#Historical accuracy? Bah

[joyfulmagic]

@luposcainus // Caspian && Aislin circa Bridgerton

“A dance? I’d be honored,” Aislin informed Caspian, her cheeks slightly flush as she looked up at the rather handsome man. She was shy, despite being endeared to the Queen. Her Majesty had been fond of Aislin’s elder half-sister when she was in her courting era, and fortunately the fondness had been extended to Aislin. Granted, she respected Queen Charlotte rather than acted scared of her…much as Aislin was absolutely terrified of the woman at first.

She was aware of the fact Caspian was a foreign prince being aided in finding a bride, and it shocked her that he was interested in her for any reason. She wasn’t exceptionally beautiful like some of the other eligible bachelorettes (in her opinion at least), and she was only legitimate thanks to the Queen’s kindness in making Aislin and her twin brother making them legitimate in the eyes of the law.

In truth, Aislin was descended from kings and queens herself, as were her siblings, giving them an ‘edge’ in the courtship competitions. Her family’s kingdom has sadly dissolved around a century ago, yet her family maintained an aristocratic status now that they were in England. The Queen had even set up one of her sons with Relta thanks to this status, though the marriage had fallen through when the English prince had fled with his lover.

”I hope you are enjoying being in England, Your Majesty,” Aislin noted as they walked to the dance floor together. “I’ve found it very welcoming, since arriving in this city,” she added, hoping the Prince was having the same experience. “Hopefully it has been as wonderful for you,” she offered a kind smile, her light lavender eyes glistening from the lights of the chandeliers.

Aislin was a kind soul, a gentle and caring individual. The maiden had a passion for caring for animals and children, planning to take in a ward with whoever her husband would be once married. She even had a few pets she’d rescued off the streets — much to her family’s dismay — for she knew that no one else would care for the creatures. She even donated half her allowance to charities that took care of orphans, volunteering when she could as well.

[oneiriad]

You know what I'd like? I'd like a Chinese fantasy show - standard historical fantasy sort of thing - about a group of martial artists/cultivators being sent on a journey to the utter West. Following some sort of prophecy or something.

Of they go, fast forward, they get as far as Constantinople at the height of its power (history? accuracy? bah!), and our intrepid group of cultivators run afoul of a group of Varangians (surprise co-production with Scandinavia y/y?). Not as in sworn enemies, just - they keep accidentally crossing paths in unfortunate ways, keep having cultural misunderstandings, and occasionally end up hanging out just because.

Both groups are hanging out at the same inn - and either somebody's singing a mournful song of home, prompting questions of "where did you hear our prophecy?", or somebody's reciting the prophecy, prompting "when did you ever visit Iceland?"

So, yeah, long story short the Varangians - who were about to head home anyway - agree to act as escorts/guides to our intrepid cultivators, who for mystical reasons need to get to Hekla.

Off the show goes, along the rivers through Rus to Scandinavia and then further North, beneath the Northern Lights to Iceland.

Of course, this is a artistic license fantasy show - so our Varangian/Norse friends? Turn out to have their own magic powers. Saga style magic powers. Maybe somebody gets replaced by a bear whenever he falls asleep. Maybe somebody's mother was a troll. That sort. And the Northern Europe of this show is definitely fantastic - there's probably a sea serpent somewhere.

They get to Iceland, they do whatever needs doing - turns out, our intrepid cultivators now need to rush home to finish the magic whatever back in China.

And, of course, now they and the Norse have bonded, especially one of the cultivators and one of the Norse (handsome fellows, naturally), and so of course their escort have to go escort them right back (besides, if there's really a city more glorious than Miklagard, they need to go see for themselves).

So, back to fantasy China we go...

[equalseleventhirds]

LOVING early 1830s fashion, which was shoulderless dresses and big poofy sleeves and even poofier skirts for women, and broad shoulders, cinched waists, and frock coats for men. i mean cinched waists for women too but men were wearing corsets too which is fantastic.

[justadram]

Hiii! I saw the ask about the revolutionary war Jonsa and the book recommendation and since ive been interested in historical fiction book set in that time period I was wondering if you could recommend me something? I enjoy more stories with women being protagonists but I really don't care as long as it's set in that period. If you don't know any novel it's okay and thank you anyway❤️

I occasionally get this kind of ask and always feel like a jerk not having any recommendations. In general, I don't like historical fiction. While I can enjoy costume dramas and ignore historical accuracies, I end up being annoyed with historical fiction for whatever failings I spot. It's silly of me and I know it's not that deep, but I yam what I yam, lol. I'm even annoyed by how off the amount of time travel takes in Outlander, once it's set during the American Revolution and I know it's super off, and she's always going on about her meticulous research. Bah! I'm sorry, anon!

If anyone has American Revolution historical fiction recs, do please help anon!

[wondersmithofastronautalis]

A Short Reprieve

“Soooo, what did you guys think about the movie?” Uraraka asked, as soon as they stepped outside the theatre.

“I liked it. There were a lot of cool action scenes,” Izuku said.

