#alasdair steele

[curiousb]

The Steele Family Album: Volume XVIII

Well, that was fast work! Nancy is keen to get back to work as soon as possible, so if Andrew - their firstborn - is not to be an only child, there's no time to waste.

What a sweetie!

Well, except when he's grizzling.

Andrew's toddler stats:

~ Aries 7 / 7 / 8 / 1 / 0 (ouch - he's going to be a little charmer then!)

~ Coward / Hot-headed

~ OTH: Fitness

Dad knows how to fix the grizzles.

What they're putting in kids' books these days seems to be a bit of a shocker though.

The army was very much a job of convenience, and soon after completing his basic training, Steve is fortunate to find himself an opening in his dream career instead.

Nancy is at home alone when Andrew's little brother Alasdair makes his appearance. He has his dad's striking grey eyes. (Yeah, I seem to be going with a bit of a Scottish theme with the baby names, and I have no idea why!)

Nancy hasn't had much time for socialising lately, so she's very glad to catch up with her old friend Margaret.

Although perhaps the tiredness that comes from caring for two under-twos is making her especially irritable at the moment.

Alasdair is bit of a poppet too.

~ Sagittarius 9 / 3 / 7 / 1 / 3

~ Brave / Loves the Outdoors

~ OTH: Nature

They might be a pair of little meanies (Andrew especially), but these two brothers certainly love each other!

With two active youngsters, the cramped, impersonal apartment is starting to feel rather confined, Perhaps it's time to start looking for a family home, where the boys can have a bit more room to run and play?

[thepastisalreadywritten]

The Great Sword of Dunvegan

No, it’s not Excalibur but the great Sword of Dunvegan, and it’s over 500 years old. 🗡️

This sword was a weapon of great power, made by the MacLeods of Suardal who were the Blacksmiths to the MacLeods of Dunvegan.

A claymore (Claidheamh Mòr, or “great sword" in Gaelic) such as this would have cost a small fortune and was typically used by Clan Chiefs.

Its real power was in its length and weight.

The blade is three feet (approximately 90cm) in length and, together with its weight, would have been lethal in a double-handed swing.

The sword is difficult to date. Its features suggest the late 15th or early 16th century AD.

A depiction of it on the tombstone of Alasdair Crotach MacLeod (1450 – 1547), the 8th Clan Chief, tells us it cannot be dated after 1528 AD.

What makes this sword even more fascinating is that it is made with Scottish steel instead of German steel.

[thatscarletflycatcher]

can you tell me what your thesis is about if you're willing to share??

Hi!!! Yes, of course! I need to go over and over the description of this thing in order to turn in a precise and compelling project for the board (attempt #3 at finishing this cursed degree, here we go! *sobs*).

My area of interest has always been Medieval Philosophy, Metaphysics, Ethics, Virtue Ethics and Aristotelian Ethics-Politics. My very first attempt was writing something on Metaphysics (transcendentals) then Ethics Metaphysics (the role of intellectual intuition in moral reasoning in Aristotelian Ethics, Book VI of the Nicomachean Ethics)... Neither worked mainly because a problem when talking metaphysics is... well, there's few words to use and little to say and I have always been a very succinct academic writer (yeah, I know, but it is true).

When I reached acceptance about that XD I moved on to trying something about Aristotelian Ethics-politics. Alasdair MacIntyre is a key author in that area, and he's a favorite of mine because in agreement or disagreement he's thought provoking, he has a sense of humor, and he's a hater of the fun kind. I know it isn't proper to call or pick academic authors because they are fun, but hey, he is. He is a curmudgeonly old man (present tense: he's 95), who kind of manages to disagree with everyone because he hates being put in boxes, but he's also always been very willing and open to listen to other voices and change his opinions on things.

For example, the refinement and reformulation of many ideas between his After Virtue (1981) and his Dependent Rational Animals (1999) came (declaredly) through a reading of certain feminist theory, which brought to the foreground to him how little academic Ethics had focused until that point on disability and caretaking.

He's also always been a versatile author in the sense of breaching the barriers between disciplines for the purposes of philosophical inquiry -After Virtue has a great deal to say about Sociology, and Dependent Rational Animals talks a lot about dolphins XD.

I decided I wanted to write something about this guy, but I got stuck because if you are writing on an author specifically, alone, how do you manage to write something that isn't like, textbook regurgitation? Theoretically I know it is possible, but it was very paralyzing to me all the same.

Enter Elizabeth Gaskell with a steel chair.

I love Gaskell dearly for many different reasons. I love the way in which she writes nuanced, believable, textured characters. I love the treatment of grief in her work, I love the compassion she has for her characters, I love how she makes interesting, central, and natural relationships between parents and children. I love that she's versatile too, and that she saw writing as a vocation, and how she manages to talk about so many different things in a novel without making it come across as didactic or preachy. But one very special thing that has called my attention is her specific interest in communities, and community building through friendship.

Very often her "proposals" of "solutions" to social problems, specifically in her industrial novels, have been dismissed as the utopian sugary pap of learning to share and be nice of someone completely out of touch with reality, but I think those readings are fundamentally missing the framework that makes her ideas make sense and be solid.

As an aside, I feel like that ungenerous reading is kinda rich when Hard Times and its "imagination to power!" concept or Shirley and its marriage solution keep getting praise to this day. You know. It comes across as a bit double standard-y, if you ask me.

