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The pits of the Midas mines were not like those of larger mining operations. Where the tunnels beneath Dolomesa or Magnemea were as large as the mountains beneath which they sat, Midas' were smaller and twistier. The mines to the north could boast thoroughfares taller than the tallest of men and wide enough for an entire unit of half a dozen miners to work together in a single space. The mountains of the northern Kirakles isles were large and the land mass beneath the surface of the sea extensive and broad. Such a belly yielded much by way of ore and was strong enough to sustain large holes carved from its foundations in order to get to it.
In Midas, there was only a few peaks upon which the capitol sat. And whilst it might have been wiser not to dig and weaken the foundations upon which your favoured city stood, the ore supplies beneath the capitol were of the purest quality in all of Colchis. Worth more in a single nugget than a cartload from the north, there was little to stop previous generations from digging down into the ground to seek their fortune. It was how the capitol city had first come to be...
Yet, with a major settlement resting on the lands above, the tunnels cut into the land in an incredibly careful manner. The mine officials who monitored the workers and the yield were as much mathematicians and architects as they were labourers. Their role was less to ensure that the slaves did their work and dug into the rock than it was to ensure exactly where and how far in they were digging. Everything was carefully calculated, with smaller numbers of miners working on particular lodes so that only the ore itself was removed from the caverns - no more. After a tunnel was sufficiently rendered inert of useful material, it was then resealed, with tar and rock, to support the buildings above once more.
That wasn't to say that the mines were not dangerous, nor difficult to work within. The demand for their fodder was high and the speed with each the miners were expected to free such metal from its craggy prison was infinite. Yet, they were not given the space that other mines could afford. The largest of the tunnels was perhaps three quarters the height of a man and just wide enough that he might lay his arms outstretched. The smallest, required only children to edge sideways through passes and work against the rock closest to their own noses.
Thanks to the settlements above, lighting fires and the torches needed in the cramped confines just for light, the tunnels were swelteringly hot. Sweat and dirty laced the skin of every worker, soaking through what little clothing they wore against the heat and causing skin to rasp and chafe against its brother limb.
One such worker, was hardly used to such conditions in his life, but had refused to complain.
Crown Prince Vangelis of Kotas, was only a few months away from his fourteenth birthday. Considered a man over a year ago, he had been late in tending to his family's generational tradition of serving six months in the tunnels of Midas. So far, three weeks of his term had been served. But it had only taken a day for his appearance to shift naturally into that of the men around him.
Doused from head to toe in his own sweat, his young body gleamed in the torchlight, with patches masked from shine by the dirt, grit and smears of rock dust over his face, chest, arms and legs. Dressed in a simple, single-shouldered tunic that cut off just above the knees and sandals that had seen better days now that they had suffered a few weeks underground, Vangelis had long since abandoned the bracers, himation and crown that he had entered the mines with. His rings of formal rank and position had never entered the tunnels for he had not wished them lost and he wore only the leather braided bracelet that Silas had given him the year before.
Despite the fact that his tunic was of finer quality - even covered in dirt, sweat and the occasional blood stain - than the rags worn by those around him, Vangelis looked more or less like a common slave. He just appeared newer to the job than those whom he worked alongside.
Where the slaves around him held muscles as hard and sharply formed as the rocks into which they cut, Vangelis was supple and leaner. Fit he might have been due to the physical training and tutorship he had been given in swordplay and weaponry, but it took years of daily labour to form the figures of the men around him. Years that he did not have beneath his belt.
Yet the young man had never once complained. Not aloud anyway. He was too distracted by the explanations of the experience whispering through his mind in a voice like his father's but with all the bearing of his ancestors before him. The mines were a lesson in humility, in modesty... in realisation of the efforts made by the people of the kingdom to ensure its success.
By the end of the experience, Vangelis would have the strongest worth ethic he had ever possessed and would go on to wield it with great assurance. That no matter how hard he worked as a prince and soldier, he would never have worked a day harder than the men in these mines. So, what did he have to complain about?
