and he was much taller than Caedmon. Certainly there was only one pallet. And he had stolen the blanket to cover himself. It would be a very long and disagreeable month, especially with only a blanket for clothing.

“It’s fine, I can sleep in my robes,” Caedmon said before Alasdair could say anything. “I do that often in the winter. Otherwise I might wake up dead from cold. And we can split the pallet. I’ve been too vain, sleeping on such thick hay.”

“Do you not have any other clothes I could wear?” Alasdair asked.

“I’m a hermit,” Caedmon reminded him. “I’m not supposed to have a lot of clothes.”

“I can’t take your blanket!”

“Saint Martin gave his cloak to the beggar without expecting the beggar to give him anything in return,” said Caedmon, piously crossing himself. “And it’s much too cold here for you to walk about without anything on. Even if it is summer.”

“Well, what about food? I don’t want to eat you out of house and home in the meanwhile.”

“I am happy to share my bread with you, and water is in abundance.”

Alasdair groaned. The man was irritating him more and more. “How’s the fishing around here? I can at least fish for myself, and give you some.”

“I see lots of fish, and lots of sea-birds. There’s deer in the forest on the other side of the island. Once I even saw a whale, the kind of fish that ate Jonah.”

“Whales aren’t fishes,” Alasdair said. “They’re mammals.”

“They live in the sea. They’re fishes.”

“Not according to–never mind that. How long does it take the brother to arrive from Iona?”

#sims 3 historical #sims 3 story #sims 3 historical story #sim: alasdair mccarrick #sim: caedmon of slonk hill #the sims 3

21 notes · View notes

windermeresimblr · 8 months

Text

Dance! Dance!

I realized that @deniisu-sims' new top was a touch too short for historical saves without it looking very odd with my choice of bottoms, so instead, have modern-day Alasdair, who's quite the ballerino.

#sim: alasdair mccarrick

13 notes · View notes

windermeresimblr · 8 months

Note

When you get this, list 3 facts about your favorite sim and send it to the last 3 people in your notifications! Let’s get to know each other's sims 💕

Well...I suppose we're going to use Alasdair again! You all don't mind? Right?

Alasdair once had a Scottie named Wee Lassie. I really ought to bring her back, although she's perhaps too modern for his current save. No matter the era, he's secretly very soft-hearted when it comes to animals. Except for deer.

His red hair came from both sides of the family, although his dear Mama is as blonde as they come. (I like to think it's primarily a recessive O'Brien gene.)

Alasdair was born almost immediately after his mother won a very long game of faro at a party. (As in he was almost born in the litter back to the Ducal townhouse. That the Duchess made it to the drawing room was a minor miracle.) The Duke had gone to a friend's hunting lodge because both he and the Duchess assumed they had another few weeks until Alasdair's arrival; he was very surprised to come home and find the child already named. The other contents of the prize pot were £200, a racehorse's next foal, and a set of opal-and-onyx bracelets. The bracelets would have been in Alasdair's trousseau had he been a girl.

#sim: alasdair mccarrick

9 notes · View notes

windermeresimblr · 9 months

Text

The Scotsman and the Culdee of Innish Breacaimsir, Chapter 1

Alasdair awoke again, lying on rough sheets over a thin and poky pallet, aching as though he’d fallen from a cliff. Perhaps he had. His hands had scrapes on them (not terribly different from normal) and he could feel bruises and knots forming all over. His eyes felt a little swollen; he hoped he hadn’t broken his nose yet again. He shivered, trying to wrap the blanket (one blanket, and rough wool at that) tighter around himself. Worse still, he was totally naked, once again without his awareness of the matter. Where were the clothes he had been given? Where was he? He looked about for his belongings, but none were found.

The surroundings were unfamiliar–the ceiling was thatch, the walls and floor rough-hewn stone, and–it was cold and dark, lit only by a candle perilously close to the straw and some light from a door, if it could be called that, some distance away; it was made of rough planks, open at top and bottom. He could see a cross hung on the wall, with some kind of prayer-book on a low table below it, but there was otherwise no ornamentation or other signs of a person living there.

