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Come one! Come all! Test your feats of strength and power! It's the bi-annual Colchian strength tournament! Held in the province of Pieria - honouring its temple of Hephaestus, this tournament is open to men of both noble and common born status. Whoever wins, becomes King of the Day and sits upon a throne with crown adorning their temples and can decree his laws until sunset. At which point, a giant bonfire is constructed and meat cooked by the womenfolk, in celebration of their strong men.
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Come one! Come all! Test your feats of strength and power! It's the bi-annual Colchian strength tournament! Held in the province of Pieria - honouring its temple of Hephaestus, this tournament is open to men of both noble and common born status. Whoever wins, becomes King of the Day and sits upon a throne with crown adorning their temples and can decree his laws until sunset. At which point, a giant bonfire is constructed and meat cooked by the womenfolk, in celebration of their strong men.
Heavy Weight Provincial Story - Colchis
Come one! Come all! Test your feats of strength and power! It's the bi-annual Colchian strength tournament! Held in the province of Pieria - honouring its temple of Hephaestus, this tournament is open to men of both noble and common born status. Whoever wins, becomes King of the Day and sits upon a throne with crown adorning their temples and can decree his laws until sunset. At which point, a giant bonfire is constructed and meat cooked by the womenfolk, in celebration of their strong men.
The last thing Vangelis ever normally wanted to do was showboat. Whilst he had been born to privilege and, as such, had specific obligations that he had to oversee - many of which had to be conducted in the public eye - he was not naturally an ostentatious person. He preferred to observe and witness the events that happened around him, rather than be the spectacle that everyone else liked to stare after.
However, it had been a few months since he had returned from his last venture to the north and without direct orders to return his men to the battlefield, Vangelis had been tasked with overseeing the training of his Red Knights. In an effort to engage his younger brother in such efforts and educate him further in the ways of the militia, Vangelis had handed command of the Knights to Prince Yiannis for a solid month, eager to see how his younger brother would handle the responsibility. At the time, he had thought it to be a solid plan, as there were matters that his father wished for him to settle whilst home in the capitol. He could not be in both Midas and Chaossis at the same time. As such, he had delegated to Yiannis as his father had delegated to him, and he had set aside the month of Praratios to complete his work.
Unfortunately - or fortunately, depending on where you stood in the equation - Vangelis was more efficient at kingly duties than he had expected himself to be. Having overestimated the time that it would take to handle paperwork, discussions, clay communications... Having thought it would take time for the nobility of the land to accept his rulings as if he were his sire... Vangelis was surprised that no such time was needed, his new and growing reputation for ferocity on the battlefield ensuring that men of all levels of society were quick to accept him as the mouthpiece of his father and put his directions into action.
As such... Vangelis was now left with a gaping period of time in which he had little to do besides the day to day tasks of a crown prince. Whilst he had been tempted to return to Chaossis early and aid his brother, the Queen had encouraged him against such a decision. It would, she assured him, feel to Yiannis like an act of distrust or supervision. It had been during that conversation in particular that Vangelis had heard, understood and respected the lesson that Yanni was teaching him: that people only grow once given the space to prove that they can.
And so, Vangelis had been convinced to attend the Hephaestus tournament. As the God of Fire was one of the patron Gods of Colchis, it would be seen as disrespectful to the divine being if the royal family held no presence at the event. And so, Vangelis had agreed to make an appearance.
Whilst Silas had been relegated to remaining at home with the Queen and Athanasia (for competitions with mostly naked men was hardly a suitable event for an eleven-year-old girl), Vangelis had agreed (if only to provide his normally busy self with something to do) to attend with his brother.
Barred by his mother from riding to the festival on his own steed - for he was not now a commanding officer but a royal representative - Vangelis looked across at his brother, his eyes narrowed.
"Just what are the people expecting from us, do you think?" He asked, referring to the competition. He was not particularly interested in stripping down to a loincloth and wrestling with other men. He had no issues with such activities during training or for the purpose of improving his or his men's skills. But he wasn't interested in violence for the sake of sport and entertainment and had never been one to enjoy such unrealistic combat...
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Oct 15, 2019 15:13:44 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Oct 15, 2019 15:13:44 GMT
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The last thing Vangelis ever normally wanted to do was showboat. Whilst he had been born to privilege and, as such, had specific obligations that he had to oversee - many of which had to be conducted in the public eye - he was not naturally an ostentatious person. He preferred to observe and witness the events that happened around him, rather than be the spectacle that everyone else liked to stare after.
However, it had been a few months since he had returned from his last venture to the north and without direct orders to return his men to the battlefield, Vangelis had been tasked with overseeing the training of his Red Knights. In an effort to engage his younger brother in such efforts and educate him further in the ways of the militia, Vangelis had handed command of the Knights to Prince Yiannis for a solid month, eager to see how his younger brother would handle the responsibility. At the time, he had thought it to be a solid plan, as there were matters that his father wished for him to settle whilst home in the capitol. He could not be in both Midas and Chaossis at the same time. As such, he had delegated to Yiannis as his father had delegated to him, and he had set aside the month of Praratios to complete his work.
Unfortunately - or fortunately, depending on where you stood in the equation - Vangelis was more efficient at kingly duties than he had expected himself to be. Having overestimated the time that it would take to handle paperwork, discussions, clay communications... Having thought it would take time for the nobility of the land to accept his rulings as if he were his sire... Vangelis was surprised that no such time was needed, his new and growing reputation for ferocity on the battlefield ensuring that men of all levels of society were quick to accept him as the mouthpiece of his father and put his directions into action.
As such... Vangelis was now left with a gaping period of time in which he had little to do besides the day to day tasks of a crown prince. Whilst he had been tempted to return to Chaossis early and aid his brother, the Queen had encouraged him against such a decision. It would, she assured him, feel to Yiannis like an act of distrust or supervision. It had been during that conversation in particular that Vangelis had heard, understood and respected the lesson that Yanni was teaching him: that people only grow once given the space to prove that they can.
And so, Vangelis had been convinced to attend the Hephaestus tournament. As the God of Fire was one of the patron Gods of Colchis, it would be seen as disrespectful to the divine being if the royal family held no presence at the event. And so, Vangelis had agreed to make an appearance.
Whilst Silas had been relegated to remaining at home with the Queen and Athanasia (for competitions with mostly naked men was hardly a suitable event for an eleven-year-old girl), Vangelis had agreed (if only to provide his normally busy self with something to do) to attend with his brother.
Barred by his mother from riding to the festival on his own steed - for he was not now a commanding officer but a royal representative - Vangelis looked across at his brother, his eyes narrowed.
"Just what are the people expecting from us, do you think?" He asked, referring to the competition. He was not particularly interested in stripping down to a loincloth and wrestling with other men. He had no issues with such activities during training or for the purpose of improving his or his men's skills. But he wasn't interested in violence for the sake of sport and entertainment and had never been one to enjoy such unrealistic combat...
The last thing Vangelis ever normally wanted to do was showboat. Whilst he had been born to privilege and, as such, had specific obligations that he had to oversee - many of which had to be conducted in the public eye - he was not naturally an ostentatious person. He preferred to observe and witness the events that happened around him, rather than be the spectacle that everyone else liked to stare after.
However, it had been a few months since he had returned from his last venture to the north and without direct orders to return his men to the battlefield, Vangelis had been tasked with overseeing the training of his Red Knights. In an effort to engage his younger brother in such efforts and educate him further in the ways of the militia, Vangelis had handed command of the Knights to Prince Yiannis for a solid month, eager to see how his younger brother would handle the responsibility. At the time, he had thought it to be a solid plan, as there were matters that his father wished for him to settle whilst home in the capitol. He could not be in both Midas and Chaossis at the same time. As such, he had delegated to Yiannis as his father had delegated to him, and he had set aside the month of Praratios to complete his work.
Unfortunately - or fortunately, depending on where you stood in the equation - Vangelis was more efficient at kingly duties than he had expected himself to be. Having overestimated the time that it would take to handle paperwork, discussions, clay communications... Having thought it would take time for the nobility of the land to accept his rulings as if he were his sire... Vangelis was surprised that no such time was needed, his new and growing reputation for ferocity on the battlefield ensuring that men of all levels of society were quick to accept him as the mouthpiece of his father and put his directions into action.
As such... Vangelis was now left with a gaping period of time in which he had little to do besides the day to day tasks of a crown prince. Whilst he had been tempted to return to Chaossis early and aid his brother, the Queen had encouraged him against such a decision. It would, she assured him, feel to Yiannis like an act of distrust or supervision. It had been during that conversation in particular that Vangelis had heard, understood and respected the lesson that Yanni was teaching him: that people only grow once given the space to prove that they can.
And so, Vangelis had been convinced to attend the Hephaestus tournament. As the God of Fire was one of the patron Gods of Colchis, it would be seen as disrespectful to the divine being if the royal family held no presence at the event. And so, Vangelis had agreed to make an appearance.
Whilst Silas had been relegated to remaining at home with the Queen and Athanasia (for competitions with mostly naked men was hardly a suitable event for an eleven-year-old girl), Vangelis had agreed (if only to provide his normally busy self with something to do) to attend with his brother.
Barred by his mother from riding to the festival on his own steed - for he was not now a commanding officer but a royal representative - Vangelis looked across at his brother, his eyes narrowed.
"Just what are the people expecting from us, do you think?" He asked, referring to the competition. He was not particularly interested in stripping down to a loincloth and wrestling with other men. He had no issues with such activities during training or for the purpose of improving his or his men's skills. But he wasn't interested in violence for the sake of sport and entertainment and had never been one to enjoy such unrealistic combat...
It had been three years since his latest promotion to that of an illustrious captainship. To many, this would signal the end of their military career, a culmination of efforts to be proud of and look back upon with pride and prejudice. This was especially true for men of common-birth, like him. Though arguably those that had sacrificed the most for hearth and home, it was hence upheld as ancient and most imposed convention that only those of proper and noble blood, ceremoniously born solely for the purpose to rule, should be allowed to make well and advance towards those most esteemed and elevated positions of reverence and due luster. He would not make a secret of it beneath exposure of dimmest dark and blackest night, he longed for greatness, for the recognition and appraisal so unduly showered upon by those who only held claim to such laurels for mere accidents of birth and circumstance of bloodline. Though, he wasn't a fool. Many would try and prevent him from his calling, a calling born not from himself, but by sacred covenant between the Gods who reigned up above and the people who slaved down below.
Indeed, as true as he had ascended towards that covetous position of captaincy, many would come to regard him as ill-made for the position. He was only the son of a wealthy scribe, a man of no consequence whatsoever. Yet, being so underestimated and dismissed gave much room to grow and learn, to become acquainted with the norms and forms of true and proper society. He was free to observe and to breath, to ascertain and manifest. Eyes would be forced upon him all the time, without respect, without respite. At all hours, his every move would be questioned, whenever, wherever and with whomever. And of course, he had to play the part and don the jester's motley. He would let them think they knew him, those dimwitted, mud-brained lords of nothingness, as well as those ill-knowledgeable lowborns he had come to unexpectedly feel support from. Under highblood gaze, he would be but a doll of clay, bendable and impressionable, forged to take whatever shape his nominal masters would compel him so. But whence placed under limelight by popular acclaim, grand and inspiring would he mask be.
And so, he kept his busied days occupied. Tending to his duties as a diligent servant to his lord-master, the Baron of Magnemea. He was ever-aware that though his praise and reputation had earned him a careful climb to power, it could all be unraveled upon a sudden if his superior so wished it. Of course, three years already into the position had done well to moderately make his boss have a positive regard for him. As his lord's representative in the provincial army, he had embarked on a long-winding journey to expose all of the decadence and corruption that had apparently plagued the unit of the Damned. He would emphasize apparently for that each one man he found ample reason to submit before charge of treason, opportunity would present itself. An opportunity to fill a seat with someone loyal, someone faithful. Natural talent and skill were important yes, but less so than trust and confidence. For now, only his brother and Odysseas had been granted favorable spots at his designated rank and file, yet still, Leonidas and Pericles had seats to fill, positions he intended to satisfy as soon as he was able.
For now however, he would entertain a chance at sport. While his reforms had still been under-way at implementation, he recognized that merely being but another captain out of many would not do to satisfy his ambitions for himself and his descendants. He needed to make his mark, to take centerstage for a moment, only to return back to the hellhole that was the unruly province he called home. Utilizing his talents for words, the silver-eyed man crafted forth a series of arguments to convince his Baron to allow him a chance at the event hosted at Pieria. His argument had been clear. If he won the tournament for his Baron, it would certainly reflect positively on its sovereign lord, who would be responsible for providing such an exemplary warrior. It had almost been too easy, to sway that man's mind to his direction, but Damocles would not find reason to object otherwise. He could give away the glory of the event to his master, for in the end, only those that bore witness to his success would come to understand the truth of the matter. Besides, what harm could a chance to demonstrate his superior might do?
And so, upon leaving the affairs of business to his lieutenants, Damocles rode hard and fast through to the small, unassuming province. If his memory was still sound, he could recall that this one land was under the authority of the Thanasi, a family that was repeatedly marketed as being sinister and cruel. Mayhaps, it would do well to bring across his own personal armor and weapons. Then again, such an act could be understood to be unsportsmanlike. He would go in good faith to that masonic, rocky province, expecting nothing but self- worshipping fools and hopeful zealots to try and test their mettle. Well, he did so inasmuch as his cunning allowed him. A dagger had been hid amongst his person, a small tool that could come in tremendous aid if the circumstance warranted it.
Upon reaching the province, Damocles was met with his fellow Grecians. Some faces were familiar, mostly due to their shared experience at past wars and scuffles. Most however were new to him. He pondered whether or not the competition was up to the task, seeing as true, real worthy-looking rivals seemed so sparse in number so as to reduce the whole tournament to a final eight already. Still, he supposed it would be wiser to treat each with moderation and respect. Thus, after tending to the business at stay, he came upon the gathered spot, silently walked amongst the rabble as a means to size up the competition.
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Oct 21, 2019 6:01:37 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Oct 21, 2019 6:01:37 GMT
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It had been three years since his latest promotion to that of an illustrious captainship. To many, this would signal the end of their military career, a culmination of efforts to be proud of and look back upon with pride and prejudice. This was especially true for men of common-birth, like him. Though arguably those that had sacrificed the most for hearth and home, it was hence upheld as ancient and most imposed convention that only those of proper and noble blood, ceremoniously born solely for the purpose to rule, should be allowed to make well and advance towards those most esteemed and elevated positions of reverence and due luster. He would not make a secret of it beneath exposure of dimmest dark and blackest night, he longed for greatness, for the recognition and appraisal so unduly showered upon by those who only held claim to such laurels for mere accidents of birth and circumstance of bloodline. Though, he wasn't a fool. Many would try and prevent him from his calling, a calling born not from himself, but by sacred covenant between the Gods who reigned up above and the people who slaved down below.
Indeed, as true as he had ascended towards that covetous position of captaincy, many would come to regard him as ill-made for the position. He was only the son of a wealthy scribe, a man of no consequence whatsoever. Yet, being so underestimated and dismissed gave much room to grow and learn, to become acquainted with the norms and forms of true and proper society. He was free to observe and to breath, to ascertain and manifest. Eyes would be forced upon him all the time, without respect, without respite. At all hours, his every move would be questioned, whenever, wherever and with whomever. And of course, he had to play the part and don the jester's motley. He would let them think they knew him, those dimwitted, mud-brained lords of nothingness, as well as those ill-knowledgeable lowborns he had come to unexpectedly feel support from. Under highblood gaze, he would be but a doll of clay, bendable and impressionable, forged to take whatever shape his nominal masters would compel him so. But whence placed under limelight by popular acclaim, grand and inspiring would he mask be.