Working in one of the slightly larger openings that afternoon - at least he assumed it to be the latter part of the day given how long he felt he had worked; only horns, sounded from nearer the surface told them when the sun rose and set - Vangelis was thankful for the sleep he had had the night before. It had taken him several weeks to be able to slumber within the mines. His body used to the padding of a mattress stuffed with animal feathers, being ordered by his foreman to find a rocky recess for the night to curl up in and sleep had been a strange experience that had yielded little slumber. It had been warm, true enough, but uncomfortable in the extreme and it was only recently that Vangelis had managed to sleep for the six hours given each night to the workers.
Using a bronze pin and full rock hammer to chisel at the rock's inner wall, Vangelis gritted his teeth against the skin he had rubbed raw on his palm and the inside of his fingers. He resisted the urge to set down his tools, unpeel his digits and suck upon the damaged skin in a childlike manner.
All the other men were working the same hours with the same tools without reducing themselves to such dramatics, he reminded himself. And he could do the same...
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.
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The pits of the Midas mines were not like those of larger mining operations. Where the tunnels beneath Dolomesa or Magnemea were as large as the mountains beneath which they sat, Midas' were smaller and twistier. The mines to the north could boast thoroughfares taller than the tallest of men and wide enough for an entire unit of half a dozen miners to work together in a single space. The mountains of the northern Kirakles isles were large and the land mass beneath the surface of the sea extensive and broad. Such a belly yielded much by way of ore and was strong enough to sustain large holes carved from its foundations in order to get to it.
In Midas, there was only a few peaks upon which the capitol sat. And whilst it might have been wiser not to dig and weaken the foundations upon which your favoured city stood, the ore supplies beneath the capitol were of the purest quality in all of Colchis. Worth more in a single nugget than a cartload from the north, there was little to stop previous generations from digging down into the ground to seek their fortune. It was how the capitol city had first come to be...
Yet, with a major settlement resting on the lands above, the tunnels cut into the land in an incredibly careful manner. The mine officials who monitored the workers and the yield were as much mathematicians and architects as they were labourers. Their role was less to ensure that the slaves did their work and dug into the rock than it was to ensure exactly where and how far in they were digging. Everything was carefully calculated, with smaller numbers of miners working on particular lodes so that only the ore itself was removed from the caverns - no more. After a tunnel was sufficiently rendered inert of useful material, it was then resealed, with tar and rock, to support the buildings above once more.
That wasn't to say that the mines were not dangerous, nor difficult to work within. The demand for their fodder was high and the speed with each the miners were expected to free such metal from its craggy prison was infinite. Yet, they were not given the space that other mines could afford. The largest of the tunnels was perhaps three quarters the height of a man and just wide enough that he might lay his arms outstretched. The smallest, required only children to edge sideways through passes and work against the rock closest to their own noses.
Thanks to the settlements above, lighting fires and the torches needed in the cramped confines just for light, the tunnels were swelteringly hot. Sweat and dirty laced the skin of every worker, soaking through what little clothing they wore against the heat and causing skin to rasp and chafe against its brother limb.
One such worker, was hardly used to such conditions in his life, but had refused to complain.
Crown Prince Vangelis of Kotas, was only a few months away from his fourteenth birthday. Considered a man over a year ago, he had been late in tending to his family's generational tradition of serving six months in the tunnels of Midas. So far, three weeks of his term had been served. But it had only taken a day for his appearance to shift naturally into that of the men around him.
Doused from head to toe in his own sweat, his young body gleamed in the torchlight, with patches masked from shine by the dirt, grit and smears of rock dust over his face, chest, arms and legs. Dressed in a simple, single-shouldered tunic that cut off just above the knees and sandals that had seen better days now that they had suffered a few weeks underground, Vangelis had long since abandoned the bracers, himation and crown that he had entered the mines with. His rings of formal rank and position had never entered the tunnels for he had not wished them lost and he wore only the leather braided bracelet that Silas had given him the year before.
