Jeanne D'arc ate morning breakfast with her family in Domremy, the place of her birth. The cereal was grainy, overpoweringly so, but nobody complained. The day was normal to most; it didn't rain, the sky was bright and clear, a summer day of hard work in the fields and herding.
She stopped, as though stricken by death itself. "Jeanne?" the mother asked.
"I ... I'm hearing the voice of god." She stood, resolute.
"I have seen the saviour of France. We must go to the capitol."
"Jeanne? ..." Her parents stood, shocked, as her mother tried to talk, softly. "We do not have anything we can give you ..."
"Then I'll walk. Time is of the essence."
"Are you insane?" her father said. "You're not going anywhere!" He started muttering. "Just my luck ... raising a crazy child ..."
"Oh," Jeanne said, suddenly looking crestfallen, "I understand." Her father accepted it and left it at that.
Later that night, after her parents had gone to bed, she set off. Her destination far away, and her preperation for the journey was nonexistant. But fate - or God - lent a hand.
It had taken three days of walking through the cold nights and scorching days, but Jeanne had finally made it to a distant military base - the name on the sign said 'Vancoulers'. As she walked into the base, she was greeted with empathetic looks. "She must be missing her father ..." whispered one, to another. "A hard life those girls lead."
Inside the base, the commander was issuing orders and planning the upcoming battle as usual. Suddenly, Jeanne burst into the room. "Are you the person in charge of the French military?"
"Yes, that I am." He smiled. "What is it you need, little one? Do you have a father you need to find or a brother? If so, just tell me thier name; I'm sure I'll be able to find if they were ever here." She shook her head. "Well, what else would a young girl like you be doing here, then?"
"God has sent me. I must speak to Charles VII; St. Michael has told me he is the true king of France, and I intend to make it so."
"What?! You ..." he looked into her eyes, and the startling resolution was still there. "You ... you really mean it ... well, we shall be sending a caravan to our lord, a shipment of arms for the soldiers under his direct command as well as some ... pastries he requested." He sighed, and continued. "If you'd like, we can send you along with them. They should be leaving within the week."
"Thank you. I'll wait. Is there a place to sleep?"
The commander chuckled ruefully. "Oh, there may be a lack of soldiers, but there is no lack of beds." He walked out the door, Jeanne following close behind, and showed her a nearby tent. "You can sleep in here if you'd like. I'm sorry I can't offer more. We also have food, in the mess hall to the right."
Jeanne nodded. "I think I'll take your offer. Thank you very much." She walked straight to the cafeteria, took some food, and began to eat.
The trip to Chinon was lengthy, but the results at the end were sweet. Jeanne walked out of the caravan and bowed. "Thank you for the hospitality and new clothes." she said, tugging at them. "I believe this will help me give a more convincing account of what I have been through."
The commander nodded. "We'll see what he says." They went off to the to the cathedral in the center of town; Jeanne following the soldiers closely, observing the city. The cathedral was taller than all the other buildings around; it seemed to have an air of nobility, and an air of arrogance.
Once there, a small procession proclaimed the arrival of Charles. Jeanne stood, waiting, as he began to speak. "So, my dear girl, what do you want with me? And ..." with this he leaned over, examining her "... why are you wearing those clothes? I must say, they do not become you."
"I have been sent on a mission from God to purge the English from this land, and I submit myself to you in the hope of doing so."
"Well," Charles said, grinning, "... you should come in the back with me. I'm sure you have much to offer, but I need to make sure that this is not a sham." Jeanne hesitated, but followed.
Several hours later, they emerged, Charles nodding and obviously happy with the results. The commander, having finished his dilivery of pastries, was waiting in the back. Charles spoke. "Yes, yes, this girl is most definitely devine. She had knowledge of several things that I only knew myself, and made something ... quite magical happen."
"Are you sure?" the commander said, dumbfounded. Charles, ignoring the question, continued.
"She will lead the siege on Orleans, and with her, we shall be triumphant. I shall have made for her a suit of white armor." The commander stood, obediently, as Charles continued: "And, of course, she'll need a sword ..." Joan interrupted: "I know where to find one." She walked out, and hey followed her to the church of Saint Catherine of Fierbois. She walked confidently to the altar and, pushing a secret lever, pulled the sword from it. Both the commander and Charles stood in shock. "You should hasten the armor-making. We should depart in a week." she said, cleaning the blade on her boot. Charles shook his head, like he was waking from a dream. "Oh ... yes! Of course. I'll make sure it will be ready by then. Until then ... well ... I'd guess you need to give her some training, eh, Arnald?" "Yes, I suppose so," he responded, smiling at Joan. "Can't have you accidentally hitting our soldiers with that sword of yours."
"Your blacksmiths are truly excellent," Jeanne said as she and Charles walked across the veranda, ostensibly plotting strategy for the upcoming battle. She was wearing the new armor, and it fit like a glove. "They truly are. It's not every day you have to make armor for a girl," Charles said, smiling. "Are you sure the breastplate fits?"
Jeanne stopped, and stared at him. "I am helping you because I was commanded to, not because I want to. Original sin is something I have done once, and I will spend the rest of my life paying penance for it. It ..." and with this, Jeanne drew her sword "... will not happen again." Charles gasped in fear. "What ... what do you want?"