And so, he kept his busied days occupied. Tending to his duties as a diligent servant to his lord-master, the Baron of Magnemea. He was ever-aware that though his praise and reputation had earned him a careful climb to power, it could all be unraveled upon a sudden if his superior so wished it. Of course, three years already into the position had done well to moderately make his boss have a positive regard for him. As his lord's representative in the provincial army, he had embarked on a long-winding journey to expose all of the decadence and corruption that had apparently plagued the unit of the Damned. He would emphasize apparently for that each one man he found ample reason to submit before charge of treason, opportunity would present itself. An opportunity to fill a seat with someone loyal, someone faithful. Natural talent and skill were important yes, but less so than trust and confidence. For now, only his brother and Odysseas had been granted favorable spots at his designated rank and file, yet still, Leonidas and Pericles had seats to fill, positions he intended to satisfy as soon as he was able.
For now however, he would entertain a chance at sport. While his reforms had still been under-way at implementation, he recognized that merely being but another captain out of many would not do to satisfy his ambitions for himself and his descendants. He needed to make his mark, to take centerstage for a moment, only to return back to the hellhole that was the unruly province he called home. Utilizing his talents for words, the silver-eyed man crafted forth a series of arguments to convince his Baron to allow him a chance at the event hosted at Pieria. His argument had been clear. If he won the tournament for his Baron, it would certainly reflect positively on its sovereign lord, who would be responsible for providing such an exemplary warrior. It had almost been too easy, to sway that man's mind to his direction, but Damocles would not find reason to object otherwise. He could give away the glory of the event to his master, for in the end, only those that bore witness to his success would come to understand the truth of the matter. Besides, what harm could a chance to demonstrate his superior might do?
And so, upon leaving the affairs of business to his lieutenants, Damocles rode hard and fast through to the small, unassuming province. If his memory was still sound, he could recall that this one land was under the authority of the Thanasi, a family that was repeatedly marketed as being sinister and cruel. Mayhaps, it would do well to bring across his own personal armor and weapons. Then again, such an act could be understood to be unsportsmanlike. He would go in good faith to that masonic, rocky province, expecting nothing but self- worshipping fools and hopeful zealots to try and test their mettle. Well, he did so inasmuch as his cunning allowed him. A dagger had been hid amongst his person, a small tool that could come in tremendous aid if the circumstance warranted it.
Upon reaching the province, Damocles was met with his fellow Grecians. Some faces were familiar, mostly due to their shared experience at past wars and scuffles. Most however were new to him. He pondered whether or not the competition was up to the task, seeing as true, real worthy-looking rivals seemed so sparse in number so as to reduce the whole tournament to a final eight already. Still, he supposed it would be wiser to treat each with moderation and respect. Thus, after tending to the business at stay, he came upon the gathered spot, silently walked amongst the rabble as a means to size up the competition.
It had been three years since his latest promotion to that of an illustrious captainship. To many, this would signal the end of their military career, a culmination of efforts to be proud of and look back upon with pride and prejudice. This was especially true for men of common-birth, like him. Though arguably those that had sacrificed the most for hearth and home, it was hence upheld as ancient and most imposed convention that only those of proper and noble blood, ceremoniously born solely for the purpose to rule, should be allowed to make well and advance towards those most esteemed and elevated positions of reverence and due luster. He would not make a secret of it beneath exposure of dimmest dark and blackest night, he longed for greatness, for the recognition and appraisal so unduly showered upon by those who only held claim to such laurels for mere accidents of birth and circumstance of bloodline. Though, he wasn't a fool. Many would try and prevent him from his calling, a calling born not from himself, but by sacred covenant between the Gods who reigned up above and the people who slaved down below.
Indeed, as true as he had ascended towards that covetous position of captaincy, many would come to regard him as ill-made for the position. He was only the son of a wealthy scribe, a man of no consequence whatsoever. Yet, being so underestimated and dismissed gave much room to grow and learn, to become acquainted with the norms and forms of true and proper society. He was free to observe and to breath, to ascertain and manifest. Eyes would be forced upon him all the time, without respect, without respite. At all hours, his every move would be questioned, whenever, wherever and with whomever. And of course, he had to play the part and don the jester's motley. He would let them think they knew him, those dimwitted, mud-brained lords of nothingness, as well as those ill-knowledgeable lowborns he had come to unexpectedly feel support from. Under highblood gaze, he would be but a doll of clay, bendable and impressionable, forged to take whatever shape his nominal masters would compel him so. But whence placed under limelight by popular acclaim, grand and inspiring would he mask be.
And so, he kept his busied days occupied. Tending to his duties as a diligent servant to his lord-master, the Baron of Magnemea. He was ever-aware that though his praise and reputation had earned him a careful climb to power, it could all be unraveled upon a sudden if his superior so wished it. Of course, three years already into the position had done well to moderately make his boss have a positive regard for him. As his lord's representative in the provincial army, he had embarked on a long-winding journey to expose all of the decadence and corruption that had apparently plagued the unit of the Damned. He would emphasize apparently for that each one man he found ample reason to submit before charge of treason, opportunity would present itself. An opportunity to fill a seat with someone loyal, someone faithful. Natural talent and skill were important yes, but less so than trust and confidence. For now, only his brother and Odysseas had been granted favorable spots at his designated rank and file, yet still, Leonidas and Pericles had seats to fill, positions he intended to satisfy as soon as he was able.
For now however, he would entertain a chance at sport. While his reforms had still been under-way at implementation, he recognized that merely being but another captain out of many would not do to satisfy his ambitions for himself and his descendants. He needed to make his mark, to take centerstage for a moment, only to return back to the hellhole that was the unruly province he called home. Utilizing his talents for words, the silver-eyed man crafted forth a series of arguments to convince his Baron to allow him a chance at the event hosted at Pieria. His argument had been clear. If he won the tournament for his Baron, it would certainly reflect positively on its sovereign lord, who would be responsible for providing such an exemplary warrior. It had almost been too easy, to sway that man's mind to his direction, but Damocles would not find reason to object otherwise. He could give away the glory of the event to his master, for in the end, only those that bore witness to his success would come to understand the truth of the matter. Besides, what harm could a chance to demonstrate his superior might do?
And so, upon leaving the affairs of business to his lieutenants, Damocles rode hard and fast through to the small, unassuming province. If his memory was still sound, he could recall that this one land was under the authority of the Thanasi, a family that was repeatedly marketed as being sinister and cruel. Mayhaps, it would do well to bring across his own personal armor and weapons. Then again, such an act could be understood to be unsportsmanlike. He would go in good faith to that masonic, rocky province, expecting nothing but self- worshipping fools and hopeful zealots to try and test their mettle. Well, he did so inasmuch as his cunning allowed him. A dagger had been hid amongst his person, a small tool that could come in tremendous aid if the circumstance warranted it.
Upon reaching the province, Damocles was met with his fellow Grecians. Some faces were familiar, mostly due to their shared experience at past wars and scuffles. Most however were new to him. He pondered whether or not the competition was up to the task, seeing as true, real worthy-looking rivals seemed so sparse in number so as to reduce the whole tournament to a final eight already. Still, he supposed it would be wiser to treat each with moderation and respect. Thus, after tending to the business at stay, he came upon the gathered spot, silently walked amongst the rabble as a means to size up the competition.
There was little doubt that Mihail was not the strongest of men. His figure was more feminine than not, curves dipping inwards at the waist; his hands were soft and delicate from the lack of necessary labour, tipped with pretty-painted nails; his face was unmarred and free of the scars which might signify he had suffered any hardships, now almost always decorated with the same cosmetics that often graced his sisters' features. Dysius had once commented that he was more of a princess than the sister who actually held the title, and he hadn't cared to disagree.
Nonetheless, he found himself intrigued by the bi-annual strength competition. Mihail was not a strong man - his muscles were hardly defined save for what had developed in his archery training, and, besides, he was only fifteen - but he was reasonably confident he had found the trick to winning the event and claiming all that glory for himself. It was hardly complicated. He would simply arrive and inform those overseeing the competition that he was a Thanasi and that, as such, he all but owned the province of Pieria. Surely that should account for something, and they would be willing to gift him the advantage without much complaint, or, at least, swing the contest to ensure it wouldn't be much hassle to take the victory.
In light of this plan, he had endeavoured to dress as Thanasi as possible, though one might claim this was nothing new to the youngest of the Dynasteia, whose entire wardrobe seemed to comprise of red and black tones, with only the fewest stray examples of other shades thrown amongst the coloured monotony. His chiton was not designed for ease of movement, nor for the comfort of competing in the difficult match, but dainty and wholly decorative. He readjusted the warm himation around his shoulders, a convenient protective layer against the chill Praratios weather, stepping up to the registration section with utterly misplaced pride.
"I am a Thanasi," he announced, as if that were enough, his expression that imperious brand which came so naturally to him and yet did not seem to fit someone of his age.
The man's brow furrowed in confusion, as if he wasn't quite sure how this information was meant to be taken. Mihail pouted, his hands resting on his hips and his eyes slanted into displeased slits. He repeated the sentiment, though to no avail. "I wish for the prize."
"Then you shall have to win the competition, Sir," the man informed him, a hint of amusement clear in his tone, as the youngest Thanasi's stature was a far cry from any of the other hopeful contestants. "If you would like to register."
Mihail was somewhat taken aback by the response, an indication that things were not as he had expected them. In truth, he did not wish to enter, he only wanted the glory of the victory, and he knew full well he was unlikely to win it by valid means. For a moment, he was quiet, as though attempting to decide what the best course of action would be, his mind running through all the possible responses to the scenario. Nothing came to mind, however, and he only managed to emit a 'hmph' of objection, turning away from the table as if he had never been so horrifically offended in his life.
Evidently, he would not be a champion that day, although it did not mean he could not continue to be. No matter. If Mihail could not win the competition, then that did not mean he could not enjoy himself regardless, and he made his way to the stands prepared to one side for spectators, selecting for himself a seat in the first few rows where the view would be phenomenal. After all, these were to be almost wholly undressed men fighting, and he could barely claim that didn't massively tickle his fancy. It was just the kind of thing that could cheer him up when all else seemed to have gone wrong, as if it had fallen right out of his fantasies.
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Nov 28, 2019 21:17:54 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Nov 28, 2019 21:17:54 GMT
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There was little doubt that Mihail was not the strongest of men. His figure was more feminine than not, curves dipping inwards at the waist; his hands were soft and delicate from the lack of necessary labour, tipped with pretty-painted nails; his face was unmarred and free of the scars which might signify he had suffered any hardships, now almost always decorated with the same cosmetics that often graced his sisters' features. Dysius had once commented that he was more of a princess than the sister who actually held the title, and he hadn't cared to disagree.
Nonetheless, he found himself intrigued by the bi-annual strength competition. Mihail was not a strong man - his muscles were hardly defined save for what had developed in his archery training, and, besides, he was only fifteen - but he was reasonably confident he had found the trick to winning the event and claiming all that glory for himself. It was hardly complicated. He would simply arrive and inform those overseeing the competition that he was a Thanasi and that, as such, he all but owned the province of Pieria. Surely that should account for something, and they would be willing to gift him the advantage without much complaint, or, at least, swing the contest to ensure it wouldn't be much hassle to take the victory.
In light of this plan, he had endeavoured to dress as Thanasi as possible, though one might claim this was nothing new to the youngest of the Dynasteia, whose entire wardrobe seemed to comprise of red and black tones, with only the fewest stray examples of other shades thrown amongst the coloured monotony. His chiton was not designed for ease of movement, nor for the comfort of competing in the difficult match, but dainty and wholly decorative. He readjusted the warm himation around his shoulders, a convenient protective layer against the chill Praratios weather, stepping up to the registration section with utterly misplaced pride.
"I am a Thanasi," he announced, as if that were enough, his expression that imperious brand which came so naturally to him and yet did not seem to fit someone of his age.
The man's brow furrowed in confusion, as if he wasn't quite sure how this information was meant to be taken. Mihail pouted, his hands resting on his hips and his eyes slanted into displeased slits. He repeated the sentiment, though to no avail. "I wish for the prize."
"Then you shall have to win the competition, Sir," the man informed him, a hint of amusement clear in his tone, as the youngest Thanasi's stature was a far cry from any of the other hopeful contestants. "If you would like to register."
Mihail was somewhat taken aback by the response, an indication that things were not as he had expected them. In truth, he did not wish to enter, he only wanted the glory of the victory, and he knew full well he was unlikely to win it by valid means. For a moment, he was quiet, as though attempting to decide what the best course of action would be, his mind running through all the possible responses to the scenario. Nothing came to mind, however, and he only managed to emit a 'hmph' of objection, turning away from the table as if he had never been so horrifically offended in his life.
Evidently, he would not be a champion that day, although it did not mean he could not continue to be. No matter. If Mihail could not win the competition, then that did not mean he could not enjoy himself regardless, and he made his way to the stands prepared to one side for spectators, selecting for himself a seat in the first few rows where the view would be phenomenal. After all, these were to be almost wholly undressed men fighting, and he could barely claim that didn't massively tickle his fancy. It was just the kind of thing that could cheer him up when all else seemed to have gone wrong, as if it had fallen right out of his fantasies.
There was little doubt that Mihail was not the strongest of men. His figure was more feminine than not, curves dipping inwards at the waist; his hands were soft and delicate from the lack of necessary labour, tipped with pretty-painted nails; his face was unmarred and free of the scars which might signify he had suffered any hardships, now almost always decorated with the same cosmetics that often graced his sisters' features. Dysius had once commented that he was more of a princess than the sister who actually held the title, and he hadn't cared to disagree.
Nonetheless, he found himself intrigued by the bi-annual strength competition. Mihail was not a strong man - his muscles were hardly defined save for what had developed in his archery training, and, besides, he was only fifteen - but he was reasonably confident he had found the trick to winning the event and claiming all that glory for himself. It was hardly complicated. He would simply arrive and inform those overseeing the competition that he was a Thanasi and that, as such, he all but owned the province of Pieria. Surely that should account for something, and they would be willing to gift him the advantage without much complaint, or, at least, swing the contest to ensure it wouldn't be much hassle to take the victory.
In light of this plan, he had endeavoured to dress as Thanasi as possible, though one might claim this was nothing new to the youngest of the Dynasteia, whose entire wardrobe seemed to comprise of red and black tones, with only the fewest stray examples of other shades thrown amongst the coloured monotony. His chiton was not designed for ease of movement, nor for the comfort of competing in the difficult match, but dainty and wholly decorative. He readjusted the warm himation around his shoulders, a convenient protective layer against the chill Praratios weather, stepping up to the registration section with utterly misplaced pride.
"I am a Thanasi," he announced, as if that were enough, his expression that imperious brand which came so naturally to him and yet did not seem to fit someone of his age.
The man's brow furrowed in confusion, as if he wasn't quite sure how this information was meant to be taken. Mihail pouted, his hands resting on his hips and his eyes slanted into displeased slits. He repeated the sentiment, though to no avail. "I wish for the prize."
"Then you shall have to win the competition, Sir," the man informed him, a hint of amusement clear in his tone, as the youngest Thanasi's stature was a far cry from any of the other hopeful contestants. "If you would like to register."
Mihail was somewhat taken aback by the response, an indication that things were not as he had expected them. In truth, he did not wish to enter, he only wanted the glory of the victory, and he knew full well he was unlikely to win it by valid means. For a moment, he was quiet, as though attempting to decide what the best course of action would be, his mind running through all the possible responses to the scenario. Nothing came to mind, however, and he only managed to emit a 'hmph' of objection, turning away from the table as if he had never been so horrifically offended in his life.
