#municipal coats of arms

[tricornonthecob]

I pulled myself out of bed at 7:15 in the morning scrolling through tumblr to add to this that y'all are sleeping on Virginia, no I won't apologize for the following long post.

King and Queen County. Note the corn and the racist depiction of an indigenous person's hand. This will reappear.

King William county. Not to be confused with Prince William County, which does not have a coat of arms, merely a seal.

However it also includes tobacco. Unfortunately, it does not include corn or an uncomfortable indigenous person. Unlike Henrico county

Which, while also a seal and not a coat of arms, includes corn, an indigenous person, and tobacco, an uncomfortable colonial trifecta! Will they change it? No, really, I want to know.

If you're confused why Fairfax county looks so damn British even after all this time, its because Lord Fairfax had so much goddamn money and owned like half of NOVA. On that note:

The Earl of Loudon had a much more fascinating coat of arms but Loudon County, VA just simplified it.

There is (apparently) an alternate, more complex version that apes the Earl Of Loudon's coat of arms, but its hard to replicate in vector form so I appreciate why Loudon county simplified it. While the overarching presence of the elite that made their money off of the genocide of indigenous peoples and exploitation of slave labor is certainly Peak Virginia, it does not even have tobacco leaf. 0/3, did not understand the assignment.

Middlesex County is a little crunchy but I'm relatively sure those are seagulls and that is absolutely a tobacco leaf.

The City of Hampton does have an uncomfortable indigenous person, but no corn or tobacco. The inclusion of buffalo is odd and strange as I'm pretty sure there were never buffalo in the tidewater. However, it has a blue crab, so that's like +6 Virginia cred right there.

The county of Prince George, VA (not to be confused with Prince George's County, MD, you gotta say the whole thing its like a Tribe Called Quest) has a coat of arms, but it appears to be a very recent design due to the Distinct Lack Of Uncomfortable Colonial Callbacks and instead Very Cute state bird and state flower.

Powhatan county does not need an uncomfortable reference to an indigenous person due to the fact it is named after the people that got forcibly removed/genocided here, but it does have a wild turkey, whitetail, the state flower, and I'm assuming tobacco leaf. This must be a recent thing.

gonna be real with you here I'm assuming these are griffons, but I honestly can't tell with Halifax, VA

It would be remiss of me to not include everyone's favorite county name, Goochland county (because Fauquier county, pronounched fawk-yer county, wants to remain unseen due to being incredibly racist) Not an ear of corn, leaf of tobacco, or uncomfortable indigenous person to be seen, but just look at those puppers! 10/3.

Look I don't even know where Rockingham county is or what its deal is but this looks British so I'm gonna assume some Lord owned it or whatever.

The City of Fredericksburg, VA also lookin pretty British.

Anyway there's probably more but I won't take up more of your time and I need coffee.

I don't know if different muncipalities having their own coat of arms is a thing outside of Finland, but I rather like many of them. Like, the only way to go wrong in a coat of arms is to make it boring, the best ones are the most memorable ones. Have a collection of the few that I consider the least aesthetic, most boring coats of arms of all finnish muncipalities. If you see your own hometown coat on this list, do not come at me - fix your own problems first and move somewhere else.

Bland, generic, tells no story. Unfuckable. The kind of shit you'd see on the shield of an enemy that's getting their ass kicked by the Cool Sexy Woman Knight in the first round of a jousting event in a corny but riveting fantasy movie. Now, let's look at some of the cool ones:

Striking. Distinct. Tells you a story, gives you some clue about what this place is and what is the story of the people who live here. Can occasionally afford more than two colours per coat. Now that's sexy. These, these are good. I had a hard time choosing only nine that I liked best, so I decided to divide the examples of Sexy Coats of Arms into non-animal and animal cathegories. These are examples of the cool ones with animals on them:

And as a final special mention we have Kouvola. The city of Kouvola largely doesn't deserve the bad rep it has - the crime rate isn't that high, the title of "the ugliest city in Finland" is a bit harsh since it does have some vaguely soviet/dystopian grunge brutalist aesthetic if you're into that sort of thing, and in my experience the friendliest crackheads in Finland. But all those things said, their coat of arms does kinda feature this thing eerily similar to the symbol of Chaos

[mapsontheweb]

Map of Greenland's municipalities and Coats of arms

[hello-there]

Communities are a new way to connect with the people on Tumblr who care about the things you care about! Browse Communities to find the perfect one for your interests or create a new one and invite your friends and mutuals!

[bestanimal]

Round 2 - Chordata - Petromyzontida

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Petromyzontida is a class comprising one order, Petromyzontiformes, commonly called “lampreys.”

Like their closest living relatives, the hagfish, lampreys bear a cartilaginous skull and rudimentary vertebrae. Adults lack a jaw, and are characterized by a toothed, funnel-like, sucking mouth. They have elongated, eel-like bodies reaching up to 1.3 metres (3.9 ft) long. They have one nostril atop the head, seven gill pores on each side of the head, two well-developed eyes, and two parietal eyes. Only 18 species are predators or scavengers, the rest (all freshwater species) do not feed as adults, instead living off the reserves gained as juveniles. Carnivorous species are marine, though 9 of them migrate into freshwater to breed. They use the suction cup around their mouths to cling to rocks or prey, using their tongue to either rasp blood from prey or algae from rocks. They also use this suction cup to climb up rocks when migrating upstream to breed.

Adult lampreys spawn in nests of sand, gravel and pebbles in clear streams. After hatching from their eggs the larvae, called ammocoetes, will drift downstream with the current until they reach soft and fine sediment in which to burrow, taking up an existence as filter feeders, collecting detritus, algae, and microorganisms (image 4). Their eyes are underdeveloped, only capable of discriminating changes in light. Lampreys spend the majority of their lives as these filter-feeding ammocoetes. Most species spend up to 8 years, though some may spend as little as 1-2 years. The ammocoetes will then undergo a metamorphosis which generally lasts 3-4 months, during which they do not eat.

The oldest fossil lamprey, Priscomyzon, is known from the Late Devonian. Other stem-group lampreys, like Pipiscius, Mayomyzon and Hardistiella are known from the Carboniferous. While they appear relatively unchanged, stem-lampreys lack the specialised, heavily toothed discs with plate-like laminae present in modern lampreys, and their larvae resembled the adults, rather than having a distinct stage. The earliest lamprey with the specialised toothed oral disc typical of modern lampreys is Yanliaomyzon from the Middle Jurassic.

Propaganda under the cut:

Many species change color as ammocoetes, becoming dark during the day and pale at night.

Lampreys have been extensively studied because their relatively simple brain is thought to reflect the brain structure of early vertebrate ancestors, thus providing insight into our origins.

Lampreys are valued as food in the Northwest United States, throughout Europe, in Russia, Japan, and in South Korea. King Henry I of England is claimed to have been so fond of lampreys that he often ate them, late into life and poor health, against the advice of his physician concerning their richness, and is said to have died from eating "a surfeit of lampreys".

