#source: metropolitan

[jokeroutsubs]

[ENG SUB] 🎈Birthday special🍰Bojan Cvjetićanin interview for Metropolitan (15.11.2024)

🔴 PREMIERE TOMORROW AT 6PM CET!

Bojan talks to podcast host Živa Avžner about coffee, tea, lounging around in his underpants, Joker Out's third studio album, where he finds inspiration, how he deals with vulnerability, the band dynamics, and much more.

[starry-bi-sky]

okay so i was thinking of a joke earlier about how in DPDC Amity Park's slogan "a great place to live" is not only city propaganda but also the city lording it over the rest of America for being normal. But then I remembered that, despite how many DCU Cities with heroes in it there are, the amount of cities in America without heroes still far outnumber the amount of cities in America WITH heroes.

So I did a little digging so the joke would still land. Something most heroes have in common is that they operate in major cities. What makes a major city? I found that the general consensus is that the population is roughly over or around a million. THEN I looked up the populations of cities in the DCU that I thought of off the top of my head. So Gotham, Metropolis, Starling City, Central City, Jump City. All of them ranked up to millions in population (most of them were in the tens of millions).

Amity Park's wikipedia describes it as being similar to specifically Philadelphia, Chicago, and San Francisco.

Philadelphia's Population: 1.576 million as of 2021 Chicago's Population: 2.697 million as of 2021 San Francisco: 815,201 as of 2021

Whiiich means that Amity Park if we take that from canon, is probably a major city. There are approximately 19,000 cities in America with probably less than a hundred that are major cities. Adding the DCU major cities wouldn't skew the data too much.

Which MEANS that I can make the joke that Amity Park's "great place to live" is not only just typical city propaganda, but also its Amity Park lording it over the other major cities for being one of the only major cities that doesn't have problems bad enough to warrant a superhero or a vigilante. Cue stage left the Fentons and Phantom :)

Amity Parkers were probably SO proud that they didn't need a superhero. They didn't have to worry about things like 'world ending threats' and 'super-powered individuals' and 'staggering property damage'. And then enter Fentons.

It also could be used as an excuse for why nobody took notice to Amity Park getting ghosts if folks like me aren't huge fans of the notion of a media blackout via Tucker, Technus, or the US Government. Or if you want to keep Amity Park as its urban city self. Amity Park's news on ghosts gets drowned out in a week because there's news on more popular, well-known cities going on every other day. The shit going on in Amity Park is every other major city's regular Tuesday and it gets filtered as such.

[p-redux]

New source INFO regarding Sam Heughan at Keepers of the Quaich US event in New York-The Metropolitan Club, October 4, 2023! Via New York Source. Stay tuned for Sam pics, hopefully.

Sam's wearing a KILT. I repeat, Sam is wearing a KILT!

[kommabortsig]

Vasilisa_the_Beautiful_(Zvorykin)_04.jpg

[chadlesbianjasontodd]

silver-gilt belt ornament with horse-like mythical creature. eastern zhou, warring states period or qin dynasty (3rd century bce).

[memories-of-ancients]

Gold necklace inset with gem (source does not say what kind), Java, Indonesia, 8th-10th century

from The Metropolitan Museum of Art

[dailyoverview]

Seattle–Tacoma International Airport, also known as Sea–Tac, is the primary commercial airport serving the metropolitan area of Seattle, Washington. It is one of the busiest airports in the U.S. and in 2024 served an all-time record 52.6 million passengers. This Overview shows the airport’s central terminal, which contains most of its 103 gates.

47.448889°, -122.309444°

Source imagery: Nearmap

[jokeroutsubs]

[📝ENG Translation] The boys from Joker Out as you haven’t seen them before: "We allowed ourselves complete freedom"

Original article written for Metropolitan, published 13.12.2024. English translation by @chaosofsmarty, review by drumbeat, proofread by IG Gboleyn123.

