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Archibald Kennethson: Poise & Perspective.85 views

Kent

Player

Posts: 27

2026-08-20 17:56:46 UTC#1

Archibald Kennethson

Date of Birth: July 3rd, 1853.

Place of Origin: Loch Duich, Scotland, United Kingdom of Great Britain & Ireland.

Occupation (Old World): Landowner, Peer of the House of Lords.

Purpose: Posterity

The Standoff.

Archibald entered the overhang with his typical stiff military posture, the limp which had haunted him for so many years since his injury almost imperceptible to all those except the most perceptive of medical practitioners. Glancing around quickly he was able to identify the warmest spot: an open place next to the roaring burn barrel, evidently topped off on fuel just before this occasion. Striding swiftly over towards it he began doffing his coat while sneaking looks at the many people encircled about the mostly round cavern.

Lingering for a moment here and there he scanned the faces. Ruddy ones, pale ones and even a few dusky countenances who he speculated were from the frontiers of the Empire, who perhaps had been lucky enough to escape the chaos in the equatorial corners of the world to the Home counties, and then to Liverpool thereafter. Thinking back upon his journey from the Highlands to Liverpool he shuddered at thought of the horrors they must have witnessed and the trials they endured.

Quieting his wandering mind, he shifted his focus to a kerfuffle which had occurred just before the meeting. One of the First Class Passengers had brought their pet dog to the overhang and, as dogs are often inclined to do, the animal had excitedly gone from person to person. Most were polite, offering it a scrap of food or a few gentle pats but once the dog approached the group of Irish the tone in the room shifted.

What initially brought his attention to the dispute was the quiet. The room had grown as still as a corpse when he realized the man had ejaculated some sort of threat to the poor hound. Since his boyhood he had always enjoyed the presence of dogs around the manor exterior and the scarcity of food hadn’t changed his mind about that. Betraying his emotions he flattened his lips against one another, much to his chagrin. He had never gotten the hang of controlling one’s facial expressions.

One man, whom Archibald had clocked as a former British soldier, explicitly told the lead Irishman to leave. This quieted him, and he disappeared into the folds of the group of around five or so Irish persons. While the intransigence of the Irish had often frustrated him in during his years in parliament he held no ill-will towards them intrinsically: instead he saw them as being a source of wretched revolutionary sentiment.

Once the acting Captain began speaking, it was a scene not unfamiliar to him. It matched the description that his son gave to him during the dying days of the British bureaucracy: much fear and consternation, expansive plans being outlined and subsequently dashed against the rocks of reality and, of course, the presence of those who wished to enrich themselves.

He first considered the group of Irish who had been the origin of the disturbing disorder at the beginning of the meeting. The loudest among them, the dog-hater, was not unlike himself. He instantaneously recognized the ambition that swelled in the man’s heart. There was one he would have to watch, and carefully.

He soon turned his attention to the others among that group. As the meeting went on Archibald quickly formed the opinion that these people were only seeking justice for old grievances and reprisals against their perceived enemies in a way which was not uncommon for those who saw the worst deprivation and violence in the old world.

Soon the other officers of the ship began to detail the situation and findings of their respective departments. Suddenly, he felt as though he had been gutshot. The swirling thoughts in his head of old-world politics made him want to consult his once-greatest confidant. The permanent absence of his first born would never truly heal but the pressure of his current circumstances had caused him to rip off the scab once again. Suddenly there was no time: he was induced to lay out his proposal by the circumstances of the meeting.

Grief overwhelmingly in the forefront of his mind, he detailed his ideas in a way which was evidently pleasing to the crowd and the Ship’s officers but after he had finished speaking he realized he could not recall a single word which he had said. Of course he had rehearsed his articulation many times in the leadup to the meeting, but this disturbed him. Gathering his thoughts, he managed to put his son out of his mind temporarily. He would entertain no more what-if’s about the events leading up to his departure from Britain tonight.

The remainder of the meeting was a blur of argumentation, frustration, and pig-headedness. Although it was regrettable the institution of voting was retained as a part of the proposal for a continuance of British Governance and the possibility of an Irish ascending to the council was not precluded as he had wished. This caused him chest pains which he promptly ignored.

Making his way back to the Officer’s tent, having determined there was no further political good in remaining at the overhang, he determined to rest and write. He would compile notes and return to thoughts of governance once more. This time, he hoped, he could prevent the tide of revolution and radicalism from overwhelming society.

Kent

Player

Posts: 27

2026-09-05 15:04:48 UTC#2

September 5th, 1896.