Despite the fact that his tunic was of finer quality - even covered in dirt, sweat and the occasional blood stain - than the rags worn by those around him, Vangelis looked more or less like a common slave. He just appeared newer to the job than those whom he worked alongside.
Where the slaves around him held muscles as hard and sharply formed as the rocks into which they cut, Vangelis was supple and leaner. Fit he might have been due to the physical training and tutorship he had been given in swordplay and weaponry, but it took years of daily labour to form the figures of the men around him. Years that he did not have beneath his belt.
Yet the young man had never once complained. Not aloud anyway. He was too distracted by the explanations of the experience whispering through his mind in a voice like his father's but with all the bearing of his ancestors before him. The mines were a lesson in humility, in modesty... in realisation of the efforts made by the people of the kingdom to ensure its success.
By the end of the experience, Vangelis would have the strongest worth ethic he had ever possessed and would go on to wield it with great assurance. That no matter how hard he worked as a prince and soldier, he would never have worked a day harder than the men in these mines. So, what did he have to complain about?
Working in one of the slightly larger openings that afternoon - at least he assumed it to be the latter part of the day given how long he felt he had worked; only horns, sounded from nearer the surface told them when the sun rose and set - Vangelis was thankful for the sleep he had had the night before. It had taken him several weeks to be able to slumber within the mines. His body used to the padding of a mattress stuffed with animal feathers, being ordered by his foreman to find a rocky recess for the night to curl up in and sleep had been a strange experience that had yielded little slumber. It had been warm, true enough, but uncomfortable in the extreme and it was only recently that Vangelis had managed to sleep for the six hours given each night to the workers.
Using a bronze pin and full rock hammer to chisel at the rock's inner wall, Vangelis gritted his teeth against the skin he had rubbed raw on his palm and the inside of his fingers. He resisted the urge to set down his tools, unpeel his digits and suck upon the damaged skin in a childlike manner.
All the other men were working the same hours with the same tools without reducing themselves to such dramatics, he reminded himself. And he could do the same...
The pits of the Midas mines were not like those of larger mining operations. Where the tunnels beneath Dolomesa or Magnemea were as large as the mountains beneath which they sat, Midas' were smaller and twistier. The mines to the north could boast thoroughfares taller than the tallest of men and wide enough for an entire unit of half a dozen miners to work together in a single space. The mountains of the northern Kirakles isles were large and the land mass beneath the surface of the sea extensive and broad. Such a belly yielded much by way of ore and was strong enough to sustain large holes carved from its foundations in order to get to it.
In Midas, there was only a few peaks upon which the capitol sat. And whilst it might have been wiser not to dig and weaken the foundations upon which your favoured city stood, the ore supplies beneath the capitol were of the purest quality in all of Colchis. Worth more in a single nugget than a cartload from the north, there was little to stop previous generations from digging down into the ground to seek their fortune. It was how the capitol city had first come to be...
Yet, with a major settlement resting on the lands above, the tunnels cut into the land in an incredibly careful manner. The mine officials who monitored the workers and the yield were as much mathematicians and architects as they were labourers. Their role was less to ensure that the slaves did their work and dug into the rock than it was to ensure exactly where and how far in they were digging. Everything was carefully calculated, with smaller numbers of miners working on particular lodes so that only the ore itself was removed from the caverns - no more. After a tunnel was sufficiently rendered inert of useful material, it was then resealed, with tar and rock, to support the buildings above once more.
That wasn't to say that the mines were not dangerous, nor difficult to work within. The demand for their fodder was high and the speed with each the miners were expected to free such metal from its craggy prison was infinite. Yet, they were not given the space that other mines could afford. The largest of the tunnels was perhaps three quarters the height of a man and just wide enough that he might lay his arms outstretched. The smallest, required only children to edge sideways through passes and work against the rock closest to their own noses.
Thanks to the settlements above, lighting fires and the torches needed in the cramped confines just for light, the tunnels were swelteringly hot. Sweat and dirty laced the skin of every worker, soaking through what little clothing they wore against the heat and causing skin to rasp and chafe against its brother limb.
