#strophium

[philoursmars]

Avec Christine, on a fêté nos 40 ans d'amitié en faisant un voyage de 15 jours en Sicile. Nous voici maintenant à Piazza Armerina, à l'intérieur des terres.

Non loin, la Villa del Casale (bâtie fin IIIe s. apr. J-C.) aux mosaïques romaines grandioses (3500m² de surface !!).

La mosaïque peut-être la plus célèbre du site, dite "des jeunes femmes en bikini", en fait des gymnastes (balle, haltères, disque...) portant un strophium ("soutien-gorge") et un subligar ("culotte"), dont la "vainqueure" est couronnée... Puis 2 photos du péristyle ovoïde avec un ours, et un cheval en conversation avec un oiseau. La dernière est la Salle d'Orphée...

[marrowfrog00]

Austerity

Emperor Geta x Empress Reader

Rating: Explicit (minors DNI, 18+ only)

Summary: You are Geta's heavily pregnant Empress and shadow puppeteer of the Empire. You awake to find a secret meeting taking place behind your back and you take measures to keep it from happening again.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy and accompanying symptoms, duplicity, kidnapping/forced/arranged marriage, reader's culture of origin is disparaged, power imbalance, misogyny, mentions of destitution/poverty, class differences, loss of virginity recalled (with pain and blood - brief), pretty graphic mentions of smut, supernatural shit maybe kinda, mentions of witchcraft, not even a little historically accurate, i played fast and loose bc that is not the point of this, not proofread, lmk if I missed anything

A muggy wind carrying the light fragrance of bay laurel leaves disturbed the billowing curtains at the window of your opulent chambers. Your naked form stirred on the bed. You kept your eyes closed, distantly hoping that the disturbance to your sleep would be blessedly temporary. For your body ached perpetually with the life growing inside you and it seemed that no amount of sleep these days refreshed you. 

You deduced, after sleep continued to evade you, that it was not to be. You opened your eyes as you stretched on the bed. You then noticed the absence of your husband, who had retired with you, glancing to his side of the bed to see the swoops in the bedding where he’d slipped out some time in the night. 

You sat up, noticing the absence of light from the window. There was no citrusy hue lining the horizon to indicate daybreak. Just piercing blackness and the dance of the breeze through the curtains. 

You rubbed your growing belly, mentally scanning your body for the discomfort that had surely stirred you from sleep. “What is it now, my parasitic little prince?” you asked your belly. 

No reflux burned the column of your throat. Your nausea had disappeared some months ago, thank the gods. The pain in your back, though omnipresent, barely registered at the moment. Your sleep had been as bereft of dreams as the sky was of light. You did not hunger or thirst and you felt no irrepressible pregnancy horniness now. You were grateful for that, since your husband was not here to service you. 

It was then that you noticed something familiar. A point of blue light, as a sunbeam through a prism, dancing steadily against the far wall, beckoning you to notice. You knew this light well - it had visited you many times since your childhood. A quiet sentinel, gently drawing your attention. A guiding light in the truest sense of the word. 

Your eyes followed the wisp as it glided across the wall to the open window where it faded with no fanfare. You got the message and strode nude to the window and walked out onto your balcony. That same warm breeze kissed the loose tendrils of your flowing hair. 

Your eyes scanned over the scene before you. You surveyed the courtyard, the trees and flowers of the expansive gardens shrouded in oppressive darkness. Only the stark white of the colonnade that wrapped along the northern edge of this wing of this massive domus pierced the dark. And it was here that you saw what your little wisp companion was trying to signal to you. 

You saw a spotty procession of dimmed lamps blinking out briefly behind the columns before reappearing in your sights. Their destination was clear. The disembodied flames disappeared into a seldom-used antechamber where they would no doubt be headed for the atrium. This passageway was only used when one’s ingress into the domus was meant to be clandestine. 

What in the fresh fuck is this? you hissed into the darkness.  

You had no time to summon your most trusted maid to dress you. You wouldn’t want to disturb her if you could. So you opened your wardrobe and rooted around for the simplest garments you owned. You secured the maroon linen strophium over your swollen breasts and improvised the fabric of a stola into a subligar to cover your lower bits. You grabbed one of your husband’s ostentatious lounging robes and slipped it over your shoulders as you tore out the door of your cubiculum. 

Your stride was sure and unbreakable as you met the shocked gazes of the guards stationed along the halls. The more seasoned ones averted their gazes and dipped at the waist in acknowledgment as they gently asked after your wellbeing. 

You were sure that you looked a sight, your pregnant, barely dressed form marching through the corridors, hair untamed about your head. You were clearly not infirm, though, as evidenced by the speed of your march. You were pissed. 

“At ease,” you assured them here and there in a firm voice. “As you were.” You didn’t want to pick up a tail and you did not want to be prevented from reaching your destination. “Don’t mind me.”

As you neared the mouth of the atrium, one of the newer guards met your flickering gaze with wide eyes, his voice timid as he choked out, “Augusta?” He winced, clearly fearful that he’d gazed too long at you, unadorned. His eyes flicked to the ceiling. “Are you well?”

“Not as such, Miles,” you shot dryly. Your steps halted then as you slowly turned back to him. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling as you approached to stand toe to toe with him. He stood stock still as you reached for his hip and slowly withdrew his sword. 

You gripped the hilt, testing its weight in your hands, appraising the blade. “I’ll return this presently,” you promised, disappearing into the atrium.

The soldier watched you leave. He blinked sharply at the large, horned shadow that seemed to slink along the wall behind you, willing the image away. He wondered to himself if his station in this unhinged empire was already beginning to erode his sanity. 

