d20 Wizarding Home Furnishings

1. A stuffed crocodile, suspended from the ceiling. Everyone at the Arcane College had one.
2. A twenty-eight league bootrack, suitable for two pairs of seven-league boots. A chest full of seven-league boot polish and brushes for the application of same sits next to it.
3. An invisible bell-pull with which one may summon an invisible servant.
4. A colony of sentient mothballs, that hover inside a wardrobe. They will attack any moths nearby, doing 1d6 damage - more than enough to obliterate most moths. Anything that might be a moth prompts a conclave of the Parliament of the Mothballs. If convinced that something is a moth, they will attack it.
5. Handprinted runic wallpaper.
6. Securely locked bookcases/scroll racks. This is because A) Wizards are enormously protective of their books, B) the bylaws of the Mages' Guild are very clear about letting just anyone near a spellbook, C) The tomes therein are dangerous not only in the wrong hands but to those wrong hands themselves.
7. Green-shaded desk lamp, with a will-o'-the-wisp inside.
8. A dresser displaying several magic mirrors, scrying dishes, &c.
9. A stack of outsize hatboxes, to accommodate hat points without denting them.
10. Writing desk with attendant Hand of Glory trained to function as stenographer (the severed member's shorthand is passable at best).
11. A cage suitable for an avian familiar.
12. Curtains, opaque from the outside and transparent from the inside, made from the same fabric as invisibility cloaks. Perfect for the paranoid, or those who want the warmth of drawn curtains while keeping the natural light offered by the window.
13. Gargoyle perch (with 1d3 gargoyles claiming occupancy).
14. Magic embroidered sampler. Like a magic carpet, but smaller and less hardy. Choice of text on sampler dependent on the tastes of the wizard in question.
15. Jewel casket, with numerous niches for amulets, rings of power, &c. Securely locked. Quite emphatically none-magical; made of materials designed to prevent the items within interfering with one another in hazardous fashions. Magic spells cast at it have a stronger chance of failing than usual - and if they succeed, will succeed in ways quite unexpected.
16. A set of occasional tables. Given the eccentric nature of wizarding occasions, there are about twenty all told.
17. Thaumaturgic grounding rod, kept in the Apprentices' quarters, in case of accidents.
18. Self-folding rug.
19. A skittles alley. The pins return themselves to an upright position a minute after being knocked down. They will do this on any flat solid surface.
20. Extraplanar potpourri.

Where do you sleep?

The old chestnut "You all meet in a tavern," is rather scorned, with good reason. It has so much of the off-the-shelf fantasy world about it. The inn is, however, not just a place of meeting - but of rest. The intrepid band marches down into the dungeon and troops back later in the day short on or covered in blood and treasure.  They sharpen swords, read spellbooks, make a hasty meal - and go to sleep.

What sleeping arrangements does the inn offer? A crowded bunkroom with the other cowhands? Seven feet of space in the hayloft? Sharing a bed with a strange giant and a strange doctor? Individual rooms, with bedside tables and alarm calls in the morning?

This last one would be the answer of the less than inventive setting. A quick look at the accommodation in Skyrim, for instance, rather makes me think of a Norse-themed hotel, devotedly recreating mead and roast boar and smoky longhouses, but then letting you trot off to your own cosy bed, in a private room, complete with ornate knotwork-patterned eiderdown.

(My quiet scorn for this kind of fantasy is lifted in a setting like Modesitt's Saga of Recluce - where the entire thing derives from crashed astronauts, hence the insistence on handwashing amidst the swordplay and fireballs, and why the quiet feeling of things being all faintly a little like a Western has some justification as an attempt at a modern society with limited resources. I cannot recall quite whether Anne McCaffrey's Pern was the same; I have more memories of dormitories.)

Speaking of Westerns, this has some convenience to it; if Our Heroes are passing through a one-horse town, just saying 'You all find rooms at the local tavern, a charming establishment called The Owlbear's Head' is not perhaps unreasonable. It might be tempting to mix this up, occasionally: 'Old Man Johnson will let you sleep in his barn for a copper penny a night. No open fires and you have to find your own food, but well water is free.' Naturally, this would be a really small town.

This question has more interest when we go to the big city and if we factor in wider associations. That is to say, Peregrine the Paladin might get lodging at the Chapterhouse of the Order of St. Tankred, but said Order might not care for the freeloaders in his wake - who, as ever, might be heretics, infidels, wanted by the authorities, warlocks or the like. Likewise, Clothilde the Cleric might find an empty bed at the local Vicarage equivalent but then violently disagree with the Vicar on a thorny theological issue.

