The chatbox has been hidden for this page. It will reopen upon refresh. To hide the CBox permanently, select "Permanently Toggle Cbox" in your profile User Settings.
This chatbox is hidden. To reopen, edit your User Settings.
She remembered being young - but Nike did not remember being reckless, or at least as reckless as what the young Silanos was said to be. Even as a twenty year old in the ranks of Captain in the Red Knights, Nike rarely gave in to vices or peer pressure. Of course, they had highly different situations, especially at how high risk Nike's own situation was. She couldn't afford to lose control of her senses, purely because the secret she held was one that had a death sentence upon her neck, a military sentence at that. But still, she couldn't help but shake her head when she spotted the scowl that grew upon his face at her correction of his mistake.
The voice was surprising, but a soldier trained of composure, Nike merely flicked her gaze upwards, and gave a respectful bow to the King Tython, before hiding a smile at how Silanos came close to tumbling over a row of soldiers like dominoes had he not been careful.
The bow was hurried, not the slow and calculated one Nike had performed, but the Commander guessed it wasn't surprising, considering the King was a far more imposing figure then Vangelis was, and Silanos was terrified of the latter anyhow.
Raising a brow at Silanos's hurried answer even if the King had not addressed him directly, Nike flashed the young Valaoritis a look that clearly warned him to step down and only speak when spoken to, before she cleared her throat and address the royal himself. "Not for now, your Majesty. The general merely asked me to show the young'un here some pointers. He has much to learn from the military according to the general." she replied respectfully. Nike had spent many years as Vangelis's personal guard, but despite that, the amount of time she had spent with the King did not amount to watch, for Tython was often away on campaigns of his own. What Nike knew of him was from heresay and his victories, so while she held a healthy sense of respect for him, she also was not the kind who conversed much, especially when there was work to be done. "Is there anything you would wish to convey to the troops, your Majesty?"
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
She remembered being young - but Nike did not remember being reckless, or at least as reckless as what the young Silanos was said to be. Even as a twenty year old in the ranks of Captain in the Red Knights, Nike rarely gave in to vices or peer pressure. Of course, they had highly different situations, especially at how high risk Nike's own situation was. She couldn't afford to lose control of her senses, purely because the secret she held was one that had a death sentence upon her neck, a military sentence at that. But still, she couldn't help but shake her head when she spotted the scowl that grew upon his face at her correction of his mistake.
The voice was surprising, but a soldier trained of composure, Nike merely flicked her gaze upwards, and gave a respectful bow to the King Tython, before hiding a smile at how Silanos came close to tumbling over a row of soldiers like dominoes had he not been careful.
The bow was hurried, not the slow and calculated one Nike had performed, but the Commander guessed it wasn't surprising, considering the King was a far more imposing figure then Vangelis was, and Silanos was terrified of the latter anyhow.
Raising a brow at Silanos's hurried answer even if the King had not addressed him directly, Nike flashed the young Valaoritis a look that clearly warned him to step down and only speak when spoken to, before she cleared her throat and address the royal himself. "Not for now, your Majesty. The general merely asked me to show the young'un here some pointers. He has much to learn from the military according to the general." she replied respectfully. Nike had spent many years as Vangelis's personal guard, but despite that, the amount of time she had spent with the King did not amount to watch, for Tython was often away on campaigns of his own. What Nike knew of him was from heresay and his victories, so while she held a healthy sense of respect for him, she also was not the kind who conversed much, especially when there was work to be done. "Is there anything you would wish to convey to the troops, your Majesty?"
She remembered being young - but Nike did not remember being reckless, or at least as reckless as what the young Silanos was said to be. Even as a twenty year old in the ranks of Captain in the Red Knights, Nike rarely gave in to vices or peer pressure. Of course, they had highly different situations, especially at how high risk Nike's own situation was. She couldn't afford to lose control of her senses, purely because the secret she held was one that had a death sentence upon her neck, a military sentence at that. But still, she couldn't help but shake her head when she spotted the scowl that grew upon his face at her correction of his mistake.
The voice was surprising, but a soldier trained of composure, Nike merely flicked her gaze upwards, and gave a respectful bow to the King Tython, before hiding a smile at how Silanos came close to tumbling over a row of soldiers like dominoes had he not been careful.
The bow was hurried, not the slow and calculated one Nike had performed, but the Commander guessed it wasn't surprising, considering the King was a far more imposing figure then Vangelis was, and Silanos was terrified of the latter anyhow.
Raising a brow at Silanos's hurried answer even if the King had not addressed him directly, Nike flashed the young Valaoritis a look that clearly warned him to step down and only speak when spoken to, before she cleared her throat and address the royal himself. "Not for now, your Majesty. The general merely asked me to show the young'un here some pointers. He has much to learn from the military according to the general." she replied respectfully. Nike had spent many years as Vangelis's personal guard, but despite that, the amount of time she had spent with the King did not amount to watch, for Tython was often away on campaigns of his own. What Nike knew of him was from heresay and his victories, so while she held a healthy sense of respect for him, she also was not the kind who conversed much, especially when there was work to be done. "Is there anything you would wish to convey to the troops, your Majesty?"
The King had to hide the intense amusement that he felt with the young Valaoritis lord nearly knocked a bunch of soldiers over in his surprise. Tython was more than aware that his presence could be seen as intimidating, and he took the slightest bit of delight in the fact some, such as Lord Silanos, acted like this when they were startled. True, it was his fault, but even the King felt the slightest bit of humor in situations like these. These men were going to war, and sometimes it was the little things, even if they were somewhat staggering, that people could hold onto when they were in the thick of things.
Why Lord Valaoritis was performing this work, however, was a question that Tython hadn't asked himself until now. However, he wasn't going to question his son, understanding that if Silanos was here and working, it was for a reason.
Observing the young man up and down and then glancing to Commander Nike, the King only gave the slightest shake of his head. "No, commander. Not yet. I am simply pleased that your troops look good," he said lightly, letting his stormy gaze trail down the lines of other groups of soldiers that were being assessed. "Everyone does, which is enough to give an old King a lot of hope," he murmured mostly under his breath. Then his gaze flicked back toward Silanos of Valaoritis. "Listen closely, my lord," he instructed, giving the slightest wave of his hand, "I'm sure that my son does not repeat himself twice," he murmured as he started to move away from the group.
With that, he started to carry himself down the lines of men, taking his time in observing the troops that had been assembled. Passing his son and the Captain he was speaking with, Tython paused close to Stephanos, observing the soldiers that the man was to be inspecting. With his hands shifting to settle behind his back, he glanced toward the former king before he spoke. "Are they up to your standards, Commander?" he asked delicately of the man, still not sure how to take him. Having him run one of the units, however, was a relief. Another practiced hand on the battlefield would be invaluable.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
The King had to hide the intense amusement that he felt with the young Valaoritis lord nearly knocked a bunch of soldiers over in his surprise. Tython was more than aware that his presence could be seen as intimidating, and he took the slightest bit of delight in the fact some, such as Lord Silanos, acted like this when they were startled. True, it was his fault, but even the King felt the slightest bit of humor in situations like these. These men were going to war, and sometimes it was the little things, even if they were somewhat staggering, that people could hold onto when they were in the thick of things.
Why Lord Valaoritis was performing this work, however, was a question that Tython hadn't asked himself until now. However, he wasn't going to question his son, understanding that if Silanos was here and working, it was for a reason.
Observing the young man up and down and then glancing to Commander Nike, the King only gave the slightest shake of his head. "No, commander. Not yet. I am simply pleased that your troops look good," he said lightly, letting his stormy gaze trail down the lines of other groups of soldiers that were being assessed. "Everyone does, which is enough to give an old King a lot of hope," he murmured mostly under his breath. Then his gaze flicked back toward Silanos of Valaoritis. "Listen closely, my lord," he instructed, giving the slightest wave of his hand, "I'm sure that my son does not repeat himself twice," he murmured as he started to move away from the group.
With that, he started to carry himself down the lines of men, taking his time in observing the troops that had been assembled. Passing his son and the Captain he was speaking with, Tython paused close to Stephanos, observing the soldiers that the man was to be inspecting. With his hands shifting to settle behind his back, he glanced toward the former king before he spoke. "Are they up to your standards, Commander?" he asked delicately of the man, still not sure how to take him. Having him run one of the units, however, was a relief. Another practiced hand on the battlefield would be invaluable.
The King had to hide the intense amusement that he felt with the young Valaoritis lord nearly knocked a bunch of soldiers over in his surprise. Tython was more than aware that his presence could be seen as intimidating, and he took the slightest bit of delight in the fact some, such as Lord Silanos, acted like this when they were startled. True, it was his fault, but even the King felt the slightest bit of humor in situations like these. These men were going to war, and sometimes it was the little things, even if they were somewhat staggering, that people could hold onto when they were in the thick of things.
Why Lord Valaoritis was performing this work, however, was a question that Tython hadn't asked himself until now. However, he wasn't going to question his son, understanding that if Silanos was here and working, it was for a reason.
Observing the young man up and down and then glancing to Commander Nike, the King only gave the slightest shake of his head. "No, commander. Not yet. I am simply pleased that your troops look good," he said lightly, letting his stormy gaze trail down the lines of other groups of soldiers that were being assessed. "Everyone does, which is enough to give an old King a lot of hope," he murmured mostly under his breath. Then his gaze flicked back toward Silanos of Valaoritis. "Listen closely, my lord," he instructed, giving the slightest wave of his hand, "I'm sure that my son does not repeat himself twice," he murmured as he started to move away from the group.
With that, he started to carry himself down the lines of men, taking his time in observing the troops that had been assembled. Passing his son and the Captain he was speaking with, Tython paused close to Stephanos, observing the soldiers that the man was to be inspecting. With his hands shifting to settle behind his back, he glanced toward the former king before he spoke. "Are they up to your standards, Commander?" he asked delicately of the man, still not sure how to take him. Having him run one of the units, however, was a relief. Another practiced hand on the battlefield would be invaluable.
There were soldiers everywhere, and they were not all the sort that Mihail liked. They were not the handsome and well-kept men he imagined in those few fantasies when military beings had come up, and they were nothing like those few particular guards he liked to request attend to him specifically whenever he visited the baron's home in Nethisa. He liked those men, in their dark armour emblazoned with a pretty snake which slid off so quickly, and with all their rippling muscles. These men, on the other hand, were nothing like that. They seemed to come in all shapes and sizes, as if soldiers were not required to be strong or muscular, and it appeared none of them bore the looks he had come expect from those few with whom he kept more regular company. He hoped this would not be the company to which he would be routinely subjected.
The youngest of the Thanasi brood had been forced into armour which did not suit his fragile frame, and which felt rough and bulky when he moved, even despite the carefully moulded metal of the cuirass which Nethis had taken him to buy (he was appreciative, at least, that she had been keen to ensure he would be well-protected by his armour). He did not think bronze was his colour, for it was far too light to match up well with his pale skin, but at least the metal seemed strong and thus secure. The chitoniskos he wore underneath was equally uncomfortable, but he appreciated it was, at least, in a dark shade, and preventing the armour from chafing painfully against his skin.
The only thing which did not feel unfamiliar to him was the weight of his bow. He had carried it with him a thousand times, and nothing seemed more natural than the feel of it in his grip. If there was anything about this whole situation of which he could be sure, it was that he would be able to prove his skill in archery.
Mihail was not entirely sure where he was meant to be. All he knew for sure was that he was not interested in any of these disgusting men, and that was a first for him. Someone near him coughed and spat, the sound akin to someone suddenly dying from some disease which might have caught up their throat, and he lurched away as if to try and escape the possibility of rubbing shoulders with some sickly peasant, only to stumble directly into another soldier who had apparently decided that now was the time to change his armour despite his physique not being the greatest. It was enough to make Mihail half-scream, and his eyes flitted around the tents until they landed on a familiar face. Silanos of Valaoritis. He might save him.
He could not rush away fast enough. The armour made it harder for him to move with his usual swiftness, and it seemed every man he walked past was somehow worse than the last, but he finally made it to where his friend and all the people he actually knew were. "Silanos!" he called out, half-humiliated by the way he looked, and somehow still managing to drop his hand to his waist and pose in that slightly feminine style he favoured when speaking to the Valaoritis (no matter how strange it might have looked in conjunction with his armour). He paused, adjusting his hold on his bow and the helmet he balanced under his arm, still refusing to put it on lest it looked additionally idiotic. Mihail decided not to address the fact that he had been making a relative show of the fact he would not need to fight. "Your family has always been rather militarily based - no? Do the men ever get any prettier, or is this the best the Colchian forces have to offer?"
His attention shifted momentarily to the other soldiers around them, tilting his head as though to indicate who he meant, and he could not help but smirk in flirtatious amusement as he realised they were all having their equipment checked. "Ooh, are you going to have to examine me to make sure all my armour is ship-shape? I would be glad to strip down a little if that would make the task easier for you."
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
There were soldiers everywhere, and they were not all the sort that Mihail liked. They were not the handsome and well-kept men he imagined in those few fantasies when military beings had come up, and they were nothing like those few particular guards he liked to request attend to him specifically whenever he visited the baron's home in Nethisa. He liked those men, in their dark armour emblazoned with a pretty snake which slid off so quickly, and with all their rippling muscles. These men, on the other hand, were nothing like that. They seemed to come in all shapes and sizes, as if soldiers were not required to be strong or muscular, and it appeared none of them bore the looks he had come expect from those few with whom he kept more regular company. He hoped this would not be the company to which he would be routinely subjected.
The youngest of the Thanasi brood had been forced into armour which did not suit his fragile frame, and which felt rough and bulky when he moved, even despite the carefully moulded metal of the cuirass which Nethis had taken him to buy (he was appreciative, at least, that she had been keen to ensure he would be well-protected by his armour). He did not think bronze was his colour, for it was far too light to match up well with his pale skin, but at least the metal seemed strong and thus secure. The chitoniskos he wore underneath was equally uncomfortable, but he appreciated it was, at least, in a dark shade, and preventing the armour from chafing painfully against his skin.
The only thing which did not feel unfamiliar to him was the weight of his bow. He had carried it with him a thousand times, and nothing seemed more natural than the feel of it in his grip. If there was anything about this whole situation of which he could be sure, it was that he would be able to prove his skill in archery.
Mihail was not entirely sure where he was meant to be. All he knew for sure was that he was not interested in any of these disgusting men, and that was a first for him. Someone near him coughed and spat, the sound akin to someone suddenly dying from some disease which might have caught up their throat, and he lurched away as if to try and escape the possibility of rubbing shoulders with some sickly peasant, only to stumble directly into another soldier who had apparently decided that now was the time to change his armour despite his physique not being the greatest. It was enough to make Mihail half-scream, and his eyes flitted around the tents until they landed on a familiar face. Silanos of Valaoritis. He might save him.
He could not rush away fast enough. The armour made it harder for him to move with his usual swiftness, and it seemed every man he walked past was somehow worse than the last, but he finally made it to where his friend and all the people he actually knew were. "Silanos!" he called out, half-humiliated by the way he looked, and somehow still managing to drop his hand to his waist and pose in that slightly feminine style he favoured when speaking to the Valaoritis (no matter how strange it might have looked in conjunction with his armour). He paused, adjusting his hold on his bow and the helmet he balanced under his arm, still refusing to put it on lest it looked additionally idiotic. Mihail decided not to address the fact that he had been making a relative show of the fact he would not need to fight. "Your family has always been rather militarily based - no? Do the men ever get any prettier, or is this the best the Colchian forces have to offer?"
His attention shifted momentarily to the other soldiers around them, tilting his head as though to indicate who he meant, and he could not help but smirk in flirtatious amusement as he realised they were all having their equipment checked. "Ooh, are you going to have to examine me to make sure all my armour is ship-shape? I would be glad to strip down a little if that would make the task easier for you."
There were soldiers everywhere, and they were not all the sort that Mihail liked. They were not the handsome and well-kept men he imagined in those few fantasies when military beings had come up, and they were nothing like those few particular guards he liked to request attend to him specifically whenever he visited the baron's home in Nethisa. He liked those men, in their dark armour emblazoned with a pretty snake which slid off so quickly, and with all their rippling muscles. These men, on the other hand, were nothing like that. They seemed to come in all shapes and sizes, as if soldiers were not required to be strong or muscular, and it appeared none of them bore the looks he had come expect from those few with whom he kept more regular company. He hoped this would not be the company to which he would be routinely subjected.
The youngest of the Thanasi brood had been forced into armour which did not suit his fragile frame, and which felt rough and bulky when he moved, even despite the carefully moulded metal of the cuirass which Nethis had taken him to buy (he was appreciative, at least, that she had been keen to ensure he would be well-protected by his armour). He did not think bronze was his colour, for it was far too light to match up well with his pale skin, but at least the metal seemed strong and thus secure. The chitoniskos he wore underneath was equally uncomfortable, but he appreciated it was, at least, in a dark shade, and preventing the armour from chafing painfully against his skin.
The only thing which did not feel unfamiliar to him was the weight of his bow. He had carried it with him a thousand times, and nothing seemed more natural than the feel of it in his grip. If there was anything about this whole situation of which he could be sure, it was that he would be able to prove his skill in archery.
Mihail was not entirely sure where he was meant to be. All he knew for sure was that he was not interested in any of these disgusting men, and that was a first for him. Someone near him coughed and spat, the sound akin to someone suddenly dying from some disease which might have caught up their throat, and he lurched away as if to try and escape the possibility of rubbing shoulders with some sickly peasant, only to stumble directly into another soldier who had apparently decided that now was the time to change his armour despite his physique not being the greatest. It was enough to make Mihail half-scream, and his eyes flitted around the tents until they landed on a familiar face. Silanos of Valaoritis. He might save him.
He could not rush away fast enough. The armour made it harder for him to move with his usual swiftness, and it seemed every man he walked past was somehow worse than the last, but he finally made it to where his friend and all the people he actually knew were. "Silanos!" he called out, half-humiliated by the way he looked, and somehow still managing to drop his hand to his waist and pose in that slightly feminine style he favoured when speaking to the Valaoritis (no matter how strange it might have looked in conjunction with his armour). He paused, adjusting his hold on his bow and the helmet he balanced under his arm, still refusing to put it on lest it looked additionally idiotic. Mihail decided not to address the fact that he had been making a relative show of the fact he would not need to fight. "Your family has always been rather militarily based - no? Do the men ever get any prettier, or is this the best the Colchian forces have to offer?"
His attention shifted momentarily to the other soldiers around them, tilting his head as though to indicate who he meant, and he could not help but smirk in flirtatious amusement as he realised they were all having their equipment checked. "Ooh, are you going to have to examine me to make sure all my armour is ship-shape? I would be glad to strip down a little if that would make the task easier for you."
Vangelis' gaze was shrewd as it cast an assessing eye over Maleos' men. Whilst he could not see all of them in the detail, he might wish to inspect them if they were his own soldiers, he could attest to the manner in which those close by held themselves. They did so with a confidence of care but with a tension of pride. And they do so justifiably as Vangelis could not identify a mark or stitch out of place in those he could observe from head to foot.
"We'll set sail in a few days, Captain Maleos." He confirmed with the man, his stare still out over the men but now drifting beyond, to the open and flat lands of the island outside of the capital's walls. "If your unit is to perform the encircling manoeuvre that we have spoken of they will need to be able to move as a solid unit, quickly, effectively and without breaks in the line nor tripping over the feet of their peers." He turned his look back towards the leader of such men. "Your duty for the next three days is to have your men run."