***

Geta leaned wearily on one of the armrests of his chair rubbing irritated circles into one of his temples with tented fingers. His gaze drifted along the assemblage of statesmen that stood in a semi-circle around him. The scowls of the gathered senators and merchants in the dimly lit atrium was a waking nightmare.

Marcus Acacius stood outside of the circle looking much as Geta himself felt. He was grateful to have an ally in his present misery.

Being peeled from his sleeping wife’s side in the wee hours to discuss that very wife was not only irritating but worrying. Shielding you from the growing vitriol of these men had become his singular occupation, disguised as statecraft. He’d hoped that impregnating you with his heir would calm the aristocratic unrest that now encroached on your very bedchamber. But as your belly grew, so did your brazenness. Your insistence that reason prevail across the empire, starting with the emperors, senate and gentry in the heart of Rome.

He wanted to tell himself that he’d done well at concealing your hand in the new sensibility that pervaded his inner sanctum. You rarely addressed the senate or the nobility, at least not in any formal way. But the second you had been brought to the palace from your rustic, far flung kingdom at the edge of the Empire, the very winds of Rome had shifted. And everyone could sense it, from priest to layman, from noble to slave. The writing was on the wall. The moment he’d declared his intention to take you for a wife, the changes were undeniable.

You’d witched Caracalla first. When Acacius brought you before the pair of them, flanked by filthy, gaunt soldiers that had been beset with inordinate misfortune on their way back from retrieving you from your kingom, you stood before them with bright eyes and healthy color in your face. There was no sign on your person of the pestilence and unseasonably bad weather that had followed the lot of you from your kingdom. Even Marcus, ever steadfast, had not been unaffected. But you, beautiful creature that you were, had weathered the misfortune just fine. Somehow.

Caracalla’s naive disposition made him ignore the obvious strangeness of you. He glommed onto you, demanding unbecoming amounts of private time with you even though the intention had always been for Geta to make you his wife. 

Geta had been sure at first that his brother had fucked you during your unauthorized tete-a-tetes, which he’d made every attempt to stop. But his brother, the sneaky little imp, always found you in your solitude. 

And after some weeks of you being in the city, Caracalla had changed, too. His pallid, sore-addled face became smooth and evenly-colored. The constant deadness behind his eyes had disappeared, replaced by a sharpness that one could almost mistake for wisdom. Even his hair had darkened, cutting through the pastiche of lasting, sickly boyhood that had followed the little fucker around for his whole life. His tantrums were almost non-existent and he had a new thirst for knowledge and joie-de-vivre. He never instigated fights with Geta anymore about the distribution of power. He seemed to have lost his thirst for the power of imperial rule altogether, choosing study and leisure time in the company of a solitary concubine and pet monkey. 

Eventually, Geta was able to get his hooks into you. In the days leading up to your wedding -which had been delayed pending senatorial deliberations about its diplomatic merit- Geta always knew your whereabouts. Nothing you did escaped his attention. 

On the wedding night, he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. In the solitude of your matrimonial cubiculum, he appraised your body, tortured by the thought that Caracalla may have gotten to you first. But when he peeled your gown and veil off, he saw something in your eyes that he’d never seen before. A fear. An apprehension. 

When he finally took you, it was clear that you had been untouched. He had been sure to make you plenty wet and to be very gentle with you. Not for your comfort, though, no. He only wanted to see if you would still have the telltale discomfort of first intercourse even when being treated with tender deference. His touch was whisper soft and still you bled and whimpered. Geta was satisfied that you had come to him a virgin, as advertised.

Of course your fuck-shyness was not to last. You two did have the embers of Venus's kiss burning steadily beneath your union. In fact, you confided to Geta during some pillow talk that you'd prayed to Venus on your journey to the city. You implored her to make you fall hopelessly in love with whomever had snared you into his imperial marriage contract. At the very least, you could hope that your cunt wouldn't snap closed at the sight of him.

And you spent a good long while learning one another's bodies and making one another insatiable. It was a wonder to Geta that it had taken so many moons for you to fall pregnant.

Once you'd settled into matrimony, you spent more time together in and out of bed and it quickly became apparent to Geta why his brother had been so taken with you.

You had a calming, sober whimsy despite the intensity often flared behind your eyes. You had a way of explaining your world view that was at once sophisticated yet unguarded and reachable. It was this that made Geta realize that you were witching him now.

His life had been mired in opulence and shades of vicarious glory. It was all he knew, and yet, when you spoke pretty words of egalitarianism and balance, it felt like he was crawling toward a hearth whose warmth he could once only dream of. He knew it wasn't his provenance of thought but he was so drunk on his love for you that he scarcely cared. You witch.

Besides which way, you made him see that if his head didn't end up on a pike, his son's would if the rumblings of rebellion were ignored. You were so clear-minded and measured in your appraisals.

He was pulled back into the present by a fleck of spittle on his cheek. One of the merchants was veering dangerously close to chastising him.

“Forgive me, Imperator, but the subsidies for women and children were one thing. Broadening comitia tributa elections amongst the plebian populace and the slaves, however is…”

Geta felt his eyes glaze over as they drifted to the columns on the far wall. Without Caracalla to blunt the proceedings with his impressive tantrums, Geta had been left to field endless complaints from these landed carcasses and he'd grown weary.

