#historical reference

[miamaimania]

"The Donner Party" ☀ Jim Shaw ⧗ The feet that never made it west

[softie-draws]

Hi! I have recently gotten back into drawing and close to two.months ago I started learning ukrainian and I really want to draw (more) things related to ukrainian culture but I am always worried about accidentaly using a reference of something related to russian culture etc..

Do you have a tip.on how I can make sure?

Hello and thank you for your question!

First of all, I'd love to hug you (if you'd like that) because seeing people learning Ukrainian language and culture and drawing things related to Ukraine always warms my silly little heart🤧💜

Idyll, 1908

Here's a nice old Mykola Pymonenko painting for you to look at (cause look how peaceful and pretty it is!)

Now, let's talk a little bit about searching for references.

Luckily, when it comes to clothes, Ukrainian and russian folk clothing is actually pretty damn different (yet another stone at the "brotherly nations" narrative). You are much more likely to confuse a Ukrainian costume with, say, a Romanian or Polish one than a russian one.

(Ukrainian (on the left) vs russian (on the right) clothing on historical photography. I'm just saying that they're pretty darn different)

The problem is, of course, that russia is constantly trying to appropriate the Ukrainian costume (as they do with anything else), so you are likely to see misguiding descriptions or comments (as shown here).

So our goal today is to learn how to tell apart Ukrainian and russian costumes (trust me, it is not that hard), talk about certain traditions that are more likely to be either one or the other, and then I'll list some foolproof tips for anyone out there looking for references 💜

Here is the thing: the most iconic thing in Ukrainian traditional clothing is most likely the vyshyvanka — a traditional embroidered shirt. That's an element you won't see in russian clothing. Period. As I've said, it's much easier to confuse Ukrainian clothing with our other neighbours.

The elements you will probably not find in Ukrainian clothing are the kosovorotka (a shirt with the collar that's kinda off-centred) and the kokoshnik (a piece of headwear that's usually attributed specifically to russia). Also, traditionally, you aren't likely to see a Ukrainian woman wear a sarafan (a type of upper dress without sleeves), since most women in Ukraine wore long shirts as a base with a variety of types of skirts and upper pieces on top separately, depending on the region, weather and status. We also have to keep in mind that the people from the cities and the villages dressed differently for different purposes, and that the financial status determined the amount of accessories and the type of materials one could wear. For example, Ukrainian girls "invested" and wore a lot of necklaces, one of which could cost a lot, like, more than two bulls or something. Definitely a big status symbol and probably the reason I love layering necklaces so much.

The more necklaces, the better! These girls get it!

Another thing — there are regions in russia that used to be overwhelmingly populated by Ukrainians, and so the costumes would be more similar to those from Ukraine, because they are of Ukrainian origin. Duh. Regions like belgorod, voronezh, kursk etc.

When it comes to traditions, it is a little more difficult, because during the Schism of the russian Church a lot of the old traditions originating in russia were forcibly replaced to match the canons from Greece and Kyiv(!). Since religion was a central part of a person's life back in the day, a lot of the traditions might be similar. Another reason they might be similar would be the process of russification in both the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union.

Some of the authentic Ukrainian traditions that did not exist in russia: vechornytsi (a tradition of young people's social gatherings (those were spicy as well 👀)); the tradition of Malanka (costumed NYE celebration, usually including a goat mask and the Christmas stars (zvizda), Christmas and New Year carols (literally don't exist in russia so they translate ours🤡). In general, Ukrainian traditions are more connected to agrarian life and are more individualistic and egalitarian in nature, the russian traditions are more collectivist hierarchical (a lot more patriarchal, too).

Ukrainians all over the world celebrating Christmas

Now for the foolproof (almost, because nothing in this world is a 100% guarantee, of course) method for finding references!

