thepilotthatweatheredthestorm

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

the first three shitsketches

yay

i love my art

(not)

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

I'm back And with drawings of dead people (No surprise) Hahahaha 😭 But yeah, for the no-one who sees this, Enjoy

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

Some stuff I wrote and thought people might like but y'know i dont mind if you dont

[Welcoming Wellington]

INT. NURSERY ROOM – WINDSOR – 1850s A young Albert Edward "Bertie" (future Edward VII), about 9, sits cross-legged on a richly patterned rug, staring with the flat suspicion of a child forced into "family time." In his hand, a crude caricature of a long-nosed man in a red coat with spindly legs and something vaguely violin-shaped.

Victoria — older, formidable, deeply committed to her own mythology — lounges in an absurdly oversized armchair like a storybook queen. She holds the drawing up like it’s a sacred scroll. Albert lounges on a chaise, already three sighs deep, but mostly enjoying the spectacle.

VICTORIA (narrating, theatrical): "Meet Arthur. He’s Irish. And as you can see—he adores violins."

(Beat. Bertie squints. The 'violin' is clearly a musket.)

VICTORIA (unbothered): "He doesn’t like dogs. Except for his terrier. Vick. Who bit Bonaparte once. Possibly. We don’t question the terrier."

(Albert raises a hand, gently diplomatic.)

ALBERT: "Victoria, schatz, maybe we… explain this a bit more… accessibly?"

VICTORIA (genuinely offended): "It is accessible. This is dynastic character building."

(Dramatic sigh. She stands — and instantly takes on the stance of someone about to monologue on a battlefield.)

[FLASHBACK – IRELAND, 1769]

Rolling green hills. Thunder cracks. A baby is born as fiddles screech dramatically. Title card: “ARTHUR WELLESLEY: BORN TO WIN THINGS”

VICTORIA (V.O.): "The year is 1769. The Prime Minister is the Duke of Grafton. One of many attempting to plug the gaping chasm between the two Pitts."

(CUT TO: a visual of two massive busts labelled "PITT THE ELDER" and "PITT THE YOUNGER," with a parade of increasingly irrelevant powdered men crushed in the middle like human bookends.)

VICTORIA (V.O.): "In Ireland, a lovely, virile, and vaguely competent baby is born. He will grow up to conquer Europe, hate France, and single-handedly make boots a national crisis. This is Arthur."

(Cut to BABY ARTHUR punching a midwife, stealing a butter knife, and cooing at a violin.)

VICTORIA (V.O.): "Unfortunately, the family was dreadfully poor. Violins don’t pay. So he did what any charming boy without a fortune does… he joined the army."

(Cut to Arthur sitting under a leaky tent, holding a violin in one hand and a biscuit in the other. His terrier, Vick, barks at nothing in particular.)

VICTORIA (V.O.): "He was sickly. Introverted. Possibly allergic to sunlight. But his terrier once bit a French general’s boot off, so they kept him."

(Cue ARMY MONTAGE: – Arthur saluting a French waiter. – Throwing up politely behind a tree. – Trying to stab someone with a bowstring. – Terrier Vick chasing Napoleon up a hill.)

VICTORIA (V.O.): "And then, quite without warning… he wins. Everything."

(NAPOLEON screams “SACRE BLEU!” as Arthur naps under a tree with Vick chewing a tricolour flag.)

[BACK TO NURSERY – WINDSOR]

Bertie now holds the cartoon like it’s evidence in a trial.

BERTIE (squinting): "Why does he have such a big nose?"

ALBERT (sotto): "All great men have large noses. Helps them sniff out… revolution."

VICTORIA (snapping): "It’s symbolic."

BERTIE (deadpan): "Of what?"

VICTORIA (without pause): "Confidence."

(Pause. Bertie, now intrigued.)

BERTIE: "So… Pitt the Younger was confident?"

VICTORIA & ALBERT (unison, firm): "ABSOLUTELY NOT."

BERTIE:

“But Dad has a small nose. Is he not confident?”

ALBERT (sweating slightly, like: yes, yes, I’m not confident)

“A-N-Y-W-A-Y-S…”

[SOME PLACE IN A WAR]

WELLINGTON (loudly, complaining):

“I hate that Duke of York soooooo much.” (in falsetto) “I’m fReDeRiCk and I’m Father’s fAvOuRiTE! I’m not even good at war. I'm just a privileged git who leads his men into ambushes and traps.”

(The Duke of York enters on a white horse with diamanté hooves, flanked by two pink-coated aides holding gilt mirrors. His boots leave sparkle footprints. His perfume causes three officers to faint.)