In the county of Nakkila (Finland) and Carnikava Municipality (Latvia), the European River Lamprey (Lampetra fluviatilis) is the local symbol, found on their coats of arms.

The legend of the Lambton Worm from County Durham in North-East England concerns a lamprey being fished out of the River Wear by a young boy skipping church. He declares that he had “caught the devil” and disposes of it down a nearby well. Over the years, the lamprey grows into a giant, poisonous Worm, wrapping itself around a local hill and terrorizing the village. Hijinks and witch-curses ensue.

Lampreys were highly appreciated by the Ancient Romans, not only as food, but also as pets. Lucius Licinius Crassus was mocked by Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus for weeping over the death of his pet lamprey, who he was said to have adorned with earrings and small necklaces, training it to respond to its name and swimming up to eat what was offered. Crassus retorted that Domitius had lost three wives himself and Crassus had never seen him shed a tear.

Publius Vedius Pollio was reportedly an exceedingly cruel Roman soldier who kept a pool of carnivorous lampreys to which he would feed slaves who had displeased him. This went on until Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus was visiting his mansion and witnessed Pollio about to dispatch a slave who had broken a crystal cup. Augustus had all of Pollio’s cups destroyed, as well as his mansion, and filled in his pond. This is likely an urban legend, but honestly, I feel like it should have ended with Pollio going down with the lampreys.

Dams and other human development have made it hard for lampreys to migrate upstream to breed. Some scientists are hoping to design ramps that will utilize lamprey’s climbing ability so that they can bypass dams.

[novoaa1writes]

day 0

image source

pairing(s): softdark!natasha romanoff x gnc!reader, natasha romanoff & tony stark (platonic)

summary:

“I trust they were well-behaved?”

“You know they weren’t,” Stark disputed, letting out a derisive snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t let me fix that.”

Natasha shrugged. “Chemically-induced submission is all very well and good,” she mused, sounding vaguely preoccupied. You could still feel her gaze upon you, boring through your skull. “But I’d prefer to earn theirs.”

“Your funeral.”

Or: Natasha wants a pet. Lucky for her, she knows a guy who can help with that.

contains: non-con dynamics, pet play, dehumanization

[cross-posted on ao3]

word count: ~3,300

rating: mature

warnings: non-con dynamics, forced pet play, dehumanization, non-con bathing, referenced non-con body modification, referenced non-con medical experimentation/surgery, referenced physical and psychological abuse, discussions of administering post-op painkillers (morphine, oxycodone, anti-inflammatories, etc.)

notes: reader’s gender is not specified here, and as with every reader-insert i write, the reader is intended to be ethnically ambiguous! also, no use of y/n... i don't personally mind it much, but i understand it's typically preferred without

translation for russian terms in the end notes!

(previously named “build-a-pet”)

— —

Natasha had been on mission when she received the call. 

Burner #1—professional access. A select handful of people had the means to call it. Phil, Clint, Nick, Maria. Pepper, too. 

Burner #2—a separate, off-books agenda. Personal in nature. Accessible to none save for one individual. 

It was the second of the two that rang to signal an incoming call.  

Eyeing her target—Pavel Mikhailovich Novik, Bratyerstva head and prolific serial killer—intently through the tac scope, she brought the phone up to her ear and answered the call:

“Romanoff.”

“Gah! Always business with you, huh?” Tony Stark’s conversational—if not somewhat indignant—tone filtered through the speaker. “That’s no way to greet a friend.”

Were Natasha not otherwise occupied at the current moment, she might’ve scoffed. As it was: “A little busy, Shellhead,” she muttered, shifting her aim in time with Novik’s uneven stride as he made his way across a municipal street. “Why don’t we skip to the part where you tell me what you’ve got?”

“I’m doing just swell, thanks for asking.”

He was a short, stout man. Novik, that was. Flat-footed gait, the kind that had long since ruined the arches of his well-worn shoes. Broad shoulders; barrel-chested torso. Thick dark hair cut short on his scalp and, in the case of his square-shaped jaw, removed completely—but permitted to grow to damn near cat-whisker length everywhere else. 

A wheat-link chain hung loose around his short neck; the chunky watch on his hairy wrist gleamed when it caught the light. Both solid gold.

He was dressed nicely enough in a red button-down that looked soft as satin, and charcoal black trousers with a matching blazer to boot.  

Natasha had to bite back a disapproving hum as he strode into the establishment—a pub, no less—and hoisted himself up onto a barstool with little ceremony. 

He was armed, of course, but only barely; a pistol in one inner coat pocket, a switchblade in the other. He also wasn’t entirely clueless, as evidenced by his company: a pair of stern-looking men who stood flanking him on either side, the material of their cheap polyester suits straining to contain their hulking figures, jackets bulging with poorly-concealed semi-automatic weapons. They watched the bartender like hawks as he set a clear bottle—Dębowa—and an empty glass in front of Novik before promptly scurrying away.

They turned their matching glowers away from their boss as he began to drink, surveying the small, dimly-lit pub with heavy-browed suspicion.

It was a clear message. A bit garish for Natasha’s tastes; but clear nonetheless. 

As it was, she barely had to shift herself any further to catch him in her crosshairs through a series of high, rectangular windows lining the interior of the grimy pub. 

All bark, no bite. 

A far less jaded woman might have snorted. 

A far less jaded woman Natasha was not. 

“… Long story short, we’ve made some serious progress. I want to check in, though, if you could swing by for a quick visit. We’ve only got a short window before some of these alterations are irreversible. Plus, I figured you’d want to see them.”

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, her pulse thrumming wild and fast beneath her skin. “You figured right,” she managed to answer, her mouth dry. It was all she could do to keep Novik unharmed in her crosshairs, her finger from squeezing the trigger. 

“So, when can we expect you?”

Natasha flit her gaze to the clock face fastened atop a tall, spindly spire on the nearest street corner, then back to Novik. “Give me six hours.”

— —

“Boss, three reports intercepted from secure, heavily-encrypted channels. All high-profile killings, all on European soil.”

Tony Stark, though intrigued, did not look up from the task at hand: himself perched adroitly along the rim of the tub, lathering your naked body in sweet-smelling soaps; you, slumped uncouthly in the cradle of the bath, glaring up at him with defiant eyes and murder in the tick of your jaw. 

“Time window?” he questioned after a pause, lowering one sudsy hand to knead at your lower belly and grinning wolfishly when you couldn’t smother a quiet whine. 

“Six days.”

“Locales?”

“Qormi, Malta; Kutaisi, Georgia; and Gomel, Belarus.”

Stark hummed in lieu of answer, a vaguely preoccupied look in his narrowed gaze. His large, calloused fingers didn’t cease their humiliating ministrations over your quivering belly, making you pant in an effort to hold back a low, guttural trill. 

“In that order?”

“Yes, boss.”

You hated him. You fucking hated him. 

