#Tree of Gisors

[angevinyaoiz]

Valentine's Day ....chop down a tree in memory of him

[vaccerelli]

Drodwich

Drodwich-up-Harbor and Drodwich-down-Pier were both the same small city, split apart by the old and twisted River Gisors, and yet the cultures between them shared the same sort of small animosity and polite contempt that most small places ran on -- too diminutive to be truly metropolitan and too large to have the kind of monoculture small towns engulfed their citizens with. the up-Harbors were the northerners and the down-Piers were the southerners - though truth be told the directions it ran were northwest and southeast, but that wasn't so neat and clean on the culture as it was a compass -- and they were all so alike that the differences became magnified for their smallness. it was known that northerners were crude and stand-offish and southerners were hot-tempered and talked too much, that northerners drank and stayed out too late and their pubs were open all hours, the same way southerners only ever ate strange imported foods and salted everything too much and were afraid of the dark. Drodwich was an odd but comforting place for anyone near where the Gisors met the dark sea. it had been the primary port long ago, but Seagrave had grown far larger and was now a big city, the biggest port city on the entire coast. the Drods was Seagrave's name for both the Drodwich divided cities which wasn't terrible popular, as most people thought it sounded like a congestive disorder. Arkdale was a smaller port city to the south, but Arkdale had both the Arkdale Scientific Modern, which was some kind of very advanced place where men in lab coats clicked beakers together and did some kind of applied math, and it had the Arkdale breweries, where the tired and worn joke about Arkdale's dark ale came from. but Drodwich had people, it had a riverfront, and it had the glamour of small cities, where you could afford to live and raise a family and not break your back at the job every night of the week just to make ends meet, where you knew your neighbors and everyone was friendly, even if that loud southern bastard wouldn't shop running his mouth, and that dirty northern vulgarian would use that language in front of the children. 

there were other things. how people say Drodwich, of course. north they say Druddish like it's a kind of simian language. south they saw Drawdisch like it's a kind of foreign meal. mercy upon you if you if you say Drawd-witch in the city limits, for they might string you up from one of the long-dead riverfront trees, like they used to do with outsiders who threatened the city. one of the many parts of Drodwich's history was that it wasn't always the lovely and cozy seaside port it looked like. they, like everywhere else on the firmament, had their troubles and a history that was mostly unkindness and prosperity in equal measure. Drodwich had many other things, like a baker, a blacksmith, a portsmith and boatyard, farmers, brewers, a mayor, a chief ombudsman, a comptroller, building managers, a chirurgeon, banks, a bastwick, priests and clerics and nuns of both major faiths, a sacristan, people investigating the old ruins by Mount Guri, thieves, children, drunks, and the dead. it had problems with old pests, abuse of the elderly, strange centipedes, public intoxication, and pier parking, that was life in Drodwich. the only unexpected things were murders and even those were, in their own way, expected. the piers still brought in strangers. drownings were more common than murders, and it seemed every autumn during rainy season someone slipped into the river or the sea, like a sacrifice to the old water gods of the ruins. murder was more shocking, and mysterious. there was very little constabulary in Drodwich, because the people knew each other well enough to see and sense guilt on the faces of the other, so it was only ever outsiders who got arrested and hanged. 

Pyotrov and Genrick, two old men, sat outside the Saint Fisher, one of the older pubs in town. they were both veterans of the great war, though in different ways. Pyotrov had been told to hold a hill and he held it, and when they found him most of his guts had been on his outside and he had spent a great deal of time at a military hospital before they shipped him home. Genrick had been an incompetent officer who lost fingers in a shelling maneuver and partially blind in one eye from a ricochet, though he'd never been anywhere within miles of the actual fight. both men had come home on the same boat to discover the same thing, their families had died of the plague that had swept from the traveling boats to the shipyard to Drodwich itself. this had bound them into an accidental symbiosis, this war hero and craven idiot, who only had each other. Pyotrov and Genrick commanded the same respect from the locals, which enraged and shamed Genrick and did not matter to Pyotrov, who thought that all who came back from war alive had a shard of heroism in themselves, somewhere. they had been back from the war for more than three decades now and neither paid for any of their drinks at the Saint. if you heard the stories and looked at the two men, you would incorrectly assume which was the tough battle-scarred veteran and which was the fool who stuck his hand in a moving cylinder of a cannon. 