FREDERICK, DUKE OF YORK AND ALBANY (to a nervous drummer boy, sotto): “Fetch me wine. Or a fresh recruit. I’m feeling theatrical.”

(The Duke of York and Albany struts over, sending flirty winks at EVERYONE)

WELLINGTON (continuing in falsetto, as the Duke of York):

“I’m SOOOO useless. The only thing I’m good at is having my heart broken by shallow females!”

(As he says this people laugh, at first openly and then nervously and eventually not at all)

FREDERICK, DUKE OF YORK AND ALBANY:

“Glad to see you think I’m funny.”

WELLINGTON (terrified, apologising profusely but feebly):

“Your majesty I-I-I DIDN’T MEAN IT I SWEAR ON MY BROTHERS LIFE I DIDN’T MEAN IT.”

VICTORIA (V.O.):

“Abruptly, God found Richard Wellesley on His doorstep, turned him round and high kicked the Irishman back to Earth.”

FREDERICK (dryly, adjusting his very PINK, plasticky, shiny military jacket with medals replaced with jewelry):

“Well. I have no need for cowards in my regiment. Good day.”

(He rides off)

VICTORIA, (V.O):

“He then decided to return to Ireland—not exactly then, I know Albert—and wed. He had proposed a suit to marry Katherine Pakenham before the war, but he’d been turned down. He’d been incredibly, irrationally, uncharacteristically, stupid. He’d burnt his violins with his own hands instead of playing them. IDIOT. But he tried again, out of respect. He’d been wildly in love with Katherine then, but not now. He hoped he would be declined. He was not. Arthur Wellesley, Colonel of the 33rd regiment, was now engaged to be married. Poor Kitty.”

[THE PROPOSAL]

VICTORIA (V.O.): "He could coordinate the destruction of four cavalry units with a fork and a stern glance. But say the word ‘feelings’, and he’d faint into a bonnet."

CUT TO: Arthur proposes to Kitty while reading from a training manual. He drops to one knee, salutes her ankles, and fumbles the ring like it’s a live grenade.

KITTY (bewildered): “You... love me?”

WELLINGTON (panicked): “I respect your... campaign strategy.”

[WELLINGTON COMPLAINS LOUDLY TO A CROWD OF POTENTIAL MISTRESSES]

WELLINGTON, (kissing, stroking (like cats), ect a few potential mistresses in between sentences):

“Well, I don’t even love her. It was supposed to be a dutiful and unsuccessful offer—oh you are too nice to me, really, I’ve never felt that aroused from a kiss to the earlobe in my life and that’s putting it in simple terms—but the old bastard said yes.”

MISTRESS 1# (crooning and just being debauched to a point of prostitution):

“Well…you alwaysssss have usssss. We’ll fuck you whenever…wherever…whyever…”

CROWD OF MISTRESSES (leaning in like birds of prey trying to get a body):

“ALWAYSSSSS HAVE USSSSS! WE’LL LET YOU LAY YOUR BROOD IN OUR NESSSSSTSSSS!”

WELLINGTON:

“Ladies, ladies, that’s superfluous. I just feel like I need to try with her…y’know…give her a good fuck. Maybe that’ll help.”

MISTRESS #1 (licking his temple for some reason): “We’re like… the emotional cavalry. We ride in fassssst and wear no underthingsssss.”

MISTRESS #2 (pulling out a tiny opera glass): “We read Sssssun Tzu before bed.”

MISTRESS CHORUS (chanting softly): “We offer ssssstrategic vulnerability.”

WELLINGTON (sighing, overwhelmed): “This is why I can’t keep a diary. I’d have to footnote all your names.”

[ROMANTIC BLITZKRIEG]

INT. WELLINGTON’S BEDCHAMBER – NIGHT, 1808

The chamber is grand, but tonight it’s tense. Arthur Wellesley stands nervously by the fireplace, hands twitching like he’s about to give a military speech rather than… this. Katherine "Kitty" Pakenham sits primly on the edge of the bed, watching him with a mixture of impatience and barely concealed amusement.

Wellington shifts awkwardly, knocking over a vase. He flinches.

WELLINGTON (stammering): “Well, Kitty, I thought… uh, we should, you know, commence the… marital operations.”

(Kitty stands, smooths her dress, and approaches with the confidence of a field marshal.)

KITTY: “‘Operations’, yes. What’s the plan, General? Blitzkrieg? Or more like… guerrilla warfare?”

He tries to smile but it’s more of a twitch.

WELLINGTON (trying to look serious): “Steady advance. No sudden moves. Careful… reconnaissance.”

