#in fucking rome

[cryptocism]

"just as I did, in 1983."

you'd never know my favourite parts of the show are the fucked up insane bits when my first instinct is to draw the cheesiest thing imaginable

[feralgirlfromatl]

whoever decided imagine was going to move again and happen on the same weekend as music midtown: fuck you.

[ofswordsandpens]

Percy strolling into his 8am class after his 7th quest-related excused absence because the "gods just won't give him a break haha" vs his roman classmates that have not been given the time a day by a single god once in their entire life

[julius-caeser]

no one understands that im dripping with rizz and blood.

[byjove]

When it comes to the Roman occupation of Britain, I’m fascinated by how the Celts initially managed to put up a really good resistance against the Roman invaders and frighten the Roman colonizers so badly they had to put up extensive defensive fortifications. The Celtic tribes of Britain were not as technologically advanced as the Romans in a lot of ways but they were very effective warriors, good at intimidation and extremely tenacious.

[renonv]

Realized I never posted the stupid fucking sticker I made for discord

Da modern version

[drgnflyteabox]

Mdni - ancient rome again?!?!?! Noncon, soap is a freak, you're a Roman goddess purr

Ancient rome!Soap who had served proudly in the army and been honourably discharged for an injury that left him unable to wield a weapon.

Soap who refuses to take that lying down, refuses to retire, who - even though it was honourable - feels slighted by the armys dismissal of him.

Ancient Roman!soap who goes on a little ego quest, hiking for weeks until he reaches your shrine - a long forgotten goddess, you're so lonely :''''(

Even though he's mortal, you entertain him. He hunts and offers you half, he picks mountain flowers for you, he gives you gold coins, oils, little drawings. Everything he brought and can find.

You slowly start appearing to him first as little creatures. A bird, a fawn, a kitten. Soap stays very still, letting you get comfortable, letting you approach him first.

When you show him your human body, he can't help his Cheshire cat grin. He's sitting cross-legged near your statue, muscles taut and primed.

Soap had gotten you to trust him, yes, to show him yourself weakened and mortal. He'd been so patient all this time.

It only made your cries sweeter when he pushed you down in the dry, fragrant grass, and fucked you for the first time. Your cunt is so warm, snug around him, tits bouncing with the ferocity of his thrusts.

Up close like this you looked just like a regular person, red and flushed and squeaking when he leaned down to bite your nipples, your collarbone. Both wrists held in one hand, the other forcing your thigh to the ground. Your pussy squeezes desperately around him, wet despite your pleas.

Now he can brag again, now he's a worthy son of Rome. He's fucked a goddess, he's tied her to him forever with the baby he puts in you, tethering you to him and his world :')

Sigh

[immastealurkneecaps]

NEW photos of Jensen Ackles with the JIB con crew.

©️ officialbrianab on instagram

[the-angry-acrobat]

beware the ides of march 🔪

[punk-in-docs]

A song of liars and beggars: part II

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 5.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter; mainly violence and cruelty and mentions of death/imprisonment. also this has turned long winded im so sorry- i wish i could just bang out some gratuitous smut but noooo i need 7k of angst before penetration apparently --

The cell you are thrown into is poky small.

When the guards push you into it, you stumble and you fall. Stone breaks your landing. Collapsing in the dusty dirt. Soiling your pretty blue dress. The sea blue churned into mud. Into filth. Spoiled tide.

Bloody grit and sand sticking to your chin that still drips blood. Ichor dripped on your silk chest. Lip throbbing. Body bruised into the colour of nightshade petals.

You twist back, eyes blurred with tears, to see the dark expression under the Roman guards helmet.

Who spits at your feet and calls you a traitorous whore. He was the same one whose ring of fingertip bruises now circled your upper arm. Even though you were in chains.

Your surroundings are grim. There’s no window. No bearings. A bucket with filthy stagnant water sits in the corner.

The air is stale. Packed close and scorching. It reeks of piss and decay. Necrosis. Festering. Yellow bleached skulls. You hear the wailing shouts of men. The rattle of chains. You will be left down here until they come to take you. In whatever form that may be. Beheading. Or a stoning.

Maybe the Emperors really are gods. Those twin golden growling wolves. And now they’ve thrown you down to the underworld. Left you down here with the dying and the dirt and the vermin for company.

The walls are grimy stone, and strung with chains. Torches the only lick of civilised orange light in these otherwise miserable caverns. Rats creep along the floors - the scurry and click of claws. Not that they’ll find any scrap of food near here. There’s none to be had. Not even corpses. Death isn’t merciful enough to visit here.

Bile coats the back of your tongue. Sour and acetic. The men in the cells opposite you m, sneer and call filthy propositions in the dark. Dark so thick it was like wool. Ask to see under your pretty dress. Leering at you. Puckering kisses.

You are a rare drop of clean ocean in this savagery to them. Pure. A blue crocus blossoming in a crack in the barren dessert. Wash away the sin. Their rotten teeth shine in the dark like knives. Hungry and waiting.

You curl into a ball in the corner. Bring your knees to your chest. Cower in the shadows as the rats run past your feet. Clammy tails flicking over your toes.

You sob quietly. Arms folded. One smashed elbow drying to sticky blood, stuck with grit from your collapse.

Your father was torn away before you could see what happened or where they took him. You heard his shouts at Macrinus, his begging, but couldn’t see where he was taken. You couldn’t bear thinking about the alternative.

Your brothers body will be laying in a paupers grave somewhere you’ll never know. Never be able to go and lay orange gladiolus flowers before his headstone. Forgotten. Your mother will be told nothing of this- of you. Of the supposed treason-

Or maybe a garrison of soldiers were already marching on their way to deliver news. To slaughter the traitors family in that white villa by the sea. Smear crimson up the walls- droplets of red splashed on the jasmine petals. You think of the linen shifts your sisters ramble around in. You think how the perfect hues of soft blues and olives greens will be ruined with the garish red of blood-

You squeeze your eyes shut. Drops of salty ocean squeezing down your cheeks. And even that is of no use to you now. Landed sea nymph. Away from the oceans call. And now you’re bound for desolation. Gasping. Dying. Dragged to land by men who want to pick at your scales and leave you raw, bare.