Jeanne sheathed her sword. "To talk strategy. In conversing with St. Michael, he told me to approach from this angle, at this time, so that we may use the blinding sun and the lack of enemy watchmen to our advantage." Jeanne pulled out a map of Orleans and the surrounding area, making quick gestures on it. "Our forces will be here. By approaching from the north, we will have God on our side."
Charles sighed, resigned. The idea sounded silly to him; what did it matter which side we attacked on? - but he had given her power, and he was not about to take it away. "Do as you wish."
The morning came like a tiger, the sun blazing over the tents set up in the French camp of war. Jeanne herself had already mounted her horse as the others got suited up, and was stirring up the troops she had been given - 5,000, a seemingly paltry force to take a city such as Orleans that was a linchpin of the British front. But she was determined, and she knew God was on her side.
"We will triumph! Though we are outnumbered, outmanned, we are the aggressors! We will drive these people out of our country! Come - the battle awaits. And God is on our side."
5,000 voices yelled in succession.
On the British side, a soldier - a sentry, posted to the northen entrance of the base, noticed something peculiar. There seemed to be hundreds of ... small dots coming up the road. He couldn't make out any more, but he closed the gate, as a precaution to rampaging wildlife.
Suddenly, he heard the voices yelling. Many men ... but one voice, higher and louder than the others. A woman? He pondered for a moment, than rang the bell while closing the gate. "The French are attacking! The French are attacking!" The soldiers stationed at the base began to move from the southern side to the northern. The populace of Orleans, a wearied one, heard the bell and as one they answered. Hurrying British men-at-arms paid no heed to the streaming masses gathering in the town square - there was more important work to be done, repelling the invaders. But for the town of Orleans, the bell represented only one thing - freedom.
Jeanne pulled her horse up to the gate, noting the dots that looked remotely like people in the distance. "They're going to come around soon. We should strike with the battering ram ..." and with this, she hit the banner of France she carried on the door multiple times, waiting until one made a satisfying 'thwack' sound ... "here."
The ram swung. It swung again. The door was nearly off its hinges; Jeanne could see the dots getting closer; she grabbed her flag, and held it up, yelling and charging forward.
The door fell. As the horsemen rode away from the door, many arrows landed around them. Several were killed: Jeanne, as well as several others, were injured. The other horsemen waited expectantly for orders to stop; to retreat. Thier commander was hurt! "Go on: I'll join you later. We must win this battle, at all costs." They charged. The British footmen, armed with only short swords because of thier lack of orginization, were cut to pieces. But more came from all sides. Jeanne, having been treated, rejoined the battle with a vicious war cry that stopped the British cold. The French took this as a sign and charged, straight ahead. Death was left in thier wake.
Reims, the traditional city where kings were crowned, was in the surrounding Loire valley. Mere hours after the battle of Orleans, Jeanne had cleared the valley of the British so Charles could retake his crown, and have a swift coronation. There was a massive and excited crowd to watch his coronation, even after his otherwise incompetent handling of the crown. Jeanne was sitting next to him, smiling. "I have accomplished my first God-given duty, but we must also retake the rest of France," she whispered. Charles, however, was lost in other thoughts. She had been a good way to boost morale, but all the land he had needed was taken now, and a prolonged war would put a drain on his finances. Jeanne was quickly turning from a savior to a demon in his mind, and would have to be disposed of quietly. Even now, he could tell the majority of the crowd was cheering not for the coronation, but for her. Once she was defeated, however, without her precious god to save her ... he would recieve the glory. An inward chuckle, however, was all he let betray his emotions as he spoke his first kingly words to his people. "We have had a great victory today, and it is my pleasure - nay, my gift - to present you, the people of Orleans, with freedom!" The crowd cheered, voices resounding with approval. He continued. "And Jeanne D'arc was vital to our success. We will continue to fight for the land that we so dearly need. We will drive the British from France, and reclaim our ancestral home!" The cheers became deafening. Jeanne bowed, smiling. Nobody could hear the coronation, as a priest proclaimed Charles' divine right to the throne. Nobody needed to.
The next step in the campaign was obvious, or so she said: they needed to rally around this victory, and strike deep into British territory. A military campaign was rare for the winter, but they had needed the rest of fall to orginize thier armies; a war at this time would be highly unexpected, and perhaps even precede defensive preperations. There was a chance that a large surprise strike would even puch the British back to thier original territories, before the war even started. And the Burgundians? They would have to be destroyed; independant rulers within France were not to be tolerated. The crown was destined to control France, and she was God's instrument to make it so. She had to be: there was no other option. But God was being less than judicious with his visions, and they all consisted of warnings. Whenever she brought up what would happen if she stopped, they agreed with her reasons. But they were busy preparing for other events that needed shaping, and could not stick around much longer ...
"Charge!" she had said, with the same reflection, and the same persistence. Her soldiers had answered much the same, and they had leapt into the battle as a unit, together. But the battle had been lost; the enemy was too great, her own powers too limited in scope.