“Walks like Natasha, quacks like Natasha…” he trailed off, giving your belly one last squeeze before withdrawing slightly to cup your other hip with his palm. “Probably Natasha.”

You’d only just begun regaining your strength following the latest procedure, though not nearly enough to do anything other than glare.

Stark slanted his gaze back over to you. If he was at all cowed by the force of your glower, he did well not to show it. “You’re adorable when you’re plotting my demise, y’know that?”

It took everything within you not to roll your eyes.

— —

“So, how was White Russia? Eat any draniki?” Stark questioned as he settled bodily into an armchair, gesturing for Natasha to seat herself on the settee across from him. 

She did, her features calm and impassive. Her shrewd gaze flit to you once, but was quick to refocus. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“C’mon, give me something,” Stark carped, huffing petulantly. You couldn’t see his face from this angle, only the back of his head and a bit of bearded cheek, but you imagined he was probably pouting like a third grader. “For old times’ sake?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Guilty as charged,” Stark quipped. “Though, I suppose I can’t say the same for Novik. He didn’t even get a trial.” 

Natasha’s placid expression did not falter. “Who?”

“You know what, I’m just gonna give you this one—”

“Generous.”

“—but only because we’ve achieved a mind-blowing amount of progress within the past couple weeks. Like, seriously: mind-blowing.”

You felt yourself shudder at the reminder. Progress, indeed.

“Oh?” Natasha queried lightly, brows raised. Once more, her gaze dipped to you… and stayed there. 

You ducked your head and averted your eyes, cheeks aflame. You’d grown accustomed to being naked around Stark—mainly because you didn’t have a choice. But Natasha… 

For the first time in years, you found yourself missing your long hair, the way you could cower behind it at a moment’s notice. Now, you were exposed. Vulnerable. 

“I trust they were well-behaved?”

“You know they weren’t,” Stark disputed, letting out a derisive snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t let me fix that.”

Natasha shrugged. “Chemically-induced submission is all very well and good,” she mused, sounding vaguely preoccupied. You could still feel her gaze upon you, boring through your skull. “But I’d prefer to earn theirs.”

“Your funeral.”

Natasha’s lips twitched, though she remained silent. Then, after a beat or two— “Your progress?” she prompted.

“Right, so, here’s the run-down…”

— —

You’d tuned out for the most part as Stark began his long-winded, vainglorious speech to Natasha about his—your—successes since last they’d spoken. Much as you understood it was likely prudent to listen in, acquire a little more knowledge on what exactly he’d done to you, you’d also been there long enough to know that it probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyhow. 

Natasha would do with you as she pleased. Stark, too, provided Natasha was the one asking. 

In the beginning, that intrigued you. Made you want to learn more about them and their dynamic; to understand why it was what it was. You didn’t get why Stark would run, jump, and heel for the likes of her—intimidation factor notwithstanding. 

By this point, that intrigue had since dwindled, if not dissipated entirely. It was what it was; consequently, they were, too. 

You were still angry and strong-willed and a far cry from broken, but you weren’t stupid, either. Just because they treated you like a chained-up dog didn’t mean you had to gnaw off your own limbs in a desperate bid to escape like one. 

And, besides… it wasn’t often you got moments like these. Moments where you weren’t being poked and prodded and shot up with God knows what. You were collared, sure, your body riddled with all kinds of aches and pains, but none of it held a candle to the agony you’d known in days past. 

Lost in your head though you were, months’ worth of training ensured you didn’t miss the moment Natasha called you over. 

“Ко мне,” she spoke, pitching her voice just above appropriate speaking volume.

It was like someone lit a fire under your ass. The second you heard it, you shot up on all fours. Pain came fast on its heels, but you grit your teeth and bore it, swallowing down a cry as soreness shot through your hands—you flat-out refused to call them ‘paws’—like wildfire. Every heightened reflex stood on high alert. Your back, too, felt like it was on fire, spinal column alight with tenderness. 

Still, it wasn’t nearly so bad as it’d been a week back, when you awoke in observation all bandaged up and so acutely in pain, you feared it might kill you. You also knew better than to dawdle. Clenching your jaw tight, you shuffled forth on sore palms and bruised knees. Your muscles burned. 

You were grateful to feel the tip of your nose graze Natasha’s jean-clad knee, signaling a justifiable stopping point. 

“Молодец,” she praised, her voice pitched an octave (or two) higher, and you felt like singing. 

You even arched your poor, aching back in a shameless effort to attract… well, something, you supposed. Head pats, perhaps. An open-handed stroke down your spine, even.  

Damn that animal, desire-seeking hindbrain.

Fortunately, Natasha seemed to understand. Her palm met the nape of your neck, slender fingers curling their way into the mess of hair at the back of your scalp—God, but that felt divine. A mounting hum in the back of your throat was all the warning you got before—

Fuck. Immediately, you clamped your mouth shut, and the sound—along with the pleasurable vibrations—stopped altogether. 

Not again. 

“Ah-ah-ah, puppy,” Natasha tutted, her free hand descending to squeeze your nose tight—effectively cutting off your air supply. And still, the other remained; combing through freshly-washed hair at the base of your skull, occasionally scritching your scalp with the tips of her blunt nails until the insides of your throat quivered and your jaw hurt from clenching it so hard. It was all you could do to keep from opening right back up and giving her a nice long purr. (Which, you’d deduced, was exactly what she wanted.) “None of that.”

She was using English now, you noticed. 

And, just like that, the realization hit that she hadn’t been before. 

Now, you could… you could hear her words and understand them, and from that understanding know their meaning. Before, it was like… like hearing the words and knowing what they were supposed to mean, then acting accordingly. You couldn’t take apart the syllables, the letters in your head, not like you could with English. 

P-u-p-p-y. That spelled ‘puppy.’ When you tried to conjure the word she’d used to summon you over, there was just… nothing. A blank space. A short one, telling you you knew the approximate length of the word you were looking for, but… empty. 

Your gaze darted to Stark, who just slouched back in his cushy armchair looking immeasurably pleased with himself. At any other time, the mere sight would’ve been enough to spark some measure of annoyance within you. 

Now… Now, all you could feel was fear. 

He didn’t do that, did he? He… he couldn’t’ve. 

All the rest of it: the obedience, the meekness—that? That was conditioning, plain and simple. You weren’t exactly a PhD, but it didn’t take a genius to note down from the very start that some behaviors got you alone time in a small, dark room without food or water or sunlight for days on end, and others got you… well, not that. By a certain point, you would beg him to yell at you, choke you out, take you over his knee and spank your ass raw when you misbehaved; something, anything, so long as it wasn’t that. 2 times out of 10, he’d take you up on that. As for the other 8… well. 

But this—implanting knowledge in your subconscious, tuning it to mimic compulsory behavioral urges, all while you remained none the wiser? That was a hell of a lot more complicated than reworking your spine, or tweaking sensory receptors, or even altering your vocal tract to make that obnoxious purr. 

