How does an imperial crown differ from a regular crown?
Glad you asked!
An imperial crown is closed, comme ca:
The loops of metal over the top, the globe on top, all of these things signify an imperial crown. The symbolic meaning is that the wearer recognized no authority beyond them (save God) - more on this in a second.
By contrast, a merely royal crown is an open circlet or diadem, comme ca:
Not to say that royal crowns - like this one, the famed Iron Crown of Lombardy used by Charlesmagne and Napoleon - couldn’t be fancy or important, but they didn’t have the symbolism of imperial rule.
Why is this symbolism relevant? Well, when England split from the Catholic Church under Henry VIII, part of the legal justification that Thomas Cromwell put together for the Act in Restraint of Appeals was that:
“Where by divers sundry old authentic histories and chronicles it is manifestly declared and expressed that this realm of England is an empire, and so hath been accepted in the world, governed by one supreme head and king, having the dignity and royal estate of the imperial crown of the same.”
Now, keep in mind that some of these “divers sundry old authentic histories” counted Brutus of Troy and King Arthur as examples of British imperial dignity, but Cromwell could point to Henry IV and Henry V, who both were crowned with an imperial crown (probably as an attempt to shore up their authority given the whole business with Richard II), as proof that England had previously claimed independence from the Pope in Rome.
Title: ‘Vices’ - Chapter 1 ‘Cauthess’ Fandom: FFXV Pairing: IgNoct (Noctis Lucis Caelum x Ignis Scientia) Rating: Explicit (super NSFW - PWP, mild bondage) Word Count: 2900
Summary: Noctis escapes from the world by heading to the most exclusive pleasure club in Insomnia - The Cauthess, requesting the one man that can bring him pleasure like no other escort in the establishment. AU setting. Inspired by a panel in “Miwaku Shikake” by Amai Wana.
Sunglasses cover the crowned Prince of Lucis’ eyes, as he leaves the confines of the royal estate, walking towards the car that is waiting for him. The moon is at its midway point in the sky, not yet late enough to be called morning, but slowly creeping its way towards it. He opens the backdoor of the Regalia, and closes it with limited force. The partition is down, allowing him to see his driver, who is already heading down the driveway. He settles back in the backseat, finely tailored slacks hanging loose around his legs, his fingers going to unbutton the matching jacket he wears, exposing his vest and tie. Black on black on black. Perfect to blend in, which he needs to do, given that everyone knows exactly who he is.
“Where are we off to tonight, Mr. Caelum?” His driver asks, as they pull onto the highway.
Looking out at the city he’s meant to govern one day, he makes a fist with his left hand on his thigh. “Cauthess.”
“Very well. I’ll get you there in flash, Prince. We should be there in twenty, if traffic stays light.” The partition goes up, leaving Noctis to be alone with his thoughts.
Fire Emblem: Heroes is my first entry in the “F.E.” series! While the game is fairly easy to dip one’s toes in, it has a lot of deep lore behind it - so I decided it might be useful to give a breakdown of each hero’s most essential lore, for reference by newcomers like myself.
I’ll be starting with the three initial units and the eight units from the original Focuses; please let me know if these help you, and if you’d like to see more Newcomer Evaluations!
“😉” If you look into a mirror and say her name three times, she will manifest into the physical world. Fortunately, nobody has figured out how to pronounce her name, and therefore our world is spared her wrath.
“Shine” A wandering slayer of men, her innate taste for blood leads her to appear at the site of great battles. She spends her hours in the royal estate overlooking the player’s heroes, and leaves only to commit gruesome spear murder on a massive scale or get girls’ phone numbers, ideally both at once.
“Nick” The leader of a kingdom on the brink of destruction, he’s devoted his life to protecting the people of Askr and pretending to be straight. Nobody is fooled, but they usually humor him.
Emily climbs on a chair, standing on her tip toes to reach the metal shutters in the dusty dark corridor of the dormitory, as there are no windows in her room. The girls just keep bringing in more candles, more matches to light them up, a single oil lamp with a crack in its glass that keeps burning down. The air here is stifling and burnt, her eyes itch from the mixed scents of the candles giving out their last and her eyes are droopy. She can’t remember ever feeling this sleepy, ever struggling so much to take in a breath.
They bring her some fruits to chew on, some tartlets and cold tea, twice a day, and she thinks she can hear some commotion, more chatter and laughter and arguing downstairs, reaching her through the cold wooden floor along with the chilly draft biting at her toes - so it could be evening. More people coming along, and the girls from the other rooms, her neighbours, are always gone on these hours. Or it could be not. She once overheard one of the girls in the washroom say, the madame avoids keeping clocks around here on purpose.