Article below the cut 👇

Joker Out returned a few days ago from a successful tour of the wider region, where they presented the third studio album 'Souvenir Pop' for the first time. Before the end of the year they're releasing the music video for the song 'Stephanie', which reveals, with fresh energy and humour, how playful and relaxed the 'jokers' can be.

We allowed ourselves complete freedom - we wanted to create something lighthearted, fun and different. The result is a video that doesn't follow the rules, but shows what we're like in the moments when we're simply having fun,' say the members of the band Joker Out.

The music video initially didn't have a clear plot. But when the five of them arrived at the studio, director Mark Pirc started pulling wigs, costumes and props from the warehouse of Studio 7, which led to the fun idea: in the story Jure (Maček) hits his head, passes out and starts dreaming about a world where he's fully enjoying himself.

Four mysterious beings appear in the dreams, named Stephanie, portrayed by Jan, Kris, Bojan and Nace, while Jure, like in real life, rides a motorbike. Everything was filmed with a lot of creative energy and a good mood, despite the physical limitations of 'flying through the air'.

The music video differs greatly from previous video productions. Instead of clean and aesthetic shots the informal look of a handheld camera prevails this time, with text and an authentic, raw style. It's also unique due to its easygoing, humorous approach - the band members don't take themselves as seriously this time as in the previous projects.

Ph: Primož Lukežić

The song 'Stephanie' is the fifth song from their recent album 'Souvenir Pop'. The third studio album brought great hits, such as 'Carpe Diem', 'Everybody's waiting', 'Šta bih ja' and 'Bluza', as well as concert favourites, such as 'Muzika za decu'. The album received amazing local and foreign reviews and has already been featured in some yearly album release overviews. For example, the Croatian music site, Muzika.hr awarded it second place in the list of best local and regional albums of 2024.

[resplendentoutfit]

The Carrick Coat

James Tissot (French, 1836-1902) • On the Ferry Waiting • c.1878 • Private collection

A Carrick or Garrick (in Great Britain) is an overcoat with three to five cape collars, worn by both men and women primarily for travel and riding, in the 19th century.

Artist unknown. Costume Parisien. Chapeau de Velours. Carrick et Guêtres de Drap., 1816. Hand-coloured engraving. London: Victoria and Albert Museum

Sources:

Fashion History Timeline

Metropolitan Museum of Art

[zyafics]

DEAD MAN WALKING | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Series)

Pairing —Mafia Boss x Doctor!Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — When Rafe gets injured in a shootout, he can't make it home in time to save his life. However, it's just his luck to find a medical student walking out of her shift from the hospital. When he threatens you to save him, you do, but when he returns to uncover that the wound is more deadly than it seems—time is ticking for you to find a cure or die.

Content — 18+, explicit (to be determined).

It's late.

A consequence of staying overtime. Most medical students from your program left after their shift ended, but not you. You wanted more—to shadow surgeries behind spectator glass, to listen to pagers' on-calls, to follow the path of grunt work—because you believe in learning from the bottom up. It wasn't until one of the residents forcefully removed you from a debrief and mandated you to go home and rest that you finally left.

Exiting the hospital, a cool wind breezes over your exposed arms, causing goosebumps to rise. The night is dusky and grim; thick clouds envelop the dark sky, amplifying the fainted glow of lights streaming through the open windows of apartment buildings. Very few cars are passing through the main road, despite your place of work being in the center of the metropolitan area. It's empty. Quiet. Odd.

The parking lot is mostly vacated, except for a few residents' vehicles that have to stay for their hours. You don't own a car, utilizing the city's local public transportation system instead, and thankfully, there's a bus stop across from the hospital.

Your footsteps click against the concrete, each step bringing you closer to your destination, but something in your stomach churns with nausea. Something feels off. The stillness of the night isn't a common occurrence in a lively city bursting with mayhem. But before you can calm your mind—a distinct click is heard, followed by the cold press of a metal handle against the back of your skull.

Your breath hitches.

A gruff, masculine voice orders. "Don't scream."