But back to topic, guess who did consider friendship, understood as the ties that unite virtuous people in the pursuit of the good for themselves and their fellow men, the very foundation of society, and mankind as essentially social, and therefore for ethics and politics to be a continuum? That's right, my boy Aristotle!

And to that, between other things, when talking about the Aristotelian tradition of Ethics Politics, MacIntyre adds teleological narrative as the element that frames and anchors virtue ethics in this scheme. What is more, he dedicates A CHUNK of chapter 16 of After Virtue to Jane Austen, and why he thinks she's "the last key representative" of this tradition (which has sprung a non negligible amount of scholarship on Austen and virtue ethics).

And I'm persuaded that Gaskell is a significant successor to Austen in this way too, and that the certain sympathy people often perceive between them comes from this aspect (because, in all honestly, it's clearly not about tone or style).

So that's the aim/core of my thesis: to present/analyze/contextualize Gaskell's work within the framework of the Aristotelian Ethics-Politics tradition as understood by MacIntyre.

Of course because I am, in Nelly Dean's description of Edgar Linton, a venturesome fool, this is clearly very ambitious, and I am making it worse for myself by doing things like harvesting circa 350 titles for a thesis that won't require more than 50 and that cannot be more than 80 pages long. The clown shoes can be heard from the other side of the world no this has nothing to do with the fact that I don't think I'll ever get a masters or a PhD where I might be able to develop this concept beyond a very summary overview of N&S and maybe Cranford and My Lady Ludlow if I'm lucky.

And that's how I should have sent something to my advisor three weeks ago (I haven't yet) and how I'm half agony half hope about the whole thing, because I'm scared and anxious and full on rowing through Nutella executive function wise. Maybe I should get a rubber duck.

[steliosagapitos]

          ~ “This stunning Claymore, (Claidheamh M dir, or ‘Great Sword’ in Gaelic), more than 500 years old called the ‘Great Sword of Dunvegan’, is preserved and displayed on the Isle of Skye, Scotland, at Dunvegan Castle, home of the ‘famous’ McLeod clan since the 13th century. The sword is dated around the late XV or early XVI century, indicative of its presumed depiction on the tombstone of the 8th Clan leader Alasdair Crotach MacLeod, dated 1528. The blade is three feet (about 90 cm) long, and the steel it was forged with, normally imported from Germany, in this portfolio was manufactured in Scotland. For the forging, it appears to have been manufactured by the MacLeod of Suardal, blacksmiths of Dunvegan. The Isle of Skye, or simply Skye (/s k aɪ/; Scottish Gaelic: An t-Eilean Sgitheanach or Eilean a' Che ile; Scottish: Isle of Skye), is the largest and northernmost of the largest islands in the Inner Hebrids of Scotland. The island's penis radiate from a mountainous centre dominated by Cuillin, whose rocky slopes offer some of the most spectacular mountain landscapes in the country. Dunvegan Castle is Scotland's oldest continuously inhabited castle. Since 1933 it has been open to the public, leading to a substantial increase in tourism in the area. The castle has been visited by numerous prominent personalities, including writers Walter Scott and Samuel Johnson, Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom and Emperor Akihito of Japan. Clan MacLeod (/m Mac ̪ɣ k l a / d/; Scottish Gaelic: Clann Mhic Le çid [ jkhl Cã aton n v coçkj ətj]) is a Scottish Highlands clan associated with the Isle of Skye. There are two main branches of the clan: the MacLeod of Harris and Dunvegan, whose head is MacLeod of MacLeod, are known in Gaelic as Siol Tormoid (’seed of Tormod’); the MacLeod clan of Lewis and Raasay, whose head is MacLeod of Lewes (Scottish Gaelic: Mac Ghille Chaluim), known in Gaelic as Siol Torcaill (’seed of Torcall’). Both branches claim to be descended from Le olod, who lived in the 13th century.“ ~

[a-luran]

So, England hates the air France breathes but also they're probably soulmates or at least each the other's closest friend, and Scotland and France were basically, if not literally, married. What about Wales, Ireland, and N.Ireland though? Francis is their closest neighbor so I imagine they've all known him a long time but that's about all I've got head cannon wise, and I'd love to hear your opinion. 💕💕💕

hello! aye I think that as their close neighbour (rendered closer by virtue of his ahem, association with Scot and England) they know him fairly well.

If you ask them, probably too well.

On the surface, France is probably the most comfortable around Wales. They are both well read and charming in polite company. In histo-political terms, France is Wales' second largest export destination (literally a relationship forged in iron and steel), Breton and Welsh have a few words in common, for all that they are starkly different language. The modern cultural exchange between Wales and France is notable. That being said, I think that Wales on a personal level cannae fucking stand the fella. I think he makes his blood boil for no particular reason (or that's what he'll claim, he will say it is nothing personal, only it absolutely is, it is deeply sorely personal). Francis to this day is not sure what tipped the scale and Daffyd is never anything but polite and welcoming, but his eyes betray him. He would (and probably has) tip piping hot tea straight on Francis' lap and say oh dear! how clumsy, me, like didn't do it on purpose. He would smile the entire time. Francis is deeply unnerved and feels like he is going crazy because Arthur and Alasdair both swear that Dai has never so much as breathed an ill word about him. Maybe to the point where it becomes a bit of a sore subject, they are staunch in their defence that dear, lovely Wales would never, and how dare Francis imply (hypocrites, the both of them, it's like they are feigning amnesia because they know damn well what Wales is capable of). But no! they seem to be blind to the underhanded warfare that Wales is waging against him. To this day, no one could say what Francis did that was so grievous except for maybe Ireland but he finds it hilarious so his lips are sealed on the matter.