It was then that he saw your face. You could have been leagues away from him and he would have recognized the fire in your eyes. And that shadow that sometimes followed you, the ghastly, underworldly spectre that presided over you when you were cross. It wasn't just him. Many swore they'd seen it and its horns…

Geta straightened as you emerged from the shadows, his audience none the wiser. Except for Acacius. He saw him lift his chin in quiet acknowledgment of you. The General seemed to have a preternatural sense when you were near and roused.

Virgil may as well have been presiding over the scene as the old men tripped over themselves to oh so gently indict your character just as you stalked toward their turned backs.

“We know your Empress has enamored you with her primitive ways, and no man could blame you for being given to…to her-” 

“To her what, Senator?” 

The men turned at the sound of your dulcet yet resonant voice sounding off the walls of the atrium. It was startling given how soft spoken you were in public. Few had experienced the hidden power of your speaking voice.

The men took in your appearance. The wiser ones averted their gaze at your indecency. Geta himself was struck dumb, enraptured. 

Your tits, swollen with impending motherhood, were covered in a linen bandeau. In your haste to crash the proceedings, you had covered yourself from the hips down in a drape that was meant to give you an air of stateliness and modesty in your official capacity. But to see you in the robe that he once donned during orgies was what set his loins aflame now. The fabric listed carelessly from your shoulders. His balls felt suddenly heavy at the sight. 

You stood primly, your hands folded over the hilt of the sword tucked beneath your arm. Your expression was unreadable as it often was before strangers.

The Senator whose voice had been so strong before faltered.

“Augusta, you'll forgive my imprudence-”

“Will I?” you retorted.

Geta’s lips curled into a smirk.

You began pacing the floor beneath you, as though you were alone, lost in thought. He couldn't help but stalk you with his eyes. 

You were so heavy with his baby but he had seen insects pay their egg sacs more mind than you did your swollen belly. He didn't know if you were too stubborn to cradle and coddle your unborn babe or if you truly didn't give a fuck. But gods was it arousing. Even more so since he had put that baby in you.

“Do you know what my greatest shock was, coming to the heart of Rome from my primitive kingdom?” you spat.

Acacius watched you with the stoic but appraising gaze required of his battle-tested position, though no less intrigued than Geta.

The Senators and merchants kept quiet, trying to resist the urge to shuffle awkwardly.

“It wasn't the heat or the customs. It wasn't the intemperance. Nor was it the untold lost human potential seeping from the servants that are meant to service what I can only imagine are your incredibly disappointing cocks.”

Geta but his lip as he shot Acacius a twin sidelong glance of amusement tempered by nerves.

You were half naked. You were angry. You were pregnant. You had a sword. 

You untucked said sword and began thumbing the blade's edge as you pierced the assembly with your gaze. 

“It was the gnarled, emaciated limbs of children, babies inside these very city walls.” You pointed the sword at them, watching the faint light of the room dance along its polished blade. “The dispassion with which you all ignore the cries of their mothers begging on the street for their salvation.”

You looked at the loudmouth Senator then and beckoned him forth. There was sweat collecting on his brow. In fact, the air was somehow becoming ripe with the smell of collective fear.

The other Senators and merchants kept their breath stuffed in their lungs, the atmosphere around them pregnant with tension.

You flicked the blade down indicating that the Senator should bow before you. He obliged with no argument, just frightened, staccato breaths puncturing the air.

Acacius’ hands twitched at his sides. Under different circumstances, he would have drawn his sword to defend the Senator. But you held his allegiance. You had done since he'd helped kidnap you. He curled his fist at his side, trying to assuage the soldier's instincts etched on his psyche.

Geta was drunk. He'd never seen you quite like this in the flesh. Only in his mind's eye. And perhaps when you'd tried to shove your entire hand in his mouth while you rode his cock.

You stationed the point of the sword at the Senator’s groin. “My people knew what enough was. And I will spend my natural life imparting that knowledge to Rome.” 

Your words were akin to sedition, Geta knew. But if this was how you doled out justice, his heart's one wicked ventricle that carried the poison you hadn't managed to suck out would relish being the instrument of your reign. 

The Senator grunted as you slid the blade to his lower belly and pressed it in, just enough to nick him. A wretched sound echoed off the walls, making all the men cower. It was like the cacophony of a thousand locusts beating their wings on the winds of atrocity. The shadow of the underworld entity crawled up the wall, framing your diminutive form with perfect symmetry.

The horrible sound ceased suddenly, ushering in a silence accented by the shuddering breaths of all the men. Geta and Acacius were silent.

You withdrew the sword and cast your solemn eyes to the floor. “Leave your emperor and I in peace.” 

Your admonition was duly understood. The assembly skittered off, your Senator victim tripping over his toga in his haste to retreat.

You met Acacius' eyes then, giving him a tired smile. He returned it with a bow before striding calmly in the opposite direction.

You watched them all go, digging the sword into the marble for a moment before meeting Geta's gaze.

“Husband,” you said quietly. “Why didn't you wake me?” There was no anger in your voice. Just a soft note of melancholy.

Geta rose from his seat and approached you, taking you in once again. He could have choked on the whiplash. You had just terrified some of the highest ranked officials in Rome into submission. 

And yet you stood before him now, your eyes wide and shiny in all your bizarre glory. You were precious, adorable. He'd always thought so, even when you'd first arrived, a thorn in his side - a simple diplomatic maneuver gone horribly sideways.

He kissed your shoulder where his orgy robe had slipped off. He gently took the Centurion’s blade from your grasp, examining it with detached interest.

“You haven't completed a night of sleep in a fortnight,” he replied simply. “If I'd slit Ancharius up the middle by the end of tonight, I'd have told you over breakfast.”