I'm going to change churches, Genny, Pyotrov said. he said this a lot. he was in the church of the Risen Man, which was falling out of favor as the world got older and more complex. people didn't want their gods to return, they wanted them to always have been there. with faster ships and better food, people became impatient. Glory is for thieves and northerners, Genrick replied, drinking his dark beer. Genrick had been raised in the church of Glory since he was a boy, and like all cowards who think themselves clever, he had long since stopped believing that anyone was watching, because he had done shameful things without feeling shame, and felt shame for things that were not truly his problem. the stories of Glory and the Risen Man were very similar until they diverged, which could be said for most churches, even the fancy ones in Seagrave, where they had cathedrals larger than a whole city block in Drodwich. Genrick had been to both Glory and Risen churches and it all sounded the same to him, a man came from the desert, calling for peace and reconciliation, and they killed him for being a thief and charlatan, and his followers and disciples claimed he spread a message of a world behind the world, where death had no meaning, and the gods loved all. things had different names and places but to Genrick it was the same; behave, and be rewarded in death. not that the most devout people Genrick knew weren't the biggest hypocrites and blasphemers against themselves and others, but he appreciated that at least it gave people a reason to behave. in the miltary they just beat you, and if they had to beat you a lot, eventually the other recruits beat you too, and then they put you on the worst of the front, near the trenches. Genrick had gone into the officer school to stop the beatings, and it had worked, but he had worried about demotion and pain every day. Pyotrov had been raised on one of the fisheries, and knew his way around both being beaten and being obedient, and had been a model soldier, and discovered inside himself the kind of savage courage that comes to some in the haze of war, where death is everpresent and leaps from inside to outside the human form without consideration. he thought Genrick was a kind fool who was hard on himself. 

[basilegodard]

Ukulele

anniv à jisor

[eda11y]

Gisors parc - 277/365 (trees) by sfPhotogrphr

[theartsyproject]

Camille Corot, Gisors, River Bordered by Trees, c. 1873.

[timetunnelcollective]

The cutting of the elm was a diplomatic altercation between the kings of France and England in 1188, during which an elm tree near Gisors in Normandy was felled In the 12th century, the tree marked the traditional place of Franco-Norman negotiations, as the field was located on the border between Normandy, ruled by the English king, and the royal domains of the French king. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cutting_of_the_elm Illustrated by Maya Shlefier

[angevinyaoiz]

AngevinYaoiz comics timeline!

A general timeline of all my historically set comics! Some of these are more finished, with multiple pages, some are single doodle cartoons, some are serious and silly, but these are ones that have a specific placing in my mind and continuity in a chronological order.

A lot of the work is Richard/Philip yaoi related, but this includes my other stuff too. It’s not complete but I wanted to get the biggest parts here. Most of the works made in 2023-2024 can be found compiled into my whopping 93 page digital zine, “If All the World Were Mine”, which also includes not just comics but artwork and various writing and notes I’ve made along the way.

Hope you can read and enjoy!

1174

After the Rebellion

“Everything a Little Brother Dreams Of” (fic)

Kiss of Peace

1179

The Leviathan’s Fishhook

A Child’s Reasoning

(General summary on site of my thoughts about this era and my Richard/Philip headcanons at this time) 1180

Philip and Isabella of Hainault

Balancing the Humors (NSFW)

Valentine’s Day (RichPhil)

Lucretia

They Seem to be Very Good Friends

Happier Memories (nsfw)

1183

“What’s My Crime?” (TLIW Play comic, fits the timeline tho)

1187

“In Exchange for Honor” (comic) (full free zine)

“I’m such a good friend!”

1188

“Your Son Calls Me Liege Lord Too!”

Dickie pls call back…

Loyalty to God-Given Order of Things

Valentine’s Day (The Tree of Gisors)

1189

“Little Lamb”

”Dear to Me” (NSFW)

1190

Philip, Joan, and Richard

1191-2

Al-Adil, Saladin, and Richard

1193

Philip II, Ingeborg of Denmark, and Pope Innocent III

1199

“The Legend Lives!” “What You’ll Never Have”

Philip and Agnes of Merania (1)

Philip and Agnes of Merania (nsfw)

1214

John’s vision (Devilsburger Crossover)

1223

Death of Philip Augustus

[realism-love]

Gisors, River Bordered by Trees via Camille Corot

Size: 50.8x61.6 cm Medium: oil, canvas

[realism-love]

Gisors, River Bordered by Trees via Camille Corot

Size: 50.8x61.6 cm Medium: oil, canvas