So, you may have noticed that Pinterest and Google search kind of suck in separating Ukrainian and russian culture overall. Here are a few more or less reliable sources you could use instead:

1. This Wikipedia article about Ukrainian traditional clothing (in Ukrainian, but it has the most information by region, and also provides evidence in historical photography, illustrations and paintings)

2. The internet pages for ethnographic museums: for example, National Museum of Ukrainian Folk Decorative Art or Ivan Honchar Museum. The Ukrainian museums from abroad can also be very helpful, since they may include heirlooms that would otherwise be destroyed or sold in the colonisation processes.

3. Historical literature, magazines and illustrations: for example, Striy can be very helpful here.

4. Historical paintings! The National Library of Ukraine has a great selection to start.

5. If you want something more modern, ethnic photographer Anna Senik has really interesting looks and perspective to offer!

Hope this helps! 💜

P.S.: I don't know what happened, but the post got recovered! I am super happy, since I put a lot of time and effort into this! Hope you enjoy it!

[aqui-yace-noia]

Rayün :D

i can't get over of my girl, even less when i wanted so bad draw her in her silver jewelry (i already did it in a ocasion, but was more a sketch than a elaborated draw)

also, at the right of the image there's a vulture, that's her animal form

[cripplecharacters]

How would I handle writing this like missing limbs, wheelchair users, conjoined twins, serious burns, and hearing issues in a fictional/ medieval-fantasy setting were surgeries, prosthetics and other modern technologies are not available? I want my stories to have a lot of disabled and disfigured characters while also not falling into harmful tropes and stereotypes(motivations being solely about being disabled or the villain is evil because their disfigured etc.) but I’m not sure what my limits are when it comes to a specific time period we’re technology is extremely limited.

Hi asker,

In advance: this is a very long post.

The thing about disabilities is that they exist whether you have the technology for them or not. And the thing about surgeries and prosthetics is that they are very, very, very old.

Pretty much all the information in this ask is from Wikipedia, by the way. When it's not, I'll give you a link.

The oldest known amputation is 31,000 years old, and the next oldest known one is 7,000 years ago. 7,000 years ago is like 6000 BC, well before the medieval era, even if we're using medieval to mean the very very start of it in 500 CE. 6000 BC is, well, 6500 years before 500 CE. People were doing surgeries in Ancient Greece and Ancient India and Ancient Egypt and Ancient China. Were they less successful, on average, than modern surgeries? Yeah, definitely, considering infection risks and germ theory if nothing else at all. But surgery existed, and "surgeon" was an established title and job by the medieval era. A lot of technology is older than you think.

And in the same way, people with serious burns, missing limbs, and hearing loss have existed for a very long time.

I'll start with hearing loss because its inclusion in this ask surprised me the most. This doesn't affect someone's lifespan, and it doesn't require any technology to live with. Sign languages develop wherever deaf people are, because people want and need to communicate with each other, and if not that then things like pen and paper or drawing symbols. Some people today with different degrees of hearing loss & deafness exist without ever putting on a hearing aid or cochlear implant.

As to conjoined twins, they are very rare. Half are stillborn, a third of non-stillborn twins die shortly after birth. They have better survival rates today than in the past. And even then, there are reports of conjoined twins who are either older children or even adults, for a very long time. Here is a link to a paper called "The 3,000-year history of conjoined twins."

Chang and Eng Bunker (1811-1874) would likely have been successfully separated today, but they existed as conjoined twins in their time died at age 63. Earlier still, Lazarus and Joannes Baptista Collaredo (1617- at least 1646) were a case of conjoined heterophagus twins; Joannes Baptista was a parasitic twin and much smaller than Lazarus, and reportedly could not speak or move his body parts independently. But they still both lived until at least age 29. Older still, the oldest mention we have I think, Augustine of Hippo in 415 CE mentions what was likely conjoined twins. So they can exist.

When it comes to missing limbs, they don't have to affect lifespan. They can, but they don't have to. Missing limbs can be congenital, and congenital amputees don't necessarily need a prosthetic. Today, most upper limb amputees, congenital or not, straight up don't use a prosthetic. And limb differences exist regardless of if prosthetics do.