You want to. Desperately. But you've lived in the city long enough to know it'll do nothing. It might cause your death instead. Defying the very instinct to call for help, the bubble waiting to pop from your throat, you nod once, letting your handler know you abide by his command.

"Turn around."

Your heart pounds against your ribcage, threatening to spill. With measured breaths and cautious steps, you turn.

The sight surprises you. The man holding you in captivity is tall—and devilishly handsome. But that's not your main source of concern. It's the way he's slightly hunched over, his left hand clutching a wound that punctures his abdomen. He's bleeding. Everywhere. Staining the front of his sodden shirt, it drips onto the concrete between the cracks of his fingers.

"You a doctor?" His voice is gravel and strained as if he's holding onto his last string of life. His face is a ghastly shade of pale, uneven breaths escaping in chokes, and sweat collects on the hairline of his forehead.

"I'm–I'm a student." You answer, tripping over your own voice as he tightens his grip around his gun, his fingers trembling. For a brief moment, you consider if you should disarm him. Half of you want to help—to save a man on the brink of death, as you're training to do—but the other half remembers you're being held at gunpoint. If you try, you wonder if he's in enough pain that you can remove the weapon.

But something in his hardened gaze tells you to stay put. That his trigger finger is swifter than you'll ever be and he won't hesitate to waste a bullet.

Scoffing, as if the criteria of your resume isn't enough, he raises his arm where the barrel of the gun stares you down. Your heart skips several beats, palms growing sweaty at the implication that your lack of experience can be your end.

"I can help."

He doesn't answer, eyeing you with contempt. You're still wearing your blue scrubs, the clip of the badge hanging on your waist. You look official; a formal member of the medical faculty team. But, at the end of the day, you're still a student.

You refuse to let that be your downfall.

"I can save you," you argue, the timbre of your voice is sharp, passionate, and decisive. "Let me help."

The man says nothing. Silence stretches for the next few seconds, but it feels like decades before he makes a decision. He grabs your arm roughly, pulling you in front of him with the strength he shouldn't possess. With the gun pressed against your backside, right on your spine, he warns, "One word, one fucking scream, and I'll shoot you in the middle of the floor. Do you understand?"

You nod, swallowing the bile in your throat as you reenter the hospital, maneuvering through the floor with virtually little-to-no interactions. A blessing and a curse, the man finds an empty room and shoves you inside.

It's not a surgical suite, just a backroom with a bed and a couple of tools on a cart. You try to convince him to go to one of the rooms in the operation wing, but he refuses. When you continue to advocate, his hand grips the gun with a click—reminding you who has the power in the situation.

"Just fucking do it here," he snaps.

That's how you ended up operating on your first patient. He lays flat against the stiff hospital bed while you tear through his blood-soaked shirt, cleaning his marred skin, finding the source of the wound—a gunshot. It sits right on his ribcage, but the point of entry doesn't look like it slices through any important organs or arteries.

Despite his form, he continues to point the gun at you. His hands are steadier, but his eyes waver with each probe and poke of your tools. Your breathing is scarce, and uneven as you try to focus on the task at hand—but you can't, given the constant reminder that one wrong touch, one wrong move, can yield a tinge of pain that leaves him clamping down on the trigger.

"You can drop your gun now." You say offhandedly, trying to keep your composure and wits as you operate. "I'm not going to do anything."

He huffs, suspicion creasing his brows. "Not a chance."

"I'm saying it'll be better for you." You instruct, voicing your reason from a place of logic rather than a plight of fear. "You need to relax."

"I'll relax once you get this bullet out of me," he rasps, gripping the weapon tighter, as a child with a stuffed animal would after a hellish nightmare. Your eyes glance down at the gun, how it's aimed directly at your heart, before dropping back to his chest.

"You're not going to kill me."

He doesn't answer immediately. A pinch of fear surges through your veins before he says, "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm trying to save your life." You keep your voice steady, despite the low tremor rattling your chest. False confidence is the only thing keeping you going. "And I won't cause you harm. If I wanted to, I would've already."