Jeanne, for the first time, was learning the word retreat. "God ... where are you?"
There was no answer. Her horsemen cut to pieces around her, she retreated, the bitter winter storm biting into her face.
"So she is starting to lose this war? She says she wants more troops? Tell her that I don't care if she needs more troops; she will make do with what we have."
"But sir," Arnald responded, "that is a death-"
"Shut up." Charles smirked. "If she really is heaven-sent, she can do it. I have confidence in her." Arnald bowed obediently. "Yes, sir."
The Burgundians had sent more men than bad been predicted; the information Jeanne had been given was off. The archers they had added on the basis of anonymous tips, as well as the heavy cavalry to thier defenses, cut into the French ranks like death was all that they deserved. Jeanne tried to rally her troops around her, but regardless, some began to lose hope and dash, the more valiant ones already creating pools of blood on the red-soaked ice. "Retreat!" she cried, her voice echoing in the wind. But there was nobody there to hear it. Suddenly, an arrow hit her, piercing one of the plates in her armor. She fainted, a prayer on her lips.
Jeanne woke up inside a jail. She tried to move or talk, but exhaustion and her wounds prevented her from uttering a single sound; she could only listen as she lay naked on the floor, her armor and sword outside. A man took a glance at the body. "White armor ... and she was dressed like a man ... yes, this is Jeanne D'Arc." He turned to his friend. "She will fetch a hefty price from the British if we ask for it."
"We do need the money for the treasury, and they are our ally!" a second voice cried. A man dressed in black stood up, and sighed. "Well, we do need the money. Do you know what they'll do to her?"
"Kill her?" the second voice again cried.
"Worse. The British ... they try to take away your very soul."
The man at the head of the table stood up. He appeared to lead the group of people. "You are outvoted. I'm sorry, Arnald, we need the money, and if this independant state is going to work, we need to agree on this." All eyes shifted to him, and he sighed. "I prefer a workable ideal over a pipedream. You may take her away."
The wounds throbbed louder, and Jeanne fainted.
Charles was sleeping soundly in his room when a messenger burst open the door. "Excuse me, your Royal Highness, but there is some urgent news to attend to."
"What? What is it?"
"Jeanne D'arc has been captured.
"This is tragic news ... indeed." An idea began to form, a cover-up of the fact that Jeanne was even captured, or alive. If he could suppress that ... and there was one way to do so. "Help! Guards! I'm being attacked!" Charles punched himself in the face, and his lip started to bleed.
"Sir?" The messenger stood, stunned. Guards pounced on him from all directions, and he was swiftly wrapped up. "Send this man to the gallows," Charles said, smiling. "We do not tolerate treason."
The next place Jeanne woke up in was decidedly less comfortable. Not that the jail had been comfortable; it hadn't. But this was a dungeon, with skeletons still chained to the walls and murderers in every cell. Noticing something, she sat up and got the attention of one of the nearby soldiers. "I do not have a place to pray. May I attend church?"
The guard nodded. "I'll relay your question," he said in perfect french. Jeanne watched him as he walked away, a puzzled look on her face. Somehow, he looked ... familiar. But the thought of eating popped up into her mind again, and she doubled over from the pain, crying out. "You look hungry ..." he said, switching into whispered tones ... "here." A piece of bread dropped into the cell door.
It's not much, she thought, but it's enough.
The guard drew closer. He lingered, a look of indecision on his face. Jeanne grew irritated. "Why are you still waiting here?"
"My boss has a message for you ... Arnald, if you know of him." Jeanne nodded. "He would like you to know that your death will benefit France, and that you are a martyr for your cause. He is sorry."
The next day, two English priests made thier way to the cell block with a list of charges. Jeanne could barely make out the words the translators were practically spitting at her, but she made out enough to know that they were going to punish her for wearing boys' clothes. If she signed a statement admitting she was a witch, they proclaimed, she would be treated to food, and would be allowed visits to a church.
There was no hesitation in her mind as she signed the papers.
The next day, she woke up - early, even. It had been a long time before she had prayed to God, and she would need to catch up with a fervent day of it. She walked over to the guard, standing in the cellblock. "Excuse me, but may I go to mass?"
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sorry - my orders are for you not to leave this room."
Well, if they would not agree to let her pray, nothing was worth anything. Jeanne put on the boys' clothes she had lying on the floor. The condemning by the British priests of her actions were nearly instantaneous, and she was sentenced to execution for the crime of witchcraft.
A large crowd gathered for the burning. As she was tied up, Jeanne did not move or struggle; she allowed it. As the fire was set, she said a single sentence: "God will forgive you." Her face remained impassive as the flames jumped up the pyre and around her, until her limp body fell to the ground, charred beyond recognition.
In the base in Vancoulers, Arnald crossed his heart, muttering a small prayer, as he had every day since they had given up Jeanne. "For those who have sacrificed all, let there be everything in Paradise; for those who have sacrificed none, let there be nothing." He sighed. "She had to die ... so we, as a country, could live."
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Sam111111: Lamb
Adherence to Prompt: 2 /5. It seems like you skimmed an article about her. “She will lead the siege on Orleans”? She LIFTED that siege. And clearing the Loire valley within hours of raising the siege of Orleans? Artistic liberty is one thing, but artistic liberty has to have some purpose or reason behind it.
