#Potestas

[mercuriicultores]

Georges Bataille – Lo que entiendo por soberanía, 1. Notas para una introducción general a los tres libros de «La parte maldita»

[La parte maldita] trata de la vida que gravita sobre sí misma, es decir sobre el instante presente, que no sirve más que a sí mismo. [p. 55]

Hablo de la vida que se consume, independientemente de la utilidad que tenga esta vida que se consume. […] Hablo de algo que está siempre ante nosotros, ante todos nosotros. Pero siempre un poco secretamente. [p. 60]

Lo soberano es gozar del tiempo presente sin tener en cuenta nada más que ese tiempo presente. [p. 64]

Buscar a Dios es buscar en este mundo una duración asegurada contra toda posible destrucción (mientras que lo divino era el movimiento dado en la indiferencia a todo porvenir), es ante todo aceptar situarnos en el plano de la servidumbre. Si queremos superar la servidumbre, debemos por el contrario adherirnos a aquellos objetos de los que el cristianismo nos separa bajo el pretexto de que no duran. Por el contrario, podemos amarlos porque son perecederos y amándolos nos reconciliamos con todo el movimiento que nos lleva a nuestra perdición. Por eso la vida erótica tiene humanamente mayor valor –y un significado más profundo– que la vida religiosa que se aparta de aquellos objetos que según ella nos engañan por no ser duraderos. Por el contrario, lo que nos engaña es la búsqueda de la duración. [p. 56]

La tradición religiosa opone la vida espiritual, consagrada a Dios, a la del «mundo», abierto a las posibilidades de la vida erótica. Esta tradición es todavía tan fuerte que no vemos que la vida erótica, al igual que la vida religiosa, es de naturaleza espiritual. El peso carnal de la sensualidad enseguida la ha reducido a las satisfacciones bajamente materiales. Sin embargo, no existe una satisfacción de los sentidos que no esté fundada sobre conductas «espirituales». El análisis de los movimientos de la vida erótica la muestra dependiendo totalmente de reacciones religiosas, como la prohibición y la transgresión. [p. 58]

La facilidad de una vida devota no es sino la medida de la facilidad de un devoto. [p. 58]

¿No podemos ver, en fin, que en el origen de una preferencia por la llamada vida espiritual habitualmente sólo están la pereza y el miedo al juego? [p. 58]

[m4rs-ex3]

it kinda just clicked for me that archdragons have their name name and then the title they receive(?) as an archdragon, ie "anak araw" -> "sol regem", which is really cool but like *shakes by the shoulders* WHERE ARE ZUBEIA AND AVIZANDUM'S!!! WHERE ARE THEY!!!!!!

[shackld]

how do i figure out what path chief follows in hsr when in her own actual gameplay she can shield, heal, attack, aoe etc-

[latinthusiast]

one of my students said that patria potestas is "daddy power" in class today and i fear i may never recover

[firewalkwithme92]

that other post said it so much better than i ever could, but it still baffles me how people think that thinking and reading about the roman empire is a straight guy hobby. like the roman empire was a pretty big thing that happened, it lasted for so many eons and it affected the culture, the identity, the politics of most of europe till a few centuries back. also i cannot stress this enough most laws in civil laws are coming straight form roman law. not even inspired.

[somniumoflight]

Is Magicae est Potestas still ongoing?

Simple answer: no.

Complicated answer: no, but I hope to one day come back to it because I genuinely enjoyed writing it and only stopped because I was burning out, and then went so long without writing it that my imposter syndrome is telling me I'll eff it up if I pick it back up again.

[dominousworld]

LA PATRIA POTESTAS

a cura di “Può piacere o no, ma la civiltà occidentale dall’invasione dorica di 1500 anni prima di Cristo si imposta su un’idea di patria potestas. Questo chiaramente non c’entra col condividerlo o meno, è la realtà […] La famiglia patriarcale, nel senso autentico del termine, è in crisi da 500 anni e non esiste più da 200 anni. È una cosa che dura grosso modo, per poi andare in crisi, fino al…

[middlefade]

for madeline / @hypnoticfever

Something sleeps in the woods. He is not currently thinking about it but it is something he knows to be true. A truth that haunts all other truths in this place.