Moving one hand to the pommel of the sword at his hip, Vangelis took a step back and nodded indicatively towards the open space behind where the other units were lining up for inspection.
"Now that your men have all the equipment that they shall be forced to wear in battle, I suggest you come up with a training strategy that will allow them to run in perfect formation at high speed. We cannot allow the Egyptians to break through our lines, nor to retreat faster than we can encircle them."
Vangelis knew very well how he would have his men train if this were a responsibility for the Red Knights. He knew how he would position them, how he would make them run from dawn till dusk for days. How he would have them exercise on the boats where such distance was not possible. But war wasn't about winning particular battles - victories - through a single man's knowledge. It was about training the men around you to ensure that you won not only one battle but those that followed, all the way until peace finally took the place of combat. He wanted to see how Maleos would contribute to that cause.
"See that a training routine is in place within the hour and does not let up until we sail." Was Vangelis' final order, his tone harsh and final but his trust implied. He would not hover over Maleos' shoulder, nor tell him how to complete his assignment. Instead, the value of the man's military suggestions in the meeting the previous week had earned him the opportunity to prove such trust was well placed.
In turning away from Maleos, Vangelis heard a family voice in the form of his father and was drawn towards a conversation that led him back towards Nike's forces. There he offered a quick nod towards Nike and his father, and then eyed the soldiers in order to spot Silanos in amongst them. His quick stare noted the frown of concentration on the boy's face and was happy to permit him the space to work also.
That was, until the young Thanasi decided to get in the way of Vangelis' dogsbody.
Vangelis had never had much time for the youngest of the Thanasi clan. A waste of space in all things of import, he had never managed to understand his sister-in-law's soft spot for a boy who was so ostentatiously useless. It was one thing to be of little worth, but another entirely to flaunt and luxuriate in that fact instead of trying to grow and improve upon what the Gods had given.
"Lord Thanasi!"
Vangelis did not shout the name, but it carried over the heads of soldiers nonetheless. The wind was moving in a direction of his favour so the sound of his voice was easy enough to make its way to Mihail.
"You are with the Megaris unit with me."
Whilst some might have considered it highly dangerous - and stupid - to hold a Thanasi in the same unit a man recently poisoned (as general rumour had it, by a Thanasi) and another that had had his life threatened by that same House's patriarch, Vangelis was more of the opinion of 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer'. He wanted to know what such a liability in his army might be up to at any one moment...
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Vangelis' gaze was shrewd as it cast an assessing eye over Maleos' men. Whilst he could not see all of them in the detail, he might wish to inspect them if they were his own soldiers, he could attest to the manner in which those close by held themselves. They did so with a confidence of care but with a tension of pride. And they do so justifiably as Vangelis could not identify a mark or stitch out of place in those he could observe from head to foot.
"We'll set sail in a few days, Captain Maleos." He confirmed with the man, his stare still out over the men but now drifting beyond, to the open and flat lands of the island outside of the capital's walls. "If your unit is to perform the encircling manoeuvre that we have spoken of they will need to be able to move as a solid unit, quickly, effectively and without breaks in the line nor tripping over the feet of their peers." He turned his look back towards the leader of such men. "Your duty for the next three days is to have your men run."
Moving one hand to the pommel of the sword at his hip, Vangelis took a step back and nodded indicatively towards the open space behind where the other units were lining up for inspection.
"Now that your men have all the equipment that they shall be forced to wear in battle, I suggest you come up with a training strategy that will allow them to run in perfect formation at high speed. We cannot allow the Egyptians to break through our lines, nor to retreat faster than we can encircle them."
Vangelis knew very well how he would have his men train if this were a responsibility for the Red Knights. He knew how he would position them, how he would make them run from dawn till dusk for days. How he would have them exercise on the boats where such distance was not possible. But war wasn't about winning particular battles - victories - through a single man's knowledge. It was about training the men around you to ensure that you won not only one battle but those that followed, all the way until peace finally took the place of combat. He wanted to see how Maleos would contribute to that cause.
"See that a training routine is in place within the hour and does not let up until we sail." Was Vangelis' final order, his tone harsh and final but his trust implied. He would not hover over Maleos' shoulder, nor tell him how to complete his assignment. Instead, the value of the man's military suggestions in the meeting the previous week had earned him the opportunity to prove such trust was well placed.
In turning away from Maleos, Vangelis heard a family voice in the form of his father and was drawn towards a conversation that led him back towards Nike's forces. There he offered a quick nod towards Nike and his father, and then eyed the soldiers in order to spot Silanos in amongst them. His quick stare noted the frown of concentration on the boy's face and was happy to permit him the space to work also.
That was, until the young Thanasi decided to get in the way of Vangelis' dogsbody.
Vangelis had never had much time for the youngest of the Thanasi clan. A waste of space in all things of import, he had never managed to understand his sister-in-law's soft spot for a boy who was so ostentatiously useless. It was one thing to be of little worth, but another entirely to flaunt and luxuriate in that fact instead of trying to grow and improve upon what the Gods had given.
"Lord Thanasi!"
Vangelis did not shout the name, but it carried over the heads of soldiers nonetheless. The wind was moving in a direction of his favour so the sound of his voice was easy enough to make its way to Mihail.
"You are with the Megaris unit with me."
Whilst some might have considered it highly dangerous - and stupid - to hold a Thanasi in the same unit a man recently poisoned (as general rumour had it, by a Thanasi) and another that had had his life threatened by that same House's patriarch, Vangelis was more of the opinion of 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer'. He wanted to know what such a liability in his army might be up to at any one moment...
Vangelis' gaze was shrewd as it cast an assessing eye over Maleos' men. Whilst he could not see all of them in the detail, he might wish to inspect them if they were his own soldiers, he could attest to the manner in which those close by held themselves. They did so with a confidence of care but with a tension of pride. And they do so justifiably as Vangelis could not identify a mark or stitch out of place in those he could observe from head to foot.
"We'll set sail in a few days, Captain Maleos." He confirmed with the man, his stare still out over the men but now drifting beyond, to the open and flat lands of the island outside of the capital's walls. "If your unit is to perform the encircling manoeuvre that we have spoken of they will need to be able to move as a solid unit, quickly, effectively and without breaks in the line nor tripping over the feet of their peers." He turned his look back towards the leader of such men. "Your duty for the next three days is to have your men run."
Moving one hand to the pommel of the sword at his hip, Vangelis took a step back and nodded indicatively towards the open space behind where the other units were lining up for inspection.
"Now that your men have all the equipment that they shall be forced to wear in battle, I suggest you come up with a training strategy that will allow them to run in perfect formation at high speed. We cannot allow the Egyptians to break through our lines, nor to retreat faster than we can encircle them."
Vangelis knew very well how he would have his men train if this were a responsibility for the Red Knights. He knew how he would position them, how he would make them run from dawn till dusk for days. How he would have them exercise on the boats where such distance was not possible. But war wasn't about winning particular battles - victories - through a single man's knowledge. It was about training the men around you to ensure that you won not only one battle but those that followed, all the way until peace finally took the place of combat. He wanted to see how Maleos would contribute to that cause.
"See that a training routine is in place within the hour and does not let up until we sail." Was Vangelis' final order, his tone harsh and final but his trust implied. He would not hover over Maleos' shoulder, nor tell him how to complete his assignment. Instead, the value of the man's military suggestions in the meeting the previous week had earned him the opportunity to prove such trust was well placed.
In turning away from Maleos, Vangelis heard a family voice in the form of his father and was drawn towards a conversation that led him back towards Nike's forces. There he offered a quick nod towards Nike and his father, and then eyed the soldiers in order to spot Silanos in amongst them. His quick stare noted the frown of concentration on the boy's face and was happy to permit him the space to work also.
That was, until the young Thanasi decided to get in the way of Vangelis' dogsbody.
Vangelis had never had much time for the youngest of the Thanasi clan. A waste of space in all things of import, he had never managed to understand his sister-in-law's soft spot for a boy who was so ostentatiously useless. It was one thing to be of little worth, but another entirely to flaunt and luxuriate in that fact instead of trying to grow and improve upon what the Gods had given.
"Lord Thanasi!"
Vangelis did not shout the name, but it carried over the heads of soldiers nonetheless. The wind was moving in a direction of his favour so the sound of his voice was easy enough to make its way to Mihail.
"You are with the Megaris unit with me."
Whilst some might have considered it highly dangerous - and stupid - to hold a Thanasi in the same unit a man recently poisoned (as general rumour had it, by a Thanasi) and another that had had his life threatened by that same House's patriarch, Vangelis was more of the opinion of 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer'. He wanted to know what such a liability in his army might be up to at any one moment...
War.
The concept of war was something Silas figured he understood. Men came together, groups fought for dominance, and in the end men died for their masters, glory, and the gods. The concept was in itself a simplistic thing to understand, especially for one who saw his brothers out to campaign since his earliest memories. The truth behind what war really was, well, it was darker than what Silas thought. He created his own expectations of the upcoming campaign, even if those expectations were far from what reality would prove them to be. War was hell; it was survival of the fittest at its barest form. Men fought with everything they had, and they died alone, and usually as a result of one single failure that their enemy exploited. To lose would mean the death of your friends and comrades, and to win could mean the reverse upon your enemy in most cases.
It stood in another league when compared to the few skirmishes against the barbarians to the north he'd been apart of. Those men were plunderers, pillagers, and showed complete disregard for the lives of the innocent they harmed. He'd taken a man's life before during one of those botched raids. He could still feel the man's eyes staring back at him as he twisted the Kopis between the meat of his collar bone, watching the man's life expire in the moments after his blade retracted from the wound. That should've been his first wake-up call to the weight that was soon placed upon his shoulders.
Silas had spent so long chasing behind his brother's footsteps that he never allowed himself time to step back and truly see what he was getting into. It was too late to change his path by then, as he'd proven his worth to both his family and men several times over in the time he'd actively served his Kingdom. A promotion to Captain brought with it new responsibility, and he knew there would be no turning back from that point forwards. He was Silas of Kotas, the fourth Prince of the Kingdom of Colchis, and war flowed through his veins much like his own blood.
But most importantly, he couldn't leave behind his men. He was a Captain now, but many of the Red Knight's veterans could still remember when young Silas was just a pup. He was still a pup to them, Captain and all, and the lot of them were his closest friends and companions. Even with a shift in his paradigm regarding the subject of war, there was nothing he could do to change how he truly felt. The sickening feeling in his gut when he thought about war would quickly fade away when he visualized the good times he had with his men. They were just as much his protectors as Vangelis had been his entire life. Silas refused to do nothing when he knew these same men would march off to protect him with no questions asked. Family did everything they could to help each other. Blood above all, even if the only trait shared were the color beneath their veins.
-
"Captain." A grizzled soldier approached, Silas snapping his gaze towards the man as his mind wandered back into the present. The soldier in question was a grizzled lieutenant, and one of Silas's longest taught mentor of the sword. Silas wasn't fond of being called 'your highness' at every turn, and as such he let his closest companions skip the royal niceties whenever they were alone. "Hmm?" Silas raised from a stool to greet the man, his eyes shifting across to the various men of the Red Knights who were finishing up their final checks and preparations. "I see...we're ready." He finished with a grin, his hand resting with a playful pat upon the junior officer's shoulder. He masked his own insecurities with an air of tranquility that was unnatural for even him.
With a nod towards the veteran soldier to his side, the man bowed his head before moving back into the men's ranks. Usually he'd join them in various forms of entertainment they came up with to pass the time, but not today. He stood there for a moment with contemplation seething beneath his eyes. Was he truly ready for what was to come? He could still picture Vangelis returning from his first campaign. Silas was proud of his brother, but the war had changed him regardless of what he claimed at first. He wasn't sure if he would ever truly be ready, or if his contemplation was all for naught in the end.
The Gods would have to show him the way moving forwards, where his own heart began to wane.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
War.
The concept of war was something Silas figured he understood. Men came together, groups fought for dominance, and in the end men died for their masters, glory, and the gods. The concept was in itself a simplistic thing to understand, especially for one who saw his brothers out to campaign since his earliest memories. The truth behind what war really was, well, it was darker than what Silas thought. He created his own expectations of the upcoming campaign, even if those expectations were far from what reality would prove them to be. War was hell; it was survival of the fittest at its barest form. Men fought with everything they had, and they died alone, and usually as a result of one single failure that their enemy exploited. To lose would mean the death of your friends and comrades, and to win could mean the reverse upon your enemy in most cases.
It stood in another league when compared to the few skirmishes against the barbarians to the north he'd been apart of. Those men were plunderers, pillagers, and showed complete disregard for the lives of the innocent they harmed. He'd taken a man's life before during one of those botched raids. He could still feel the man's eyes staring back at him as he twisted the Kopis between the meat of his collar bone, watching the man's life expire in the moments after his blade retracted from the wound. That should've been his first wake-up call to the weight that was soon placed upon his shoulders.
Silas had spent so long chasing behind his brother's footsteps that he never allowed himself time to step back and truly see what he was getting into. It was too late to change his path by then, as he'd proven his worth to both his family and men several times over in the time he'd actively served his Kingdom. A promotion to Captain brought with it new responsibility, and he knew there would be no turning back from that point forwards. He was Silas of Kotas, the fourth Prince of the Kingdom of Colchis, and war flowed through his veins much like his own blood.
But most importantly, he couldn't leave behind his men. He was a Captain now, but many of the Red Knight's veterans could still remember when young Silas was just a pup. He was still a pup to them, Captain and all, and the lot of them were his closest friends and companions. Even with a shift in his paradigm regarding the subject of war, there was nothing he could do to change how he truly felt. The sickening feeling in his gut when he thought about war would quickly fade away when he visualized the good times he had with his men. They were just as much his protectors as Vangelis had been his entire life. Silas refused to do nothing when he knew these same men would march off to protect him with no questions asked. Family did everything they could to help each other. Blood above all, even if the only trait shared were the color beneath their veins.
-
"Captain." A grizzled soldier approached, Silas snapping his gaze towards the man as his mind wandered back into the present. The soldier in question was a grizzled lieutenant, and one of Silas's longest taught mentor of the sword. Silas wasn't fond of being called 'your highness' at every turn, and as such he let his closest companions skip the royal niceties whenever they were alone. "Hmm?" Silas raised from a stool to greet the man, his eyes shifting across to the various men of the Red Knights who were finishing up their final checks and preparations. "I see...we're ready." He finished with a grin, his hand resting with a playful pat upon the junior officer's shoulder. He masked his own insecurities with an air of tranquility that was unnatural for even him.
With a nod towards the veteran soldier to his side, the man bowed his head before moving back into the men's ranks. Usually he'd join them in various forms of entertainment they came up with to pass the time, but not today. He stood there for a moment with contemplation seething beneath his eyes. Was he truly ready for what was to come? He could still picture Vangelis returning from his first campaign. Silas was proud of his brother, but the war had changed him regardless of what he claimed at first. He wasn't sure if he would ever truly be ready, or if his contemplation was all for naught in the end.
The Gods would have to show him the way moving forwards, where his own heart began to wane.
War.
The concept of war was something Silas figured he understood. Men came together, groups fought for dominance, and in the end men died for their masters, glory, and the gods. The concept was in itself a simplistic thing to understand, especially for one who saw his brothers out to campaign since his earliest memories. The truth behind what war really was, well, it was darker than what Silas thought. He created his own expectations of the upcoming campaign, even if those expectations were far from what reality would prove them to be. War was hell; it was survival of the fittest at its barest form. Men fought with everything they had, and they died alone, and usually as a result of one single failure that their enemy exploited. To lose would mean the death of your friends and comrades, and to win could mean the reverse upon your enemy in most cases.
It stood in another league when compared to the few skirmishes against the barbarians to the north he'd been apart of. Those men were plunderers, pillagers, and showed complete disregard for the lives of the innocent they harmed. He'd taken a man's life before during one of those botched raids. He could still feel the man's eyes staring back at him as he twisted the Kopis between the meat of his collar bone, watching the man's life expire in the moments after his blade retracted from the wound. That should've been his first wake-up call to the weight that was soon placed upon his shoulders.
Silas had spent so long chasing behind his brother's footsteps that he never allowed himself time to step back and truly see what he was getting into. It was too late to change his path by then, as he'd proven his worth to both his family and men several times over in the time he'd actively served his Kingdom. A promotion to Captain brought with it new responsibility, and he knew there would be no turning back from that point forwards. He was Silas of Kotas, the fourth Prince of the Kingdom of Colchis, and war flowed through his veins much like his own blood.
But most importantly, he couldn't leave behind his men. He was a Captain now, but many of the Red Knight's veterans could still remember when young Silas was just a pup. He was still a pup to them, Captain and all, and the lot of them were his closest friends and companions. Even with a shift in his paradigm regarding the subject of war, there was nothing he could do to change how he truly felt. The sickening feeling in his gut when he thought about war would quickly fade away when he visualized the good times he had with his men. They were just as much his protectors as Vangelis had been his entire life. Silas refused to do nothing when he knew these same men would march off to protect him with no questions asked. Family did everything they could to help each other. Blood above all, even if the only trait shared were the color beneath their veins.
-
"Captain." A grizzled soldier approached, Silas snapping his gaze towards the man as his mind wandered back into the present. The soldier in question was a grizzled lieutenant, and one of Silas's longest taught mentor of the sword. Silas wasn't fond of being called 'your highness' at every turn, and as such he let his closest companions skip the royal niceties whenever they were alone. "Hmm?" Silas raised from a stool to greet the man, his eyes shifting across to the various men of the Red Knights who were finishing up their final checks and preparations. "I see...we're ready." He finished with a grin, his hand resting with a playful pat upon the junior officer's shoulder. He masked his own insecurities with an air of tranquility that was unnatural for even him.
With a nod towards the veteran soldier to his side, the man bowed his head before moving back into the men's ranks. Usually he'd join them in various forms of entertainment they came up with to pass the time, but not today. He stood there for a moment with contemplation seething beneath his eyes. Was he truly ready for what was to come? He could still picture Vangelis returning from his first campaign. Silas was proud of his brother, but the war had changed him regardless of what he claimed at first. He wasn't sure if he would ever truly be ready, or if his contemplation was all for naught in the end.
The Gods would have to show him the way moving forwards, where his own heart began to wane.
Timaeus could not believe that he was late. After everything he had done to ensure that he could go to war in the first place -- he could not believe that he had been careless enough to lose track of the time on the day that the entire army had to assemble.
It was just his rotten luck, wasn’t it?
As he slowly trotted onto the beach, trying not to call attention to the fact that he should have already been there, he knew that it wasn’t bad luck that had prevented his timely arrival. No, it had been his own fault… but could anyone really blame him if they had known where the Baron had been? After all, it wasn’t every day that a Colchian Baron managed to charm and woo a Leventi. He had spent the morning with Nana, taking full advantage of the few hours that Timaeus had by sneaking down to a market close to where the men were assembling. The Colchian had thought that there had been no harm in it. After all, it wasn’t like Timaeus was in charge of any of the units nor was he a ranking officer. His duty in his war would be strictly advisory. He was to be Prince Vangelis’s eyes and ears in both Stephanos’s unit as well as in the Taengean unit when they landed in Egypt. He was to represent his kingdom in these endeavors and by Zeus, wasn’t he off to a great start?