(He reaches for her hand, but it slips off like a greased cannonball. He tries again. Fail. She snatches it away, amused.)

KITTY “You know, Arthur, you’re completely useless at this.”

(He looks crushed.)

WELLINGTON (flustered): “I-I can connect with anyone else. Every mistress… I’m a—er—a fortress of charm. But with you… I’m a ruin.”

(Kitty folds her arms, smirking, clearly thinking that this is some kind of ‘She Stoops to Conquer’ thing)

KITTY (taunting): “Perhaps if I were your mistress, you’d be an unstoppable Casanova?”

(Wellington’s eyes widen, he half-snickers, half gasps.)

WELLINGTON (half-joking, half-serious): “Might be… easier. Less… protocol.”

(Kitty grabs a nearby silk scarf and, with a playful flick, ties it loosely around his eyes.)

KITTY: “Then let’s test that theory, shall we? No uniforms, no rank. Just… you and me.”

(Wellington shuffles forward blindly, knocking over a chair. He flails, arms windmilling.)

WELLINGTON (calling out): “Kitty? I’m... uh… engaging enemy territory!”

(Kitty laughs, circling him like a cat stalking prey.)

KITTY: “You’re about as stealthy as a marching band.”

(He stumbles into the bed, collapsing in a flurry of sheets and limbs. As he falls, he accidentally grabs a candlestick as a weapon, pokes himself, and mutters: “Friendly fire.”)

WELLINGTON (defeated, breathless):

“I surrender. To you.”

(Kitty leans down, brushing a strand of hair from his face.)

KITTY: “Good. Now, try surrendering with a little less noise next time.”

(They share a clumsy, awkward kiss — more like two flailing soldiers accidentally colliding than a romantic moment.)

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

Yes. Twinks galore. Parliament was just collecting mentally 42-aged-3, alcoholic, ghostboys with a party alignment crisis.

Was the navy just collecting twinks back in the 18-19th century

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

Just the little things 😀

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

'Even in the stillness, there is a storm under the surface...'

thought I'd try a new artstyle and I kinda like it

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

I'm not sure if I like it in colour tbh and I was too lazy to do a black and white one. But there you go, a doodle I did instead of learning about copernicus

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

Britannia pt3: Henry Pelham

'The Soft Man She Made a Shield'

she wanted fire. he brought fog.

henry pelham kissed her with trembling lips, offered her peace and pensions, while she dreamed in cannonfire.

“we can heal,” he whispered, as she sharpened her teeth.

he wrote budgets, not ballads. built coalitions, not kingdoms.

and when she asked for blood, he handed her one of his own veins.

he was a plaster on a bullet wound. she peeled him off the second she bled through.

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

Britannia pt2:

Spencer Compton, 1st Earl of Wilmington

'The Lover She Forgot to Bury'

she doesn’t remember his name. only that he didn't stay. only a year of her breath on his shoulder, only a year of ink-stained fingers only a year of cabinets full of nothing. he loved quietly, like wallpaper. like silence in the hall. she never meant to forget him— she just got bored. he ruled while she slept. she kissed him sometimes, out of politeness. and when he died, she blinked, and moved on. (no one came to the funeral.)

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

Britannia: Deadly, Debauched & Disastrous

Robert Walpole

'The first husband dies slow'

she kissed him when the empire was young, warm in the throat like new wine, sweet with potential and bloodless power. he thought she was his bride. she thought he’d do.

he was the first to die slowly. not from poison, but from procedure. from letters and reports and backroom whispers that ate his lungs.

she did not mourn him. she blinked once, and found a new name. there’s always a new name.

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

Terrace (summer 1784)~ He sits on the terrace, smiling soppily at her. He smiles back, her helmet crooked her grin perfect. He watches her brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. He still can't believe that technically, he's hers. Britannia laughs and curls up next to him. "Pitt, you are stupid sometimes." she says, plaiting his hair. He feigns outrage, "I'll have you know, I'm incredibly stupid darling!" "Well, I just happen to be in love with the most 'incredibly stupid' man on earth, then" Silence. "You-you do?" he says. He's never been loved. He's always wondered. He's always wished. "Of course I do." It feels nice. It feels like home. It feels like something he's never had. "Oh." He says softly. He didn't think a Pitt could be loved.

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

some old sketches of pitt the younger as some kinda angel in my trusty old green ink pen 💚

[thepilotthatweatheredthestorm]

The napoleonic wars as doodles pt 1, in my revision notes

Some kinda cross between pitt and Wellington I think

Nelson and napoleon just got stick figures 😳