It was like he’d rewired your brain. 

You didn’t even notice that you’d since relented: gasped out what little breath remained and began wheezing, all doubled-over, sucking in new breaths of air like a half-drowned cat. Though, you sure as hell noticed how that rattling, restless, vibrating sensation arose in your throat with every shuddering inhale; how, on every exhale came exactly what you’d feared—that pathetic, trilling purr. The one that warmed your body from head to toe while simultaneously making you wish you had never been fucking born. 

God, but Natasha’s hands were like magic…

Your head still spun. Was it from the oxygen deprivation, or the realization that Stark had been inside your head? Probably both. 

Terrified, dazed, and overwhelmingly confused, it took you some time to re-center; tuning back into Stark and Natasha’s conversation, if only to posture yourself accordingly. You could figure out the rest later, you reasoned.

“… The spinal alterations don’t inhibit their ability to stand upright, by any means, which is the exciting thing,” Stark was saying, damn near perched at the edge of his seat—almost vibrating with renewed vigor. Weirdo. “They just enhance their natural capacity to remain down on all fours and go about their day for extended periods of time: a day, a week… hell, indefinitely! Which, for humans, would be pretty much unthinkable. I mean, can you imagine?”

Without allowing a moment’s pause for Natasha to respond (which you’d come to understand was quite typical), Stark wasted no time in steamrolling on. “‘Course, the process of transplanting new bones was rather tricky, and we had to do a couple of them more than once. Dr. Cho estimates a week—at most—before they’ve healed enough to allow for more… strenuous physical activity.”

Natasha snorted. Her hand had long stilled its pleasant ministrations in favor of resting inert at the base of your skull, slender fingers curled loosely around your nape. You felt how they twitched and tightened their grip ever-so-slightly when Stark spoke of what he’d done to your spine. “Are they in pain?” 

Funny. If you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought she cared. 

Stark raised a brow. “Ballpark?”

Natasha must’ve nodded, or dipped her chin in confirmation, because a beat later, Stark spoke again.

“Imagine you got ripped open, rearranged, then stitched back up,” he summed up. “Twice.”

Dimly, it registered within you to be struck by his forthrightness, though you did not dare mistake it for empathy. 

Natasha was quiet for a beat. “Sounds about right,” she said eventually. 

“It doesn’t have to be this bad,” Stark offered, though there was a curious shift in his intonation, this time; a knowing and almost resigned look in his eye that made you wonder if he and Natasha had had this conversation before.

The way Natasha’s hand twitched, blunt nails digging into the skin of your nape, was answer enough. 

“Were I their doctor, I’d be prescribing some serious pain meds,” Stark continued on dryly, making a show of tilting his head and gazing off into the distance as though he was deep in thought. “Morphine, oxycodone—“

“No.”

“—maybe a local anesthetic or two,” he mused, beginning to count them out on his fingers. “Anti-inflammatories. Anticonvulsants. Something for the anxiety, even—”

“I wanted a pet, not a vegetable.”

Stark’s lips twitched—though with exasperation or humor, you could not tell. “Do you realize how quickly even the most powerful anesthetics will metabolize through their system? They’re not human anymore, Red. At least, not entirely.”

Now, that piqued your interest. 

“Neither am I.”

“It’s different for them. You know that. You got Erskine’s serum. Some unrefined bootleg variant, granted, but that man was nothing if not brilliant. Everything he touched, he turned to gold.” Stark spoke of him—this ‘Erskine’—as though he put the very stars in the sky. You wondered if he was truly brilliant, or just insane. You wondered if for Stark, there was any difference. “As for them… well.” He gestured vaguely towards you. “They got some anthropomorphic whack job’s bone marrow.”

You blinked. You got what now?

“He has a name, you know,” Natasha commented archly, the earlier indignation having dissipated from her tone. 

“Point being—I’ve met the guy. He’s seriously unhinged.” He paused there, as if expecting Natasha to argue. When she didn’t, he steamrolled on: “I had F.R.I.D.A.Y. scavenge some digitized medical reports and psych evals from his time at the facility, along with anything else they could piece together after he escaped. Violently, I might add.”

“I won’t say he’s devoid of empathy, or a moral compass, because we both know that that’s not true,” Stark explained, then muttered under his breath: “Even if his senses of both concepts are seriously skewed.”

“Tony,” Natasha interjected, a note of warning in her voice. 

“Just listen, alright? I’m getting there.” Stark huffed out a sigh, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “My point is that he wasn’t like that, at the start. He was no saint, to be sure, but he wasn’t like that. It wasn’t until they started a particularly ill-inspired series of ‘tests’—though I’d argue a better term would be ‘torture sessions’—to assess his healing capabilities that he really started losing his marbles.”

You head was beginning to spin. Your jaw ached from clenching it so hard. Who were they talking about? 

“See, because his capabilities—extraordinary as they were—weren’t superhuman. They didn’t transcend healing itself, let alone make it any less painful to endure. In fact, I think they actually concluded that it was made more painful by his body’s ability to undertake those processes at such an expeditious rate.” Stark breathed out another heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he could feel a headache brewing. 

He wasn’t the only one. 

“He nearly went insane, Natasha. Joking aside, it almost beggars belief that he’s as high-functioning as he is,” Stark asserted, no longer pulling his punches. “I know you don’t want that for them.”

It was silent for a beat… Then two. 

“Fine.”

Stark promptly quieted, renewed interest sparking itself alight in his gaze. “What was that now?”

“I said, ‘Fine.’”

A slow grin spread across his clean-shaven features. 

“No opioids,” Natasha was quick to amend. “Nothing addictive. Just… anything that’ll help more than it’ll hurt.”

Silence for a beat. Then two. 

Stark squinted at her. “You sure you and that bleeding heart of yours are up for this?”

Natasha’s grip around your nape tightened even further. “Shellhead,” she gritted out, her tone hard as weathered steel. Even the sound of it was enough to send chills down your spine. 

Stark, in contrast, was not at all similarly affected. He simply tilted his head to one side and made a show of continuing to appraise her with shrewd, assessing eyes. Then, finally: “You should try yoga.”

— —

end notes: L O fucking L

also the anthropomorphic whack job they’re talking about is logan (wolverine) from x-men, in case you’re wondering 

edit: i’ve since written a continuation of this, linked below!

translation of russian terms (with stresses bolded):

ко мне | ko mnye | “come”

молодец | molodyets | excellent, good

sources:

“organized crime in eastern europe” | to be so clear, i just made up “bratyerstva” from the term “братство” (bratstvo) which means “brotherhood” or “fraternity” in bulgarian, macedonian, russian, and serbo-croatian dialects. it is also the name of a ukrainian political party (ukrainian: братство, romanized: bratstvo), but it is not an actual belarusian word. it also bears some resemblance to братва, a slang term used to refer to criminal gangs in russia and other ex-ussr states. honestly, the closest you’d probably get to an actual word with this would be the polish “braterstwo” (brahterstvo) which also means “brotherhood” or “fraternity.” (however, in some informal contexts, the term “братерство” has been used in ukrainian dialects to convey synonymous meanings.) anyway, this is a brief snippet (~10 pages) from an academic article about organized crime in eastern europe, if the precedent behind all that intrigues you. i thought it was pretty informative!

white russia | another name for belarus, though there’s some controversy/nuance to that (and big surprise, it’s got everything to do with russia). this links to an article from euronews talking about... all of that

draniki | an immensely popular dish in belarus. they’re basically potato pancakes. several other european countries have close equivalents. 