“What a thing to say!” you chastised as he looped his arm around your waist, leading you back toward the hall.

Geta snickered and pressed a kiss to your head as you walked on, twiddling the sword in his hand. “Me? After that frightful display you just put on? Don't act like a shrinking violet now.”

You looped your arms around his middle as you made your way into the hallway from whence you came. Geta tossed the sword back to the guard, who caught it, trembling ever so slightly as he stood at attention again. 

“At ease,” you tossed over your shoulder.

You walked in companionable silence for a bit, the whispered acknowledgments of Centurions and crackling of torches in their sconces the only sounds to be heard.

Geta halted his steps then, turning you toward him. He cupped your face in one hand while he grazed your belly lovingly with his thumb.

The evening's events seemed to settle in on you both then as he embraced you, tilting your chin to kiss him softly.

He pulled away and regarded your pretty face for a moment before he spoke. “I can't remember me before you. That used to frighten me.”

Your gaze was soft as you looked up at him.

Once, you had thought that your love for him was manufactured by a need for survival and by your fevered supplications to Venus to force your heart to beat for him.

But every day that passed made you wonder if maybe you were meant to find one another. In this life and in the next.

”And now?” you wondered aloud.

He pressed his forehead to yours and sighed. “And now I could be made a freckle on your nose and be grateful for the proximity to you.” He rubbed his nose into yours to strengthen his point.

Your heart fluttered at the sentiment.

You took his hand and pulled him down the hall, further toward your room. 

“I love you,” you said. You didn't want to further belabour the point of his midnight meeting.

“I love you too, dearest.”

You swung your joined hands between you.

“I'm still keyed up from the attempted sedition. Will you tongue fuck me until I can sleep again?”

Geta tried in vain to suppress his smile. “Darling, I will tongue fuck you until my cock gets jealous and threatens to rebel.”

You shared a giggle over his jest as you made your way back to your empire of two.

[knight-of-ashes]

turned my beloved @dustycymbre into a little model for some outfit ideas (vest is holy clothing, pants are verillas, the chest wrap is herringbone linen pulled from the etsy store i bought it from that i'm gonna sew into strophium for them)

honestly this is still not as hairy as Cattail really is now XD I think I like the brown strophium and pants with green vest the best. Ah fuck I forgot the bracers.

good enough lmao

[caiusmajor]

for the Director's Cut meme: how about "To Make Clean, To Wipe Away"? I'd love to hear you talk more about Kersh/Bethesda.

Oh man. Putting this under a cut because of the nature of the fic. Fic is here if anyone wants to follow along.

Title: basically this is the dictionary definition of "absterge".

I don't write fic in first person often, but Legion of the Damned has little bits in first person from Kersh's POV, and that was the voice it made sense to me to write this in.

(There's an earlier, unwritten, version of this that is Bethesda's POV and goes more into her upbringing on Eschara; but that didn't seem like what Cody was looking for, so I wrote Kersh's POV instead.)

Bethesda is described as small and scrawny in Legion of the Damned -- I suspect she was undernourished as a kid, and is going through puberty late, at least by 21st century US standards.

"generative organ" -- my answer to the question of what Zachariah Kersh would call his penis. It kind of gestures at "reproductive organ" without actually saying that, because Kersh's reproductive organs are in his chest and neck.

"since I was less than a century old" -- Kersh is an old, old man, even by Space Marine standards.

"donning Dorn's mantle" and "achieving endorphic communion" -- both lovely phrases, both directly from Legion of the Damned.

"no words for this" -- yeah, at least in this fic, Katafalque wrote an entire guide to sadomasochism without once mentioning that it might be sexual. Imperial Fists be like that.

Bethesda in Kersh's bed -- yes, she has a giant crush, but also the poor girl has no privacy. She and her brother and father live all together in a tiny room next to Kersh's. Sometimes sleeping on a stone slab is worth it to get away from your dad and brother for a few hours.

"I dream that I am a man, and I hold my wife in my arms, as a man would." -- Kersh isn't a man, but he is kind of a gentleman, with some traditional ideas about men and women. If lying with Bethesda isn't unthinkable and impossible, then they could only be doing it as a (human) husband and wife, clearly.

"As Scourge, I have my own washroom" -- this is prior to the whole Stigmartyr debacle, so Kersh is still in favor with his chapter and no one has put him in a box yet.

Bethesda's breast-band -- I was imagining something more like a Roman strophium than a modern bra, if that makes sense. Also, given what we know about Bethesda's build, she probably doesn't have a lot going on there, either because of the delayed puberty I mentioned above or just because she's built like that.

"checking to see if I am looking" -- she's flirting SO hard right now.

"but I am capable of shame" -- Cody pointed this one out, and I like the dichotomy of Kersh's nudity being completely unremarkable but Bethesda's being special and private. Usually when a someone is unconcerned about their nudity in front of a servant, the implication is that the servant isn't really a person, but for Kersh it's the reverse -- he's not really a person, but Bethesda is.

"To me, you are a very attractive man." -- Bethesda is trying SO hard.

and it works out for her!

happily ever after, at least until the grimdark catches up with them.

[jallyysstuff]

The History of Corsets: A Connection to Cats

Come along for a fascinating tour into the history of corsets and their adorable relationship with cats! Try imagining a period in ancient Greece when women supported their bodies with specialized clothing called “strophiums”, it’s a thick layer of clothing that helps them support their bodies. But do you know that the real story of corsets started in Europe during the Renaissance period? By the…

[chloesunit4]

Buddhist Clothing

Draped clothing:

A draped garment is one that is composed of a single piece of material that is draped around the body rather than being cut away or sewn as is the case with a fitted garment. Drapes can be fastened to the body by knotting, pinning, fibulae, clasps, sashes, belts, tying drawstrings, or simply friction and gravity. Many draped clothing are made out of simply one piece.