Silence persists, and you take it as a chance to solidify your argument, from a humane perspective. "And I can't focus if you keep pointing that gun at me. I'll be more sloppy, and I don't want to take any chances when I barely have the right equipment as it is."

It sounds solid. At least, to your ears it does. But the man's grip on his gun doesn't waver under your advisement. You're almost certain he'll reject the idea, but when his hand slowly descends to the metal cart sitting beside him—the clank of metal-on-metal allows you to finally take a deep breath.

But before you can proceed, his now-free hand grabs your wrist. A yelp almost leaves you, but his bloodied nails dig into your skin. A warning gleams behind his gaze. "Just because I'm unarmed doesn't mean I can't kill you through other means."

You don't doubt it.

Nodding, you begin your operation. Heart thumping against your chest, you dig the forceps into the open wound, the squishing of flesh and blood fills the stillness of the room, and you navigate blindly through the gap till you graze a hard metal.

You inhale sharply, reminding yourself of your countless virtual practices, your shadowing of operations, your lucky days of standing beside certified surgeons as you hand them tools and witness the precise cut of their blade. All that training comes down to this very moment—to save yours and his life.

With a steady grip, you slowly exit, centimeter-by-centimeter, inch-by-inch, until the familiar glint of a metal gleans under the harsh operating light.

You drop the bullet, smeared with blood and a greenish hue, onto the plate next to the gun. Exhaling, you mechanically move to the next stage.

While you thread the needle through his delicate skin, closing the wound, your eyes glance down to his hands resting by his side. His knuckles are swollen and red, dried with dark blood. You can't stop yourself from asking, "What happened?"

His jaw tightens. "Why do you want to know?"

The words are sharp and harsh, a valiant attempt at shutting down any form of communication. But you persist. "I thought, since you're out of danger, you can at least explain—"

"I don't owe you shit," he barks, but this time, a hiss punctuates the end of his sentence, sending his head flying back against the bed as he grimaces through the pain and lack of anesthesia. His adrenaline must be wearing off.

Your jaw tenses, but not from his response but rather because of his reaction to his pain. Your sense of empathy has always been your weakness, especially since you're providing it to someone who held you at gunpoint and against your own will.

Deciding to redirect your focus, you're finishing the last thread of his stitching before he confesses, "Fight."

"Fight?" You echo wearily, refusing to lift your head and meet his gaze. You can already feel the heat of his stare. "Who won?"

He scoffs, but it comes out as a wheeze. "Don't be cute."

"I'm not trying to be—"

Your words are cut short by a sudden alarm blaring from the hallway. You jerk back, creating distance as you turn toward the small slanted window on the door, where flashes of men in uniforms run past.

Fear crashes into you as waves, and you turn back to the man as he turns to you—his dark blue eyes are hostile and cynical, and he regards you with the utmost suspicion.

"Who the fuck did you call?" He accuses.

Your eyes widen, "I didn't call anyone!"

"Liar."

With your erratic heartbeat in your ears, both of you glance down at the gun sitting idle on the cart. Before he even gets the chance to react, you snatch the weapon from the table, his nails grazing your hand a millisecond too late.

You push back against the opposite side of the room but because of the limited space, it does nothing to soothe the overwhelming adrenaline pulsing through your veins. Holding the gun with two hands, you direct it straight at his face.

Suspicion and doubt from both sides are at an all-time high.

He scoffs, unphased by your brave act. The gun between your hands is shaky, and your palms sweat against the heavy, smooth grip. The acknowledgment of holding something lethal between your fingertips. In his earnest attempt at getting you to give up the weapon, he mocks, "Can you even use that thing?"

You disengage the safety. "Try again."

His eyes widen, just a fraction, almost undetectable had you not been eyeing him carefully. His lips pressed together in a firm line, but almost as if you're imagining it—there's a look of intrigue.