Ireland is easy to love and like and Francis' only witness to the horreurs he must face, but he is also unsympathetic (Wale steeped a mug of tea and brought everyone biscuits except him, cry me a river) so he is really no use in that regard. I imagine that they would be on amiable terms, and have a decent relationship on independent terms, especially given that Ireland lives a ways away and on his own. When he's mixed in with the rest of the Isles though, I imagine that him laughing at Francis' misery would bruise his pride and lose him some points of favour. Comparatively their histories might not be so deeply entwined but they have developed close links over the centuries. Overall decent, I would say of their relationship. Shame that Ireland always seems to be there to catch Francis at his lowest and most embarrassing moments and, being the good-humoured fella that he is, can you really blame it for finding it hilarious?

In short, I think that where most others get to see the finer side of Francis, because this lot gets him at his most human, a lot of the shine and mystique of him has worn thin over the centuries. He's family, one way or another.

And family is fair game (that is a threat).

[windermeresimblr]

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!

[celtic-cd-releases]

https://www.calainverness.com/

https://www.facebook.com/calainverness

https://calamusic.bandcamp.com/album/from-the-river

[leguin]

oh, when will I see you again, my love? oh, when will I see you again?

when the little fishes fly, and the seas they do run dry, and the hard rocks they melt in the sun.

alasdair roberts and emily portman singing “the lover’s ghost” (child ballad 248).

[chickpeatalia]

I heard "working class!Arthur" and I can't think of anything else yes please!!!

Anon, I know you didnt exactly ask for it, but now that you have put the words “working class!Arhur” into my ask box, you have practically opened pandoras box so I’m just gonna go ahead and talk about it anyway. *mwua*  First things first, I shall note that I am not in fact British, so I might not get a few things right. Second, what we’re gonna talk about today is a rather specific human AU that lives in my head.  Third, this ended up being....incredibly long, I’m sorry. The rest is under the cut!

So, why is working class Arthur splendid?

Obviously, there are many different version of how to do a human AU, and oftentimes fandom likes to go down the rich/royal/elite!Arthur route. Which, in fact, is super valid and oftentimes quite fun too. I like these versions too. However, I think oftentimes a working class background is favourable because 1) it makes more sense, to me, on a meta level  and 2) it has a certain charm to it.

Lets consider the meta level first: - despite stereotypes, Great Britain does not consist of aristocracy and royals alone. What are 600 arstocratic families to 60 million of the rest of the population? - the Industrial Revolution started in Great Britain - factory work, steel mills, textile and most prominently, coal mines in the North of England were all operated by the workers. I feel like in Britain, social classes matter way more than on continental Europe, and also to me personally the working class seemed like a particularly important one, historically speaking. Okay, enough history for now, so lets get into the human AU: - Arthur, who grows up in a large family with four brothers (Alasdair & Dylan who are older. And Sean & Peter who are younger) - his parents had Alasdair very early on and you know how it is. With a baby on the way, you got to make the best out of it and take the first stable job you get. (Which was in Glasgow at the time). - but unforntunately high unemployment rates hit the country, especially the working class (thanks Maggie T</3) and what to do if you lose your job and no new work is to be found? Well, you just go and look somewhere else. In the Kirklands’ case, that somewhere else is Cardiff, Wales where Dylan is born. - So they end up sort of moving quite a lot, practically in every part of the UK, in hopes of finding stable jobs for a bit. - Eventually they settle in a suburb of Manchester, England at long last.

- And life goes on

- They recycle so much clothes between the brothers. A good 40% if not more of Arthur’s clothes used to be either Alasdair’s or Dylan’s. - In turn, Sean and Peter also get Arthur’s old school uniforms. Theyre not particularly nice after all these years, but look, they have five kids. They simply don’t have the money for new ones. ( “Says much about the efficiency of a system when it forces you to wear school uniforms in order to avoid social stigmatisation and yet makes you buy the uniforms yourself, as if richer people couldn’t afford the better ones anyway.” Arthur would say darkly) - lots and lots of second hand shopping. (this is where Arthur got is first leather jacket and Doc Martens from, and yes, this is also when his punk phase has started) - thus his outfits tend to look quite ...interesting. A various mix of old jumpers from the 90s, Dylan’s old plaid shirts and some band t-shirt he got for £5. - one year, he and his brothers were looking for a gift for their mum’s birthday. Arthur didn’t have any cash anymore (yes, it was after he bought the Doc Martens, sacrifies had to be made), so he suggested he tried to bake her a cake. Much cheeper than any other gift. Obviously his brothers mocked him for it (until they actually tried the cake and found out that it actually tasted quite good). Since then Arthur took up baking here and there, and his brothers while not encouraging, do not mock him anymore. They do hope he makes the lemon cake again for Ma’s next birthday though

- SCHOOL ho boy... so the thing is, Arthur is rather clever.