Welcome back to Sanguis University! Where "Ipsa scientia potestas est"! is written on his staff intake papers. He stands under an imposing, untarnished wrought iron gate in which the same motto looms in an arch above. The non-presence of rust seems insidiously incorrect, as if his memory of this place and the reality of it don't align. It is dubious logic and a detail of such little importance that it doesn't matter outside the moment it is thought of; nothing more than a bad attempt to blame something else for the sinking feeling in his gut.

Crows litter the lawn an caw at each other from tree branches and the roofs and he calms himself with objective the object truths: It is normal to be anxious starting a new job and everything is fine. Crows supposedly only remember faces for five years, and they do not speak. This feeling is not an omen.

Coming back was supposed to bring closure or purpose to what happened here a decade before. For what is the first but certainly won't be the last, Kian wonders if it was another mistake. But he takes a deep breath and steps through the gate and the feeling fades as feelings almost always do. Nostalgia and familiarity arise, leading his feet through a nearly unchanged courtyard toward the faculty building.

[cefalofori]

Magic team is the most fun to play in eternal nightmare so far

[renfie1ds]

tag drop 3!

[orangerosebush]

Colfer does a good job of capturing the tension between Artemis' intelligence and his youth.

For example, Artemis' understanding of aurum potestas est privileges the "gold" in the family motto.

Necessarily, gold was the currency of power at the time of the motto's inception, but in the context of the 21st century, the nature of power is (in some ways, in some cases etc) more complicated.

By no means did Artemis make a poor deal in divesting the People of a metric ton's worth of gold, but arguably the most "valuable" "thing" he gained from his clash with the People was proof of their existence.

There's also this scene in TLC:

“Artemis was a little dazed. ‘Well, apparently I’m almost eighteen.’ ‘God help us all. Artemis Fowl, eligible to vote.’ Artemis chuckled. ‘I’ve been voting for years.’ ”

It's such a funny form of voter fraud!

Artemis is rich! And yet, he influences elections by casting illegitimate votes (whether by compelling someone to vote as he would like or by casting votes using another identity) instead of, like, bribing and/or blackmailing politicians?

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Domina Mea Series Masterlist ⭑

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Warnings for overall fic: Death, alcohol consumpion, diseases, corruption, +18 content and smut, angst and obsession.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Summary: After years you returned to Rome to visit your father, General Marcus Acacius, to celebrate his recent victory. However, when the Emperors Caracalla and Geta get you in their sights, they will not let you go so easily.

✧ Chapter One: When in Rome

✧ Chapter Two: The Battle of Salamis

✧ Chapter Three: The Art of Combat

✧ Chapter Four: Patience is a Virtue +18

✧ Chapter Five: Parthenos

✧ Chapter Six: Where Loyalties Lie

✧ Chapter Seven: Patria Potestas +18

✧ Chapter Eight: Strength and Honor

✧ Chapter Nine: Limerence +18

✧ Chapter Ten: Imperatrix +18

This fanfiction is finished!

Divers by: (Could not for the life of me find the creator)

Header Image by: Me

All rights to this fanfiction belong to me, no copying or claiming as your own, as well as the header image. The characters Aurelia and Edas are both made up by me as well as 'The Aurelian Estate'.

[bartallentheimpluse]

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu.”

“That should bloody work. Kick th’ talon outta th’ lad.”

@gutter-mage69

₥Ø₮ⱧɆⱤ₣Ʉ₵₭ł₦₲ ฿ł₮₵Ⱨ-

@court--of--owls

[v-nnie]

✠ Prelude

The summoning.

Synopsis; You summon something far more ancient and dangerous than the little pest demon you wanted to use against a bully.

Pairing; Sukuna Ryomen x Reader

Content; sfw, threats, talk of violence and Christianophobia (he talks about burning down a church but it's a church of witches?), CAOS!Universe, witch!reader, curse!sukuna

Words; 2,9K

A/N; My first writing! Well not actually, but after my 'rebrand' and hiatus at least. Hope you enjoy!