One such worker, was hardly used to such conditions in his life, but had refused to complain.
Crown Prince Vangelis of Kotas, was only a few months away from his fourteenth birthday. Considered a man over a year ago, he had been late in tending to his family's generational tradition of serving six months in the tunnels of Midas. So far, three weeks of his term had been served. But it had only taken a day for his appearance to shift naturally into that of the men around him.
Doused from head to toe in his own sweat, his young body gleamed in the torchlight, with patches masked from shine by the dirt, grit and smears of rock dust over his face, chest, arms and legs. Dressed in a simple, single-shouldered tunic that cut off just above the knees and sandals that had seen better days now that they had suffered a few weeks underground, Vangelis had long since abandoned the bracers, himation and crown that he had entered the mines with. His rings of formal rank and position had never entered the tunnels for he had not wished them lost and he wore only the leather braided bracelet that Silas had given him the year before.
Despite the fact that his tunic was of finer quality - even covered in dirt, sweat and the occasional blood stain - than the rags worn by those around him, Vangelis looked more or less like a common slave. He just appeared newer to the job than those whom he worked alongside.
Where the slaves around him held muscles as hard and sharply formed as the rocks into which they cut, Vangelis was supple and leaner. Fit he might have been due to the physical training and tutorship he had been given in swordplay and weaponry, but it took years of daily labour to form the figures of the men around him. Years that he did not have beneath his belt.
Yet the young man had never once complained. Not aloud anyway. He was too distracted by the explanations of the experience whispering through his mind in a voice like his father's but with all the bearing of his ancestors before him. The mines were a lesson in humility, in modesty... in realisation of the efforts made by the people of the kingdom to ensure its success.
By the end of the experience, Vangelis would have the strongest worth ethic he had ever possessed and would go on to wield it with great assurance. That no matter how hard he worked as a prince and soldier, he would never have worked a day harder than the men in these mines. So, what did he have to complain about?
Working in one of the slightly larger openings that afternoon - at least he assumed it to be the latter part of the day given how long he felt he had worked; only horns, sounded from nearer the surface told them when the sun rose and set - Vangelis was thankful for the sleep he had had the night before. It had taken him several weeks to be able to slumber within the mines. His body used to the padding of a mattress stuffed with animal feathers, being ordered by his foreman to find a rocky recess for the night to curl up in and sleep had been a strange experience that had yielded little slumber. It had been warm, true enough, but uncomfortable in the extreme and it was only recently that Vangelis had managed to sleep for the six hours given each night to the workers.
Using a bronze pin and full rock hammer to chisel at the rock's inner wall, Vangelis gritted his teeth against the skin he had rubbed raw on his palm and the inside of his fingers. He resisted the urge to set down his tools, unpeel his digits and suck upon the damaged skin in a childlike manner.
All the other men were working the same hours with the same tools without reducing themselves to such dramatics, he reminded himself. And he could do the same...
Mud…rock…water…stone…iron…faster
Ever since he was a child, those very same words had been repeated again and again by those vile, horrible men that gripped the stinging whip that felled on his shoulder in constant breaks of quick-make time. If ever he tried to stop, he would feel the lash on his back, cracking viscerally against his young, but scar-covered back. Whilst he had no knowledge of how other slavers handled their mines or if his own superiors were typical, he knew that those he worked beneath enjoyed the whip and were sadistic to those beneath them.
And so he worked, through the rock and stone and mud and iron, ever faster, ever bloodier, ever more tired and ever more abandoned by the Gods he had once prayed fervently to so as to be delivered from the living pits of Tartarus he had slaved away at. It had not all been for nothing however. There was much to be said about the merits of hard-work, and if the present invitation to work at the capital meant anything, then it was obvious that the grey-eyed youth had done well enough to be recognized for work at Midas.