Kasaya (clothing)

The robes of fully ordained Buddhist monks and nuns are called kya, after a brown or saffron hue. In Sanskrit and Pali, these garments are sometimes referred to by the more generic name cvara, which refers to the robes regardless of colour.

Pratheedhi

Pratheedhi, a loose garment was a part of the bride’s attire made of simple strip of cloth. Pratidhi was an unstitched garment similar to almost all contemporary clothes that were wrapped around the body in different ways. The women were fastening it up at the back. The materials were usually animal skin, cotton, wool, or silk.

Rakusu

A rakusu (絡子) is a traditionally Japanese garment worn around the neck of Zen Buddhists who have taken the precepts. It can also signify Lay Ordination. It is made of 16 or more strips of cloth, sewn together into a brick-like pattern by the student during their period of preparation for their jukai or ordination ceremony.

Samue

Samue (作務衣) is the work clothing of Japanese Buddhist monks, worn when engaged in samu.

Sang-kio-ki

Sang-kio-ki and "Ni-fo-si-na" were ramaa people's costumes in India. The Chinese traveller Xuanzang characterised Sramana's clothes in the 7th century as three distinct sorts of robes, each with a different style and cut according on the school they belonged to. Some robes feature huge or small flaps, while others have narrow or wide borders. The Sang-kio-ki conceals the two armpits while covering the left shoulder. It is worn closed on the right side and open on the left. It is longer all the way down to the waist. The Ni-fo-si-na was a loin garment that was plaited in folds and corded around the loins. There are no tassels or griddles on it. Different schools used various hues.

Stanapatta

Stanapatta (Stanmasuka) was a loose upper body wrap fabric. It was an old Indian breast band. It was a basic top garment worn by women in ancient times, akin to the mamillare or strophium used by Roman ladies. Poshak included Stanapatta. Klidsa describes kurpasika, another type of breastband that he associates with uttarasanga and stanapatta. Innerwear for the lower body was known as nivi or nivi bandha. Malhar's Skandamata sculpture portrays the ancient use of stanapatta and kanchuki.

Temple robes

Temple robes describe the ceremonial clothing worn in the performance of ordinances and ceremonies in a temple.

Uttariya

An uttariya is a loose piece of upper body clothing. It is a single piece of cloth that falls from the back of the neck to curl around both arms and could also drape the top half of the body. An Uttariya is similar to a veil, a long scarf and shawl.

Referencing:

Pratima. (2022). Buddhist religious clothing, amulets & talismans. [Online]. mandalas. Last Updated: 28 December 2022. Available at: https://mandalas.life/list/buddhist-religious-clothing-amulets-talismans/ [Accessed 18 September 2023].

[delectablywaywardbeard-blog]

Bikini day tra due pezzi crochet e glamour anni '80

(ANSA) – ROMA, 24 GIU – Anche se i costumi due pezzi, chiamati subligaculum e strophium, erano indossati già nell’antichità, come risulta dal ritrovamento di urne, affreschi e mosaici di epoca greca e romana (i più antichi risalgono al 1400 a.C.), il moderno bikini, l’adorato due pezzi che non manca mai in nessun guardaroba femminile delle vacanze, festeggerà il 5 luglio il suo anniversario, come…

[sophiamcdougall]

I just think more than I probably should about how if you picked up, say, these two:

and took them forward a full 1000 years in time and showed them this

I think they'd be like "....OK sure. Those are definitely clothes. Weird hats. Sleeves have got kind of tight? Except where they're super baggy? Everything seems to have gone a little Celtic/Scandi? But I guess it's colder now so that makes sense." They wouldn't have any trouble figuring out how to get dressed. And then you take them forward another thousand years and change and it's like --

And you know, synthetic fabrics and elastic would be a surprise. Why are the tunics so short? Can men and women really dress the same? And sure they'd see clothes on the average high street that would be more startling (Flaccus, she's wearing her strophium as outerwear!) But it wouldn't be hard to assemble completely modern outfits that felt at least normal-adjacent to them. You might have to show them how a zip works, but otherwise they could probably figure out for themselves how to get dressed within minutes. They'd probably be most bewildered by the underwear. But OK. This is kind of reassuring. People fly through the air, hold vast libraries of knowledge in their pockets, and every house has a magical freezing cabinet for groceries, but the clothes? They're different, but they're still basically just clothes. At which point you cackle and bounce them around in the second half of the second millennium for a while and --

-- they would have even less idea what to do with any of these things than you do, and they would naturally conclude that for c.600 years everyone lost their entire fool minds.

Western humans [prehistory]-1400ish: When I get dressed in the morning I usually put on a dress, or a top with trousers or a skirt. Western humans: 1400ish-1914: My separate Leg Tubes attach on with strings. Then I tie three pillows around my waist. I pin on my Tit Shield. I can't go out without my Head Dish. This is my Arse Cage and that is my Penis Hat. Western humans 1914-now: When I get dressed in the morning I usually put on a dress, or a top with trousers or a skirt.

[screeching-0wl]

Have you noticed how pretty Apollo's hair is?

Yeah, me too. Hard not to notice.

But let's take a closer look at his hair, more specifically at Apollo's iconic hairstyle - the "hair bow".

So, why has he been depicted that way and what's up with this hairstyle?