The air is thick, heavy thrum of Satanic energy palpable as you chant out of your Grimoire. Candles form a circle, their flames flickering when gusts of wind whirl through the room. Sneakily summoning demons in the Spellman sisters' attic was probably not the smartest thing you've ever done, but then again, that bitch Celesta and her sisters deserved it.

The pest demon, Festeris, you were calling forth, was easily banishable, but still a literal pest to have around. She was a succuba, one of the stronger lust demons. Indeed easy to banish, but hard to want her banished.

Singing in Latin, you feel the energy spike; the gates of Hell were opened. "By the power of the Dark Lord, I command the Pitts of Hell to open. Festeris, I call forth, hear me and answer!" Your hair sways in the wind, and you place your Grimoire aside. "Abyssus inferni, aperite viam, Succuna, qui sub terris latet. Venit ad nos, ferox et potens, ut potestas inferni in lucem venit."

The shadows twist. The black candles sputter, before guttering out completely. "Unholy mother," you curse. Something is wrong. Definitely wrong.

The mirror in the corner splinters with a loud crack, and the floor trembles as the darkness gathers in your circle. The offering plate, its grooves red with blood from old sacrifices, rumbles under your feet. A presence, ominous and furious, far darker than the lowly pest demon you meant to summon. More ancient, more malevolent than anything you've encountered in your time at the Academy of Unseen Arts.

Two- no four red eyes glowing down at you from the other end of the room, towering high above you. The wind gusts, candles aflame again, and you gasp. A figure rises before you, tall, dark and wrong in all the ways holy and unholy. It's two sets of crimson eyes meet yours, both amused and annoyed, lips curled in disdain. Black markings spread over his skin like branding, two sets of big, beefy arms crossing in front of a broad chest.

His presence burns in a way you're not familiar with, and your breath is stuck in your throat. He tilts his head, slowly, before speaking in a baritone that makes you want to hide and crawl away, or lean into it and drown. "Who dares awaken me from my slumber?"

A voice low and cruel, echoing off the stone walls, and a mouth showing a sharp set of canines as he speaks. He takes a step forward, the edges of his figure brimming with energy from the deepest depths of the Pitt, as if he is one with it. You can't move, can barely breathe, as he stands before you in all his unholy glory.

"A witch?", he sneers, leaning down slightly, as if to get a better look. "No. A child. Clever little lamb, summoning powers she doesn't understand." His second mouth — the one etched into his stomach — curls into a jagged grin.

"Shit," you curse, as soon as you break out of your stupor, reaching for your Grimoire. With a dagger in your hand — obsidian, blessed by the High Priest — you flip the pages, landing on the strongest banishing spell for demons you have.

He doesn't flinch. Instead, he watches you, all four of his eyes locked on your every movement, like a cat watching a bird flap its wings just a little too late. That jagged grin only widens.

You draw a ritual circle, with the ashes of an offering, fingers moving with practiced speed. Dagger to your palm, you whisper the chant, rushed but precise, and let your blood seal the banishment.

"In nomine Satanas, et in nomine inferni, ego te abicis. Abyssus inferni, aperi viam ad tuam domum!" Blood drips into ashes, the sigil colouring red as you speak up. "I command the demon, standing in my circle! Return to the Pits!"

This should work.

This always works.

The chant cuts through the air, strong and sharp, each word burning like purging fire. A wind kicks up, sweeping through the room, broken mirror glass rattling as it passes. Light bursts from the sigil, and then-

Nothing.

The glow sputters and dies like a match in water.

Your heart drops.

The ritual didn’t fail.

It was rejected.

He steps over the circle, through it, like your magic wasn't even there. The air ripples in his wake, warping the edges of reality. "You didn't summon a demon girl. You called forth a Curse." He leans down slightly, eyes boring into yours. His voice feels like velvet-wrapped razors, scratching at your skin.

His mouth — the lower one — opens just slightly. You swear you see rows of teeth that shouldn’t exist. "Try your parlour tricks again, and I’ll burn that Church of yours to cinders while you watch."