Archibald was ensconced in his work, papers strung across the desk when suddenly there was a knock at the door. The figure who had just darkened his doorway brought inauspicious news. It was the colour serjeant who brought the ill-tidings, quietly informing him that two soldiers had been wounded in a skirmish on the Mine Outpost perimeter.

After Archibald had acknowledged the information the Serjeant departed in his usual style. He was not a man of words, that one, Archibald concluded. Pondering for a moment, he wondered what collection of tragic errors resulted in a man of the ranks being risen to de facto chief military officer. He would likely never know, such questions were unthinkable to him; The past was best left in memory and such an inquiry might tear asunder healed scars.

Morale was plummeting across the camp, the well-born and base alike stricken with a palpable malaise. The past days had been a heavy burden to bear on the shoulders of most, including his own person. The spectre of death haunted the camp and there had been many losses in the past week.

Archibald noted, to the day, it had been one month since the Perseverance was stricken. In the past weeks, the worst of those injured during the catastrophic loss of the ship who had suffered for so many long weeks had now gone on ‘to their heavenly reward’ and were free of this forsaken world, he thought.

Worse than those largely natural deaths were the suspicious ones. Here, some had died under mysterious circumstances and he was one again reminded of the conclusion of the inaugural meeting: No provisions had been made for the dispensing of justice. If the accusations were true and a murderer dwelt within the camp, it stood to reason that the resulting unrest might tear the camp asunder.

He had promised one concerned citizen an investigation, which was underway. Knowing little of police work or criminal law, he pondered what might drive a person to commit murder. Old enmities had been dragged into the spotlight by the inflammatory rhetoric, and the late conflict with the Hunnic Foe was still a fresh wound to many in his estimation. Here, he had already taken steps to assuage the public and deter the most gullible among them from falling into the trap of revanchism.

Rare anger flared in his heart, as old conflicts were dredged from the depths of his mind. His enemies, by his estimation, were stirring the fundamental hatreds which he and his fellow lords had done so much to quell and douse in the dying days of the Empire.

The late reform bills had done much to help the animosity between Scot, Welshman and Irish but the ‘Auld Enemy’ had done much work to frustrate them. The hundreds of English lords outnumbered and outshouted two peculiar notions before the body: the enfranchisement of the Irish Catholics, and the restoration of the Scots parliament.

Here, he had argued that Scotland, the most habitable section of the home isles, needed its own home rule to address the overwhelming millions of rabble who had migrated to the more durable clime. Year-after-year crop failures in Wessex & Cornwall had caused many to flee from England, much to the dismay of the English Lords. Binding the stricken Kingdoms of Ireland & England together legislatively and giving the vote to those who had howled for generations would do much to heal the nation's wounds, he posited.

This came to the cheers of many Scottish lords, and the tempestuous disapproval of most Anglo-Irish and English lords, many of whom were reduced to a state of destitution due to the newfound uselessness of their once prime agricultural lands. The bitter recriminations and accusations of flagging loyalty to the Queen that followed would make the public response to a murderer living in the camp seem tame.

The last meeting of the council had involved plenty of shouting. Archibald had even indulged himself, shouting sternly for quiet to a disruptive person. This in mind, he resolved to carefully manage the public’s knowledge of these accusations, God forgive him his dishonesty, he thought.

His compatriot’s death now occupied his darkening thoughts. There was a good and noble servant of Her Majesty, if he had ever known one. She had met the same fate of many such people: an ignominious death. This turned his mind to the war, and the usual feelings soon came upon him. These times were full of constant reminders of that last cruel and horrifying gasp of Human industry before the end, and a part of him regretted his political success in the camp’s budding system of government.

The guns would never go quiet in his mind, he noted grimly. Dousing the lamps in the office, he collected his papers into his satchel and turned towards the office’s stove, feeding a few pieces of driftwood into the coals in the stove’s chamber. The crackling flames which rose up sent a burst of much-welcomed heat across his body, and he soon had packed and lit his pipe.

As acrid, sweet-smelling mushroom smoke filled the room, he pondered the last days events. Here, Lilian was the lucky one though he would never admit so publicly. She would never have to think about the war again, and he would see her laid to peace in a way commiserate with her great sacrifice for the British people.

Drawing steadily on the pipe, he leaned back in the chair. The chair squeaked in protest as he did so, much to his concern ever since The Incident in ‘80. He would never trust a chair with a straw seat again. Thinking of how warm it was that summer, his thoughts gradually turned to his colleague’s demise once again.

Indeed, she would never have to brave another meeting with Mr. Kelp either. Still, he would much prefer to smoke his pipe and scribble his papers than to have the blood in his heart frozen for all time, as hers was. Once she had been put to rest, which he was steadfastly determined to accomplish, his mind would surely quieten. Surely.