The "hair bow" has been one of the most recognisable features of Apollo.

A great example and probably the most well-known sculpture of this divinity depicted in such a way is the so-called Pythian Apollo, better known as Apollo Belvedere - a marble statue dated to around 2nd century A.D. and considered to be a copy of an original bronze statue of 330-320 B.C. by Leochares, one of the artists who worked on the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus.

The statue has always been greatly admired and even considered to be "the sublime expression of Greek art" by some.

Apollo is depicted as an archer. He moves forward gracefully and seems to have just released an arrow from the bow which he originally carried in his left hand. His quiver is suspended across his left shoulder. He is entirely nude except for his sandals and a chlamys (a type of robe) clasped at his right shoulder, turned up on his left arm, and thrown back.

Now, let's talk about Apollo's locks. His hair, lightly curled, flows in ringlets down his neck and rises gracefully to the summit of his head. We can see Apollo's hair be tied into this beautiful, elaborate hairstyle - the iconic "hair bow"... except it's not exactly a hair bow!

Apollo's hair is encircled with the strophium and it's not just to make it look pretty, there is a good reason for that!

Strophium was a type of band very characteristic and symbolic of people with high status, rulers, kings, and ultimately, gods, making it a perfect hairstyle to symbolise Apollo's status and divinity.

Head of Apollo, modelled on the Apollo Belvedere (marble Roman copy, ca. 120-140 AD)

Perhaps it's not quite like what Lady Gaga would wear; I know, sorry to disappoint you! But who knows, maybe Apollo was somewhat of a trendsetter here?

[githjanken]

things i learnt reading three books of baru:

seth dickinson really likes the words “palimpsest” and “strophium”

[sparradile]

Losing my mind for a second here because I read something a while back about someone actually trying out the practicality of it, but here's her write-up (this one's about a strophium, which is more like what you're describing, I just couldn't remember the word when I initially replied)

You know, it's really common to see in art and character designs, specially in fantasy but also elsewhere, with female characters that have their chests bandaged, which I assume is as an alternative to bras and such.

And I'm wondering, how does that work?

As a boob owner, I've never been able to wrap my head around how that works, like, how do you get it on? How does it stay on? I have some serious difficulty in imagining it as anything but uncomfortable to wear, and just, the logistics of shepherding two soft, floppy blobs of fatty flesh enough to keep them in place while bandaging them over and

How many arms does one need? To wrap the bandage around and behind one's torso while simultaneously making sure you get the boobs covered and kept in place and just

How?

I'm sorry, but my brain just cannot compute.

[greyopal]

the traitor baru cormorant taught me the word “strophium” :-)

[bookshelf-imagines]

Chasing Light | Part II

Pairing/Fandom: Lumity/ToH

Summary: Things are...spicing up.

Warnings: ABUSE, BLOOD, VIOLENCE AND A LOT OF IT

Notes: Strophium - Cloth wrapped around the breasts (bra) Palla - Female Roman equivalent of a toga; best to look it up for a picture. Don’t really know how to describe it beside “scarf” but it’s not:( PART I || PART III || PART IV || PART V || PART VI || PART VII

Odalia’s iron grip tightened around Amity’s hair and wrists with each struggle, causing the captive to cease her rebellious actions and comply with the older woman. Besides, she broke the rules. For that, one must pay.

Amity was dragged back in the direction of the dreaded manor, only to be thrown into a shed that sits off to the side. It was unkempt, dirty. The cement floor was stained a dark crimson and the walls were cracked from the harsh sunlight. The brown-haired girl knew the room too well, for on occasions where her mistress was angry, she would be pulled there and beaten until miles past exhaustion. She had learned to not fight it - there was no point.

Her knees slammed against the rough stone as she was shoved to the ground, scraping the skin off her hands in an attempt to catch herself in the process. Odalia took her time. One by one, causing her ‘daughter’ to anxiously wait for what was to come.

A candle was lit. The shadow behind Amity grew as she covered the back of her head and curled into a ball. She couldn’t fight it, she would never win.

A whip bounced off of the dry walls, sending a shiver through their brittle bones. They could only watch the poor girl suffer, even after all these years.

Amity flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. The first was easy, the rest would be easy as well.

Wrong.

Another crack broke the air and stripped straight through Amity’s tunic and strophium, licking her bare flesh.

A weak whimper escaped her lips. Odalia cackled and drew back once more.

CRACKLE!

The scourge painfully sliced through the thin flesh on Amity’s back, feasting upon the red that dripped from the wounds left in its wake. The sharp edges dragged back and forth, digging deeper with each thrash and pullback.

Odalia continued the beating until there was barely a shirt left on Amity’s back, completely shredding it and everything else in its path. The latter lay limp on the floor, silently sobbing.

Her back stung like the sting of a thousand scorpions. She was in unbelievable pain, unable to move a single muscle in fear of the rest of her body shutting down permanently. The torn flesh screamed in agony as the air clung to it like a wet washcloth, making her shudder.

Amity stayed rooted to the stony deck as Odalia triumphantly smirked and threw the scourge back in the corner before making her exit. A vile woman, that one, if one should choose to even address her as human.

It was many minutes before any of the other slaves poked their heads inside as they usually did. Granted, the first few beatings they did not help her since she was a Blight, but after they witnessed the inflictions, they eventually opened their arms for her. They did not interact with her outside of the shed, but they would sate her wounds until she could continue working.