He pauses. Squints. "...Interesting." A low hum rumbles his chest. With a clawed black nail, he traces a symbol midair. One that you recognise. The same mark you have, etched into your skin, a reminder of your loyalties and a proud remnant of your Dark Baptism.

"How do you know that symbol?", you ask sharply, temporarily forgetting your fears. And why did he draw that? That mark - it's sacred. A promise between a witch and the Dark Lord only, like a personal code only between servant and master.

At your words, fierce and demanding, he tilts his head again, eyes narrowing. "How do I know this symbol?" he echoes. "Because I wore others like it on my skin long before your Dark Lord ever existed."

Silence.

"Because I remember the Old Tongue, the real magic, not the watered down theatre your High Priest teaches you." His eyes flick to your hand, to the blood — hungry — but he makes no move to cross the line. Yet.

"Your little Lucifer is a child playing with stolen fire." You try not to lash out, fear keeping you in check. But the heat in your chest twists. No one speaks about the Dark Lord like that - not without losing their soul.

"And you," he says, stepping closer to you, too close, "spoke my name. One no witch should know.” Instinctively, you created a salt circle, enhancing it with your bloodied hand, heart thundering in your chest, making you physically untouchable. For now, at least. He just watches silently, letting you create this fake sense of safety.

"You're a Forgotten One." It wasn't a question. He circles the outer edge of the blood-drawn barrier, slow and deliberate, a lion at the bars of a cage that exists more out of politeness than actual limitation. His presence thrums against your wards like pressure building under skin.

"That's what they called us, isn't it?", he says, "When your Church of Night swept in with robes and rituals and rules—burning our names from the stones, burying our temples beneath yours." He leans closer, and the flames of your candles flare, reacting to his proximity.

"But you, little witch, with your clever hands and thirst for vengeance, just opened the door." Eyes flash. "Accident? Or instinct?" Your hand aches from the open wound, blood dripping slow and steady now. The circle’s still strong — but not forever. And he knows it. He’s not in a rush.

He leans forward again, so close now that you can feel the heat radiating off him - but the boundary holds firm. "And now here I am. You called me forth. The question is… what will you do with me?"

"You tricked me", you hiss. How dare he come when he knows it wasn't him you were calling? "Demon or Curse, you sure behave the same. What I'll do with you? Banish you, of course." Sukuna’s eyes flash, the crimson glow burning brighter for a moment as if your words were a spark to his fury.

He tilts his head to one side, his expression shifting from irritation to something far more dangerous. "Tricked you?" He almost sounds amused. "Ah. So you’ve been tricked, have you? Poor little witch. So clever, and yet so naive." His voice drops, but it’s colder now — the words tasting like venom.

"I didn’t trick you. You think you can banish me? With what? A few broken words and a knife’s blood?" He takes a slow, deliberate step toward your barrier, and this time, the circle trembles under the weight of his presence.

"Let me make this clear: I am not a lesser demon, waiting to crawl back into some hole when you decide to wave your little rituals around. I don’t bow to your weak charms or your childish wards", snarled, enraged at the thought of even being compared to them.

He steps right up to the edge of your blood-wrought shield, his face inches from yours, and the air seems to tighten, becoming unbearably dense. "You think you can banish me? Force me back from where I came? That's cute." His second mouth opens, again, slow, twisted smile spreading across it.

"Go ahead. Try. See what happens." His teeth gleam in candlelight, sharp and predatory. The flames flicker violently, casting shadows that dance like living things.

He chuckles darkly. Your bloodied hand tightens around your dagger, knuckles white, as you stare down the cursed king before you. The air feels thick, stifling, with an energy more malevolent than your Dark Lord. How long can you hold on?

"Clutching that little knife like it will save you,” he taunts, his voice low and mocking. “You think that’s enough to defend yourself?"

The circle trembles.

His every movement reverberates through the air, like ripples in water. The barrier — your last line of defence — groans under his pressure. You can’t move it back. A second step against it, one slight misstep, and it will crack. The power he holds is undeniable. It’s not just raw strength - it’s ancient, primal.

You feel the tightness in your chest, the cold sweat slicking your skin, but you refuse to show it. "Have you realised it yet, little witch?", he coos, a strange purr. One that made your breath hitch and snaked its way around your heart, savouring every panicked thrum. "You can't banish me. You've already invited me."