Granted, this was not to say that the work would be any less miserable or dangerous, but at least he was far-away from Magnemea, that wretched province full of pain and anguish. Of course, this was but the newest of work-related privileges he had been afforded as of late, with his master having personally taught the boy about basic words and letters a couple months prior. It was probably a thinly-veiled gift however, with the old man manifestly detaching himself from the management of the mines as his slave learned about wordsmithing.
Regardless, despite the apparent laziness of his master, the boy would not let his gifts go to shame. Just as he had resolved to make the most of the visit to the capital, so too had he resolved to learn about words so as to make for his great, secret machination. He might have been born a slave, but would not remain one any longer. Slavery had caused his family to fade away. Slavery had ripped his one living brother from his arms. Slavery, in short, had been the bane of his existence, the root of all woes that had transpired in him. He would not allow such institution to tie him down like his father and grandfather before. He had plenty to do, and much to accomplish for his ambitions in life, all of which would never be allowed to take root under the confines of bondage.
Thus, he had machinated his escape, considering every possible variable that he could account for beforehand, but always mindful that for his strategy to work he would need patience and support. A hasty runaway attempt would have been met with the worst retribution possible, and he had just about enough lashes against his back already…or worse. Hence, he bode his time and traveled to the capital, keeping his quiet conspiracy all to himself and only himself.
Evidently, work at the capital was different than work in that far-flung province he called home. For one, mining in Midas was done on a comparatively smaller-scale. Furthermore, slavers and managers were far more occupied debating the stability and soundness of the tunnels that sprawled beneath the stone capital from up so high.
On more than one occasion, he had borne witness to passionate debates and fierce discussions between the mathematicians and architects that could not agree on the proper course of action so as to increase the quarry’s ore yields. It frustrated him to see that, despite their calculations, those academics and logisticians really did not care for the safety of the men they still instructed to dig and chisel away at the rocks and stones in search of iron and jewels. Such sights only confirmed his desire to escape. Nobody but him would ever-again determine his fate. Nobody, not even the Gods who reigned supreme from their above up in Olympus.
Instead of paying attention, to those perceived bitter, little men, the black-haired youth focused on the tasks at hand. After indulging in a brief recess, which really only lasted but mere moments, the boy opened his silver-eyes and started to take in the dim, but piercing lights provided by the illuminating torchlights. Slowly, almost reluctantly so, he came back upon his senses, returning from the innermost chambers of his mind with steady, half-hearted averseness.
His greyish gaze settled on his rough, calloused fingers and palm, noticing the cuts and bruises that barely healed due to the constancy of his work. Had he been younger, less rugged and softer, he would have complained over the scrapes that afflicted him still, but he would do no such thing. Those men of logic and reason might have been preoccupied debating the direction of the wind, but they were still in-charge of the mines, and every miner knew better than to invoke the wrath of his supervisor.
After standing up from the somewhat chilled corner he had reposed around, the youth was asked to help out drive a wedge against a rock that apparently contained a noticeable amount of iron. A gruff huff escaped him in silent opposition, but he still kept his quiet disposition. He was too tired for words anyways. He picked up a large, heavy hammer that was required for such a task, a tool that he had grown used to using before, and then moved about his designated spot, preparing himself for the strength he had to channel.
With a single swing, the wedge had been successfully driven through, pushing against the rocks that consequently broke and shattered after being struck. As expected, the vein had, in fact, contained iron, enough for the forging of an entire suit of armor. Normally, he wasn’t much for small-scale celebrations, but such a find warranted a tiny reward. Accordingly, once he put the hammer to its proper place, the tall, broad-shouldered youth made for one of the water skins and quenched some of his acquired thirst with its refreshing content. It was then that he noticed a peculiar person.