You never should’ve left home. Not for a distant hollow man and his even emptier words.

Sleep doesn’t come to you. Nor are you awake. You slouch, curled on the cold dirty floor and envelop yourself into the grit and dirt. Abrasive on your soft milk-and-honey skin. The cornflower blue of your dress matted with mucky earth.

You enter a state between waking and sleep. A shallow one, spliced with sliced necks, pooling blood on biscuit coloured sand, and your brothers final cry.

Sounds start chipping at you. The slap of metal. Clicking and shuffling steps.

A jolt across your cell rouses you from your purgatory. Head snapping up on your shoulders. When you accustomed your eyes to the dim, the sight of the person unlocking your cell, makes your stomach plummet.

General Acacius.

There’s no mistaking him for another. That unmistakably noble profile. The firm set of his brow. His aquiline nose. The curl and bend of his greying hair. The way he looks at you - it might just be the kindest thing you’ve been awarded in this abrasive hell you find yourself in.

You raise to your wobbly feet. Heart felt like it had taken to thudding in your throat. Choking tempo as it beats there. Muscle thick and ticking on the back of your tongue.

One thought echoed around your mind; this was to be the path to your death.

You were being led by the General of the armies of Rome. It seemed a grand imposition for escorting a mere slip of a traitor to her death.

War has thickened his body. Muscular arms swing from a wide back and shoulders. Sun weathered skin which spoke of his time out in the elements, fighting for the glories and victories of Rome. Age lay in the silver threaded though his hair. The muted pain in his gait of past injuries catching up with him. Body littered with scars that probably ache and tug. Mars made flesh. Glory for Rome. Victory.

You swallowed. Throat dry. Easing your way to the door on uncertain feet. Hands clasped in chains still. They feel heavy as mountains to carry along. He’s come with guards. Four of them. Armed and marching to the beat of his strides. A valorous man indeed.

You step close to the heavily armoured man. Salty tears leaking down your cheeks that you don’t care to bat away. Atleast one spec of home will cling to your skin when life is gone. Even if it is only your silly scared tears.

He leans close to you when you come to the door

Suddenly a warm hand - calluses and hard furrows that only come from years of grasping a sword hilt - is around your forearm to steady. He unlocks the iron heavy chains and cuffs that surround your wrists. The chafing welts they left circling your wrists as the only impression of your imprisonment.

It’s the kindest touch you’ve felt in what seems like years.

You look at him with incredulity. He claims it all off you so easily. You were easy to devour. Every emotion worn open on your face.

Your lashes glued together with tears. Eyes so wide. Big and shining and they must reflect spring sun off beaded waves like a blanket of sapphires. A question lingers, tucked back shyly behind your teeth. Unable to wander off the curl of your tongue.

Why are you unlocking my hands?

He tilts his head at you. It’s almost chiding.

An unexpected warmth flows from his dark eyes. It’s too dark down here in this filthy stuffy pit to discern their colour. They swing somewhere between bronze and amber.

There is a mercy in them, a mercy to him, you’ve seldom seen anywhere else. Let alone a man as slaked in blood as he is.

Maybe it’s mercy- more likely that it’s pity.

He throws the shackles aside to the guard. Eyes for a long moment the way the iron has cut into your wrists. Raw skin. Damaging such a fine beautifully untouched creature.

He’s certain there’s worse damage to come to you.

His voice when he speaks is honey thick. Deep as it carved down all the rock walls around you. Louder than the clanking of chains and the wails from prisoners. Whom, you noticed, suddenly quieted down. They were whipped when they spoke up, you guess. So they go quiet. Like cowed dogs.

“I’ve slaughtered many a traitor in my time. You don’t seem a danger to me, or my men.” He observed. It’s both a warning and a comment.

It’s ridiculous really. The thought you could be a threat. All slippery, skin soft and coveted as a purely formed ocean pearl.

When you are in fact shivering in a silky thin dress the colour of harmless cornflowers. Huddled in your cell corner gently spilling tears. No hint of resistance or fiery hatred. No storm to be found here in your veins that houses entire oceans and their tempestuous wrath.

He knows innocence when he sees it. That rare, very rare, taste that clings to his tongue like sugary sweet ripe fruit. Something to cut and slice through all the ichor and viscera he all too well knows the flavour of. There’s a calmness to you. A damned sort of acceptance. Calm as still waters.

“Come.” He tilts his head. “The likes of you doesn’t belong down here.” You with your stock of noble blood, shouldn’t perish forgotten in these filthy caverns.

He walks to the pathway that you vaguely recall you were led down. The one that ascends steps and up into daylight. Out from the dust and the dirt and the still living bones of the trapped and the damned.

“General. Pray tell me. Is my father dead?” You ask. Whisper a pathetic imitation of your voice. Raw and weak. Choking on the unknown.

His face is stiff. He doesn’t seem inclined to reply.

“I cannot give you answers.” He chides. He turned his back to you. And his brute tone slaughtered any further enquiry you may have felt compelled to make.

You shrink down as you fell into step. Being led in your dirty dress, littered in cuts and scrapes.

Numerous guards form a metal lined wall around and behind you. Shields and swords and the metal clink of their steps. Trapping you. Armoured cage for a pretty captive. You wince when the new sunlight hits your eyes. Bright and acidic. Gulp for thick air that meets your lungs like ambrosia.

You walk and follow, silently. Waiting to come to the place you’d die.

Expecting to be led to gallows. Or an executioners block. Maybe even a court lined with people, one where you’d be trialed to death for a plot you’d no idea even existed. Maybe you’d be shoved into the coliseum on the next fight to be mauled to shreds by lions. Gouged by teeth and claw. Die screaming in the same dirt as your brother did.

