#meanwhile in france

[victusinveritas]

Dogs have had many jobs throughout history, in this case: Revenge.

[dnickels]

Messimy having fervently stamped out Michel’s heresy of the defensive, did his best, as War Minister, to equip the army to fight a successful offensive but was in his turn frustrated in his most-cherished prospect—the need to reform the French uniform. The British had adopted khaki after the Boer War, and the Germans were about to make the change from Prussian blue to field-gray. But in 1912 French soldiers still wore the same blue coats, red kepi, and red trousers they had worn in 1830 when rifle fire carried only two hundred paces and when armies, fighting at these close quarters, had no need for concealment. Visiting the Balkan front in 1912, Messimy saw the advantages gained by the dull-colored Bulgarians and came home determined to make the French soldier less visible. His project to clothe him in gray-blue or gray-green raised a howl of protest. Army pride was as intransigent about giving up its red trousers as it was about adopting heavy guns. Army prestige was once again felt to be at stake. To clothe the French soldier in some muddy, inglorious color, declared the army’s champions, would be to realize the fondest hopes of Dreyfusards and Freemasons. To banish “all that is colorful, all that gives the soldier his vivid aspect,” wrote the Echo de Paris, “is to go contrary both to French taste and military function.” Messimy pointed out that the two might no longer be synonymous, but his opponents proved immmovable. At a parliamentary hearing a former War Minister, M. Etienne, spoke for France.

“Eliminate the red trousers?” he cried. “Never! Le pantalon rouge c’est la France!”

“That blind and imbecile attachment to the most visible of all colors,” wrote Messimy afterward, “was to have cruel consequences.”

Barbara Tuchman, The Guns of August

[butactuallywhatsgoingon]

it is so important to remember to install your filter as you master another language

Woman I’ve just met, talking to a teenage girl with short hair: you know, most boys prefer girls with longer hair

Me, 0.1 seconds later in my second language: well who the fuck cares what they think

[workersforanotsafeparadise]

Paris, district 18. (Photograph posted by Natti Miller and assumed to be by him)

[victusinveritas]

Clotilde d'Arc, direct descendant of Saint Joan of Arc's brother (Pierre d'Arc) dressed as the Saint for the annual celebrations of the Siege of Orleans (1429)

[nextwarden]

[forsoobado137]

It must be embarrassing for nations when humans find their old stuff. Imagine being a teenaged nation filled with hormones and keeping some kind of journal. After a couple of centuries being forgotten, it's suddenly in the national museum for all the world to see. I'm sure Prussia has some entries in his diaries that he would rather keep private.

I bet England loves showing off old 18th century paintings of himself with America and Canada. He thinks fondly of the memories, but they're both like "Oh my god, England! stop showing everyone our baby pictures!"

*Elegant oil painting of France* "Oh la la, that neck ruff is so tacky! What was I thinking? Why is this portrait in the Louvre?!"

[haveyouplayedthisttrpg]

Have you played MEANWHILE IN THE SUBWAY ?

by Come Martin

It can be either a setting for games like Troika, Itras By or Electric Bastionland or a Standalone game laid out not as a book but like a subway map. Just follow the Line from "Having a nap in their secret lair" to "A tamer of subway seats"

[asitrita]

I am obsessed with the way you describe how manipulated France is when he is in a relationship with Spain. I would love to hear you talk more about this <3 (we need more of this).

Like, what toxic traits of France do you think make Spain be attracted to him? Some of the ways France makes Spain unable to ignore him in a personal relationship?

Please feel free to add more questions on this topic. Thank you for answering them for me 🫶🏻

To be honest I just like toxic relationships imao (not for me lol, I just like to see my faves suffering, and Francis is the perfect demon to bring Toni a piece of hell).