Spelling/Grammar: 3/5. Problems with quote punctuation, Joan being “devine”
Characterization: 3/10. The characters just kinda move around, without any understandable motivation most of the time, and what motivation they have sounds hollow. Charles goes from being devoted to Joan to wanting her dead over the space of half a paragraph. This is bad.
Plot/Structure: 2.0/10. Everything is far too easy. Everyone Joan encounters basically goes, “Oh? Okay, whatever you say.” There’s no tension, or conflict really.
Style: 2/10. You do far to much telling, hardly any showing. Also, keep in mind the setting when you chose your words. Terms like “pipedream” are really out of place in a 15th century setting.
Creativity: 0/10. This is just a speedy, rather inelegant (and incorrect) retelling of Joan’s story. There’s nothing new here, other than some of the historical errors.
Total: 12/50. “Original sin is something I have done once, and I will spend the rest of my life paying penance for it.” What does this even mean? How has she done the original sin? In all, your style needs a lot of work—you need to make your characters more independent and realistic, your descriptions more evocative and less like infodumps, and just generally slow down and add a little more content.
Unfortunately, there isn't a whole lot I can say about this story.
Prompt: 2/5 - Your research confuses me. You studied Joan enough to know her basic story, but some of your mistakes could only exist because you researched her. There are many more inaccuracies here than are warranted by "poetic license."
Spelling/Grammar: 2/5
Characterization: 2/10 - I'm confused how you knew she went to Vacoulers, but not the name of the man in charge who she spoke to.
Plot/Structure: 1/10 - This is basically a historically inaccurate telling of Joan's story.
Style: 2/10 - I'll just stick with the first line: Jeanne D'arc ate morning breakfast with her family in Domremy, the place of her birth. The cereal was grainy, overpoweringly so, but nobody complained. The day was normal to most; it didn't rain, the sky was bright and clear, a summer day of hard work in the fields and herding.
Redundancies (morning breakfast), lack of subtlety (the place of her birth,) inconsistant descriptions (grainyness can be overpowering?) confusing descriptions (I suppose people in Seattle don't find bright and clear days normal,) and poor structure (a summer day of hard work in the fields and herding).
Creativity: 1/10 - As mentioned above, you really only retold Joan's story. Incorrectly.
I like lamb, especially when it's been roasted on a spit (or perhaps burned on some kind of stake) and placed in a gyro.
Comments
A bold stab at historical fiction, but it feels a lot more historical than fiction. I can see the Britannica passages standing out. Except for Joan's rendezvous with Charles . . . I sure didn't see *that* one coming. Also, the concept of Original Sin, as I understand it, is that all humans are born with it (thanks, there, God), necessitating (as Christians see it) the acceptance of Christ to wash the sin away. That’s why they baptize babies.
With a historical piece, it's good to focus on personal detail and experience of the narrator and/or protagonist. Repeating, by rote or by slight restatement, the historical record, can get dull. Show the historical record as it happens through the eyes of your characters. Step into the characters' shoes and let that drive the description.
0-5 Adherence to Prompt: This isn't just "Is Joan of Arc in the story." This is "Does she seem like Joan of Arc?" Historical innacuracies will come out of here, though I'll likely be the only one to dock for that.
3
Historically, she does what Joan did (more or less). Does she feel like a character that would sacrifice herself in this way, as you've presented it? No.
0-5 Spelling and Grammar: Sefl-esplanator.y Don't neglect this - Scavenger had a few spelling errors, and lost last round by half a point. These are not hard points to get, so don't take them for granted.
3
Spelling? Great. Grammar? Okay. It was mostly correct, but at times very passive. More on that in Style. Ask yourself if you'd send this to an editor, and if not, revise and edit!
0-10 Characterization: How well are your characters (all of them) developed? Are they believable? Do they come alive to the readers, or are they just flat archetypes?
2
Your characters are active, but you're letting history write the story. The twist isn't enough to make us care about your characters, they only seem to be there to support the twist and therefore the expected shock we get from it doesn't hit the way you want it to.
0-10 Plot and Structure: Does everything flow well? Does the story make coherant sense? Do we care about what happens, at the same time as not being able to see everything coming?
3
Your plotting (mostly) reflects history. It’s the connections between the characters that fail to drive the scenes, leaving less a feel of plot and story and more a feel of a history lesson that you didn't read up on.
0-10 Style: How effective your words are. How well you use symbolism, imagery, voice, and all those other mystical writing concepts.
4
Simple technical problems hurt you here. Way too much passive tense, and WAY too much summary of what should have been thrilling action scenes. The style is clinical.
0-10 Creativity: Just because you have to use a well-documented historical figure, doesn't mean you can't be creative about it.
2
I'm giving points for the fictional character and the deceptive motivations of Charles, but otherwise this was just a recitation of history that didn't really grab me. It felt paint-by-the numbers.
She stopped, as though stricken by death itself. "Jeanne?" the mother asked.
"I ... I'm hearing the voice of god." She stood, resolute.