He was reminded of the sheilings on his cousin Matthew’s estate, although this building was much smaller than any he’d seen in his youth. It was more like one of those round prison-cells found in the south. But the ‘door’ was definitely not meant for a prison-cell; he could have crawled out through the gap at the bottom if he was less sore and disoriented.

“Foolish, to leave a candle burning like this,” Alasdair said aloud, if only to reassure himself that he could still speak. “I could have turned and knocked it over.”

At this, the door swung open; Alasdair flinched and blinked at the blaze of light. A man in a monk’s robe entered and made his way to the pallet; he was speaking in some very strange variant of Gaelic, by the few words Alasdair could make out. There was a buzzing, itching feeling in his ears, making him dizzy, and he screwed his eyes shut and leaned back on the pallet for a moment. And suddenly, he understood what the man was saying, with another wave of vertigo and buzzing.

“...you’re awake, praise be to Saint Colmcille, I was sure you were dead when I found you…” He had a gap in his teeth that made him whistle while talking, and the stubble on his tonsure was somewhat overgrown. Alasdair was unsure whether being in a monastery was a good sign or a bad one.

“Who are you? Where am I?” he asked.

“I am Caedmon, the hermit of Innish Breacaimsir,” the monk said. “Although I suppose I’m not such a hermit anymore now that you’re here. Even if I’m supposed to live in seclusion, I can’t very well ignore someone washed up half-dead at my well!”

“You’re a hermit,” Alasdair said, feeling his stomach drop. Outside of men hired to live in rich landowner’s follies, or perhaps Robinson Crusoe, he’d never met a real hermit before. As far as he knew, there hadn’t been a religious hermit in Scotland since after the Reformation. And where was Innish Breacaimsir? He’d never heard of such an island.

#sim: alasdair mccarrick #sim: caedmon of slonk hill #sims 3 historical #sims 3 historical story #sims 3 story #sims 3 medieval #TS3 story #TS3

18 notes · View notes

windermeresimblr · 10 months

Text

🎵 How do you solve a problem like Maria Alasdair?🎵

#sim: Alasdair McCarrick

6 notes · View notes

windermeresimblr · 8 months

Note

2 and 13 for Kolfinna, 6 and 7 for Alasdair 👀

What's something about your OC that people wouldn't expect just from looking at them?

Ah, spoilers, spoilers! But definitely there's a lot more steel in Kolfinna's spine than you would expect for a person in her situation. She's not a shrinking violet despite her "shy" or "dreamy" behavior, and even if she can be a bit squeamish or anxious when push comes to shove, she will do what has to be done. Also, despite being on the "spoiled" end of the scale, she's still very kind and generous, and tends to be shocked when people don't have the things she takes for granted.

(Kolfinna's spoiled in the sense that she has a lighter load of chores around the house, and was given a bit more slack in behavior growing up for reasons I won't get into.)

If you met your OC, would the two of you get along?

Language barrier aside, I think Kolfinna and I get along okay. We'd have a fiber arts party! But she's a lot more physically active than me, so I'd probably be worn out quickly if she was like "let's go for a hike and pick berries!" And if she expected me to help prepare a Viking-style dinner, I might faint. (I think she'd like ceviche, though, but whether she's a pine nuts or a popcorn person remains to be seen.)

How easily could your OC be convinced to do something that goes against their moral compass?

Alasdair's very…he has a strong sense of right and wrong. If his men were looting, he'd stop them if the looting changed into causing innocent people bodily harm or taking an entire village's food supply. But that's not to say he has an anachronistic sense of "hey, this is a war crime and we shouldn't be doing this." It's more along the lines of "well, this is sporting, but that isn't, I don't want my men doing things that reflect poorly on me." He is, after all, still deep down the youth who called his father's fiancee a war-profiteer.

I think, though, if it came down to the trolley problem/Kobayashi Maru exam, he would probably kill one person to save the others. But only if that was the only solution. And he would feel awful about it. In terms of theft, it would only be if he thought it was victimless.