It is tempting, further, to imagine a trip to the city as an opportunity for Our Heroes to get some time to themselves; the Wizard consults her colleagues in the Occult College, the Elf gets to enjoy the comforts of superior Elven company. They then meet at a pre-arranged time to continue the quest. Perhaps this has always been part of the rhythm of play; finish the dungeon, level up, go and find someone to teach you that neat sword trick where you flip the blade out of their hand. If so, perhaps the change in atmosphere could be better communicated. 'Peregrine, the sound of evensong in the Chapterhouse of the Order is heartening and comforting after so many nights spent camping in the ruins of the Dread Bastion.'

All this aside, however, I would raise another question. What sort of society offers large sets of rooms in relatively commonplace guesthouses? That is to say, the equivalent of The Blue Boar or The Owlbear's Head offers its most thrifty guests staterooms and private bathrooms as a matter of course.

One imagines a world with a lot of space to spare - the diametric opposite of the capsule hotels of Japanese cities (another flavourful way of communicating setting) - and, moreover, relatively cheap labour to build the sort of hostelry that can offer the humble wayfarer the equivalent of a luxury suite. An image from science fiction might call to mind architectural nanobots, able to construct a palace in seconds - the idea of luxury in such a place comes from the manner and skill with which it is decorated and furnished, rather than the possibility of having five rooms of one's own.

The vast worlds (and habitats) and vast resources of the late Iain M. Banks's Culture series might suggest themselves.  Robert Silverberg's Majipoor, or something like it, seems as if it might offer something similar. Majipoor is a vaster planet than Earth, and the somewhat sumptuous tones of that series (or an imitator) conjure a world where such a thing might be possible, or indeed expected.

What other images could we suggest for a world of vast houses? A tent city of the desert, where a new wing is only a matter of new poles and canvas, but where water is infinitely precious? An off-world colony, where many more thousands of prefabricated housing units have been provided than are needed? (Not just replicant servants, but many more square feet of housing than 2019 Los Angeles offers).

Is this phenomenon rather socially developed? Has this polity developed curious luxuriant and stringently enforced housing laws? Does tradition demand different wings of the house for the sexes? Does a divine command call for a private space in which the faithful may make their prayers alone and uninterrupted?

Further suggestions in the comments, if you've something to offer.

Fallout: Home Counties - London

London is an old city; with many regions possessing identities of their own - because in centuries past, they were independent villages in the county of Middlesex. This has been a theme in novels of the twentieth century; notably, the G. K. Chesterton story The Napoleon of Notting Hill and Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere  - even if the borough identities and histories of Chesterton are explicitly fabricated and although the attention of Neverwhere is not always on the character of the city, the boroughs have secret natures hidden in the cracks from those in London Above.

London has been brought low. Literally; the populace has retreated into the Underground, or has fled into the countryside. Sustaining such an existence is tricky; the Underground has little to offer in the way of arable land. Thus, those machines that can sustain some variety of life are jealously guarded. Some have managed to trade their way to prosperity, importing food to sustain themselves, wielding power over the poorer inhabitants of the tunnels.

These are the Great Companies; the Hammering Smiths, the Shepherds, the inheritors of whatever scraps of old world know-how they could claw together and pass on.

The Underground, in maps, is rather cheery and simple. Bright colours, simple lines - a complex network, to be sure, but a comprehensible one. The reality is different. This is not a system built for humans; it is one of tunnels lined with equipment and refuse, taking meandering, crooked routes. To be forced to live in these tunnels breeds a certain type of person, hardy and lean.

Hence, the dwellers of the new London -the fractious dwellers in the colour-coded tunnel-bands and the haughty, powerful Guilds.

At Best, these Guilds are Valiant Preservers of Old-World know-how, selling quality goods and services at a reasonable rate. At Worst, they are Monopolies with a chokehold on London, cloaked in tradition and secrecy.

At Best, the Colour Lines are full of hardy, plucky folk who have embodied a latter-day Blitz Spirit for longer than any might have imagined. At Worst, they are feckless tunnel dwellers who'll steal anything not nailed down.

Edit: a fairly scant section, I know. But I have a certain fondness for the main literary hooks in it; the Canticle for Liebowitz style religious (or pseudo-religious) orders preserving knowledge in a second Dark Age*. 

The visual hook of the bright, smooth lines of the Underground map and the gloom of the tunnels is a good one. Even if the Tube map design dates from the 1930s, the contrast of the human-friendly face and intent of technology with the sordid reality is very Fallout. The cinematic application of this is obvious. Start zoomed in on bright well-lit tube map, whilst "We'll meet again" plays; drift back and out to show cramped tunnels and darkness, lit by gunfire.