— —

next part: come, sit, stay

link to masterlist

[flagwars]

Finland City Flag Wars: Round 1

This tournament is being held in honor of Finnish flags winning two recent tournaments in a row: South Ostrobothnia in the Regional Flag Wars and Helsinki in the Olympic Flag Wars! I will eventually be holding a tournament focusing on Finnish municipal heraldry, as there are many cities in Finland with unique coats of arms. I held a poll recently to see which tournament my followers were more interested in, and the city flag tournament won, but the poll was close enough that I’ve decided to do the heraldry tournament as well sometime. Let me know in the comments which city in Finland has the best flag!

Round 1:

1. Pori, Satakunta vs. Vantaa, Uusimaa vs. Vårdö, Åland

2. Hamina, Kymenlaakso vs. Kokkola, Central Ostrobothnia vs. Mariehamn, Åland

3. Joensuu, North Karelia vs. Pyhäranta, Southwest Finland vs. Hyvinkää, Uusimaa

4. Raseborg, Uusimaa vs. Föglö, Åland vs. Raisio, Southwest Finland

5. Rauma, Satakunta vs. Oulu, North Ostrobothnia vs. Vaasa, Ostrobothnia

6. Tampere, Pirkanmaa vs. Lieksa, North Karelia vs. Pyhäjoki, North Ostrobothnia vs. Turku, Southwest Finland

7. Saarijärvi, Central Finland vs. Rusko, Southwest Finland vs. Heinola, Päijät-Häme vs. Iisalmi, North Savo

8. Rovaniemi, Lapland vs. Helsinki, Uusimaa vs. Kimitoön, Southwest Finland vs. Jakobstad, Ostrobothnia

[auguste-marmonts-only-fan]

Exclusive pictures from Marmonts memoirs ( croatian addition)

Hello hello!

I got my hands on a physical copy of Marmonts memoirs (book 9 - the Iliriyan provinces)

And there are some exclusive pictures that can't be found on the Internet- I'm going to upload them so more people from around the globe can see them 🫶✨️

Marmonts seal/ coat of arms

The original front page of Marmonts first addition memoirs

Napoleons portrait that was gifted to the Franciscans of Šibenik (pronounced: She-benic)

A map of the roads from the itinerary of the French troops

A order prohibiting boarding of Russian ships

A picture showing the liberation of Dubrovnik from the Russian-Montenegrin siege

Plan of urban development of the Split coast

Medals of the Municipality of Split in honor of Marshal Marmont

Sketch of the Marmont memorial pyramid in Makarska

Photo of Marmont riding a horse (made by a resident of the Iliriyan provinces)

.....there will be a part two...

[nesiacha]

Relations Between Gracchus Babeuf and Jean-Paul Marat

After relaying Babeuf's opinion of Napoleon here https://www.tumblr.com/nesiacha/767626191447392256/the-journey-of-the-forgotten-french-revolutionary?source=share

It seemed important to me, after having mentioned Albertine Marat, to say what relationships and opinions Jean-Paul Marat and Gracchus Babeuf may have had.

Gracchus Babeuf and Jean-Paul Marat had a rather complex relationship. In fact, Gracchus Babeuf was arrested in 1790 for, as he stated, “having supported that the French, being free, could sow motions in the streets and tobacco in the fields. He was taken from his bed in the night by an armed squad with the secrecy and violence once used by Sartine and Le Noir; and he was dragged from Roye to Paris, where he was incarcerated under an order from the Court of Aids, combined with the Committee of Searches” (National and Political Journal, directed by Salomon [his real name: Antoine de Rivarol, 1743-1801] and before him by Antoine Sabatier de Castres, No. 3, Cambrai, July 1790). He wrote to Marat to inform him of his conditions of detention, arbitrary decisions, and Marat published his correspondence with Babeuf: "These unfortunate individuals were each thrown into a separate dungeon, where they were shackled, and all imaginable precautions were taken to prevent any communication. What are they accused of? Who issued the orders? Why were short-coated horsemen used instead of the National Guard? Why these barbaric precautions, these violations of the home in the dark of night, to drag the poor from their sleep, who appeared to be living without reproach and peacefully in their families? Who could have caused this alarm, fear, and pain? Why this gloomy, dark, frightening procession? Why these chains, these black cells? Why this sequestration of each prisoner, of the rest of the living? Why, why, why? … Important questions raised by these alarming acts of despotism and barbarism, to which every good citizen awaits an answer.” (Babeuf, in L'Ami du Peuple, No. 138, June 19, 1790). Historian Jean Marc Schiappa claims that Marat continued to support Babeuf’s release.

However, there were differences in their opinions, and at times, they harshly criticized each other. An example is the "Joly affair", one of the secretaries of the municipality (unfortunately, I was unable to access the full document due to technical issues, but I will send you the link). They also disagreed in their critiques of Necker, despite both being opposed to him. Marat accused Necker, according to Babeuf's correspondence, of having “sought to restore the chains of despotism to the King, having ceased to appear as the defender of the People at the very moment when his enthusiasm had rehabilitated him; of having cowardly abandoned, in order to solicit clemency for the traitors to the Homeland, the blind trust of this devoted People whose loud demands had brought him back from exile. He had even gone so far as to lead the vile monopolizers, and barbarically tried to make the People perish from hunger.” Babeuf responded, saying: "If Mr. Marat’s grievances were valid, if he could prove what he claims, if while France believed him to be the virtuous Minister and the honest man par excellence, he had the talent to discern a traitor cloaked in the mantle of hypocrisy, and was capable of clearly exposing his black deeds and criminal machinations, his denunciation would become an act of courage and true patriotism, for which the Nation would owe him eternal gratitude. But if this act is merely a slanderous attack aimed at sowing distrust towards an administrator who has become the idol of the Kingdom, such an offense cannot be punished too harshly. Mr. Marat will need strong evidence to justify his accusations when the feelings inspired by the person he accuses are such that the French would hesitate to believe he could do harm, as though they saw him committing it. It will not be with epithets like 'foolishly adored minister,' 'ambitious intriguer,' or 'knight of industry,' and other similar terms that he can make an impression; but with the evidence, which prudence requires always to support anyone who dares to act as a denouncer." Moreover, while Marat constantly attacked Necker, he was also opposed to the maximum and the establishment of stable prices in February 1793, according to Daline (a policy favored by the Hébertists, close to Babeuf, such as Chaumette), while Babeuf, according to Daline's excerpt, believed that the only way to solve the supply difficulties was "taxation," the establishment of stable prices. In his correspondence, he wrote: “Until we come to more decisive taxation, we will always be at risk of shortages, and no committee of provisions will stop us from suffering hunger.” The unfinished manuscript also contains interesting observations by Babeuf about the grain market of Santerre in Picardy, France, as he tried to understand why the grain coming from there to Paris was not reaching the capital.