However, if I had to choose a toxic trait Francis has (one of the many 👀) that is actually alluring to Antonio that would be controlling. I imagine Francis to be this type of person who wants, needs, to be in control, always. It may be a product of his huge ego and need for constant validation, he loves being the centre of attention and most definitely considers himself above most... Countries? All these traits result in a desire for control as well, and that is what I think Antonio would find kind of attractive. Or maybe not attractive, but beneficial. This is because I imagine that Antonio, as he became the first global empire ever in the early 16th cent. and one of the superpowers at the time for a handful of centuries, was always expected to be in control of everything. He had too many responsibilities, the weight of expectations was too heavy on his shoulders, and the fear of other powers overcoming him and subduing him was too strong, so he always felt the need to control absolutely everything, even the smallest detail (tbh, I think I already said it in a previous post, I imagine young adult Antonio to be a bit... Paranoid, during his time as an empire). So while I imagine Antonio would clash against France, for they are both very controlling people, the motivations for the control they exerted on others were very different. For Antonio it was most usually a matter of survival and accomplishment of his own goals as a nation. Everything needs to be perfect, all the pieces must be in the right places for everything to work out just fine (not to say he never used his controlling nature for more personal matters, but this scenario didn't happen too often). For Francis, however, it was a way to feed his ego, a matter of pride, a way to show his power and influence on others. And thus, I think this worked perfectly for Antonio, because Antonio, as controlling as he was, resented that part of him that needed to be in control of absolutely everything, he wanted to let loose, he was just not allowed to (not as a country, and not even as a person, as paranoid as he was about what could happen if something didn't go according to plan and other country got the upper hand on him). With Francis, he could freely get loose. Or he could pass tense, he became incredibly dangerous over the centuries, but he wasn't so much a danger in the past when the two got along just fine. But he is used to Francis, he is used to get himself go with him, because he knows Francis will be there to pick him up. And of course he will, the control freak he is, he is just waiting for Antonio to give up just a tiny piece of string so he can hold it instead, and is happy to do so whenever Antonio decides to play puppet with him. Both are control freaks, but while Francis takes pride on that side of him, Antonio resents it, so he willingly gives it up to Francis, and Francis is ecstatic with the idea of gaining all control, or better yet, being given all control.

This is probably one of Francis worst traits, and it is however one that is very alluring to Antonio, because it is a way of purifying himself, giving a part of himself that he abhors to a demon that desires it. That, and probably, when Francis control becomes too suffocating, he sees it as a way to expiate his sins and guilt, a torment to redemption. Losing all control about his very being, a fitting punishment for someone as controlling as he is. And from the other end, Francis definitely revels in it.

This was too long, and I'm not sure I made any sense at all. Lol

[victusinveritas]

Rest of the work. She was hacked and beaten to death by a Republican mob in 1792.

Death of the Princess de Lamballe (1908)

— by Léon-Maxime Faivre

[werewolves-are-real]

Time Travel Temeraire snippet

At first, Laurence assumes he's dead.

It's a natural conclusion. He remembers dying, after all.

He and Tenzing were at a function hosted by Wellesley. They were mostly there to support the dragons. Temeraire had long abandoned them to quarrel with Perscitia in the courtyard, with half a dozen ferals watching like it were a jousting match. Wellesley had laid out his grounds to allow room for dragons and men to mingle, but a good portion of the guests retreated inside to avoid the raised voices of the dragons.

Laurence wonders how Temeraire felt about that, later. About not seeing.

He was stabbed. He barely remembers it – just a quick pulse of pain in his chest, looking down. Red blooming over his coat.

Then he was on the floor. People screamed. Tenzing appeared, grappling with a tall and finely-dressed man; he used a dinner-knife to punch a hole in the stranger's throat, in a fantastic spray of blood, and dropped the body at once to kneel by Laurence's side.

He remembers Wellesley barking orders – bandages, water, a hot knife. Have to cauterize it, he'd shouted. Keep pressure -

But Tenzing never spoke. Just pressed down on Laurence's chest, over the wound, without particular panic. Laurence still remembers the grim resignation on his face; Tenzing knew what was coming. Laurence was glad to have him there when he died.

Then Laurence woke up.

The world sways in a familiar way, a rhythmic motion that Laurence registers on a soul-deep level. He's on a ship. But why? Where is Tenzing, Temeraire? Why would they put him on a ship?