*Possibly made darker "by the lights of a perverted science". Winston Spencer Churchill, 18th June 1940.

P.D James's The Children of Men: Theme, Tone and Adaptation

Recently, I came across a critical examination of the 2006 film Children of Men - an adaptation of the 1992 novel The Children of Men by British detective Author P.D James, Baroness James of Holland Park. Those readers unfamiliar with either work had better head off to Wikipedia or similar sites for a plot synopsis. Speaking of which, it is at least somewhat telling that on TV Tropes, that barometer of cultural knowledge, no entry exists for the novel. Not that this is anything new, by any means - but it gals a little; especially as I deem the book to be the more interesting work. Thus, and in keeping with this blog's recent content of apocalyptic Britain I try to correct the balance a little.

The novel is set all over England; our protagonist is an Oxford academic and visits London, the Suffolk coast and beyond; a distinction from the film's limited scenery of London and the countryside.  This is an England of isolation and decay; of seaside towns barely visited anymore, with a dwindling population. There is a very palpable sense of things slowing down; of unvisited museums, gardens in public parks gone to seed - even in the heart of the capital. The film seems mainly to show bustling urban scenes; grim, tortured scenes, but still with a life to them.

Speaking of grim, torturous scenes, the government of the United Kingdom is rather different between the two. There is a moment in dystopian fiction and horror - do I repeat myself? - where everything is revealed or shown truly (if not necessarily in a comprehensive fashion); Emmanuel Goldstein's Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism, Winston Smith's conversations with O'Brien. I rather enjoy this kind of moment as a tipping point in a narrative - apart from the heady rush of worldbulding that ensures! In rather convenient fashion, in The Children of Men, the protagonist's cousin is now the despotic Warden of England. I jest, but it does give the valuable opportunity for the chance of a self-justification by the villain of the piece. The great changes in Britain, aside from the lack of new births, are in part his doing as the small council he has assembled holds near absolute power.

Democratic rights have not precisely vanished, but rather diminished to an advisory role as exercised by regional councils. Parliament no longer sits; legislative procedure and the business of building a new future rather pall when there will be no future for humanity, let alone the United Kingdom. The regime lacks any real sense of nationalism or traditional values: this is not the Jackboot of National Socialism or anything like it. The King is kept under something like house arrest. It is a mark of social change and fractured religious faith that the Warden of England can appoint an Archbishop of Canterbury that is not only female (whatever side of the debate one stands on on woman bishops, this still would generate vast numbers of column inches and public discussion) but also a republican (International readers should note well the lower case 'r'!) and a self-professed 'Christian Rationalist'. At least one charismatic preacher even goes so far as to replace the Cross with an image of the sun.

A glimpse at P.D James's Wikipedia entry informs one that after her appointment as a life peer, she sat in the House of Lords as a Conservative.  The marking of a dystopia by the decay of traditional institutions may clue you into this, but it is also worth noting as an indicator of the power of the Xan Lyppiatt, Warden of England. This goes as far as an army loyal to him personally and a body of police dedicated to shoring up the new regime.

The social change wrought by Lyppiatt includes the mass suicides called the Quietus. These are described by his council as being merely the formalisation of a process that was already occurring. I am tempted to read this at face value - suicides in the bleak future of the Omega would doubtless rise; group suicides even - but the lie perhaps comes in to what degree the act is now encouraged. The Courts now function without a jury; prisoners convicted of major offences are sent to a penal colony on the Isle of Man. This colony is not overseen by the government, and the criminals there are largely from city backgrounds - unable to grow their own crops in order to sustain themselves, and have therefore devolved into a barbaric existence. Immigration has been restricted to existing as a 'sojourner' subject to repatriation once an immigrant is unable to work; even if the world of the novel is not so decayed as the film (Faren can take a tour of Europe between Acts One and Two). Finally, British subjects are required to undergo regular fertility checks; state pornography centres exist in an attempt to sustain sexual desire. Although unmentioned in the text, it might be speculated that cannabis has been legalised.

The professed values of the new regime are for security, comfort and pleasure -  this is not a regime that is, if you will, ideologically cruel. It is utilitarian without regard for another generation, for there will be no future generation - and therefore is practically hedonistic. It is not short-sighted; part of the business of the Warden's government is to prepare the country for the time when there will be very little in the way of effective infrastructure as the population ages. Nor might all its edicts seem unreasonable; however degrading the business of fertility testing is described as, it seems like it might be the reasonable response to mass infertility. Even the reduction of public political participation even has some sense to it - the temptation, under the circumstances of the Omega to withdraw into those things one deems most meaningful and contemplate eternity rather than to wade into the muck and fatigue of public service.