But in 1793, a kind of rupture occurred between Babeuf and Marat. Mathiez claims it was an act of ingratitude on Babeuf's part toward Marat, but Victor Daline sees it differently. It is important to also understand the private context of Babeuf’s life: his wife Marie-Anne Babeuf , who was his political right-hand (a fervent political activist in her own right), had to give up part of their family credit to pay off creditors, even though they had three children (their daughter Sophie would die of famine two years later in February 1795, to their great sorrow). They were helped by a friend of theirs, Claude Fournier, known as "the American" (another revolutionary figure at the time). In a pamphlet, C. Fournier (the American) wrote to Marat: "Marat, you are not the Friend of the People. True friends of the People do not lightly denounce the best patriots. (…) If you are truly the Friend of the People, if you are truly of that unfortunate portion that has done everything and for whom nothing has yet been done for four years, to whom it seems that no one has even thought of helping, be constantly in the tribune, make it a permanent station, and do not leave until you have achieved what Duchosal and Tallien, friends of the sans-culottes, have dared to ask: THE COMFORT OF THE INDIGENT CLASS, etc..." Dommanget points to a contradiction between Babeuf’s praise of Marat and his attack on him. But let us not forget that Babeuf believed that friendship should not spare criticism. As for his critique of Tallien, he was forced to show that Marat was right in my opinion to present Tallien as “a greedy intriguer seeking positions” (Manceron, 1989). According to Eric Walter, later, Babeuf would break with Tallien, seeing him for what he really was, starting in December 1794. He attacked the world of the Directory in his Tribune du Peuple journal, calling it “fakery” and “mercantile,” and the “empire of the frisure” and the “legislation of the wig” (No. 28). He then attacked Theresia Tallien as a “Messalina,” a “Pompadour,” an “Antoinette,” and other “Venus-Dubarry,” while addressing his fellow citizens: “Frenchmen, you have returned under the reign of the courtesans” (No. 29). (This is quite sexist on Babeuf's part, and I say this while not liking Theresia Tallien at all, but he would have done better to attack her on political grounds, where there was so much to criticize, even if the fact that he saw his daughter slowly starving to death while these people lived in corruption without being able to do anything about it may have fueled his anger. This is clearly not his finest moment, which is an understatement). When Marat was alive, he would speak of "creating a great scandal" in such situations, while Babeuf says he will break windows, “the Tribune of the People here breaks the windows and releases all the important truths” (No. 29).

However, Daline explains that while Babeuf was harsh in his critiques, it did not prevent him from having friendship or admiration for those he truly admired; he just expressed his opinion clearly, even if it was unpleasant for the person he considered a friend. At times, Marat was right about Tallien, while other times it was Babeuf who sought to see beyond Necker's record. Moreover, Babeuf, who received a warm welcome in Picardy, liked the nickname "Marat of Picardy" and was popular there.

Babeuf also had political ties with Simone Evrard and especially Albertine Marat. When Guffroy, his former ally (with whom he would sever ties, much like Fouché), betrayed him, Babeuf, in his own words, “went to the refuge of the family of the Friend of the People. I felt the involuntary movement that pushed me in my distress towards the sanctuary of liberty. I told the widow and sister of Marat what had just happened to the one who had tried to follow in his footsteps.” Albertine Marat would form political ties with Gracchus Babeuf. Albertine Marat was a subscriber to Le Tribun du Peuple, and it was Babeuf who published her letter against Fréron. Babeuf would say of Albertine Marat, "The sister of the Friend of the People has taken a truly wise course: it is good, it is useful that one should follow her..." He also paid tribute to all mothers who “dedicate their entire days to prevent us from starving” and said of them, “But beware, women, whom we have degraded, without whom, however, and without their courage on the 5th and 6th of October, we might not have had freedom!”

Sources:

Eric Walter

Jean-Marc Schiappa

Victor Daline

https://www.jstor.org/stable/41926004?read-now=1&seq=20#page_scan_tab_contents

[napoleonyaoi]

Assortment of coat of arms belonging to valencian municipalities in the comarca of La Marina Alta, Alacant province, eastern coast of Spain + its provincial shield

Pedreguer / Alcalalí / Castell de Castells

Calp / Murla / Alacant

[the-inkwell-variable]

sunday snippet ✧･ﾟ

I just really like this snippet okay here you go

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Glendara’s home was as extravagant as she was and excessive to a fault.  Three stories tall, although she’d lived alone for as long as anyone could remember, and coated in white paint - not whitewash, which was relatively cheap and used by many people around town, but white paint, silky and rich, that cost an arm and a leg and could only be imported from the capital.  The house had more windows than it needed and a wrap-around porch that she often hosted grand events on.

Now the house was full ablaze, wreathed in blinding flames that licked and spat and crackled their way through every inch of wood and mortar.  A good thirty people lined up before the inferno, passing buckets dutifully back and forth from the municipal well to hurl on the flames.  Hendryk was one of them; she could see him from half a block away.  He stood out like a sore thumb.  Lochmallow had a diverse citizenry, but she and Hendryk were the only ones with blue skin, grooved horns, and thick tails.

Amara, Rose, and Rinarv huddled several yards away, their backs cold despite the burning heat that pulsed against their front halves.  Though Glendara had declared them mortal enemies, she couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for the high elf.  Everything the woman owned was going up in smoke.  She knew what that was like - it had happened to her twice, after all.

“Couldn’t have happened to a finer person,” Rinarv declared with a sniff.

“Rinarv!  How could you!” Rose gasped.

“I mean it.”  She folded one arm over her chest and stroked her beard with the other.  “Glendara has been a thorn in everyone’s side for as long as I can remember.  She has more enemies than friends.  I’m surprised this hasn’t happened sooner, to be honest.  It’s exactly what a tikund like her deserves.”

Rose said nothing but shook her head, pulling her thick shawl tighter over her shoulders.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

taglist: @theink-stainedfolk and @drchenquill, ask to be added!

[rabbitcruiser]

Calgary City Hall and Calgary Municipal Building (No. 2)

Calgary City Hall (often called Old City Hall or Historic City Hall), is the seat of government for Calgary City Council, located in the city's downtown core of Calgary, Alberta, Canada. The historic building completed in 1911 serves as the offices for Calgary City Council, consisting of the office of the Mayor, fourteen Councillors and municipal Clerk. Calgary City Hall originally housed the municipal council and portions of administration from its completion in 1911 until the construction of the Calgary Municipal Building adjacent to Old City Hall in 1985, which currently houses the offices of 2,000 civic administrators.