"I have seen the saviour of France. We must go to the capitol."
"Jeanne? ..." Her parents stood, shocked, as her mother tried to talk, softly. "We do not have anything we can give you ..."
"Then I'll walk. Time is of the essence."
"Are you insane?" her father said. "You're not going anywhere!" He started muttering. "Just my luck ... raising a crazy child ..."
"Oh," Jeanne said, suddenly looking crestfallen, "I understand." Her father accepted it and left it at that.
Later that night, after her parents had gone to bed, she set off. Her destination far away, and her preperation for the journey was nonexistant. But fate - or God - lent a hand.
It had taken three days of walking through the cold nights and scorching days, but Jeanne had finally made it to a distant military base - the name on the sign said 'Vancoulers'. As she walked into the base, she was greeted with empathetic looks. "She must be missing her father ..." whispered one, to another. "A hard life those girls lead."
Inside the base, the commander was issuing orders and planning the upcoming battle as usual. Suddenly, Jeanne burst into the room. "Are you the person in charge of the French military?"
"Yes, that I am." He smiled. "What is it you need, little one? Do you have a father you need to find or a brother? If so, just tell me thier name; I'm sure I'll be able to find if they were ever here." She shook her head. "Well, what else would a young girl like you be doing here, then?"
"God has sent me. I must speak to Charles VII; St. Michael has told me he is the true king of France, and I intend to make it so."
"What?! You ..." he looked into her eyes, and the startling resolution was still there. "You ... you really mean it ... well, we shall be sending a caravan to our lord, a shipment of arms for the soldiers under his direct command as well as some ... pastries he requested." He sighed, and continued. "If you'd like, we can send you along with them. They should be leaving within the week."
"Thank you. I'll wait. Is there a place to sleep?"
The commander chuckled ruefully. "Oh, there may be a lack of soldiers, but there is no lack of beds." He walked out the door, Jeanne following close behind, and showed her a nearby tent. "You can sleep in here if you'd like. I'm sorry I can't offer more. We also have food, in the mess hall to the right."
Jeanne nodded. "I think I'll take your offer. Thank you very much." She walked straight to the cafeteria, took some food, and began to eat.
The trip to Chinon was lengthy, but the results at the end were sweet. Jeanne walked out of the caravan and bowed. "Thank you for the hospitality and new clothes." she said, tugging at them. "I believe this will help me give a more convincing account of what I have been through."
The commander nodded. "We'll see what he says." They went off to the to the cathedral in the center of town; Jeanne following the soldiers closely, observing the city. The cathedral was taller than all the other buildings around; it seemed to have an air of nobility, and an air of arrogance.
Once there, a small procession proclaimed the arrival of Charles. Jeanne stood, waiting, as he began to speak. "So, my dear girl, what do you want with me? And ..." with this he leaned over, examining her "... why are you wearing those clothes? I must say, they do not become you."
"I have been sent on a mission from God to purge the English from this land, and I submit myself to you in the hope of doing so."
"Well," Charles said, grinning, "... you should come in the back with me. I'm sure you have much to offer, but I need to make sure that this is not a sham." Jeanne hesitated, but followed.
Several hours later, they emerged, Charles nodding and obviously happy with the results. The commander, having finished his dilivery of pastries, was waiting in the back. Charles spoke. "Yes, yes, this girl is most definitely devine. She had knowledge of several things that I only knew myself, and made something ... quite magical happen."
"Are you sure?" the commander said, dumbfounded. Charles, ignoring the question, continued.
"She will lead the siege on Orleans, and with her, we shall be triumphant. I shall have made for her a suit of white armor." The commander stood, obediently, as Charles continued: "And, of course, she'll need a sword ..." Joan interrupted: "I know where to find one." She walked out, and hey followed her to the church of Saint Catherine of Fierbois. She walked confidently to the altar and, pushing a secret lever, pulled the sword from it. Both the commander and Charles stood in shock. "You should hasten the armor-making. We should depart in a week." she said, cleaning the blade on her boot. Charles shook his head, like he was waking from a dream. "Oh ... yes! Of course. I'll make sure it will be ready by then. Until then ... well ... I'd guess you need to give her some training, eh, Arnald?" "Yes, I suppose so," he responded, smiling at Joan. "Can't have you accidentally hitting our soldiers with that sword of yours."
"Your blacksmiths are truly excellent," Jeanne said as she and Charles walked across the veranda, ostensibly plotting strategy for the upcoming battle. She was wearing the new armor, and it fit like a glove. "They truly are. It's not every day you have to make armor for a girl," Charles said, smiling. "Are you sure the breastplate fits?"
Jeanne stopped, and stared at him. "I am helping you because I was commanded to, not because I want to. Original sin is something I have done once, and I will spend the rest of my life paying penance for it. It ..." and with this, Jeanne drew her sword "... will not happen again." Charles gasped in fear. "What ... what do you want?"
Jeanne sheathed her sword. "To talk strategy. In conversing with St. Michael, he told me to approach from this angle, at this time, so that we may use the blinding sun and the lack of enemy watchmen to our advantage." Jeanne pulled out a map of Orleans and the surrounding area, making quick gestures on it. "Our forces will be here. By approaching from the north, we will have God on our side."