So, they did what they do best. They got to work.

~~~~~~~~~~ One week later ~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s not like she’ll actually see you. Just walk by.” Luz mumbled, pacing back and forth. “Smoothly. Walk by smoothly. You can do that. You’ve slain a cyclops. You can stroll by a house.”

The legionnaire had been on patrol for the last three hours checking the perimeter of the town and establishments within five miles of said town. Well...for the last ten minutes she had been tracing and retracing the same eight steps barely outside the view of the Blight Manor.

Luz never would have thought she would have this much difficulty simply passing a house. Even if the house wasn't what she was afraid of seeing, her mind was screaming at her to woman up and continue her patrol.

Without warning, a crash not far away caught Luz’s ear. She poked her head around the corner and saw a carriage with a figure behind it, seemingly loading it. Apparently, however, the figure dropped something, so Luz being the curious soul that she is went to investigate, unknowingly gravitating toward the building she had been avoiding.

“Stupid,” Luz heard a thud follow the word, “Worthless,” another thud, “slave!”

Upon hearing the last word, Luz quickened her movements and fully came into view of the two figures. What she saw sent her into a frenzy.

Amity was curled into a half-ball on the dry road whilst Odalia kicked her again and again. On top of that, a dark crimson could be seen seeping through the back of Amity’s shirt - and it looked like streaks.

Luz immediately went into fight mode and pulled Odalia off of Amity, throwing her to the ground in the process.

“Stay down.” Luz warned.

“She’s my slave-”

Luz unsheathed her sword, pointing it directly at the woman’s throat.

“I said stay down.”

Odalia seemed to stay down at that point, allowing Luz to sheath her sword and turn back around to the injured girl that was struggling to get up. Luz crouched and hovered by Amity, mentally figuring out how to go about the situation.

“Amity.”

“I don’t need your help.” Amity grunted, grabbing on to the side of the carriage but ultimately slipping and hissing in pain.

“Put your arm around my neck.”

“I said I don’t need your help-”

“I’m not asking.” Luz affirmed.

Amity looked back and saw the intense and, not to mention, serious, gaze of the centurion. Her back was screaming due to one of the wounds opening back up when she dropped the box, but she didn’t want to look weak. If she looked weak, she would be punished.

Reluctantly but surely, Amity slung her right arm over Luz’s neck and the latter carefully scooped her into her arms. The arm under Amity’s legs supported most of the weight in fear of causing her back to bleed more.

“You can’t take her. She’s not yours!” Odalia howled, dusting off her tunic.

Luz continued toward the hill, patrol and Odalia long forgotten.

“She’ll...find you, you know.” Amity dazedly mumbled, subconsciously tightening her arms around Luz and burying her head in the woman’s neck.

“Let her find me. It’s you that I’m not letting her near.”

At that moment, Amity’s heart did a backflip. No, two backflips. Was this the feeling of being cared for? Cared about? She didn’t quite know, and she didn’t want to question it either. If she did, it would slip away. Gods, she didn’t want it to slip away, no matter how foreign it was to her.

They continued up the hill until they reached the town, briskly but not enough to irritate Amity’s wounds further. Swerving before they arrived at the gates, Luz traveled around the wall until they were on the eastern side and then entered the town. She went to the first house on the left, seeing her friend outside.

“Willow!” Luz shouted, “I need your help.”

Willow gasped and ran over, “What happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Luz continued, “I need uva ursi and plantain.”

The nature-lover took a second glance at the body her friend was carrying but did not say anything related to them.

“Right.”

With Amity completely passed out from blood loss and no doubt exhaustion, Luz gently laid her on her stomach and ripped open the back of her tunic and carefully peeled off the vermillion-soaked strophium.

What she saw next caused her to choke back a sob.

From shoulder to shoulder, from the neck down, from top to bottom. All that was there were scars and a lot of blood. Lash marks in x-shapes, divits in the tissue, countless short scratches. It was practically a murder scene.

Shaking herself from shock, Luz grabbed a cloth. As she did so, Willow entered the room with the three plants in hand and a bucket of water. The cloth was dipped into the water, wrung, and sluggishly placed on the re-opened wounds, turning from white to red within a second. Every few dabs, the uva ursi would be applied, aiding the effort in discontinuing the bleeding.

After replacing most of the clear liquid with scarlet ichor, Luz got to work with the plantain - one of the weeds to heal wounds. She took the reeds and placed them accordingly, then wrapped them so they would stay.

When she was satisfied with her tasks, she moved Amity to a cot in another room and draped a blanket over her. The latter was still unconscious but seemed to have a more tranquil than agonized expression. Luz soundlessly exited and latched the door, coming face to face with her friend.

“Is she okay?” Willow worriedly inquired.

“She will be.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Wait. Do you...know her?”

“It’s-it’s complicated.”

“Willow.” Luz put a hand on the other girl’s shoulder, “I might be able to help her if you know something.”

Willow paused and contemplated the thought for a moment before sighing.

“Amity Blight. We...we were friends as children-”

“Blight?” Luz blurted.

“Well, yes-”

“Amity Blight.”

“That’s...what I said, yes.”

“I’m sorry, Willow, but I think there’s something I need to take care of. I’ll be back.”

“But, Luz-”

Before Willow could finish, Luz had already sped out the door and outside the gates, winging her way back over to the southern wall.