Luckily for him, no one seemed to pay the Baron much mind as he led his warhorse over to the where the familiar uniforms of the Golden Shields stood. This was a unit that he knew well even from a distance. After all, he was cousins with their noble family, the Peisistratos and close ones at that. The children of the two houses had seen each other so often while growing up that they were more akin to siblings than mere relatives, so Timaeus could remember having many adventures in the barracks of the Arcanaes unit as a child. Even today he was still familiar with the unit on account of his elder cousin’s ailment so to speak.
With Isidore in a coma, the Peisistratos had no male family members left to keep the family afloat. In fact, the closest relative that Isidore’s wife and sister had where the members of the Valaoritis household. So, for the time being, Timaeus was the legal guardian for the family. He did not have any sort of say in how the province or the military unit was run (as that would be quite a conflict of interest given the family was a Thanasi vassal) the names of Captains and notes about the unit often crossed the desk of Timaeus.
That was how he already knew the leaders within the unit when he dismounted Thrasos and approached the soldiers. He did not announce his presence out of respect to Stephanos as he was currently overseeing the inspection, but the Baron did offer respectful nods to the Captains and Lieutenants.
It was in this silence that Timaeus regarded the man he was to be advised for the first time. The Colchian did not know much about Stephanos and he was certain that the little that he was aware of had been the product of a rumor mill. Naturally, that meant that Timaeus had heard some less than kind things about the man that ranged from the circumstances surrounding his arrival in Colchis to the conquests he took part in during the night. This did not form the most favorable opinion of the man in the Colchian’s eyes and in truth he was a little wary to see how the former King would lead the troops. His initial judgment of Stephanos during the war meeting was that he was brash and eager to throw in a dash of flamboyance into his tactics. The Colchian found this to be dangerous and reckless, of course, but then again what could he expect from a Taengean? They were great joys at parties, but as far as Timaeus was concerned, absolute fools on the battlefield -- at least in comparison to his own country.
Maybe Vangelis thought the same and that was why the General put Timaeus with Stephanos in the first place? Though if the Prince thought that this man who still called himself the king of a place that had already moved past his reign would listen to a lowly baron... Timaeus could sense that there would be a great amount of conflict in these two men’s futures and he was not speaking of the war that was on the horizon.
However, what Timaeus didn’t realize was that his less than favorable opinion was spurred on the xenophobia that all Colchians had within them. The rocky kingdom was very hostile to outsiders, even those who shared their Greecian blood. It would take a lot for Stephanos to be able to break past this barrier that Timaeus didn’t even know was up in the first place.
It was then that Timaeus noticed something out of place in the perfect lines of men that Stephanos was inspecting. One of the younger boys in the first few rows had decided that because he had passed his inspection, he was suddenly entitled to a break. His shield lay at his feet and his shoulders slouched forward, breaking the perfect formation. “ What do you think you’re doing?” Timaeus sharply called out to the boy, completely unaware of the fact that he probably had inadvertently grabbed the attention of the Commander and maybe even spooked him in the process. However, his attention was solely on the disrespectful hoplite as Timaeus’s tirade continued, “ Do you think just because he’s done with your inspection, you’re free to stand at ease? Back at attention soldier.” At Timaeus’s harsh words, the boy scrambled to lift his shield and stand just as straight as the rest of the men beside him. Timaeus stared at the boy blankly, easily slipping back into the headspace of being a Captain. That was before he caught the gaze of the Commander of this unit and Timaeus threw the man the slightest smirk as he addressed him, “ Good afternoon Commander.”
His gaze drifted between the soldier and the Commander. His expression was curious with the slightest tick upwards in his brow. It was clear that Timaeus was waiting for Stephanos’s reaction to the boy. This was a test for the Taengean to see if he could handle a Colchian unit and if he could dole out discipline in a way that the others would respect. Or would he prefer to turn the other cheek on account of the boy’s age and Timaeus supposedly addressing the issue already? If anything this would be a good gauge for how Stephanos would handle the unit moving forward and the Baron was eager to see if the man was up to scruff.
If he wasn’t... well this would be a long few months...
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Timaeus could not believe that he was late. After everything he had done to ensure that he could go to war in the first place -- he could not believe that he had been careless enough to lose track of the time on the day that the entire army had to assemble.
It was just his rotten luck, wasn’t it?
As he slowly trotted onto the beach, trying not to call attention to the fact that he should have already been there, he knew that it wasn’t bad luck that had prevented his timely arrival. No, it had been his own fault… but could anyone really blame him if they had known where the Baron had been? After all, it wasn’t every day that a Colchian Baron managed to charm and woo a Leventi. He had spent the morning with Nana, taking full advantage of the few hours that Timaeus had by sneaking down to a market close to where the men were assembling. The Colchian had thought that there had been no harm in it. After all, it wasn’t like Timaeus was in charge of any of the units nor was he a ranking officer. His duty in his war would be strictly advisory. He was to be Prince Vangelis’s eyes and ears in both Stephanos’s unit as well as in the Taengean unit when they landed in Egypt. He was to represent his kingdom in these endeavors and by Zeus, wasn’t he off to a great start?
Luckily for him, no one seemed to pay the Baron much mind as he led his warhorse over to the where the familiar uniforms of the Golden Shields stood. This was a unit that he knew well even from a distance. After all, he was cousins with their noble family, the Peisistratos and close ones at that. The children of the two houses had seen each other so often while growing up that they were more akin to siblings than mere relatives, so Timaeus could remember having many adventures in the barracks of the Arcanaes unit as a child. Even today he was still familiar with the unit on account of his elder cousin’s ailment so to speak.
With Isidore in a coma, the Peisistratos had no male family members left to keep the family afloat. In fact, the closest relative that Isidore’s wife and sister had where the members of the Valaoritis household. So, for the time being, Timaeus was the legal guardian for the family. He did not have any sort of say in how the province or the military unit was run (as that would be quite a conflict of interest given the family was a Thanasi vassal) the names of Captains and notes about the unit often crossed the desk of Timaeus.
That was how he already knew the leaders within the unit when he dismounted Thrasos and approached the soldiers. He did not announce his presence out of respect to Stephanos as he was currently overseeing the inspection, but the Baron did offer respectful nods to the Captains and Lieutenants.
It was in this silence that Timaeus regarded the man he was to be advised for the first time. The Colchian did not know much about Stephanos and he was certain that the little that he was aware of had been the product of a rumor mill. Naturally, that meant that Timaeus had heard some less than kind things about the man that ranged from the circumstances surrounding his arrival in Colchis to the conquests he took part in during the night. This did not form the most favorable opinion of the man in the Colchian’s eyes and in truth he was a little wary to see how the former King would lead the troops. His initial judgment of Stephanos during the war meeting was that he was brash and eager to throw in a dash of flamboyance into his tactics. The Colchian found this to be dangerous and reckless, of course, but then again what could he expect from a Taengean? They were great joys at parties, but as far as Timaeus was concerned, absolute fools on the battlefield -- at least in comparison to his own country.
Maybe Vangelis thought the same and that was why the General put Timaeus with Stephanos in the first place? Though if the Prince thought that this man who still called himself the king of a place that had already moved past his reign would listen to a lowly baron... Timaeus could sense that there would be a great amount of conflict in these two men’s futures and he was not speaking of the war that was on the horizon.
However, what Timaeus didn’t realize was that his less than favorable opinion was spurred on the xenophobia that all Colchians had within them. The rocky kingdom was very hostile to outsiders, even those who shared their Greecian blood. It would take a lot for Stephanos to be able to break past this barrier that Timaeus didn’t even know was up in the first place.
It was then that Timaeus noticed something out of place in the perfect lines of men that Stephanos was inspecting. One of the younger boys in the first few rows had decided that because he had passed his inspection, he was suddenly entitled to a break. His shield lay at his feet and his shoulders slouched forward, breaking the perfect formation. “ What do you think you’re doing?” Timaeus sharply called out to the boy, completely unaware of the fact that he probably had inadvertently grabbed the attention of the Commander and maybe even spooked him in the process. However, his attention was solely on the disrespectful hoplite as Timaeus’s tirade continued, “ Do you think just because he’s done with your inspection, you’re free to stand at ease? Back at attention soldier.” At Timaeus’s harsh words, the boy scrambled to lift his shield and stand just as straight as the rest of the men beside him. Timaeus stared at the boy blankly, easily slipping back into the headspace of being a Captain. That was before he caught the gaze of the Commander of this unit and Timaeus threw the man the slightest smirk as he addressed him, “ Good afternoon Commander.”
His gaze drifted between the soldier and the Commander. His expression was curious with the slightest tick upwards in his brow. It was clear that Timaeus was waiting for Stephanos’s reaction to the boy. This was a test for the Taengean to see if he could handle a Colchian unit and if he could dole out discipline in a way that the others would respect. Or would he prefer to turn the other cheek on account of the boy’s age and Timaeus supposedly addressing the issue already? If anything this would be a good gauge for how Stephanos would handle the unit moving forward and the Baron was eager to see if the man was up to scruff.
If he wasn’t... well this would be a long few months...
Timaeus could not believe that he was late. After everything he had done to ensure that he could go to war in the first place -- he could not believe that he had been careless enough to lose track of the time on the day that the entire army had to assemble.
It was just his rotten luck, wasn’t it?
As he slowly trotted onto the beach, trying not to call attention to the fact that he should have already been there, he knew that it wasn’t bad luck that had prevented his timely arrival. No, it had been his own fault… but could anyone really blame him if they had known where the Baron had been? After all, it wasn’t every day that a Colchian Baron managed to charm and woo a Leventi. He had spent the morning with Nana, taking full advantage of the few hours that Timaeus had by sneaking down to a market close to where the men were assembling. The Colchian had thought that there had been no harm in it. After all, it wasn’t like Timaeus was in charge of any of the units nor was he a ranking officer. His duty in his war would be strictly advisory. He was to be Prince Vangelis’s eyes and ears in both Stephanos’s unit as well as in the Taengean unit when they landed in Egypt. He was to represent his kingdom in these endeavors and by Zeus, wasn’t he off to a great start?
Luckily for him, no one seemed to pay the Baron much mind as he led his warhorse over to the where the familiar uniforms of the Golden Shields stood. This was a unit that he knew well even from a distance. After all, he was cousins with their noble family, the Peisistratos and close ones at that. The children of the two houses had seen each other so often while growing up that they were more akin to siblings than mere relatives, so Timaeus could remember having many adventures in the barracks of the Arcanaes unit as a child. Even today he was still familiar with the unit on account of his elder cousin’s ailment so to speak.
With Isidore in a coma, the Peisistratos had no male family members left to keep the family afloat. In fact, the closest relative that Isidore’s wife and sister had where the members of the Valaoritis household. So, for the time being, Timaeus was the legal guardian for the family. He did not have any sort of say in how the province or the military unit was run (as that would be quite a conflict of interest given the family was a Thanasi vassal) the names of Captains and notes about the unit often crossed the desk of Timaeus.
That was how he already knew the leaders within the unit when he dismounted Thrasos and approached the soldiers. He did not announce his presence out of respect to Stephanos as he was currently overseeing the inspection, but the Baron did offer respectful nods to the Captains and Lieutenants.
It was in this silence that Timaeus regarded the man he was to be advised for the first time. The Colchian did not know much about Stephanos and he was certain that the little that he was aware of had been the product of a rumor mill. Naturally, that meant that Timaeus had heard some less than kind things about the man that ranged from the circumstances surrounding his arrival in Colchis to the conquests he took part in during the night. This did not form the most favorable opinion of the man in the Colchian’s eyes and in truth he was a little wary to see how the former King would lead the troops. His initial judgment of Stephanos during the war meeting was that he was brash and eager to throw in a dash of flamboyance into his tactics. The Colchian found this to be dangerous and reckless, of course, but then again what could he expect from a Taengean? They were great joys at parties, but as far as Timaeus was concerned, absolute fools on the battlefield -- at least in comparison to his own country.
Maybe Vangelis thought the same and that was why the General put Timaeus with Stephanos in the first place? Though if the Prince thought that this man who still called himself the king of a place that had already moved past his reign would listen to a lowly baron... Timaeus could sense that there would be a great amount of conflict in these two men’s futures and he was not speaking of the war that was on the horizon.
However, what Timaeus didn’t realize was that his less than favorable opinion was spurred on the xenophobia that all Colchians had within them. The rocky kingdom was very hostile to outsiders, even those who shared their Greecian blood. It would take a lot for Stephanos to be able to break past this barrier that Timaeus didn’t even know was up in the first place.
It was then that Timaeus noticed something out of place in the perfect lines of men that Stephanos was inspecting. One of the younger boys in the first few rows had decided that because he had passed his inspection, he was suddenly entitled to a break. His shield lay at his feet and his shoulders slouched forward, breaking the perfect formation. “ What do you think you’re doing?” Timaeus sharply called out to the boy, completely unaware of the fact that he probably had inadvertently grabbed the attention of the Commander and maybe even spooked him in the process. However, his attention was solely on the disrespectful hoplite as Timaeus’s tirade continued, “ Do you think just because he’s done with your inspection, you’re free to stand at ease? Back at attention soldier.” At Timaeus’s harsh words, the boy scrambled to lift his shield and stand just as straight as the rest of the men beside him. Timaeus stared at the boy blankly, easily slipping back into the headspace of being a Captain. That was before he caught the gaze of the Commander of this unit and Timaeus threw the man the slightest smirk as he addressed him, “ Good afternoon Commander.”
His gaze drifted between the soldier and the Commander. His expression was curious with the slightest tick upwards in his brow. It was clear that Timaeus was waiting for Stephanos’s reaction to the boy. This was a test for the Taengean to see if he could handle a Colchian unit and if he could dole out discipline in a way that the others would respect. Or would he prefer to turn the other cheek on account of the boy’s age and Timaeus supposedly addressing the issue already? If anything this would be a good gauge for how Stephanos would handle the unit moving forward and the Baron was eager to see if the man was up to scruff.
If he wasn’t... well this would be a long few months...
Maleos listened intently to Vangelis as the orders were given. The days before they were to march here had been spent doing exactly that. His men had worked pretty well as a unit already, but they had been forced into close quarters for their drills, he had allowed them barely enough space between them to move and had punished those who tripped up, those who made a mistake with harsh consequences. He would continue such training now, and it would not end until they were preparing for the actual formation for battle. Maleos would prove to the Crown Prince that his trust had not been mislaid, not in Maleos’ battle plans, nor in the men who would enact them.
“Yes, Your Highness.” He said simply, giving him a respectful bow. Maleos was a man of few words, he preferred to let his actions speak for him, finding them more effective than any words he could form.
Before the Crown Prince had even fully turned from him, Maleos was turning to face his men, his commands declared in a clear and concise voice, confidence in every word.
“Men of the Heights! Left face, marching formation, forward!” He shouted, and his men did that, each turning left in one synchronized movement, remaining in the straight and organized formation they were in, they began to move forward at a slight jog, towards the empty space where he would run them ragged. Not a single man would rest until he had felt they truly earned it.
He let his unit march past him, and then set himself at the same pace, following along to their right side at the back line. He wouldn’t be left out of the drills either. A leader needed to be able to lead his men as much as he needed to be able to be one of them. He was to be on the front lines, to lead these men by example and let his bravery be the beacon of hope that would lead them against the Egyptians on foreign shores.
When they arrived at the empty space he intended to use for their drills, he shouted more commands, ensuring that each man knew the importance of pulling this off. It was a huge part of their plan, of their planned victory against the Egyptians, he needed every single one of them to be in formation, to work as a unit and not as an individual.
He lined himself up with his men, taking a position ahead of the forward line, where he would be when the time came to lead them on the attack. They had all been briefed on what the plan was, and how to move and spread themselves out to circle the Egyptian troops and not allow retreat. The Greeks would come at them from all sides, and they would be helpless against it.
“Forward!” He shouted, and moved forward at a run, his men followed behind him, playing the tactic out as if it was actually happening. They would run through it over and over again for hours. Some times with Maleos, sometimes with the Captain just observing, looking for weak spots in his unit and correcting them. He would not fail Vangelis, nor would he fail Colchis.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Maleos listened intently to Vangelis as the orders were given. The days before they were to march here had been spent doing exactly that. His men had worked pretty well as a unit already, but they had been forced into close quarters for their drills, he had allowed them barely enough space between them to move and had punished those who tripped up, those who made a mistake with harsh consequences. He would continue such training now, and it would not end until they were preparing for the actual formation for battle. Maleos would prove to the Crown Prince that his trust had not been mislaid, not in Maleos’ battle plans, nor in the men who would enact them.
“Yes, Your Highness.” He said simply, giving him a respectful bow. Maleos was a man of few words, he preferred to let his actions speak for him, finding them more effective than any words he could form.
Before the Crown Prince had even fully turned from him, Maleos was turning to face his men, his commands declared in a clear and concise voice, confidence in every word.
“Men of the Heights! Left face, marching formation, forward!” He shouted, and his men did that, each turning left in one synchronized movement, remaining in the straight and organized formation they were in, they began to move forward at a slight jog, towards the empty space where he would run them ragged. Not a single man would rest until he had felt they truly earned it.
He let his unit march past him, and then set himself at the same pace, following along to their right side at the back line. He wouldn’t be left out of the drills either. A leader needed to be able to lead his men as much as he needed to be able to be one of them. He was to be on the front lines, to lead these men by example and let his bravery be the beacon of hope that would lead them against the Egyptians on foreign shores.
When they arrived at the empty space he intended to use for their drills, he shouted more commands, ensuring that each man knew the importance of pulling this off. It was a huge part of their plan, of their planned victory against the Egyptians, he needed every single one of them to be in formation, to work as a unit and not as an individual.
He lined himself up with his men, taking a position ahead of the forward line, where he would be when the time came to lead them on the attack. They had all been briefed on what the plan was, and how to move and spread themselves out to circle the Egyptian troops and not allow retreat. The Greeks would come at them from all sides, and they would be helpless against it.
“Forward!” He shouted, and moved forward at a run, his men followed behind him, playing the tactic out as if it was actually happening. They would run through it over and over again for hours. Some times with Maleos, sometimes with the Captain just observing, looking for weak spots in his unit and correcting them. He would not fail Vangelis, nor would he fail Colchis.
Maleos listened intently to Vangelis as the orders were given. The days before they were to march here had been spent doing exactly that. His men had worked pretty well as a unit already, but they had been forced into close quarters for their drills, he had allowed them barely enough space between them to move and had punished those who tripped up, those who made a mistake with harsh consequences. He would continue such training now, and it would not end until they were preparing for the actual formation for battle. Maleos would prove to the Crown Prince that his trust had not been mislaid, not in Maleos’ battle plans, nor in the men who would enact them.
“Yes, Your Highness.” He said simply, giving him a respectful bow. Maleos was a man of few words, he preferred to let his actions speak for him, finding them more effective than any words he could form.
Before the Crown Prince had even fully turned from him, Maleos was turning to face his men, his commands declared in a clear and concise voice, confidence in every word.