It doesn’t come. None of that comes.

Your surroundings change again and you find yourself outside the grand walls of the coliseum. Looking up at the huge enormity of its powerful walls. The golden stone standing proud against the searing blue sky.

You’re marched across the dusty dirt of a yard, to yet another cage; this one held bars just like your previous one. A cage built on the back of a cart that has two horses ready to pull it along the capital roads. The general opens the barred door and gestures guards in around you.

One of the soldiers hit you forwards with a harsh shove. The back of his sword hilt. A hard enough shove for you to know it would purple to a bruise soon enough. Mulberry purple staining your skin at the back of your hip. You barely even yelp.

The general admonishes the soldier harshly for his rough treatment. You were to be brought - unmolested.

A word the Emperor had ordered with a growing wolfish grin.

“Where am I being taken?” You dare ask. Words crack out your throat. Unused. Thirsty. Timid. Ocean starved. All this dry land is making you dizzy and miserable.

He explained. Tone grave. Before you are pulled inside the bars. Caged once more.

“You’ve been summoned.”

“By whom?” You seek.

His eyes weight into you. Wrapped in pity and severity. His words clang around your head. Coffin nails. Just like bars he shut around you.

“You’ve been requested by the Emperor himself.”

~

You struggle to comprehend the enormity of the palace before you.

Palatine hill boasted of the richest and finest palaces in all of Rome. Including the imperial palace. The huge sprawling building. The importance and grandeur of these halls weighted on you like tonne heavy rocks.

You feel like a smear of dirt among these polished white walls and halls. Crawling with servants and guards. Stuffed with so much riches and finery. You’ve heard tale of how Emperors were hand picked by the gods. They were gods to the people they reigned over.

You are escorted once again out of a yard and into this place you’d heard only grand things about. Marched along corridors longer than you’d ever known. You saw fountains spitting streams of clear crystalline water and imperial gardens with huge tropical plants. Statues of marble and tiled mosaic floors that shine as if recently scrubbed.

Guards at every door. Servants clad in cloth finer than you’ve ever owned - or touched - they carry huge platters of bread or bowls spilling over with plump fruits. Large amphora jugs of wine held aloft in careful hands. This seemed like a luxurious heaven. You wondered if you’d see clouds, goddesses and sun beams even from your lowly mortal perch.

The guards keep you in step. Hauled along so fast you feel blisters aching at the balls of your feet. As you’re traipsed in. Bloodied and low. Beaten down. Your split lip has dried to a cut. You worry it with your tongue. The little whip cracks of pain a reminder of your mortality - one you’re certain you will be relieved of soon.

You are brought to a set of huge imperial doors by the general. Who is bid to enter right away.

Your eyes don’t know where to settle first; the room is one of the richest displays you’ve ever seen. Orange fabric the colour of vibrant mandarins, hangs in drapes over the open arches and doorways. Mosiac floors polished to a shine. There’s gold and marble statues and plinths. Paintings in dark deep colours of battle scenes. Swords and blood and male glory. As if it had come to life right before your eyes. This room is threaded with gold and devotion to male gods.

As is the man who sits leisurely awaiting you on a padded lectus. One spilling with tasseled silken cushions to soften his seat. Emperor Geta.

His robes were the same as when you last saw him. Dark jewel colours of black and blue. Gems cast in gold on each finger. Dark cloths with gold items of jewellery on his breast in the form of a broach. So much gold you don’t now where to test your eyes first.

Maybe he is a god. He certainly has all the riches of one. Stood before you as if he were Jupiter and all his delights. Thunderbolts seeping from his powerful fingers.

A golden crown of laurels ringing his light waved hair. His eyes was where true darkness laid; dark kohl ringing eyes the colour of the darkest Umbrian. Earth of shadow.

He was idly picking at food laid on a rose petal strewn table before him. You’ve never seen an offering of food so large and all for one. Cups of wine. Bread. Dried Fruit and a tiered stand flowing with fresh fruit. Some cheeses. Meats and fish. All laid on plates for him to pick over and discard, or saviour at his behest.

You wonder which category you’d fall into- the former appears the more likely.

Your stomach pangs for the smell of the freshly baked bread. The sweetness of the fruit. The tart wine. Tongue dry as sand and sluggish in your mouth.

“There you are. My little sea nymph.” He sneers over at you. One side of his lip curls upwards.

In panic, you bend the knee and bow your head, subservient, meek, and that makes him smile more.

He’s snapped his regal bejewelled fingers and had you bought to him. Bloodied and blinking dust out your eyes. Dirt stroked on your once fine dress. It now hangs in shredded tatters at the hem by your sandals. Blood spots dried like rusted petals. Brutal handling from guards lay in the bruises now scattering your lovely arms and the welts banding your wrists.

You want to cower behind the wall of guards. But you are rudely thrown forwards. Those shadowy eyes trace over your poorly clad form; you do feel like a minuscule scrap of dirt. A crack in a looking glass. A tarnish on something gleaming golden. The smear of imperfection allowed to exist in this heavenly palace.

He sees your hands are loose by your sides; unbound.

“Why is she not in chains, General? Have we stopped chaining our prisoners” He asks. Ire woven into his words. Eyes unflinching and hard and he scowls at Acacius. Who remained unmoved even in the face of his petulant wrath.

“I saw no need to chain her. Emperor. Such a woman in her position could surely not be a threat to you.” It’s a barb. A small sensible thorn, perhaps.

You flick your eyes across to the General.

“I didn’t even have to draw my sword or threaten her. She came willingly.” He tells his Emperor.

Like a sweetly led fool. A sacrificial creature led blindly to her own slaughter.

The guards stand to attention. Unwavering. Wall of armour and swords around your back as you cower. Eyes cast to the floor as you’re being discussed like a slab of meat. Something without autonomy or feeling.

You can feel Getas eyes on you still. Hard and weighty as warm metal. Searing into your skin. The way livestock are branded.