In some ways the stranger that had captivated his attention resembled him. Like the Magnemean, the other youth was long-limbed, black-haired and impressively-heighten for his age. Yet, there were a few key distinctions between them. For one, this stranger had blue eyes, like sapphires, whereas his own were grey, similar to the iron they both seemed to be mining. Moreover, though it might have been the case that they were similarly sized, their builds were different. This other boy’s form was athletic and lean, whereas his own was heavy and muscular after more than a decade of tending to those rocky pits. Curiosity washed over his strongly marked features as he paid attention to the other’s industry, noticing how he did not seem to be particularly skilled at mining at all, despite his presence. With a friendly smirk on his face, the Magnemean calmly strided towards the thinner youth and carried with him the gift of refreshment. He might as well offer something in exchange of what he would say to him in seconds.
“Your mining is shit!” he clearly teased, smiling warmly at the other youth before offering him some of the water he had took for himself. “Take some, but steady yourself. If you take too much you won’t be able to work properly." Cautioned the equally mess-looking Magnemea after extending the water-skin to the other. “You’re not a miner are you? What’s your name? I’m Thrax.”
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.
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Mud…rock…water…stone…iron…faster
Ever since he was a child, those very same words had been repeated again and again by those vile, horrible men that gripped the stinging whip that felled on his shoulder in constant breaks of quick-make time. If ever he tried to stop, he would feel the lash on his back, cracking viscerally against his young, but scar-covered back. Whilst he had no knowledge of how other slavers handled their mines or if his own superiors were typical, he knew that those he worked beneath enjoyed the whip and were sadistic to those beneath them.
And so he worked, through the rock and stone and mud and iron, ever faster, ever bloodier, ever more tired and ever more abandoned by the Gods he had once prayed fervently to so as to be delivered from the living pits of Tartarus he had slaved away at. It had not all been for nothing however. There was much to be said about the merits of hard-work, and if the present invitation to work at the capital meant anything, then it was obvious that the grey-eyed youth had done well enough to be recognized for work at Midas.
Granted, this was not to say that the work would be any less miserable or dangerous, but at least he was far-away from Magnemea, that wretched province full of pain and anguish. Of course, this was but the newest of work-related privileges he had been afforded as of late, with his master having personally taught the boy about basic words and letters a couple months prior. It was probably a thinly-veiled gift however, with the old man manifestly detaching himself from the management of the mines as his slave learned about wordsmithing.
Regardless, despite the apparent laziness of his master, the boy would not let his gifts go to shame. Just as he had resolved to make the most of the visit to the capital, so too had he resolved to learn about words so as to make for his great, secret machination. He might have been born a slave, but would not remain one any longer. Slavery had caused his family to fade away. Slavery had ripped his one living brother from his arms. Slavery, in short, had been the bane of his existence, the root of all woes that had transpired in him. He would not allow such institution to tie him down like his father and grandfather before. He had plenty to do, and much to accomplish for his ambitions in life, all of which would never be allowed to take root under the confines of bondage.
Thus, he had machinated his escape, considering every possible variable that he could account for beforehand, but always mindful that for his strategy to work he would need patience and support. A hasty runaway attempt would have been met with the worst retribution possible, and he had just about enough lashes against his back already…or worse. Hence, he bode his time and traveled to the capital, keeping his quiet conspiracy all to himself and only himself.
Evidently, work at the capital was different than work in that far-flung province he called home. For one, mining in Midas was done on a comparatively smaller-scale. Furthermore, slavers and managers were far more occupied debating the stability and soundness of the tunnels that sprawled beneath the stone capital from up so high.
On more than one occasion, he had borne witness to passionate debates and fierce discussions between the mathematicians and architects that could not agree on the proper course of action so as to increase the quarry’s ore yields. It frustrated him to see that, despite their calculations, those academics and logisticians really did not care for the safety of the men they still instructed to dig and chisel away at the rocks and stones in search of iron and jewels. Such sights only confirmed his desire to escape. Nobody but him would ever-again determine his fate. Nobody, not even the Gods who reigned supreme from their above up in Olympus.
Instead of paying attention, to those perceived bitter, little men, the black-haired youth focused on the tasks at hand. After indulging in a brief recess, which really only lasted but mere moments, the boy opened his silver-eyes and started to take in the dim, but piercing lights provided by the illuminating torchlights. Slowly, almost reluctantly so, he came back upon his senses, returning from the innermost chambers of his mind with steady, half-hearted averseness.