“Men of the Heights! Left face, marching formation, forward!” He shouted, and his men did that, each turning left in one synchronized movement, remaining in the straight and organized formation they were in, they began to move forward at a slight jog, towards the empty space where he would run them ragged. Not a single man would rest until he had felt they truly earned it.
He let his unit march past him, and then set himself at the same pace, following along to their right side at the back line. He wouldn’t be left out of the drills either. A leader needed to be able to lead his men as much as he needed to be able to be one of them. He was to be on the front lines, to lead these men by example and let his bravery be the beacon of hope that would lead them against the Egyptians on foreign shores.
When they arrived at the empty space he intended to use for their drills, he shouted more commands, ensuring that each man knew the importance of pulling this off. It was a huge part of their plan, of their planned victory against the Egyptians, he needed every single one of them to be in formation, to work as a unit and not as an individual.
He lined himself up with his men, taking a position ahead of the forward line, where he would be when the time came to lead them on the attack. They had all been briefed on what the plan was, and how to move and spread themselves out to circle the Egyptian troops and not allow retreat. The Greeks would come at them from all sides, and they would be helpless against it.
“Forward!” He shouted, and moved forward at a run, his men followed behind him, playing the tactic out as if it was actually happening. They would run through it over and over again for hours. Some times with Maleos, sometimes with the Captain just observing, looking for weak spots in his unit and correcting them. He would not fail Vangelis, nor would he fail Colchis.
The war could not have come any sooner.
Ever since his shame at the Eubocris, Damocles had barely slept or eaten. That night, upon returning to Magnemea, he had been like a man possessed, taking out his rage on the first practice dummy he could find before striking it down with a swing of his enraged blade. This humiliation would pass, in time, of that he was assured. Still, that did little to quell the swell of anger that beheld his hands that night. Before the break of dawn that day, he had furiously penned orders upon orders to all of his lieutenants, specialists and soldiers, sumoning them as early as possible for what would be three nonstop days of back-breaking, rigorous training.
The forgemasters and blacksmiths had been hard at work too, crafting and smithing all the swords and shields, and spears and cuirasses, and greaves and helmets and arrowheads needed to fill any missing items for the upcoming war. He was typically an intense, overbearing commander, but those days had been harsh, even by his standards. In fact, some could very much say he had been liberally draconian that day, roaring, snarling and shouting at every single man of the enormous horde of that was the Damned. His famously silver eyes had turned black with wrath and the sight of his frighteningly intense had made a grown man cry on more than one occasion.
And yet, it was all necessary and defensible. He knew his temper had been outrageous, even for a man of his reputation, during those three nonstop days of relentless captaining. The drums of war had been banged and well-struck and so the times had changed for all, from the smallest, most innocent child, to the largest, most towering man. In those three days the military industry of Magnemea had been turned to overdrive, with fires and forges raging on, while the sound of boots and metal clashing eclipsed the typically intolerable grunts and moans of the slaves that wasted away at the mines.
His imperious, overwhelming eyes were fixed on one thing, absolute and total perfection. Almost good enough would not satisfy his standards. A hair out of place would be but a mistake to be hated. Thus, he cracked the metaphorical whip, causing his olive features to redden in boiled emotion. In one instance, his lord Baron had even come to address the brutality of his tone, asking if such aggressiveness had been entirely necessary. And yet, as he had done before in the past, the Captain of the Damned had used his charm and wiles to convince the man that everything was requisite for what was to come. Still, it was rare that his baron voiced even the slightest of oppositions to his decisions as a military leader. Hence, after what had been a scenario that could only be described as maddeningly stressful, the leader of the soldiers gave permission for his men and women, given the archers in his unit, to tend to their loved ones before marching away to the outskirts of Midas.
Five years had long passed since Damocles had consolidated his grip on the this unit. It had always been an unruly, massive force of beastly, savage men, but it was not efficient or well-organized in the slightest. Instead of tending to the men, his greedy predecessors had instead focused on indulgence and pleasure, foregoing any form of structure or order in the name of comfort and hedonism. Even as a lieutenant, Damocles had bore witness to the corruption and decadence of the officers, quietly noting how they enjoyed bottles of expensive wines and rare meats while leaving hoplites without spears and swords and archers without bows and arrows.
Their had been so much potential, even amongst this band of hardy, rough-formed men and women, and yet it had all been wasted and discarded. How many of his friends had perished because of the ineptitude of those that came before him? How many letters of condolences had he sent out in the name of his former, old, drunkard boss? It disgusted him every time he thought back on it. And yet, even if it was disgusting, he still felt a sense of pride that swelled within him. Never again would he let these poor souls fight under the hell of wretched fools.
He recalled his first acts as Captain, those quick, but decisive moments that enforced his authority over the sea of soldiers that had for too long gone headless. With the stroke of a pen, he had issues countless reforms, from tripling the training hours of the newest recruits, to limiting his own benefits and privileges for the sake of more armor, weapons and equipment. Last he had counted, more than fifty men had been dismissed from his unit in just one day after being invested with the his then-new command. The treasurers, message-runners, cooks, scribes and doctors had all been replaced with proven talent and skill.
And yet, one of his most ambitious changes had affected the peltast division of the union. Once a force that counted upon three lieutenants, Damocles ordered the resignation of all officers from that division and instead consolidated it all under one single commander that would spearhead that aspect of the miniature army. No longer would the Damned's budget hemorrhage over spoiled officers that didn't have a clue on what proper management and leadership looked like.
Afterwards, he dismissed the one lieutenant he had for the hoplites and replaced that division with three men of trust and confidence, effectively making sure that every one of those soldiers was well-equipped and ready to fight at any given time. Finally, given his appreciation for them, Damocles instructed that a second division of archers be created and led by only their most experienced and skillful. Only then had that rabble been whipped and sculpted to its finest spearpoint.
As for their leader, well, it could very much be said that he rather enjoyed his promotion. Strong-willed, highly ambitious and supremely confident, Damocles’s overall style of leadership could be summed up as aggressively assertive, demanding and perfectionistic. He lead with self-assurance, tactical insight and unquestionable decisiveness, causing most of his men to look up to him as a charismatic, but domineering master of his trade. Obedience and total trust was the norm, and so the towering figure that demanded order, structure and stability to the Damned also requested loyalty and commitment, binding all of the uncountable heads that amalgamated together into his unit to heel by mere exertion of his pressure.
Naturally, he was aware that his imperiousness could cause dissent amongst the ranks if all he ever showed was rough, arrogant admission. And so, whenever he wasn't running the grand circus that was the Damned, Damocles had made it a point to learn the names, history, desires, families, wishes and fears of nearly every soldier that marched to war with him. He was intense, but that did not mean he was heartless. He cared for the lives of all these soldiers and would rather be perceived as cruel and blackhearted than to let any single one of them meet Hades's boatman before his or her time was properly done. They were his family, his brothers and his sisters, adopted and legitimized through a covenant of blood, sweat and tears that could never be broken, even by the harshness of his commands.
Before long, the sound of thunderous boots on the ground came crashing through the silence of the lazy waters in front. In its place, came the the forbidding presence of a tightly filtered surge of black-armored warriors, donning the sigil of their baron through the dull, dark metal of their breastplates and shoulder guards. The unit came organized in six, divided divisions, each held in place by a corresponding lieutenant clad in the raiment of their division
. Quiet and without a single whisper to come between them, the large horde of scary militants had bitterly kept their peace with restraint and precision, impulsed by the draconian repercussions that their captain would levy if but a single one of them broke file and disunited the unit. At the front, stood the head of it all.
Given the circumstances, he had obviously foregone the ceremonial suit that he often used when pomp and circumstance demanded, like that deplorable meeting in Eubocris. Rather, his armor was darkly colored and adamant with some small hits here and there to prove its prior use. It was obviously high of quality, but it lacked the typical loyalty colors of either his siege, Lady Tythra, or his baron. Such fragrant sycophancy disgusted him anyways.
Yet, it was obvious that, despite not donning Drakos gold, his armor still showed his nominal loyalty, as evident by the dragon motifs he sported in his black muscle cuirass, shoulder guards, greaves, bracers, Corinthian plumed helmet and, above all, large, aspis shield. The combination of dark, boiled leather and plutonian metal gave off a Stygian impression, as if the man was channeling the very darkness of Lord Hades himself, fitting, given his epithet: Damocles the Terrible.
In fact the whole unit appeared to have been levied by the Lord of the Underworld himself, given the grim, dark color of the armor the soldiers wore, the icy, glacial look of determination on each of those soldier's face and the seriousness that showed in their features. Even the name itself sounded as if had come from the deepest pits of Tartarus: the Damned.
Surely, it was a fitting name for the soldiers that followed the orders of a man who championed himself an envy of the God of Death. Once, all these souls had been condemned to suffering and torture in Magnemea. And yet, they had found their true calling in bloodshed and carnage. He had made a fool of himself in Eubocris, and for that he had only himself to blame. But let it be known that when it came to his command of these wretched and monstrous killers, none could truly make a lasting mockery.
He stood quietly, forebodingly and patiently. Not once did he turn his head back sideways to his men, for he had done everything in his power to make sure that everything was as perfect and up to par. What he asked he asked plainly, and that was perfection and systematic obedience. Shame had fallen to his name as of late and he would not have that same moment repeat itself again.
Behind him stood his pride and joy as a soldier, an armed force of monsters that had been customized and personalized in accordance to his wishes. Gone were the days of corruption and ineptitude, lest he would address that matter immediately. No, he would make sure that his name commanded respect and deference. He would have those that looked down on him eat their words. He was going to take what was his and that was clear. He would rise, he would soar and take everything he ever dreamed of by right or by force, regardless of what others said.
And yet, he knew that the times had changed. Just as he had once abolished the plaguing illness of his forces, so too had he to quell his tongue and rage. Once his favored weapons, Damocles had learned the hard way that between soldiers and officers his wholehearted opinion did not matter to anyone else but himself and his soldiers. Oh, he would feign total reverence and simpering veneration to those bloody, black-blooded sons of Kotas. Them and their partisans. And yet, he would bow and smile. Humiliation and shame had been excellent teachers and he had learned quite enough for the time being. His words of opposition and criticism would be held-back and suppressed, switched instead with solemnity and anger. Thus, he braced himself for the moment, knowing fairly well that for as well-polished and finessed as his unit had been, Vangelis and his accursed sycophants would once more find fault in him.
He therefore kept his peace, in stoic, chilling silence whilst allowing the looming nature of his plutonian soldiers to speak for him. Alas, they too were silent, without so much as a single grunt, gasp, sigh or sneeze allowed to escape. He would have his place amongst the stars once more, but unlike Icarus, he would not press too close. He had learned and would continued to learn in ghostly contempt, His hate would have to be siphoned elsewhere, his men, his strategies, his formations and his ambitions for example, but not in spoken, evident opposition. Instead he would let others be like Icarus instead and let their wings burn away to emptiness. For was what he was. He was a nobody, he was nothing. He was Damocles of Magnemea, a man of no consequence.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
The war could not have come any sooner.
Ever since his shame at the Eubocris, Damocles had barely slept or eaten. That night, upon returning to Magnemea, he had been like a man possessed, taking out his rage on the first practice dummy he could find before striking it down with a swing of his enraged blade. This humiliation would pass, in time, of that he was assured. Still, that did little to quell the swell of anger that beheld his hands that night. Before the break of dawn that day, he had furiously penned orders upon orders to all of his lieutenants, specialists and soldiers, sumoning them as early as possible for what would be three nonstop days of back-breaking, rigorous training.
The forgemasters and blacksmiths had been hard at work too, crafting and smithing all the swords and shields, and spears and cuirasses, and greaves and helmets and arrowheads needed to fill any missing items for the upcoming war. He was typically an intense, overbearing commander, but those days had been harsh, even by his standards. In fact, some could very much say he had been liberally draconian that day, roaring, snarling and shouting at every single man of the enormous horde of that was the Damned. His famously silver eyes had turned black with wrath and the sight of his frighteningly intense had made a grown man cry on more than one occasion.
And yet, it was all necessary and defensible. He knew his temper had been outrageous, even for a man of his reputation, during those three nonstop days of relentless captaining. The drums of war had been banged and well-struck and so the times had changed for all, from the smallest, most innocent child, to the largest, most towering man. In those three days the military industry of Magnemea had been turned to overdrive, with fires and forges raging on, while the sound of boots and metal clashing eclipsed the typically intolerable grunts and moans of the slaves that wasted away at the mines.
His imperious, overwhelming eyes were fixed on one thing, absolute and total perfection. Almost good enough would not satisfy his standards. A hair out of place would be but a mistake to be hated. Thus, he cracked the metaphorical whip, causing his olive features to redden in boiled emotion. In one instance, his lord Baron had even come to address the brutality of his tone, asking if such aggressiveness had been entirely necessary. And yet, as he had done before in the past, the Captain of the Damned had used his charm and wiles to convince the man that everything was requisite for what was to come. Still, it was rare that his baron voiced even the slightest of oppositions to his decisions as a military leader. Hence, after what had been a scenario that could only be described as maddeningly stressful, the leader of the soldiers gave permission for his men and women, given the archers in his unit, to tend to their loved ones before marching away to the outskirts of Midas.
Five years had long passed since Damocles had consolidated his grip on the this unit. It had always been an unruly, massive force of beastly, savage men, but it was not efficient or well-organized in the slightest. Instead of tending to the men, his greedy predecessors had instead focused on indulgence and pleasure, foregoing any form of structure or order in the name of comfort and hedonism. Even as a lieutenant, Damocles had bore witness to the corruption and decadence of the officers, quietly noting how they enjoyed bottles of expensive wines and rare meats while leaving hoplites without spears and swords and archers without bows and arrows.
Their had been so much potential, even amongst this band of hardy, rough-formed men and women, and yet it had all been wasted and discarded. How many of his friends had perished because of the ineptitude of those that came before him? How many letters of condolences had he sent out in the name of his former, old, drunkard boss? It disgusted him every time he thought back on it. And yet, even if it was disgusting, he still felt a sense of pride that swelled within him. Never again would he let these poor souls fight under the hell of wretched fools.
He recalled his first acts as Captain, those quick, but decisive moments that enforced his authority over the sea of soldiers that had for too long gone headless. With the stroke of a pen, he had issues countless reforms, from tripling the training hours of the newest recruits, to limiting his own benefits and privileges for the sake of more armor, weapons and equipment. Last he had counted, more than fifty men had been dismissed from his unit in just one day after being invested with the his then-new command. The treasurers, message-runners, cooks, scribes and doctors had all been replaced with proven talent and skill.
And yet, one of his most ambitious changes had affected the peltast division of the union. Once a force that counted upon three lieutenants, Damocles ordered the resignation of all officers from that division and instead consolidated it all under one single commander that would spearhead that aspect of the miniature army. No longer would the Damned's budget hemorrhage over spoiled officers that didn't have a clue on what proper management and leadership looked like.
Afterwards, he dismissed the one lieutenant he had for the hoplites and replaced that division with three men of trust and confidence, effectively making sure that every one of those soldiers was well-equipped and ready to fight at any given time. Finally, given his appreciation for them, Damocles instructed that a second division of archers be created and led by only their most experienced and skillful. Only then had that rabble been whipped and sculpted to its finest spearpoint.
As for their leader, well, it could very much be said that he rather enjoyed his promotion. Strong-willed, highly ambitious and supremely confident, Damocles’s overall style of leadership could be summed up as aggressively assertive, demanding and perfectionistic. He lead with self-assurance, tactical insight and unquestionable decisiveness, causing most of his men to look up to him as a charismatic, but domineering master of his trade. Obedience and total trust was the norm, and so the towering figure that demanded order, structure and stability to the Damned also requested loyalty and commitment, binding all of the uncountable heads that amalgamated together into his unit to heel by mere exertion of his pressure.
Naturally, he was aware that his imperiousness could cause dissent amongst the ranks if all he ever showed was rough, arrogant admission. And so, whenever he wasn't running the grand circus that was the Damned, Damocles had made it a point to learn the names, history, desires, families, wishes and fears of nearly every soldier that marched to war with him. He was intense, but that did not mean he was heartless. He cared for the lives of all these soldiers and would rather be perceived as cruel and blackhearted than to let any single one of them meet Hades's boatman before his or her time was properly done. They were his family, his brothers and his sisters, adopted and legitimized through a covenant of blood, sweat and tears that could never be broken, even by the harshness of his commands.
Before long, the sound of thunderous boots on the ground came crashing through the silence of the lazy waters in front. In its place, came the the forbidding presence of a tightly filtered surge of black-armored warriors, donning the sigil of their baron through the dull, dark metal of their breastplates and shoulder guards. The unit came organized in six, divided divisions, each held in place by a corresponding lieutenant clad in the raiment of their division
. Quiet and without a single whisper to come between them, the large horde of scary militants had bitterly kept their peace with restraint and precision, impulsed by the draconian repercussions that their captain would levy if but a single one of them broke file and disunited the unit. At the front, stood the head of it all.
Given the circumstances, he had obviously foregone the ceremonial suit that he often used when pomp and circumstance demanded, like that deplorable meeting in Eubocris. Rather, his armor was darkly colored and adamant with some small hits here and there to prove its prior use. It was obviously high of quality, but it lacked the typical loyalty colors of either his siege, Lady Tythra, or his baron. Such fragrant sycophancy disgusted him anyways.
Yet, it was obvious that, despite not donning Drakos gold, his armor still showed his nominal loyalty, as evident by the dragon motifs he sported in his black muscle cuirass, shoulder guards, greaves, bracers, Corinthian plumed helmet and, above all, large, aspis shield. The combination of dark, boiled leather and plutonian metal gave off a Stygian impression, as if the man was channeling the very darkness of Lord Hades himself, fitting, given his epithet: Damocles the Terrible.
In fact the whole unit appeared to have been levied by the Lord of the Underworld himself, given the grim, dark color of the armor the soldiers wore, the icy, glacial look of determination on each of those soldier's face and the seriousness that showed in their features. Even the name itself sounded as if had come from the deepest pits of Tartarus: the Damned.
Surely, it was a fitting name for the soldiers that followed the orders of a man who championed himself an envy of the God of Death. Once, all these souls had been condemned to suffering and torture in Magnemea. And yet, they had found their true calling in bloodshed and carnage. He had made a fool of himself in Eubocris, and for that he had only himself to blame. But let it be known that when it came to his command of these wretched and monstrous killers, none could truly make a lasting mockery.
He stood quietly, forebodingly and patiently. Not once did he turn his head back sideways to his men, for he had done everything in his power to make sure that everything was as perfect and up to par. What he asked he asked plainly, and that was perfection and systematic obedience. Shame had fallen to his name as of late and he would not have that same moment repeat itself again.
Behind him stood his pride and joy as a soldier, an armed force of monsters that had been customized and personalized in accordance to his wishes. Gone were the days of corruption and ineptitude, lest he would address that matter immediately. No, he would make sure that his name commanded respect and deference. He would have those that looked down on him eat their words. He was going to take what was his and that was clear. He would rise, he would soar and take everything he ever dreamed of by right or by force, regardless of what others said.