Charles sighed, resigned. The idea sounded silly to him; what did it matter which side we attacked on? - but he had given her power, and he was not about to take it away. "Do as you wish."
The morning came like a tiger, the sun blazing over the tents set up in the French camp of war. Jeanne herself had already mounted her horse as the others got suited up, and was stirring up the troops she had been given - 5,000, a seemingly paltry force to take a city such as Orleans that was a linchpin of the British front. But she was determined, and she knew God was on her side.
"We will triumph! Though we are outnumbered, outmanned, we are the aggressors! We will drive these people out of our country! Come - the battle awaits. And God is on our side."
5,000 voices yelled in succession.
On the British side, a soldier - a sentry, posted to the northen entrance of the base, noticed something peculiar. There seemed to be hundreds of ... small dots coming up the road. He couldn't make out any more, but he closed the gate, as a precaution to rampaging wildlife.
Suddenly, he heard the voices yelling. Many men ... but one voice, higher and louder than the others. A woman? He pondered for a moment, than rang the bell while closing the gate. "The French are attacking! The French are attacking!" The soldiers stationed at the base began to move from the southern side to the northern. The populace of Orleans, a wearied one, heard the bell and as one they answered. Hurrying British men-at-arms paid no heed to the streaming masses gathering in the town square - there was more important work to be done, repelling the invaders. But for the town of Orleans, the bell represented only one thing - freedom.
Jeanne pulled her horse up to the gate, noting the dots that looked remotely like people in the distance. "They're going to come around soon. We should strike with the battering ram ..." and with this, she hit the banner of France she carried on the door multiple times, waiting until one made a satisfying 'thwack' sound ... "here."
The ram swung. It swung again. The door was nearly off its hinges; Jeanne could see the dots getting closer; she grabbed her flag, and held it up, yelling and charging forward.
The door fell. As the horsemen rode away from the door, many arrows landed around them. Several were killed: Jeanne, as well as several others, were injured. The other horsemen waited expectantly for orders to stop; to retreat. Thier commander was hurt! "Go on: I'll join you later. We must win this battle, at all costs." They charged. The British footmen, armed with only short swords because of thier lack of orginization, were cut to pieces. But more came from all sides. Jeanne, having been treated, rejoined the battle with a vicious war cry that stopped the British cold. The French took this as a sign and charged, straight ahead. Death was left in thier wake.
Reims, the traditional city where kings were crowned, was in the surrounding Loire valley. Mere hours after the battle of Orleans, Jeanne had cleared the valley of the British so Charles could retake his crown, and have a swift coronation. There was a massive and excited crowd to watch his coronation, even after his otherwise incompetent handling of the crown. Jeanne was sitting next to him, smiling. "I have accomplished my first God-given duty, but we must also retake the rest of France," she whispered. Charles, however, was lost in other thoughts. She had been a good way to boost morale, but all the land he had needed was taken now, and a prolonged war would put a drain on his finances. Jeanne was quickly turning from a savior to a demon in his mind, and would have to be disposed of quietly. Even now, he could tell the majority of the crowd was cheering not for the coronation, but for her. Once she was defeated, however, without her precious god to save her ... he would recieve the glory. An inward chuckle, however, was all he let betray his emotions as he spoke his first kingly words to his people. "We have had a great victory today, and it is my pleasure - nay, my gift - to present you, the people of Orleans, with freedom!" The crowd cheered, voices resounding with approval. He continued. "And Jeanne D'arc was vital to our success. We will continue to fight for the land that we so dearly need. We will drive the British from France, and reclaim our ancestral home!" The cheers became deafening. Jeanne bowed, smiling. Nobody could hear the coronation, as a priest proclaimed Charles' divine right to the throne. Nobody needed to.
The next step in the campaign was obvious, or so she said: they needed to rally around this victory, and strike deep into British territory. A military campaign was rare for the winter, but they had needed the rest of fall to orginize thier armies; a war at this time would be highly unexpected, and perhaps even precede defensive preperations. There was a chance that a large surprise strike would even puch the British back to thier original territories, before the war even started. And the Burgundians? They would have to be destroyed; independant rulers within France were not to be tolerated. The crown was destined to control France, and she was God's instrument to make it so. She had to be: there was no other option. But God was being less than judicious with his visions, and they all consisted of warnings. Whenever she brought up what would happen if she stopped, they agreed with her reasons. But they were busy preparing for other events that needed shaping, and could not stick around much longer ...
"Charge!" she had said, with the same reflection, and the same persistence. Her soldiers had answered much the same, and they had leapt into the battle as a unit, together. But the battle had been lost; the enemy was too great, her own powers too limited in scope.
Jeanne, for the first time, was learning the word retreat. "God ... where are you?"
There was no answer. Her horsemen cut to pieces around her, she retreated, the bitter winter storm biting into her face.
"So she is starting to lose this war? She says she wants more troops? Tell her that I don't care if she needs more troops; she will make do with what we have."
"But sir," Arnald responded, "that is a death-"
"Shut up." Charles smirked. "If she really is heaven-sent, she can do it. I have confidence in her." Arnald bowed obediently. "Yes, sir."