Xan Lyppiat does not even live a life of perpetual luxury; his comforts are those one might expect of a ruler - but he is still engaged largely with the work of government; a work that interests him, even if he professes no real love of power.

The cold comfort of the Warden's government - even for the Warden himself, let alone the melancholy, apathetic citizenry; the decay of British society (I haven't even mentioned the last generation of humanity, the monstrous Omegas); the quiet collapse of human civilization.

All these are left behind almost by the film; a well-crafted film, but a film that seems to place the decay and horrors of Britain at the doorstep of a nationalist government (the closest thing we get to a notion of their motivations being a brief propaganda short). The novel seems rather to link the entire thing back to the infertility and proceeds from there.

Some of my complaints perhaps derive from structure: the first half of the novel looks at the world without the sudden burst of hope that precipitates the conflict of the narrative. It vastly benefits from this examination of the setting, rather than having to stuff it all into background references. Of course, changes in an adaption, both due to the nature of the medium and the decisions of the creators are inevitable (for instance, the organised mass suicides called the Quietus is, in the film, literally re-branded as government issue suicide kits). Parts of the film change even more dramatically - that the United Kingdom of 2021 has in the adaptation a department of Homeland Security is a rather blatantly international touch for a novel that is so very rooted in British institutions and culture.

The adaptation has been widely lauded and explored (try a simple search of Youtube); it is not wrong to do so, however ubiquitous and trite some of these seem. But I resent how it has occluded the novel, to the extent that one website noted P.D James's passing in 2014 by commenting on the success of the film as an adaptation, rather than discussing her work. I have seen many a claim in my researches as to the sudden new relevance of the film. There has been no concommitant claim for the significantly more vital and wide-ranging novel, which is unfortunate.

Fallout: Home Counties - Material and Domestic Culture in the White Horses

This was purpose designed as a narrative; an instructional day-in-the-life story. Perhaps not exciting, but useful.

It’s a cold October afternoon. The fields are being tended by serfs. The fallout has left this part of England fairly intact, but some vegetables are still unearthed bloated and tasteless, fit only for animal feed. Generally the crop yield is more than sufficient for the Brethren and serfs of this manor, enabling them to make the export tithe demanded by the Brethren Council for sale in London. The fields are regularly reseeded and rotated with the seasons, which requires the backbreaking labour of the serfs. 

The serfs wear either pre-war overalls or rough smocks from the London looms in Shepherd’s Bush. The coarse clothes are about adequate to keep them sheltered from the piercing wind, but they still feel the chill.

By contrast, the Castellan’s men watching them are well dressed. They have heavy padded jackets and flat caps. Over this they wear stiff armoured vests, often bearing the mark of a rearing white horse, and belts, with clubs and side-arms hanging from them. The automatic rifles and shotguns in the holsters on the quad-bikes behind them are not needed at the moment, but the raiders may come at any time. If no more, the long guns are a potent reminder of the Brethren’s power over the serfs. The Brethren take different tones of command with the serfs, either speaking with all the choler, spleen and dreadful sarcasm of a Drill Sergeant or the sardonic, amused tolerance of the aristocrat. The civilian-garbed Brother Ploughman monitors the work with wrath in his voice for the slothful.

Those of the Castellan’s men not overseeing the fields are up in the outposts of the manor, monitoring the perimeter. Two figures can barely be seen at the top of a tower, one with a rifle with a powerful sight; the other with a field scope and a flare gun. The edge of the manor is protected by tall earth banks and palisades; adequate to slow raiders at the least. The few gates in this are bulky things perhaps eleven feet high made stronger with ruined cars filled with earth. These were recently refreshed last month by Sister Sapper and a band of serfs. The next project the Sister hopes to complete is a set of telephone lines out to the towers to assists with early warning signals.

Inside the main building complex of the estate, the Seneschal and the men and women under her work through the cold afternoon. It is easier to tell their profession from their garments; Brother Lawspeaker and the teachers wear formal brown Brethren robes. Brother Apothecary and Sister Surgeon wear long white aprons over tunics and britches. Brother Baker, being the hands-on sort, wears something similar as he pitches in alongside the kitchen serfs. Brother Smith, by contrast, is happy to oversee and review the work of the younger Brethren under him and the forge serfs.

Across from the forge are the stables and the powerful destriers ridden by the Brethren. Post-war equines, they have all the bulk of a pre-war plough horse with the proportions of a racer. Sister Farrier looks after them, though they are hardy animals not much in need of care, having developed a larger, stronger hoof that rarely needs to be shod.