And yet, he knew that the times had changed. Just as he had once abolished the plaguing illness of his forces, so too had he to quell his tongue and rage. Once his favored weapons, Damocles had learned the hard way that between soldiers and officers his wholehearted opinion did not matter to anyone else but himself and his soldiers. Oh, he would feign total reverence and simpering veneration to those bloody, black-blooded sons of Kotas. Them and their partisans. And yet, he would bow and smile. Humiliation and shame had been excellent teachers and he had learned quite enough for the time being. His words of opposition and criticism would be held-back and suppressed, switched instead with solemnity and anger. Thus, he braced himself for the moment, knowing fairly well that for as well-polished and finessed as his unit had been, Vangelis and his accursed sycophants would once more find fault in him.
He therefore kept his peace, in stoic, chilling silence whilst allowing the looming nature of his plutonian soldiers to speak for him. Alas, they too were silent, without so much as a single grunt, gasp, sigh or sneeze allowed to escape. He would have his place amongst the stars once more, but unlike Icarus, he would not press too close. He had learned and would continued to learn in ghostly contempt, His hate would have to be siphoned elsewhere, his men, his strategies, his formations and his ambitions for example, but not in spoken, evident opposition. Instead he would let others be like Icarus instead and let their wings burn away to emptiness. For was what he was. He was a nobody, he was nothing. He was Damocles of Magnemea, a man of no consequence.
The war could not have come any sooner.
Ever since his shame at the Eubocris, Damocles had barely slept or eaten. That night, upon returning to Magnemea, he had been like a man possessed, taking out his rage on the first practice dummy he could find before striking it down with a swing of his enraged blade. This humiliation would pass, in time, of that he was assured. Still, that did little to quell the swell of anger that beheld his hands that night. Before the break of dawn that day, he had furiously penned orders upon orders to all of his lieutenants, specialists and soldiers, sumoning them as early as possible for what would be three nonstop days of back-breaking, rigorous training.
The forgemasters and blacksmiths had been hard at work too, crafting and smithing all the swords and shields, and spears and cuirasses, and greaves and helmets and arrowheads needed to fill any missing items for the upcoming war. He was typically an intense, overbearing commander, but those days had been harsh, even by his standards. In fact, some could very much say he had been liberally draconian that day, roaring, snarling and shouting at every single man of the enormous horde of that was the Damned. His famously silver eyes had turned black with wrath and the sight of his frighteningly intense had made a grown man cry on more than one occasion.
And yet, it was all necessary and defensible. He knew his temper had been outrageous, even for a man of his reputation, during those three nonstop days of relentless captaining. The drums of war had been banged and well-struck and so the times had changed for all, from the smallest, most innocent child, to the largest, most towering man. In those three days the military industry of Magnemea had been turned to overdrive, with fires and forges raging on, while the sound of boots and metal clashing eclipsed the typically intolerable grunts and moans of the slaves that wasted away at the mines.
His imperious, overwhelming eyes were fixed on one thing, absolute and total perfection. Almost good enough would not satisfy his standards. A hair out of place would be but a mistake to be hated. Thus, he cracked the metaphorical whip, causing his olive features to redden in boiled emotion. In one instance, his lord Baron had even come to address the brutality of his tone, asking if such aggressiveness had been entirely necessary. And yet, as he had done before in the past, the Captain of the Damned had used his charm and wiles to convince the man that everything was requisite for what was to come. Still, it was rare that his baron voiced even the slightest of oppositions to his decisions as a military leader. Hence, after what had been a scenario that could only be described as maddeningly stressful, the leader of the soldiers gave permission for his men and women, given the archers in his unit, to tend to their loved ones before marching away to the outskirts of Midas.
Five years had long passed since Damocles had consolidated his grip on the this unit. It had always been an unruly, massive force of beastly, savage men, but it was not efficient or well-organized in the slightest. Instead of tending to the men, his greedy predecessors had instead focused on indulgence and pleasure, foregoing any form of structure or order in the name of comfort and hedonism. Even as a lieutenant, Damocles had bore witness to the corruption and decadence of the officers, quietly noting how they enjoyed bottles of expensive wines and rare meats while leaving hoplites without spears and swords and archers without bows and arrows.
Their had been so much potential, even amongst this band of hardy, rough-formed men and women, and yet it had all been wasted and discarded. How many of his friends had perished because of the ineptitude of those that came before him? How many letters of condolences had he sent out in the name of his former, old, drunkard boss? It disgusted him every time he thought back on it. And yet, even if it was disgusting, he still felt a sense of pride that swelled within him. Never again would he let these poor souls fight under the hell of wretched fools.
He recalled his first acts as Captain, those quick, but decisive moments that enforced his authority over the sea of soldiers that had for too long gone headless. With the stroke of a pen, he had issues countless reforms, from tripling the training hours of the newest recruits, to limiting his own benefits and privileges for the sake of more armor, weapons and equipment. Last he had counted, more than fifty men had been dismissed from his unit in just one day after being invested with the his then-new command. The treasurers, message-runners, cooks, scribes and doctors had all been replaced with proven talent and skill.
And yet, one of his most ambitious changes had affected the peltast division of the union. Once a force that counted upon three lieutenants, Damocles ordered the resignation of all officers from that division and instead consolidated it all under one single commander that would spearhead that aspect of the miniature army. No longer would the Damned's budget hemorrhage over spoiled officers that didn't have a clue on what proper management and leadership looked like.
Afterwards, he dismissed the one lieutenant he had for the hoplites and replaced that division with three men of trust and confidence, effectively making sure that every one of those soldiers was well-equipped and ready to fight at any given time. Finally, given his appreciation for them, Damocles instructed that a second division of archers be created and led by only their most experienced and skillful. Only then had that rabble been whipped and sculpted to its finest spearpoint.
As for their leader, well, it could very much be said that he rather enjoyed his promotion. Strong-willed, highly ambitious and supremely confident, Damocles’s overall style of leadership could be summed up as aggressively assertive, demanding and perfectionistic. He lead with self-assurance, tactical insight and unquestionable decisiveness, causing most of his men to look up to him as a charismatic, but domineering master of his trade. Obedience and total trust was the norm, and so the towering figure that demanded order, structure and stability to the Damned also requested loyalty and commitment, binding all of the uncountable heads that amalgamated together into his unit to heel by mere exertion of his pressure.
Naturally, he was aware that his imperiousness could cause dissent amongst the ranks if all he ever showed was rough, arrogant admission. And so, whenever he wasn't running the grand circus that was the Damned, Damocles had made it a point to learn the names, history, desires, families, wishes and fears of nearly every soldier that marched to war with him. He was intense, but that did not mean he was heartless. He cared for the lives of all these soldiers and would rather be perceived as cruel and blackhearted than to let any single one of them meet Hades's boatman before his or her time was properly done. They were his family, his brothers and his sisters, adopted and legitimized through a covenant of blood, sweat and tears that could never be broken, even by the harshness of his commands.
Before long, the sound of thunderous boots on the ground came crashing through the silence of the lazy waters in front. In its place, came the the forbidding presence of a tightly filtered surge of black-armored warriors, donning the sigil of their baron through the dull, dark metal of their breastplates and shoulder guards. The unit came organized in six, divided divisions, each held in place by a corresponding lieutenant clad in the raiment of their division
. Quiet and without a single whisper to come between them, the large horde of scary militants had bitterly kept their peace with restraint and precision, impulsed by the draconian repercussions that their captain would levy if but a single one of them broke file and disunited the unit. At the front, stood the head of it all.
Given the circumstances, he had obviously foregone the ceremonial suit that he often used when pomp and circumstance demanded, like that deplorable meeting in Eubocris. Rather, his armor was darkly colored and adamant with some small hits here and there to prove its prior use. It was obviously high of quality, but it lacked the typical loyalty colors of either his siege, Lady Tythra, or his baron. Such fragrant sycophancy disgusted him anyways.
Yet, it was obvious that, despite not donning Drakos gold, his armor still showed his nominal loyalty, as evident by the dragon motifs he sported in his black muscle cuirass, shoulder guards, greaves, bracers, Corinthian plumed helmet and, above all, large, aspis shield. The combination of dark, boiled leather and plutonian metal gave off a Stygian impression, as if the man was channeling the very darkness of Lord Hades himself, fitting, given his epithet: Damocles the Terrible.
In fact the whole unit appeared to have been levied by the Lord of the Underworld himself, given the grim, dark color of the armor the soldiers wore, the icy, glacial look of determination on each of those soldier's face and the seriousness that showed in their features. Even the name itself sounded as if had come from the deepest pits of Tartarus: the Damned.
Surely, it was a fitting name for the soldiers that followed the orders of a man who championed himself an envy of the God of Death. Once, all these souls had been condemned to suffering and torture in Magnemea. And yet, they had found their true calling in bloodshed and carnage. He had made a fool of himself in Eubocris, and for that he had only himself to blame. But let it be known that when it came to his command of these wretched and monstrous killers, none could truly make a lasting mockery.
He stood quietly, forebodingly and patiently. Not once did he turn his head back sideways to his men, for he had done everything in his power to make sure that everything was as perfect and up to par. What he asked he asked plainly, and that was perfection and systematic obedience. Shame had fallen to his name as of late and he would not have that same moment repeat itself again.
Behind him stood his pride and joy as a soldier, an armed force of monsters that had been customized and personalized in accordance to his wishes. Gone were the days of corruption and ineptitude, lest he would address that matter immediately. No, he would make sure that his name commanded respect and deference. He would have those that looked down on him eat their words. He was going to take what was his and that was clear. He would rise, he would soar and take everything he ever dreamed of by right or by force, regardless of what others said.
And yet, he knew that the times had changed. Just as he had once abolished the plaguing illness of his forces, so too had he to quell his tongue and rage. Once his favored weapons, Damocles had learned the hard way that between soldiers and officers his wholehearted opinion did not matter to anyone else but himself and his soldiers. Oh, he would feign total reverence and simpering veneration to those bloody, black-blooded sons of Kotas. Them and their partisans. And yet, he would bow and smile. Humiliation and shame had been excellent teachers and he had learned quite enough for the time being. His words of opposition and criticism would be held-back and suppressed, switched instead with solemnity and anger. Thus, he braced himself for the moment, knowing fairly well that for as well-polished and finessed as his unit had been, Vangelis and his accursed sycophants would once more find fault in him.
He therefore kept his peace, in stoic, chilling silence whilst allowing the looming nature of his plutonian soldiers to speak for him. Alas, they too were silent, without so much as a single grunt, gasp, sigh or sneeze allowed to escape. He would have his place amongst the stars once more, but unlike Icarus, he would not press too close. He had learned and would continued to learn in ghostly contempt, His hate would have to be siphoned elsewhere, his men, his strategies, his formations and his ambitions for example, but not in spoken, evident opposition. Instead he would let others be like Icarus instead and let their wings burn away to emptiness. For was what he was. He was a nobody, he was nothing. He was Damocles of Magnemea, a man of no consequence.
Sill felt rather than saw the glare Commander Nike shot him that told him to shut up, and so he did, after giving his own rather garbled explanation. Vangelis’ second in command did not sell him down the river entirely though, so that was something, though it didn’t spare him a rather judgemental once over from the King.
Maybe he did know? Or not. Silanos resolved he would just ask Vangelis outright later. If he was going to have to survive an entire sea voyage with the back from the dead King then he at least deserved to know if the man wanted him dead or not. Snapping his attention back from his musings to look at King Tython, Silanos gave a nod in response to the man’s words.
“Of course your majesty. Thankyou”
Bowing again, he didn’t dawdle in putting some distance between he and the monarch as the man moved on, Sil skipping a couple of lines just to put a nice barrier between he and the Kotas man and the Commander, who had proven not to be an entertaining companion. No surprises there.
Stepping past a couple of rows,he could circle back around to them later, Sil began the druggery of looking over each soldier again. He was frowning down at the tablet he held, bemoaning the fact that of course Nike’s unit would be mostly immaculately turned out, depriving him of the scant freedom that Vangelis had offered as part of this exercise.
He wasn’t expecting to hear his name hollered by anyone, which was why his head jerked up so sharply, eyes lifting over the heads of the soldiers he was supposed to be inspecting to land upon Mihail as the lord made a somewhat clumsy path toward the Valaoritis. Sil blinked a moment, had to suppress a snort of laughter at the sight of his friend who was usually so flamboyant and outlandish in his attire instead donning the armour of a soldier. Somehow, Mihail still managed to stand in that girlish, flirtatious way that he had. Sil rolled his eyes, but was pleased to see the other nonetheless. At least he was not the only one feeling like a fish out of water here.
“My family….” he repeated dryly as Mihail drew near, because Silanos had been reminded enough times of the military heritage of the Valaoritis house, and how he was a sham and a failure for not following suit. His gaze drifted for a moment to the ranks of men and he gave a little shake of his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they’ll look better when you put that ridiculous helmet on to impede your vision. Or when the Eyptian sun is dazzling you”
And he was about to offer some snarky reply to the Thanasi Lord’s next remark when instead another voice interrupted them, and Silanos thought it just his fucking luck that the one moment he got to actually talk to someone about something other than weaponry or uniforms would be when the crown prince started paying attention.
“Off you trot” he muttered to Mihail with a world weary sigh. “Gods forbid anyone has any fun around here.” And then glancing only briefly at Vangelis where he stood, Sil made a hasty effort to look busy again. He turned a bored expression toward the nearest soldier, gaze flicking over the man from head to toe as he looked for anything out of place. Helmet, cuirass, greaves. Check, check, fucking check. Moving on to the next soldier, Sil thought it was going to be a long day.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Sill felt rather than saw the glare Commander Nike shot him that told him to shut up, and so he did, after giving his own rather garbled explanation. Vangelis’ second in command did not sell him down the river entirely though, so that was something, though it didn’t spare him a rather judgemental once over from the King.
Maybe he did know? Or not. Silanos resolved he would just ask Vangelis outright later. If he was going to have to survive an entire sea voyage with the back from the dead King then he at least deserved to know if the man wanted him dead or not. Snapping his attention back from his musings to look at King Tython, Silanos gave a nod in response to the man’s words.
“Of course your majesty. Thankyou”
Bowing again, he didn’t dawdle in putting some distance between he and the monarch as the man moved on, Sil skipping a couple of lines just to put a nice barrier between he and the Kotas man and the Commander, who had proven not to be an entertaining companion. No surprises there.
Stepping past a couple of rows,he could circle back around to them later, Sil began the druggery of looking over each soldier again. He was frowning down at the tablet he held, bemoaning the fact that of course Nike’s unit would be mostly immaculately turned out, depriving him of the scant freedom that Vangelis had offered as part of this exercise.
He wasn’t expecting to hear his name hollered by anyone, which was why his head jerked up so sharply, eyes lifting over the heads of the soldiers he was supposed to be inspecting to land upon Mihail as the lord made a somewhat clumsy path toward the Valaoritis. Sil blinked a moment, had to suppress a snort of laughter at the sight of his friend who was usually so flamboyant and outlandish in his attire instead donning the armour of a soldier. Somehow, Mihail still managed to stand in that girlish, flirtatious way that he had. Sil rolled his eyes, but was pleased to see the other nonetheless. At least he was not the only one feeling like a fish out of water here.
“My family….” he repeated dryly as Mihail drew near, because Silanos had been reminded enough times of the military heritage of the Valaoritis house, and how he was a sham and a failure for not following suit. His gaze drifted for a moment to the ranks of men and he gave a little shake of his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they’ll look better when you put that ridiculous helmet on to impede your vision. Or when the Eyptian sun is dazzling you”
And he was about to offer some snarky reply to the Thanasi Lord’s next remark when instead another voice interrupted them, and Silanos thought it just his fucking luck that the one moment he got to actually talk to someone about something other than weaponry or uniforms would be when the crown prince started paying attention.
“Off you trot” he muttered to Mihail with a world weary sigh. “Gods forbid anyone has any fun around here.” And then glancing only briefly at Vangelis where he stood, Sil made a hasty effort to look busy again. He turned a bored expression toward the nearest soldier, gaze flicking over the man from head to toe as he looked for anything out of place. Helmet, cuirass, greaves. Check, check, fucking check. Moving on to the next soldier, Sil thought it was going to be a long day.
Sill felt rather than saw the glare Commander Nike shot him that told him to shut up, and so he did, after giving his own rather garbled explanation. Vangelis’ second in command did not sell him down the river entirely though, so that was something, though it didn’t spare him a rather judgemental once over from the King.
Maybe he did know? Or not. Silanos resolved he would just ask Vangelis outright later. If he was going to have to survive an entire sea voyage with the back from the dead King then he at least deserved to know if the man wanted him dead or not. Snapping his attention back from his musings to look at King Tython, Silanos gave a nod in response to the man’s words.
“Of course your majesty. Thankyou”
Bowing again, he didn’t dawdle in putting some distance between he and the monarch as the man moved on, Sil skipping a couple of lines just to put a nice barrier between he and the Kotas man and the Commander, who had proven not to be an entertaining companion. No surprises there.
Stepping past a couple of rows,he could circle back around to them later, Sil began the druggery of looking over each soldier again. He was frowning down at the tablet he held, bemoaning the fact that of course Nike’s unit would be mostly immaculately turned out, depriving him of the scant freedom that Vangelis had offered as part of this exercise.
He wasn’t expecting to hear his name hollered by anyone, which was why his head jerked up so sharply, eyes lifting over the heads of the soldiers he was supposed to be inspecting to land upon Mihail as the lord made a somewhat clumsy path toward the Valaoritis. Sil blinked a moment, had to suppress a snort of laughter at the sight of his friend who was usually so flamboyant and outlandish in his attire instead donning the armour of a soldier. Somehow, Mihail still managed to stand in that girlish, flirtatious way that he had. Sil rolled his eyes, but was pleased to see the other nonetheless. At least he was not the only one feeling like a fish out of water here.
“My family….” he repeated dryly as Mihail drew near, because Silanos had been reminded enough times of the military heritage of the Valaoritis house, and how he was a sham and a failure for not following suit. His gaze drifted for a moment to the ranks of men and he gave a little shake of his head. “I don’t know. Maybe they’ll look better when you put that ridiculous helmet on to impede your vision. Or when the Eyptian sun is dazzling you”
And he was about to offer some snarky reply to the Thanasi Lord’s next remark when instead another voice interrupted them, and Silanos thought it just his fucking luck that the one moment he got to actually talk to someone about something other than weaponry or uniforms would be when the crown prince started paying attention.
“Off you trot” he muttered to Mihail with a world weary sigh. “Gods forbid anyone has any fun around here.” And then glancing only briefly at Vangelis where he stood, Sil made a hasty effort to look busy again. He turned a bored expression toward the nearest soldier, gaze flicking over the man from head to toe as he looked for anything out of place. Helmet, cuirass, greaves. Check, check, fucking check. Moving on to the next soldier, Sil thought it was going to be a long day.
Down the rows he went, remarking on each man and each piece of faulty armor or weapon he came across, if the need arose. He did not feel the need to make the scribe write down the names of the men who needed no talking to or comment on upkeep. Stephanos walked just to the end of the fourth row when he looked to the left and saw the king coming down the wide path between military units. Affixing his hands behind his back, he erred on the side of caution, rather than actual preference, and deigned to bow to King Tython; a man he shouldn’t have had to bow to if his life hadn’t gone sideways.
“Your majesty,” he said after the king gave a greeting first, and then turned to survey his men.
"Are they up to your standards, Commander?" Tython asked, looking over the men from Archanaes, all of whom stood straighter under their king’s inspection.