Panic surges at your throat, the primal being in you responding to instinct. Flight. Your foot shifts back — just one step — and the boundaries splinter, the sigils faltering. A loud crack runs through the centre like a spider's web and it shatters completely.

You freeze, heart thundering in your chest, bloodied hand still gripping the dagger. The reality of your mistake hits harder than any spell ever could. Shit. There’s no way to escape now. No warding. No summon. No protection.

He steps forward, almost leisurely, but there’s a predatory gleam in his eyes as he crosses the broken circle. The room feels cold as he nears, the power radiating from him is suffocating. The atmosphere hums with dark energy, like the world itself is holding its breath.

"Such a delicate thing, that circle," he murmurs, his voice a mocking sneer. "One little slip... and poof. Gone." He stops just in front of you. His four eyes are focused op the blood still dripping from your hand, staining your white shirt, with a dangerous curiosity. As if wondering how you'll taste.

"I know you mortals always think things will work itself out", he continues, taking another step forward, and another, until you're pressed with your back against the wall. "But really? You thought it would be that easy?"

The knife clatters to the floor, its echo sharp and sudden in the silence that follows your retreat. You flinch back, the trembling in your hand spreading through your entire body, as if the reality of Sukuna’s presence is sinking in all at once. Your wound stings — the blood slick and hot against your skin — but you can barely focus on the pain now. The feeling of vulnerability rushes in, overwhelming.

The scent of your blood fills the air, and Sukuna’s second mouth twitches, as though it’s tempted to snap at the offering. But he holds back - for now. There’s an unsettling silence, broken only by the distant rumble of the storm outside, and you're speechless. Unsure if he's thinking about how exactly he'll devour you, or when he's going to do it.

Sukuna watches you, the amusement in his eyes deepening. He’s not rushing forward. He’s toying with you, enjoying this. "You seem nervous, witch," he muses, each movement a reminder of the danger he poses.

He crouches in front of you, his four eyes locking onto yours with a chilling intensity. There’s a sick amusement in the way he looks at your trembling form — the blood dripping from your palm, the weakness in your posture. To him, you’re a toy, a curiosity.

"I suppose I should thank you, though," he adds, almost playfully. "You were the one who woke me. You were the one who freed me. I don’t forget that."

The second mouth on his stomach twitches as if in agreement, its grin widening. It's as if Sukuna's very body is a reflection of his twisted, ancient power - even his hunger has more than one face.

Your eyes fluttered shut, whispers like prayers spilling from your lips. Bathed in candlelight, your pale face shimmered — delicate, like fear moulded into flesh, just the way he wanted.

"What do you plan on doing now, little one?" He leans in closer, just inches from your face, his breath warm against your bloodied skin, like a predator intimidating its meal.

"Beg for mercy? Try to fight me... with that little bit of strength left?" But you were prey, trapped and cornered - and never to be understimated. Your bloodied hand had steadily been bleeding into the grooves of the altar.

You meet Sukuna's gaze, and his expression flickers - a mix of confusion and realization as he watches your blood drip steadily into the grooves of the stone, slowly filling them beneath your feet. His four eyes narrow, and there’s a sharp, unexpected tension in his body. He moves as if to step back, but it's too late.

"Sanguis in sulcis, signum tuum accipe", you whisper more clearly now, repeating the same chant you were praying. "Hoc sacrificium, animum meum vincula. Nomen tuum invoco, tenebras tuae adfero."

The air in the room seems to shudder, a cold breeze whispering through the walls as the power of your chant builds. The blood, now absorbed into the stone, pulses with an otherworldly energy, the grooves lighting up faintly as they swallow your offering.

"What are you-" Sukuna's voice cuts off, his four eyes widening in recognition. He stumbles back, but not fast enough. The magic begins to solidify, swirling around you like a dark halo.

"In hoc oblatione, mens nostrae conexae erunt. Damnare me, damnare te, numquam separari," you called, with fright but unbreakable determination. The symbols in the stone glow a deep, blood-red as your chant pushes forward with a force of will that surprises even you.