The man pulls himself upright, shifting cautiously under the threat of your deadly aim, while his hand clutches the stitched wound. You didn't even get the chance to bandage him. It's a shame that your hard work could go to waste.

"Fucking liar."

"I didn't lie," you insist.

"The gun staring at me is making you look guilty."

"It isn't nice being on the receiving end, is it?"

His hardened features sharpen into a look of disdain, any imagination of curiosity disappears within seconds. Yet, you read into it. His eyes narrow, scrutinizing you as if you're prey to his predator, trying to gauge a formal assessment of your character. It isn't until he forces himself to look away, onto the door, that he contemplates his next plan of action.

It doesn't take a genius to decipher that the man is someone dangerous. Not just to you, but to the law. You regard his rigid posture, suggesting his uneasiness about the guards posted outside, barking orders to secure the grounds. He assumed you called the authorities, but that's far from the truth.

You didn't even have time to consider it.

Now, you're weighing all your options. If he disarms you, you'll be forced to submit to his will. That's not favorable. If he leaves without your help—which is unlikely—he'll be trotting through the halls, trying to build a cover and dodge the heightened security. That won't work either. And, if he escapes—there's no doubt he'll come back for vengeance. You can't have that either.

"The hospital is going into lockdown," you explain, keeping your gaze on his. "No one can come in and out that's not part of the staff."

He locks his jaw. One of your hands descends from the handle, moving to the pocket of your scrubs. "They're going to require a scan at each exit point, so you'll need a badge."

You remove the badge from your body, unraveling the clipper from the fabric. His darkened gaze follows while you slowly extend the tag—a peace offering of some sort.

His hand clenches by his side before his other hand reaches forward and snatches the badge from your grip. He takes his time examining the small plastic and the card inside, then lifts his head to meet your gaze with an unreadable expression. "Why?"

"I told you, I didn't call anyone," you say. "But I can tell you need to leave. I can get you out because I don't want any problems."

His breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling in unsteady beats. He doesn't say anything for the longest time, chipping away at the escape, before he drops from the bed and stands to his fullest height.

"I can't go out looking like this."

He's right. You practically shredded his shirt as you were trying to save his life. If he walks out, half-naked, barely stitched together with a bandage, regardless of the classified badge, they're going to question him.

Glancing around the room, you find a lab coat on a hook and throw it at him. He slips his arms through the long, white sleeves and covers himself up—looking presentable. Almost. If not for the light bruising on the side of his face, the swelling on his bottom lip, the swollenness of his knuckles, and the dried blood staining his fingertips.

But they won't look closely.

You think.

You back up as he steps forward, closer to the door. Peeking outside the hallway, when the coast is clear, he departs, clutching the badge in one hand and his wounded chest in the other.

It takes a few moments for it to pass, for you to truly grasp the gravity of your situation. When you finally do, you lower your aching arms, drop the gun back onto the metal cart, and exhale the largest sigh of relief.

—

It's been a week since the hospital incident.

You received a new badge, under the false pretense that you misplaced the last one, and you've been returning to a routine. You refuse to do overtime without a familiar acquaintance tagging along, and you've been catching rides from your peers from the hospital.

Afterward, the news disclosed a shootout that happened on the streets a couple blocks down from your workplace. Three people died, and the police are investigating the matter. It didn't take long for you to connect the dots of who shot who, and who walked out alive.

You've been busying yourself with life. From attending classes to producing research, to working late-night shifts at the hospital. It's been a ruthless cycle, that you've barely had time to breathe.

Walking home from one of the nearby cafes, where you're studying for your upcoming exams, you take a short stroll to your apartment. It's getting late; most of the street parking is taken, few people linger on the sidewalk, and the street lamps cast a soft glow against the brownstone of the apartment complexes.

This is a safer neighborhood, much more than your place of work. The crime rate is relatively lower, but that doesn't stop you from being on edge. Especially with your recent incident. You're cautious of your surroundings, checking every little shadow, and listening out for heavy footfalls. Your paranoia reaches its all-time high.