His greyish gaze settled on his rough, calloused fingers and palm, noticing the cuts and bruises that barely healed due to the constancy of his work. Had he been younger, less rugged and softer, he would have complained over the scrapes that afflicted him still, but he would do no such thing. Those men of logic and reason might have been preoccupied debating the direction of the wind, but they were still in-charge of the mines, and every miner knew better than to invoke the wrath of his supervisor.
After standing up from the somewhat chilled corner he had reposed around, the youth was asked to help out drive a wedge against a rock that apparently contained a noticeable amount of iron. A gruff huff escaped him in silent opposition, but he still kept his quiet disposition. He was too tired for words anyways. He picked up a large, heavy hammer that was required for such a task, a tool that he had grown used to using before, and then moved about his designated spot, preparing himself for the strength he had to channel.
With a single swing, the wedge had been successfully driven through, pushing against the rocks that consequently broke and shattered after being struck. As expected, the vein had, in fact, contained iron, enough for the forging of an entire suit of armor. Normally, he wasn’t much for small-scale celebrations, but such a find warranted a tiny reward. Accordingly, once he put the hammer to its proper place, the tall, broad-shouldered youth made for one of the water skins and quenched some of his acquired thirst with its refreshing content. It was then that he noticed a peculiar person.
In some ways the stranger that had captivated his attention resembled him. Like the Magnemean, the other youth was long-limbed, black-haired and impressively-heighten for his age. Yet, there were a few key distinctions between them. For one, this stranger had blue eyes, like sapphires, whereas his own were grey, similar to the iron they both seemed to be mining. Moreover, though it might have been the case that they were similarly sized, their builds were different. This other boy’s form was athletic and lean, whereas his own was heavy and muscular after more than a decade of tending to those rocky pits. Curiosity washed over his strongly marked features as he paid attention to the other’s industry, noticing how he did not seem to be particularly skilled at mining at all, despite his presence. With a friendly smirk on his face, the Magnemean calmly strided towards the thinner youth and carried with him the gift of refreshment. He might as well offer something in exchange of what he would say to him in seconds.
“Your mining is shit!” he clearly teased, smiling warmly at the other youth before offering him some of the water he had took for himself. “Take some, but steady yourself. If you take too much you won’t be able to work properly." Cautioned the equally mess-looking Magnemea after extending the water-skin to the other. “You’re not a miner are you? What’s your name? I’m Thrax.”
Mud…rock…water…stone…iron…faster
Ever since he was a child, those very same words had been repeated again and again by those vile, horrible men that gripped the stinging whip that felled on his shoulder in constant breaks of quick-make time. If ever he tried to stop, he would feel the lash on his back, cracking viscerally against his young, but scar-covered back. Whilst he had no knowledge of how other slavers handled their mines or if his own superiors were typical, he knew that those he worked beneath enjoyed the whip and were sadistic to those beneath them.
And so he worked, through the rock and stone and mud and iron, ever faster, ever bloodier, ever more tired and ever more abandoned by the Gods he had once prayed fervently to so as to be delivered from the living pits of Tartarus he had slaved away at. It had not all been for nothing however. There was much to be said about the merits of hard-work, and if the present invitation to work at the capital meant anything, then it was obvious that the grey-eyed youth had done well enough to be recognized for work at Midas.
Granted, this was not to say that the work would be any less miserable or dangerous, but at least he was far-away from Magnemea, that wretched province full of pain and anguish. Of course, this was but the newest of work-related privileges he had been afforded as of late, with his master having personally taught the boy about basic words and letters a couple months prior. It was probably a thinly-veiled gift however, with the old man manifestly detaching himself from the management of the mines as his slave learned about wordsmithing.
