Crabbit Faery Tales and Folk Tales of Forumshire

Mrs Figg wrote:I suppose it means crabbit for sassenachs

Sassenachs?  


Edit:
I looked it up. A derogatory word for English-types! I like it.

True, although not originally. Originally it was a highlander term to describe a lowlander. As in a lowlander Scot. Which would include.. Petty..

Sassenach is derived from the Scottish Gaelic word sasunnach, literally meaning 'Saxon', and originally used by Gaelic speakers to refer to non-Gaelic speaking Scottish Lowlanders. Scots, after all, is descended from northern varieties of the medieval language known as Old English or Anglo-Saxon, and although Scots and English evolved into their own distinctive forms, they have much more in common with each other than with Gaelic. As Tobias Smollett wrote in the novel, Humphrey Clinker (1771), 'The Highlanders have no other name for the people of the Low country, but Sassenagh [sic.], or Saxons'.

http://www.arts.gla.ac.uk/ScotLit/ASLS/SWE/TBI/TBIIssue13/Sassenach.html

In modern Scotland, however, the Gaelic term has been adopted into general usage as sassenach, denoting something or someone English. Labels for specific groups of people can of course be problematic, encouraging a sense of cultural and ideological division, and evoking an air of tribalism or inequality. The assertion that 'this is our word for you (whether you like it or not)' is clearly a political statement, even when the word is not used intentionally as a term of abuse. The Scots and the English, over the centuries, have had some issues. Catherine Tate's comedy sketch, where the English grandmother 'cannot' understand her Scottish neighbour except in terms of 'something about kilts', lampoons a stereotype that is more often fiction than fact, yet real enough to make many a viewer laugh when he or she sees it.

Sassenach, while a potentially loaded term, is found in a wide range of contexts, sometimes for stylistic effect. The Herald asserted in 2002 that: 'BBC Scotland is hoping [the soap opera] River City will be just as long-running as its Sassenach equivalents'. In this instance, 'Sassenach equivalents' makes the geographical point more clearly, sidestepping the ambiguities of 'English equivalents' which could signify language rather than location. Furthermore, Sassenach is well suited to journalese writing that welcomes any opportunity to evoke a sense of 'us' and 'them'. There are of course more extreme cases. The actor Maurice Roeves, who was born in Sunderland, recalled some unpleasant childhood experiences after his family moved to Partick. In a Daily Record interview last year he said: "I'd be talking in a Geordie accent and the other kids would be: 'sassenach'. I got beaten up to hell. I had to learn Glaswegian pretty quick to join the gang."

The divisive aspect of sassenach is mitigated somewhat by its adoption by English people. Writing in the Aberdeen Press and Journal in February, Jeremy Cresswell stated: "Strictly speaking I'm a sassenach, but I have spent the bulk of my working life north of the border". Social, cross-border initiatives, such as 'Burns in the Buff', held this year in Dunoon, are clearly good examples of occasions when people can get to know each other better. The volunteers' co-ordinator for the largest naked Burns Supper of its kind was quoted in The Herald as saying: "As a mere Sassenach, I found the haggis absolutely wonderful".

When you create characters, please refrain from using my name in future! People could easily think you refer to the real one: ME in fact! - Odo

Now Odo, don't get your already tight knickers in a twist! If you paid some attention, and  Eru knows you should be able to there must be something inside that ginormous head of yours after all, it cant all be jelly, then you would have realised it could not possibly be you referred too.
This tale is set long, long ago, to account for the presence of a young Figg in it and the school she attends is in the North and not Our Lady's of the Ankle Length Frock which you teach at, but The Little Sisters of No Mercy, where a possible distant ancestor of yours once taught.
As to the characteristics of this Banks, well it is completely consistent with all Banks who appear in Scotshobbit crabbit tales, so must be true.


