black and asian vikings 100% definitely existed (also, saami vikings)

you know how far you can get into eurasia and africa by sailing up rivers from the baltic and mediterranean seas? pretty fucking far, and that’s what vikings liked to do to trade

then, you know, people are people, so love happens, business happens, and so ppl get married and take spouses back home to the frozen hellscape that is scandinavia (upon which i’m guessing the horrorstruck new spouses went “WHAT THE FUCK??? FUCKING GIVE ME YOUR JACKET???????”)

and sometimes vikings bought thralls and brought them home as well, and i mean, when your indentured service is up after however many years and you’re a free person again, maaaaaaaaaaaaybe it’s a bit hard to get all the way home across the continent, so you make the best out of the situation and you probably get married and raise a gaggle kids

so yeah

viking kingdoms/communities were not uniformly pure white aryan fantasy paradises, so pls stop using my cultural history and ethnic background to excuse your racist discomfort with black ppl playing heimdall and valkyrie

Also we KNOW they got to Asia and Africa. 


Because Asians, Africans, and Vikings TOLD US SO. 

Also, we know there was significant mercantile trade between Scandinavia and parts of Pakistan, Afghanistan, Northern India, Kashmir, North and Eastern Africa because there is evidence in burial sites.

Check that out: the goods Vikings and Scandinavians were getting from their trade with the rest of the world was so important they buried themselves with it, as part of their treasure hordes.

We KNOW this.

There’s a reason you can still see many of the trade routes from the ancient world etched into the very earth.

Plus, we know that some Scandinavian cultures that participated in Viking raids had established minority communities of ethnically Mongolian folks living among them during the periods when such raids were common, and it’s difficult to credit that none of them would have signed on.

Islamic Ring in Viking Grave

Vikings in Persia

Black Vikings

Vikings in North Africa

Buddha statue in Viking hoard

Vikings brought Native American woman to Europe

Unflattering texts in Arabic about Vikings

Original text by Ahmad ibn-Fadlan

More about the Islamic World and Vikings (some Vikings converted to Islam! sort of sketchy site tho)

Viking technology came from Afghanistan

More on trade route determination via metallurgy

… is that enough? 🙂

Yet another on the pile of reasons why it monumentally honks me off when pusillanimous, pseudointellectual white supremacist scum try to use Scandinavian culture as a crutch for their arguments and act like Norse mythology agrees with their biases. No it fucking doesn’t, bitch. Odin would personally kick you in the dick for being a witless coward and then send your ass to the Realm of the Dishonored Dead.

I don’t usually reblog stuff, but this thread makes me so happy.
See, I love the Viking aesthetic – I love the fusion of organic and
geometric in its designs, I love the natural colors, the complexity of
textures you get from juxtaposing metal/leather/cloth/fur–

–and I hate how
the entire subculture has been so thoroughly co-opted by white
supremacists. To the point where I, a person who likes viking stuff, am
deeply and immediately suspect of anyone else who likes viking stuff, guilty until proven innocent, cuz that’s what the odds are these days.


As far as I’m concerned, anyone can be a viking, and thus I am so, so pleased to find that the historical record backs me up.

(And amused that Arab intellectual Ahmad ibn Fadlan was so thirsty for vikings.)

This is why I adore this site.

On any other internet platform, I’d come off like a history lecturer and be annoyed almost all day long. Here, I get to practice nodding and smiling and even find new resources I didn’t know about.


Unpopular Opinion

There’s a woman at the grocer who quite possibly has the most obnoxious voice on earth.  “Excuse me, sir, where do you keep the non-GMO carrots? I see the organic, but are those certified non-GMO?”

I’m a hair’s breadth from killing everyone there who stops in an aisle as if it isn’t a thoroughfare and dawdles inexplicably. “Excuse me, but all carrots grown today are GMO. All produce grown today, in fact.”

She stares at me and starts to put on a dirty look. Before she can vocalize her “How do you know?” I cut her off and say…

“I’m a food historian and you really ought to educate yourself about produce lineages if you’re so concerned about GMO. Go buy some purple carrots and leave this poor man lone so that he can do his job.”