- Academically, he was above average. Acing it in subjects like English and History, being quite good in French (no, he does not bring this fact up often...or...at all), and getting decently by in the rest. Except that one time in PE when he got rowdy with the other boys during a football match (no, not our boy’s brightest moment). - He is intelligent, he even understands subject that he doesn’t particular like, like chemistry. He is quick-witted and sharp tongued and has a natural talent for words and writing. Even rather sophisticated articles and topics do not resent a challenge for him. - Naturally, Arthur toys with the thought of going to university and immediately wants to slap himself for that ridiculous idea. - The thing is, nobody in his family has gone to university so far. Like, he has no, absolute no frame of reference what it entails. - Being from a working class family and then going to university is a scary thing, man. - also, being £30,000 in dept by age 18 is a terror of its own kind - Eventually, he contemplates applying maybe perhaps for the local university and that information seeps through to Alasdair who found it to be a rather ridiculous endeavour. - “Look, you’re shitting your pants about this application one way or another, so why not just go immediately for the top universities instead. If you get rejected, well, at least you got rejected by one of the top universities in the world. But if you get accepted....” “Aw, are you saying you think I could get accepted by one of the best universities in the world?” “I’m not saying anything, you wee little shit. Don’t put words in my mouth. But......being the overachieving know-it-all that you are, you might have a chance.” - For as long as he lives, Arthur’s never gonna admit it but this conversation might have really been the most meaningful thing Alasdair has ever said to him. - And yes, he does apply and yes he does get accepted.

FURTHER HEADCANONS:

- he toned it down by now but the punk never died in him. lots of LGBT+ pins on his jackets too. - that being said, he hates it when people think punk is an aesthetic rather than a political stance (”You cannot be bloody punk and right wing. You just cannot!”) - genuinely likes the taste of beer. Or it might be that it was the cheepest alcoholic beverage he could manage to buy. Situation unclear. - is so prone to get into bar fights oh dear lord when he says “fight me”, he genuinely is 100% down to throw hands even if you beat him bloody - obviously, always votes Labour - will call you a cunt if you’re a Tory - unrelated to anything, but I think he’d wear earrings regularly and they’d be cute - also, has a tendency to dye his hair in crazy colours when he is under pressure - one last thing: oftentimes, Arthur strikes people as incredibly cynic or gloomy or ‘overly engaged in politics’, but growing up the way he grew up, facing so many hardships through the years of which many were directly caused by careless conservative politics...its just hard not to be cynic. My final words here are: this is most definitely not what you were looking for when you sent that ask, anon, but I seriously needed to get this out of my system. If anyone wants to ever talk about my favourite boy Arthur, my ask box is always open.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk<3

[itcars]

Reveal: The Ecurie Ecosse C-type 

 In 1952 a young Ian Stewart, pioneer driver for Ecurie Ecosse, would visit Jaguar Cars in Coventry to collect his brand-new C-type. He would drive the car to its first race on Jersey to confront stiff competition from Aston Martin and Frazer Nash. The race was won at a gallop and in doing so he opened the first chapter in Ecurie Ecosse’s international motor racing career.

Considerable success on the racetrack ensued for Ecurie Ecosse, their trophy cabinet bursting at the seams with 59 podium places secured across the seven C-type chassis raced by the team. Through clever tuning by legendary team manager ‘Wilkie’ Wilkinson and meticulous planning by founder David Murray, they proved how capable the Jaguar C-type could be on the international stage and began a legacy that would take the Scottish national team to countless wins, including their crowning glory at La Sarthe.

The Jaguar C-type was a technological masterpiece. The first race car honed in the wind tunnel, first to use fuel ‘bag’ tanks (a technology borrowed from the aviation world) and the test bed for Dunlop’s revolutionary disc brakes. A steel spaceframe chassis formed the rigid backbone of these cars, clad in a lightweight, thin-gauge, streamlined aluminum body designed by Malcolm Sayer and powered by a silky smooth Jaguar ‘overhead cam’ straight-six engine. Stirling Moss once said: “I always really rated the C-type – for me it was a far better car than the D.”

Ecurie Ecosse have created a new car to pay homage to their past success. Current Ecurie Ecosse patron Alasdair McCaig said of their new car: “How better to celebrate the historic success of the Ecurie Ecosse C-types than to manufacture a batch of cars in their honor? The seven priceless chassis raced in period still exist today, coveted by their lucky owners, occasionally seeing the light of day for race or concours events. We are paying homage to these cars by creating a numbered sister car to each one. Meticulous in their detail, like their forebears, hand-built in Coventry and tuned by Ecurie Ecosse technicians.”

Ecurie Ecosse have retained all the key elements that contributed to the roaring success of the 1950s Jaguar racer while, in the true spirit of co-founder ‘Wilkie’ Wilkinson, making considered improvements. The aerodynamic shape remains, still crafted from thin-gauge aluminum alloy and mounted to a steel spaceframe chassis, but wider and stiffer than before, laser-cut for accuracy. The sonorous Jaguar straight-six XK engine remains too, although capacity has been increased to 4.2 liters and fuel injection fitted to bring power up to 300bhp.