Admittedly, he hadn’t been paying close attention in the beginning. His eyes followed the actors on the screen but his mind was elsewhere. Preoccupied with what Shigaraki was doing at Yuuei, and why, and what he planned to do about it specifically.

It wasn’t until he spotted Iida in his periphery vision, sitting so close to the edge of his seat he was practically hanging off of it, and his ears picked up the muffled bursts of Uraraka’s laughter at a joke or physical gag, that he truly, gradually, began to relax.

And by the end, while the plot still didn’t make much sense, he was at least able to appreciate the fight choreography and elaborate set pieces on display for the climax.

“Yes, I found the stunt work quite impressive myself!” Iida made his characteristic chopping motions as he talked. “Although, I did find it somewhat distracting that the majority of the pirate crew had quirks! As the film was clearly set in the past, all of them should have been quirkless.”

“Bah!” Uraraka waved her own hand, as if to swat away a pesky fly. “Who cares if it’s historically accurate, as long as it’s cool?”

“One doesn’t need to disregard historical accuracy, in order to tell an entertaining or satisfying story, Uraraka-kun!” Iida replied.

Izuku hung back, content to listen as his friends debated the merits of coolness vs verisimilitude. There was something soothing about their back and forth, and he could feel the twisted-up ball of anxiety he always carried around slowly start to unspool.

It was funny. He still wasn’t any closer to figuring out what to do about Shigaraki or how he’d keep his secret safe. He hadn’t even picked out a place to sleep for the night. And yet, walking alongside his friends like this, as any normal teenager might, he felt lighter than he had for days.

I just wanted to write some sweet friendship fluff this time around.

[voidcrow]

The Battle of the Road to Caen

A historical treatise by Josephine Childress-Busey Published November the ninend, MMVII

1119 is a year that many of my fellow historians look to as that in which the world's fate was forever derailed from its course. To assume this is to ignore the factors that enabled the brief battle fought on that day.

Personally, this scholar is more given to arguing that the true tipping of destiny's scales came in 1102. This was, after all, the year in which Pope Paschal II excommunicated the nation of Norway seemingly on a whim. Paschal never openly stated a reason for condemning the Norwegian people to spiritual damnation and would take whatever rationale he had to his grave. Whatever the case, the ripples started here-- ripples that, by the time they reached English-ruled Normandy, crashed ashore as a tsunami.

The news that they were no longer Christian in the eyes of the Christ-on-Earth rattled the Norwegian people. Collective dismay hastily evolved into collective anger, fueling a nationalistic movement that saw the Norwegians embrace their pre-Christian traditions to set their identity apart from that of other European powers. Chief among these deviations was their choice to reject Catholicism outright and return to the old polytheistic beliefs of the Norse, wearing the derogatory term "pagan" as a badge of pride.

That winter, Norwegian raiders made landfall in Scotland by longboat for the first of many new pillages. The Vikings had returned.

For over a decade thereafter, the fruits of Norway's ongoing pillages fueled a war of expansion back in Scandinavia. Gradually, Sweden and Finland were absorbed. In 1117, forces under the command of Snorri Ragnvaldsson captured Jutland. This move had the dual effect of not only wiping the Kingdom of Denmark off the map, but giving the Norwegians a convenient staging point for raiding the Holy Roman Empire, Poland and northern France by land.

By this point, England had gained more territory on mainland Europe-- specifically, the county of Brittany that lay west of Normandy. A road running between the cities of Rennes and Caen became one of England's busier trade routes, so it should come as no surprise that a band of Vikings came along to prey on caravans along this road. Each time they captured a haul of goods, they'd keep the food and drink to supply themselves, send the treasures home to Norway, and feast in celebration until their fingers itched for another plundering. As the English nobles thought little of this problem in the grander scheme of things, this group of Vikings was able to keep up the profitable venture for two years, until a young English serf-- born in Cornwall but living in Brittany at the time-- roused himself from his drunken stupor to loudly declare that enough was enough.

His name was Alfred Codd, and he had no earthly idea what he was doing-- only that he was tired of bar brawls and pushing around wheelbarrows full of dung.

When spring came in the year 1119, Codd was successful in convincing the Earl of Brittany to let him levy and command a militia. He put out a call for able-bodied citizens of Rennes to defend king and country from the Viking menace... but less than a thousand answered, all desperate peasants like himself. Those volunteers with experience in hunting were equipped with a bow. The rest were armed with pitchforks. Their armor mostly amounted to padded cloth and leather vests, with the few available chainmail shirts being given to Alfred himself and some of the pitchfork-wielders. In total, around seven hundred men were put at arms-- four hundred archers, and three hundred "spearmen" (insomuch as farming tools can be treated as spears). Following the morning sun, they departed from Rennes through its eastern gate and started trekking up the Road toward Caen, certain that the Vikings would show themselves somewhere along the path.