But if it's at the faro table? The gloves are off and his conscience takes a bit of a walk. He plays to win, as his Mama taught him, and he has no hesitation against playing dirty. Would he call in bets that would ruin someone? Yes. Would he get into duels over cards? Quite possibly. It's faro, not chess!

What's one way your OC has changed since you first came up with them?

Alasdair was originally--please don't laugh--supposed to be something of an analogue to various Napoleonic-era military story protagonists. Think Aubrey/Maturin, Horatio Hornblower, perhaps even Sharpe, with a definite touch of Grand Admiral Thrawn in 'cultured badass;' obviously Alasdair's not an alien and he's not running about stealing works of art. But then he wound up getting quite a bit of influence from Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, especially the film version of the Wellington episodes, and the rest is history. I don't know if he resents me for this, inasmuch as a character 'resents' their creator. It was certainly a turn. But it also keeps him from being the standard Regency rakehell...

I am glad I didn't put him in the Navy, although the blue coats would look quite dashing against his red hair. There's really not a lot that can be done on a ship in TS3!

#sim: alasdair mccarrick #sim: kolfinna the dreamer

3 notes · View notes

windermeresimblr · 8 months

Note

for the oc ask meme - 2, 4, and 23 for alasdair!

What's something about your OC that people wouldn't expect just from looking at them?

I originally created him thinking he'd be something of a musician in his spare time. He has yet to demonstrate any of this, mostly because I keep forgetting to find excuses for him to play the instruments that DO have poses.

(Have you read the Aubrey/Maturin series? When Jack and Stephen are fighting during the evening recital about the proper method of beating time and whether Jack's ruining the performance by beating time with his cane, I always think of Alasdair. He'd very quickly escalate from hissed whispers to "let's you and me talk outside," though.)

When scared, does your OC fight, flee, freeze or fawn?

He has a tendency to fight first, helped by his military training. However, if things are very bad and there's no way he's going to fight his way out of it--let's say that there was a grizzly bear attacking him, for example--he would freeze. Unless there were people he felt he had to protect, then he'd do his best to go down swinging. Or at least give them time to flee/distract whatever's attacking them from the others.

On the battlefield, he's quite disciplined and will keep fighting until he is either taken down/dragged away by his companions or he gets orders to retreat. Handling people firing cannons at him is much different than something chasing him through the woods with ill intent; the cannoneer's not doing it AT Alasdair in particular.

What emotion is the hardest for your OC to process? How about express?

Ouch! This is a hard question. I had to think very hard about this--and this is really more for adult!Alasdair.

He's been through quite a lot, with loss and rejection being prominent 'themes.' I'd say these are his problem areas for processing things. Especially if the loss was abrupt and due to factors he couldn't influence. If he was on the losing side in a battle, well, that's war. If he didn't win the prize at a recital, that's a technical issue. But the sudden transition from life in the aristocracy to living in the countryside in disgrace, even if it was for the better? Whoo! He has not processed that at all!

Expressing emotion isn't hard for him, because he's very…open about his thoughts and feelings. I meant for him to be a bit more straight-laced/uptight but it was impossible to keep him that way permanently. I do think he's got the usual hang-ups about expressing vulnerability, but that's not special to him. I really have to examine his inner workings a bit more.

#sim: alasdair mccarrick

5 notes · View notes

windermeresimblr · 1 year

Text

I’ve been in a bit of a rut and not able to actually take nice photos recently due to various things, but please have some 1930s Alasdair interacting with his Scotty dog, Wee Lassie. (Wee Lassie is, of course, only thinking her thoughts and not actually saying them.) These are utterly out of canon, unedited, taken in no sequence, etc.

Wee Lassie: We need a housekeeper. I can’t be expected to keep up with all the dust bunnies in the house. Just look at my fur!

Wee Lassie: What if there are ghosts on this island? Papà, you’d tell me if there were ghosts on this island, right?