“They will be, sire,” Stephanos rapped his knuckles against the breastplate of the nearest man. “They’re fine men, to be sure. Nothing major. A few minor repairs to armor, drills to keep the body agile. I am sure they are among the finest sons of Colchis.” Aware that he’d saved this man not more than a month before, this didn’t actually make Stephanos feel at ease in his presence. He was not awed by the man’s crown, nor did he have any sort of novice nervousness when in the presence of a great military mind. His stiff posture and clipped tone was born more from the knowledge that whatever he said needed to be a praise of Colchis in some way. His Taengean heritage was not a help to him here; it was a hindrance. Even if he spoke the truth, that some of these men had either never set foot on a battlefield, or were a little out of practice, or their armor needed better kept, it could most definitely be taken as snide remarks just because it came from the former king of Taengea. A man not of these people. Greek, yes, but Colchian, no.
With his back to the men of Archanaes, Stephanos did not see Timaeus ride up. Nor did he hear him greeting captains and lieutenants as he came. Stephanos’ whole attention was on King Tython and he was unaware of a boy breaking line. When an angry, unfamiliar voice rolled down the rows toward him, Stephanos frowned and half turned to see what was going on, already unhappy with the promise of strife and the king present. His eyes narrowed to icy slits as he surveyed Timaeus and did not smirk back when the baron greeted him. The corners of Stephanos’ lips remained in a tight downturn but because King Tython was here, he kept the words ready to lash out tightly clamped inside his mouth.
Eyes sliding between Timaeus and the boy, he let out a rush of air through his nose. Well, well, well. “Afternoon,” he replied to Timaeus once the man was close enough. Timaeus gave him a knowing look and Stephanos again followed Timaeus’s glance at the boy, who was standing straight as an arrow for the moment. “Is there something else you’d like to say, my lord?” he kept his tone civil but only for King Tython’s benefit. He meaningfully did not look back at the boy a third time.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Down the rows he went, remarking on each man and each piece of faulty armor or weapon he came across, if the need arose. He did not feel the need to make the scribe write down the names of the men who needed no talking to or comment on upkeep. Stephanos walked just to the end of the fourth row when he looked to the left and saw the king coming down the wide path between military units. Affixing his hands behind his back, he erred on the side of caution, rather than actual preference, and deigned to bow to King Tython; a man he shouldn’t have had to bow to if his life hadn’t gone sideways.
“Your majesty,” he said after the king gave a greeting first, and then turned to survey his men.
"Are they up to your standards, Commander?" Tython asked, looking over the men from Archanaes, all of whom stood straighter under their king’s inspection.
“They will be, sire,” Stephanos rapped his knuckles against the breastplate of the nearest man. “They’re fine men, to be sure. Nothing major. A few minor repairs to armor, drills to keep the body agile. I am sure they are among the finest sons of Colchis.” Aware that he’d saved this man not more than a month before, this didn’t actually make Stephanos feel at ease in his presence. He was not awed by the man’s crown, nor did he have any sort of novice nervousness when in the presence of a great military mind. His stiff posture and clipped tone was born more from the knowledge that whatever he said needed to be a praise of Colchis in some way. His Taengean heritage was not a help to him here; it was a hindrance. Even if he spoke the truth, that some of these men had either never set foot on a battlefield, or were a little out of practice, or their armor needed better kept, it could most definitely be taken as snide remarks just because it came from the former king of Taengea. A man not of these people. Greek, yes, but Colchian, no.
With his back to the men of Archanaes, Stephanos did not see Timaeus ride up. Nor did he hear him greeting captains and lieutenants as he came. Stephanos’ whole attention was on King Tython and he was unaware of a boy breaking line. When an angry, unfamiliar voice rolled down the rows toward him, Stephanos frowned and half turned to see what was going on, already unhappy with the promise of strife and the king present. His eyes narrowed to icy slits as he surveyed Timaeus and did not smirk back when the baron greeted him. The corners of Stephanos’ lips remained in a tight downturn but because King Tython was here, he kept the words ready to lash out tightly clamped inside his mouth.
Eyes sliding between Timaeus and the boy, he let out a rush of air through his nose. Well, well, well. “Afternoon,” he replied to Timaeus once the man was close enough. Timaeus gave him a knowing look and Stephanos again followed Timaeus’s glance at the boy, who was standing straight as an arrow for the moment. “Is there something else you’d like to say, my lord?” he kept his tone civil but only for King Tython’s benefit. He meaningfully did not look back at the boy a third time.
Down the rows he went, remarking on each man and each piece of faulty armor or weapon he came across, if the need arose. He did not feel the need to make the scribe write down the names of the men who needed no talking to or comment on upkeep. Stephanos walked just to the end of the fourth row when he looked to the left and saw the king coming down the wide path between military units. Affixing his hands behind his back, he erred on the side of caution, rather than actual preference, and deigned to bow to King Tython; a man he shouldn’t have had to bow to if his life hadn’t gone sideways.
“Your majesty,” he said after the king gave a greeting first, and then turned to survey his men.
"Are they up to your standards, Commander?" Tython asked, looking over the men from Archanaes, all of whom stood straighter under their king’s inspection.
“They will be, sire,” Stephanos rapped his knuckles against the breastplate of the nearest man. “They’re fine men, to be sure. Nothing major. A few minor repairs to armor, drills to keep the body agile. I am sure they are among the finest sons of Colchis.” Aware that he’d saved this man not more than a month before, this didn’t actually make Stephanos feel at ease in his presence. He was not awed by the man’s crown, nor did he have any sort of novice nervousness when in the presence of a great military mind. His stiff posture and clipped tone was born more from the knowledge that whatever he said needed to be a praise of Colchis in some way. His Taengean heritage was not a help to him here; it was a hindrance. Even if he spoke the truth, that some of these men had either never set foot on a battlefield, or were a little out of practice, or their armor needed better kept, it could most definitely be taken as snide remarks just because it came from the former king of Taengea. A man not of these people. Greek, yes, but Colchian, no.
With his back to the men of Archanaes, Stephanos did not see Timaeus ride up. Nor did he hear him greeting captains and lieutenants as he came. Stephanos’ whole attention was on King Tython and he was unaware of a boy breaking line. When an angry, unfamiliar voice rolled down the rows toward him, Stephanos frowned and half turned to see what was going on, already unhappy with the promise of strife and the king present. His eyes narrowed to icy slits as he surveyed Timaeus and did not smirk back when the baron greeted him. The corners of Stephanos’ lips remained in a tight downturn but because King Tython was here, he kept the words ready to lash out tightly clamped inside his mouth.
Eyes sliding between Timaeus and the boy, he let out a rush of air through his nose. Well, well, well. “Afternoon,” he replied to Timaeus once the man was close enough. Timaeus gave him a knowing look and Stephanos again followed Timaeus’s glance at the boy, who was standing straight as an arrow for the moment. “Is there something else you’d like to say, my lord?” he kept his tone civil but only for King Tython’s benefit. He meaningfully did not look back at the boy a third time.
Silanos's response did not offer much in the way of hope, and Mihail felt his lips subconsciously push outwards into a petulant sort of pout. He wasn't quite sure what he had expected in reply, especially as his friend did not share that same interest in men as he did, but he had hoped, at least, to be humoured. Perhaps even a false comment about how things would get better, or a reassurance that he would surely be in a unit with better-looking men would have quelled his discomfort, and yet. He could hear the words leave his mouth before they had even formed in his mind, frown fixed on Silanos as if this were all his fault even though he had no responsibility in the matter. "This is not fair."
He would have said something else, but, of course, the moment had to be interrupted. Mihail didn't want to be here but, more so than that, there were specific individuals with which he didn't exactly want to interact and, for once, it was less about familial loyalties and more about personal humiliations. His grip tightened on the helmet in his hands, as if the sole shout of his name over the crowd was enough to upset him, and rolled his eyes as he turned to face Prince Vangelis. The Megaris unit. Brilliant. Why couldn't Dysius have been drafted into this nightmare instead?
"I will see you later, then, hopefully," he answered his friend, attempting to keep that flirtatious lilt to his voice despite his distaste for this whole situation, then swung on his heel to approach the Crown Prince instead. It would likely be best to get this over and done with.
If he had been any other man, Mihail wondered if he would have found Vangelis attractive. He thought yes, perhaps. The man had the muscular and towering build that he enjoyed in most of his partners, but he was of that family which the youngest Thanasi had been trained to dislike, and he was boring. At least, that was the way Mihail had always thought of the militarily-inclined man, if solely because it was so fundamentally different to his own usual train of thought. He had never once thought he would find himself under the man's direct command, and he was quite unhappy with the current outcome.
"Your Highness." Mihail chose to greet the man with politeness in which he honestly did not believe, hip still tilted outwards as he spoke and bent his head in greeting. He was defiant only in the way one was when they knew they were faced by authority but were angered enough that their thoughts were not fully accepting of that fact, and he made it clear through lack of appropriate stance rather than vocal insults. He was angry, not stupid. "Are we not permitted a little camaraderie in the military? I would have thought it preferred to have all us men on comfortable terms with one another, rather than separating us mid-conversation but, then again, I know little about such things."
"I can already assure you my uniform is perfect," he informed the other, using his spare hand to brush away any stray dirt which might have settled on his bronze cuirass. It may not have been perfectly worn - and he almost doubted it ever would, for this temporary soldier status was not something Mihail intended to make a habit - but he could at least reassure his commanding officer that it was well-made and would protect him well. "But I was rather hoping we could discuss my position in the unit. I am the most skilled archer in Athenia," he puffed up with some pride at this statement, despite the accolade being both old and irrelevant to their current kingdom, "and I should like said skill to be represented, rather than wasted if I am made to fight otherwise."
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Silanos's response did not offer much in the way of hope, and Mihail felt his lips subconsciously push outwards into a petulant sort of pout. He wasn't quite sure what he had expected in reply, especially as his friend did not share that same interest in men as he did, but he had hoped, at least, to be humoured. Perhaps even a false comment about how things would get better, or a reassurance that he would surely be in a unit with better-looking men would have quelled his discomfort, and yet. He could hear the words leave his mouth before they had even formed in his mind, frown fixed on Silanos as if this were all his fault even though he had no responsibility in the matter. "This is not fair."
He would have said something else, but, of course, the moment had to be interrupted. Mihail didn't want to be here but, more so than that, there were specific individuals with which he didn't exactly want to interact and, for once, it was less about familial loyalties and more about personal humiliations. His grip tightened on the helmet in his hands, as if the sole shout of his name over the crowd was enough to upset him, and rolled his eyes as he turned to face Prince Vangelis. The Megaris unit. Brilliant. Why couldn't Dysius have been drafted into this nightmare instead?
"I will see you later, then, hopefully," he answered his friend, attempting to keep that flirtatious lilt to his voice despite his distaste for this whole situation, then swung on his heel to approach the Crown Prince instead. It would likely be best to get this over and done with.
If he had been any other man, Mihail wondered if he would have found Vangelis attractive. He thought yes, perhaps. The man had the muscular and towering build that he enjoyed in most of his partners, but he was of that family which the youngest Thanasi had been trained to dislike, and he was boring. At least, that was the way Mihail had always thought of the militarily-inclined man, if solely because it was so fundamentally different to his own usual train of thought. He had never once thought he would find himself under the man's direct command, and he was quite unhappy with the current outcome.
"Your Highness." Mihail chose to greet the man with politeness in which he honestly did not believe, hip still tilted outwards as he spoke and bent his head in greeting. He was defiant only in the way one was when they knew they were faced by authority but were angered enough that their thoughts were not fully accepting of that fact, and he made it clear through lack of appropriate stance rather than vocal insults. He was angry, not stupid. "Are we not permitted a little camaraderie in the military? I would have thought it preferred to have all us men on comfortable terms with one another, rather than separating us mid-conversation but, then again, I know little about such things."
"I can already assure you my uniform is perfect," he informed the other, using his spare hand to brush away any stray dirt which might have settled on his bronze cuirass. It may not have been perfectly worn - and he almost doubted it ever would, for this temporary soldier status was not something Mihail intended to make a habit - but he could at least reassure his commanding officer that it was well-made and would protect him well. "But I was rather hoping we could discuss my position in the unit. I am the most skilled archer in Athenia," he puffed up with some pride at this statement, despite the accolade being both old and irrelevant to their current kingdom, "and I should like said skill to be represented, rather than wasted if I am made to fight otherwise."
Silanos's response did not offer much in the way of hope, and Mihail felt his lips subconsciously push outwards into a petulant sort of pout. He wasn't quite sure what he had expected in reply, especially as his friend did not share that same interest in men as he did, but he had hoped, at least, to be humoured. Perhaps even a false comment about how things would get better, or a reassurance that he would surely be in a unit with better-looking men would have quelled his discomfort, and yet. He could hear the words leave his mouth before they had even formed in his mind, frown fixed on Silanos as if this were all his fault even though he had no responsibility in the matter. "This is not fair."
He would have said something else, but, of course, the moment had to be interrupted. Mihail didn't want to be here but, more so than that, there were specific individuals with which he didn't exactly want to interact and, for once, it was less about familial loyalties and more about personal humiliations. His grip tightened on the helmet in his hands, as if the sole shout of his name over the crowd was enough to upset him, and rolled his eyes as he turned to face Prince Vangelis. The Megaris unit. Brilliant. Why couldn't Dysius have been drafted into this nightmare instead?
"I will see you later, then, hopefully," he answered his friend, attempting to keep that flirtatious lilt to his voice despite his distaste for this whole situation, then swung on his heel to approach the Crown Prince instead. It would likely be best to get this over and done with.
If he had been any other man, Mihail wondered if he would have found Vangelis attractive. He thought yes, perhaps. The man had the muscular and towering build that he enjoyed in most of his partners, but he was of that family which the youngest Thanasi had been trained to dislike, and he was boring. At least, that was the way Mihail had always thought of the militarily-inclined man, if solely because it was so fundamentally different to his own usual train of thought. He had never once thought he would find himself under the man's direct command, and he was quite unhappy with the current outcome.
"Your Highness." Mihail chose to greet the man with politeness in which he honestly did not believe, hip still tilted outwards as he spoke and bent his head in greeting. He was defiant only in the way one was when they knew they were faced by authority but were angered enough that their thoughts were not fully accepting of that fact, and he made it clear through lack of appropriate stance rather than vocal insults. He was angry, not stupid. "Are we not permitted a little camaraderie in the military? I would have thought it preferred to have all us men on comfortable terms with one another, rather than separating us mid-conversation but, then again, I know little about such things."
"I can already assure you my uniform is perfect," he informed the other, using his spare hand to brush away any stray dirt which might have settled on his bronze cuirass. It may not have been perfectly worn - and he almost doubted it ever would, for this temporary soldier status was not something Mihail intended to make a habit - but he could at least reassure his commanding officer that it was well-made and would protect him well. "But I was rather hoping we could discuss my position in the unit. I am the most skilled archer in Athenia," he puffed up with some pride at this statement, despite the accolade being both old and irrelevant to their current kingdom, "and I should like said skill to be represented, rather than wasted if I am made to fight otherwise."
Vangelis was lucky that his facial features more often than not refused to display his inner feelings. In this particular case they would be a show of distaste, annoyance and general revulsion.
Mihail of Thanasi was a strange creature that seemed unable to realise he was male and - if rumour was to be believed - sought the company of men as he should a woman. Instead of appearing disgusted by such an internal desire, he displayed his defiance for all the world to see with a jaunty angle to his hip, a sashay to his walk and a generally feminine level of attention to his dress.
Vangelis pushed aside all desire he held to perhaps beat the masculinity back into the young man but assuring himself that the Thanasi name deserved such a taint and disappointment within its ranks.
It didn't mean he couldn't dislike it when that disappointment was in his army, though.
"I'm glad your accepting of your ignorance, Lord Thanasi." Vangelis simply stated when the boy spoke of him knowing 'little of such things', taking the boy's words entirely literally. "I can assure you that you will have plenty of time to get to know your fellow men on board the ships, rather than now when other issues are of more import." In Vangelis' experience, acceptance of naivete was the first step to overcoming it. Though he wasn't certain that that was what the man had meant.
His fears were proven right when the boy commented on his 'perfect' uniform and his skills as the greatest archer in all of Athenia (whatever that meant) and how he was a man who deserved to show his skills on the battlefield.
Vangelis had seen such an attitude before in those who had never seen war. They thought it some kind of game. A series of actions where one had to follow orders and jump through hoops and if they obeyed their leaders carefully and had skill with a weapon, they would leave as heroes.
War was not like that.
A uniform was not perfect until the end of a battle. When it was dirty, sweat soaked and covered in the blood of your enemies but had sustained your life. It was the only way that armour could be deemed 'perfect' - the ability to protect. Until it was tested, one could not know.
As for the whole greatest archer in Athenia thing...
"Not a problem, Lord Thanasi." Vangelis stated when demands were made for him to be given a position in which he could show off his skill and power with a bow. "A man of your skill would be most useful in felling the highest number of Egyptians."
The two of them had started to walk back towards the units that Vangelis would be personally in charge of, aside from his role as General of the entire campaign. Walking passed the Magnemea unit which was looking well organised, he drew to a stop beside the Captain of the Megaris contingent so that the man would hear of Vangelis' next determinations and turned to face Mihail once more.
"I shall therefore ensure that you are placed directly on the frontline of attack." He stated, his features once more displaying nothing of his internal amusement over the matter. "You'll have the highest number of enemies against whom to represent your skill."
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Vangelis was lucky that his facial features more often than not refused to display his inner feelings. In this particular case they would be a show of distaste, annoyance and general revulsion.
Mihail of Thanasi was a strange creature that seemed unable to realise he was male and - if rumour was to be believed - sought the company of men as he should a woman. Instead of appearing disgusted by such an internal desire, he displayed his defiance for all the world to see with a jaunty angle to his hip, a sashay to his walk and a generally feminine level of attention to his dress.
Vangelis pushed aside all desire he held to perhaps beat the masculinity back into the young man but assuring himself that the Thanasi name deserved such a taint and disappointment within its ranks.
It didn't mean he couldn't dislike it when that disappointment was in his army, though.
"I'm glad your accepting of your ignorance, Lord Thanasi." Vangelis simply stated when the boy spoke of him knowing 'little of such things', taking the boy's words entirely literally. "I can assure you that you will have plenty of time to get to know your fellow men on board the ships, rather than now when other issues are of more import." In Vangelis' experience, acceptance of naivete was the first step to overcoming it. Though he wasn't certain that that was what the man had meant.
His fears were proven right when the boy commented on his 'perfect' uniform and his skills as the greatest archer in all of Athenia (whatever that meant) and how he was a man who deserved to show his skills on the battlefield.
Vangelis had seen such an attitude before in those who had never seen war. They thought it some kind of game. A series of actions where one had to follow orders and jump through hoops and if they obeyed their leaders carefully and had skill with a weapon, they would leave as heroes.
War was not like that.
A uniform was not perfect until the end of a battle. When it was dirty, sweat soaked and covered in the blood of your enemies but had sustained your life. It was the only way that armour could be deemed 'perfect' - the ability to protect. Until it was tested, one could not know.
As for the whole greatest archer in Athenia thing...
"Not a problem, Lord Thanasi." Vangelis stated when demands were made for him to be given a position in which he could show off his skill and power with a bow. "A man of your skill would be most useful in felling the highest number of Egyptians."