English morale was low on the morning of April the sixenth, and it is little wonder, as Alfred woke up with a hangover only minutes before the fighting began, and his second-in-command had to remind him what was going on. Through a spyglass, it had been determined that the Viking band headed toward them numbered about one thousand, and consisted wholly of melee infantry and light horsemen with axes. After splashing some cold water on his face and having his second punch him in the face a few times to induce alertness, Alfred ordered the peasant mob into a formation; he told the archers to stand together in a short, broad column and instructed the "spearmen" to surround them as a two-row-thick box, then ordered them all to stand their ground.

On being told it would help the men's morale to say a few words before battle was to be joined, Alfred Codd spoke thus:

"Bah, my head rebels against me. Thank you for joining me, brave Britons. I'm told many a general likes to rouse his men before battle with some manner of lip service to God. I am not one of them. Instead I will pay lip service to Maggote, a fine barmaid here in Normandy whom I am proud to call the first person ever to punch me out cold. God's blood, what a woman. Would that she would join us today. Now, our foes are Norwegians who would see us dead and our treasures looted. I, erm... I respect the Vikings-- not for their violence or their heathen beliefs, but for their prowess and courage in battle, and the hardiness forged by the harsh winters of their homeland. It is a shame, therefore, that we must now fill them with pointy sticks. Still, I confess that my codpiece is tightening at the prospect. Is that a snake? A snake! Kill it! Kill the bloody snake! Wait; it's only a twig. Thank the Lord. What else? Remember to watch out for spears. Oh, shite, they're almost here. Hold steady, lads!"

Alfred's oratory skills would improve over time.

After delivering the above speech, he took up his pitchfork and joined the other "spearmen". The Vikings stopped on their way west when they noticed the English army standing on the road in formation. Confident in their ability to quickly do away with the rabble but with no options to attack from a range, the raiders charged forth.

Whilst Alfred used protests and threats to keep his infantry from breaking formation, the four hundred hunters began to let fly. Their accuracy was lacking, but by virtue of there being so many bowmen and a decent supply of ammunition being available to them, they filled the air of the battlefield with enough arrows that for some of them to find their mark was an inevitability. At least ten volleys were fired before the mounted Vikings could complete their charge, and by the time they did, a third of the raider band was already dead.

The Viking horsemen plowed into a section of the "spearmen" box, trampling over some, causing dozens of others to spend a few moments fleeing, and even wedging some ways into the archers' formation. But now these horsemen were surrounded. Horror gave way to confidence, the hunters nearest to the mounted Vikings drew clubs, and together with the pitchfork wielders, they crushed the cavalry. It quickly became clear that, given some time at a smith's grinder for sharpening, a pitchfork lent itself decently to killing a horse or forcing a cavalryman off his mount in a pinch.

Alfred was able to rally the mob back into formation, and the hunters continued firing on the approaching Norwegian footmen. A little over half the Viking band had fallen by the time its main bulk closed in for melee combat. Flanking the English proved futile; the box of "spearmen" surrounded their archer comrades on every side. The melee struggle was grueling, but the long reach of the Britons' pitchforks did prevent many Vikings from being able to get a solid swing in without being skewered, and the hunters carried on firing over the melee lines to kill more raiders that were waiting behind those already engaged in combat.

In the end, the raider band-- reduced to a fifth of their numbers-- gave in to survival instinct and was put to rout. Alfred Codd looked around to see many of his fellow peasants on the ground, bloodied and writhing. The victory would turn out to be less Pyrrhic than it seemed; among the many dozen injured, only two had actually died of their wounds. These numbers surprised Alfred himself, but not as much as his family's elevation to the nobility as a reward for his accomplishment that day.

"If this is to be my lot in life," remarked Alfred upon his appointment to the lofty position of a general, "then I will need a substantially larger codpiece."

Spirits were high across the French provinces of England in the wake of the battle, a minor triumph over the Viking Resurgence though it was. Yet Lord Alfred was scarred by it in more ways than one, and wrote as much in his personal journal:

I drink to the dead now, until I achieve a blissful stupor. Us suffering a mere two losses would be much happier news to me had those two not been my only friends.

Granted command over an army of professional archers, heavy infantry and horsemen, Alfred Codd was soon summoned across the English Channel to the isles of Britannia. The new wave of Vikings had brought the Kingdom of Wales to its knees, handed Scotland some grievous defeats and placed fortresses along the eastern coast of England. It was time to bring these isles to order.

[cwnerd12]

Bah having a tough time deciding how to handle Norma’s story.

Once again, I find myself with a basic character idea, a basic timeline of real events for a plot, and a bangin’ song for inspiration, but I can’t settle on what direction I want to go in, namely, how fictional do I want to get with this story.

For starters, as far as @toadlessgirl can tell, Norma is still very much alive. With some digging, it’s reasonable to believe that I could find out more about her and create a story that’s in line with what really went down, what kind of person Norma actually was, and what her experience was actually like.

BUT I’m having all these great fictional ideas, and my inner artist is saying “fuck being consistent with your levels of historical accuracy and realism, have fun with this lady mobster character!”

Of course, there’s always the chance that my fictional ideas fall very neatly in line with what actually happened, which actually happens a lot?

so idk. maybe I’ll have a better sense when I can dig a little bit more?