The shutters are heavy and dusty and dirty, and she can’t fight back the urge to wipe her hands on her white jacket before trying again. Once she presses her foot into the wall to pull harder, it finally gives in, and Emily gasps at the chilly air billowing in her face. The sounds of the street, the birds, the idle chatter of the guards in the garden, the dull sound of someone beating the dust out of carpet hanging outside, a seagull crying out in the distance - all spilling onto her like water from a broken glass.
She still has no idea where she is.
The shallow, momentary relief fades away, a new dread bites at her stomach, and her feet get wobbly and unsteady from standing on her toes for too long. Even if she does run away, where would she go? The houses crowded around the Golden Cat all seem worn and unfamiliar, black with dirt, the windows dull and unwashed for years. Nothing like the estate district, nothing like anything she’d seen before.
A new gush of wind brings the rotten, moist scent towards her, along with a whaling ship horn from the distance. The river, then. But the river is huge, it runs through the entire city, dividing it in half. She could be anywhere. She had a huge map of Dunwall hanging on her wall, with every street and the smallest of houses drawn to create an entire pattern of neighborhoods upon neighborhoods piling next to each other, but only now does she realise she doesn’t know her city at all.
The place itself is unlike anything she’d seen before, too. She’d seen dozens of estates and royal residences in her short life, and they were all blurry and the same in her memory. All grey stone, dark wood cabinets and parlours, all green lamps and deer heads above the fireplaces, glass cabinets, excessively ornamented painting frames, worn rugs on the wooden stairs, heavy white tablecloths and silver cutlery. She can barely tell them apart these days, sitting with her head stuck in between her bony knees like in a vise, pretending to be somewhere else.
This place is nothing like them. Fancy and yet, upon closer inspection, not. The candelabra in her room, covered with golden paint, but all worn and scratched around the edges. The wallpapers, bright red and dark green, depicting lush flowers and exotic birds, growing faint and curling in like petals as they came apart from the walls, and Emily having to fight down the urge to tear them down all the way and use for her drawings. The folding partitions with intricate carvings on the top, faded and covered with scratches. The steps on the staircase for the personnel, chipped and missing. The huge, wide-leaved potted plants at the bottom of the staircase, withered and neglected. The bright, tacky bright rugs downstairs in the parlour, covered with stains and dark burnt circles, from all the cigarettes dropped on them and all the drinks spilled. The girl who brought her a vase of fruits yesterday, sheepish and avoiding her eyes, with hair curled, but with a pale knee poking out of her torn stocking.
Pretending to be something it is not seems to be at the core of this place. Pretending to be a palace when it isn’t one, and never was, Emily thinks, as she remembers Prudence, this terrible, terrible woman, tell her that the girls here are princesses, visited to be admired.
A cracking sound of the wooden door opened and slammed against the stone wall echoes its way up to her. The footsteps, after that. The honeyed greetings fading into the hall, as Emily curls her hands around the metal railings and bends to look down. The draft from the door not fully closed numbs her fingers, and she realizes she has no overcoat, not even a scarf. She waits a few heartbeats more, and there is nothing, not a single door shutting, no chatter, no keys turning in the locks. Mindful of the sound of her laquered shoes on the wooden staircase and trying her best to soften her steps, like she was taught, she makes her way down and down, the draft from the door not fully closed welcoming her.
Ollantaytambo (Quechua: Ullantaytampu) is a town and an Inca archaeological site in southern Peru some 72 kilometres (45 mi) by road northwest of the city of Cusco. It is located at an altitude of 2,792 metres (9,160 ft) above sea level in the district of Ollantaytambo, province of Urubamba, Cusco region. During the Inca Empire, Ollantaytambo was the royal estate of Emperor Pachacuti who conquered the region, built the town and a ceremonial center. At the time of the Spanish conquest of Peru it served as a stronghold for Manco Inca Yupanqui, leader of the Inca resistance. Nowadays, located in what is called the Sacred Valley of the Incas.
Ollantaytambo dates from the late 15th century and has some of the oldest continuously occupied dwellings in South America.
1. The male ruler of an independent state, especially one who inherits the position by right of birth.
They were kings.
That’s how themselves and others saw them, but they didn’t have royal blood or an estate to retire too, they had leather jackets and jeans, dirt licking at charcoal boots and wisps of smoke from cigarettes dangling from slender fingers.