'As in a lowlander Scot. Which would include.. Petty..'- Blue

Those are fighting words Blue!!!!    (seriously we need a better fighting thingy on here for when I mean it!!!) Careful there!!!! I am not a Lowlander- check a map, the important bit is that little bit of water, the River Clyde, on our side of it, the decent proper side, is the start of the Highlands, the other disrespectful, unpleasant smelly heroin ravaged side is the start of the Lowlands (and the weird thing of people who talk through their noses)

So, Petty is the a highlander.

Damn right I am!!!!

It seemed to Figg that almost the very instant they crossed the border the light dimmed to a soft rainy grey, of just the sort of shade likely to spark off a spat among Lore Masters were such a gathering to be had in the forest around them, which it wasn't, and the trees on either side crowded in closer, overshadowing the road.

All the old tales, the haunted warnings of the Little Sisters of what fate awaited naughty girls who went across the border stirred in her mind.

Suddenly there was a rustling in the undergrowth and she instantly imagined some horrible monster of claws and nasty drooling sharp teeth.

Instead a creature burst forth from the bushes and trees on the right side and leapt with an awkward gait into the road right before their cart.

Forest pulled up sharp on the reigns and Figg let out an involuntary squeak.

“Don't worry,” Forest reassured her, “Its harmless, apart from the noise.”

Figg peered at the strange creature, the oddest she had ever set her eyes upon.

It had three long, stiff jointed wooden legs, and a long thin nose, its body was shaped a bit like a kidney, but more rounded, fatter and its fur was tartan.

The creature skirled at them in warning and Figg held her hands to her ears, then it leapt with a squeak and a long droning wheeze into the undergrowth on the other side of the road and disappeared with another toe-curling cry.

“What in all of Forumshire was that?” Figg asked uncovering her ears, her eyes wide in a mix of fear and wonder.

“Just a Bagpipe,” Forest replied as he shook the reigns and the cart began to trundle forward again between the ominous trees.

Figg frowned at this, “But I thought bagpipes were a Scotshobbit instrument, as hideous in sound as they themselves are?”

“They are. The Scotshobbits catch them, take their insides out, hollow out their limbs and put holes in them and them blow into them. With breath of buckie too.”

“That's horrible!”

“It's nothing compared to what they do to the poor little haggis,” Forest said with a sad shake of his head, “and don't even ask me about what goes into their porridge.”

Figg decided it probably was best not to ask and so she did not. Instead she asked how far it was to Greetin' Blue.

“Oh not far at all, “ Forest replied with a cheery smile, “I don't go far into Scotshobbitland, people have been known to disappear there, or worse. Greetin' Blue is only a couple of miles from here. It won't be long now.”

Suddenly there came to their ears the sound of fast galloping hooves behind them.

“Oh dear,young love!” Forest said bemusing Figg.

Forest gracefully pulled the cart over to the side of the road and parked as behind them a horse came into view.

Atop it was a young man, and thrown rather carelessly Figg thought, across the pommel was a beautiful young lady.

As they swept by the stationary cart Figg saw that the young man doing the riding, who had long flowing dark hair and a stubbled square jaw also had a determined yet wistful look in his eye, and that the maiden, despite being thrown so uncomfortably across the pummel of a galloping horse seemed to be gazing up into the man's eyes equally wistfully.

Figg knew about love, sort of, she imagined it was a bit like having a cold but without the runny nose, it was something adults caught which led to new babies, if Eru thought they had been good. At least that was about as much as she could make out of what the Little Sisters taught her.

But she was also aware that there was a whole other side attached to love, that did  not seem to her to have anything to do with love at all and certainly nothing to do with Eru and which you only knew was being spoken about because no one would actually speak about it.

And sometimes, when she read the forbidden books of Old Anon by candlelight in her secret hiding place beneath the cellar steps, it was more than the thrill of getting caught doing so which made her stomach full of butterflies when the pages spoke of dashing young men with long unkempt hair saving maidens. And this only confused Figg further because she hated tales in which maidens needed rescuing, let along by boys.