But nothing happens. Not today, not yesterday, and certainly not tomorrow. You turn the corner to your building, the familiar shade of your apartment allows you to catch a breath of fresh air.

Until you hear the familiar click, followed by the hard kiss of metal pressing against the base of your skull.

All the hair stands up. Your nerves are humming with fear. And you pray it's different, it's new, but your wishes are shattered the moment the gruff, harsh voice greets you, his mouth against your ear.

"Miss me?"

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

500-year-old Snake Figure from Peru (Incan Empire), c. 1450-1532 CE: this fiber craft snake was made from cotton and camelid hair, and it has a total length of 86.4cm (about 34in)

This piece was crafted by shaping a cotton core into the basic form of a snake and then wrapping it in structural cords. Colorful threads were then used to create the surface pattern, producing a zig-zag design that covers most of the snake's body. Some of its facial features were also decorated with embroidery.

A double-braided rope is attached to the distal end of the snake's body, near the tip of its tail, and another rope is attached along the ventral side, where it forms a small loop just behind the snake's lower jaw. Similar features have been found in other serpentine figures from the same region/time period, suggesting that these objects may have been designed for a common purpose.

Very little is known about the original function and significance of these artifacts; they may have been created as decorative elements, costume elements, ceremonial props, toys, gifts, grave goods, or simply as pieces of artwork.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art argues that this figure might have been used as a prop during a particular Andean tradition:

In a ritual combat known as ayllar, snakes made of wool were used as projectiles. This effigy snake may have been worn around the neck—a powerful personal adornment of the paramount Inca and his allies—until it was needed as a weapon. The wearer would then grab the cord, swing the snake, and hurl it in the direction of the opponent. The heavy head would propel the figure forward. The simultaneous release of many would produce a scenario of “flying snakes” thrown at enemies.

The same custom is described in an account from a Spanish chronicler named Cristóbal de Albornoz, who referred to the tradition as "the game of the ayllus and the Amaru" ("El juego de los ayllus y el Amaru").

The image below depicts a very similar artifact from the same region/time period.

Why Indigenous Artifacts Should be Returned to Indigenous Communities.

Sources & More Info:

Metropolitan Museum of Art: Snake Ornament

Serpent Symbology: Representations of Snakes in Art

Journal de la Société des Américanistes: El Juego de los ayllus y el Amaru

Yale University Art Gallery: Votive Fiber Sculpture of an Anaconda

[cityof2morrow]

JP Hood Deco - 60+ Buildings

Published: 2-2-2025 | Updated: N/A SUMMARY Select deco buildings (J. Puerta, 2022-2024 via Cities Skylines) with updated TXTRs and day/night states. The set contains a nice mix of residential, community, industrial, and waterfront buildings in various sizes. Higher poly buildings (9K+) are packaged separately for convenience. Mind your system settings/capacity when using high poly CC.