With each step, Luz’s stance became more intimidating. Her shoulders broadened, her anger visibly flared, and her strides elongated.

She was infuriated.

Odalia had just dismissed a few slaves and was, unfortunately for her, still outside the main house.

Every footfall caused Luz to clench her fists tighter. The sight of the woman sent pure fire through her body, fueling her actions.

“She’s your daughter!” Luz yelled, coming up to the Blight household. The slaves stopped and leered.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking abo-” Odalia was cut short.

Luz grabbed Odalia’s palla and threw her against the wall, securing her by pressing against her shoulders with her left arm.

“You heard me.” Luz growled. “She’s your daughter. Amity is your daughter.”

Odalia sneered. “That abomination is not my daughter.”

“You’ve been passing her off as a slave for Gods know how long. Why?”

“I said,” Odalia spat, “That thing is not my daughter.”

Luz attempted to strike back, but was surprised by Alador opening the front door with a solemn guise present on his face. He looked at the legionnaire.

“She’s not worth your time.” He sighed, “Trust me, I would know.”

“Amity’s your daughter.”

Alador cast his gaze to the ground before resuming eye contact. His demeanor exuded fatigue, as if he had lied for far too long. His lips drooped then formed a line when he replied, a slight nod in his movements.

“She is.”

“Alador-”

“Not now, ‘Dalia.”

Luz’s force subsided, allowing the woman to slip from her clutches. However, said woman seemed as if she was about to burst. The centurion stood tall, clenching her fists once again and lifting her chin.

“Tell me everything.”

[transparentgentlemenmarker]

Quelques siècles avant Jésus-Christ, les femmes cherchaient à camoufler leurs seins. Du temps des Romains et des Grecs, elles portaient des «strophium», des larges bandes de tissus – souvent du lin - qu’elles drapaient autour de leur corps pour effacer leur poitrine. D’autres noms pour ces ancêtres du soutien-gorge : des mastodetons ou des fascias. À cette époque, les femmes ont clairement un look androgyne.

Le soutien-gorge au Moyen-Âge. Fini le temps où on désire empêcher le développement des seins et où on les cache. C’est le début des vêtements qui les mettent en valeur. Les robes rehaussent le buste, les effets des lacets au milieu de la poitrine attirent le regard et plus les seins semblent « débordant » mieux c’est! Non, en fait le top est de voir un mamelon fuyant sous les tissus.

La longue époque du corset. Le corset s’est porté pendant environ 400 ans, du 15e au 20esiècle. Son but : comprimer la taille au maximum pour faire ressortir les hanches et la poitrine à l’aide de lacets, de baleines et de tiges.  Du coup, il sculpte, moule, soutient et étouffe le corps. D’abord, ils sont constitués avec des morceaux de bois puis ensuite avec des morceaux de métal. On peut dire que le 19e siècle est l’apogée du corset qui, désormais, arbore des bretelles. Même si le corset est gage de féminité et de sensualité, il reste que celui-ci récolte beaucoup de critiques, car ses détracteurs affirment qu’il cause divers problèmes de santé et douleurs, comme l’atrophie musculaire des abdominaux et des dorsaux. Difficiles de savoir si tout est vrai, mais reste que physiquement le corset pouvait avoir des allures de véritables prisons, gênant les femmes dans leurs mouvements.

Le premier soutien-gorge!

À 1889, à l’exposition universelle de Paris, Hermine Cadolle présente un corset en deux morceaux, avec une partie se terminant sous la poitrine. Et voilà! L’ancêtre du soutien-gorge faisait son apparition. Toutefois, le public n’a pas été conquis d’emblée.

L’invention des bonnets. Le premier modèle de soutien-gorge fait de deux bonnets – des triangles - reliés ensemble est créé par une américaine du nom de Mary Phelps Jacob en 1914. La Première Guerre mondiale chasse les inconfortables corsets.

La mode des pin-up! Dans les années 50, c’est l’époque des soutiens-gorge pigeonnant qui font des seins un peu pointus, éléments clés des pin-up des fifties!

Vers le milieu des années 60,  la compagnie canadienne Canadelle met en marché des soutiens-gorge «push-up» qui remontent la poitrine des femmes et la mettent bien en valeur. Depuis, les modèles push-up se sont multipliés et on en retrouve dans toutes les compagnies comme ce modèle proposé par Wonderbra.

Confort, féminité et beauté. En 2013, le choix des soutiens-gorge est immense! On recherche à la fois le confort dans un look ultra féminin et la féminité dans un modèle plus sportif. On en trouve de toutes les couleurs, tous les styles et tous les besoins comme celui-ci parfait pour enfiler ensuite une robe au décolleté plongeant.

[ringneckedpheasant]

You could check out the strophium! It's like an acient sports bra

it’s mostly the underpants that im concerned abt because kiernan has like. a specially tailored binder.

[salomi]

Apollo Belvedere

The majesty of the handsome Greek god is exquisitely captured in this marble sculpture found in the Courtyard of the Statues of the Vatican Museums.

The statue, which was created in 320 AD, is believed to be a replica of a lost bronze statue that dates back to the middle of the 2nd century B.C.

The arrow has just left Apollo's bow and the effort impressed on his musculature still lingers. His hair, lightly curled, flows in ringlets down his neck and rises gracefully to the summit of his head, which is encircled with the strophium, a band symbolic of gods and kings. His quiver is suspended across his left shoulder. He is entirely nude except for his sandals and a robe (chlamys) clasped at his right shoulder, turned up on his left arm, and thrown back.

"Apollo gives the sense that the death blow he just delivered was of no challenge to him. There is no intensity or joy in Apollo's face, but only a short of melancholy as if the battle meant nothing to him."

From the mid-18th century it was considered the greatest ancient sculpture by ardent neoclassicists, and for centuries it epitomized the ideals of aesthetic perfection for Europeans and westernized parts of the world.