And then I walked away…I get testy when I am hungry and she was between me and the butcher. A bad place to be.

I’m not sure if you realize this…but orange carrots like the ones she had in her hand…are a GMO.

The carrots used in most of Europe from the beginning of the Spice Trade up until the 17th century were of Asian stock and were reddish purple in color–rather more like a beet or the purple carrots of today. It was the Dutch who crossed them in hothouses with yellow carrots using new farming methods of fertilization and small beds. The yellow carrots were created by selection among hybrid
progenies of yellow Eastern carrots, white carrots and wild pale subspecies grown in
the Mediterranean. The first orange carrots originated by intentional bred mutation.

Now…all you non-GMO people blocking the aisles can finally stop harping on, yes?

No…I thought not.














This is the beginning of my Strasbourg France masterpost for my friend @simonalkenmayer, who, as we may know, claims to have lived there in 1518.

I did my best to try and find things from his story, as well as document the lay of the land, the food, and things I thought might make him happy.

More photos of the buildings and town. Anything look familiar @simonalkenmayer ?

I thought this one might have special significance for you @simonalkenmayer since I somehow managed to find the street of shoemakers and the site of the original cobbler’s guild. That last photo is the building, which I think is original, though it’s probably been updated.

Now let’s do some food, right @simonalkenmayer ? That’s what we care about, yeah?

A few more for aesthetic

My husband has some amazing shots too. If you want me to post them I can. Well @simonalkenmayer ? Are you proud of me? I even found the site of the grain market and the horse fair. It was wild walking around, because I’ve read that story “The Red Shoes of Strasbourg” so many times that I felt like I’d already been there. I even saw a gang of girls wearing matching red galoshes. Things have changed, huh?

I’m curious to see what you think.

I am amazed and very proud of you. I’m very happy to have inspired you to go there. It seems that the place has truly held up. I’m also glad you ate well and enjoyed yourself. 

Wonderful. Simply an incredible journey. Much of it is recognizable to me, though a few things I think were either going up when I left or went up just after me. I don’t recognize some of the buildings, but honestly…that was 500 years ago. I can’t even remember my name half the time, anymore. And if I’ve seen one timber frame, I’ve seen thousands.

Oh and, “that stew thing” I told you to eat is called Charcroute. and it is a go-to comfort food of mine. Did you like it?

What about drinks? Did you drink? 

Awesome! I’m really glad!

Have a sausage smiley face.

Yeah we had so many drinks. I had some great beers made locally. My favorite was a brewery called Meteor. Had great Alsace wines. Some Riesling, uh, oh and I tried something called gluehwein? Said like “glue wine” which I was not okay with, but it’s actually fucking stellar. Probably one of the tastiest things I’ve ever drink.



Oh but gluehwein is absolutely delicious! It’s essentially a mulled wine beverage. Didn’t you have mulled wine in England?

I’m looking up that brewer, because it seems to me I may know why it has the name “meteor”…

I’d bet my life that it’s named for the Einsisheim meteor of 1492. That omen was hot on everyone’s tongue for about 40 years. Harbinger of my heart, it was. Made me feel proper ominous, skulking through the streets eating corpses and whatnot, though I have to say, most were too emaciated to be of much sustenance. Had to leave the city and go out into the country to get any decent meals. 

Lol your life.

I have no idea what to think about you, hobgoblin. For real. You crack me up.

I’m telling you. There was longstanding famine. They were skinny and diseased. When the rebels of the Bundschue ran to the Black Forest, i was jealous as all hell, because it meant my overlarge and obnoxious cousin was getting a better meal than I. Then it turned out they didn’t die, and I remember thinking to myself, “That doesn’t seem right, I’d have eviscerated them inside a day.” So I suppose my cousin was either not a humanitarian, or he was actually a true humanitarian.

I can’t tell which.




Creating a marble sculpture
Joey Marcella
Link to full vid in comments


What happens to all the unused marble chunks?

chess sets?