Even then, prosthetics are very, very old. The first one that we know of for a limb is around 1000 BC in Ancient Egypt. Pliny the Elder, born in 23 or 24 CE, talks about a prosthetic hand. The Capua Leg is from around 300 BC, and for a time was the oldest known limb prosthetic. For a non-directly-real example, how many pirates in movies have you seen with peg legs and hook hands? That's because people using both of those things have existed for a long time. François Le Clerc (died in 1563) was a privateer who had a peg leg. François de la Noue (1531-1591) was a captain who had his arm amputated and then had an arm prosthetic with a hook. (Big century for guys named François and prosthetics I guess lol.) Götz von Berlichingen (1480-1562) had two different prosthetics for the hand he got traumatically amputated.

Which goes into the point: survivable amputations are very old. Some are like von Berlichingen, and are lost in an accident, which the person survives. But some are surgical, like de La Noue above; his arm was injured by bullets and amputated later. Celsus described one as far back as in the 1st century. I mean, I'm sure they were miserable, what with no anesthesia, but they existed, and people lived. (Maybe your fantasy world has magical anesthesia?) Here is a paper called "On some paleopathological examples of amputation and the implications for healthcare in 13th-17th century Lithuania," which in the abstract alone mentions specifically that one skeleton showed signs of healing.

Wheelchairs are also very old, by the way. They aren't exactly like our wheelchairs today, but the first ones we know of are around 525 CE. Other things, wheelchair-adjacent but not quite, were used before that. I mean, as long as people who cannot walk have existed, they have needed to move to other places for whatever reason. Wheels getting involved is the easiest way to get that done.

Last but not least, burns. These are related to amputations, because a severe enough burn – 3rd degree or 4th degree – needs surgery as treatment so you don't die, and amputation is surgery. And, like mentioned above, surgeries, specifically amputations, have existed for a very long time.

If your world has magic, why can't this extend to burn care and amputation as well? I don't mean completely healing a 4th degree burn that goes right to the bone, especially because 4th degree burns just don't heal, there's not enough left, but perhaps magic helps prevent infection to nearby sites, or, again, works as painkiller when it comes to an amputation or promotes faster healing of the amputation itself.

But either way, if you survive a burn, even with significant functional impairment afterwards, then you are already alive, and you might make use of things we've mentioned above like prosthetics or wheelchairs.

Sure, if a technology isn't there then it isn't there. We don't have Leg Regrowing Technology, meaning some people who used to have legs and lost them don't still have legs. But that doesn't mean we don't have any way at all whatsoever to support said people, and the same can be said of any era.

Hope this helps,

mod sparrow

[bluecandya28]

Hearts of Oak

Pairing: James "Bucky" Barnes x Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary:

What if love—durable as oak—could entwine through centuries?

Magic or fate?

This love transcends even the passage of time.

~ Inspired by the sestina form, adapted into lyrical prose.

Word Count: 1.7K

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82003721

Sun pecking skin. Petticoats swishing—the Hopewell dances upon the sea. You disembark; beech heels clacking against oak.

The chorus of livestock. Yeomen baying. A child's jaw slackening at ‘The New World'. You inhale deeply; eyes fluttering—the tang of salt upon your lips.

“For ye.” His voice a caress amidst the tempest—lids snap open. “A comely damsel deserves beautiful posies.” Heat blooms.

“Thank ye.” Fingers brush flesh.

“I’m Steven.” A cough. Flaxen locks sway with each rasp. “H—” His throat clears. “He’s James.” Lips twitch. Eyes crinkle. Your nose skims a silky rose.

As always—you remember. Your loves forget. Vines entwine—the memory loops; transcending time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Time is without death... A shadow upon the sun dial; click-click-click—you wind granddaddy’s pocket watch... Death is the fulfilment of time.

Laughter—yeomen in a merry pin. Music—Goodman Banner gaily plays the fiddle. Blue adorns trees. “A country dance is an unseasonable revel. Since the Boston massacre, Pa believes war is inevitable.” Natalya toys with a ribbon waving against the oak.