In a squat building off the serf barracks, the laundry is being done. The serfs give up their clothes for fresh ones, yet to be stained by the weeks work. The washing is done in great cauldrons, made foamy with pre-war washing powder – an increasingly rare commodity, though enterprising individuals in London have started to try and produce their own soap, even if it has so far proven to be frequently low quality.

Freshly dressed, the serfs collect mess tins and cutlery, and then tramp towards the food hall.  The dining room in the main manor is set for dinner, with a varied collection of pre-war enamelware and porcelain. Any complete dinner services are carefully hoarded and a complete tea set can fetch a hefty price in the London markets, as can the tea itself.

The serfs and Brethren from the fields come in for dinner in the gathering dusk. The guards on the outposts have been relived by freshly-fed men and women. Both groups eat similar meals; vegetable stews and bread, both from the fields of the estate.  The difference between to two meals lies in quality. Serfs have coarse bread and somewhat oily stews. The manor is lucky enough to have an old Nutrient Preparation machine which, when supplied with organic material, spits out squares of tasteless beige foam apparently offering half the necessary minerals, proteins, vitamins and suchlike needed for a human adult.  The Brethren have bread made of fine, export grade flour with fresh butter. The stew might, perhaps once or so a week, have a little meat in it.

Both butter and beef come from the animals of the estate, of which there are a few, for the crops are the priority of the Brethren.  The cattle are divided into Milchers for dairy produce and the Oxoes which are raised for meat. As with the Destriers, the two breeds have had their bred-for traits exaggerated by the effects of the Atomic Wars. Pigs either come in the docile and placid Field-Pig or Snuffler and the Hedge-Pig or Tusker. The Hedge-Pig is a spiny, hostile, heavily tusked beast, and is hunted by the Brethren in the game of ‘Pigsticking’.  Such game must be carefully checked for taint before consumption. Chickens, however, are still chickens.

Midway through the meal, the Warden and his riders return from their progress. They’ve been riding the bounds of lands around the estate, checking in on the extra-mural communities and free serfs. They were long coats of waxed cotton and wide hats to keep off the rain. Their destriers are swiftly stabled and the tables set for them. The Warden takes his meal with the Castellan and the Seneschal in the Council Chamber; somewhat antisocial, if common enough when business must be discussed.  

After dinner, serfs and Brethren retire. The serfs often live in the longhouses in the Barracks; crowded places, which families or individuals will divide up into sections with curtains and partitions. Some serfs reside in shacks out on such scrubland as exists in the bounds of the estate, created with materials purchased by an extended indenture. Some of these have been long occupied by serf families who have never quite paid off their indentures.

The Brethren occupy their own chambers in the manor. Families will have perhaps two rooms to themselves for parents and children. Young men and women will often sleep two or three to a chamber in gender-segregated rooms. The rooms of the Three Officers – Seneschal, Warden and Castellan – have attached studies to them and are perhaps the most luxurious in the house.

On the subject of plumping, water must be drawn from the well and purified in great boilers in the kitchens, then taken to the rooms for washing using jugs and washbasins. Within the manor, chamberpots are the rule. Without, outhouses and the like are usual. Long tubs are provided for the serfs for washing once or so a week.

Such a washing will take place in the morning; for tomorrow is to be an occasion. The clean clothes of the serfs are the best they possess as Sunday best. The Brethren, by contrast have a number of options. While the long robes they wear will do for formal ceremonies, this is a party. A number of the young Brothers and Sisters from a nearby manor are to visit for a dance, and this will allow pleasant conversation, meetings between young men and women and all the other benefits of social interaction. The journey between the two manors is not a hard or dangerous one, but the some of the Warden’s rangers are now monitoring the route, hard men and women in camouflage ponchos with rifles, knifes and silent, deadly longbows.

Those Brethren lucky enough to own pre-war suits or gowns will don them. Those without wear clothes of good broadcloth from the Shepherds of Shepherds Bush in London. Such new suits tend to lack lapels or ties. Many layers are general; waistcoats and jackets, for central heating is by no means guaranteed. They have britches and boots cut for riding rather than slacks and dress shoes. Such apparel is like to remind the historian of 18^th century costume, but emphasising athleticism and the equestrian and worn (especially by the young twenty-something’s) by both sexes. Post-bomb gowns are not unknown, though they are worn mostly by pregnant women who would find britches uncomfortable or (presumably once-pregnant) matrons who have not the years or will to ride.

