That's pretty interesting, I like your HCs a lot - the idea of eyes and hair changing to match demographics isn't something I've considered before. That's a very unique take on it, NGL. I'll put down some descs of some of their eye colours below so you can see my takes on it. I've already talked about their hair colours before.
England: Green-blue, like the sea you remark. Except it ripples, white foam cresting around his pupil as he stares menacingly at you. There is not even a smile offered as you drown in that murk, tugged under by an unseen phanthom. The smell of salt clings to you, followed by a menacing tang of gunfire; the sea is his eyes, you realise, paralysed as you watch a towering wave form and shatter against flecks of dark brown - rocks, you realise, jutting from the throes of the sea. You can almost hear the distant boom as waves crash again and again. He blinks and the illusion is replaced by the slow flow of meandering rivers, intercepted by the creep of black branches against a grey sky. Another blink and its a more verdant green, and another and the illusions are gone entirely. Oh. His eyes were only blue. Or are they green? You can never remember, each time this surly customer comes around.
Scotland: His eyes are a bright blue, though you have sworn once they were a dark grey; flashes of light behind his iris, though he smiled placidly, fury thudded like distant thunder. You were carried away, adrift on monstrous gales that lashed you high, clouds scudding below you. Another look at it is the same fathoms as an earlier customer, except that it swirls, churning and twisting and tugging, the depths of a vaguely recalled body of water coming to the fore of your mind, something about the Corryvreckan and its depths. You get lost there, and by the time you get your focus, he is gone now. Whenever he returns now, he does not meet your eye, though on occassion you have regarded the Corryvreckan and watch the swirls of white drift through, torn between a storm-fraught sky and the din of the sea's might, unable to choose which scenery is your liking. Oh well, his eyes are really beautiful, you muse, worthy of a painting or two.
Wales: Her eyes are brown. You swear they were always brown and will always be, but there is a glint of gold you spied once, reptilian and proud, the furl of a banner held high and a dragon's gaze snapping wide open; You'd stumbled and caught yourself in her arms, and what was brown was like fire, the cracking and peeling of bark, and then she blinked, and there was a gleam of bright red, like berries, the bent bows of flexible yew. She apologised, and you swore that her pupils had turned to slits, the wakening of something deep in the earth, stark brown giving way to something welling deep inside. Another occassion, you had called out to her with a cheerful smile, and her eyes were as black as coal, mournful and smoggy. She said she was having a bad day. You saw that sight too many times, but she never explained. She insisted her eyes were only brown. You swore to yourself otherwise. It was coal fires, yew trees and dragon scales. But she insisted it was brown and you were mad.
Ireland: Her eyes are hazel. On occassion, they seem greener - more vivid, until they almost seem to hurt to look at, sharper than any thorn. This comes and goes, of course, and others swear they were more pale brown, withered and dry stalks, poor eating. Sometimes you swear, that her eyes are many colours - shifting from gold to orange to yellow to a faint dusk, the sun setting - though she never explains. She never says anything to you really, only passing by on the few occassions she visits family or friends. Hope, you decide is what her eyes are, forged a long time ago when times were harder, burned into her gaze. You overheard a claim that her eyes were once gold a long, long time ago. You wished you could've seen it. But no, it was hazel.
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