"Oi Alba, any luck?" Ireland greeted a bloodied Scotland, returning from another fight against their youngest brother. How had he become so strong in such a short amount of time?
"That little shit cut off me 'ead again, Which reminds me," Scotland pulled out a needle and thread, "A lil help? I can't get the back of m'neck."
Ireland sighed, taking the needle and sewed her brother's head back on. They all used to get along, but now they were constantly at war. If only England kept his cool and didn't take their land. He may have banned their native languages, but they still called each other by their original names. Alba, Eire, Cymry, all sounded much better than Scotland, Ireland and Wales.
England came strolling in, the stake in his hand being waved around like his dumb flag. He looked somewhat bloody, but not as bad as Scotland did.
"Gee, you ran off so quickly you missed it. I put the head of that 'Braveheart' chap on one of these and left it on London Bridge." England tossed the stake towards Scotland. "You put up quite a fight tho, sorry about beating you once again."
"Feck off, England. Alba's twitching is making harder to sew his head back on." Ireland pointed the needle at England's eye. "Unless you want me to start a fight, I suggest you stop."