The two of them had started to walk back towards the units that Vangelis would be personally in charge of, aside from his role as General of the entire campaign. Walking passed the Magnemea unit which was looking well organised, he drew to a stop beside the Captain of the Megaris contingent so that the man would hear of Vangelis' next determinations and turned to face Mihail once more.
"I shall therefore ensure that you are placed directly on the frontline of attack." He stated, his features once more displaying nothing of his internal amusement over the matter. "You'll have the highest number of enemies against whom to represent your skill."
Vangelis was lucky that his facial features more often than not refused to display his inner feelings. In this particular case they would be a show of distaste, annoyance and general revulsion.
Mihail of Thanasi was a strange creature that seemed unable to realise he was male and - if rumour was to be believed - sought the company of men as he should a woman. Instead of appearing disgusted by such an internal desire, he displayed his defiance for all the world to see with a jaunty angle to his hip, a sashay to his walk and a generally feminine level of attention to his dress.
Vangelis pushed aside all desire he held to perhaps beat the masculinity back into the young man but assuring himself that the Thanasi name deserved such a taint and disappointment within its ranks.
It didn't mean he couldn't dislike it when that disappointment was in his army, though.
"I'm glad your accepting of your ignorance, Lord Thanasi." Vangelis simply stated when the boy spoke of him knowing 'little of such things', taking the boy's words entirely literally. "I can assure you that you will have plenty of time to get to know your fellow men on board the ships, rather than now when other issues are of more import." In Vangelis' experience, acceptance of naivete was the first step to overcoming it. Though he wasn't certain that that was what the man had meant.
His fears were proven right when the boy commented on his 'perfect' uniform and his skills as the greatest archer in all of Athenia (whatever that meant) and how he was a man who deserved to show his skills on the battlefield.
Vangelis had seen such an attitude before in those who had never seen war. They thought it some kind of game. A series of actions where one had to follow orders and jump through hoops and if they obeyed their leaders carefully and had skill with a weapon, they would leave as heroes.
War was not like that.
A uniform was not perfect until the end of a battle. When it was dirty, sweat soaked and covered in the blood of your enemies but had sustained your life. It was the only way that armour could be deemed 'perfect' - the ability to protect. Until it was tested, one could not know.
As for the whole greatest archer in Athenia thing...
"Not a problem, Lord Thanasi." Vangelis stated when demands were made for him to be given a position in which he could show off his skill and power with a bow. "A man of your skill would be most useful in felling the highest number of Egyptians."
The two of them had started to walk back towards the units that Vangelis would be personally in charge of, aside from his role as General of the entire campaign. Walking passed the Magnemea unit which was looking well organised, he drew to a stop beside the Captain of the Megaris contingent so that the man would hear of Vangelis' next determinations and turned to face Mihail once more.
"I shall therefore ensure that you are placed directly on the frontline of attack." He stated, his features once more displaying nothing of his internal amusement over the matter. "You'll have the highest number of enemies against whom to represent your skill."
Predictably, as a man whom he was led to believe had no particular intentions in meeting his silver-eyed gaze, Damocles came to understand Vangelis’s inconsequential delay in analyzing his troops as a purposeful delay in urging the Magnemean’s wrath to a simmering presence. It was obvious that he was taking his sweet time only to spite the Captain of the Damned. Why else would the bloody general of an entire army otherwise waste so much time in petty trivialities that did not matter at all. His spheres rolled around him, hinting at his subtle mockery at the man that appeared to know no faster movement action than slow. And yet, as he waited for what would possibly be an excuse for that detestable man to fault him for anything he so wished, Damocles’s ears perked with attention and interested at a familiar voice and an amusing interaction that followed.
As if right on cue, that snot-nosed brat he had curried favor with for the last few months, Mihail of Thanasi, just had to open his mouth and make a scene. On a personal level, he did not often spare much thoughts for the youth, aside using him as a resource for the cleaver schemes that machinated inside the colossal militant’s mind. He was pompous, frail and far-too effeminate for the Magnemean’s taste. Nonetheless, even the screaming cries of a craven creature such as Mihail still had their use. Regardless of the oddities he presented at every possible time, the youth was still a royal, and one that hailed from a bloodline that just recently had attached more than a few strings of closeness with those deplorable bears of Kotas. Mayhaps, he would spare one of his eyes to that unofficial fourth daughter of Thanasi.
A smirk formed on the Magnemean’s face as he noticed the bleating shrills that formed from that Thanasi against Vangelis. He might not have known every single aspect of that most hateful man, but it didn’t take much to ascertain that behind his blue eyes, the false Crown Prince was more than annoyed by the other youth’s incessant complaining. Meanwhile, based on what he could recall from his interactions with the questionably-gendered youth, it seemed as though his prior assessment concerning his attitude had not been proven wrong whatsoever. It was surprising to see that he had enlisted in the military, but he suspected that this had been done against his will. That mis-gendered woman was always more interested in fancying proper men of real, proven structure and composition. In accordance to his memory, the youngest of the Thanasi brood would probably have preferred another man’s sheathing sword inside him, rather than besides him. Truly, he knew not how that youth could expect to come off war unscathed and sound. Though perhaps, he could intervene between what was to be an expected disaster and prevent the Thanasi name from being sullied any further.
In fact, as he continued to pay attention to the exchange between his mortal enemy and that oddly-gendered being, Damocles’s mind began to settle together more than a few dark thoughts. It was common knowledge that Vangelis’s closest-aged sibling, Zanon, was married to another Thanasi, one that did behave through the expected paradigms of her sex. Surely, she and her somewhat-less influential sisters would appreciate their war-hardened brother’s safe return home. Deep down, he knew that there was no way in all of Hades’s Underworld that Mihail would come out of this war unscathed and sound. Yet, if protected and safeguarded by his own proven hand and masterful skills, the odds of his unharmed return could be scaled to a profitable balance. Yes, this was a fascinating scenario. A most interesting finding, if he could confess it himself. And it would not be out of place at all, for him to feign faux friendship and brotherly affection for the boy either. In the past, he had tendered his proximity to him slowly, but assuredly, subtly using the right words at the right time to ensnare his grip on that snake-youth more and more. He only had to smile at him once more like the older brother that boy never had, captivate him with his silver eyes and pleasant allurement and secure his trust and confidence for the coming weeks, all a more than simple list of tasks that anyone with the proper tools could use.
And, as far as Damocles could tell, it all made sense for all the parties involved herein. If he guaranteed the boy’s safe return and made sure he didn’t humiliate his family any further with his woeful ignorance of all matters military, Evras of Thanasi, and her kindred would probably smile at him with delightful tones of gratitude and opportunity. It was obvious now to him that neither Vangelis or his little lapdog, Nike, accursed be his name too, would give him the military promotion he so longed for. Yet, if Zanon was forced to capitulate and bend over by means of the pressure his wife and her kindred exerted as gratitude for his heroic actions in defending their brother, then perhaps, their lied a future rise yet. How delightful….
Still, Damocles was not going to delude himself in his machinations. There were more than a few variables that had to be considered and equated if his calculations were to yield his expected results. For one, as he had noted time and time again, Mihail was not a man of the military. He was built for sex, petty intrigues and occasional acts of uncouth sadism. The minute a battle-proven Egyptian came at him with a sword he would probably be sliced in two halves. Furthermore, that youth was not in his immediate line of command and authority. Even if he wished to interfere freely and often, he knew that would not be the case for much. Thus, he would have to be resourceful and diligent, pragmatic in his actions and calculating in his movements so as to maximize his exposure to the boy in a way that was neither too obvious or too traceable to his greater machinations. He was, after all, just a means to an ends, and all means always justified the ends.
It was then that the silver-eyed man came to find a solution to a few of his considerations. True, Damocles might have thought that misgendered child might have been hopelessly futile in battle, despite his ludicrously laughable boasts about archery, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make sure his odds of survival were left to his own hands. Though he never made it a publicly-known part of his military attitude, Damocles did use poison in his unit to make sure every strike and hit of the Damned was lethal. It was conceivable then that the Captain of such a meticulously organized and fiercely perfected unit could afford a small sampling of this unspoken weapon of his and gift it to that Thanasi child for the sake of improving the potency of his arrows. True, the Thanasi were true to their sigil of a snake and could probably concoct a blend that was superior to anything he could ever procure for his private use in warfare. Then again however, it was also believable that, given his reputation of incompetence, the rest of that den of snakes would not entrust Mihail with such a deadly weapon. This, of course, further aligned with another aspect of his orchestrating strategies. By means of vim and vigor, he could just as easily give that additive to the boy as a gift, sweetening their relationship further still so as to make him behold the silver-eyed Colchian with nothing short of supposed brotherly fondness. Yes, all seemed to be manifesting perfectly in his mind. Alas, his plots and conspiracies had to be put on hold for now. Evidently, his time for inspection was fast-approaching and he would not have his forces be in any shape other than perfect.
Turning his silver gaze at the men behind him, Damocles cast a threatening look at the soldiers under his command, silently issuing an order to look as professional and as painstakingly well-organized as he had instructed. Backs were straightened, shoulders were pushed back and eyes were set forward, with the colors of the Houses they swore loyalty to being firmly displayed. His lieutenants, men and women of deep trust and unwavering support, all focused their attentions over the men, wasting no words before correcting any possible imperfections. It was an unspoken rule that those that did not meet the exceedingly high standards of the captain were to do everything in their power improve themselves before coming to one of the officers for advice. The dark-armored Captain of the Damned ran a very tight ship, he had no time to put up with the bullshit of the warriors beneath him. Once he was satisfied with the borderline scare tactics he relied upon to guarantee order and structure in his unruly unit, he turned back to the front of the unit, awaiting whatever criticism that Crown Prince would raise against him.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Predictably, as a man whom he was led to believe had no particular intentions in meeting his silver-eyed gaze, Damocles came to understand Vangelis’s inconsequential delay in analyzing his troops as a purposeful delay in urging the Magnemean’s wrath to a simmering presence. It was obvious that he was taking his sweet time only to spite the Captain of the Damned. Why else would the bloody general of an entire army otherwise waste so much time in petty trivialities that did not matter at all. His spheres rolled around him, hinting at his subtle mockery at the man that appeared to know no faster movement action than slow. And yet, as he waited for what would possibly be an excuse for that detestable man to fault him for anything he so wished, Damocles’s ears perked with attention and interested at a familiar voice and an amusing interaction that followed.
As if right on cue, that snot-nosed brat he had curried favor with for the last few months, Mihail of Thanasi, just had to open his mouth and make a scene. On a personal level, he did not often spare much thoughts for the youth, aside using him as a resource for the cleaver schemes that machinated inside the colossal militant’s mind. He was pompous, frail and far-too effeminate for the Magnemean’s taste. Nonetheless, even the screaming cries of a craven creature such as Mihail still had their use. Regardless of the oddities he presented at every possible time, the youth was still a royal, and one that hailed from a bloodline that just recently had attached more than a few strings of closeness with those deplorable bears of Kotas. Mayhaps, he would spare one of his eyes to that unofficial fourth daughter of Thanasi.
A smirk formed on the Magnemean’s face as he noticed the bleating shrills that formed from that Thanasi against Vangelis. He might not have known every single aspect of that most hateful man, but it didn’t take much to ascertain that behind his blue eyes, the false Crown Prince was more than annoyed by the other youth’s incessant complaining. Meanwhile, based on what he could recall from his interactions with the questionably-gendered youth, it seemed as though his prior assessment concerning his attitude had not been proven wrong whatsoever. It was surprising to see that he had enlisted in the military, but he suspected that this had been done against his will. That mis-gendered woman was always more interested in fancying proper men of real, proven structure and composition. In accordance to his memory, the youngest of the Thanasi brood would probably have preferred another man’s sheathing sword inside him, rather than besides him. Truly, he knew not how that youth could expect to come off war unscathed and sound. Though perhaps, he could intervene between what was to be an expected disaster and prevent the Thanasi name from being sullied any further.
In fact, as he continued to pay attention to the exchange between his mortal enemy and that oddly-gendered being, Damocles’s mind began to settle together more than a few dark thoughts. It was common knowledge that Vangelis’s closest-aged sibling, Zanon, was married to another Thanasi, one that did behave through the expected paradigms of her sex. Surely, she and her somewhat-less influential sisters would appreciate their war-hardened brother’s safe return home. Deep down, he knew that there was no way in all of Hades’s Underworld that Mihail would come out of this war unscathed and sound. Yet, if protected and safeguarded by his own proven hand and masterful skills, the odds of his unharmed return could be scaled to a profitable balance. Yes, this was a fascinating scenario. A most interesting finding, if he could confess it himself. And it would not be out of place at all, for him to feign faux friendship and brotherly affection for the boy either. In the past, he had tendered his proximity to him slowly, but assuredly, subtly using the right words at the right time to ensnare his grip on that snake-youth more and more. He only had to smile at him once more like the older brother that boy never had, captivate him with his silver eyes and pleasant allurement and secure his trust and confidence for the coming weeks, all a more than simple list of tasks that anyone with the proper tools could use.
And, as far as Damocles could tell, it all made sense for all the parties involved herein. If he guaranteed the boy’s safe return and made sure he didn’t humiliate his family any further with his woeful ignorance of all matters military, Evras of Thanasi, and her kindred would probably smile at him with delightful tones of gratitude and opportunity. It was obvious now to him that neither Vangelis or his little lapdog, Nike, accursed be his name too, would give him the military promotion he so longed for. Yet, if Zanon was forced to capitulate and bend over by means of the pressure his wife and her kindred exerted as gratitude for his heroic actions in defending their brother, then perhaps, their lied a future rise yet. How delightful….
Still, Damocles was not going to delude himself in his machinations. There were more than a few variables that had to be considered and equated if his calculations were to yield his expected results. For one, as he had noted time and time again, Mihail was not a man of the military. He was built for sex, petty intrigues and occasional acts of uncouth sadism. The minute a battle-proven Egyptian came at him with a sword he would probably be sliced in two halves. Furthermore, that youth was not in his immediate line of command and authority. Even if he wished to interfere freely and often, he knew that would not be the case for much. Thus, he would have to be resourceful and diligent, pragmatic in his actions and calculating in his movements so as to maximize his exposure to the boy in a way that was neither too obvious or too traceable to his greater machinations. He was, after all, just a means to an ends, and all means always justified the ends.
It was then that the silver-eyed man came to find a solution to a few of his considerations. True, Damocles might have thought that misgendered child might have been hopelessly futile in battle, despite his ludicrously laughable boasts about archery, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make sure his odds of survival were left to his own hands. Though he never made it a publicly-known part of his military attitude, Damocles did use poison in his unit to make sure every strike and hit of the Damned was lethal. It was conceivable then that the Captain of such a meticulously organized and fiercely perfected unit could afford a small sampling of this unspoken weapon of his and gift it to that Thanasi child for the sake of improving the potency of his arrows. True, the Thanasi were true to their sigil of a snake and could probably concoct a blend that was superior to anything he could ever procure for his private use in warfare. Then again however, it was also believable that, given his reputation of incompetence, the rest of that den of snakes would not entrust Mihail with such a deadly weapon. This, of course, further aligned with another aspect of his orchestrating strategies. By means of vim and vigor, he could just as easily give that additive to the boy as a gift, sweetening their relationship further still so as to make him behold the silver-eyed Colchian with nothing short of supposed brotherly fondness. Yes, all seemed to be manifesting perfectly in his mind. Alas, his plots and conspiracies had to be put on hold for now. Evidently, his time for inspection was fast-approaching and he would not have his forces be in any shape other than perfect.
Turning his silver gaze at the men behind him, Damocles cast a threatening look at the soldiers under his command, silently issuing an order to look as professional and as painstakingly well-organized as he had instructed. Backs were straightened, shoulders were pushed back and eyes were set forward, with the colors of the Houses they swore loyalty to being firmly displayed. His lieutenants, men and women of deep trust and unwavering support, all focused their attentions over the men, wasting no words before correcting any possible imperfections. It was an unspoken rule that those that did not meet the exceedingly high standards of the captain were to do everything in their power improve themselves before coming to one of the officers for advice. The dark-armored Captain of the Damned ran a very tight ship, he had no time to put up with the bullshit of the warriors beneath him. Once he was satisfied with the borderline scare tactics he relied upon to guarantee order and structure in his unruly unit, he turned back to the front of the unit, awaiting whatever criticism that Crown Prince would raise against him.
Predictably, as a man whom he was led to believe had no particular intentions in meeting his silver-eyed gaze, Damocles came to understand Vangelis’s inconsequential delay in analyzing his troops as a purposeful delay in urging the Magnemean’s wrath to a simmering presence. It was obvious that he was taking his sweet time only to spite the Captain of the Damned. Why else would the bloody general of an entire army otherwise waste so much time in petty trivialities that did not matter at all. His spheres rolled around him, hinting at his subtle mockery at the man that appeared to know no faster movement action than slow. And yet, as he waited for what would possibly be an excuse for that detestable man to fault him for anything he so wished, Damocles’s ears perked with attention and interested at a familiar voice and an amusing interaction that followed.
As if right on cue, that snot-nosed brat he had curried favor with for the last few months, Mihail of Thanasi, just had to open his mouth and make a scene. On a personal level, he did not often spare much thoughts for the youth, aside using him as a resource for the cleaver schemes that machinated inside the colossal militant’s mind. He was pompous, frail and far-too effeminate for the Magnemean’s taste. Nonetheless, even the screaming cries of a craven creature such as Mihail still had their use. Regardless of the oddities he presented at every possible time, the youth was still a royal, and one that hailed from a bloodline that just recently had attached more than a few strings of closeness with those deplorable bears of Kotas. Mayhaps, he would spare one of his eyes to that unofficial fourth daughter of Thanasi.
A smirk formed on the Magnemean’s face as he noticed the bleating shrills that formed from that Thanasi against Vangelis. He might not have known every single aspect of that most hateful man, but it didn’t take much to ascertain that behind his blue eyes, the false Crown Prince was more than annoyed by the other youth’s incessant complaining. Meanwhile, based on what he could recall from his interactions with the questionably-gendered youth, it seemed as though his prior assessment concerning his attitude had not been proven wrong whatsoever. It was surprising to see that he had enlisted in the military, but he suspected that this had been done against his will. That mis-gendered woman was always more interested in fancying proper men of real, proven structure and composition. In accordance to his memory, the youngest of the Thanasi brood would probably have preferred another man’s sheathing sword inside him, rather than besides him. Truly, he knew not how that youth could expect to come off war unscathed and sound. Though perhaps, he could intervene between what was to be an expected disaster and prevent the Thanasi name from being sullied any further.
In fact, as he continued to pay attention to the exchange between his mortal enemy and that oddly-gendered being, Damocles’s mind began to settle together more than a few dark thoughts. It was common knowledge that Vangelis’s closest-aged sibling, Zanon, was married to another Thanasi, one that did behave through the expected paradigms of her sex. Surely, she and her somewhat-less influential sisters would appreciate their war-hardened brother’s safe return home. Deep down, he knew that there was no way in all of Hades’s Underworld that Mihail would come out of this war unscathed and sound. Yet, if protected and safeguarded by his own proven hand and masterful skills, the odds of his unharmed return could be scaled to a profitable balance. Yes, this was a fascinating scenario. A most interesting finding, if he could confess it himself. And it would not be out of place at all, for him to feign faux friendship and brotherly affection for the boy either. In the past, he had tendered his proximity to him slowly, but assuredly, subtly using the right words at the right time to ensnare his grip on that snake-youth more and more. He only had to smile at him once more like the older brother that boy never had, captivate him with his silver eyes and pleasant allurement and secure his trust and confidence for the coming weeks, all a more than simple list of tasks that anyone with the proper tools could use.