She had met boys, at the annual Erumas Dance when the Little Sisters Of No Mercy and The Monks of Harsh And Unfair Teachings held a Ball in the Forumshire Townhall. She could see no conceivable way boys could ever make her belly tingle. They were rude, spoke in a language of their own, moved about in small huddles which smelt terribly of sweat and other unpleasant unidentifiable odours or they swaggered about on their own as if they owned the place. And they picked their nose, in public, where people could see them. And not a gentle dabbing at need either, a full nasal cavity inspection before wiping the results on their sleeve. Simply put they were noisy, disgusting and as far as Figg could tell, useless.

And yet, as the young long haired man rode by and the girl had even sighed despite her back-breaking position, there had been that odd tingling again. Why? Why was it all so mysterious? And why wouldn't adults just tell you what it was all about. If she had to hear, “you will find out when you're older” one more time in reply to a straight question she was going to scream.

But her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by even more galloping and the rumble of a carriage moving far too fast.

The horses, two front runners and their riders at full gallop and behind, careering dangerously, and temporarily on two wheels around the corner, the carriage.

An angry man's bearded and balding head popped from a window and screamed at the carriage driver, “Damn you sir faster or you'll see no wages this month!”

And then the whole lot of them tore past leaving Figg and Forest in a  settling cloud of dust.

Their horse sneezed.

“What is going on?” Figg demanded.

“Well,” Forest began a little hesitantly, “the first, um, pair, no, couple, shall we call them,..”

Figg sighed, she could sense this involved the mysterious thing, he was skirting round being direct already. For something adults seemed determined not to talk about they also seemed to do it an awful lot she thought ruefully.

“..they were, well, going to Greetin' Blue, and the angry man in the carriage who followed, well he is trying to stop them getting there before they, well, you know,” he glanced nervously down at her, “or maybe you don't yet.”

“No, I don't know. Before they do what?” Figg demanded.

“Well, when they get there they,” Forest paused to sweat a bit and figure out how best to word things, “they will, well, you know,” he added realising he had not in fact thought it out very well at all as he was too flustered and had in fact just repeated himself, “they will, elope,” he finished rather lamely in a final stab at it.

“What's it got to do with their ears?”

“No that's not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean? Just tell me?!” Figg nearly exploded.

Forest sighed, “You'll find out when your older,” he said and Figgs screamed.

Imagine that squatter, hairier, smellier, redder all over, a shit load more crabbit, oh and fucking Scottish! not a bloody Irishman in a kilt!!!!

Is that for the new chapter or my crabbit at an Irishman mocking the tartan?

No,its aimed at you ! you make me laugh ! Your rants cheer me up Tho an Irishman trying to be Bonny Prince Charlie is funny also

What rants? I just make clear crabbit observations. Its not my fault everything and everyone else in the universe is at fault!!

I'm quite curious as to how I made it into the far, far distant past of Forumshire. Considering that Figgs outranks me in age by a century or two! 

I can only assume time-travel is involved! 

No time travel necessary Forest. It is merely a far distant ancestor of yours who, by one of those strange quirks of fate which are oh so common in tales, good ones at any rate, he merely shares the same name as you. Any other seeming similarities that might arise between you are mere coincidence

*legal disclaimer* None of these characters or events are, absolutely not, in any way, shape, sound or form, based or conveniently not based on any of the aforementioned characters or events. In no way.. whatsoever.. Promise.. honest.. *legal disclaimer*

"And sometimes, when she read the forbidden books of Old Anon by candlelight in her secret hiding place beneath the cellar steps, it was more than the thrill of getting caught doing so which made her stomach full of butterflies when the pages spoke of dashing young men with long unkempt hair saving maidens. And this only confused Figg further because she hated tales in which maidens needed rescuing, let along by boys."

This Old Anon of whom you speak.....?

Anyhow: press on, Petty. I very much liked the bit about the Irishman in the kilt. A rather tangential aspect of your new tale, what.

It should maybe be Old, Old, Old Anon- as I believe like Forest this is an ancestor, or he has just been creeping about the place all this time (explains why his material is so old! )

And yes, tangential Irishmen in kilts are not approved of But at least you seem to have read the bloody chapter and not got distracted by it!