The suspension and disc brakes have been uprated to cope with the additional performance and a five-speed gearbox added to maximize acceleration and top speed. The detail of the car is breath-taking, with the hand-crafted aluminum bucket seats clothed in supple blue leather by Crest, hand-airbrushed Ecurie Ecosse shields adorning the car’s flanks, and Tag Heuer ‘Master Time’ stopwatches on the dashboard. The first car is complete and available for viewing and test drive at their Henley-on-Thames dealership, Hofmann’s.

[whiskyscots]

‘ stay there. i’m coming to get you. ’ from finny finn <3

love ♥ starters ;; accepting

@codexandcompendium

     It had been a mistake, leaving the Sanctuary.

     They’d all known it would be risky, when the pink ribbon appeared tied to the gates of the museum and night watch had spotted figures dressed in black surveying the perimeter from sunset. They’d prepared, made sure the escape plan was secure with all the critters, loaded up guns and set traps, ready for a fight. Yet when no fight came for days - when days became weeks, and rations began to grow thin and fights broke out between the critters - desperation won out.

     They hadn’t had a proper supply run in far too long and it was after a screaming-kicking-headbutting-biting match between Eir and Mikael that the decision was finally made to send someone out. A scouting mission combined with a hunting-scavenging trip, only a few days at most, and there was supposed to be two of them, as was rules. Yet Aleks had fallen ill (not the Sickness, thank God, but debilitating enough), Vas was busy caring for Andrei with a broken wrist, Gil was carrying far-too precious cargo and Finn had to be the one to lead the fight if one broke out.

     That left Alasdair.

     All was going well: he had his supply bag and his rifle, a knife, a kiss from his husband and the assurance that all would be well in his absence. For the first day he walked a good few miles, picked through an abandoned camp and eventually set his own up, thinking back to the Sanctuary and his warm bed. It wasn’t until the second day problems arose, in the form of a gunshot tearing a bullet through his shoulder and a bag being shoved over his head, smothering his yells.

     The next time Alasdair awoke, blinking stars from his eyes, groggy and head pounding, he found himself in some kind of cell. Steel bars, some rusted red with age (he hopes), a hard stone floor and a shackle around his ankle securing him to the far wall; he hardly has time to consider where he could be before the cell door slammed open and a large, heavily tattooed man stepped in, wielding a fire poker.

     That was three days ago.

     The Last Men - he knows now, that they’re the ones who have him, have torn the front of his shirt to show his own old, scarred mark and mocked him for his desertion to the cause - have been relentless in their hunt for answers from him, doing everything and more to tear out whereabouts of his camp, his critters, his family. His stubborn refusal amuses them, eager to up the torture to hear him scream.

     On the third day he wakes up alone in the darkened cell. At least one Last Man was always with him, sat at the table in the corner of the caged room with a radio and a cattle prod, to receive orders and dish out punishment would he wiggle too much, but as he glances around - neck stiff, an eye swollen - he neither sees nor hears anyone. An opportunity.

     Slowly, aware of each clatter of his manacle, he shuffles across the floor on hands and knees until he reaches the table, which he uses to help stand up, hunched and aching. The radio is a simple one, nearly identical to that in the security office of the museum, and he has the smallest spark of hope as he flicks it on, fiddles with the frequency.

     “Hello?” His voice is low, rough with misuse, eyes darting around. “This is- its Alasdair, please- God please, someone, I’m in a Last Man camp, a day or- or maybe two, from the Sanctuary. Is someone out there?”

     Silence, achingly empty, and his heart sinks to his stomach. Of course this wouldn’t work, hell, the Last Men likely have this whole thing bugged and tracked and they’re going to trace it back to him and punish him-

     “Alasdair?”

     The voice is familiar enough to near bring him to tears, and Al sucks in a sharp, shaky breath. Finn. That spark of hope ignites and its warmth fills him.

     “Stay there. I’m comin’ to get you.”

[curiousb]

The Dashwood Family Album: Volume XVIII

Just a short update today, before we leave the Dashwoods and drop in on another family.

Harry's new school friend Phineas is a bit of an oddity it seems - following Alice and John around the house to pull faces at them, for no apparent reason.

Despite his eccentricities, he and Harry seem to get along quite amicably.

And of course - as always - Phineas and his cousin Annabel (who also happens to be Daniel's niece - it's complicated) come as a package deal.

Harry's social circle is also enlarged by getting acquainted with Alasdair, from across the road.

It's now time for the oldest child John to put away childish things.

~ Sagittarius 4 / 6 / 7 / 9 / 9

~ Excitable / Athletic / Good Sense of Humour / Savvy Sculptor

~ OTH: Sport

~ Favourite Colour(s): Blue

~ Aspiration: Romance / Pleasure (I didn't see that one coming!)

~ Turn-ons / -off: +Athletic / +Charismatic / -Serious

Tying the knot recently certainly hasn't cooled Daniel and Clara's ardour, and they make the most of a rare day at home together, without the older kids being around to cramp their style.

[leavesdancing]

A bit late for WIP Wednesday, but...

Steele Legends, by Zephyrfox

Alec Trevelyan has been missing his partner for five years. James Bond is gone — vanished during a routine mission, with no witnesses to his fate. Despite Alec’s protests, 007 has been declared dead, and a new agent will soon be issued the number.