(Uncaptioned; I just love how he immediately ran to play with her...and brush her...and obsess over her as a little princess dog deserves.)

Alasdair: Now, Wee Lassie, don’t run off too far this time!

Wee Lassie: (nothing but shapes and colors in her thoughts)

Wee Lassie: See, I came back, Papà!

#sim: Alasdair McCarrick #sim: wee lassie the dog

9 notes · View notes

windermeresimblr · 1 year

Note

List 3 of your favorite sims from other simmers you enjoy and explain why (Send this to 10 other blogs 💖💖)

Only three is unfair! Thanks for sending this, even if it is a hard choice.

It's probably cheating to say the ENTIRE McCarric/McCarrick family by @danjaley. I can't choose Alasdair, he's mine although Danjaley does have custody for a while, and Aulay is also mine. So instead...I picked Mayrose! The Holy Mayrose! I always really worried about her, so I think she was my favorite of Season One. (Although Matt is my second favorite of all time, and Rory is third-favorite. I am afraid I don't know who from Season Two was my favorite!)

I'm obsessed with Meranum, by @procrasimnation, whether in the original TS3 version (one of my favorite and formative Sims 3 stories)) or in the new TS4 save. I'm really fascinated with how much of a window his character provides into a really specific and fascinating society and royal political intrigue. (Also he's just really fun.)

Finally, we have the charming Felony Rampage, by @ninjaofthepurplethings. She looks like the Sloth from Ice Age went to Sephora, and I adore her! I hope to make a Sim with half as much personality and wow factor.

14 notes · View notes

windermeresimblr · 4 years

Text

The Scotsman and The Mystery of El Bosque Del Fauno, Chapter 1

Next Chapter

Spain, 1808

Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de las Nieves

Village of Malartos

The village had lacked a headman ever since the French executed him during the aftermath of the Dos de Mayo revolts. (This had nothing to do with the increased bandit raids nearby; that was more to do with the ravages and excesses of war.) Captain Alasdair McCarrick, who had spent a good part of his life in a small Highland town, therefore went to see the village priest to learn the lay of the land.

"The people here are superstitious," said the priest as they sat in the church; fortunately, his Spanish was closer to the dialects Alasdair was familiar with, so he was able to follow along without difficulty. “Very superstitious. It’s been an uphill battle to drag them into anything remotely resembling modernity. The bandits took advantage of this. They have hidden themselves in the Bosque del Fauno, and they are certain that nobody will try to interfere with them. At least, nobody local."

"That sounds more like a fear of reprisal than a fear of ghosts and witches," Alasdair said. "After what they did to those merchants--"

"Those men did an awful thing, and they should be found and punished for it. Bad enough that every army that passes along pillages us! Begging your pardon. No, there is a genuine...belief...among the villagers that the god Pan lives in those woods."

"Pan?" Alasdair snorted. "Are you serious? What year is it, sir?"

The priest harrumphed. "This area is backwards, yes, but not nearly as backwards as you think! A statue of a satyr was found there by one of my predecessors in the reign of El Hechizado. He buried it again once he’d sketched it--it was...too grotesque to be dealt with. But there have been legends about a satyr or a faun or a goat-man, or the great god Pan, for years and years before that.

"Neither the Inquisition nor the new science was able to shake that flight of fancy. My predecessors and I been able to make them put a veneer of Christianity on most of the old things they do, but this--there’s nothing I can do to make them stop treating the forest like it’s a leper colony and leaving little sacrifices at the crossroads there when they think I’m not paying attention. Even in times of famine, nobody from the village goes in there. They blame every runaway, every crop failure, every elf-knot on those woods."

"You let them go about in such a state of panic?" Alasdair scoffed. "Shame on you, Father. Do I need to write to the Bishop?"

"I am telling you this, Captain, so that you understand why nobody will help you if you run into trouble. If I wanted theological criticism, I'd find a Dominican." The priest sighed. "We can block the roads for you, prevent any reinforcements from coming or any escapees from leaving, but not one of the men would go there with you, even if it meant his death."