“What cheer, cousin?” You flinch; palm covering your bosom. Cool metal—the pendant lying upon your breast. A beautiful gold rose.

“Pray, excuse me, cousin. To affright you was not my intent.” Clint withdraws a step. Fingers tapping the flap of his cocked hat. “My good friends simply wish for an introduction. May I present Captain Rogers. Sergeant Barnes.” He presses a fingertip against twitching lips.

Parchment crinkling—a snap of linen. Captain Rogers tugs at his hunting shirt; Sergeant Barnes cups your palm. Warmth; lips graze flesh.

“We hope for the pleasure of your company this evening.” James murmurs. —Life anew. Souls eternally bound. Once again, love blooms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“How do you do, dearest?” You haste; foot catching upon a hoop. Huffing. “This crinoline cage is of such sizeable girth, I fear I shan't fit through your parlour door.” The apples of Wanda's cheeks rise. She nods towards two sirs taking tea upon the veranda. Warmth blooms.

Heat—the whisper of breath. “Father's business partners. Yesterday's report in ‘The Herald’— Oh, it’s terrible.” She clasps your wrist. “Railroad stock values are declining. I dread—” Her voice breaks. Fingers squeeze tighter. “Losing the estate is simply a question of time.”

“Oh, sister.” You inhale sharply; corset biting your ribs. “The Mormon Rebellion destroys us all. Papa too, is facing bankruptcy.” Head shaking. “We must stem the tide together.” You sweep a glove-clad thumb beneath her eye; purple smudges crisp upon pale flesh.

Pebbles crunch; footfalls along the gravel pathway. “My dear child. Darling goddaughter.” He bows. “Pray join us.” Elbow linking Wanda’s—you follow. His rustic cane scritching stone—a musical melody of gravel dancing with oak.

Step. Step. Step. Lungs constricting; eyes drifting shut… Thrum. Thrum. Thrum—Stevie’s heart flutters beneath your ear. Click. Click. Click—James maps your jaw with gentle lips…

An introduction; cheeks flush. The gentlemen bow; warmth blossoms. You curtsy; butterfly wings ripple within the belly. Breath hitches—a hint of their Eau de Cologne, damask rose.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cutlery clanking against porcelain. “Hey!” Fingers snake your wrist. “We only serve payin’ customers. If table two keeps ordering dog soup, get rid.” A shove; you wince—the countertop jarring your spine. Children squeal—their chubby legs kicking chrome, the stools a bright rose.

Grasping a rag—knuckles translucent—you scrub the bar top; hips jerking. “I have their order, sir. Lemonade—” Fingering the coins in your apron pocket. “And two slices of war cake. Oh—” The cloth stills. “We should alter the menu. War cake, depression cake—it dampens one’s spirits. I use orange blossoms in the mix, so why not call it ‘orange blooms’.”

“Here’s an idea.” His finger jabs your breast. “I pay ya for bakin’.” He snatches up the rag. “And for waitressin’. Do ya job. And stop lettin’ people use my business as a damn soup kitchen.” A sting. Eyes watering—the cloth whips your flesh. “Now, get servin’, and zip ya lips.”

Hands yank on the boss’ shirt collar—the linen tawny with sweat stains. “A slice of ‘orange blooms’ sounds mouthwatering, doesn’t it, Stevie?” A spluttering cough; the boss’ jowls turning puce. “Offer the young lady an apology, and I won’t toss you into the trash cans out back… This time.”

The aging wood stove groans. Whoosh—your breath hitches. Hiss—the boss stutters an apology. Crackle—fingertips lightly graze your elbow. Pop—a chestful of the woodsy aroma, oak…

Burnt orange—embers winking. Snap; Steve drops an oak log into the hearth. Shadows dancing upon flesh; your fingers sketch patterns along smooth skin. Until… Their hands clasp yours. The flutter of warm breath in your ear—Steve… “Miss, are you all right?” You blink slowly. Once. Twice. “Miss. Do we— Have we met before?” Lips twitch. Cheeks lift. Flesh skims flesh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A snowy handkerchief—sopping with tears. Two sheets of acidic paper; the contents bubbling within your throat—a sob tears through you. “D-damn this war.” Hands crumple the yellow telegrams; another rip, more creases. The weight of its words heavy against flesh.