Those eyes are unrelenting. Violating. Scouring you up and down some more. Inspecting the span of your hips. The dip of your waist. The fall of your chest. Plump of your breasts and hips. The once pristine coil of your knotted hair.

Goddesses would envy you. The furies would want to tear down your beauty and goodness in wrath. Scratch out your eyes. Shear your hair. Anything to steal the golden thread of goodness from you.

Juno had blessed you and kept you indeed. Like you’re fresh out of her temple and sparkling with promise. He knew it the second he saw you. He made up his mind to have you then.

You had something. Something wrapped inside yourself like a shell protecting a pearl. Something good and virtuous. He wanted you all for himself.

If he was good as a god, then blessing himself with a wife who was a gift from the most beloved goddess was his right.

He can smell lemons and salt. And wondered if he inhaled the nubile skin of your neck and hair if then he’d find the source of it. Made him want to bite down on that supple neck and leave his mark-

“An unlikely source for a traitor do you not think so, General?” He asks.

General doesn’t answer but his expression is very telling. “My spies tell me she was not in the capital for two days before the suspected treason.” He offers.

Your stomach lurches, manages to tie itself into knots. Clammy sweat prickles your brow and your neck.

“Maybe she wasn’t aware of the plot. An unwilling participant dragged into the sordid scheme.” Geta speculates.

No answer comes from you still.

“Is she mute? I certainly heard her screams well enough at the coliseum.” He mocks. Impatient.

“Speak. Your Emperor demands it.” The General barks at you. You flinch at his sudden raised voice. Finally trailing your eyes from the mosaic tiles.

“I am not mute. Your majesty.” You explain. Feeling the tickle of humiliated tears at your eyes.

“I can offer no plea for innocence, except the truth that I had no knowledge as to my fathers schemes.”

Because no such schemes existed. Macrinus should be here in chains instead of you. The lying snake. He orchestrated the whole thing.

Geta savours your words. Drinks them in the way he’d taste wine. Rolls them around in his mouth.

He merely nods slightly. You hold your breath for his response.

“Come.” He sneers. “There’s something I want you to see.”

He guides you across to the huge marble pillars which guarded the open mouth of the balcony.

You walk behind him and come to the balustrade of white marble. Peering over the ledge. Out into the courtyard below where a cluster of soldiers and horses are gathered close.

“The soldiers will ride on my command.” He tells you. Sick delight in the power he wields.

When they pull away, and the sight below is exposed to you, your entire body wrenches forwards. Desperation grips you violently. A cry shattered out your throat.

They were going to quarter your father before your very eyes.

He stood, small and beaten, blood pouring from a gash to his head, in a filthy cloth tunic, because they’d humiliated him. Had him stripped of his noble senate robes.

His limbs each tied to separate riders on separate horses. When they galloped off in different directions, he would be torn to pieces. Barbaric.

Through a blackened eye and a swollen brow your father gazes up at you. Despair on his face. A once strong man brought so very low. It wounds you.

Geta is drinking in your every expression. The full horror and pain writ across your pretty face.

“No. No, mercy, please. Your majesty. I beg of you. Mercy.” You babble.

Eyes wide with desperation. Voice breaking as surely as your heart was. Cracking in two in your chest. Sharp as glass shards. Clinking to pieces sharp enough to make your insides bleed anew.

“Why should I spare a liar? Salacia?” He asks you. “Why should I not make an example of what happens to traitors in my court…” He demands. Eyes locked on you.

“He’s offered me things I don’t want or need to delay his death. Money. Information. I cannot help but feel it’s inevitably drawn him closer to it.”

He raises his hand, calmly. You sob. The riders bolt to attention. One more move and that would be it.

You flew for him. Unrestrained. Desperate. Willing to beg on your knees if needs be. You put yourself in front of him. Put your hands to him.

The General and his guards drew swords and came close. Geta turned and and ushered them back with a harsh wave of his fingers. He was enjoying this too much. The nature of despair- the clammy stench of desperation pouring off you like ocean waves.

You could only think of one instance that might appease his lust for blood-

Dying in the place of your elder for his crimes was all you had. All you clutched in your empty injured hands.

“Let me take his place. Put the bonds on me instead. Let me take his punishment. Make me the example.” You beg. Tears shiver and fall down your cheeks. Burning drips of salt spear at your lash-line.

In your desperation you cling to Getas chest. Your nails raking gold and the fine threads of the fabric coat he wore. He didn’t seem to mind. He seemed amused by it.

“Little Salacia.” The way he used your name with a brazenly satisfied smirk altered something in you.

An arm winds itself around your hip. Cups the back. Pressed a bruise that you want to hiss in pain at. But can’t.

His other hand rings your neck. Ghosts his thumb over the curve of your chin. Smearing tears with the gold and jewels on his fingers. You gasp. Air emptying out your lungs in one fell swoop.

“You have so much more to offer your Emperor than your death.” He says quietly. His meaning became intimate. Wrapped in insinuation.

Your mouth opened, no sound came. Your lower lip trembles. You glance down at your father who is crying. Straining, wrenching forwards at his bonds. Desperate to keep you from this.

Geta takes his hand and runs his hand through one knotted lock of it for a moment. Leaning in to savour the smell of you. He moans with it.

Definitely lemons. Mixed with something briny salt, the ocean. In odes to your name.

Your father sees this. The closeness. The insulation that this man would take you. He shouts from his bonds below. Begging.

“By the gods, spare her.” He cries.

“Not my daughter. It is my crime. Take me. I am here. Take me!”

With your father and oldest brother dead, your mothers and sisters would be destitute. They would be reduced to beggars. Brought low. With him alive they were respectable- reduced in honour perhaps, but at least they’d live.

Tears bite at your eyes. You let them. Blink them away.

“What’s say you? My patience is wearing thin…” Geta bullies. Hand dropping from your hair.

It pushes you to act.