"No," he growls, more a low hiss than a command. "You think you can bind me? You think your little magic-" But his voice falters, once again, as the powers you’re calling forth intensify, his words fading into an almost reluctant silence. The symbols tighten, locking the ritual in place. He’s being drawn in, whether he wants to or not.

The energy around you thrums, a pulse like a heartbeat - like something ancient waking up. The very air seems to crackle with the magic of the ritual, your blood acting as the final thread that ties you to him.

Sukuna snarls, smile faltering for the first time. "You think you can control me? Bind a curse of my calibre?" Frustration grows in his tone, his voice deepening.

But you can feel it, now - a raw, unmistakable feeling- a bond. Binding him and you as one, keeping him, preventing him, from wandering on this earth as he pleased.

The magic of your blood, now intertwined with his being, is carving a new bond - a mutual connection. He can't break it. Not without hurting himself in the process. It's a gamble, and the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.

"I'll make you regret this," Sukuna growls, but there’s something deeper, more cautious in his voice now. "Don't think for a second that I’m done with you, witch."

But you barely register his words. Once the euphoria of the ritual fades, the weight of your exhaustion presses on you all at once. Despite the overwhelming exhaustion, despite the sense of your energy being siphoned away, you know - you did it.

Sukuna is bound to you.

You feel him there, in your bones, in your mind - a presence, like a shadow lurking just beneath your skin. His power still coils, shifting like a beast too large for the cage you've created, but it's contained. For now.

He holds your gaze for one last time, his eyes linger on yours, burning with quiet fury. Then he vanishes into the shadows, swallowed by his own darkness.

As you fall to your knees, gasping for breath, you can hear his voice in the back of your mind. A whisper, cold and dangerous, but somehow... distant, as if he's struggling against the bond just as much as you are.

"You might have bound me, witch", his voice rumbles, an odd mix of grudging respect and simmering rage. "But don't think for a second this will be easy for you."

Your vision blurs completely, the edges of the room dissolving into shadows, the light from the candles flickering out, one by one. The power of the ritual, the connection to Sukuna, pulls at you in strange, unfamiliar ways, but even that fades as your consciousness slips further away.

And then, nothing.

To be continued....

Curated by Vinnie | The Architect. Plagiarism not authorized.

[whencyclopedia]

Ancient Roman Family Life

Whether there was a king, a consul, or an emperor that stood supreme over Rome and its territories, the one constant throughout Roman history was the family. Like many earlier societies, the family was the fundamental social unit in the eternal city, and at its head was the father, or if there were no father, the eldest living male – the Latin expression for this is paterfamilias. One historian noted that the Roman family, in fact, reflected the principles that would shape Rome's Republican values.

Absolute Paternal Power

To a Roman male, his family was more than just his wife and children. It determined both his social standing and personal worth. His home or domus established his reputation, or his dignity (dignitas). Under Roman law, the father possessed absolute paternal power (patria potestas), not only over his wife and children but also his children's children and even his slaves, in fact, anyone who lived under his roof. After his father's death, Roman poet and statesman Cicero, the eldest son, bore responsibility for his brother and his brother's family. By law, a father could even beat his adult son (although this may have never been done). A father's lineage, his ancestry, was of the utmost importance, defining his position in the social hierarchy. A male's ties to his blood relatives - his children, parents, and siblings (cognati) were the strongest while the relatives acquired through marriage (his in-laws) or adfinitas, though still important, were secondary.

Continue reading...

[victusinveritas]

Greek and Roman epitaphs can be touching. They can also, in the case of Allia Potestas, even be risqué. But they can also be horribly, incredibly embarrassing- as in the case of Aphrodisios of Alexandria Troas: "Passer-by, Aphrodisios is my name; I'm a citizen of Alexandria Troas and a leader of the chorus. I die a most pathetic death because of my wife, the dirty adulteress (whom Zeus will destroy). Her secret lover Lychon—a member of my own family!—slaughtered me, still in my youth. He threw me from the heights like a discus. I was twenty years old, so full of beauty, when the Moirai spun my fate and sent me as a delight to Hades."