"Absolute nonsense," Alasdair spat.

#sims 3 story #sims 3 historical #sim: Alasdair McCarrick #sims 3 regency #sims 3 historical story #sims story #sims series the scotsman

50 notes · View notes

windermeresimblr · 4 years

Text

The Scotsman and the Mystery of El Bosque Del Fauno, Chapter Eight

The end (or is it?) of Alasdair’s Adventures behind the jump...

The world flickered back into view, and Alasdair found himself stripped bare and strapped to a table, unable to move. For a moment, he thought he was paralyzed, perhaps to witness his own dissection while still living, and despaired; soon, the medicine fog began to clear, and he realized he was simply bound too tightly to move more than his eyes and mouth. He was, unfortunately, still naked.

“You’re finally awake,” said the Guardian, looming over him. “Good. I was worried XJ had gone overboard with the tranquilizers. We didn’t expect you to put up such a fight.”

“Not you again!” Alasdair grumbled. “If you mean to kill me, do it now. I’m not going back to that cell.”

“What a drama queen! I can’t just kill you, you know,” the Guardian said, looking annoyed. “You still have a role to play in the timestream. Well, multiple roles. Which is why you’re here, anyways.”

The Guardian gestured, and a globe emerged. “You’ve seen a globe before, right?”

“I’m not so unlearned I think the world is flat. I’ve sailed--”

“Sure you have! Anyways.” A few more flicks of the being’s hands, and Alasdair eventually realized what he was looking at.

“Holland? Why are you showing me Holland?”

“That’s where our next bubble is headed. So, the Dutch Republic, circa 1608, give or take a few weeks and the change from Gregorian to Julian and maybe a couple of hundred miles in any direction, up, down, or sideways. Do you know anything about that time?”

Alasdair wondered, not for the last time, if he really had died and gone to hell. “War with England, sometimes. War with Spain, more frequently. Pirates in the North Sea. There was some business with tulips and buying on credit. Lots of people roaming about with neckerchiefs starched out like millstones. Rembrandt, of course, and Vermeer. There were some English garrison towns...”

“Groundbreaking. What did you do, read Lonely Planet the night before the test? Well, there goes Bee getting any help with that term paper.” The being gestured again, frowning, and now three portraits hovered between them. They were all of himself, although the dour faces and severe mustaches--now he knew he’d look right awful with a mustache--made him wonder if the Guardian hadn’t gone digging in the McCarric vault.

“You have to choose a new life. So, you’re either of these three pillars of society.”

“Do I have to have a mustache?” Alasdair asked.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” the Guardian said. “Yes, you can stay clean-shaven if you’re so horrified by growing a mustache.”

“Do I get to know anything about what I’m getting into?” Alasdair snapped. “I’m not just choosing a new life based on how least poorly-groomed my face would be, am I?”

“I have to explain everything for you, ugh!” The being said. “Next time, I’m picking for you.”

“Next time?!” Alasdair cried. “Oh, ye gods and little fishes, preserve me from ever seeing you again!”

“Ń̶͓̟̤̞̉̽̔ę̵̡̼̮̣̯̜͆̒̇̒̀̒͒͜v̵̭̮̳̝̗̩͐̋̍͆̊̑̔͗͗͝ͅe̷̢̢̝͖̞̟͐̌̑͊͋͛̆̀͝r̸̘̗̭̲̃͊̂̽̀̐͘̚͘͝ ̵̧̮̫̯̙͖̂͋̓̊̾̚m̵̡̬͈͎̀͛̈́͝͝i̶̧̳̮̦̩̹̘̼͊́̽̎͠͝ͅṅ̴̰̪̘͚̩̬̝̮̋̀͌̃͌̓̅̽͘ḏ̷̡̲̟̳̜̙͛̌̂̕͠ ̴̢̩̗̻͎͈̥̆̓̋̌̓͋́͐͘͘ͅţ̴̜̓̒̏͊͌ḧ̴̨̗̻͍̭̔̌̇́͘͜͠à̷̹̼̞͍̪̻̞͖̣͗́t̴͇̳̞͈̭͇̙̀̑̃̎̿͠!̴̢̲̹͍̫̘̎̓̐̀̉̊̈́” A pointer, as if the Guardian were a schoolteacher explaining a lesson, also materialized from nowhere.