“Servitude of my body. I will enslave myself to your every whim. Emperor.” You say through tears. Every sordid whim.

“Exile him.” Youoffer.

Geta’s eyes gleam to that. Intrigued. You would exile and dishonour your own father?

“Exile him from Rome and the Senate, and send him back to Corsica to be with my mother and sisters. Where he is needed.” You implore.

“And what of you, how will you serve me?” He drawls.

“I will stay here and act as your servant in whatever manner you wish.” You accept.

“I have servants. Little nymph. I don’t require any more servants. I don’t need whores or courtesans. What I do require, however, is a wife. One who will give me strong heirs.” He smiles. Clutching your hip in a strong, thick fingered hand.

Your throat constricts. Tears squeeze. As if he’s fisted a hand around your throat and squeezed and choked until you gave. Melted into his hands pliant.

Geta has you exactly where he wanted you. As he planned.

“I need your word you’ll spare him if I agree.” You counter. Eyes hard as diamond tips. Still watery and half logged in tears.

“My word is bond. He will leave this city unharmed.” He assures. Displeased at your doubt.

Clever little nymph, too. To bargain with a god.

Asking an Emperor like him to pledge his fealty. Were you any other commoner he’d have your tongue cut out for that insolence.

Then again, cornered creatures will snap and bite and claw for survival. They will do anything.

“Then I agree.” You cry. “I accept.”

His smirk grows. Wolfish. Unsticking a coil of hair from the blood on your cheek. And he’s close. Too close for your comfort.

“You will be my Empress.” He decides.

“My wife and my property. I will own you in every manner there is. You will give me healthy sons that will dethrone my brother.”

Those words make you shrivel inside.

What have you just agreed to. You may have delayed your fathers demise. But it appears you’ve just turned the sword aimed his way to your belly. Chalked a target on your own back instead- an eye for an eye-

He turns, keeping you in his hold, he lowers his hand.

“Exile that snake out of Rome. This instant-“ He orders sharply. “Take him to the city walls and tell him never to return or I will have his head on a platter for me and my wife.”

You watch with thinly veiled relief as the guards come in to cut his bonds and drag him by the collar.

You want to run to him. You want to embrace him and tell him to return to mother with kind words and love. He is dragged away out of sight.

Bleeding and battered. But safe.

You lock eyes. Same colour as yours, shaded ocean, surrounded by bloated skin and blood sheeting his face. Cut with paths of tears rolling down, before he is gruffly marched away. Dazed, bound, and bleeding. He is choking on his sobs too.

You didn’t even get to say goodbye. Nothing. No familial words. No kindness.

He was torn from you. Now your every whim is stolen away. Dictated by this man. This cruel stranger. One who would bed you and keep you cowed like a broodmare.

You stood there. Watching down on the scuffled marks in the dirt where he’d once been. Dust clouding. Now empty. It seemed like an illusion. Had it all just passed like air. Like a warm sea breeze. Your life altered in one brief moment of mercy and begging.

Geta turns to his General. “You are dismissed. Leave. Go win my wars.” He sneers curtly.

Acacius took his leave with a frown and a bow. Look directed to you as he did. “Emperor. Empress.”

The Emperor snapped his fingers. And within seconds, servants scurried silently from other rooms. A handful of maidens came. Long hair unbound. Robes of orange and blue. He snapped his orders at them. They folded their hands in front of themselves. Heads low as they obeyed.

“Escort my new bride to her chambers. Have her bathed and made presentable. Put her in something decent. We will marry at dusk.” He informs. Glancing you up and down with a leer.

“Then she will grace my bed. Doing her duty like a proper wife.”

He strides over to you where you stand on the balcony, the marble thing holding you up. All strength sapped. Your knees and arms and bones were water. Not marrow.

It was always foam whipped off the waves that made you up. And now you sagged with it. Plaint and drowning. A sad drowned maiden in her brook. A doomed saint of the sea.

“Leave her hair unbound. I like it down.” He orders. Wrenching his hand to the back of your neck. You wither under his touch. He senses this.

“Be grateful. I spared your filthy treasonous father. But I can still make your existence an unpleasant one if I choose.” He warns.

He leans close to claim your mouth in a kiss so sudden and brazen it makes you weak.

His lips are pillow soft and anything but delicate. His tongue seeks your mouth, licks the blood off the healing cut. Moans sordidly when he does. He kisses like a starving hound.

A trail of spit connects your mouths when he pulls away. He smears it to your chin with a finger. Rubs his essence into your skin to stay forever stained.

“I eagerly await to taste more of you later. Empress. Don’t disappoint me. It’s not a wrath you want to risk.”

“Yes, Emperor.” You sigh.

He leaves you so quick, you almost keel over. The servants wait patiently to escort you out in his absence.

In the faraway sky, over the capital, new clouds sag and bloat. Darkly stalking across the once clear blue. The sky turns to grey and churning clouds. It’s too bad you couldn’t see the sea. You had a feeling there would thrashing, heaving storms and waves double the size of these damned palace walls.

Thunder crashes in the distant gathering dark. The ocean wanted you back. Neptune’s rage for the loss of you. You picture home. Humble white walls. The wind so fierce it ripped petals clean off the climbing vines of jasmine. The lemon trees swaying and rocked violently. News of treason and abduction reaching your sisters’ horrified ears. Your mothers cries in situ with the storm.

You watch at the sky until rain pelts the marble walls like lashes. Rain dots your skin. Cold stroking your hair and shoulders. Marring dark blue arrows down your ruined dress. Maybe you’re grieving-

A servant girl has to hook a hand on your shoulder and kindly try to urge you inside. Your tears entwined with the howling rain. It feels like that’s all that’s left of you.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[sforzesco]

help carthage and coins featuring 4th century CE roman emperors have taken hold of my brain and won’t let go

[asalienssee]

salvidienus and maecenas doodle. idk how this app works soz

[serpentface]

Here's the most current map (which will inevitably subject to change within a month or two), one showing elevation, one showing territorial divisions, and one showing major cultural groups.