Evidently, he would not be a champion that day, although it did not mean he could not continue to be. No matter. If Mihail could not win the competition, then that did not mean he could not enjoy himself regardless, and he made his way to the stands prepared to one side for spectators, selecting for himself a seat in the first few rows where the view would be phenomenal. After all, these were to be almost wholly undressed men fighting, and he could barely claim that didn't massively tickle his fancy. It was just the kind of thing that could cheer him up when all else seemed to have gone wrong, as if it had fallen right out of his fantasies.
Maleos wasn’t the type to seek out this kind of glory, being King for a day held no interest to him, but he did want to prove himself in general, and so with some goading from the men he served with in his unit, the young teenager lined up to enter the day’s events.
He was well built, toned and muscular from spending the last seven years training in his military unit. He had been a bit of a skinny kid, but years of exercise, campaigns and drills had turned him into a rather physically attractive man.
Today he sought only to prove his strength and prove that his years of hard work had not gone to waste. He watched as someone stormed out of the line, dressed in all sorts of finery, and one of his eyebrows raised in question at the sight. Had that man truly planned on participating in that? Maleos was dressed casually, for ease of movement and comfort. He had come to win, or at least do his best, he wasn’t there to impress anyone with fancy clothing or title. Not that he owned either.
Finally, it was his turn, and he stepped to the front of the line and up to the man who was taking names for the registry.
“Maleos.” He said, giving his name. He didn’t have a title to attach, and he doubted the man cared that he was from Eubocris. The man seemed satisfied with the name, and he was instructed to go and wait with the other competitors. Maleos did as he was told, silently moving to stand near the rest of the men who would be competing.
His blue-green eyes scanned the group, though he didn’t say a word to any of them. He had no idea what he would say, even if he wanted to. He didn’t know any of these men, and he wasn’t sure if he cared to know. Maleos was one to keep to himself, keep his head down and instead focus on his drills and his campaigns. If he ever wanted to make Lieutenant, he would need to work hard.
But today wasn’t about that, today was simply a personal day. The unit had been given a bit of time off, and Maleos planned on returning to Eubocris, but first he was attending this event. Once it was over, and hopefully once he had won, he would return back to his family for a few days until he was called away once more.
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Jan 16, 2020 22:04:29 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Jan 16, 2020 22:04:29 GMT
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Maleos wasn’t the type to seek out this kind of glory, being King for a day held no interest to him, but he did want to prove himself in general, and so with some goading from the men he served with in his unit, the young teenager lined up to enter the day’s events.
He was well built, toned and muscular from spending the last seven years training in his military unit. He had been a bit of a skinny kid, but years of exercise, campaigns and drills had turned him into a rather physically attractive man.
Today he sought only to prove his strength and prove that his years of hard work had not gone to waste. He watched as someone stormed out of the line, dressed in all sorts of finery, and one of his eyebrows raised in question at the sight. Had that man truly planned on participating in that? Maleos was dressed casually, for ease of movement and comfort. He had come to win, or at least do his best, he wasn’t there to impress anyone with fancy clothing or title. Not that he owned either.
Finally, it was his turn, and he stepped to the front of the line and up to the man who was taking names for the registry.
“Maleos.” He said, giving his name. He didn’t have a title to attach, and he doubted the man cared that he was from Eubocris. The man seemed satisfied with the name, and he was instructed to go and wait with the other competitors. Maleos did as he was told, silently moving to stand near the rest of the men who would be competing.
His blue-green eyes scanned the group, though he didn’t say a word to any of them. He had no idea what he would say, even if he wanted to. He didn’t know any of these men, and he wasn’t sure if he cared to know. Maleos was one to keep to himself, keep his head down and instead focus on his drills and his campaigns. If he ever wanted to make Lieutenant, he would need to work hard.
But today wasn’t about that, today was simply a personal day. The unit had been given a bit of time off, and Maleos planned on returning to Eubocris, but first he was attending this event. Once it was over, and hopefully once he had won, he would return back to his family for a few days until he was called away once more.
Maleos wasn’t the type to seek out this kind of glory, being King for a day held no interest to him, but he did want to prove himself in general, and so with some goading from the men he served with in his unit, the young teenager lined up to enter the day’s events.
He was well built, toned and muscular from spending the last seven years training in his military unit. He had been a bit of a skinny kid, but years of exercise, campaigns and drills had turned him into a rather physically attractive man.
Today he sought only to prove his strength and prove that his years of hard work had not gone to waste. He watched as someone stormed out of the line, dressed in all sorts of finery, and one of his eyebrows raised in question at the sight. Had that man truly planned on participating in that? Maleos was dressed casually, for ease of movement and comfort. He had come to win, or at least do his best, he wasn’t there to impress anyone with fancy clothing or title. Not that he owned either.
Finally, it was his turn, and he stepped to the front of the line and up to the man who was taking names for the registry.
“Maleos.” He said, giving his name. He didn’t have a title to attach, and he doubted the man cared that he was from Eubocris. The man seemed satisfied with the name, and he was instructed to go and wait with the other competitors. Maleos did as he was told, silently moving to stand near the rest of the men who would be competing.
His blue-green eyes scanned the group, though he didn’t say a word to any of them. He had no idea what he would say, even if he wanted to. He didn’t know any of these men, and he wasn’t sure if he cared to know. Maleos was one to keep to himself, keep his head down and instead focus on his drills and his campaigns. If he ever wanted to make Lieutenant, he would need to work hard.
But today wasn’t about that, today was simply a personal day. The unit had been given a bit of time off, and Maleos planned on returning to Eubocris, but first he was attending this event. Once it was over, and hopefully once he had won, he would return back to his family for a few days until he was called away once more.
It had been years since Achilleas had been in Colchis. Not since Stephanos and he had joined a retinue of Taengean nobility to some little diplomatic exercise had he set foot on the stony isles. This time, he was without his cousin, and without the glowering presence of his father, and there on his own business.
For whilst the Kirakles Isles lacked the verdant beauty of Taengea, the lands did boast a wealth of raw metals, and the people an abundance of skilled weapons makers. Long had there been trade between the Kingdoms, and this time, the Baron of Euttica had seen fit to conduct such dealings in person. There was an idle curiosity into the techniques the swordsmiths employed, so much that Achilleas had brought one of his own men with him to observe and learn, even apprentice under one of the Colchians if he could. It would do no harm to see how the masters’ did it.
The province of Chaossis was much heralded as the blade capital of Colchis, and Achilleas had been given the name of the steward to deal with as he looked to arm the men of the Taengean Lions. He found the man very efficient and more than hospitable, but there was a slight disappointment not have had the opportunity to meet the Baron and Crown Prince himself. Not solely from the perspective of fostering good relations between their Kingdoms, but also because he had heard much about the man’s repute as a warrior, and Achilleas could respect that.
So though it had never been his intent to prolong his stay - he had things to attend to back in Taengea after all when the steward had explained the Prince’s attendance at a festival of sorts, the Mikaelidas Lord was astute enough to realise that it would be no bad thing to show his face and establish some cordiality with the man destined to become Colchis’ King. He had left the steward to draw up papers of their agreement, left the Taengean smith looking enthused at the forge and ridden to the Province of Pieria to where this gathering was being held.
With no thoughts toward competing, even after he had forsaken his horse and managed to garner what the competition was about, the Taengean Lord was more interested in seeking out Prince Vangelis and making his acquaintance.
Assuming he would be able to identify the man somehow, and not above asking if that were not the case, Achilleas wandered over towards where there looked to be some sort of ring laid out and cast his gaze over those who thought themselves, worthy candidates. Colchis produced strong soldiers, he knew well enough. He remembered it had been somewhat of a shock to him and Stephanos, how viciously they fought. Both of the young Mikaelidas men had been forced to step up their game when they had faced off against their Colchian counterparts those few years back.
He imagined it would be an entertaining competition today if nothing else, and had turned to purchase a cup of wine when he caught sight of a man he had not been prepared to see. With a jolt of recognition, Achilleas had turned away from the familiar face before there was any chance of reciprocal recognition, but he frowned, hastily paid for the wine and took an overlarge gulp as he scolded himself for not having considered the possibility of this. Part of him felt moved to go and greet Damocles because they had been...close once. But it had been years, and perhaps there would still be bad feeling. Achilleas could see now that his behaviour had been less than exemplary back then. And there was the wish just to let the past be the past and not open a door he had so firmly closed. Wondering now if this had been a mistake, the Taengean Lord moved off, determined to find the Prince who had drawn him here so he might pay his respects and then be on his way.
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Jan 16, 2020 23:51:16 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Jan 16, 2020 23:51:16 GMT
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It had been years since Achilleas had been in Colchis. Not since Stephanos and he had joined a retinue of Taengean nobility to some little diplomatic exercise had he set foot on the stony isles. This time, he was without his cousin, and without the glowering presence of his father, and there on his own business.
For whilst the Kirakles Isles lacked the verdant beauty of Taengea, the lands did boast a wealth of raw metals, and the people an abundance of skilled weapons makers. Long had there been trade between the Kingdoms, and this time, the Baron of Euttica had seen fit to conduct such dealings in person. There was an idle curiosity into the techniques the swordsmiths employed, so much that Achilleas had brought one of his own men with him to observe and learn, even apprentice under one of the Colchians if he could. It would do no harm to see how the masters’ did it.
The province of Chaossis was much heralded as the blade capital of Colchis, and Achilleas had been given the name of the steward to deal with as he looked to arm the men of the Taengean Lions. He found the man very efficient and more than hospitable, but there was a slight disappointment not have had the opportunity to meet the Baron and Crown Prince himself. Not solely from the perspective of fostering good relations between their Kingdoms, but also because he had heard much about the man’s repute as a warrior, and Achilleas could respect that.
So though it had never been his intent to prolong his stay - he had things to attend to back in Taengea after all when the steward had explained the Prince’s attendance at a festival of sorts, the Mikaelidas Lord was astute enough to realise that it would be no bad thing to show his face and establish some cordiality with the man destined to become Colchis’ King. He had left the steward to draw up papers of their agreement, left the Taengean smith looking enthused at the forge and ridden to the Province of Pieria to where this gathering was being held.
With no thoughts toward competing, even after he had forsaken his horse and managed to garner what the competition was about, the Taengean Lord was more interested in seeking out Prince Vangelis and making his acquaintance.
Assuming he would be able to identify the man somehow, and not above asking if that were not the case, Achilleas wandered over towards where there looked to be some sort of ring laid out and cast his gaze over those who thought themselves, worthy candidates. Colchis produced strong soldiers, he knew well enough. He remembered it had been somewhat of a shock to him and Stephanos, how viciously they fought. Both of the young Mikaelidas men had been forced to step up their game when they had faced off against their Colchian counterparts those few years back.
He imagined it would be an entertaining competition today if nothing else, and had turned to purchase a cup of wine when he caught sight of a man he had not been prepared to see. With a jolt of recognition, Achilleas had turned away from the familiar face before there was any chance of reciprocal recognition, but he frowned, hastily paid for the wine and took an overlarge gulp as he scolded himself for not having considered the possibility of this. Part of him felt moved to go and greet Damocles because they had been...close once. But it had been years, and perhaps there would still be bad feeling. Achilleas could see now that his behaviour had been less than exemplary back then. And there was the wish just to let the past be the past and not open a door he had so firmly closed. Wondering now if this had been a mistake, the Taengean Lord moved off, determined to find the Prince who had drawn him here so he might pay his respects and then be on his way.
It had been years since Achilleas had been in Colchis. Not since Stephanos and he had joined a retinue of Taengean nobility to some little diplomatic exercise had he set foot on the stony isles. This time, he was without his cousin, and without the glowering presence of his father, and there on his own business.
For whilst the Kirakles Isles lacked the verdant beauty of Taengea, the lands did boast a wealth of raw metals, and the people an abundance of skilled weapons makers. Long had there been trade between the Kingdoms, and this time, the Baron of Euttica had seen fit to conduct such dealings in person. There was an idle curiosity into the techniques the swordsmiths employed, so much that Achilleas had brought one of his own men with him to observe and learn, even apprentice under one of the Colchians if he could. It would do no harm to see how the masters’ did it.
The province of Chaossis was much heralded as the blade capital of Colchis, and Achilleas had been given the name of the steward to deal with as he looked to arm the men of the Taengean Lions. He found the man very efficient and more than hospitable, but there was a slight disappointment not have had the opportunity to meet the Baron and Crown Prince himself. Not solely from the perspective of fostering good relations between their Kingdoms, but also because he had heard much about the man’s repute as a warrior, and Achilleas could respect that.
So though it had never been his intent to prolong his stay - he had things to attend to back in Taengea after all when the steward had explained the Prince’s attendance at a festival of sorts, the Mikaelidas Lord was astute enough to realise that it would be no bad thing to show his face and establish some cordiality with the man destined to become Colchis’ King. He had left the steward to draw up papers of their agreement, left the Taengean smith looking enthused at the forge and ridden to the Province of Pieria to where this gathering was being held.
With no thoughts toward competing, even after he had forsaken his horse and managed to garner what the competition was about, the Taengean Lord was more interested in seeking out Prince Vangelis and making his acquaintance.
Assuming he would be able to identify the man somehow, and not above asking if that were not the case, Achilleas wandered over towards where there looked to be some sort of ring laid out and cast his gaze over those who thought themselves, worthy candidates. Colchis produced strong soldiers, he knew well enough. He remembered it had been somewhat of a shock to him and Stephanos, how viciously they fought. Both of the young Mikaelidas men had been forced to step up their game when they had faced off against their Colchian counterparts those few years back.
He imagined it would be an entertaining competition today if nothing else, and had turned to purchase a cup of wine when he caught sight of a man he had not been prepared to see. With a jolt of recognition, Achilleas had turned away from the familiar face before there was any chance of reciprocal recognition, but he frowned, hastily paid for the wine and took an overlarge gulp as he scolded himself for not having considered the possibility of this. Part of him felt moved to go and greet Damocles because they had been...close once. But it had been years, and perhaps there would still be bad feeling. Achilleas could see now that his behaviour had been less than exemplary back then. And there was the wish just to let the past be the past and not open a door he had so firmly closed. Wondering now if this had been a mistake, the Taengean Lord moved off, determined to find the Prince who had drawn him here so he might pay his respects and then be on his way.
Maximus doesn't turn 18 until 8 years later however the young man was eager to prove himself in this tourney. It was the annual Colchian tournament men from nobles to commoners were invited to test their strength against each other. Legends were made from the Heavyweight tournament even if the warrior in question didn't win but managed to fight in the manner worthy of a Colchian then they will be showered with glory and blessings by the Gods. If they were lucky, perhaps the warrior could receive maiden's favor. Maximus dreamed of succeeding in this tournament, he came from a family of warriors many of whom made their mark in Colchian history. Maximus wanted to do the same but alas his father wouldn't let him because he was too young.
"Look out world!" Maximus remembered running out from his room wielding his Xiphos and raising it high in the air. "Today is the day that I enter the tournament and become the greatest soldier in Colchian history!"
"You will not Maximus!" His father: Adonis roared at Maximus while his mother was busy with the handmaidens in cleaning the dishes.
"But Father!" Maximus whined swinging his Xiphos with swiftness and precision. "It's my destiny!"
"No!" Adonis countered. "The age to participate in the tournament is 18! You are 12 years of age! Right now you must focus on your training so you can join the Fifth Phalanx!"
"Of course Father!" Maximus sighed. "I've read last night about the nuances of a Phalanx! I've had the tactic drilled into my head since I was 6 years old!"
Adonis glared at his son astonished that he would throw his life away to hardened veterans. "You have the Prince and hardened veterans participating in this tournament!" he said. "You are too young, too inexperienced to go despite you showing aptitude."
Maximus pouted. "Basil is allowed to go!" he said.