I'm not sure if we've had a story that really explored Scotshobbitland before so I'm learning a lot here as well as enjoying it.

Scotshobbitland? Do we really need to know more than we already do? Absolutely not! - Odo tells me.

Soon the trees on either side of them began to thin out and their cart suddenly emerged from beneath the gloom into the mid-morning sunshine.

Figg gasped.

Before them the road wound downwards to a valley floor and mountains of granite rock daubed with patches of purple heather and pale green grasses rose up either side forming a glen.

The sun slanted down between high and fluffy white clouds. It bathed in golden light a small town clustered around a town square at the heart of the glen. A river gently meandered by and the sun shone and sparkled upon it.

“Scotshobbitland is beautiful!” Figg exclaimed in surprise and shock.

“Don't be fooled,” Forest warned, “there's nothing to eat out there but rocks and heather, and the rocks taste better and aren't as prickly. But there is plenty will eat you- the haggis will nibble your toes away, the Bagpipes will blast your ears away and the dreaded midgie will consume the rest, and that's assuming the Scotshobbits don't get you first. And then there is the weather.”

“What's wrong with the weather?” Figg asked as her hair gleamed golden in the sunlight, “it's better than the smog of the North.”

“Just you wait a few minutes Gingerlocks,” Forest replied gloomily.

And indeed by the time the cart was approaching the outskirts of what was clearly a busy little town the sky had clouded over and a slight drizzle had steadily fallen. It was so slight it felt not so much like being rained on as walking through a cloud of vapour, and yet within minutes it had also mysteriously soaked through all your clothes.

However a few moments later, as Forest guided the cart down the intersection and into the main square, parking it neatly between two other larger carts, the drizzle had ceased and the sun was shining once more.

Figg bounded excitedly down from the cart, eager to look about herself.

At the centre of the square, which was full of people and market stalls, was a large stone statue. Beside which a Scotshobbit in a kilt was playing a set of bagpipes unless people gave him money to make him stop.

As Figg looked on the piper coughed and choked mid-note then took his bagpipes and beat them several times over a rock before resuming playing. It seemed his Bagpipe was not quite dead enough.

She tried to ignore the piper as best as she could and turned her attention back to the statue around which several Scotshobbits in a variety of states of drunkenness lay or slumped or threw up violently. Occasionally one of them would rouse to anger and fight momentarily with the empty air before collapsing back into their reticent sate of intoxicated slumber.

The statue itself depicted a character in a fierce pose of seeming violence, but one whose ferociousness was oddly offset by his rather neat tie and ruff at neck and that his one raised hand was not clenching a sword or axe but a rolled up piece of parchment and, as Figg went closer to examine it, the realisation that the figure was not frowning, but crying.

“Whose he?” she asked turning to Forest.

“Oh that's Greetin' Blue, he founded this town, he was a Fjordian.”

“A Viking?”

“Yes, the worst sort, “ Forest intoned gravely, “he was a lawyer.”

“So, why's he crying?”

“Oh well he came here on a Viking raiding party, but he noticed whilst plundering, pillaging and you know what..”

“No, I don't!” Figg fumed.

“Well, it doesn't matter..”

“So everyone keeps saying, but if it doesn't matter why won't people just tell me what it is?”

“Forget about it, the point is this Blue fellow, he noticed there was a discrepancy in the law, between Scotshobbitland and the rest of Forumshire, when it came to, well you know.”

Figg frowned again in increasing vexed fury,”No, I don't know what. I keep telling you that!”

“Well, consummation lets say.”

“But I don't know what that word means!” Figg cried, “It's no help at all.” But she did like how it sounded, consummation, there was something rather sumptuous about it she thought.

“Well its the word I'm sticking too,” Forest replied firmly, “so he set up this town so that young couples, who wished to consummate when their families or friends would not let them could come here, to consummate legally.”

Figg fumed quietly to herself, the whole point of his explanation still baffled her.