Notes for the territorial map

'province' refers to directly ruled land beholden to Imperial Wardi laws and protections, divided into provinces. Most of these territories were established during the formation of the state, while some are under recent and direct occupation (most significantly the two off-shore islands and the western Cholemdinae lands that hold most of the Yellowtail trade route).

'tributary' refers to lands whose societies have been subjugated (by military force or intimidation) into agreement to economic tribute, and retain full self-governance and non-occupation in return for annual payments of goods, precious materials, crafts, and crops.

'functionally independent' refers to territories that are deemed Imperial Wardi land under vague ideals that all lands south of the Viper and west of the Sons of Creation are God's sacred soil for Its first people, but aren't actually under any form of occupation or tributary status whatsoever.

'treaty-independence' is the 1 nation in this claimed territory that is recognized specifically as sovereign and not subject to encroachment or tribute pay (by Ephenni provincial doctrine rather than law)

'disputed borderlands' are the edges of the provincial land borders, which are not well established or protected.

Almost all borders depicted are heavily approximate, both in the context of this map being very rough and also just in-universe.

EXTENSIVE NOTES FOR THE CULTURAL MAP UNDER THE CUT

Note that most of this map does not indicate literal boundaries or borders, and rather serves as approximation of dominant (sub)cultures throughout this region.

So anyway here's an overview of most of the peoples native to this region.

WARDI:

Wardi as an ethnonym is complicated, as it does not refer to people with recent common heritage but rather a collection of peoples who assimilated/were assimilated into a shared cultural identity, language, and religion. Almost all groups (not necessarily individuals) considered Wardi have predominantly proto-Wardi ancestry, though the majority also have at least Some proto-Finnic ancestry (stemming from a major migration event 1500 years BP).

Proto-Wardi is a broad descriptor of the peoples who had ancestry in this land stemming from the very initial human settlements in the late paleolithic, and by 1500 years BP shared a language family/some very basic cultural elements. They derive predominantly from waves of land migrants from the northeast who dispersed around the 'tail' of the Viper seaway, though their genetic makeup likely stems from at least a few distinct prehistoric human movements into the region. 'Proto-Wardi' does not exclusively describe ancestors of the contemporary Wardi groups, and includes other ethnic groups with ancestry here prior to proto-Finnic migration (Cholemdinae and the North Wardi peoples).

Most contemporary Wardi groups derive from societies along the western-southern coasts and river systems that agriculturalized and at least partially urbanized within the past two millennia. These were characterized by mixed subsistence systems- settled agriculture along the riverways and nomadic pastoralism of cattle and horses in the grasslands and scrub, with one supporting the other. Most eventually organized into structures of hereditary monarchy at the societal level, while others formed smaller chiefdoms (monarchies usually retained characteristics of the latter, with a monarch supported by localized chiefdoms whose members formed an aristocratic class).

Assimilation into a singular identity was originally external under two periods of Imperial Burri occupation, most significantly the first (in which basically the entire region save for much of the Highlands and the innermost grasslands was directly occupied). The word 'Wardi' itself was a Burri exonym first externally applied to the western-southern peoples who were organized into monarchies and practiced settled agriculture. The name was taken from the Wardinae people, who at the time were allied with the Ephenni and ruled much of the south. (The term 'Wardi' would have originally translated to 'good land' in reference to rivers, 'Wardinae' would have meant something along the lines of 'people of the river land' to distinguish from Cholemdinae 'people of the wide land').

No two nations at this time would have considered themselves the Same people, and some labeled 'Wardi' could not even be classed as 'proto-Wardi' in origin (the population of present-day Erub stems predominantly from proto-Finnic migrants who adopted settled agriculture and urbanization; Lobera was an entire Wogan kingdom). But with endemic monarchies toppled and the land being restructured into one province under which native inhabitants all occupied a sub-citizen class, many cultural distinctions were partially reduced over about 400 cumulative years of direct occupation.

This period also marked the beginning and spread of the Faith of the Seven Faced God, which originated as syncretic semi-adoption of Imperial Burri state religion mixed with older practices, and would develop on its own until it became a unifying element associated with the applied 'Wardi' identity.

The completion of this identity unification came in the birth of Imperial Wardin ~270-230 years ago, stemming from another alliance between the then-kingdoms Ephennos and Wardinnos that enveloped their neighbors during a period of post-occupation upheaval. With most already sharing (variants of) the same religion and having Some sense of shared identity, 'Wardi' as a self-applied name for the people of this state came to completion in the years that followed.

Cultural divisions don't disappear overnight (or even over centuries), and Wardi identity is heavily multipolar in ways that roughly resemble ethnic/state boundaries prior to Imperial Wardin existing as an entity. There are also notable subcultural divides between 'urban' and 'rural' Wardi populations, given the significant distances between the heavily populated coastal/river areas where most urbanization/agriculture happens, and the more sparsely inhabited plains that surround them. (It gets said that if you ride a day straight out into the grassland, the people you find don't know who the current Usoma is. You ride another day out, and the people there don't even know there IS an Usoma. (This is an exaggeration, but the spirit of things has truth to it)).

The map indicates VERY rough divisions of the most significant Wardi subcultures (not counting rural/urban divides).

CHOLEMDINAE

This refers to a group with predominantly proto-Wardi ancestry that did not practice settled agriculture and never assimilated into Wardi identity at a cultural (rather than individual/community) level. This group has broadly retained individual identity and practices a religion that branched off before the progenitors of the Faith of the Seven Faced God, which venerates God who is the sun and a myriad of spirits of animals, plants, crops, land, waterways, and weather). The Cholemdinae spoken language is very closely related to Wardi and is mostly mutually comprehensible.