"His father wants to instill the values of manhood into him." Maximus' mother said.
"Values that I'm teaching to you son!" Adonis said. "I will not hear of this nonsense! Let his father discipline Basil his way! You're my son! And I will teach how to be a man without this recklessness you have been displaying!"
"I'm 12 years old!" Maximus yelled. "I'm a man which means I can do whatever I want!"
"And until you turn 18 boy!" Adonis said. "You will continue to do what I say!" grabbing the sack of flour from the table, Adonis shoved the sack towards Maximus. "Take this to the Teacher!" he shouted.
"It's just around-" his mother said.
"I KNOW MOTHER!" Maximus shouted. "It's literally the other place in the upper levels! Gods!"
Maximus stormed off white faced and furious. All he wanted to do was to prove his honor and his father after teaching him the ways of the warrior forbids him from doing real fighting? What kind of hypocrite is he?! Maximus will prove himself a warrior without his father's blessing! Going to the Professor's home, Maximus was greeted with a haze of smoke as he saw the professor, a man in his late twenties with stark blue eyes that was usually red, sandy blonde hair and a shaggy beard. There were baubles and chemicals everywhere and Maximus sighed looking at the strewn room. He didn't know his real name but The Teacher was considered to be an expert on plants.
"Hey Maximus!" The Teacher coughed swaying over to the young man. "Is that my flour?! Nice! I'm gonna need to bake my bread!"
"Teacher," Maximus frowned still holding the sack. "You're an expert on plants right?"
"Not really," The Teacher inhaled more smoke. "It was the easiest job to apply for with my University credentials. I got a monthly pay and a room. All I need to do is to grow dandelions once a month then I can spend the rest of my time growing Hemp."
Maximus raised eyebrow while the Teacher grew silent for a moment. "Shouldn't have told you that," he said. "My mind is still high amongst the Clouds. I think I see Zeus. Any way I'm low on coin since I lost a lot of it due to gambling."
Maximus crossed his arms. "Maybe," he said. "If I can help you get your coin back in the annual tournament. Not only I can get glory! But I can help a fellow Colchian."
The Teacher frowned. "Ummmmm yeah!" he said. "Nice!"
"All right!" Maximus said. "I'm heading to the tourney! Tell my parents I'm going to the mines!"
"Maximus wait!" the teacher said flabbergasted. "You forgot my flour!"
The young man sighed remembering it all. It didn't matter now, Maximus will enter the tournament and achieve glory his father be damned. "What is your name?" The man said to Maximus. "My name is Maximus of Loconia," he said. "I am 18 years old."
"Very well," the man said. "Enter and the Gods be with you."
Maximus smiled grabbing his Xiphos this will be a glorious day.
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Jan 19, 2020 23:55:35 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Jan 19, 2020 23:55:35 GMT
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Maximus doesn't turn 18 until 8 years later however the young man was eager to prove himself in this tourney. It was the annual Colchian tournament men from nobles to commoners were invited to test their strength against each other. Legends were made from the Heavyweight tournament even if the warrior in question didn't win but managed to fight in the manner worthy of a Colchian then they will be showered with glory and blessings by the Gods. If they were lucky, perhaps the warrior could receive maiden's favor. Maximus dreamed of succeeding in this tournament, he came from a family of warriors many of whom made their mark in Colchian history. Maximus wanted to do the same but alas his father wouldn't let him because he was too young.
"Look out world!" Maximus remembered running out from his room wielding his Xiphos and raising it high in the air. "Today is the day that I enter the tournament and become the greatest soldier in Colchian history!"
"You will not Maximus!" His father: Adonis roared at Maximus while his mother was busy with the handmaidens in cleaning the dishes.
"But Father!" Maximus whined swinging his Xiphos with swiftness and precision. "It's my destiny!"
"No!" Adonis countered. "The age to participate in the tournament is 18! You are 12 years of age! Right now you must focus on your training so you can join the Fifth Phalanx!"
"Of course Father!" Maximus sighed. "I've read last night about the nuances of a Phalanx! I've had the tactic drilled into my head since I was 6 years old!"
Adonis glared at his son astonished that he would throw his life away to hardened veterans. "You have the Prince and hardened veterans participating in this tournament!" he said. "You are too young, too inexperienced to go despite you showing aptitude."
Maximus pouted. "Basil is allowed to go!" he said.
"His father wants to instill the values of manhood into him." Maximus' mother said.
"Values that I'm teaching to you son!" Adonis said. "I will not hear of this nonsense! Let his father discipline Basil his way! You're my son! And I will teach how to be a man without this recklessness you have been displaying!"
"I'm 12 years old!" Maximus yelled. "I'm a man which means I can do whatever I want!"
"And until you turn 18 boy!" Adonis said. "You will continue to do what I say!" grabbing the sack of flour from the table, Adonis shoved the sack towards Maximus. "Take this to the Teacher!" he shouted.
"It's just around-" his mother said.
"I KNOW MOTHER!" Maximus shouted. "It's literally the other place in the upper levels! Gods!"
Maximus stormed off white faced and furious. All he wanted to do was to prove his honor and his father after teaching him the ways of the warrior forbids him from doing real fighting? What kind of hypocrite is he?! Maximus will prove himself a warrior without his father's blessing! Going to the Professor's home, Maximus was greeted with a haze of smoke as he saw the professor, a man in his late twenties with stark blue eyes that was usually red, sandy blonde hair and a shaggy beard. There were baubles and chemicals everywhere and Maximus sighed looking at the strewn room. He didn't know his real name but The Teacher was considered to be an expert on plants.
"Hey Maximus!" The Teacher coughed swaying over to the young man. "Is that my flour?! Nice! I'm gonna need to bake my bread!"
"Teacher," Maximus frowned still holding the sack. "You're an expert on plants right?"
"Not really," The Teacher inhaled more smoke. "It was the easiest job to apply for with my University credentials. I got a monthly pay and a room. All I need to do is to grow dandelions once a month then I can spend the rest of my time growing Hemp."
Maximus raised eyebrow while the Teacher grew silent for a moment. "Shouldn't have told you that," he said. "My mind is still high amongst the Clouds. I think I see Zeus. Any way I'm low on coin since I lost a lot of it due to gambling."
Maximus crossed his arms. "Maybe," he said. "If I can help you get your coin back in the annual tournament. Not only I can get glory! But I can help a fellow Colchian."
The Teacher frowned. "Ummmmm yeah!" he said. "Nice!"
"All right!" Maximus said. "I'm heading to the tourney! Tell my parents I'm going to the mines!"
"Maximus wait!" the teacher said flabbergasted. "You forgot my flour!"
The young man sighed remembering it all. It didn't matter now, Maximus will enter the tournament and achieve glory his father be damned. "What is your name?" The man said to Maximus. "My name is Maximus of Loconia," he said. "I am 18 years old."
"Very well," the man said. "Enter and the Gods be with you."
Maximus smiled grabbing his Xiphos this will be a glorious day.
Maximus doesn't turn 18 until 8 years later however the young man was eager to prove himself in this tourney. It was the annual Colchian tournament men from nobles to commoners were invited to test their strength against each other. Legends were made from the Heavyweight tournament even if the warrior in question didn't win but managed to fight in the manner worthy of a Colchian then they will be showered with glory and blessings by the Gods. If they were lucky, perhaps the warrior could receive maiden's favor. Maximus dreamed of succeeding in this tournament, he came from a family of warriors many of whom made their mark in Colchian history. Maximus wanted to do the same but alas his father wouldn't let him because he was too young.
"Look out world!" Maximus remembered running out from his room wielding his Xiphos and raising it high in the air. "Today is the day that I enter the tournament and become the greatest soldier in Colchian history!"
"You will not Maximus!" His father: Adonis roared at Maximus while his mother was busy with the handmaidens in cleaning the dishes.
"But Father!" Maximus whined swinging his Xiphos with swiftness and precision. "It's my destiny!"
"No!" Adonis countered. "The age to participate in the tournament is 18! You are 12 years of age! Right now you must focus on your training so you can join the Fifth Phalanx!"
"Of course Father!" Maximus sighed. "I've read last night about the nuances of a Phalanx! I've had the tactic drilled into my head since I was 6 years old!"
Adonis glared at his son astonished that he would throw his life away to hardened veterans. "You have the Prince and hardened veterans participating in this tournament!" he said. "You are too young, too inexperienced to go despite you showing aptitude."
Maximus pouted. "Basil is allowed to go!" he said.
"His father wants to instill the values of manhood into him." Maximus' mother said.
"Values that I'm teaching to you son!" Adonis said. "I will not hear of this nonsense! Let his father discipline Basil his way! You're my son! And I will teach how to be a man without this recklessness you have been displaying!"
"I'm 12 years old!" Maximus yelled. "I'm a man which means I can do whatever I want!"
"And until you turn 18 boy!" Adonis said. "You will continue to do what I say!" grabbing the sack of flour from the table, Adonis shoved the sack towards Maximus. "Take this to the Teacher!" he shouted.
"It's just around-" his mother said.
"I KNOW MOTHER!" Maximus shouted. "It's literally the other place in the upper levels! Gods!"
Maximus stormed off white faced and furious. All he wanted to do was to prove his honor and his father after teaching him the ways of the warrior forbids him from doing real fighting? What kind of hypocrite is he?! Maximus will prove himself a warrior without his father's blessing! Going to the Professor's home, Maximus was greeted with a haze of smoke as he saw the professor, a man in his late twenties with stark blue eyes that was usually red, sandy blonde hair and a shaggy beard. There were baubles and chemicals everywhere and Maximus sighed looking at the strewn room. He didn't know his real name but The Teacher was considered to be an expert on plants.
"Hey Maximus!" The Teacher coughed swaying over to the young man. "Is that my flour?! Nice! I'm gonna need to bake my bread!"
"Teacher," Maximus frowned still holding the sack. "You're an expert on plants right?"
"Not really," The Teacher inhaled more smoke. "It was the easiest job to apply for with my University credentials. I got a monthly pay and a room. All I need to do is to grow dandelions once a month then I can spend the rest of my time growing Hemp."
Maximus raised eyebrow while the Teacher grew silent for a moment. "Shouldn't have told you that," he said. "My mind is still high amongst the Clouds. I think I see Zeus. Any way I'm low on coin since I lost a lot of it due to gambling."
Maximus crossed his arms. "Maybe," he said. "If I can help you get your coin back in the annual tournament. Not only I can get glory! But I can help a fellow Colchian."
The Teacher frowned. "Ummmmm yeah!" he said. "Nice!"
"All right!" Maximus said. "I'm heading to the tourney! Tell my parents I'm going to the mines!"
"Maximus wait!" the teacher said flabbergasted. "You forgot my flour!"
The young man sighed remembering it all. It didn't matter now, Maximus will enter the tournament and achieve glory his father be damned. "What is your name?" The man said to Maximus. "My name is Maximus of Loconia," he said. "I am 18 years old."
"Very well," the man said. "Enter and the Gods be with you."
Maximus smiled grabbing his Xiphos this will be a glorious day.
Ever the center of attention amongst a gathered crowd, Damocles had been quick to amass a fast following of soldiers, fighters, mercenaries and athletes that paid mind to his humor and tales. His signature silver eyes shone with amusement and entertainment, manifesting clearly across his features the hilarity of his stories, as evident by the branching crow’s feet that formed around his eyes, his pushed up, raised cheeks and the subtle downward push of his eyebrows. A cacophonous welter of guffaws and horselaughs came to erupt from his corner, further gathering the attention of other eager competitors who fell to curiosity’s appeal in the jokes of discovering whatever was the source of such unexpectedly aggressive congress of deeply-amused men.
“And then I said But my lady by the grace of the Gods, this be your very hand! See, these are your very C’s, U’s, and Ts!” He began, using cleaver wordplay to describe the secret jewels oft reserved for the most intimate of occasions between lovers. “Only to tell her that the only letter she missed, but that I would gladly grant her would be my very own P!” Punch-lined Damocles, setting the men around him to uproars that otherwise broke through the generally aloof and impossibly grim-faced men of Colchis. It was a most welcomed sight, to see these typically stone-faced Greeks find but a modicum of fleeting camaraderie amongst themselves in what was otherwise a competitive, but light-hearted event to be understood as casual in nature and simple in development.
In time however, despite the crowd he had collected around himself, the towering man had turned his once-filled cup to empty, compelling him to wrap up his mirthfully droll jokes so as to tend to the shallowness of his instrument and find it replenished to its former state. With a final string of japes, the well-build man turned his attention to one of the multiple stands that sold wine to the hopeful contestants in exchange for quickly pressed coin. As he laid the pecuniary slivers on the counter and took the cup in hand, Damocles allowed his silver-eyes to scan the place once more, only to feel a presence upon him that he could simply not ignore. At this, he turned his head only to find the source, but quite possibly coming to immediately regret his gut instincts.
If he had to choose what specific emotion he felt upon seeing that most familiar of faces, he would have to admit to it being emptiness. It was a coldness, frigid and exceedingly painful, that most bitingly abysmal physical manifestation of hollowed pain that only someone like him could elicit. There was no rage. There was no sadness. There was no joy, nor was there any sense of disgust. He didn’t feel anything. He couldn’t sense anything. Just the coldness, that cruel, long-suppressed frigidness that he thought he had long put past him so many days, months and years now past. His features froze, his fingers stiffened and his eyes, once shining and gregariously mirthful, turned hollow and dissipated, obfuscated by that elder pain that only this man could inspire within him.
“Achilleas…?” he reached out almost inaudible. His was no longer a booming, energetic voice, but a shattered, pained sound, ignorable to all who it had not been addressed to. He couldn’t believe how weak he felt, how frail he understood himself in this, what could arguably be the most cruel moment of his last few years. “Is…is that you…?” he shakily asked once more, physically tensing at the possibility of having simply confused the man. But how could he? How could he ever forget those eyes, those emerald-blue eyes that he had often looked to in the past in moments of tenderness, intimacy and trust. Never, not even once in a hundred years, could he forget his face. It was permanently seared into his memory. Even if he was older, even if he was victim to time’s poisonous stride, he still knew this man. “…of course it’s you.” He commented, this time manifesting some very noticeable pain in his words as he felt the harshness of that empty coldness wane only but a bit. He wanted to scream, but even if his mouth produced somewhat louder words now, he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything. He was overwhelmed. He was overwhelmed. “…how could I forget the face of the man that broke me”
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Jan 28, 2020 8:19:32 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Jan 28, 2020 8:19:32 GMT
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Ever the center of attention amongst a gathered crowd, Damocles had been quick to amass a fast following of soldiers, fighters, mercenaries and athletes that paid mind to his humor and tales. His signature silver eyes shone with amusement and entertainment, manifesting clearly across his features the hilarity of his stories, as evident by the branching crow’s feet that formed around his eyes, his pushed up, raised cheeks and the subtle downward push of his eyebrows. A cacophonous welter of guffaws and horselaughs came to erupt from his corner, further gathering the attention of other eager competitors who fell to curiosity’s appeal in the jokes of discovering whatever was the source of such unexpectedly aggressive congress of deeply-amused men.
“And then I said But my lady by the grace of the Gods, this be your very hand! See, these are your very C’s, U’s, and Ts!” He began, using cleaver wordplay to describe the secret jewels oft reserved for the most intimate of occasions between lovers. “Only to tell her that the only letter she missed, but that I would gladly grant her would be my very own P!” Punch-lined Damocles, setting the men around him to uproars that otherwise broke through the generally aloof and impossibly grim-faced men of Colchis. It was a most welcomed sight, to see these typically stone-faced Greeks find but a modicum of fleeting camaraderie amongst themselves in what was otherwise a competitive, but light-hearted event to be understood as casual in nature and simple in development.