DETAILS Requires all EPs/SPs (may or may  not work with only 1-2 EPs) §0 | Hood Deco The MESH-TEXTURES file is REQUIRED for buildings to display properly (see download links below). See poly counts below. ITEMS LOW-TO-MID-POLY: Baltic Apts. (3456), BellyMall (9059), Bellyshops (626), Charlson Marine Dock (3468), Clappgarden (3215), CMS Systems (5246), Colson Residences 012-018 (1285-1775), Convention Center (6366), Crestview Terrace (870), Cruise Ship Terminal (5229), Cunna Center (6567), Deliver Stores (2615), District Cultural Center (4072), District Fire Station (7503), District Medical Center (2640), District Police Station (3824), DP Stores (6724), DP Stores & Offices (3833), Elementary School (1462), Hamilton House (3281), Hills View Apts. (3633), High School (5730), Jean & Food (2331), Kiip Building (7756), Lauren Residences (1644), Lily Park (7334), Local Clinic (1220), Local Fire Station (2735), Local Police Station (1406), Local Post Office (1162), Malibu Apts. (1729), Maple Avenue (1603), Marine Side Homes (8210), Marine Side Offices (8338), Metropolitan Hospital (6102), Metropolitan Library (6030), NextT Center (7582), Nu-Vulton Store (3202), Paper Corp. (2893), Pine Residences (7352), Recycling Center (4542), Rich Bank (8056), Rosaleda Hotel (8499), School Library (1652), ST27 Residences (4302), Stella Homes (3520), Tulip Residences (3945), Water Pumping Station/Pump (522-2719), Wesley Place (2668), Wonton House (2858), YDFpharma Facilities B1-B3 (3642-4612) HIGH POLY (9K+): Adler Living (12781, HIGH), Blueview Condominiums (10230, HIGH), Lifewell Ins (11127, HIGH), Rooket Homes (10970, HIGH), Rose Condominiums (9385, HIGH), Seaton Residences (10812, HIGH), ST30 Hotel & Suites (11467, HIGH), YDFpharma Offices (11813, HIGH) DOWNLOAD (choose one) MESH-TEXTURE FILE (REQUIRED) from SFS | from MEGA LOW & MID-POLY BUILDINGS from SFS | from MEGA HIGH-POLY BUILDINGS (9K+) from SFS | from MEGA

CREDITS Thanks: Thanks to Rach & Lord Crumps. Sources: Any Color You Like (CuriousB, 2010), Beyno (Korn via BBFonts), EA/Maxis, Offuturistic Infographic (Freepik), J. Puerta (2022-2024), E. Grenci (2022), AliTarGz via Cities Skylines, Cities Skylines (Paradox Interactive and Tri Synergy, 2015). *No copyright infringement intended. Converted content is for non-commercial use only. EA/Maxis own all content derived from their games, as do other game/content publishers whose work appears on this site in derivative form. If this content exceeds fair use, contact this site via private message re: TOU violations.

[eilinelsghost]

Finrod's gems are about politics not capital

I've seen an influx of posts on my dash over the last couple of weeks with some variation on "Finrod hauled jewels across the ice because he's a hedonist" or "Finrod brought all those gems because he was planning ahead to pay for stuff in Beleriand" and I'm so sorry in advance, but the soapbox is beckoning again.

The version of this I've seen most often has been that he is a metropolitan prince accustomed to operating within a transactional context and that he brings gems out from Aman to whatever awaits in Beleriand out of a shrewd calculation that he will need to buy things once he's there. And...maybe? But here's the thing. That is not what gems mean in the context of Valinor, nor is it the pretty straightforward explanation of Finrod's decision that we're given in the text.

So first off, let's talk about the gems themselves and what those would mean to Finrod in the context within which he decides to bring them out from Valinor. Contrary to the premise that gems are understood to be a source of capital by the princes of Noldor, the two references we have to how they saw their own gems are as follows (emphasis in all quotes is mine):

And it came to pass that the masons of the house of Finwë, quarrying in the hills after stone [...] first discovered the earth-gems, and brought them forth in countless myriads; and they devised tools for the cutting and shaping of gems, and carved them in many forms. They hoarded them not, but gave them freely, and by their labour enriched all Valinor.

Many jewels the Noldor gave [the Teleri], opals and diamonds and pale crystals, which they strewed upon the shores and scattered in the pools; marvellous were the beaches of Elendë in those days.

The gems of the Noldor, then, are not seen as a source of wealth or bartering leverage, nor is there any indication in the text that they used them as such. In fact, the first (and only) reference to gems as wealth in the context of Valinor is when the narrator tells us of how Melkor looks with jealousy upon all the Firstborn:

[Melkor] looked upon the Children of Ilúvatar that sat at the feet of the Mighty, and hatred filled him; he looked upon the wealth of bright gems, and he lusted for them

Pivotally, it is not until after this that we are given any reference to the Noldor themselves seeing their own gems as anything other than a beauty of the earth that was to be shared freely. And even then, that language is only used of Fëanor's disposition after the lies of Morgoth have circulated and he begins to "love the Silmarils with a greedy love."