Tossing the papers—a light thunk—they ricochet upon checkerboard flooring. Smash. An earthenware cup—full with sweet tea—follows. Golden droplets trace the wall… Bucky’s thumbs blot the tears mapping your cheeks. “It’s my duty. Oh, please don’t cry, my beautiful rose.”

Hands reach out. Pit-a-pat—his heart beneath your palm. “How can I not cry?” A scoff—razor-sharp—bursts out. “Steve’s ‘Four-F’ status doesn’t deter him. The army’ll take him eventually, too. A-and—” An ache; the lump in your throat growing bigger. “S-soon all will remain of us is a worn photograph set in oak...”

Three rhythmic raps upon oak. A cry; palm clutching your breast. Tick-tock—a fourth knock. “Mrs. Rogers?” Feet shuffle. The crystal doorknob crisp within your grasp; timber groans... A stranger tips his bowler hat. “Hello, Mrs. Rogers.” Clearing his throat. “For you.” Eyes red, he proffers a bouquet of posies. “Cap ‘n’ Bucky always spoke of your love for wildflowers, so I thought I’d pick these blooms.”

“Thank. You—” A beautiful burst of color. Plum—the fruit preserve you often cook for Bucky. Tink. Tink. His spoon scraping the jar clean. Crimson—the roses Steve always gifts you. Kisses upon a soft jaw; his cheeks flushing. Gold—your trinity wedding ring; a band symbolizing each of you. You’ll meet them again… A sob. In time.

You press the flowers against your heart. Teardrops trailing along satiny petals. “Oh. To hell with propriety.” Arms—warm, sturdy—encircle you. “Name’s Timothy Dugan.” He gently rocks you. To. Fro. “But as your Cap ‘n’ Bucky’s girl, you call me ‘Dum Dum’. We’re gonna watch out for you now. Howling Commandos look after their own.” Sinking into the embrace; a keening cry tears past your lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dry leaves rustling—the flutter of pages. Book heavy in your palm—flesh grazes the spine; binding craggy with creases… Schliff—Bucky turns the page. Breathing life into Tolkien; his chest thrums beneath yours… The hum of the shopkeeper’s bell. “Welcome to ‘Hearts of O’—” A broken laugh—eyes welling. The book slips; fingers press against your lips.

“How?” His voice—no longer thin, but resonant. “Why?” His jaw—once soft, now chiseled—locks. “We thought—” Head shaking. “Is it truly you?” Mouth dry; you nod. “Then… Everything else is neither here nor there.” One blink; footsteps—two sets. Two blinks—warm skin, cool metal. A third blink—weightless in their arms; flesh caresses flesh.

“Our story began over a millennia ago. In the hub of Rome.” Palms cup their cheeks; one smooth, the other bristly. “Though together—peace within the noise. Until…” The pungent stench of rotting corpses… Your belly lurches. “The Eclipse Plague.” Eyes squeeze shut… Shouts on your heels. “Scelesta—wicked woman. Impura—unclean. Luppiter te disperdāt—may Jupiter utterly destroy you.” Lungs bursting; you run… Pressure upon your crown—Bucky’s chin. “With the plague claiming so many, Roma set about searching for scapegoats.” A sob. “Such stolen time.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Chests rising, falling—with each silent breath. “You fought for us…” Flagellorum sibilus—whips whistle. Thwack—metal tips bite gentle flesh… “Crimson wept upon linen...” Fingers slip beyond your grasp—Steven. A body slumps against you—Bucky… “My final breath; I clung onto our necklace—the garland of roses.”