In time however, despite the crowd he had collected around himself, the towering man had turned his once-filled cup to empty, compelling him to wrap up his mirthfully droll jokes so as to tend to the shallowness of his instrument and find it replenished to its former state. With a final string of japes, the well-build man turned his attention to one of the multiple stands that sold wine to the hopeful contestants in exchange for quickly pressed coin. As he laid the pecuniary slivers on the counter and took the cup in hand, Damocles allowed his silver-eyes to scan the place once more, only to feel a presence upon him that he could simply not ignore. At this, he turned his head only to find the source, but quite possibly coming to immediately regret his gut instincts.
If he had to choose what specific emotion he felt upon seeing that most familiar of faces, he would have to admit to it being emptiness. It was a coldness, frigid and exceedingly painful, that most bitingly abysmal physical manifestation of hollowed pain that only someone like him could elicit. There was no rage. There was no sadness. There was no joy, nor was there any sense of disgust. He didn’t feel anything. He couldn’t sense anything. Just the coldness, that cruel, long-suppressed frigidness that he thought he had long put past him so many days, months and years now past. His features froze, his fingers stiffened and his eyes, once shining and gregariously mirthful, turned hollow and dissipated, obfuscated by that elder pain that only this man could inspire within him.
“Achilleas…?” he reached out almost inaudible. His was no longer a booming, energetic voice, but a shattered, pained sound, ignorable to all who it had not been addressed to. He couldn’t believe how weak he felt, how frail he understood himself in this, what could arguably be the most cruel moment of his last few years. “Is…is that you…?” he shakily asked once more, physically tensing at the possibility of having simply confused the man. But how could he? How could he ever forget those eyes, those emerald-blue eyes that he had often looked to in the past in moments of tenderness, intimacy and trust. Never, not even once in a hundred years, could he forget his face. It was permanently seared into his memory. Even if he was older, even if he was victim to time’s poisonous stride, he still knew this man. “…of course it’s you.” He commented, this time manifesting some very noticeable pain in his words as he felt the harshness of that empty coldness wane only but a bit. He wanted to scream, but even if his mouth produced somewhat louder words now, he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything. He was overwhelmed. He was overwhelmed. “…how could I forget the face of the man that broke me”
Ever the center of attention amongst a gathered crowd, Damocles had been quick to amass a fast following of soldiers, fighters, mercenaries and athletes that paid mind to his humor and tales. His signature silver eyes shone with amusement and entertainment, manifesting clearly across his features the hilarity of his stories, as evident by the branching crow’s feet that formed around his eyes, his pushed up, raised cheeks and the subtle downward push of his eyebrows. A cacophonous welter of guffaws and horselaughs came to erupt from his corner, further gathering the attention of other eager competitors who fell to curiosity’s appeal in the jokes of discovering whatever was the source of such unexpectedly aggressive congress of deeply-amused men.
“And then I said But my lady by the grace of the Gods, this be your very hand! See, these are your very C’s, U’s, and Ts!” He began, using cleaver wordplay to describe the secret jewels oft reserved for the most intimate of occasions between lovers. “Only to tell her that the only letter she missed, but that I would gladly grant her would be my very own P!” Punch-lined Damocles, setting the men around him to uproars that otherwise broke through the generally aloof and impossibly grim-faced men of Colchis. It was a most welcomed sight, to see these typically stone-faced Greeks find but a modicum of fleeting camaraderie amongst themselves in what was otherwise a competitive, but light-hearted event to be understood as casual in nature and simple in development.
In time however, despite the crowd he had collected around himself, the towering man had turned his once-filled cup to empty, compelling him to wrap up his mirthfully droll jokes so as to tend to the shallowness of his instrument and find it replenished to its former state. With a final string of japes, the well-build man turned his attention to one of the multiple stands that sold wine to the hopeful contestants in exchange for quickly pressed coin. As he laid the pecuniary slivers on the counter and took the cup in hand, Damocles allowed his silver-eyes to scan the place once more, only to feel a presence upon him that he could simply not ignore. At this, he turned his head only to find the source, but quite possibly coming to immediately regret his gut instincts.
If he had to choose what specific emotion he felt upon seeing that most familiar of faces, he would have to admit to it being emptiness. It was a coldness, frigid and exceedingly painful, that most bitingly abysmal physical manifestation of hollowed pain that only someone like him could elicit. There was no rage. There was no sadness. There was no joy, nor was there any sense of disgust. He didn’t feel anything. He couldn’t sense anything. Just the coldness, that cruel, long-suppressed frigidness that he thought he had long put past him so many days, months and years now past. His features froze, his fingers stiffened and his eyes, once shining and gregariously mirthful, turned hollow and dissipated, obfuscated by that elder pain that only this man could inspire within him.
“Achilleas…?” he reached out almost inaudible. His was no longer a booming, energetic voice, but a shattered, pained sound, ignorable to all who it had not been addressed to. He couldn’t believe how weak he felt, how frail he understood himself in this, what could arguably be the most cruel moment of his last few years. “Is…is that you…?” he shakily asked once more, physically tensing at the possibility of having simply confused the man. But how could he? How could he ever forget those eyes, those emerald-blue eyes that he had often looked to in the past in moments of tenderness, intimacy and trust. Never, not even once in a hundred years, could he forget his face. It was permanently seared into his memory. Even if he was older, even if he was victim to time’s poisonous stride, he still knew this man. “…of course it’s you.” He commented, this time manifesting some very noticeable pain in his words as he felt the harshness of that empty coldness wane only but a bit. He wanted to scream, but even if his mouth produced somewhat louder words now, he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything. He was overwhelmed. He was overwhelmed. “…how could I forget the face of the man that broke me”
Achilleas…? Is…is that you…?”
He stopped, shoulders dropping, because of course it would be too much to ask that he could just have walked away without being spotted. Not usually one who would choose the coward’s way out of a situation, the Mikaelidas lord was well aware that such had not been the case last time he had seen the owner of the voice that hailed him. Drawing in a breath, Achilleas half-turned, body still angled away from the too familiar man who looked at him now, but his gaze settling upon one that he knew intimately.
If there was a fleeting surprise at the rawness in Damocles’ voice, or the expression he found upon the man’s face, then the Taengean was quick to stifle it, all too aware that they stood amongst a crowd. He needed to control this situation and made a quick assessment of the Colchian man’s demeanour, feeling a slight stutter of panic as the soldier spoke on.
“of course it's you. The man who broke me
When he had left the banks of the Nile those years ago, Achilleas had slammed shut a door with no intentions of ever reopening it. It had been a knee jerk reaction, perhaps, but a necessary one, for he had been naive in thinking that a secret would remain so. Who he was meant that he had expectations to meet, and nothing about his interactions with the man before him had been doing that. It had been a necessary, if painful severance. Now though, it was jarring, seeing Damocles again. A man who knew him in ways that he could not think about now, the Taengean Lord already feeling the prickle of heat starting to creep up his neck.
“Captain Damocles” he managed, deliberately choosing a formal address to dictate the tone of this interaction. He did not acknowledge the other’s words, though there was a hesitance to his voice that showed him not as unaffected as he might have liked to appear “You look well”
It was small talk, a bland greeting, but not a lie. To his irritation, Achilleas’ eyes had roamed of their own accord over the other man, taking in the slight differences that the years had laid upon him, stirring memories that he had thought not to dwell on again. His grip had tightened around the cup of wine he held, and the baron took a sweeping glance of those around them, as if somehow anyone else would understand the nature of his connection to the Colchian soldier.
For the Taengean had spoken to no one, kept his secrets close to his chest, and he had sworn his cousin and friend to the same, but he had no idea if Damocles would have been so careful. There was a sudden panic that perhaps it was not so, and that the man had been indiscreet despite promises made so many years ago. Maybe he had forfeited such things when he had ended their…arrangement so abruptly.He had been a fool not to think of such repercussions.
“....I had not thought that our paths might cross here” He stated the obvious, for his discomfort was clear enough to anyone who knew him.
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Jan 29, 2020 15:10:58 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Jan 29, 2020 15:10:58 GMT
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Achilleas…? Is…is that you…?”
He stopped, shoulders dropping, because of course it would be too much to ask that he could just have walked away without being spotted. Not usually one who would choose the coward’s way out of a situation, the Mikaelidas lord was well aware that such had not been the case last time he had seen the owner of the voice that hailed him. Drawing in a breath, Achilleas half-turned, body still angled away from the too familiar man who looked at him now, but his gaze settling upon one that he knew intimately.
If there was a fleeting surprise at the rawness in Damocles’ voice, or the expression he found upon the man’s face, then the Taengean was quick to stifle it, all too aware that they stood amongst a crowd. He needed to control this situation and made a quick assessment of the Colchian man’s demeanour, feeling a slight stutter of panic as the soldier spoke on.
“of course it's you. The man who broke me
When he had left the banks of the Nile those years ago, Achilleas had slammed shut a door with no intentions of ever reopening it. It had been a knee jerk reaction, perhaps, but a necessary one, for he had been naive in thinking that a secret would remain so. Who he was meant that he had expectations to meet, and nothing about his interactions with the man before him had been doing that. It had been a necessary, if painful severance. Now though, it was jarring, seeing Damocles again. A man who knew him in ways that he could not think about now, the Taengean Lord already feeling the prickle of heat starting to creep up his neck.
“Captain Damocles” he managed, deliberately choosing a formal address to dictate the tone of this interaction. He did not acknowledge the other’s words, though there was a hesitance to his voice that showed him not as unaffected as he might have liked to appear “You look well”
It was small talk, a bland greeting, but not a lie. To his irritation, Achilleas’ eyes had roamed of their own accord over the other man, taking in the slight differences that the years had laid upon him, stirring memories that he had thought not to dwell on again. His grip had tightened around the cup of wine he held, and the baron took a sweeping glance of those around them, as if somehow anyone else would understand the nature of his connection to the Colchian soldier.
For the Taengean had spoken to no one, kept his secrets close to his chest, and he had sworn his cousin and friend to the same, but he had no idea if Damocles would have been so careful. There was a sudden panic that perhaps it was not so, and that the man had been indiscreet despite promises made so many years ago. Maybe he had forfeited such things when he had ended their…arrangement so abruptly.He had been a fool not to think of such repercussions.
“....I had not thought that our paths might cross here” He stated the obvious, for his discomfort was clear enough to anyone who knew him.
Achilleas…? Is…is that you…?”
He stopped, shoulders dropping, because of course it would be too much to ask that he could just have walked away without being spotted. Not usually one who would choose the coward’s way out of a situation, the Mikaelidas lord was well aware that such had not been the case last time he had seen the owner of the voice that hailed him. Drawing in a breath, Achilleas half-turned, body still angled away from the too familiar man who looked at him now, but his gaze settling upon one that he knew intimately.
If there was a fleeting surprise at the rawness in Damocles’ voice, or the expression he found upon the man’s face, then the Taengean was quick to stifle it, all too aware that they stood amongst a crowd. He needed to control this situation and made a quick assessment of the Colchian man’s demeanour, feeling a slight stutter of panic as the soldier spoke on.
“of course it's you. The man who broke me
When he had left the banks of the Nile those years ago, Achilleas had slammed shut a door with no intentions of ever reopening it. It had been a knee jerk reaction, perhaps, but a necessary one, for he had been naive in thinking that a secret would remain so. Who he was meant that he had expectations to meet, and nothing about his interactions with the man before him had been doing that. It had been a necessary, if painful severance. Now though, it was jarring, seeing Damocles again. A man who knew him in ways that he could not think about now, the Taengean Lord already feeling the prickle of heat starting to creep up his neck.
“Captain Damocles” he managed, deliberately choosing a formal address to dictate the tone of this interaction. He did not acknowledge the other’s words, though there was a hesitance to his voice that showed him not as unaffected as he might have liked to appear “You look well”
It was small talk, a bland greeting, but not a lie. To his irritation, Achilleas’ eyes had roamed of their own accord over the other man, taking in the slight differences that the years had laid upon him, stirring memories that he had thought not to dwell on again. His grip had tightened around the cup of wine he held, and the baron took a sweeping glance of those around them, as if somehow anyone else would understand the nature of his connection to the Colchian soldier.
For the Taengean had spoken to no one, kept his secrets close to his chest, and he had sworn his cousin and friend to the same, but he had no idea if Damocles would have been so careful. There was a sudden panic that perhaps it was not so, and that the man had been indiscreet despite promises made so many years ago. Maybe he had forfeited such things when he had ended their…arrangement so abruptly.He had been a fool not to think of such repercussions.
“....I had not thought that our paths might cross here” He stated the obvious, for his discomfort was clear enough to anyone who knew him.
Maleos watched as more and more people seemed to gather for the event, mostly participants who seemed eager to get into the fray and prove themselves. Maleos still wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole thing, not particularly caring about the prize, mostly he was just there to pit his skills up against those who were in attendance. He saw that there were a few participants larger and older than him, though he knew that size didn’t always mean that they would win. A lot of it had to do with tactic as well, and Maleos hoped that his short experience and his eye for combat tactics would be enough to at least outlast most of them. He wasn’t entirely sure he would win, but it would be embarrassing if he didn’t at least make it near the end of the competition.
He listened a little to the idle chatter that happened around him, though none of it interested him if he was being honest, there was a rather loud man who was telling some sort of story, but Maleos had caught a bit of it and had quickly turned his attention else where, not caring to hear where it was going. He wasn’t the type of man to go on about conquests and the like, not that he really had any to speak of if he was that type of man. He preferred to keep himself focused on the task at hand, at eyeing up his opponents and trying to determine the best way for him to attempt to win this thing, though he wasn’t entirely sure what exact it entailed. This was his first year participating, or even caring about it in the slightest. Had he not had the few days off from the unit, he wouldn’t even be standing there.
Instead he wandered over to where cups of water were being offered to those who would be participating, and he took one with a little nod and a thank you to the woman who was serving them. He turned, taking a sip of the water, and continued to study his opponents, waiting for the announcement that the contest would start, allowing the water to quench the little bit of thirst that had been creeping up on him. He didn’t need to be distracted by a need for water in the middle of this, he was surprised that more people weren’t taking advantage of the water before the day’s events started.
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Feb 20, 2020 16:51:43 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Feb 20, 2020 16:51:43 GMT
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Maleos watched as more and more people seemed to gather for the event, mostly participants who seemed eager to get into the fray and prove themselves. Maleos still wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole thing, not particularly caring about the prize, mostly he was just there to pit his skills up against those who were in attendance. He saw that there were a few participants larger and older than him, though he knew that size didn’t always mean that they would win. A lot of it had to do with tactic as well, and Maleos hoped that his short experience and his eye for combat tactics would be enough to at least outlast most of them. He wasn’t entirely sure he would win, but it would be embarrassing if he didn’t at least make it near the end of the competition.
He listened a little to the idle chatter that happened around him, though none of it interested him if he was being honest, there was a rather loud man who was telling some sort of story, but Maleos had caught a bit of it and had quickly turned his attention else where, not caring to hear where it was going. He wasn’t the type of man to go on about conquests and the like, not that he really had any to speak of if he was that type of man. He preferred to keep himself focused on the task at hand, at eyeing up his opponents and trying to determine the best way for him to attempt to win this thing, though he wasn’t entirely sure what exact it entailed. This was his first year participating, or even caring about it in the slightest. Had he not had the few days off from the unit, he wouldn’t even be standing there.
Instead he wandered over to where cups of water were being offered to those who would be participating, and he took one with a little nod and a thank you to the woman who was serving them. He turned, taking a sip of the water, and continued to study his opponents, waiting for the announcement that the contest would start, allowing the water to quench the little bit of thirst that had been creeping up on him. He didn’t need to be distracted by a need for water in the middle of this, he was surprised that more people weren’t taking advantage of the water before the day’s events started.