“This is William Beaton,” the being said, pointing to the man on the left with a black feathered hat. “He’s an apothecary in Flushing. Unmarried, no children--yet--”

“I can’t be an apothecary,” Alasdair pointed out. “I don’t know anything about medicine. And I don’t speak Dutch! I’m not about to send myself hurtling into the past to poison someone and be burnt at the stake!”

“We’ll teach you everything you need to know.” Somehow, Alasdair was not convinced.

“I don’t think I want to be an apothecary. Who are the other two?”

“This is Red Finbarr of Barra, a privateer--”

“Absolutely not! I’m not ending up in a gibbet!”

“Why are you so picky? Do you know how excited some people would be to become a pirate?”

“Also, my uncle--my father’s family has relatives in the Caribbean,” Alasdair said. “Surely someone as knowledgeable as you--”

“You’re not even biologically related to most of them! And Finbarr was never known to go deeper into the Atlantic than the Faroes--”

“What’s all this past tense and ‘he was known to’? Are these real people I’m replacing?”

“Not really? I mean, they’re more...aggregates. It’s not really identity theft, or anything.”

Alasdair had a horrifying image of someone stealing his life, some hapless outsider (the bewildered apothecary, or worse, a corsair--heaven only knew what the third person would be) beguiled by the Guardian into living out the rest of his days. A surge of anger flashed through him--that was his family, however distant, his commission, his friends, his horse, his books--at least he didn’t have a wife or a sweetheart, to also yield to this imagined impostor. (And, of course, he wasn’t really the type to give someone horns, even in the hypothetical; the thought of some burgher’s wife thinking he really was her Jan or Pieter, dandling someone else’s children on his knee while they had no idea who he really was, made him faintly nauseous.) “I’m not stealing someone’s life! That’s horrid!”

“Fine, Mr. Picky. You don’t want to stay in the Nexus, and then it’s too immoral to go back into reality... Here’s door number three--if you don’t choose one of these, I’m turning you into a goat. A sentient goat.”

“Or you could just kill me. I think it’d be easier,” Alasdair said.

“No. Killing’s too good for you.” The being stabbed the pointer rather viciously this time. “Alexander Cummings, a saffron merchant living in Campvere.”

“That’s a tulip he’s holding, not a saffron.” Alasdair thought for a moment. “Why are you so insistent on these three...guises? Are they going to replace me?”

“No, they all turned up their noses at your life, too,” the Guardian said, rather nastily. “Every person has their own...significance in the time stream.”

“So you want me to muck things up even further, then.”

“I have a few people in the region who also went through the Nexus. I want you to keep an eye on them.”

Alasdair had a mental image of some of the nastier members of his father’s crew...and his mother’s less scrupulous protectors. He did not much care for the idea of being an enforcer for the Guardian’s schemes. (Perhaps, though, a saffron merchant would have less chances for skulduggery than a corsair or an apothecary? Surely this Alexander Cummings wasn’t the type who personally went to the Ottomans to find his goods, or squabbled with Venetians in squalid back rooms!) “And what’s in it for me, if I’m your enforcer?”

“You’re not sent back to the Stone Age or turned into a goat? Isn’t that enough of a benefit for you?”

“I suppose. But I still don’t speak Dutch, and my hair’s awful short compared to his.”

“We have some time until the rift opens.” The Guardian snapped their fingers, and another group of mechanicals emerged. One had a tailor’s ham in its hands and pins in its mouth; another had a precarious tower of books; a third had a pair of scissors and a curious-looking bottle.

“Meanwhile, you’re going to be getting a bit more...hah...out of date.”

Alasdair was soon dragged off into a room with an array of strange devices throughout. He was pushed onto a platform, and then the harrying began. “Arm out, please,” said one mechanical, who then began measuring him for a new suit of clothes.