And, as far as Damocles could tell, it all made sense for all the parties involved herein. If he guaranteed the boy’s safe return and made sure he didn’t humiliate his family any further with his woeful ignorance of all matters military, Evras of Thanasi, and her kindred would probably smile at him with delightful tones of gratitude and opportunity. It was obvious now to him that neither Vangelis or his little lapdog, Nike, accursed be his name too, would give him the military promotion he so longed for. Yet, if Zanon was forced to capitulate and bend over by means of the pressure his wife and her kindred exerted as gratitude for his heroic actions in defending their brother, then perhaps, their lied a future rise yet. How delightful….
Still, Damocles was not going to delude himself in his machinations. There were more than a few variables that had to be considered and equated if his calculations were to yield his expected results. For one, as he had noted time and time again, Mihail was not a man of the military. He was built for sex, petty intrigues and occasional acts of uncouth sadism. The minute a battle-proven Egyptian came at him with a sword he would probably be sliced in two halves. Furthermore, that youth was not in his immediate line of command and authority. Even if he wished to interfere freely and often, he knew that would not be the case for much. Thus, he would have to be resourceful and diligent, pragmatic in his actions and calculating in his movements so as to maximize his exposure to the boy in a way that was neither too obvious or too traceable to his greater machinations. He was, after all, just a means to an ends, and all means always justified the ends.
It was then that the silver-eyed man came to find a solution to a few of his considerations. True, Damocles might have thought that misgendered child might have been hopelessly futile in battle, despite his ludicrously laughable boasts about archery, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make sure his odds of survival were left to his own hands. Though he never made it a publicly-known part of his military attitude, Damocles did use poison in his unit to make sure every strike and hit of the Damned was lethal. It was conceivable then that the Captain of such a meticulously organized and fiercely perfected unit could afford a small sampling of this unspoken weapon of his and gift it to that Thanasi child for the sake of improving the potency of his arrows. True, the Thanasi were true to their sigil of a snake and could probably concoct a blend that was superior to anything he could ever procure for his private use in warfare. Then again however, it was also believable that, given his reputation of incompetence, the rest of that den of snakes would not entrust Mihail with such a deadly weapon. This, of course, further aligned with another aspect of his orchestrating strategies. By means of vim and vigor, he could just as easily give that additive to the boy as a gift, sweetening their relationship further still so as to make him behold the silver-eyed Colchian with nothing short of supposed brotherly fondness. Yes, all seemed to be manifesting perfectly in his mind. Alas, his plots and conspiracies had to be put on hold for now. Evidently, his time for inspection was fast-approaching and he would not have his forces be in any shape other than perfect.
Turning his silver gaze at the men behind him, Damocles cast a threatening look at the soldiers under his command, silently issuing an order to look as professional and as painstakingly well-organized as he had instructed. Backs were straightened, shoulders were pushed back and eyes were set forward, with the colors of the Houses they swore loyalty to being firmly displayed. His lieutenants, men and women of deep trust and unwavering support, all focused their attentions over the men, wasting no words before correcting any possible imperfections. It was an unspoken rule that those that did not meet the exceedingly high standards of the captain were to do everything in their power improve themselves before coming to one of the officers for advice. The dark-armored Captain of the Damned ran a very tight ship, he had no time to put up with the bullshit of the warriors beneath him. Once he was satisfied with the borderline scare tactics he relied upon to guarantee order and structure in his unruly unit, he turned back to the front of the unit, awaiting whatever criticism that Crown Prince would raise against him.
The King took his time in observing the troops before him, standing beside Stephanos with an expression that illustrated his own attention to detail. He did not take Stephanos' observation of his own troops as a knock against the Colchian armies. To return from one war and then feed straight into another was bound to be straining on the supply chain and many of the young men heading to Egypt were young, untried, and had never seen battle outside of the ring. Some were new additions to Colchis' forces, and that couldn't be helped.
Colchis would need as many men as they could manage to bring with them and Tython was aware of the risks of this. He knew that some boys wore the armor of retired fathers, did not have the strength to hold shields, or had barely finished their basic training. Some of them, this was their first time standing in the rows of men who were heading off to war. This was not something that Tython liked to see, but it was necessary. What he didn't like was watching one of Colchis' barons and military Captains going off on one of the poor young men.
Tython remembered what it was like to go to war for the very first time, Lord Timaeus' behavior toward the soldier would certainly see the boy fall for lack of courage. The King did not miss the way that the baron seemed to eye Stephanos, smirking almost as if he was trying to assert dominance for absolutely no reason other than to test their Taengea guest. To Stephanos' credit, he took things in stride, saying little and keeping his tone polite in the face of a challenger.
Shifting slightly from foot to foot, Tython fixed the baron with a very stern look, stepping slightly back from Stephanos' shoulder to make himself more visible. Having witnessed everything from where he stood, the king let his gaze continue to watch the men before him. Tython continued to walk the row he was observing, stopping to meet up with the boy that had been yelled at. Carefully, he reached out, tightened one of the straps on the boy's armor. It seemed far too big for him. Far too heavy. It was clearly the armor a father had once wore. Breathing deeply through his nose, he gave the slightest nod of encouragement to the young soldier.
In any other situation, he would have been far too slight and small to go to war. But they needed the manpower. Unfortunately.
"Lord Valaoritis," the King called from where he stood in front of the young soldier. "How good it is of you to join your fellow men in preparing for war," he said casually. He was not pleased with the behavior. Not only was Timaeus late and still mounted atop his horse, something that even Tython and Vangelis were not, but he was trying to pull dominance from a commander. A guest of Colchis who had so graciously taken up the mantle of another's Kingdom's military force. In addition, no title of King or not, Stephanos was still far higher born than the Valaoritis family would ever be. Not to mention, he was being incredibly embarrassing.
"Dismount from your horse, my lord," the King noted, still without looking at Timaeus at all, "And seek out Prince Vangelis to alert him of your tardy arrival. I'm sure he'll have some little errands for you to run since you couldn't be bothered to show up for the showing of your own troops. Commander Stephanos does not need your aid here today," Tython declared and then turned back to walk toward Stephanos.
With the Valaoritis pest taken care of, the King crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Walk through your men again. Any soldier that looks like their armor is too large for them, take note of. I'll ensure that they're properly outfitted by the end of the day. Good work, Commander," Tython noted calmly to Stephanos, giving him the barest of nods before he continued on to observe the rest of the troops.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
The King took his time in observing the troops before him, standing beside Stephanos with an expression that illustrated his own attention to detail. He did not take Stephanos' observation of his own troops as a knock against the Colchian armies. To return from one war and then feed straight into another was bound to be straining on the supply chain and many of the young men heading to Egypt were young, untried, and had never seen battle outside of the ring. Some were new additions to Colchis' forces, and that couldn't be helped.
Colchis would need as many men as they could manage to bring with them and Tython was aware of the risks of this. He knew that some boys wore the armor of retired fathers, did not have the strength to hold shields, or had barely finished their basic training. Some of them, this was their first time standing in the rows of men who were heading off to war. This was not something that Tython liked to see, but it was necessary. What he didn't like was watching one of Colchis' barons and military Captains going off on one of the poor young men.
Tython remembered what it was like to go to war for the very first time, Lord Timaeus' behavior toward the soldier would certainly see the boy fall for lack of courage. The King did not miss the way that the baron seemed to eye Stephanos, smirking almost as if he was trying to assert dominance for absolutely no reason other than to test their Taengea guest. To Stephanos' credit, he took things in stride, saying little and keeping his tone polite in the face of a challenger.
Shifting slightly from foot to foot, Tython fixed the baron with a very stern look, stepping slightly back from Stephanos' shoulder to make himself more visible. Having witnessed everything from where he stood, the king let his gaze continue to watch the men before him. Tython continued to walk the row he was observing, stopping to meet up with the boy that had been yelled at. Carefully, he reached out, tightened one of the straps on the boy's armor. It seemed far too big for him. Far too heavy. It was clearly the armor a father had once wore. Breathing deeply through his nose, he gave the slightest nod of encouragement to the young soldier.
In any other situation, he would have been far too slight and small to go to war. But they needed the manpower. Unfortunately.
"Lord Valaoritis," the King called from where he stood in front of the young soldier. "How good it is of you to join your fellow men in preparing for war," he said casually. He was not pleased with the behavior. Not only was Timaeus late and still mounted atop his horse, something that even Tython and Vangelis were not, but he was trying to pull dominance from a commander. A guest of Colchis who had so graciously taken up the mantle of another's Kingdom's military force. In addition, no title of King or not, Stephanos was still far higher born than the Valaoritis family would ever be. Not to mention, he was being incredibly embarrassing.
"Dismount from your horse, my lord," the King noted, still without looking at Timaeus at all, "And seek out Prince Vangelis to alert him of your tardy arrival. I'm sure he'll have some little errands for you to run since you couldn't be bothered to show up for the showing of your own troops. Commander Stephanos does not need your aid here today," Tython declared and then turned back to walk toward Stephanos.
With the Valaoritis pest taken care of, the King crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Walk through your men again. Any soldier that looks like their armor is too large for them, take note of. I'll ensure that they're properly outfitted by the end of the day. Good work, Commander," Tython noted calmly to Stephanos, giving him the barest of nods before he continued on to observe the rest of the troops.
The King took his time in observing the troops before him, standing beside Stephanos with an expression that illustrated his own attention to detail. He did not take Stephanos' observation of his own troops as a knock against the Colchian armies. To return from one war and then feed straight into another was bound to be straining on the supply chain and many of the young men heading to Egypt were young, untried, and had never seen battle outside of the ring. Some were new additions to Colchis' forces, and that couldn't be helped.
Colchis would need as many men as they could manage to bring with them and Tython was aware of the risks of this. He knew that some boys wore the armor of retired fathers, did not have the strength to hold shields, or had barely finished their basic training. Some of them, this was their first time standing in the rows of men who were heading off to war. This was not something that Tython liked to see, but it was necessary. What he didn't like was watching one of Colchis' barons and military Captains going off on one of the poor young men.
Tython remembered what it was like to go to war for the very first time, Lord Timaeus' behavior toward the soldier would certainly see the boy fall for lack of courage. The King did not miss the way that the baron seemed to eye Stephanos, smirking almost as if he was trying to assert dominance for absolutely no reason other than to test their Taengea guest. To Stephanos' credit, he took things in stride, saying little and keeping his tone polite in the face of a challenger.
Shifting slightly from foot to foot, Tython fixed the baron with a very stern look, stepping slightly back from Stephanos' shoulder to make himself more visible. Having witnessed everything from where he stood, the king let his gaze continue to watch the men before him. Tython continued to walk the row he was observing, stopping to meet up with the boy that had been yelled at. Carefully, he reached out, tightened one of the straps on the boy's armor. It seemed far too big for him. Far too heavy. It was clearly the armor a father had once wore. Breathing deeply through his nose, he gave the slightest nod of encouragement to the young soldier.
In any other situation, he would have been far too slight and small to go to war. But they needed the manpower. Unfortunately.
"Lord Valaoritis," the King called from where he stood in front of the young soldier. "How good it is of you to join your fellow men in preparing for war," he said casually. He was not pleased with the behavior. Not only was Timaeus late and still mounted atop his horse, something that even Tython and Vangelis were not, but he was trying to pull dominance from a commander. A guest of Colchis who had so graciously taken up the mantle of another's Kingdom's military force. In addition, no title of King or not, Stephanos was still far higher born than the Valaoritis family would ever be. Not to mention, he was being incredibly embarrassing.
"Dismount from your horse, my lord," the King noted, still without looking at Timaeus at all, "And seek out Prince Vangelis to alert him of your tardy arrival. I'm sure he'll have some little errands for you to run since you couldn't be bothered to show up for the showing of your own troops. Commander Stephanos does not need your aid here today," Tython declared and then turned back to walk toward Stephanos.
With the Valaoritis pest taken care of, the King crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Walk through your men again. Any soldier that looks like their armor is too large for them, take note of. I'll ensure that they're properly outfitted by the end of the day. Good work, Commander," Tython noted calmly to Stephanos, giving him the barest of nods before he continued on to observe the rest of the troops.
Mihail was unsure Vangelis had intended his words the way they came out, but he did not complain at the suggestion that he would be able to get to know the rest of the men once they were on the ship. For all the less than appealing men he had seen in his brief time at this camp, there had been a few who had tickled his interest, and if they were the ones who would appear on his ship, then he supposed he could not complain too intently. They might even manage to distract from the horrors of the bottomless ocean.
"I shall keep your promise in mind, your Highness," he replied, lips twisting into the mildest of smirks at the satisfaction of being given such an opportunity. It may not have been a promise, but he had decided to take it as such, and if there were not men with which he wished to get better acquainted once aboard the boats, then it would be the prince's fault in his mind. "I am certain that I shall become close with all my fellow soldiers once we have boarded."
At least his status as an archer was being acknowledged. Knowing Father, Mihail had half-expected that he would have been thrown into an army role in which he would naturally fail, and, even though he had brought his equipment with him when arriving for his inspection that day, it was not until now that he was sure he was in his preferred position. Perhaps this would not be so awful after all, if he could actually prove his worth as a fighter.
"Good," Mihail muttered, although he did not voice the thought further, only followed Vangelis through the campsite with the kind of slow gait which implied he did not really wish to be there, but had no choice. The youngest Thanasi was still, after all, clinging to the hope that one of his sisters might say something and turn this nightmare around before it came to fruition, and he would never have to go to war at all. "I have had plenty of practice on all manner of targets, so I can assure you that no other here shall match my talent." So far as he was concerned, all their years of training meant nothing if they did not possess the same degree of passion for the sport as he.
However, as the pair of them drew to a stop beside the Megaris captain, and Vangelis made his next statement, Mihail's features contorted from that somewhat smug expression he had worn into a confused frown tinted with fear. "What?" he demanded, temporarily forgetting his manners at the suggestion that he should be on the frontlines. "I am not a trained soldier, and my ability lies in shooting at the enemy from a distance. I cannot be on the frontlines of any battle, else not only shall my skill be wasted, but I shall die." He could not fight all that much against Vangelis, unfortunately, for the decision to do so would have been thoroughly stupid, but his expression turned angrily towards the Megaris captain, and he fell back onto the only threat he had for such people, if solely because it was the only way he felt he could have any control over the situation. "If I die, then my sisters shall find out, and on your head be it."
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
Mihail was unsure Vangelis had intended his words the way they came out, but he did not complain at the suggestion that he would be able to get to know the rest of the men once they were on the ship. For all the less than appealing men he had seen in his brief time at this camp, there had been a few who had tickled his interest, and if they were the ones who would appear on his ship, then he supposed he could not complain too intently. They might even manage to distract from the horrors of the bottomless ocean.
"I shall keep your promise in mind, your Highness," he replied, lips twisting into the mildest of smirks at the satisfaction of being given such an opportunity. It may not have been a promise, but he had decided to take it as such, and if there were not men with which he wished to get better acquainted once aboard the boats, then it would be the prince's fault in his mind. "I am certain that I shall become close with all my fellow soldiers once we have boarded."
At least his status as an archer was being acknowledged. Knowing Father, Mihail had half-expected that he would have been thrown into an army role in which he would naturally fail, and, even though he had brought his equipment with him when arriving for his inspection that day, it was not until now that he was sure he was in his preferred position. Perhaps this would not be so awful after all, if he could actually prove his worth as a fighter.
"Good," Mihail muttered, although he did not voice the thought further, only followed Vangelis through the campsite with the kind of slow gait which implied he did not really wish to be there, but had no choice. The youngest Thanasi was still, after all, clinging to the hope that one of his sisters might say something and turn this nightmare around before it came to fruition, and he would never have to go to war at all. "I have had plenty of practice on all manner of targets, so I can assure you that no other here shall match my talent." So far as he was concerned, all their years of training meant nothing if they did not possess the same degree of passion for the sport as he.
However, as the pair of them drew to a stop beside the Megaris captain, and Vangelis made his next statement, Mihail's features contorted from that somewhat smug expression he had worn into a confused frown tinted with fear. "What?" he demanded, temporarily forgetting his manners at the suggestion that he should be on the frontlines. "I am not a trained soldier, and my ability lies in shooting at the enemy from a distance. I cannot be on the frontlines of any battle, else not only shall my skill be wasted, but I shall die." He could not fight all that much against Vangelis, unfortunately, for the decision to do so would have been thoroughly stupid, but his expression turned angrily towards the Megaris captain, and he fell back onto the only threat he had for such people, if solely because it was the only way he felt he could have any control over the situation. "If I die, then my sisters shall find out, and on your head be it."
Mihail was unsure Vangelis had intended his words the way they came out, but he did not complain at the suggestion that he would be able to get to know the rest of the men once they were on the ship. For all the less than appealing men he had seen in his brief time at this camp, there had been a few who had tickled his interest, and if they were the ones who would appear on his ship, then he supposed he could not complain too intently. They might even manage to distract from the horrors of the bottomless ocean.
"I shall keep your promise in mind, your Highness," he replied, lips twisting into the mildest of smirks at the satisfaction of being given such an opportunity. It may not have been a promise, but he had decided to take it as such, and if there were not men with which he wished to get better acquainted once aboard the boats, then it would be the prince's fault in his mind. "I am certain that I shall become close with all my fellow soldiers once we have boarded."
At least his status as an archer was being acknowledged. Knowing Father, Mihail had half-expected that he would have been thrown into an army role in which he would naturally fail, and, even though he had brought his equipment with him when arriving for his inspection that day, it was not until now that he was sure he was in his preferred position. Perhaps this would not be so awful after all, if he could actually prove his worth as a fighter.
"Good," Mihail muttered, although he did not voice the thought further, only followed Vangelis through the campsite with the kind of slow gait which implied he did not really wish to be there, but had no choice. The youngest Thanasi was still, after all, clinging to the hope that one of his sisters might say something and turn this nightmare around before it came to fruition, and he would never have to go to war at all. "I have had plenty of practice on all manner of targets, so I can assure you that no other here shall match my talent." So far as he was concerned, all their years of training meant nothing if they did not possess the same degree of passion for the sport as he.
However, as the pair of them drew to a stop beside the Megaris captain, and Vangelis made his next statement, Mihail's features contorted from that somewhat smug expression he had worn into a confused frown tinted with fear. "What?" he demanded, temporarily forgetting his manners at the suggestion that he should be on the frontlines. "I am not a trained soldier, and my ability lies in shooting at the enemy from a distance. I cannot be on the frontlines of any battle, else not only shall my skill be wasted, but I shall die." He could not fight all that much against Vangelis, unfortunately, for the decision to do so would have been thoroughly stupid, but his expression turned angrily towards the Megaris captain, and he fell back onto the only threat he had for such people, if solely because it was the only way he felt he could have any control over the situation. "If I die, then my sisters shall find out, and on your head be it."