Maleos watched as more and more people seemed to gather for the event, mostly participants who seemed eager to get into the fray and prove themselves. Maleos still wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole thing, not particularly caring about the prize, mostly he was just there to pit his skills up against those who were in attendance. He saw that there were a few participants larger and older than him, though he knew that size didn’t always mean that they would win. A lot of it had to do with tactic as well, and Maleos hoped that his short experience and his eye for combat tactics would be enough to at least outlast most of them. He wasn’t entirely sure he would win, but it would be embarrassing if he didn’t at least make it near the end of the competition.
He listened a little to the idle chatter that happened around him, though none of it interested him if he was being honest, there was a rather loud man who was telling some sort of story, but Maleos had caught a bit of it and had quickly turned his attention else where, not caring to hear where it was going. He wasn’t the type of man to go on about conquests and the like, not that he really had any to speak of if he was that type of man. He preferred to keep himself focused on the task at hand, at eyeing up his opponents and trying to determine the best way for him to attempt to win this thing, though he wasn’t entirely sure what exact it entailed. This was his first year participating, or even caring about it in the slightest. Had he not had the few days off from the unit, he wouldn’t even be standing there.
Instead he wandered over to where cups of water were being offered to those who would be participating, and he took one with a little nod and a thank you to the woman who was serving them. He turned, taking a sip of the water, and continued to study his opponents, waiting for the announcement that the contest would start, allowing the water to quench the little bit of thirst that had been creeping up on him. He didn’t need to be distracted by a need for water in the middle of this, he was surprised that more people weren’t taking advantage of the water before the day’s events started.
It felt strange to leave Evras at home, but with an especially rambunctious three year old to keep in hand and another on the way, leaving her in the company of his mother and sister and many servants with Silas to watch over them was for the best. He couldn't deny that the idea of becoming a father a second time over was somewhat daunting. At twenty-one he wasn't sure he was entirely ready to be a settled man with wife and children, it still felt completely surreal. And as much as he loved Evras, it was difficult to keep his eye from wandering with so many beautiful women around.
There was one in particular occupying his thoughts as the carriage they'd been forced into for royal show rolled along to their destination for the day. She was the daughter of some deputy noble house, all smiles and demure looks and soft fair skin. Something about the way her blonde hair curled around flushed cheeks had been captivating his thoughts since he first saw her. In all the time since he'd been married he had never had another in his bed, faithful to his Thanasi bride, but especially as she grew heavily pregnant again and less interested in sharing her bed with him, it was hard to keep that oath.
A jolt of the wheel and his brother's question drew his attention, opening his eyes from where he had been resting in his own reverie. Shifting to look out the window as they drew close to arriving, Zanon gave a shrug of his shoulders and then grinned at the look on his brother's face.
"I expect they'll want us to join in the competition. Strip down and excite the crowd with how handsome and skilled their crown prince is." Their carriage would be rolling to a halt any moment now, and Zanon waved to the gathered common folk with his usual smile, nudging Vangelis with his foot to push the other man into doing the same. "Smile, Vang. We can look serious while we're fighting."
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Posted In Heavy Weight on Mar 5, 2020 11:47:03 GMT
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It felt strange to leave Evras at home, but with an especially rambunctious three year old to keep in hand and another on the way, leaving her in the company of his mother and sister and many servants with Silas to watch over them was for the best. He couldn't deny that the idea of becoming a father a second time over was somewhat daunting. At twenty-one he wasn't sure he was entirely ready to be a settled man with wife and children, it still felt completely surreal. And as much as he loved Evras, it was difficult to keep his eye from wandering with so many beautiful women around.
There was one in particular occupying his thoughts as the carriage they'd been forced into for royal show rolled along to their destination for the day. She was the daughter of some deputy noble house, all smiles and demure looks and soft fair skin. Something about the way her blonde hair curled around flushed cheeks had been captivating his thoughts since he first saw her. In all the time since he'd been married he had never had another in his bed, faithful to his Thanasi bride, but especially as she grew heavily pregnant again and less interested in sharing her bed with him, it was hard to keep that oath.
A jolt of the wheel and his brother's question drew his attention, opening his eyes from where he had been resting in his own reverie. Shifting to look out the window as they drew close to arriving, Zanon gave a shrug of his shoulders and then grinned at the look on his brother's face.
"I expect they'll want us to join in the competition. Strip down and excite the crowd with how handsome and skilled their crown prince is." Their carriage would be rolling to a halt any moment now, and Zanon waved to the gathered common folk with his usual smile, nudging Vangelis with his foot to push the other man into doing the same. "Smile, Vang. We can look serious while we're fighting."
It felt strange to leave Evras at home, but with an especially rambunctious three year old to keep in hand and another on the way, leaving her in the company of his mother and sister and many servants with Silas to watch over them was for the best. He couldn't deny that the idea of becoming a father a second time over was somewhat daunting. At twenty-one he wasn't sure he was entirely ready to be a settled man with wife and children, it still felt completely surreal. And as much as he loved Evras, it was difficult to keep his eye from wandering with so many beautiful women around.
There was one in particular occupying his thoughts as the carriage they'd been forced into for royal show rolled along to their destination for the day. She was the daughter of some deputy noble house, all smiles and demure looks and soft fair skin. Something about the way her blonde hair curled around flushed cheeks had been captivating his thoughts since he first saw her. In all the time since he'd been married he had never had another in his bed, faithful to his Thanasi bride, but especially as she grew heavily pregnant again and less interested in sharing her bed with him, it was hard to keep that oath.
A jolt of the wheel and his brother's question drew his attention, opening his eyes from where he had been resting in his own reverie. Shifting to look out the window as they drew close to arriving, Zanon gave a shrug of his shoulders and then grinned at the look on his brother's face.
"I expect they'll want us to join in the competition. Strip down and excite the crowd with how handsome and skilled their crown prince is." Their carriage would be rolling to a halt any moment now, and Zanon waved to the gathered common folk with his usual smile, nudging Vangelis with his foot to push the other man into doing the same. "Smile, Vang. We can look serious while we're fighting."
There not many instances in his life when Damocles could remember being caught without either hands to feel or tongue to speak. If their had been a constant in his life it had been his temperamental and argumentative nature, one that time and time again others had reminded him of for far too long. And yet, despite the coldness on his breath, the silver-eyed man could not press words to mouth or utter his insights on this once-intimate stranger. He thought of a thousand different things all at once and yet could not think straight at all. Their was little he could do to make his mind or his body heed to his command and his will. Instead, he lost sight of the time and of the place, of the space and distance between them, as if the only people that existed for that one specific moment was Achilleas and him.
He could have been dishonest with himself and say that he had not taken note of the other man in his entirety. Though he kept his silence and distance at the other's complimentary words, he still heard them, he still processed them. He had not changed at all...not one bit. He was still the same, handsome man he had once held in his arms. He still had that same black mane of rich black locks he had once played and pulled with. He still had the same, startlingly azure eyes that had locked so many times with his grey ones in both times of joy and times of sadness. How dared he? How dared Achilleas remain the same? Had he wished to come and torment him in what been meant to be a day of mirth and laughter? The arrogance! The selfishness! Well, he for one would not stand for it at all.
And so, without ever replying to his words, the towering Colchian rushed in three great strides to the Taengean. His expression was anguished, but wrathful, with his eyebrows firmly pulled downwards and his silver orbs standing in stark, striking stares. His feet moved on their own volition, causing the dark, well-built Captain to close the physical distance between them, although that did little to put proximity to their unspoken space. Keeping his silence, the slightly taller of the two angrily seized the other, pulling him aside to a random tent with an iron grip that was entirely different from the touch he had once spared Achilleas in their most private of times. He knew that it might have hurt the other man, the way he had apprehended him in such an abrupt, rough and intense manner without any consideration for his personal space or due respect as someone of high status and old lineage. He had never cared for such formalities and Achilleas was abundantly well-aware of that fact. Thus, so as to take away from the eyes of plenty and the ears of more, he dragged him, shoving the equally strong and heavy man inside the first tent he could consider.
Immediately, after hauling the blue-eyed man inside the tent, a welter of gasped voices and startled looks rushed to see the cause of the commotion, only for the stone-cold Captain to unleash a look that could have made Thanatos himself think twice about claiming a soul for Hades. Channeling the rage and anger that he only reserved for a select few, Damocles shot the owners of the tents a frightening scowl that made the gathered people rush out in a hurried exit. With that settled, the Colchian turned his bewildered mess of emotions to the unfairly beautiful man in front of him, unleashing great puffs of air from his nostrils as evidence of his roused temper.
It was quite ironic, their current situation however. Once, those years prior, the brawny Captain had pushed Achilleas inside either of their own tents so they too could have their privacy once more. And yet, wherefore his pushes and shoves of the past had been playful and ludic, full of warmth and rough tenderness, the silver-eyed man's most recent jostle had none of that long-neglected fondness or heat. Instead, he was furious, but confused, with his strongly marked features held in a bitter grimace that betrayed the contempt he held for the Taengean. And yet, if Achilleas had any semblance of thought, he would have recognized the intent behind the other's roguish harshness. They needed their privacy, though in an entirely different context than the one they had afforded each other in those long-past days. They needed their own space, their own small pocket realm where they could discuss freely and without fear of prying eyes and hearing ears.
Just as he had done so many years ago, Damocles was quick to read Achilleas's face. He recognized some of the emotions in that man's visage. And so, he used his logic and his brain to deduce a thought. Their had been no softness to his stressed, seething countenance, but he recognized that such an expression would do little in at the moment. And so, he took short breaths and recomposed himself, calming his wrath as much as he could around that man. He pushed back some of the black locks of his hair disheveled, suspiring to himself as he quelled his temper. Once done, he stared longingly at the man before recognizing what had to be done for him to too relax.
"Rest easy...traitor..."he crudely condemned. His voice was still deep and sonorous, but their was pain in his tone, their was mournful bitterness to his accent that betrayed his composure and stillness. "I have kept silent about you...about us..." continued Damocles as a harsh undertone swept beneath his words. "Did you really think I would sink to such pettiness? I had all the reason to betray the trust that once bound us...the trust that you shattered into a thousand broken pieces. It would have been so easy to do so. To have you suffer like I suffered...but I didn't. I kept my promise. I kept my honor. Unlike you...you coward..." It was obvious that beneath all the cruelty and bitterness that struck at his words however, for as sharp and hurtful as they might have been, that sadness still crept in now and then. He stood close to Achilleas, with only but a hair of distance between them.
"Why have you come?" he piercingly asked, shooting daggers at the other's eyes with his own steely pair. "Why has the ghost of my past come to haunt my tortured soul? Do you delight in the suffering you wrought, villain? Speak!"
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There not many instances in his life when Damocles could remember being caught without either hands to feel or tongue to speak. If their had been a constant in his life it had been his temperamental and argumentative nature, one that time and time again others had reminded him of for far too long. And yet, despite the coldness on his breath, the silver-eyed man could not press words to mouth or utter his insights on this once-intimate stranger. He thought of a thousand different things all at once and yet could not think straight at all. Their was little he could do to make his mind or his body heed to his command and his will. Instead, he lost sight of the time and of the place, of the space and distance between them, as if the only people that existed for that one specific moment was Achilleas and him.
He could have been dishonest with himself and say that he had not taken note of the other man in his entirety. Though he kept his silence and distance at the other's complimentary words, he still heard them, he still processed them. He had not changed at all...not one bit. He was still the same, handsome man he had once held in his arms. He still had that same black mane of rich black locks he had once played and pulled with. He still had the same, startlingly azure eyes that had locked so many times with his grey ones in both times of joy and times of sadness. How dared he? How dared Achilleas remain the same? Had he wished to come and torment him in what been meant to be a day of mirth and laughter? The arrogance! The selfishness! Well, he for one would not stand for it at all.
And so, without ever replying to his words, the towering Colchian rushed in three great strides to the Taengean. His expression was anguished, but wrathful, with his eyebrows firmly pulled downwards and his silver orbs standing in stark, striking stares. His feet moved on their own volition, causing the dark, well-built Captain to close the physical distance between them, although that did little to put proximity to their unspoken space. Keeping his silence, the slightly taller of the two angrily seized the other, pulling him aside to a random tent with an iron grip that was entirely different from the touch he had once spared Achilleas in their most private of times. He knew that it might have hurt the other man, the way he had apprehended him in such an abrupt, rough and intense manner without any consideration for his personal space or due respect as someone of high status and old lineage. He had never cared for such formalities and Achilleas was abundantly well-aware of that fact. Thus, so as to take away from the eyes of plenty and the ears of more, he dragged him, shoving the equally strong and heavy man inside the first tent he could consider.
Immediately, after hauling the blue-eyed man inside the tent, a welter of gasped voices and startled looks rushed to see the cause of the commotion, only for the stone-cold Captain to unleash a look that could have made Thanatos himself think twice about claiming a soul for Hades. Channeling the rage and anger that he only reserved for a select few, Damocles shot the owners of the tents a frightening scowl that made the gathered people rush out in a hurried exit. With that settled, the Colchian turned his bewildered mess of emotions to the unfairly beautiful man in front of him, unleashing great puffs of air from his nostrils as evidence of his roused temper.
It was quite ironic, their current situation however. Once, those years prior, the brawny Captain had pushed Achilleas inside either of their own tents so they too could have their privacy once more. And yet, wherefore his pushes and shoves of the past had been playful and ludic, full of warmth and rough tenderness, the silver-eyed man's most recent jostle had none of that long-neglected fondness or heat. Instead, he was furious, but confused, with his strongly marked features held in a bitter grimace that betrayed the contempt he held for the Taengean. And yet, if Achilleas had any semblance of thought, he would have recognized the intent behind the other's roguish harshness. They needed their privacy, though in an entirely different context than the one they had afforded each other in those long-past days. They needed their own space, their own small pocket realm where they could discuss freely and without fear of prying eyes and hearing ears.
Just as he had done so many years ago, Damocles was quick to read Achilleas's face. He recognized some of the emotions in that man's visage. And so, he used his logic and his brain to deduce a thought. Their had been no softness to his stressed, seething countenance, but he recognized that such an expression would do little in at the moment. And so, he took short breaths and recomposed himself, calming his wrath as much as he could around that man. He pushed back some of the black locks of his hair disheveled, suspiring to himself as he quelled his temper. Once done, he stared longingly at the man before recognizing what had to be done for him to too relax.
"Rest easy...traitor..."he crudely condemned. His voice was still deep and sonorous, but their was pain in his tone, their was mournful bitterness to his accent that betrayed his composure and stillness. "I have kept silent about you...about us..." continued Damocles as a harsh undertone swept beneath his words. "Did you really think I would sink to such pettiness? I had all the reason to betray the trust that once bound us...the trust that you shattered into a thousand broken pieces. It would have been so easy to do so. To have you suffer like I suffered...but I didn't. I kept my promise. I kept my honor. Unlike you...you coward..." It was obvious that beneath all the cruelty and bitterness that struck at his words however, for as sharp and hurtful as they might have been, that sadness still crept in now and then. He stood close to Achilleas, with only but a hair of distance between them.
"Why have you come?" he piercingly asked, shooting daggers at the other's eyes with his own steely pair. "Why has the ghost of my past come to haunt my tortured soul? Do you delight in the suffering you wrought, villain? Speak!"
There not many instances in his life when Damocles could remember being caught without either hands to feel or tongue to speak. If their had been a constant in his life it had been his temperamental and argumentative nature, one that time and time again others had reminded him of for far too long. And yet, despite the coldness on his breath, the silver-eyed man could not press words to mouth or utter his insights on this once-intimate stranger. He thought of a thousand different things all at once and yet could not think straight at all. Their was little he could do to make his mind or his body heed to his command and his will. Instead, he lost sight of the time and of the place, of the space and distance between them, as if the only people that existed for that one specific moment was Achilleas and him.