Actually…if you want to know historically, I can supply an answer.

During the Renaissance, if it was quality marble, it was ground up into a coarse dust that was used as a pigment, a textural additive for paintings and reliefs. Some pressed it into chalk and crayon-like pastels. It’s the main ingredient in gesso canvas preparatory gloss and both Marmorino and Venetian plaster. If a poorer quality marble, it was used a composite stone (grout, mortar, early concrete) or paving additive. Stucco treatments were even made with it. It even had some medicinal applications, due to the fact that it contain calcium carbonate and other minerals.

Now it can be used to make carbon dioxide for carbonated beverages.

What I actually said, as best I can recall

July 4, 1776

I was not meant to be there, but you know that I can hear through walls and often know secrets I’m not supposed to. In fact, this meeting was very dangerous and more than a few British spies were out and about searching around for it. Recall that British troops were crawling the countryside and if it was ever discovered that such a meeting had been held, every man there would have been put to death and their heads stationed atop London Bridge to be pecked by crows.

Henry spoke at length about God and his decrees. However, it was a speech largely composed of things he’d said before, and the men shouted throughout it as if this time, this one iteration, the speech called them to give their own addition.

Please note that what incited words from me was not the statements being shouted out to the room, not the speech Henry gave. I was angered by a man who told the fellow next to him that he was better off sending his family away, for fear his children might be harmed. He spoke of some relative in the Caribbean who could hide them when it all failed. It enraged me,. These men were going on and on about something that was decided the minute they set foot inside the building. All their fates and those of their family were determined in that moment. And not a one of them was acknowledging it. As if it all had yet to happen. As if there was a way out. As if they could simply take it back. To me, there was no excuse for such obvious fictions and cowardice. 

Gibbets? You stand about talking of gibbets?

Men are temporary beings on this earth. Each one of you will die eventually, no matter what transpires here today. They may turn every tree into a gallows, every home into a grave, and yet the words of that parchment can never be undone! No amount of blood spilled forth will ever erase what is written in ink, and even should the two mingle, from it, new martyrs to the cause will spring forth. Nothing so incites a man as blood on a page, as thoughts and desires and hopes thinned out with the very substance that gave rise to them.

These words, signifying this deed, will ring forever. It will be heard by every slave, every laborer in his trade, every cowardly man who calls himself a king. The work you do today, even if halted with your death, cannot ever be undone. Men in ages to come will use these words writ here today as proof that brave men once existed and that they did undertake so bold a plan.

Shall we falter now? And shall we start back appalled, when our feet press the very brink of freedom? You talk of your families and their safety, when they were dying long before we came to this time and place, else we should not have done so. You wrote their destinies when you set foot in here this day. Indeed, you were born to this and God did transcribe it on your very flesh. You knew that you abhorred this bondage the very moment you drew breath. You knew that this was your calling. This action now before us could never have been undone, not by a one of us, because it is what we have known since we could ever know ourselves.

Sign it! in constancy and faith. Sign it in aspiration. Sign it because you are forced to by the stars above. Sign it because you chose this path long ago. Sign. Or live knowing that you shrank from that which would have made the best of you. Sign by all your hopes in life or death–as husbands, fathers–as men, sign your names to the parchment, or be accursed!

Look at this strange group of exiles and outcasts suddenly transformed into a people, at this wonderful exodus of the Old World into the New, where they came, weak in arms but mighty in vision. Look at it, and if you can, tell me that God hath not given America to the free.

The voice of Patrick Henry and the fathers of this parchment call you to strike. Not with arms or strategy, but with the silent and powerful figure of your names, written here, for all eternity to see, proof that men did not buckle to that which was imposed, but forged anew, and declared themselves their own masters. Strike at the foundation of the corruption that threatens the existence of the Republic. Strike for yourselves, your families, your fellow man, your country and your God. Tell this man ordained by god, though god hath brought us all here, that victory is ours, and this land belongs to us!

That is what I recall saying. It was no stirring oratory. It was said in a very quiet voice, though I did use all that I possessed to force every mind to listen to me. I was not intending to make myself known. I began speaking to that one man, and finished by addressing all. 