Cholemdinae society is organized into houses, which are networks of allied clans governed by the patriarch of a leading clan. Housefathers are hereditary, though the status of the leading clan depends on wealth in livestock and the faith and support of their dependents, so may shift with time. Marriage usually only occurs within a single house, and is the bedrock for maintaining lasting clan ties.

Their ancestral land is wide swaths of grassland and scrub surrounding the major Yellowtail and Brilla river systems, where they subsist primarily as nomadic pastoralists of cattle, horses, and khait, supplementing intake with hunting and foraging. In the contemporary, they are split into two major groups, one that is seasonally settled (migrating between permanent settlements along rivers and in deep grassland on a seasonal basis) and one that is khait-nomadic and forms no permanent settlements (instead following annual migratory routes). These two divisions of subsistence are not quite separate cultures, and both would acknowledge one another as a brother people.

Most do not practice intensive agriculture due to their movement patterns, and instead otherwise modify the land (particularly maintaining savanna along riverways via controlled burns, and damming/diverting rivers to create wetlands) to cluster reliable sources of edible plants/crops and habitat for game animals.

This map does not convey the scope of khait-nomadic Cholemdinae lands and only shows areas in which they are the majority ethnicity, as annual migratory routes take many clans well into Wardi provincial territory or North Wardi land, if not further east past the map's borders.

[The Wardinae tribe that is ancestral to most of the South Wardi demographic were originally Cholemdinae that split in establishing permanent settlements along the Brilla river and practicing intensive agriculture.]

CHENAHYEIGI

This population does not have a collective endonym, with the most common exonyms being 'Hill Tribes' and 'Highlanders'. Chenahyeigi instead describes a spoken language that is shared by most inhabitants of the Highlands region in the northwest, who comprise related peoples with shared cultural elements distinct from their neighbors.

The majority of Chenahyeigi peoples descend from proto-Finnic migrants who originally inhabited the (once larger) island chains to the southeast of mainland Finnerich. Their dispersal occurred as a wholesale movement of peoples over a period of about two centuries, fleeing to rising sea levels, conflict with mainland proto-Finns, plague, and famine. Upon arrival, some settled the offshore islands, some moved along the coasts to the northeast and ultimately merged with proto-Wardi populations they encountered, some moved to the southeast and were driven into the western Highlands in conflict with powerful agriculturalist proto-Wardi nations, and some dispersed into and through the Highlands directly and ultimately displaced or absorbed the sparse populations of proto-Wardi pastoralists who lived there.

The initial migrants were already comprised of at least a few separate peoples, the stark geographical divides of their land further fragmented this population into discrete groups seen today.

Each group represented on the map represents the largest form of cultural division, the word for which translates to 'People' as a proper noun. These are allied collections of tribes who share the same dialects, close cultural identity, and regular trade connection, and usually occupy contiguous lands, but do not have centralized leadership (each being separately governed by their own current ruling clan's patriarch). Peoples are prone to fragmenting and shifting membership over the centuries. Tribes represent networks of clans that are closely affiliated via marriage and kinship, are based upon discrete cultural identity, and have strong territorial aspects to their identity (though territory shifts with time). Personal identity is based around the ancestral line, then the clan, then the tribe, and only extends to the People at most. Separate Peoples usually are not allied and are often in territorial conflict.

All groups share the language (though not all dialects are mutually intelligible) and baseline cultural practices, and most share very similar societal organizations and subsistence methods. They are at least seasonally settled (most form permanent villages at low elevation), practice low-mid intensity agriculture, and are heavily reliant on seasonal transhumance of cattle and horses. Very little of their lands can be considered 'urbanized' outside of villages large enough to be labeled a town (with the chief exception of the heavily populated and low elevation Yellowtail River valley, which hosts a small city).

Most Chenahyeigi speaking groups retain a significant degree of separate cultural identity and language from surrounding groups in large part due to geographic isolation. They have not been altogether unimpacted, having adopted many minor cultural practices from their neighbors and some major ones (the biggest and most obvious is in a cattle-associated agricultural deity being named Od and having dredged up fertile earth from the sea during creation, as well as animistic facets of the worldview (to an even greater extent than any recent proto-Wardi groups, ascribing discrete spirits to even manmade objects). The core religious practices of most Chenahyeigi peoples differ otherwise, acknowledging a small pantheon of creator gods and being entirely centered upon ancestor veneration.

The islander Chenahyeigi groups are notable as an exception to much of this description, as many of them have existed in complete geographic isolation from their mainland cousins (much less Wardi groups) and have developed independently in the millennia since their settlement. Their languages are in the same family but not mutually comprehensible with mainland dialects, and islander Peoples largely have different religious practices, with most lacking both ancestor worship and animistic elements (except where they have emerged independently) and instead centering on veneration of pantheons. Their subsistence methods also differ depending on conditions, ranging from similar patterns of mixed agriculture-pastoralism, to pure settled agriculture, to predominantly hunting/fishing and foraging.

These represent the biggest swaths of land and peoples that are neither directly occupied by Imperial Wardin nor subjugated as tributaries to it (with a big exception being the Yellowtail River Valley People being a major tributary, and the Lleniwir island being under direct occupation as a fortified base). This is in large part due to the upland geography being too hostile and the potential yield of favored tributary goods being too low to be deemed worthy of the effort and maintenance of attempted subjugation.

Notably, the West Rivers People and the province of Ephennos have an explicit border treaty that has been upheld for two centuries, owing to their moment of cultural brotherhood while under Imperial Burri occupation and their joint efforts in restoring sovereignty. The two regions still maintain amicable trade connections. On the cynical end, the respected boundaries still mostly come down to the land and its resources not being deemed 'worth it', the West Rivers peoples having a very developed and well-known warrior culture, and Imperial Wardin having recently failed miserably in a war of subjugation against mounted archers utilizing guerilla tactics on difficult terrain.