M sends Alec on a mission to LA, deciding that it’s best to get him out of the country while a new 007 is selected. While there, Alec, using the alias Alasdair Sterling, attends a gala and meets Laura Holt, a private investigator. Laura, on the theory that handsome men whose first instinct upon meeting her is an attempt to charm her ought to meet themselves, introduces him to her partner, Remington Steele.

Better known to Alec Trevelyan as James Bond. Who doesn’t recognize his own name, let alone Alec.

Laura finds herself intrigued by this new man in her life, a man who is as charming — and as mysterious — as Remington Steele. Alec, attempting to help James regain his memory, finds himself intrigued by Laura as well. Remington has no memory of his life as James Bond, but finds himself trusting Alec completely. A trust that will extend to Laura’s heart — and his own.

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: Nick Jonah Davis

Photo Credit: Andy Joskowski

Nick Jonah Davis lives in Derbyshire, England, which is a place where evidence of older editions of England is always easy to find. Successive eras likewise coincide in his music. Davis plays acoustic and electric guitars, drawing on both American and English folk and instrumental traditions. He has worked with like-minded folk, such as C. Joynes and Sharron Kraus, and is also an established guitar teacher and provider of therapeutic musical interventions. He’s been recording the occasional solo record since 2009, and in 2016, Dusted’s Bill Meyer had this to say about House of Dragons: “the Nottingham-based guitarist isn’t living in bifurcations of the past, and he isn’t asking us to either. Rather, he invites the listener into a world bounded by the resonance of his tunings and the vividness of his evolving melodies.” Thread Recordings is about to release a swell new LP, When the Sun Came, and Davis has compiled a list of sounds made by some of his favorite associates.

Even for solo guitarists, music is a collaborative, social thing. For this list I’ve picked some music by artists that I’ve collaborated, recorded or gigged with over the last decade or so. Members of the NJD home team.

Kogumaza — “Ursids”

WAAT048 Split 7" w/Hookworms by Kogumaza

When I lived in Nottingham, Kogumaza were my favorite band in town. They play deep, droning riff-based cosmic guitar music which draws on their backgrounds playing with local heroes like Lords, Rattle and Bob Tilton. They’ve also done their homework, having sat in with heavy hitters like Glenn Branca, Damo Suzuki and Boredoms. This tune was recorded in Nottingham, with Nathan Bell of Lungfish sitting in on bass. I was the assistant engineer on this session, and remember getting a pleasing headful of Katy Brown’s kick drum as we set up the mics. Mind-manifesting stuff.

Ex-Easter Island Head — “Large Electric Ensemble Third Movement”

Large Electric Ensemble by Ex-Easter Island Head

Liverpool’s Ex-Easter Island Head are a revelation. They repurpose electric guitars through a variety of extended techniques, with unprecedented, nourishing results. I was lucky enough to play a couple of shows as a member of their Large Electric Ensemble, a 12-guitar band powered by 1 drummer and multiple Arts Council pizzas. I learned a lot from them in terms of playing guitar with craftily-deployed allen keys and bolts. Living proof that people can and do make genuinely beautiful, ground-breaking music without being all precious and up themselves about it. Good lads.

C Joynes and the Furlong Bray — “Sang Kancil”

The Borametz Tree by C Joynes & The Furlong Bray

Joynes and I have been fellow travelers in the solo guitar realm for many years now. We’ve probably seen more of each other’s gigs than anyone else alive. I was really pleased to be invited into the making of the Borametz Tree album. Not exactly sure how you’d describe my role on that project, but it involved some bass playing, some refereeing and, in the case of this piece, heading into my cellar with Nathan Mann to process some sounds through my echo units. I really love this bizarre, swirling piece of music. It defies description and I really can’t see how it could have happened under any circumstances. Power to the Furlong Bray.

Jim Ghedi — “Bramley Moor”

A Hymn For Ancient Land by Jim Ghedi

Jim popped up a few years ago, around the same time as Toby Hay, and has been a sure source of decent sounds ever since. Jim’s initial, masterful solo guitar work has bloomed out into an exploration of both traditional folk and his own songwriting. Having sat right next to him when we played together in my village a couple of years ago, I can confirm that he has a huge, resonant chest voice. Luckily, he always commits to his guitar just as fully, as you can hear on this jaunty instrumental on which I played some weissenborn. Nathan Mann pops up again playing percussion on this one, small world…

Cath and Phil Tyler — “King Henry”

The Ox and the Ax by Cath and Phil Tyler

I first met Cath and Phil at the legendary Sin Eater festival, a 3-day weekend of fine underground music and excellent ale at an isolated pub in Shropshire. Almost everyone on this list played there actually. This is folk music as it should be played, plain and flinty with a complete focus on the song. Understatement goes a long way in this music and, I suspect because of this, Phil is one of the most criminally under-rated guitarists around. There’s a little part of me that lives for Cath’s jaw harp break at the end of this one.

Toby Hay — “Now in a Minute”

New Music For The 12 String Guitar by Toby Hay

Toby has a special place in my heart for lining me up an annual show in a cafe at the wonderful Green Man festival for the past several years, meaning my family could go for free. Here’s a near-perfect example of a miniature acoustic study from his album New Music for the 12 String Guitar. The guitar in question was custom-built for Toby by Roger Bucknall of Fylde guitars. Fylde put out the word that a label was looking for a young guitarist to make a record on a custom-built Fylde that they would commission, and I immediately suggested Toby. He rose to the occasion. Reckon he owes me a handmade guitar though; I’ll give him a nudge one of these days.