I left immediately after I realized what I’d done, broken form, made myself known. I knew nothing whatsoever of the “legend”. Not even a story of it reached me. I had no idea I made an impression on anyone. Until about a century later, when I read something about this “phantom” in an article. It caught me off-guard, this circumstantial mention. I thought to myself, “What?” And now, I see the tale shifted and changed and transformed on every “mystery” channel on youtube. A myth made of something that did not happen the way it was stated. 

These men would have signed. They would have done what they began. My rage and the sense of me in that rage, likely only made it feel more immediately essential for life and survival. Otherwise it had no bearing whatsoever, but men will make of things what they will.

I cannot stop them.

This is an excellent explanation for how the Gregorian and Julian calendars were reconciled and why. If you’ve ever been a stickler for dates, this would mean something to you, especially celebrating certain anniversaries. 

For example, September 2 1666, the Great Fire of London. In 66, England hadn’t adopted the Gregorian Calendar, which meant that the rest of the world was using the modern calendar. For the rest of the world, it was still August, which ought to make the weather on that day make a bit more sense, eh? A hot, dry, Easterly? A miserable summer climate? It was actually what you know to be August. Not an English September, but for England, it was still September.

Fascinating, no? It has been customary to use the terms Old Style and New Style when giving dates, to indicate which calendar was used to record them. Therefore the date of the Great Fire would be September 2 OS.

How Earth Moves

Allow me to clarify if I may.

Early plague masks of the beginning periods of plague were far less birdlike. They were simple cones on the face, but over time, they became such a canonical sort of appearance that people began equating the cone shape with scavenger birds like the crow and raven. The early plague doctors wandered empty streets, moving from red painted door to door, in large cloaks and hoods to keep the miasma at bay, their hooked noses peeping out.

It was only a matter of time before the people connected those images to the hordes of black corvina pecking at the piles of corpses.

So of course, they accepted and adopted it. And during the worst bit of plague, 1665 in London, fashion had long since taken root in culture. Doctors who could afford to stay in plague areas were bound to make caricaturiEd masks. Especially imbeciles like Simon Forman who took himself far too seriously.

Understand also that being a doctor also meant you likely had some background in astrology or other predictive sort of lot castings, whether it be astrology or reading various random patterns. This was because medicine was completely ridiculous in those days and directly linked with alchemical magic. Meaning that symbolism was highly charged and dense and considered very necessary. Look at “Sympathetic magic” which was the notion that a wound wouldn’t heal unless touched by the original weapon of wounding.

Nonsense, but it all fed into the aesthetic linkage between simple medical precaution and the bird masks that eventually became popularized.

So no, they didn’t have to look like birds, but ant eaters weren’t known and also wouldn’t have been linked to carrion eating even if they were.

“Tits out”

Queen Elizabeth once met with the French Ambassador with her breasts exposed. He didn’t notice at first, because the style of her jewels and her ruff semi-covered them. Then she adjusted them, and he was treated to a gander.

I should mention that in the high court, there was a bit of a risque trend toward a hoisted bosom. Bodices were constructed to act like a shelf, and the breasts were propped atop, with a very scant bit of ruffling and cloth that just barely covered the nipples in that position. Supposedly, it wasn’t uncommon for high ranking women to “nip slip” and reportedly, Queen Elizabeth didn’t even bother with pretense, particularly later in life. Much to the shock of foreign officials, she frequently wore very low cut necklines.

Some historians surmise that she did this to hold onto her “virginal” and eternally youthful semblance in a kind of hormonal fear of death. I find that notion a tad misogynistic. This idea that she clung to beauty desperately, that she was vein, conceited, so concerned with her looks that she thought herself entitled to compliments from men half her age is…well…it doesn’t give her credit. She had crafted a kind of visage to wear in order to hold onto public opinion. Later in life she was often ill. I put forth that she did not care what men thought and knew by that time that there was not a man alive who would dare question her, being one of the most beloved monarchs. I propose that she was simply uncomfortable and didn’t care, and that became something of a fashion trend. or perhaps they informed one another.