“I think the fever's breaking,” says a voice. A naval doctor, disheveled and salt-stained, with long scars down his bared arms. “Oh, and awake too!”

“Well thank Christ,” says another man. One Laurence recognizes.

It's Captain Gerry Stuart – but he looks different, younger than the last time Laurence saw him, with smooth skin and dark curly hair.

Gerry died two years ago.

“Well, Lieutenant! You gave us a scare – how are you feeling?” Gerry asks.

“It's Admiral,” Laurence corrects rather than all the other things he does not dare ask. He hates the title foisted upon him; but it's at least more comprehensible than Lieutenant, and he clings to that rather than demand where did you come from.

Stuart throws back his head to cackle, though the concern doesn't leave his face. “Still perhaps a bit feverish, I think!”

“That might be the laudanum,” says the doctor, also amused. “Why don't you sleep a bit more, Lieutenant?”

“But where is Temeraire? Or Tenzing?”

“I can only assume you had some very vivid dreams,” Stuart chuckles. “You were babbling and babbling for Temeraire – isn't that a ship?”

“Perhaps the flagship of his fleet,” suggests the doctor, and Stuart laughs again. “Get some rest, Mr. Laurence. Holler if you need me.”

They both exit the sick-berth. Laurence stares blankly at the door.

What?

Laurence pats his chest. No wound. He looks down, startled by the pale thinness of his fingers, his youth-soft skin.

Well; not soft. Callouses cover his hands. But even these patterns are different – hard skin in places where he would hold a sword, or pulls ropes. His hands should be more wrinkled, yes; but these callouses faded years ago.

“Where am I?” he asks when the doctor returns. “And what is the year?”

“The year? 1793. You don't remember?”

1793. Laurence was 19 in 1793. A lieutenant for two years, on the Shorewise.

The doctor narrows his eyes. “What's my name, lad?”

Laurence swallows. His stomach churns; for the life of him he can't remember.

The doctor rushes off to retrieve the captain.

_____________________________

Laurence is diagnosed with brain fever, and partial amnesia. Gerry is horribly guilty about laughing, earlier; Laurence could not care less. He is given strict orders to stay on bed-rest for another week, in hope his strength will recover – and his mind.

Laurence doesn't think he'll have any issues working – he's forgotten many of the people around him, true, but he may never forget the way to run a ship. He's far more concerned with learning what happened.

From all appearances, it is indeed 1793. France is undergoing riots, and declared war against Britain in February. Temeraire has not hatched. Napoleon is probably a corporal or general himself, at this point. If he exists at all. God knows, perhaps Laurence is only mad.

But he doesn't feel mad. His memories are too vivid to be mere fever-dreams. A man cannot dream up twenty years of life!

But neither can a man go back to his youth, and live it all again.

I have a dragon, he thinks of saying. There is no war, because I captured Napoleon – an unknown man who makes himself emperor.

Mad. It sounds mad even to Laurence himself. But to imagine that Temeraire was a fever-ridden dream... Tenzing and Granby and China, all of it...

Laurence doesn't share his turmoil with anyone – not even with Gerry, who checks on him fretfully. After a week the doctor declares him well enough, physically. He's paired always with another lieutenant for the first few days on duty, and his shipmates watch him carefully for signs of permanent debilitation; but aside from a moment or two of hesitance, Laurence competently resumes his duties. The oversight lessens.

Laurence thinks about writing letters.

He thinks about writing to Tharkay's late father, who ought to still be alive, inquiring after his son. He thinks of writing to Prince Mianning, asking about the health of Lung Tien Qian. He thinks of writing to young Midshipman Granby, his unwed brother, his dead father...

Not all of them would reply. But he could ask questions. Could verify the truth of things. Unless this, instead, is the delusion.

Is he in 1793, imagining the future? Is he in the future, imagining the past? Or maybe he is already dead, and this is the reality of hell. He came here burning with fever, and now he burns with fear. Surely that is it's own form of torture.