The serfs are allowed to share in this endeavour. They will prepare a meal for the visitors and make up the guest rooms in the attic. This done, their own party is put into place: an Oxo is roasted on the spit. There will likewise be dancing and this manor is lucky enough to have serfs with handed-down instruments.   In imitation of the Brethren and the hunting-fishing – riding-shooting they enjoy, feats of strength and aggression such as boxing, wrestling and the quarterstaff will take place. This is frequently betted on by the serfs, using the stamped tin exchange tokens issued at the discretion of individual Brothers and Sisters. Such a token may be exchanged for goods or time of the indenture with the Seneschal. It is quite worthless otherwise.  Such gambling is frequently monitored by the Brethren. A few talented and abstemious prizefighters have made enough in their time to pay off the indenture, but this is difficult and having left the protection of the Brethren they must leave their friends and families to go into unfamiliar and hostile surroundings.

The Brethren that arrive will be greeted with that most precious of drinks: tea! This will have come from the Gardeners of Kew at great cost. Alcoholic beverages will be served throughout the evening; cider from the orchards, beer from the Fisher Kingdoms via London and spirits. Wine is uncommon, as is whisky. Pre-war liquor can be most valuable. Most manors distil some form of rotgut for the serfs – generally of a sort safe to drink; unapproved distilling could result in stuff of unknown potency and toxicity. The serfs drink grog that at least won’t send you blind. A few talented serfs have made themselves important and comparatively wealthy by brewing concoctions actually derisible for their taste, making a form of gin from such botanicals as available. The Brethren, naturally, love it.

With such fuel, the night looks to be good one; the few tapes the Seneschal has of dance music will be played, the old piano wheeled out and the talented induced to sing. A splendid time is anticipated.  The next such event will be a Yuletide, in the Festival of Darkness on the Earth. This has rather more spiritual significance to it; Brother Lawspeaker will draw marks in soot and ash upon the faces of the Brethren prior to the Rising of the Sun. The Seneschal is already worrying about parts for the Mystery Play; Brother Alfred and Sister Gytha will doubtless once again play Brontologion and Pyrologion, the Spirits of the Bomb, but who is to play the doddering, short-sighted City Father?

At the end of the night, couples will have slipped away. Serf must barter or blag their way into free spaces and alcoves for privacy and perhaps intimacy; some enterprising individuals rent out their shacks for a fee. Chaperonage, largely unofficial, is rather better known among the Brethren. Nevertheless, a stroll in the moonlight is not frowned upon. The use of unoccupied rooms by the young is common enough. However, to ride out of the manor is foolish at best and drastically irresponsible and culpable at worst.

Marriages may be conducted with pomp among the Brethren or perfunctory ceremony by the Castellan among the serfs. Children among the former will tend to have an established and recorded surname; among the latter they tend to take patro- or matro-nymics depending on circumstances and preference. Contraception is largely unknown or inaccessible.

Thus it continues, this strange admixture of cultures: a Late Medieval level of resources with anachronistic 20^th and 21^st century features with something like an Early Modern result. 

Fallout: Home Counties - The White Horse Brotherhood

In origin, this was a simple reference to the symbol of Kent - a white horse on a red background. These were the ingredients: the fact it was a brotherhood, with all the semi-religious connotations that indicates, and  that it was Kentish in origin. Naturally, this had to be fleshed out a little.

The Fallout games have always had a nod towards the romanticised past: in the subverted 1950s nostalgia, in the cowboy antics of life in the post-apocalyptic Wild West - but I am now thinking of the Brotherhood of Steel, images of which are prominent on the box art of the games, who borrow conspicuously from images of knighthood, chivalry - and from militant religious orders. Naturally, this is not that simple all the time. They aren't quite paladins; they are portrayed as being well-intentioned, strictly disciplined, knowledgeable, technologically able - and, even if the morality of their actions is left for the viewer to decide, in many cases ineffectual.

The cover of the first Fallout, (courtesy of Wikipedia) with the Brotherhood of Steel front and centre.

The White Horse Brotherhood take a similar look at chivalry and take a different approach. Rather than human ironclads stamping around the smoking remains of Guildford, a different angle of feudalism would be apparent. These would be, like the Brotherhood of Steel, former soldiers and other  persons who escaped the missiles. But rather than holing up in a bunker with whatever technology they could carry or take, they would be landowners.

In claiming patches of less irradiated land, they could thrive and survive in the long term better than raiding parties or hoarders. The first few years would be hard; fortifying and defending manors, existing on half-rations until the new harvest appeared. But in the generations that came after the blast, they would be the most prosperous, a network of roughly self-sustaining manor houses across Kent and Sussex.