“So,” she began slowly and carefully marshalling her thoughts, “young couples come here, when they can't do something elsewhere, because they can here, and they come here when their families want them to not do whatever it is they come here to do? But if they do whatever it is here, that makes it legal and ok?”

Forest considered all that, “Yes,” he said with a smile, “you've got it!”

“But I still don't know what any of it actually means! What do they come here to do? And you still haven't told me why he is crying either?” she said pointing at the statue.

“Oh, that at least is easy enough,” Forest said very relieved to get off the topic of consummation, “he lost the whole place to a bad transaction with one of the McBanks tribe, they run the entire town of Greetin' Blue now,” he pointed up at the scroll the statue was clutching, “that's the deal that lost him the town, the McBanks included small print, inside of one of the full stops of the main text. This is the last stronghold in Scotshobbitland of the McBanks clan. Right on the border.”

Forest took some books from the rear of the cart, “I have to go see someone,” he explained.

“Who?”

“Just someone I am arranging a game with.”

“A game of what?”

“It's sort of like lets pretend.”

“Oh,” Figg said liking the sound of this game.

“But with lots of rules to learn.”

“Oh” Figg said again suddenly not liking the sound of it at all, “and what do you pretend to do in this game?”

“Oh fight monstrous trolls and the like, brave dangers and perils, that sort of exciting thing.”

“And you travel all over Forumshire to meet players for this game?”

“Yes, and to arrange the games themselves, its non stop travelling.”

“And don't you encounter trolls, and terrible storms, and even Scotshobbits in your travels?”

“Oh yes,” Forest nodded, “all the time. Its dangerous travelling the roads of Forumshire.”

“But,” Figg said slowly.

“What?” Forest responded his face a mask of blank puzzled innocence.

“Oh never mind,” Figg sighed shaking her head.

“Well, I won't be long. Anything could happen to you here so don't wander off,” he warned.

Figg waited until Forest disappeared into the milling of the crowd and then she wandered off.

Figg thought the buildings surrounding the square looked interesting to explore first, but she soon discovered that the majority of them were pubs and those that were not were either inns (the difference between the two being inns had stables and a pasty faced boy with a big shovel) or eateries. Although she used the word loosely, the smells were not too bad but the sights were rather grim. For one thing she could not tell one type of food apart from the other as once coated in batter and deep fried it all looked the same. And for another some of it was clearly still not dead. Even inside the batter. Despite a grumbling stomach she could not bring herself to try any of it, besides which she had left without any money at all.

One building however stood out among the others.

It was built very much like a Church of Eru, with pointed roof, but Figg had never seen a Church of Eru before bedecked with lights which seemed to spell out words and painted purple. She wished it were dark so she could see the sign better, and the changing weather provided her with it as a steady downpour of freezing rain began sending the crowds scuttling for the inns and pubs.

“Chapel of Consummation!” the gaudy sign read.

She was about to step inside the Church when someone in the adjoining alleyway said, “Pssst!”

She stopped just as the rain was too and the sun broke back out.

“Psst!” repeated the voice, “over here.”

Figg took a step closer to the alleyway and a figure partly emerged wearing a long trench-coat.

The figure flashed open one side of the coat and Figg saw an array of intriguing items hanging from it., “Miniature Buckie, genuine Scothobbit porridge, only 150 a gram,” the figure said in a Fjordian accent,” or maybe you're more interested in consummation aids,” he said and moved to open the other side of his jacket, but as he stepped forward he got a good look at Figg, “Wait! How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Didn't you get taught anything? Don't you know better than to respond to a stranger in a dark alley going 'psst 'at you?”

“Yes,” Figg nodded, and the Little Sisters had indeed been very strong on the subject, “that's why I wanted to find out why?

“What's your name?”

“Some people call me Gingerlocks, I let people I think I might not like call me that, so that when I have to hit them I can feel ok about it,” she smiled sweetly at him.

“Well I'm Huffjuff,” the man said, and reopened up the first side of his expansive trench coat, “children's section then- how a bout a miniature buckie to take home for the grandparents?”