“Rose—” Metal cooling your hot cheek; you lean into the delicate touch. “Always our beautiful rose.” Your hair fluttering; Bucky utters a broken chuff. “Flashes. Fragments Hydra couldn’t erase. The Althing—woolen cloaks with fur linings… Sunlight kissing our skin at a country jig…” His gaze shifts. “We found her, Stevie.” Lips peck your temple. “And she always blooms.”

Steve’s arms—not willowy, but broad—tighten. The hug—stalwart as always. “This bookstore—the name. It’s us, isn’t it?” You nod. His mouth claims Bucky’s… Then yours. Lips still soft. Woodsy scent—home. His whisper drifts through the hush. “‘Hearts of Oak’.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A gentle sigh—time breathes… Scritch—graphite brushes paper. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Silence—Steve’s pencil stills; Bucky’s brow puckers. “I can’t steer myself into your path. I’ve gotta trust it’ll happen organically—as fate intends.” Fingers interlace. Click—your lips graze Steve’s knuckles. A chill; mouth tingling—a kiss upon Bucky’s steel arm. “There’s beauty in trusting it, isn’t there?”

“I guess. Though—” Bed sheets rustling. A hint of oak—Bucky nuzzling your cheek. “I’m certain Stevie will agree, this curve—” Fingertips—featherlight—flutter along your hip; a squeal of laughter. You squirm. “Is where the true beauty lies. Whaddya say, Cap?” The prickle of whiskers; Bucky pressing kisses against your flesh.

“Cap says—” He waggles his pencil. “Keep still, you two. You’re modeling for his portrait. Clamping your lips together; you salute. Bucky leans in; ssshhh—he whispers in your love’s ear. Steve’s cheeks flush a deep rose; he tosses the sketchpad aside. “Photographic memory—I’ll finish it tomorrow.” Mint—lips capture yours—Steve’s toothpaste. A quiet breath; you draw lazy circles against their skin. “We should retire, Buck. Swap the compound for our girl’s bookstore. No missions—only us. All day, every day.” Foreheads touching, they lay their heads upon your breast. —A full life blooms.

[abybweisse]

Ch224 (p2.5), Names and locations

Anna mentions Katalin and Dr. Matyas. Her father mentions Baron Bethlenffi. As narrator, Modri mentions the Kornich family and Transylvania.

Well, we are definitely not in Russia, but there's still a strong Slavic connection. Let's talk about each of these names.

Anna is a common name of Hebrew origin, meaning "grace", "favor", or "He (God) has favored me." It's odd that she has such low self esteem regarding her appearance and worthiness, with a name like that.

Kornich is a lot like Weizsäcker in that it has to do with grain crops.

Matyas is a variant of Matthew, basically meaning "gift of God." It can be a given name or, as used here, a surname.

Katalin is a Hungarian variant on Catherine, coming from the Greek word for "pure". It's often associated with St. Catherine of Alexandria.

Bethlenffi is an odd one, made up, loosely based on traditional naming conventions in Hungary. The "ffi" part denotes "son of" the name at the beginning.

So, when I tried Bethlen by itself:

Baron Bethlenffi is a bit of a mystery, but his surname must be intended to identify him as the "son of Bethlen", and to give him a long history within Hungarian nobility.

Then we have Transylvania, which is part of Romania now, but at the time it was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. This is at a time when the Habsburg dynasty is coming to an end. Their ruler, Franz Joseph I, was born at and died at Schönbrunn Palace, in Vienna. We've heard about Schönbrunn Palace before, since that's where Sebastian says -- all the way back in ch2 -- that he learned the Viennese waltz.

It makes sense that Modri would end up with a grain-farming family, since that was such a common occupation in the region. I find it a bit concerning that medical care was so scarce, making Anna's grandmother very lucky Dr. Matyas was making house calls. I'm also taking note of the high sui rate, making me curious how many reapers came from the region....

Anyway, back to the chapter release soon.

[ellewantsrevenge]

i've started making a lot more connections and getting a lot more references since i started reading more and consuming more media. but this one was an accident from a search result

the complete handbook can be found here utilizing archive.org

[class-of-59]

Portrait of the Third Prince of Germa - 1541