Calgary City Hall is designated a National Historic Sites of Canada, as well as a Provincial Historical Resource, and Municipal Historical Resource.

Calgary City Hall was designed by architect William M. Dodd to reflect Calgary's role as the urban centre in Southern Alberta. Dodd was known partnering with Edward Collis Hopkins to design Regina City Hall (which was demolished in 1965), along with his other designs in Calgary caught the attention of Calgary City Council. Dodd designed the building to embody Richardsonian Romanesque architectural style, with a symmetrical form with an elevated main floor, and includes a single clock tower with a Seth Thomas Clock installed, heavy stone exterior walls, bands of recessed windows, a recessed main entrance, stone arches and keystones above many windows and entries carved with the City's coat-of-arms. Notable interior elements include a highly ornamental cast-iron staircase and sky-lit rotundas.

Source: Wikipedia

[mapsontheweb]

Communes/municipalities of Chile and their coat of arms.

by Optivicente765

[o-craven-canto]

Ea, Our Second Chance (16)

16. Ean heraldry

(Index)

(< 15. Dissection of trepangfish)

(original page)

« ... He doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus, and we petty men walk under his huge legs, and peep about to find ourselves dishonorable graves. » – Cassius, in William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act I, Scene II

« As the Romans knew well when they spoke of virtus, or the troubadours of valor, the worth of the sovereign is the same as his strength. Weak leaders terrorize their subjects, because they fear them; strong leaders want their people to walk with straight backs and eyes held high. Weak leaders keep their subjects quiet, because they have many mistakes to hide; strong leaders do not fear the truth. Weak leaders make their subjects work with the cane and the lash; strong leaders are served out of love. » – emperor Charles Saïd, A House Built on Sand

« There once was a fellow named Chuck / who was poor, ugly, and [redacted]-out-of-luck / He couldn't get laid / so he became king instead / just so he could find someone to [redacted] » – seditious rhyme of probable Pandavan origin, registered by the municipal police of Carcassonne, circa 310 AL

« One of Caesar Saïd's most ambitious accomplishments was the creation of a whole iconography from the ground up. Immediately after the Peacemaking Wars, he faced the need to strike a careful balance between the continuity of tradition with the culture of Earth, and the novelty of an empire of which he could be credited as true founder and maker... He would eventually resolve in favor of using organisms from this world, as popular choices from Earth's cultures such as eagles, lions, and bears meant little to the vast majority of his new subjects... Although it's interesting to notice that most of Saïd's heraldic beasts are in fact natives of Inanna, closer in location to the bureaucratic dreariness of Landing Point than to the fable spires of Montsalvat, but in the position of making the deepest impression upon the first generations of settlers.

... The springbear is an obvious symbol of overwhelming power. Like Hobbes' Leviathan, it can crush anything under its weight... As noted in Belvedere's recent work, it also represents an explicitely masculine incarnation of strength... Two charging springbears form visually the supporting columns of Saïd's personal coat-of-arms, strength channeled for the benefit of the Kingdom. The fact that no species of springbear is native to the Ninkasi Land does not lessen its significance anymore than the local lack of lions or, for that matter, unicorns lessened that of the British coat-of-arms on Earth.

... The colossal anzu-bird, which Saïd made a point of hunting personally in his harpoon-glider during his visit to Makka al-Jadida, justifies its own place in any heraldic system created on this planet... Named after the Mesopotamian harbinger of thunderstorms, the anzu combines extraordinary power and lightness, the qualities of an empire that must be at once immovable and dynamic; although at the same time its ungainly locomotion makes it extremely vulnerable on the ground... Its eye, in particular, caught the attention of poets and semiurges... ceaselessly staring at the blinding light of Utu, and nothing else, as the anzu fears no attack from above... The anzu-eye, as depicted for example on the chapels of Carcassonne and the ancestral shrines of Shangdu, is not merely a symbol of looking fearlessly into the sublime, but one that is purely an end in itself, with no need of practical justifications... In this sense it is contrasted with the anzu's olfactory flaps, distended in flight to detect food on the ground... In fact, the anzu is mainly a scavenger which, like Earth's vultures, uses its gliding capacity to cross the desert in search of carcasses, although it has been known to kill and eat living animals. The satyrical song "La Bravoure de l'Anzû", for broadcasting which Cyrus Yoshida was sentenced to sixty canestrikes in 266 AL, exaggerates its "cowardly" qualities, thus inverting its whole symbolic meaning...

... The honeybee was used by Napoleon and the early Mormons as symbol of industriousness and communal living (cf. the beehive structure of the townhall in New Zion)... In Ninkasi, its place is taken by the nest-building kirikits, who routinely risk their lives to gather food for their colony and defend it from predators. With their characteristic three hands and crude tool use, kirikits also add a connotation of intelligence that is lacking in bees... A colony of kirikits, almost two hundred members strong, is kept in the courtyard of the Imperial College in Mediolanum, making its nest on a grove of walnuts. The kirikit figures prominently on the College's paperwork...

... The use of the flute tree as symbol of pride and sturdiness is subtler, as it's not the whole plant, but rather the texture of its trunk that is used in heraldics... The peculiar "flute-bark" pattern (circles or ovals arranged in rosettes) is found on the ducal banners of Palmyra, the livery of land-based military officers, the porphyry paneling of the Ara Patrum... The apparent breaches or injuries in the trunk of flute trees are, of course, carefully crafted by nature to strengthen the trees, channeling the wind that would otherwise uproot them, and creating the lugubrious wail that resounds in the woods around Lake Svarog. This is exactly the trick employed by the architects of Palmyra for its high-rise towers, and by Sporean engineers for their arcologies, and serves as an excellent icon of resistance in the face of adversity.

... Saïd never quite justified his choice of the blue nova (Ouranthus cyaneus) as the Kingdom's official "flower"... It may have been a simple matter of personal preference. There are anecdotes about a young Saïd taking shelter in a grove of blue novae after being wounded in the Battle of the Sherida River... Richter has hypothesized a connection with the "Blaue Blume" of ancient German Romanticism, a symbol of longing and striving for the infinite, a fitting illustration of the motto Aut Caesar Aut Nihil... Less convincingly, Hrabe argues that the nine-fold symmetry of the plant-top might refer to the nine dukedoms of the Kingdom... »

– Theophilus Singh, Historical Compendium of the Celestial Kingdom, volume I, chapter IX, 276 AL

« I had a scaffold built just outside of Water's Edge [Byzantium], near where the river Sherida meets the waves of Rahab. The beauties of Ninkasi Land had fueled only corruption and debauchery for far too long an age [...] Three hundred prisoners, the worst criminals I could find in the long years of war, were brought there on open cars. Pirates, druglords, highwaymen, mobsters, terrorists, skilled in the crafts of murder, robbery, rape, and torture; those whose crimes were beyond pardon, those who could not be allowed to live in My Kingdom nor loosed upon other nations.