“The muttonchops have to go,” said the other, tilting his face its way, and Alasdair flinched at the advancing scissors.

“But they make me look dashing!” he protested, to no avail.

“Compiling trade route statistics,” said the third, its jointed fingers and stalk-like eye breezing through the stack of books with a dizzying speed Alasdair envied. “...Bingely-bing! Personality programming complete.”

“Personality what? I’m fine the way I am, thank you!”

“The hair needs to grow at least five inches at the sides...and he needs a goatee...”

“Och, no.”

“Green wool doublet and cannions, perhaps a nice mulberry sleeve in velvet…”

“No! No velvet! It’s too hot for velvet--”

“Enabling time dilation…”

His hair and facial hair grew at an alarming rate; the mechanical with the tailor’s ham whizzed about him, poking and prodding, until suddenly he was encased in a costume that itched and made him long for a good pair of trousers and a shirt. His hair and beard, even his eyebrows and nails, were trimmed as if he were a topiary in a garden. His mind was overwhelmed by new knowledge, facts and grammatical clauses and memories that he knew weren’t his and had never happened to him crammed into his skull until he felt he was going insane. Perhaps he had.

“Time dilation complete.”

Blinking, he looked at the mechanicals surrounding him, his reflection in the glass. That was, indeed, his reflection, he realized with mounting horror.

“What have ye done to me?” he cried, looking at himself. His hair was slicked back and curled under at the ends, grazing the starched millstone ruff he was wearing; he had a mustache and goatee that made him look a pompous fool; he was, indeed, clad in green wool and mulberry velvet. “I look awful!” (Well, his calves looked excellent, but calves did not a man’s appearance make.)

“Stop whining!” said the Guardian, who had come into the room when he was unaware, or perhaps while he was contemplating the disastrous...thing on his upper lip. While some of his men had grown them, falling into the French idea that it was dashing and that their waxed mustaches were simply teeming with masculine derring-do, he had always thought they looked rather foolish. “You look nice in green, at least.”

“But I--”

“It’s time to go, you wouldn’t want to be late to your future, now would you?” The Guardian seized hold of him by the shoulders, clawed hands gripping his thrice-damned velvet sleeves so tightly he thought he might actually be mauled.

With that, he was once more shoved through a dizzying array of corridors until he was brought into a room that resembled something like a canal lock, only there was no water. “Suppose this is a canal lock, and not just another strange little room. Suppose they unleash the canal the instant I let my guard drop. I’d be drowned like a rat,” he thought to himself. “I suppose drowning is better than whatever was meant to happen to me in the woods, but what a choice.”

“Must you be so melodramatic?” The Guardian said, stepping behind a partition. “All this frowning and sighing and raising your voice. I can’t wait until you’re inflicting this Lord Byron nonsense on someone else.”

“Wh--how dare you, sir!” Alasdair spluttered. “I’ll have you know--”

Before he could make his reply--certain to have more than a few oaths and imprecations--a bright light flashed; he felt himself pulled once more by an unseen force, forward and back and side to side...

Credits

Now and forever, thanks to all of you who read this and left such nice comments!

Of course, my eternal thanks and gratitude to @danjaley, who was so gracious as to allow Alasdair and Daniel into the McCarric(k) clan, and for creating an excellent stable of poses; @moocha-muses, for letting me borrow Dan O’Doyle; @rennylurant for costuming advice and squealing over renaissance fashions/advice; @studiok2sims, for even more excellent poses and advice; @tolkiensimmer for advice on lighting and costuming; and @treason-and-plot for helping me get “unstuck” on several occasions and finding certain things I needed for the sequel. Why yes, Virginia, there is a sequel. It’s my NANOWRIMO PROJECT. MUAHAHAHAHAHA.

Happy Halloween!!!!!

#sim: Alasdair McCarrick #sims story the scotsman #sims 3 story #sims 3 futuristic #sims 3 renaissance

12 notes · View notes