Second, let's talk about the fairly straightforward explanation for Finrod's actions that we are given in the text itself.

(I know I've talked about this a couple times in ask answers etc, but I want to give it its own standalone post because this never ceases to frustrate me.)

Necessary for understanding the explanation the text gives us is to situate it within the events that preceded it. Key among these is this section of Fëanor's speech to the Noldor:

"Say farewell to bondage! But say farewell also to ease! Say farewell to the weak! Say farewell to your treasures! More still shall we make. Journey light: but bring with you your swords! [...] But when we have conquered and have regained the Silmarils, then we and we alone shall be lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and beauty of Arda. No other race shall oust us!"

Whatever the intent of Fëanor's words, they would undoubtably have been heard by Finrod and those others who opposed the march as a call to discard their past, the life and love of Aman, and their loyalty to the Valar. And consequently two pages later we are told that Finarfin and Finrod "carried thence memories of the bliss they had forsaken, and some even of the things that they had made there they took with them: a solace and a burden on the road."

So for Finrod to bring "more treasures out of Tirion than any other of the princes of the Noldor" was not a shrewd economic calculation, but a direct refutation of his uncle's rallying call. He was refusing to be severed from the past, refusing to name their time in Valinor as bondage to be dismissed and forgotten, and refusing to count what they made there as loss in order to gain mastery of Arda. He was carrying memory out from Valinor, not currency.

Furthermore, the memory he carries as his solace and burden is the memory of love and friendship, of wholeness and joy. Finrod grew up as Olwë's grandson and the jewels "strewed upon the shores and scattered in the pools" of Alqualondë were the beaches where he played, the fountains where he splashed as a child. The gems of the Noldor, far from being a quick way to pocket some cash for the road, were for him the visible symbol of the houses of the Eldar living in friendship and not division. (And how bitter that burden must have become when he continued on after the kinslaying at Alqualondë, those strewed stones of friendship now a shoreline washed in blood.)

Having these same gems later placed within the Nauglimir thus becomes a furthering of this same political statement. Whenever it sits about his neck, it is a visual reprimand of two of Fëanor's assertions in his speech atop Túna: Finrod receives it as a symbol of partnership and co-creation between two races, once again beauty that is shared freely, the gems within it once more a symbol of friendship rather than mastery; and it serves as the tangible representation of Finrod's remaining love and allegiance to memory and to the Valar.

He carries the gems out from Valinor in hope - the same hope that he embodies throughout his life, in his friendships in Beleriand, in his love and care for the Edain, in his eventual sacrifice: what I have is my neighbor's; what I love, I give.

[horses-in-art-history]

Rosa Bonheur, Sheet of Studies for "The Horse Fair", 1840-99, Metropolitan Museum of Art.

(Picture source for Sheet of Studies for "The Horse Fair", the second image is a cropped version of the same image)

[historical-art]

Rembrandt, Aristotle with a Bust of Homer, 1653, Oil on canvas, 143.5 x 136.5 cm (56.5 x 53.8 in), the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, United States.

“This painting conveys Rembrandt’s meditation on the meaning of fame. The richly clad Greek philosopher Aristotle (384–322 BCE) rests his hand pensively on a bust of Homer, the epic poet who had attained literary immortality with his Iliad and Odyssey centuries before. Aristotle wears a gold medallion with a portrait of his powerful pupil, Alexander the Great—perhaps the philosopher is weighing his own worldly success against Homer’s timeless achievement.”

Source: “Aristotle with a bust of Homer.” Metropolitan Museum of Art.

[dailyoverview]

Seoul is the capital and largest metropolis of South Korea, with more than 26 million residents in its metropolitan area. Strategically situated on the Han River, its history can be traced back more than 2,000 years to 18 BC, when it was founded by members of the Baekje Kingdom. With a GDP of more than $1 trillion USD, Seoul is one of the wealthiest cities in the world.

37.566667°, 126.966667°

Source imagery: Maxar