With this has come a devotion to the land - not quite religious, but with a clear agrarian cultural ethos, associating the city with the apocalypse, human fallibility and sin. Who can blame them? Their farms have sustained them where the ruins of London would not. They have become, in time, the grain basket of the Home Counties and responsible for the current wealth and rising population of these ravaged lands.

However, this comes at a cost. There is a very clear stratification in the territories protected by the Brotherhood. The White Horses rule and defend; the peasantry farm the land. Peasants might originally have been captured raiders or refugees looking for a sanctuary. They would receive protection, if they would work until they showed a distinct profit to the wealth of the manor, offering much more than they took. Some would have the opportunity to join the Brotherhood, or to leave and make homes of their own. Most did not; and families would go further into the debt of the Brotherhood by the birth of children. In time, a formal indenture system would be orchestrated.

The life of an indentured serf is a hard one, with farm labour conducted under the eyes of the White Horses. Much of this is done by hand, combine harvesters being somewhat short in supply after the Atomic Wars. Food and safety are guaranteed by the Brotherhood; some luxuries are offered by them as well as other minor freedoms. But life in the serf barracks is cramped and exhausting and to build a home of your own adds a great deal to the cost of your indenture.

The Brotherhood, meanwhile, occupy three type of position: those reporting to the Seneschel of the Manor, responsible for administration and certain specialised trades; those reporting to the Warden, who patrol the lands around the Manor, and those reporting to the Castellan - who is primus inter pares of these three, and has overall responsibility for the safety and well-being of the manor - this being the first priority of the Brotherhood.

The White Horse Brotherhood might remind one of Medieval Europe, with armed landowners having the most power, or of the Antebellum South (though no racial divide exists as such), or of Eighteenth Century rural squires, affable, brisk and paternal.

At Best, they are noble lords protecting their people, providing food and shelter for all by their efforts. At Worst, they are blinkered aristocratic bullies, living the high life by trading the products of forced labour.

I shall add in another post a little piece I wrote on life in the White Horse Brotherhood.

Fallout: Home Counties and British SF: A few notes

EDIT: This post probably explains this matter more coherently - and in a more timely fashion.

Closer to the 50’s

John Wyndham – it’s in the spec. [One Part Fallout to One Part The Napoleon of Notting Hill. Still well. Pour in a measure of Wyndham. Garnish with Neverwhere.]

In detail: Triffids everywhere as a monster. There’s something v. 50s about them; the “We’re always going to need oil” approach to life – no Solar powered cars! Also fits into the Resource Wars of Fallout Canon. [Think also of British Petroleum in Persia]

The Crysalids is a big post-apocalyptic text. Should have some “Blessed is the Norm” stuff – White Horses or some tribe. In the book, it was in Newfoundland. Also psychics.

The Kraken Wakes – Beasties from the sea! More monsters. Problem for the Fisher Kingdoms?

The Midwich Cuckoos – Creepy psychic kids. [“Widdle Wamplight!”. Imagine that in your cranium.]

Dr Who. Inevitable really. I’ve said everything looks like a South Wales quarry, but what’s more.....
HORDES. OF. DROKKING. ROBOTS.
In the short stories we’ve already had Dalek like automatons as used to pull carts [Three Sabres; pepperpots; “Physical Manipulation Unit”]. I quite like this as a subtle dig at the fearsome beasties; they’re not destroyers but porters; push, pull, drag, lift. Could even have them controlling trains before the Bombs started dropping. Imagine the terror of that....
Dr Who Androids as other robots: Cybermen, autons. Slightly more technically adept models.  Human interaction. K9 is also an option; robot dogs are not unknw in Fallout.

Thunderbirds, and other Gerry Anderson bits. The future is big, shiny and jet powered. It is not small, full of silicon chips, covered in a fetching floral pattern and able to fit into the pocket of a pair of skinny jeans. To quote stuff I’ve written elsewhere “Wikipedia? Fuck you, here’s the Encyclopaedia Britannica on 24 microfilm vidslugs.”
The world that was looked pretty darn Thunderbirdsy. Think uniforms. Think transport. Think technological devices that take you from place to place without having to get up and show quite how badly you walk. Nobody gets to fly Thunderbird 1, but one suspects that the Fisher Kingdoms have a scaled-down something like Thunderbird 2 as their vertibird/ airship moment. Perhaps it’s even painted like a giant flying haddock.

The Quatermass Experiment (& co). Yes, yes, yes. Tweedcoated scientists (it would not be unfitting to be able to dress like one; see also the costumes of the various Doctors); the British Experimental Rocket Group; fear of Nuclear War. Aliens infesting Westminster Abbey (Or mutants, I guess.). The Scarlet Capsule (Quatermass and the Pit).