He could have been dishonest with himself and say that he had not taken note of the other man in his entirety. Though he kept his silence and distance at the other's complimentary words, he still heard them, he still processed them. He had not changed at all...not one bit. He was still the same, handsome man he had once held in his arms. He still had that same black mane of rich black locks he had once played and pulled with. He still had the same, startlingly azure eyes that had locked so many times with his grey ones in both times of joy and times of sadness. How dared he? How dared Achilleas remain the same? Had he wished to come and torment him in what been meant to be a day of mirth and laughter? The arrogance! The selfishness! Well, he for one would not stand for it at all.
And so, without ever replying to his words, the towering Colchian rushed in three great strides to the Taengean. His expression was anguished, but wrathful, with his eyebrows firmly pulled downwards and his silver orbs standing in stark, striking stares. His feet moved on their own volition, causing the dark, well-built Captain to close the physical distance between them, although that did little to put proximity to their unspoken space. Keeping his silence, the slightly taller of the two angrily seized the other, pulling him aside to a random tent with an iron grip that was entirely different from the touch he had once spared Achilleas in their most private of times. He knew that it might have hurt the other man, the way he had apprehended him in such an abrupt, rough and intense manner without any consideration for his personal space or due respect as someone of high status and old lineage. He had never cared for such formalities and Achilleas was abundantly well-aware of that fact. Thus, so as to take away from the eyes of plenty and the ears of more, he dragged him, shoving the equally strong and heavy man inside the first tent he could consider.
Immediately, after hauling the blue-eyed man inside the tent, a welter of gasped voices and startled looks rushed to see the cause of the commotion, only for the stone-cold Captain to unleash a look that could have made Thanatos himself think twice about claiming a soul for Hades. Channeling the rage and anger that he only reserved for a select few, Damocles shot the owners of the tents a frightening scowl that made the gathered people rush out in a hurried exit. With that settled, the Colchian turned his bewildered mess of emotions to the unfairly beautiful man in front of him, unleashing great puffs of air from his nostrils as evidence of his roused temper.
It was quite ironic, their current situation however. Once, those years prior, the brawny Captain had pushed Achilleas inside either of their own tents so they too could have their privacy once more. And yet, wherefore his pushes and shoves of the past had been playful and ludic, full of warmth and rough tenderness, the silver-eyed man's most recent jostle had none of that long-neglected fondness or heat. Instead, he was furious, but confused, with his strongly marked features held in a bitter grimace that betrayed the contempt he held for the Taengean. And yet, if Achilleas had any semblance of thought, he would have recognized the intent behind the other's roguish harshness. They needed their privacy, though in an entirely different context than the one they had afforded each other in those long-past days. They needed their own space, their own small pocket realm where they could discuss freely and without fear of prying eyes and hearing ears.
Just as he had done so many years ago, Damocles was quick to read Achilleas's face. He recognized some of the emotions in that man's visage. And so, he used his logic and his brain to deduce a thought. Their had been no softness to his stressed, seething countenance, but he recognized that such an expression would do little in at the moment. And so, he took short breaths and recomposed himself, calming his wrath as much as he could around that man. He pushed back some of the black locks of his hair disheveled, suspiring to himself as he quelled his temper. Once done, he stared longingly at the man before recognizing what had to be done for him to too relax.
"Rest easy...traitor..."he crudely condemned. His voice was still deep and sonorous, but their was pain in his tone, their was mournful bitterness to his accent that betrayed his composure and stillness. "I have kept silent about you...about us..." continued Damocles as a harsh undertone swept beneath his words. "Did you really think I would sink to such pettiness? I had all the reason to betray the trust that once bound us...the trust that you shattered into a thousand broken pieces. It would have been so easy to do so. To have you suffer like I suffered...but I didn't. I kept my promise. I kept my honor. Unlike you...you coward..." It was obvious that beneath all the cruelty and bitterness that struck at his words however, for as sharp and hurtful as they might have been, that sadness still crept in now and then. He stood close to Achilleas, with only but a hair of distance between them.
"Why have you come?" he piercingly asked, shooting daggers at the other's eyes with his own steely pair. "Why has the ghost of my past come to haunt my tortured soul? Do you delight in the suffering you wrought, villain? Speak!"
When his brother was roused from his thoughts by his query, Vangelis watched as Zanon blinked and then locked onto the conversation at hand. He had been deep in consideration and Vangelis found, for a moment, that he didn't wish to know about what. It hadn't been a content and joyful look of a man distracted by thoughts of his wife and family, but neither had it been one of distaste or concern. Which left a speculative mindset that Vangelis was apt to avoid. Either Zanon was thinking though long and laborious strategies for military application - for he was the thinker of the Kotas fighters - or he was thinking upon personal dalliances that he was fairly famous for.
Either way, Vangelis was not interested in being bored or reviled. Instead, he focused on the answer that Zanon finally gave, only to adopt an expression of distaste himself.
A military man, it might have surprised people to find that Vangelis did not enjoy violence. It had been by his hand - along with a few others, but his held the most weight - that no circus or gladiatorial pit had ever been built in Colchis. Not only did the kingdom not permit the land or the space for such a thing in the capitol, where it would have needed to be for the sake of potential income, Vangelis had always held to the Colchian tradition of dignity and honour being a part of war.
War was a course of action that was needed to keep their people and their lands safe. It held the purpose of protection and security. It was not meant to be a vessel for ego and a vehicle for might. No matter how Vangelis had been rumoured to fight like a demon and kill like a monster.
Ergo, Vangelis took no eagerness or interest in blood sports or activities where combat and violence were treated like a game. War and conflict were not something to be heralded or sought with eagerness. It was a necessary part of life that, when enacted, should be done to the glory of Ares. Not the glory of oneself.
So, when Zanon mentioned the fact that his duties as prince would likely involve meeting the expectations of the people and stripping down to fight alongside other men of skill in combat, for purely entertainment purposes, it was clear as day upon his face that he detested such a notion. Yet, his duties as prince would override such hatred if it so had to.
Rolling his eyes only at Zanon's comment regarding his looks and the reaction to them by his people, Vangelis ignored the nudge and encouragement to smile and simply maintained a cool mask of expressionless stone that had brought to him the famous nickname that liked to pass from mouth to ear.
"If I smile, the people would believe our lands to be doomed." Vangelis argued back, his voice low enough for only Zanon to hear as the carriage came to a stop and the two brothers were able to step down, their guardsmen falling into place at their shoulders and the crowds that had come to witness the spectacle of the day dimmed to a quiet hush at the appearance of two royal princes...
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Posted In Heavy Weight on Mar 7, 2020 19:46:55 GMT
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When his brother was roused from his thoughts by his query, Vangelis watched as Zanon blinked and then locked onto the conversation at hand. He had been deep in consideration and Vangelis found, for a moment, that he didn't wish to know about what. It hadn't been a content and joyful look of a man distracted by thoughts of his wife and family, but neither had it been one of distaste or concern. Which left a speculative mindset that Vangelis was apt to avoid. Either Zanon was thinking though long and laborious strategies for military application - for he was the thinker of the Kotas fighters - or he was thinking upon personal dalliances that he was fairly famous for.
Either way, Vangelis was not interested in being bored or reviled. Instead, he focused on the answer that Zanon finally gave, only to adopt an expression of distaste himself.
A military man, it might have surprised people to find that Vangelis did not enjoy violence. It had been by his hand - along with a few others, but his held the most weight - that no circus or gladiatorial pit had ever been built in Colchis. Not only did the kingdom not permit the land or the space for such a thing in the capitol, where it would have needed to be for the sake of potential income, Vangelis had always held to the Colchian tradition of dignity and honour being a part of war.
War was a course of action that was needed to keep their people and their lands safe. It held the purpose of protection and security. It was not meant to be a vessel for ego and a vehicle for might. No matter how Vangelis had been rumoured to fight like a demon and kill like a monster.
Ergo, Vangelis took no eagerness or interest in blood sports or activities where combat and violence were treated like a game. War and conflict were not something to be heralded or sought with eagerness. It was a necessary part of life that, when enacted, should be done to the glory of Ares. Not the glory of oneself.
So, when Zanon mentioned the fact that his duties as prince would likely involve meeting the expectations of the people and stripping down to fight alongside other men of skill in combat, for purely entertainment purposes, it was clear as day upon his face that he detested such a notion. Yet, his duties as prince would override such hatred if it so had to.
Rolling his eyes only at Zanon's comment regarding his looks and the reaction to them by his people, Vangelis ignored the nudge and encouragement to smile and simply maintained a cool mask of expressionless stone that had brought to him the famous nickname that liked to pass from mouth to ear.
"If I smile, the people would believe our lands to be doomed." Vangelis argued back, his voice low enough for only Zanon to hear as the carriage came to a stop and the two brothers were able to step down, their guardsmen falling into place at their shoulders and the crowds that had come to witness the spectacle of the day dimmed to a quiet hush at the appearance of two royal princes...
When his brother was roused from his thoughts by his query, Vangelis watched as Zanon blinked and then locked onto the conversation at hand. He had been deep in consideration and Vangelis found, for a moment, that he didn't wish to know about what. It hadn't been a content and joyful look of a man distracted by thoughts of his wife and family, but neither had it been one of distaste or concern. Which left a speculative mindset that Vangelis was apt to avoid. Either Zanon was thinking though long and laborious strategies for military application - for he was the thinker of the Kotas fighters - or he was thinking upon personal dalliances that he was fairly famous for.
Either way, Vangelis was not interested in being bored or reviled. Instead, he focused on the answer that Zanon finally gave, only to adopt an expression of distaste himself.
A military man, it might have surprised people to find that Vangelis did not enjoy violence. It had been by his hand - along with a few others, but his held the most weight - that no circus or gladiatorial pit had ever been built in Colchis. Not only did the kingdom not permit the land or the space for such a thing in the capitol, where it would have needed to be for the sake of potential income, Vangelis had always held to the Colchian tradition of dignity and honour being a part of war.
War was a course of action that was needed to keep their people and their lands safe. It held the purpose of protection and security. It was not meant to be a vessel for ego and a vehicle for might. No matter how Vangelis had been rumoured to fight like a demon and kill like a monster.
Ergo, Vangelis took no eagerness or interest in blood sports or activities where combat and violence were treated like a game. War and conflict were not something to be heralded or sought with eagerness. It was a necessary part of life that, when enacted, should be done to the glory of Ares. Not the glory of oneself.
So, when Zanon mentioned the fact that his duties as prince would likely involve meeting the expectations of the people and stripping down to fight alongside other men of skill in combat, for purely entertainment purposes, it was clear as day upon his face that he detested such a notion. Yet, his duties as prince would override such hatred if it so had to.
Rolling his eyes only at Zanon's comment regarding his looks and the reaction to them by his people, Vangelis ignored the nudge and encouragement to smile and simply maintained a cool mask of expressionless stone that had brought to him the famous nickname that liked to pass from mouth to ear.
"If I smile, the people would believe our lands to be doomed." Vangelis argued back, his voice low enough for only Zanon to hear as the carriage came to a stop and the two brothers were able to step down, their guardsmen falling into place at their shoulders and the crowds that had come to witness the spectacle of the day dimmed to a quiet hush at the appearance of two royal princes...
Achilleas’ eyes had widened slightly when Damocles had offered no answer but instead crossed the space between them in hurried, angry strides. He could have resisted when the man took a harsh grip upon his shoulder and shoved him towards a nearby tent, could have dug his heels in and squared up to him, but the visiting baron did not want to cause a scene. So he let the burly Colchian maneuver them both into somewhere more private. At least it was more private when Damocles had scattered the inhabitants with a glare that would have had the Taengean cowering too if he didn't know better.
Instead, once they were away from the eyes of others, he pulled out of the other’s grasp and stepped backward, creating some space that was soon stolen again by the Colchian, whose words were as bruising as his grip.
Achilleas supposed he could not begrudge the man his anger. He had not behaved...honourably when he had left without a farewell or explanation in Egypt. He swallowed when Damocles seemed to read his mind, saw through Achilleas’ concerns and reassured him that he had kept his silence despite his cutting words.
...coward
So close that he chanced he could feel the anger rolling off the other man, there was little Achilleas could offer in his defence. He met Damocles’ gaze for only a moment, because there was too much hurt visible for him to hold eye contact, and tried to find some word that might diffuse the situation, but they were elusive and slow to present themselves. He supposed he deserved this discomfort, just as Damocles deserved a chance to vent his ire.
“I did not think to see you here” he repeated, stepping back just to get some air in what felt like a storm cloud. “Of course I do not want to bring you pain, Damocles. I have never wanted that”
Perhaps the words were feeble in the face of their past, but Achilleas had not been prepared to deal with it here and now. He grasped for some justification, the truth, though he didn’t know if the other man would believe him.
“I just came to pay my respects to the Princes. I wouldn’t have if…” If I had known you would be here were the words that he bit off before they fell because he didn’t mean them as they would sound and he was trying to put out the fire not throw pitch upon it. Pushing a hand through his hair in agitation, the Taengean man stumbled for how to handle this unexpected confrontation. When he had imagined this scenario - those brief moments where his will had not been strong enough to suppress the thoughts - he had thought he would explain, apologise but make Damocles see that really there had been no other recourse. Now though...now he just felt wretched, and half of him wanted to reach across and lay his hand on the man in front of him to calm that roiling hurt and anger, but he was afraid too of what it might mean. Nothing had changed. Why risk it again?
“I’m sorry” he found himself muttering, stepping backward again. “I’m not staying, I’ll be gone, and you won’t have to...this” he gestured helplessly between them before ducking his head in some semblance of a bow. “Forgive me”
And then without really meaning to, Achilleas had spun and strode from the tent, back into the bright light of the day outside which seemed like another world after that strange interlude. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, still reeling from being slapped in the face by that part of his past, and so the Taengean was almost upon the Princes before he realised the strange hush was not just his own buzzing thoughts drowning out the chatter of the crowd but that instead was in awe of the two impressive figures who had just alighted from a carriage. He dimly recognised the older Colchian Prince and surmised the man beside him must be one of the brothers, and thankfully Achilleas had kept enough of his wits about him to dip into a bow.
Rising up to his full height again, he was still bettered by the Crown Prince, who was the tallest man he thought he had ever seen. “Your highnesses” he offered, looking between the two men and hoping he did not look as flustered as he felt after the past few moments. The required formality, practiced politeness was grounding, and the Taengean Lord felt himself settle a little into the familiar as he bade his greetings to the Colchian royals.
“Lord Achilleas of Mikaelidas, at your service. I had been dealing with your steward, Prince Vangelis” he turned his gaze to the taller man “And could not pass up the opportunity to come and pass on my regards in person. This is quite the event you have here”
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Mar 11, 2020 22:59:25 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Mar 11, 2020 22:59:25 GMT
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Achilleas’ eyes had widened slightly when Damocles had offered no answer but instead crossed the space between them in hurried, angry strides. He could have resisted when the man took a harsh grip upon his shoulder and shoved him towards a nearby tent, could have dug his heels in and squared up to him, but the visiting baron did not want to cause a scene. So he let the burly Colchian maneuver them both into somewhere more private. At least it was more private when Damocles had scattered the inhabitants with a glare that would have had the Taengean cowering too if he didn't know better.
Instead, once they were away from the eyes of others, he pulled out of the other’s grasp and stepped backward, creating some space that was soon stolen again by the Colchian, whose words were as bruising as his grip.