The Burgundians had sent more men than bad been predicted; the information Jeanne had been given was off. The archers they had added on the basis of anonymous tips, as well as the heavy cavalry to thier defenses, cut into the French ranks like death was all that they deserved. Jeanne tried to rally her troops around her, but regardless, some began to lose hope and dash, the more valiant ones already creating pools of blood on the red-soaked ice. "Retreat!" she cried, her voice echoing in the wind. But there was nobody there to hear it. Suddenly, an arrow hit her, piercing one of the plates in her armor. She fainted, a prayer on her lips.
Jeanne woke up inside a jail. She tried to move or talk, but exhaustion and her wounds prevented her from uttering a single sound; she could only listen as she lay naked on the floor, her armor and sword outside. A man took a glance at the body. "White armor ... and she was dressed like a man ... yes, this is Jeanne D'Arc." He turned to his friend. "She will fetch a hefty price from the British if we ask for it."
"We do need the money for the treasury, and they are our ally!" a second voice cried. A man dressed in black stood up, and sighed. "Well, we do need the money. Do you know what they'll do to her?"
"Kill her?" the second voice again cried.
"Worse. The British ... they try to take away your very soul."
The man at the head of the table stood up. He appeared to lead the group of people. "You are outvoted. I'm sorry, Arnald, we need the money, and if this independant state is going to work, we need to agree on this." All eyes shifted to him, and he sighed. "I prefer a workable ideal over a pipedream. You may take her away."
The wounds throbbed louder, and Jeanne fainted.
Charles was sleeping soundly in his room when a messenger burst open the door. "Excuse me, your Royal Highness, but there is some urgent news to attend to."
"What? What is it?"
"Jeanne D'arc has been captured.
"This is tragic news ... indeed." An idea began to form, a cover-up of the fact that Jeanne was even captured, or alive. If he could suppress that ... and there was one way to do so. "Help! Guards! I'm being attacked!" Charles punched himself in the face, and his lip started to bleed.
"Sir?" The messenger stood, stunned. Guards pounced on him from all directions, and he was swiftly wrapped up. "Send this man to the gallows," Charles said, smiling. "We do not tolerate treason."
The next place Jeanne woke up in was decidedly less comfortable. Not that the jail had been comfortable; it hadn't. But this was a dungeon, with skeletons still chained to the walls and murderers in every cell. Noticing something, she sat up and got the attention of one of the nearby soldiers. "I do not have a place to pray. May I attend church?"
The guard nodded. "I'll relay your question," he said in perfect french. Jeanne watched him as he walked away, a puzzled look on her face. Somehow, he looked ... familiar. But the thought of eating popped up into her mind again, and she doubled over from the pain, crying out. "You look hungry ..." he said, switching into whispered tones ... "here." A piece of bread dropped into the cell door.
It's not much, she thought, but it's enough.
The guard drew closer. He lingered, a look of indecision on his face. Jeanne grew irritated. "Why are you still waiting here?"
"My boss has a message for you ... Arnald, if you know of him." Jeanne nodded. "He would like you to know that your death will benefit France, and that you are a martyr for your cause. He is sorry."
The next day, two English priests made thier way to the cell block with a list of charges. Jeanne could barely make out the words the translators were practically spitting at her, but she made out enough to know that they were going to punish her for wearing boys' clothes. If she signed a statement admitting she was a witch, they proclaimed, she would be treated to food, and would be allowed visits to a church.
There was no hesitation in her mind as she signed the papers.
The next day, she woke up - early, even. It had been a long time before she had prayed to God, and she would need to catch up with a fervent day of it. She walked over to the guard, standing in the cellblock. "Excuse me, but may I go to mass?"
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sorry - my orders are for you not to leave this room."
Well, if they would not agree to let her pray, nothing was worth anything. Jeanne put on the boys' clothes she had lying on the floor. The condemning by the British priests of her actions were nearly instantaneous, and she was sentenced to execution for the crime of witchcraft.
A large crowd gathered for the burning. As she was tied up, Jeanne did not move or struggle; she allowed it. As the fire was set, she said a single sentence: "God will forgive you." Her face remained impassive as the flames jumped up the pyre and around her, until her limp body fell to the ground, charred beyond recognition.
In the base in Vancoulers, Arnald crossed his heart, muttering a small prayer, as he had every day since they had given up Jeanne. "For those who have sacrificed all, let there be everything in Paradise; for those who have sacrificed none, let there be nothing." He sighed. "She had to die ... so we, as a country, could live."
-Fin
-notes
*I used Jeanne instead of Joan, because that's her not-americanized name, and I think it sounds better. And it works better within the story.
*I also made up the commander. Artistic liberty for the win? Or for the loss? Probably both ...
*I changed the timeline. Same artistic liberty thing as above.
*Charles is Charles VII.
*resource 1[primary]: http://www.gale.com/free_resources/whm/bio/joan_of_arc.htm
*resource 2: http://people.westminstercollege.edu/faculty/mmarkowski/212/Class-Site/Steph/JoanD'arc.htm
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Adherence to Prompt: 2 /5. It seems like you skimmed an article about her. “She will lead the siege on Orleans”? She LIFTED that siege. And clearing the Loire valley within hours of raising the siege of Orleans? Artistic liberty is one thing, but artistic liberty has to have some purpose or reason behind it.
