History is every day.
The last time I played Assassin's Creed Valhalla (no colon in that title, apparently) was as historical as the Norse raids into England. But what separates me from the supposed setting of this game? It seems that, more than the natural erosion of memory and artifact that time alone would bring, there is a barrier being formed between me and that which came before. There is a mythological veil being placed over my eyes, not blocking my vision completely but blotting it out, replacing what is there with tall tales and improbable stories. This veil is more effective than any blindfold. The veil acknowledges the light that bleeds through. It frames it. It melds it into any shape it pleases. It picks pieces from museums and places them into strange hands. It bleeds together a thousand years of art and architecture into a uchronic fairy tale.
What could the world be?
History tells us: anything.
The veil disagrees.
To the veil, the world is. It's order is right. It's shape is righteous.
There is no wonder. There is no curiosity. There is no joy. There is only to be the dour politics of a reality game show. The Danelaw might as well have been a series of Big Brother alliances.
Are the events of England in the 800s so sacred as to demand their emotional preservation?
Perhaps not, but
history is every day.
The last time I played Assassin's Creed Valhalla (no colon in that title, apparently) was as historical as the Norse raids into England. But what separates me from the supposed setting of this game? It seems that, more than the natural erosion of memory and artifact that time alone would bring, there is a barrier being formed between me and that which came before. There is a mythological veil being placed over my eyes, not blocking my vision completely but blotting it out, replacing what is there with tall tales and improbable stories. This veil is more effective than any blindfold. The veil acknowledges the light that bleeds through. It frames it. It melds it into any shape it pleases. It picks pieces from museums and places them into strange hands. It bleeds together a thousand years of art and architecture into a uchronic fairy tale.
What could the world be?
History tells us: anything.
The veil disagrees.
To the veil, the world is. It's order is right. It's shape is righteous.
There is no wonder. There is no curiosity. There is no joy. There is only to be the dour politics of a reality game show. The Danelaw might as well have been a series of Big Brother alliances.
Are the events of England in the 800s so sacred as to demand their emotional preservation?
Perhaps not, but
history is every day.