I had a theatre prepared around the scaffold. Nothing more than a few hundred folding chairs and fundamental facilities for the businessmen, the townheads, the landlords, and the scholars of Ninkasi. [...] Twenty by twenty the criminals went to the scaffold. My own black-gloved hand triggered the mechanism; they fell through the floor; the rope wrung their necks; and they died. Many of My men, who had suffered all manners of cruelties and indignities by their hand, regretted only that they would go so quickly to their final and greater Judge.

Other twenty came after, and then twenty more, until their whole number of three hundred was consumed. Some found some dignity in their final hour; some, who had never wept for another, wept for themselves; and some fell cursing God and Man, perjurying their innocence, and offering other, better lives in their stead. [...] Their bodies were buried on the shore under a great black stone, where good people still fear to tread. [...]

When the clocktower of Water's Edge struck one, I bade the witnesses rise. They would swear an oath of fealty to Me, and serve as My ministers and vassals, or simply My subjects; or they would leave the borders of the Kingdom forever, and forfeit any property they could not carry out within 48 hours. [...] A Joseon-born businessman, who had enjoyed much profit from the sale of unwilling services, said that I could not consider free an oath taken on pain of losing all of one's life's work. «Vae victis,» I responded; «It is only by My mercy that you are given this choice».

Four fifths of the present took the oath. The Europeans genuflected, the Americans saluted, the Chinese kowtowed, the Japanese bowed. All these gestures have the same meaning, and I accepted them equally. The rest was escorted to their homes to prepare their departure to our new borders. [...] My men, the children of Ninkasi, raised their guns, and thrice they cried as one: «Vive l'Empereur! Vive César Saïd!» A salvo of artillery made the distant hills tremble. The drone fleet traced My coat-of-arms in the skies.

Nine months later, the ground where Cutter's Bend once stood had been cleared of all contamination; and upon the basement of its ruins Montsalvat now glittered with marble and silver. There I kissed the hand of His Holiness Neophytus III; and there, after twenty-seven years of blood, sweat, and tears, the Titanium Crown finally rested on My brow. »

– Emperor Charles Saïd, quoted in Theophilus Singh, Historical Compendium of the Celestial Kingdom, volume III, chapter XIV, 279 AL

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Coat of Arms of Brazilian Cities Generally Value Economy over Nature

Native species are rarely highlighted, shows study with over 5,000 municipal symbols

The coat of arms of more than 5,000 cities in Brazil can be "read" as a chronicle of Brazilians' relationship with the country's natural environments, suggests a new study. The bad news is that, to a large extent, this relationship is portrayed with predatory undertones: the vast majority of municipal symbols highlight lucrative crops, natural resource extraction, and livestock, while native species are rarely exalted.

The analysis, which mapped the elements that compose the coats of arms of 5,197 Brazilian municipalities (93.3% of the total), was published in an article in the specialized journal "Anais da Academia Brasileira de Ciências." The work was coordinated by Juliano André Bogoni, from the State University of Mato Grosso, and involved colleagues from USP, UFSC (Federal University of Santa Catarina), Instituto Juruá (AM), and Instituto Pró-Carnívoros (SP). Bogoni told Folha that the idea for the research began to take shape when he found a mug from the 1970s depicting the coat of arms of his hometown, Ipumirim, in the interior of Santa Catarina.

To map the "historical ecology" of the country based on the coats of arms, the team counted the presence of different categories of elements in them: native fauna, flora, use of natural resources, agricultural practices, types of crops, types of livestock, landscapes (rivers, lagoons, etc.), allusions to indigenous and African culture, and types of fishing, among others.

The analysis of this multitude of data showed that, in a sense, the coats of arms are strangely monothematic. Almost half of the symbols present in them (48.6%) are representations linked to agriculture, for example. After that comes the extraction of natural resources (30.5%) and livestock farming (30.5%).

Continue reading.

[quillowisp]

From my Phandelver and Below: Shattered Obelisk handout pack on Etsy.

The Henlifel Crest that is mentioned in passing like once in the campaign. It's originally supposed to be only a lizard's head but then I saw one of the coat of arms for a municipality called Ötisheim which had this amazing lizard on it and I could not resist basically copying it

[flagwars]

2023 New Czech Flag Wars: Round 1

This tournament will decide the best Czech municipal flag adopted in 2023! It will be followed by the 2023 New Flag Wars, in which new flags of any country will be included and the winner of this tournament also be in that competition. The images of these flags will not be especially high quality, as these are the only scans available of most of the flags. If you are interested in the flags, check out this list of every new Czech flag and coat of arms adopted this year here.

Round 1:

1. Věžnička vs. Onšov vs. Přerov nad Labem vs. Tuněchody vs. Chlumec nad Cidlinou

2. Skopytce vs. Kosořice vs. Žerůtky vs. Boleradice vs. Milíčov

3. Vacovice vs. Lom vs. Dědová vs. Uzeničky vs. Loučeň

4. Lety vs. Dobršín vs. Kotopeky vs. Děčany vs. Hlavatce

5. Dlouhopolsko vs. Jihlávka vs. Bavoryně vs. Tržek vs. Mladé Bříště

6. Drahotěšice vs. Lobeč vs. Křečhoř vs. Volevčice vs. Bojanovice

7. Lány u Dašic vs. Kasalice vs. Smilkov vs. Chlístov vs. Županovice

8. Dobrná vs. Nová Ves nad Lužnicí vs. Mšec vs. Sruby vs. Kozlovice

9. Bušanovice vs. Březiny vs. Kunčice vs. Zábřezí-Řečice vs. Zvěrotice

10. Veltěže vs. Vémyslice vs. Nelepeč-Žernůvka vs. Měcholupy vs. Kosičky

11. Bechlín vs. Čkyně vs. Milostín vs. Harrachov vs. Malé Výkleky

12. Sobotka vs. Rodná vs. Budeč vs. Katusice vs. Mohelnice

13. Borovná vs. Člunek vs. Tužice vs. Bílovice-Lutotín

14. Drnek vs. Mezihoří vs. Dobrá Voda vs. Chuderov

15. Brťov-Jeneč vs. Krhov vs. Nová Ves nad Nisou vs. Horčápsko

16. Horky vs. Karlštejn vs. Kbelnice vs. Horušice vs. Doupě

[zvetenze]

Stara kuća, ul. Šumaska 29 18th century dwelling

Ogar, Vojvodina

Ogar is a village in the municipality of Pečinci in the Srem district of southwest Vojvodina. The dwelling dates back to the end of the 18th century. It was constructed of wood frame, soft brick and wattle & daub covered with a plaster coating (bondruk) and has an earthen floor in all rooms. The roof framing and northern (street front) wooden infill decorative paneling below the gabled roof was constructed of oak. The decorative panel contains carvings in the banding and a coat-of-arms in the central square. Storks built a nest on top of the chimney. (sketch 1988 by author)