Laurence is ironically given the task of tutoring the midshipman and lieutenant-hopefuls more than any other duty as the weeks pass; his crewmates still look askance, and the more eager of the midshipman become protective. Laurence remains perfectly capable of command; it is only that he can't help but be absent-minded, sometimes, staring at all the crewmen that pass him like they are nothing but moving paintings. Images of a world that no longer matters.

One evening the midshipmen drag him away to a meal with the other officers. It's a noisy crowd; Laurence would find the friendly bustle comforting in another life.

One of the senior officers, Lieutenant Moore, waves him down as Laurence enters. Evidently they used to be friends, given his notably concerned behavior of late. Laurence can't remember the man, and has a sneaking suspicion he died too soon to make a lasting impression.Moore jostles him when Laurence sits at the long table. “Will! Did you get any letters with the last batch?”

A patrolling gunboat brought a satchel of letters just this morning. “I did not,” Laurence says. He's grateful for the fact. He'd found a few pieces of correspondence in his quarters that he dutifully sent on; he cannot imagine writing a letter now, in this confused state.

“Then you've had no news! Robespierre has gone mad. Madder than before, I suppose.”

“Robespierre?” asks Laurence blankly.

Lieutenant Moore double-takes, as does everyone else around them. “Good lord, Will, please tell me you remember Robespierre?”

Right... Robespierre's reign was brief, but this is when he led France. Some of the things the papers published...

Well, at least Laurence has a well-worn excuse for his ignorance. He plays up his malady: “Yes. I think I recall he was... French?”

Groans of horror mixed with amusement echo around the table. “...Well you aren't wrong,” says Moore, looking pained. “He has styled himself the 'President' of their Assembly, which is some stupid way of being king; the French are all mad about removing and adding words right now. I don't know how they expect anyone to hold a conversation.”

“We should... probably educate Mr. Laurence about the war at some point,” some midshipman mutters. Laurence doesn't recall his name.

Moore sighs again. “Anyway. Robespierre is a tyrant, of course. But he's elected someone else to rule France! Barely more than a boy, too.”

Laurence frowns; he doesn't remember what Moore's talking about. “Why would he do that? Did they capture one of the Bourbons?” Declaring himself regent of a child-prince would at least make sense.

“Well, at least you remember them. No; it is some nobody, a young soldier. Not even French! I cannot fathom it.”

It feels like Laurence has been dunked in ice.

For a moment he can't respond. “What was his name? The soldier.”

“Napoleon Bonaparte. He has been chosen as head of their new heresy, the 'Cult of the Supreme Being,' they're calling it; and now de facto head of the government, too. Must be a priest? I don't know, nothing the French are doing makes sense. I expect his little group will be as short-lived as everything else about these riots.”

But Laurence doesn't think so. “...Excuse me; I'm feeling a bit poorly,” he says, rising on wavering legs.

“Yes, you look it! Go on, we'll tell you about the war later...”

Laurence flees.

[someoneintheshadow456]

People think Japan is a pedo haven because of lolisho and misinformation about the country from bad actors.

And yet France is everything people think Japan is. But nobody would ever dare say the things about France that they say about Japan.

I get it now. Pedophilia is okay when it’s done by white people. Good to know.

[dramaticpandabear]

Just saw Les Misérables and I realized that it takes place around the same time as Bridgerton.

Now all I can think of is an AU involving Colin getting mixed up with the Les Amis since he travels abroad especially to Paris.

[victusinveritas]

I hear explosions outside.

I stand up from my bed.

I walk toward my window.

I look to the sky.

I see fireworks launched by my neighbours.

I open the window.

My neighbours are singing the Star Spangled Banner.

In their garden, little American flags in their bands.

You don’t see anything weird, do you ?

Well I’ll tell you.

I’m french.

And I’m in fucking France right now.

[freelafan4life545]

Freela Paris in season 2

Freela Paris in season 7

💜🧡

[workersforanotsafeparadise]

Monica Bellucci is one of the few people who makes me think smoking is really cool despite my shitty, damaged lungs.