Dan Dare. Thrilling space adventures; the Mekon and his Treens. Doesn’t really need an explanation. Some images the same; green uniforms; square jaws. The astronauts presumably a touch less international so far as make up goes.

The Prisoner. Obligatory, really. Any virtual reality bits probably bear a resemblance. As do the nicer bits of the Fisher Kingdoms. And some of the crazier chaps in London. It is an option to dress like an inhabitant of the village.

The Avengers (John Steed and Mrs Peel). Go watch a few episodes if you haven’t before. Not SF really, but the high-tech world of tomorrow spy stuff is relevant. Additional weird spy stuff like The Prisoner. There will always be room for bowler hats in the future. I’ve written before about solid ink.

That Hideous Strength. 1945. The NICE would not be out of place among the governmental institutions of Fallout Canon. The transhumanism expressions also chime nicely with the New Model ARMY.

1984. The SF elements tend to be downplayed versus themes of dystopia (see pre-Bomb Fallout canon), surveillance &c, but telescreens are worth considering. See also Floating Fortresses, Rocket Bombs- functionally the same as some of the weapons of the Second World War, but with a certain twist so far as flavour goes. One should be able to find Victory Gin everywhere.

Not so close to the 50s

Star Wars. I know it isn’t British per se, but the connections (Alec Guinness, Peter Cushing, West Country Darth Vader, Princess Leia’s mid-Atlantic accent, protocol droids, the Dambusters, Elstree Studios) are there. Should be some reference – IE, protocol droids, Officers of one sort or the other saying ‘Rebel Scum’, brown robed White Horses teachers. The used-future aesthetic of the original trilogy is relevant. How many times did the Millennium Falcon break down?

Elric, the White Wolf. Fantasy, I know. It’s a tiny detail, but where American Fallout uses a Conan knockoff called Grognar for background material, Home Counties ought to use an Elric knockoff.
Where Conan is a barbarian, of a young vigorous tribe, hardy, strong, averse to sorcery and so forth (all traits exaggerated in stories not written by Robert E Howard), Elric is an enfeebled albino princeling of an ancient and decadent line (a cruel island empire called Melnibone), and only given power by magic and the demon soul-eating blade he carries. Written by a British man (Michael Moorcock) appeared in print 1961. Not just anti-Conan, but certainly worth comparing. A more British creation.

2000 AD. Not 50s/ 60s, but definitely a British comic. Judge Dredd and Mega City One don’t have much of a place in Fallout (the Cursed Earth is an exception; somehow Vegas survived the Nuclear War in the pages of 2000 AD also), but the blasted, poisonous, war-ravished world [“Nu-Earth”] of Rogue Trooper and its baroque weaponry deserve a mention.

(That weaponry includes lazookas, sure; see also hallucinogen spewing mirage tanks, poisonous saboteurs called Filth Columnists and the immortal line “And wherever you go, the sound of our Souther martial music will accompany you and your heroic deeds! Play, boys –play the digi-marches!” – played, of course, on the Synthi-bugle.)

Strontium Dog’s oppressed mutant minority also deserves a mention. Who wouldn’t want bounty hunter (good for the Western angle) Johnny Alpha as a companion?

Details again, but for exotic weaponry Dredd’s lawgiver seems favourite [“Hotshot!” “High Explosive!”]. Johnny Alpha had something similar [“Switching to cartridge No. 4!” - EDIT known as the Westinghouse Variable Cartridge Pistol.]. See also the power-fist like ‘ElectroKnux’ of Strontium Dog.

A touch of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy seems apt. A hapless protagonist only wanting material comfort and security. Having Not-Ford Prefect helping our faceless hero when they get out of the vault would be cool. The graphics of the TV series also are worthy of note.
An element of the Guide is the extent the premise is a parody (little too humorous to just be a pastiche; not pointed enough to be a satire) of Dr Who – our protagonist just wants to go home, no comfortable TARDIS to travel in; you have to hitch-hike; the person showing you the wonders of time and space isn’t an eccentric benevolent Time Lord but a somewhat lazy travel writer who gets his advice from a fairly ropy source.

If we are going to have Not-Arthur Dent appear, he should be more like Simon Jones than Martin Freeman. (I’ve seen Jones called a grammar school boy compared with Freeman; not entirely relevant as an everyman for the 21^st C. All the better for F: HC; the BBC of Fallout probably casts more grammar school boys as everymen than not.) original cast only!
All a question of flavour. Not a direct influence –though computers (even impressive space computers that can talk) with ticker tape seems relevant.