Achilleas supposed he could not begrudge the man his anger. He had not behaved...honourably when he had left without a farewell or explanation in Egypt. He swallowed when Damocles seemed to read his mind, saw through Achilleas’ concerns and reassured him that he had kept his silence despite his cutting words.
...coward
So close that he chanced he could feel the anger rolling off the other man, there was little Achilleas could offer in his defence. He met Damocles’ gaze for only a moment, because there was too much hurt visible for him to hold eye contact, and tried to find some word that might diffuse the situation, but they were elusive and slow to present themselves. He supposed he deserved this discomfort, just as Damocles deserved a chance to vent his ire.
“I did not think to see you here” he repeated, stepping back just to get some air in what felt like a storm cloud. “Of course I do not want to bring you pain, Damocles. I have never wanted that”
Perhaps the words were feeble in the face of their past, but Achilleas had not been prepared to deal with it here and now. He grasped for some justification, the truth, though he didn’t know if the other man would believe him.
“I just came to pay my respects to the Princes. I wouldn’t have if…” If I had known you would be here were the words that he bit off before they fell because he didn’t mean them as they would sound and he was trying to put out the fire not throw pitch upon it. Pushing a hand through his hair in agitation, the Taengean man stumbled for how to handle this unexpected confrontation. When he had imagined this scenario - those brief moments where his will had not been strong enough to suppress the thoughts - he had thought he would explain, apologise but make Damocles see that really there had been no other recourse. Now though...now he just felt wretched, and half of him wanted to reach across and lay his hand on the man in front of him to calm that roiling hurt and anger, but he was afraid too of what it might mean. Nothing had changed. Why risk it again?
“I’m sorry” he found himself muttering, stepping backward again. “I’m not staying, I’ll be gone, and you won’t have to...this” he gestured helplessly between them before ducking his head in some semblance of a bow. “Forgive me”
And then without really meaning to, Achilleas had spun and strode from the tent, back into the bright light of the day outside which seemed like another world after that strange interlude. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, still reeling from being slapped in the face by that part of his past, and so the Taengean was almost upon the Princes before he realised the strange hush was not just his own buzzing thoughts drowning out the chatter of the crowd but that instead was in awe of the two impressive figures who had just alighted from a carriage. He dimly recognised the older Colchian Prince and surmised the man beside him must be one of the brothers, and thankfully Achilleas had kept enough of his wits about him to dip into a bow.
Rising up to his full height again, he was still bettered by the Crown Prince, who was the tallest man he thought he had ever seen. “Your highnesses” he offered, looking between the two men and hoping he did not look as flustered as he felt after the past few moments. The required formality, practiced politeness was grounding, and the Taengean Lord felt himself settle a little into the familiar as he bade his greetings to the Colchian royals.
“Lord Achilleas of Mikaelidas, at your service. I had been dealing with your steward, Prince Vangelis” he turned his gaze to the taller man “And could not pass up the opportunity to come and pass on my regards in person. This is quite the event you have here”
Achilleas’ eyes had widened slightly when Damocles had offered no answer but instead crossed the space between them in hurried, angry strides. He could have resisted when the man took a harsh grip upon his shoulder and shoved him towards a nearby tent, could have dug his heels in and squared up to him, but the visiting baron did not want to cause a scene. So he let the burly Colchian maneuver them both into somewhere more private. At least it was more private when Damocles had scattered the inhabitants with a glare that would have had the Taengean cowering too if he didn't know better.
Instead, once they were away from the eyes of others, he pulled out of the other’s grasp and stepped backward, creating some space that was soon stolen again by the Colchian, whose words were as bruising as his grip.
Achilleas supposed he could not begrudge the man his anger. He had not behaved...honourably when he had left without a farewell or explanation in Egypt. He swallowed when Damocles seemed to read his mind, saw through Achilleas’ concerns and reassured him that he had kept his silence despite his cutting words.
...coward
So close that he chanced he could feel the anger rolling off the other man, there was little Achilleas could offer in his defence. He met Damocles’ gaze for only a moment, because there was too much hurt visible for him to hold eye contact, and tried to find some word that might diffuse the situation, but they were elusive and slow to present themselves. He supposed he deserved this discomfort, just as Damocles deserved a chance to vent his ire.
“I did not think to see you here” he repeated, stepping back just to get some air in what felt like a storm cloud. “Of course I do not want to bring you pain, Damocles. I have never wanted that”
Perhaps the words were feeble in the face of their past, but Achilleas had not been prepared to deal with it here and now. He grasped for some justification, the truth, though he didn’t know if the other man would believe him.
“I just came to pay my respects to the Princes. I wouldn’t have if…” If I had known you would be here were the words that he bit off before they fell because he didn’t mean them as they would sound and he was trying to put out the fire not throw pitch upon it. Pushing a hand through his hair in agitation, the Taengean man stumbled for how to handle this unexpected confrontation. When he had imagined this scenario - those brief moments where his will had not been strong enough to suppress the thoughts - he had thought he would explain, apologise but make Damocles see that really there had been no other recourse. Now though...now he just felt wretched, and half of him wanted to reach across and lay his hand on the man in front of him to calm that roiling hurt and anger, but he was afraid too of what it might mean. Nothing had changed. Why risk it again?
“I’m sorry” he found himself muttering, stepping backward again. “I’m not staying, I’ll be gone, and you won’t have to...this” he gestured helplessly between them before ducking his head in some semblance of a bow. “Forgive me”
And then without really meaning to, Achilleas had spun and strode from the tent, back into the bright light of the day outside which seemed like another world after that strange interlude. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, still reeling from being slapped in the face by that part of his past, and so the Taengean was almost upon the Princes before he realised the strange hush was not just his own buzzing thoughts drowning out the chatter of the crowd but that instead was in awe of the two impressive figures who had just alighted from a carriage. He dimly recognised the older Colchian Prince and surmised the man beside him must be one of the brothers, and thankfully Achilleas had kept enough of his wits about him to dip into a bow.
Rising up to his full height again, he was still bettered by the Crown Prince, who was the tallest man he thought he had ever seen. “Your highnesses” he offered, looking between the two men and hoping he did not look as flustered as he felt after the past few moments. The required formality, practiced politeness was grounding, and the Taengean Lord felt himself settle a little into the familiar as he bade his greetings to the Colchian royals.
“Lord Achilleas of Mikaelidas, at your service. I had been dealing with your steward, Prince Vangelis” he turned his gaze to the taller man “And could not pass up the opportunity to come and pass on my regards in person. This is quite the event you have here”
Vangelis was not much for names and faces but he recognised, at least, the visage of the man who approached he and his brother. The Taengean – for he remembered his origin, if nothing else – was quick to pay his appropriate respects to the royals of the kingdom that he was visitor to and Vangelis was thankful for it. There were a lot of violence and domination bent men at such an event as this and Colchians were notoriously ease to offend when it came to their determinations of honour and valour. Had the man – even accidentally – caused insult to the princes, in the eyes of their people, Vangelis would have had a social and political upheaval to deal with. And this event was shaping up to be enough of a headache as it was. Surely, they weren’t all expecting him to fight alongside the champions and warriors who were already naked to the waist and preparing themselves with weapons and weights?
Achilleas of Mikaelidas – as he introduced himself – was a man that Vangelis vaguely knew through sight and was aware of with far more knowledge and detail through reputation. He recognised the man’s features because they had served on similar battlefields from time to time – mostly to the south, or because they had both attended a royal or noble gathering at one point or another in this or any other of the Grecian kingdoms. Both of royal blood and both militant, it was natural that the two of them had mingled within the same circles over the decades, even if they had never formally introduced themselves to one another in a way that might stick to memory.
In terms of the man’s reputation, however, there was little Vangelis could offer by way of negative testimony. The man was flawless in his military career and victories. It was rare for a man to be so successful across so decent a length career. But when it did occur, it was normally for a man such as Achilleas. Born to royalty, given all the training and position that his bloodline deserved, it was less that Achilleas was overtly talented or particularly lucky but that his role in life had given him the advantage of the finest training and the leisure time to practice and perfect such lessons.
It was the same reason that Vangelis’ legacy on the battlefield was equally stellar. Despite the occasional retreat or draw back of the frontlines, Vangelis’ own childhood and rearing had seen to a knowledge and skill base that rarely failed.
And yet, it was a particular sort of man that could use such advantages to good effect. And Vangelis felt himself instantly warm to the Lord Achilleas for him clearly being just such a man.
With a nod of respect that greeted the Mikaelidas with the honour his history required, Vangelis spoke with a calm and sturdy tone that was his usual expression, his words specific, pointed and efficient.
“I am aware.” He stated, basically as a message of fact, rather than an affronted retort. He didn’t bother to ask whether the negotiations over weaponry supplies had been successful, for he placed great trust in his steward and would receive a detailed report at a later time. There seemed little reason to bring it to the forefront of conversation now. His gaze looked across at the event in question that Achilleas so praised, his features not shifting. “I take you judgement as more experienced than my own… But it appears to have been a successful draw if nothing else.” This last was spoken over the sheer number of guests attending. Be they contestants or audience goers, eager to see the strength of their favoured men, the numbers were large for a provincial event such as this, away from the capital. “Will you be partaking in the competition, Lord Achilleas?” He asked, before offering a sidelong glance at Zanon. “I understand from my brother that he’ll be caving to the expectations of the people and honouring the name of Kotas with a few bouts.”
The small, half smile that accompanied the comment was almost lost as Vangelis turned to accept a cup of fresh water from a servant that was eager to offer a tray of refreshments for the Lords as they stood to one side of the festivities…
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Mar 13, 2020 14:12:06 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Mar 13, 2020 14:12:06 GMT
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Vangelis was not much for names and faces but he recognised, at least, the visage of the man who approached he and his brother. The Taengean – for he remembered his origin, if nothing else – was quick to pay his appropriate respects to the royals of the kingdom that he was visitor to and Vangelis was thankful for it. There were a lot of violence and domination bent men at such an event as this and Colchians were notoriously ease to offend when it came to their determinations of honour and valour. Had the man – even accidentally – caused insult to the princes, in the eyes of their people, Vangelis would have had a social and political upheaval to deal with. And this event was shaping up to be enough of a headache as it was. Surely, they weren’t all expecting him to fight alongside the champions and warriors who were already naked to the waist and preparing themselves with weapons and weights?
Achilleas of Mikaelidas – as he introduced himself – was a man that Vangelis vaguely knew through sight and was aware of with far more knowledge and detail through reputation. He recognised the man’s features because they had served on similar battlefields from time to time – mostly to the south, or because they had both attended a royal or noble gathering at one point or another in this or any other of the Grecian kingdoms. Both of royal blood and both militant, it was natural that the two of them had mingled within the same circles over the decades, even if they had never formally introduced themselves to one another in a way that might stick to memory.
In terms of the man’s reputation, however, there was little Vangelis could offer by way of negative testimony. The man was flawless in his military career and victories. It was rare for a man to be so successful across so decent a length career. But when it did occur, it was normally for a man such as Achilleas. Born to royalty, given all the training and position that his bloodline deserved, it was less that Achilleas was overtly talented or particularly lucky but that his role in life had given him the advantage of the finest training and the leisure time to practice and perfect such lessons.
It was the same reason that Vangelis’ legacy on the battlefield was equally stellar. Despite the occasional retreat or draw back of the frontlines, Vangelis’ own childhood and rearing had seen to a knowledge and skill base that rarely failed.
And yet, it was a particular sort of man that could use such advantages to good effect. And Vangelis felt himself instantly warm to the Lord Achilleas for him clearly being just such a man.
With a nod of respect that greeted the Mikaelidas with the honour his history required, Vangelis spoke with a calm and sturdy tone that was his usual expression, his words specific, pointed and efficient.
“I am aware.” He stated, basically as a message of fact, rather than an affronted retort. He didn’t bother to ask whether the negotiations over weaponry supplies had been successful, for he placed great trust in his steward and would receive a detailed report at a later time. There seemed little reason to bring it to the forefront of conversation now. His gaze looked across at the event in question that Achilleas so praised, his features not shifting. “I take you judgement as more experienced than my own… But it appears to have been a successful draw if nothing else.” This last was spoken over the sheer number of guests attending. Be they contestants or audience goers, eager to see the strength of their favoured men, the numbers were large for a provincial event such as this, away from the capital. “Will you be partaking in the competition, Lord Achilleas?” He asked, before offering a sidelong glance at Zanon. “I understand from my brother that he’ll be caving to the expectations of the people and honouring the name of Kotas with a few bouts.”
The small, half smile that accompanied the comment was almost lost as Vangelis turned to accept a cup of fresh water from a servant that was eager to offer a tray of refreshments for the Lords as they stood to one side of the festivities…
Vangelis was not much for names and faces but he recognised, at least, the visage of the man who approached he and his brother. The Taengean – for he remembered his origin, if nothing else – was quick to pay his appropriate respects to the royals of the kingdom that he was visitor to and Vangelis was thankful for it. There were a lot of violence and domination bent men at such an event as this and Colchians were notoriously ease to offend when it came to their determinations of honour and valour. Had the man – even accidentally – caused insult to the princes, in the eyes of their people, Vangelis would have had a social and political upheaval to deal with. And this event was shaping up to be enough of a headache as it was. Surely, they weren’t all expecting him to fight alongside the champions and warriors who were already naked to the waist and preparing themselves with weapons and weights?
Achilleas of Mikaelidas – as he introduced himself – was a man that Vangelis vaguely knew through sight and was aware of with far more knowledge and detail through reputation. He recognised the man’s features because they had served on similar battlefields from time to time – mostly to the south, or because they had both attended a royal or noble gathering at one point or another in this or any other of the Grecian kingdoms. Both of royal blood and both militant, it was natural that the two of them had mingled within the same circles over the decades, even if they had never formally introduced themselves to one another in a way that might stick to memory.
In terms of the man’s reputation, however, there was little Vangelis could offer by way of negative testimony. The man was flawless in his military career and victories. It was rare for a man to be so successful across so decent a length career. But when it did occur, it was normally for a man such as Achilleas. Born to royalty, given all the training and position that his bloodline deserved, it was less that Achilleas was overtly talented or particularly lucky but that his role in life had given him the advantage of the finest training and the leisure time to practice and perfect such lessons.
It was the same reason that Vangelis’ legacy on the battlefield was equally stellar. Despite the occasional retreat or draw back of the frontlines, Vangelis’ own childhood and rearing had seen to a knowledge and skill base that rarely failed.
And yet, it was a particular sort of man that could use such advantages to good effect. And Vangelis felt himself instantly warm to the Lord Achilleas for him clearly being just such a man.
With a nod of respect that greeted the Mikaelidas with the honour his history required, Vangelis spoke with a calm and sturdy tone that was his usual expression, his words specific, pointed and efficient.
“I am aware.” He stated, basically as a message of fact, rather than an affronted retort. He didn’t bother to ask whether the negotiations over weaponry supplies had been successful, for he placed great trust in his steward and would receive a detailed report at a later time. There seemed little reason to bring it to the forefront of conversation now. His gaze looked across at the event in question that Achilleas so praised, his features not shifting. “I take you judgement as more experienced than my own… But it appears to have been a successful draw if nothing else.” This last was spoken over the sheer number of guests attending. Be they contestants or audience goers, eager to see the strength of their favoured men, the numbers were large for a provincial event such as this, away from the capital. “Will you be partaking in the competition, Lord Achilleas?” He asked, before offering a sidelong glance at Zanon. “I understand from my brother that he’ll be caving to the expectations of the people and honouring the name of Kotas with a few bouts.”
The small, half smile that accompanied the comment was almost lost as Vangelis turned to accept a cup of fresh water from a servant that was eager to offer a tray of refreshments for the Lords as they stood to one side of the festivities…