Spelling/Grammar: 3/5. Problems with quote punctuation, Joan being “devine”
Characterization: 3/10. The characters just kinda move around, without any understandable motivation most of the time, and what motivation they have sounds hollow. Charles goes from being devoted to Joan to wanting her dead over the space of half a paragraph. This is bad.
Plot/Structure: 2.0/10. Everything is far too easy. Everyone Joan encounters basically goes, “Oh? Okay, whatever you say.” There’s no tension, or conflict really.
Style: 2/10. You do far to much telling, hardly any showing. Also, keep in mind the setting when you chose your words. Terms like “pipedream” are really out of place in a 15th century setting.
Creativity: 0/10. This is just a speedy, rather inelegant (and incorrect) retelling of Joan’s story. There’s nothing new here, other than some of the historical errors.
Total: 12/50. “Original sin is something I have done once, and I will spend the rest of my life paying penance for it.” What does this even mean? How has she done the original sin? In all, your style needs a lot of work—you need to make your characters more independent and realistic, your descriptions more evocative and less like infodumps, and just generally slow down and add a little more content.
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Winner of SSC 1 & ">3 & 6
Prompt: 2/5 - Your research confuses me. You studied Joan enough to know her basic story, but some of your mistakes could only exist because you researched her. There are many more inaccuracies here than are warranted by "poetic license."
Spelling/Grammar: 2/5
Characterization: 2/10 - I'm confused how you knew she went to Vacoulers, but not the name of the man in charge who she spoke to.
Plot/Structure: 1/10 - This is basically a historically inaccurate telling of Joan's story.
Style: 2/10 - I'll just stick with the first line: Jeanne D'arc ate morning breakfast with her family in Domremy, the place of her birth. The cereal was grainy, overpoweringly so, but nobody complained. The day was normal to most; it didn't rain, the sky was bright and clear, a summer day of hard work in the fields and herding.
Redundancies (morning breakfast), lack of subtlety (the place of her birth,) inconsistant descriptions (grainyness can be overpowering?) confusing descriptions (I suppose people in Seattle don't find bright and clear days normal,) and poor structure (a summer day of hard work in the fields and herding).
Creativity: 1/10 - As mentioned above, you really only retold Joan's story. Incorrectly.
Total: 10
By Sam111111
I like lamb, especially when it's been roasted on a spit (or perhaps burned on some kind of stake) and placed in a gyro.
Comments
A bold stab at historical fiction, but it feels a lot more historical than fiction. I can see the Britannica passages standing out. Except for Joan's rendezvous with Charles . . . I sure didn't see *that* one coming. Also, the concept of Original Sin, as I understand it, is that all humans are born with it (thanks, there, God), necessitating (as Christians see it) the acceptance of Christ to wash the sin away. That’s why they baptize babies.
With a historical piece, it's good to focus on personal detail and experience of the narrator and/or protagonist. Repeating, by rote or by slight restatement, the historical record, can get dull. Show the historical record as it happens through the eyes of your characters. Step into the characters' shoes and let that drive the description.
0-5 Adherence to Prompt: This isn't just "Is Joan of Arc in the story." This is "Does she seem like Joan of Arc?" Historical innacuracies will come out of here, though I'll likely be the only one to dock for that.
3
Historically, she does what Joan did (more or less). Does she feel like a character that would sacrifice herself in this way, as you've presented it? No.
0-5 Spelling and Grammar: Sefl-esplanator.y Don't neglect this - Scavenger had a few spelling errors, and lost last round by half a point. These are not hard points to get, so don't take them for granted.
3
Spelling? Great. Grammar? Okay. It was mostly correct, but at times very passive. More on that in Style. Ask yourself if you'd send this to an editor, and if not, revise and edit!
0-10 Characterization: How well are your characters (all of them) developed? Are they believable? Do they come alive to the readers, or are they just flat archetypes?
2
Your characters are active, but you're letting history write the story. The twist isn't enough to make us care about your characters, they only seem to be there to support the twist and therefore the expected shock we get from it doesn't hit the way you want it to.
0-10 Plot and Structure: Does everything flow well? Does the story make coherant sense? Do we care about what happens, at the same time as not being able to see everything coming?
3
Your plotting (mostly) reflects history. It’s the connections between the characters that fail to drive the scenes, leaving less a feel of plot and story and more a feel of a history lesson that you didn't read up on.
0-10 Style: How effective your words are. How well you use symbolism, imagery, voice, and all those other mystical writing concepts.
4
Simple technical problems hurt you here. Way too much passive tense, and WAY too much summary of what should have been thrilling action scenes. The style is clinical.
0-10 Creativity: Just because you have to use a well-documented historical figure, doesn't mean you can't be creative about it.
2
I'm giving points for the fictional character and the deceptive motivations of Charles, but otherwise this was just a recitation of history that didn't really grab me. It felt paint-by-the numbers.
Total: 17