NORTH WARDI

This is, again, an exonym that refers to multiple peoples who have no collective endonym, and exist in distinctly separate societies. These groups descend from a complete cultural merger of proto-Finnic and proto-Wardi populations, and have developed relatively discretely from most of the contemporary Wardi population since then. Most speak dialects of Hnaimale as a first language, which derives from both of their ancestral language families but shows more Wardi influence.

Most 'north Wardi' groups are have a historical practice of clan-based Houses somewhat similar to that of the Cholemdinae, but have very different political organizations and subsistence methods. Most practice a mixture of settled agriculture and pastoralism, and the Llema depend heavily upon fishing. The Atig Weryanni, Hundinae, and Wermani peoples are organized into monarchist states, the Llema and Brunai are organized in smaller House chiefdoms.

Most Atig Weryanni have adopted variants of the Faith of the Seven Faced God, while (outside of individual/house-level conversions) the Hundinae, Llema, Brunai, and Wermani mostly practice related monotheist-animist faiths centered around a deified sky (with the latter of the four also having core practices of ancestor veneration).

This group includes the only current tributaries to Imperial Wardin that are monarchist states. The tributary dynamic allows for retained self-governance and no direct occupation in return for supplying annual tribute (mostly crops and livestock, along with precious materials, clothing, pelts, etc). Surrender to this tributary status is generally submitted to as a better option than full conquering and occupation (if not outright destruction), but this condition is still an act of subjugation that creates profound social and economic hardship. Among the monarchists, this has been seen in deepened social stratification and upheaval, and all groups are in intensified resource conflicts with their (mostly also tributary) neighbors. The Llema are the only one of the five that are not a tributary, but have still been victimized by this system via the Brunai and Wermani increasingly encroaching on their lands in response to their own economic hardships.

The Sons of Creation crater lake that was historically sacred to many Wardi peoples and is currently sacred to the Faith of the Seven Faced God is Also sacred to the Atig Weryanni and Hundinae peoples (and Cholemdinae, AND some Wogan peoples to the east), and is currently under the direct provincial control of Imperial Wardin, with a temple and shrine built along its shores. This site has been a center of conflict for centuries, and has been particularly potent in the Imperial Wardi era. This came to a head recently (13 years ago) in an event where a party of Hundinae warriors raided the temple, killed its guards, priests, and pilgrims, threw the sacred meteor-iron icon of God into the lake to be consumed, and set up positions in the highly defensible geography. The men put up a considerable fight in the following two day standoff against Wardi forces but were vastly outnumbered, and those that were not killed in combat were captured for ritual execution. The reprisal was exceptionally brutal. A small army led by three of the elite Wardi warrior orders was dispatched into Hundinae land to siege the capital hillfort unless the king Asawani (deemed responsible, whether this is true or not is unknown) surrendered himself, and to raze and slaughter any villages along the way. Asawani ultimately gave himself up rather than face a sacking, and was brought back to the crater lake to be executed in retribution and the re-consecrating of the shrine. His body was never returned to his people. The consequences of this massacre are still unfolding.

JAZAIT

This refers to the elowey inhabitants of the Elumuqi island chain. They descend from a settlement event that occurred ~3000-2500 years ago, during which a wave of seafaring elowey groups spread across the White Sea. Other related groups from this settlement event are known to have reached parts of the Wardi mainland's coast during this period, but were ultimately driven out or eradicated in resource conflict with the proto-Wardi over the next several centuries.

Jazait themselves likely replaced one of the relicts from the Cairn-Builder proto-Wardi culture (a widespread and ancient group whose very last remnants went extinct in the Highlands about 1600 years BP). This would have been in the form of conflict, as both groups had similar subsistence methods and would be in very intense competition for resources. The Jazaiti migrants ultimately won out and have remained the sole inhabitants of these islands since that time.

Jazait society is deeply decentralized and built upon clan systems with strong territorial boundaries. Some of the smaller islands are entirely inhabited by a singular clan. Clans are very large networks of affiliated families that are maintained by marriage-based matrilineal kinship, and most marriages only occur within the same clan. Each clan is led by a singular clanmother, but ultimately governed by all the mothers (sole reproductive female per family unit) of each family in cooperation.

Jazaiti religion centers around two deities, a solar/sky Mother and a lunar/sea/land Father (the latter being her husbands, as a three-as-one deity). The Jazait are their firstborn children, and the Mother is a collective clanmother to all their people. The mothers in a clan are responsible for spiritual leadership and direct intercession with the gods, while other members of the community maintain household shrines and perform crepuscular prayers with prayer beads. Jazaiti religion does not share historical tendencies for animal worship or animism with their mainland neighbors, but recognizes the existence of ghosts and sea demons, and honors certain animals (particularly the tuna) as special gifts from the gods.

The Jazaiti people recognize their collective as a single people, but the de-centralized makeup of their society lends towards strong cultural and linguistic differences between (and sometimes within) each island. Separate clans are not necessarily in allegiance and often compete for resources. Jazait society does not have a distinct warrior culture, but violent conflicts are not uncommon due to limited land area and variability of good fishing grounds. This has been further exacerbated by subsistence issues derived from conflicts with Imperial Wardi groups over fishing territory, two of the Elumuqi islands being placed under direct occupation for their strategic position near the coast, and many clans being placed into tributary status in return for being 'allowed' to fish in their waters.

Jazait society has developed in isolation from nearby Wardi groups for the majority of their history, with both mostly avoiding each other save for small scale conflicts at sea (which would have been occasional, as few proto-Wardi groups were seafaring save for near-shore fishing stints). Most close interaction has been in very recent history (past 400ish years), with a clanless Jazaiti diaspora growing on the mainland (in large part as a matter of searching for work in response to aforementioned subsistence pressures). Many of these communities have developed a distinct syncretic partial adoption of the Faith of the Seven Faced God wherein the Wardi god Od is recognized as the Mother and Father in full interplay as one, some individuals have fully converted, and many retain their own practices.

[drewsgirly]

ALLERTON HAIRRRR 💥💳

[tonydaddingham]

show me devotion // and take me all the way

yt link✨