The Horse Loom — “Silver Ribbon”

The Horse Loom by The Horse Loom

Steve Malley played in post-punk bands back in the day, gigging alongside the likes of Fugazi. He later picked up a Fylde guitar and went down an acoustic rabbit hole where his love of British folk and flamenco come to the fore. The DIY-or-die roots of his playing flash an occasional fin. After we met I persuaded him to come down to Nottingham and let me record his first album in First Love studio. He did the whole thing in a day and it’s awesome. This is my favorite instrumental from that collection.

Sharron Kraus — “Sorrow’s Arrow”

Joy's Reflection is Sorrow by Sharron Kraus

I started playing shows with Sharron as we were both UK artists on the Tompkins Square label at the time, so it kind of made sense. She’s a bit of an institution in psych-folk circles and eventually I began playing on her records and at live shows, which has been a real joy. This tune features some heavy drones and an occasional splish of my lap steel. It’s classic Kraus — mournful, insightful, immersive. If you want to hear someone with a bigger brain than yours talking about the weirder side of life, check out her Preternatural Investigations podcast.

Haress — “Wind the Bobbin”

Haress by HARESS

Haress is centered around the twin electric guitar work of Liz Still and David Hand. Located in downright gorgeous rural Shropshire, they ran the Sin Eater Festival and still put out essential music on Lancashire and Somerset Records. I reckon they’ve helped me out more than anyone over the years, releasing House of Dragons on vinyl and always setting me up a show when I need one. This gorgeous piece features Nathan Bell again, this time on trumpet. Those Nathans do get around.

Burd Ellen — “Chi-Mi-Bhuam”

Chi Mi Bhuam by Burd Ellen

I first saw Debbie Armour singing with Alasdair Roberts, a good start. When I went up to play in Glasgow in 2018, I asked if she’d like to open up my show at the Glad Café, which she did, alone except for a borrowed harmonium. I was mesmerized, I think everyone was. Too good for a support slot. Here’s a Gaelic vocal piece which demonstrates exactly who we’re dealing with here, a profoundly talented and committed artist with a lifelong immersion in traditional music, using it as a springboard into something entirely her own.

[1011drawings]

Excited to announce my collaboration with UK’s @wearewingback to launch a limited artist edition of their new Mechanical Pen: WINGBACK x MISTER VI Designed and machine turned from solid brass and stainless steel and laser etched with my drawing of the Saturn V rocket and the Apollo lunar module. And an extra feature, the pen is made to fit the Fisher Space Pen® Pressurised ink cartridge. @fisherspacepen I’m so happy with how it turned out and it’s an honour to work with Alasdair and Sam at Wingback! Available now for a limited time on @Kickstarter. Find out more via the link in the bio. (at Williamsburg, Brooklyn) https://www.instagram.com/p/B2UIRKypKr8/?igshid=1qiphuxjxkhux

[a-luran]

39. Scoteng ;)

He finds Arthur standing in the hallway, his back to the open living room door and gesturing widely, one-handed, the way he only does when he’s had a few drinks. There’s a bottle in his other hand, held loosely by the neck, and Alasdair takes from him as he slots himself to his back.

Arthur leans back into him despite grumbling a token protest against the theft of his drink.

“Get your own,” he says, and out here in the hall, away from the beaten speakers, he doesn’t have to raise his voice.

Alasdair squeezes his hip to hush him, already taking a swing from the bottle… and immediately makes a face when the cloying taste of not-quite-apricot and hops hits his tongue. Sour, bitter, and sickly-sweet, it fizzes in his mouth even after he clicks his tongue in regretful distaste.

“What’s this yer drinking?” he asks, turning the bottle in his hand to read its label. Fruit beer, it reads in neat calligraphy, not cider, and Alasdair never wants to see those words in close proximity again in his life.

Arthur snorts a mean laugh at his expense and taps Alasdair’s forearm with the back of his hand, wordlessly asking for his drink back. Alasdair lets him have it and makes a low sound of sympathetic disgust when Arthur takes another swig.

“There’s a half rack of Tennents in the kitchen,” Matthew offers helpfully, and maybe Alasdair is a little drunker than he though if it took him this long to notice him there, standing across from Arthur with a shoulder pressed to the hallway wall and a hand stuffed into the front pocket of his jeans. He’s holding a match to Arthur’s bottle in the other, half-full. Strawberries climb up a winding vine on the sepia label.

“So, off you go,” Arthur bids him leave despite the way he sways back into Alasdair’s body, loose and trusting, before standing straight again.

Alasdair gives his hip another gentle squeeze.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” Arthur says at the same time as Matthew, who pitches in with a sheepish, “No.”

“In any case.” Arthur brings the beer to his lips but doesn’t take a drink. He’s turned back slightly so he can meet Alasdair’s eyes and the way he licks the lip of his bottle doesn’t seem deliberate, but it feels pointed. “What’s it to you?”

“It’s late,” Alasdair says, and means that he’s looking to head home; leaves no room for doubt by pulling Arthur back with a finger hooped into his belt loop so he’s pressed into the cradle of Alasdair’s hips.