Anyway…Queen Elizabeth I. Tits out.

Wait wait – in your posts about arrows and the battle of Patay, you mentioned that Jeanne was shot and later returned to the field unharmed, and that witnesses took it to be a miracle rather that what it actually was. Do you mean to say that blind luck or random happenstance was misconstrued as a miracle, or was Jeanne D’arc a cousin??

She was shot at the lifting of the siege of Orleans, not at Patay while we were attempting to take hold of the tower guarding the bridge. She was dragged backward and carried to her tent. She was in there, we assumed, being tended and possibly dying. Our situation wasn’t untenable, but the British were very well fortified and we presumed there’d be reinforcements soon. I personally was contemplating how easy it would be to get inside the town and wondering if there would be a way for me to become like a Greek and sneak within. About an hour after she went into the tent, she returned. I don’t know what she did in there, because I could never have heard her over all that noise, even if I’d been able to stop and focus. I only know that she emerged and seemed to be fine, aside from favoring her arm a bit.

I took the arrow a short time later, I’d say, about half an hour or so. I was not reported because many a miracle happened in that battle, it seemed to all concerned. 

Patay was very different. The English tried to catch our cavalry unawares at a crossroads. The area wasn’t terribly well covered, but the archers had hidden in some trees and shrubs. I was not on a horse, but had been given permission the day before to go ahead of the cavalry, with a few others. Our purpose was to survey the surrounding towns for just such traps. We had met the cavalry line in St. Peravy and were scouting ahead. 

History tells several versions of the story, but I was there, so you’ll have mine.

I heard the English bowmen, which had been divided into groups and stationed just to the south of the crossroads. They were scattered wherever there was cover, which afforded us almost none. With the cavalry still behind us, I warned the man commanding our little group of six. We intended to take up a position behind them, and left one man to run back to the cavalry and give notice. With them crowding the bushes, we were stuck with a dense patch of scrub that they hadn’t seen fit to occupy due to the brambles. In the heat, on the ground, we waited.

One version says that upon the approach of the cavalry, a stag in the tree line was spooked by the French horses and ran right through the English line. That isn’t how it happened. 

From our close vantage, we were primly placed, and so very swiftly were trying to make a decision as to what we could do to help. Our leader was of the opinion that we should wait there. The cavalry would encounter our messenger and then ride down the enemy, breaking the line, but I wasn’t convinced, because I could hear the others in surrounding groups all over the landscape. Including a stash of artillery. The deer wasn’t that far from our location. I’d say about thirty feet in front of us, and not large enough to have done any damage to the line really. I think you know my affect on such animals at this point. The thing had frozen and was looking for me. I silenced my companions and was trying to focus on forcing the stupid animal to get out of the way and not charge us, when one of the Englishmen, hungry, I presume, spotted it and came out of the brush. He was fitting an arrow to his bow on the creature, and for a moment, I lost my focus. The deer felt my distemper and spun around, bolting. The archer and several of his friends were about to make sport of the deer, if you can believe it, in advance of an army’s approach, in direct opposition to their orders from their captain, when the cavalry, who had quickened their pace because of our messenger’s report, came right into sight. 

Their position now revealed, the English were caught. The cavalry wasted no time–and indeed, their commander, Etienne de Vignolles was something of a bastard and intent on having blood. They road straight into the archers who, either out of stupidity or arrogance or the haste of their deployment, had not hammered in their pikes. The horses rode down that entire grouping and might have crashed right into us, if not for the fact that i was already on my feet and headed straight for the archers on our side of the road. 

I killed quite a few people that day. The battle was very brief. by the time the rest of the army caught up to us, it was all but over. Hearing of our role in it, we were dispatched out to pick off stragglers. Two of ours were injured though, and had to stay, which suited me fine. Gave me a chance to kill with some freedom.

I had a lovely meal that day, in the bushes. And a good thing too, because I was exceptionally hungry.

I should mention that Jeanne wasn’t even there.

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