But just then there came a commotion outside the chapel, a horse with two passengers came galloping up to the steps of the chapel.

A fair young maiden, with horned helmet leapt from the horse and dragged a near unconscious man from the back of the horse. Behind her a group of forty or so heavily armed Viking warriors loomed

From the church a tall headed Priest of Eru with a long disapproving downturned mouth emerged, he was clearly to Figg's eye a McBanks.

“What's going on?” Figg asked.

“Newly-consummates,” Huffjuff replied, “could be a sale here,” he said sidling towards the grouping,”that young man looks in need of some aids.”

'You need aids to do whatever it is?' Figg wondered more puzzled than ever and cautiously following Huffjuff.

“Yi are here tae be consummated in the sight o' Eru I assume?” the priest was asking in an accent that seemed to Figg to be losing some of its Scotshobbit sound.

“Fuck yeah,” the young Viking girl replied enthusiastically, “one good bang and his kingdom is mine, so fucking get on with it.”

“Is your, um companion fit for the ceremony?” the Priest enquired with an arched eyebrow at the young man slumped in the girls arm.

“He's fine, or will be, where it counts,” the girl winked, “even if I have to put a fucking splint on it!” and she roared with laughter.

'A splint?' Figg thought, does the mysterious thing they are all here to do cause injuries she wondered? The more clues she got the less sense it made.

“He does not appear to be conscious,” the Priest observed dryly.

“I had to knock him out, for his own fucking good,” the Viking girl explained.

“Why? What was the matter with him?”

“He was having second thoughts.”

Just then the man stirred in her arms and blinked his eyes painfully open, “What? What's going on?” he began muttering then seemed to focus his eyes on the girl, “Oh no!”

“Ah darling! Light of my eyes,” the girl said and punched the man full in face and he slumped back into unconsciousness, “he gets so over excited at the thought of our consummation.”

The Priest, who had pretty much seen it all in his career and had stopped caring many years beforehand just nodded in a wearied way, “Then you had best come into the Chapel and we shall begin,” the Priest said.

“If she is a Viking warrior,” Figg said, “why is no one worried? Don't Vikings plunder?”

“Yes,” Huffjuff replied, “they pillage and plunder, and the other thing.”

“What other thing?” Figg said exasperated.

“But not when they come here, they just want to consummate,” Huffjuff went on ignoring her and annoying her, “We have nothing to fear from them.”

“Oh, good,” Figg sighed relieved.

“You'd better make this quick,” the Viking girl was saying to the Priest as they ascended the Chapel steps, “because there are two Viking fleets right behind us, one for each of our families.”

“Those Vikings on the other-hand,” Huffjuff added closing up and belting up his coat like a shopkeeper putting up the shutters, “it was nice to meet you Gingerlocks. Bye.”

And in a moment Figg was all alone outside the Chapel doors. She glanced about and on an impulse of curiosity ducked inside the Chapel doors before they could slam closed.

On the outskirts of town two families of feuding Vikings tried to outpace each other to see who could stop the ceremony first by laying waste to the town

Amazing. Your dialogue and humor is on point as always but I love the exploration of the setting as much as anything else.

I love reading these stories Just the thing for a cold, rancid night.

Yes, one great thing about this forumshire christmas has been all these wonderful stories.  

Although, Pettys views of fjordians are humorous to say the least.

Glad you are enjoying it. Not sure when I can get more done- got a week of work ahead But I shall see what I can do!

Top shelf Petty!

I really like the deep cultural traditions being explored here of the various peoples involved. 

And of course!

'Just then the man stirred in her arms and blinked his eyes painfully open, “What? What's going on?” he began muttering then seemed to focus his eyes on the girl, “Oh no!”

“Ah darling! Light of my eyes,” the girl said and punched the man full in face and he slumped back into unconsciousness, “he gets so over excited at the thought of our consummation.” '
 t
 

And Huffjuff is finally in a story!
(Or has he been in one before?)