“Hardly,” Arthur retorts lightly because he’s stubborn as they come, and god forbid he lets Alasdair take him home at a reasonable hour to fit in a fuck before they crash, piled together into the thick mattress bought for them with his last pay check.

It’s a pillow top; not that Arthur would know since he’s been catching cat naps on the sunken couch in the living room while he grades stacks of late-due papers. Ungrateful sod.

“Early start tomorrow?” Matthew asks, and Alasdair wonders absently if the lad’s misunderstood the tightening of his lips or if he is always so nervous as this. “We were talking about movies.”

“What, all of them?” Alasdair’s sarcasm is in the crook of his smile, which doesn’t falter even when Arthur shifts his weight to step on his toes.

It helps that he’s wearing steel-toed boots and Arthur’s in novelty cotton socks.

Matthew laughs, ducking his face and fiddling with the peeling label on his bottle. When he looks up again he looks centred; eyes clear in the sea of neon and washed out lampshades of a flat party dragging past midnight. An just like that Alasdair remembers why Arthur likes him.

“We just got through a few,” Matthew says smiles easily when he pushes away from the wall. “But that does remind me that I should probably find Lars before he slips away. I promised to lend him a box set. I’ll see you at the screening,” he says to Arthur first before addressing them both. “You in the plural, if German horror is your thing.”

It’s not, but for Arthur’s sake he’ll sit through whatever arthouse film he has lined up for them both. As for Matthew himself—

Ah, to be young and bright and a little cocky; pride emboldened by sour beer and the captive attention of someone admired.

“Have a good night Matthew,” Arthur interjects before Alasdair can try something smart. “And congratulations on your dissertation. Really, it was wonderfully done.”

Alasdair waits until Matthew slips away, smile wide and dimpled cheeks flushed, before turning Arthur in his arms.

“Playing favourites?” is the first thing he says, grin sharp and teasing and lacking any true reproach.

Arthur rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his beer.

“Brilliant,” Alasdair makes a mockery of Arthur’s accent which has been getting more expressive by the hour, the first syllables of his words lingering on the tip of his tongue. “Wonderfully done.”

“It is brilliant,” he defends in his academic voice and Alasdair pulls him closer by the belt loops of his jeans to derail him before he can get started. “And he’s not my student. There’s no playing favourites.” He pauses. “Technically.”

Arthur squints his eyes and tilts his chin up and they’re so close that Alasdair wants to bite him. His chin, his jaw, the plushness of his lower lip. His breath smells sweet  and Alasdair’s…

“Bummed a fag off Michelle, did you?” Arthur asks. The sharp edge of his smile deepens the dimple on his left cheek.

Alasdair hums. Michelle, who is another of Arthur’s not-students— and really, she is more of a colleague these days—, offered him a menthol three beers ago. He’s been trying to cut back because Arthur doesn’t like the taste of tar on his tongue.

If his mouth tastes anything like the swill he’s drinking, though, he can cope with Alasdair’s nicotine dependence for one night. They’re well matched like that. Always have been.

They are not standing so close together that their fronts brush but it’s no matter. Alasdair runs hot enough that he knows Arthur can feel him and it draws him closer without having to prompt him. Alasdair teases the edge of his thumb against the dip of his waist anyway, quietly inviting.

“Home, then?” Arthur’s voice deepens, and his eyes seem heavier, the way they get when he’s starting to feel the buzz of alcohol in his blood.

Alasdair hums again and lowers his head so they’re closer in height. Enough so that he can speak to him in a low rasp.

“I want to see those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.”

Arthur blinks slowly; tilts his head like he’s considering it.

“See, and here I was thinking I missed your mouth.”

Alasdair feels the corners of his mouth twitch up.

“That as well.”

If Arthur was wearing his Docs he’d be tall enough to kiss without having to bend his neck any further. If they were alone, he would, and later tonight he will. He’ll kiss Arthur until he’s panting and then work his mouth between his legs until Arthur is tearing at his hair and Alasdair’s jaw is sore.

“It’s a good thing I won’t be needing my voice tomorrow, then.” Arthur’s voice is low and playful in a way Alasdair hasn’t heard in months and something in his chest unwinds, beneath the lust.

What Arthur isn’t saying is that he’s tired; that he’s felt run down for weeks. His voice is already rough from hours spent projecting it across seminar groups that seem to swell in number every semester while his pay stays the same and the threat of his funding running short looms large over the hours he manages to put into his thesis between lessons.

It would be cruel to make him work for his pleasure, no matter that Arthur likes the weight of Alasdair on his tongue. So, Alasdair let his hand settle firmly on Arthur’s waist and thinks. Conjures the image of Arthur shaking apart on his fat tongue until the tension finally drains from his limbs and he’s easy; loose enough that Alasdair can pull him into his lap and rock into him, sheathed to the hilt and hitting so deep inside him that Arthur sobs.

He lets his knuckle brush against the front of Arthur’s slacks.

“Now, I said I wanted your pretty lips wrapped around my cock,” he lowers his voice to a whisper. “Who said anything about your mouth?”

They leave the party without so much as a hasty goodbye, pressing past Michelle in the entryway who takes one look at Alasdair’s hand pressed to Arthur’s lower back as they disappear down the street, and laughs, her breath tinged with mint.