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windermeresimblr · 8 months

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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

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windermeresimblr · 8 months

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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

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windermeresimblr · 2 years

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List 5 facts about a favorite sim of yours, and send this to 10 simblrs whose sims you adore ♥♥♥

I've been poking around at Caedmon of Slonk Hill in the past few weeks. (I recently learned that there's a theory that the historical Slonk Hill Man died of lung disease related to metalwork!)

Of course, it's not in this picture, but he has a necklace with a shepherd's crown pendant. It's one of his most treasured posessions, even though as a local chieftain, he certainly can afford more flashy items.

Like his namesake, he has a gift for composition. Unfortunately, he does not have a good singing voice.

He's very happy to be a big fish in a small pond, and uses a surprising amount of political acumen to keep himself in the sweet spot between Roman and Celtic influence. That way he can get a lot of attention from both sides and never have to worry about making a permanent commitment. (Whether this is wise is up to the reader to decide.)

Caedmon has a fondness for snails and Falernian, but his true love is oysters.

His teeth gap gives him an unusually loud and piercing whistle; one of his nicknames as a child was "Caedmon the Carnyx." (Another, less liked, was "Caedmon the Canary.")

#sim: caedmon of slonk hill #leaves on a broken sea 'verse

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