Regardless, despite the apparent laziness of his master, the boy would not let his gifts go to shame. Just as he had resolved to make the most of the visit to the capital, so too had he resolved to learn about words so as to make for his great, secret machination. He might have been born a slave, but would not remain one any longer. Slavery had caused his family to fade away. Slavery had ripped his one living brother from his arms. Slavery, in short, had been the bane of his existence, the root of all woes that had transpired in him. He would not allow such institution to tie him down like his father and grandfather before. He had plenty to do, and much to accomplish for his ambitions in life, all of which would never be allowed to take root under the confines of bondage.
Thus, he had machinated his escape, considering every possible variable that he could account for beforehand, but always mindful that for his strategy to work he would need patience and support. A hasty runaway attempt would have been met with the worst retribution possible, and he had just about enough lashes against his back already…or worse. Hence, he bode his time and traveled to the capital, keeping his quiet conspiracy all to himself and only himself.
Evidently, work at the capital was different than work in that far-flung province he called home. For one, mining in Midas was done on a comparatively smaller-scale. Furthermore, slavers and managers were far more occupied debating the stability and soundness of the tunnels that sprawled beneath the stone capital from up so high.
On more than one occasion, he had borne witness to passionate debates and fierce discussions between the mathematicians and architects that could not agree on the proper course of action so as to increase the quarry’s ore yields. It frustrated him to see that, despite their calculations, those academics and logisticians really did not care for the safety of the men they still instructed to dig and chisel away at the rocks and stones in search of iron and jewels. Such sights only confirmed his desire to escape. Nobody but him would ever-again determine his fate. Nobody, not even the Gods who reigned supreme from their above up in Olympus.
Instead of paying attention, to those perceived bitter, little men, the black-haired youth focused on the tasks at hand. After indulging in a brief recess, which really only lasted but mere moments, the boy opened his silver-eyes and started to take in the dim, but piercing lights provided by the illuminating torchlights. Slowly, almost reluctantly so, he came back upon his senses, returning from the innermost chambers of his mind with steady, half-hearted averseness.
His greyish gaze settled on his rough, calloused fingers and palm, noticing the cuts and bruises that barely healed due to the constancy of his work. Had he been younger, less rugged and softer, he would have complained over the scrapes that afflicted him still, but he would do no such thing. Those men of logic and reason might have been preoccupied debating the direction of the wind, but they were still in-charge of the mines, and every miner knew better than to invoke the wrath of his supervisor.
After standing up from the somewhat chilled corner he had reposed around, the youth was asked to help out drive a wedge against a rock that apparently contained a noticeable amount of iron. A gruff huff escaped him in silent opposition, but he still kept his quiet disposition. He was too tired for words anyways. He picked up a large, heavy hammer that was required for such a task, a tool that he had grown used to using before, and then moved about his designated spot, preparing himself for the strength he had to channel.
With a single swing, the wedge had been successfully driven through, pushing against the rocks that consequently broke and shattered after being struck. As expected, the vein had, in fact, contained iron, enough for the forging of an entire suit of armor. Normally, he wasn’t much for small-scale celebrations, but such a find warranted a tiny reward. Accordingly, once he put the hammer to its proper place, the tall, broad-shouldered youth made for one of the water skins and quenched some of his acquired thirst with its refreshing content. It was then that he noticed a peculiar person.
In some ways the stranger that had captivated his attention resembled him. Like the Magnemean, the other youth was long-limbed, black-haired and impressively-heighten for his age. Yet, there were a few key distinctions between them. For one, this stranger had blue eyes, like sapphires, whereas his own were grey, similar to the iron they both seemed to be mining. Moreover, though it might have been the case that they were similarly sized, their builds were different. This other boy’s form was athletic and lean, whereas his own was heavy and muscular after more than a decade of tending to those rocky pits. Curiosity washed over his strongly marked features as he paid attention to the other’s industry, noticing how he did not seem to be particularly skilled at mining at all, despite his presence. With a friendly smirk on his face, the Magnemean calmly strided towards the thinner youth and carried with him the gift of refreshment. He might as well offer something in exchange of what he would say to him in seconds.
“Your mining is shit!” he clearly teased, smiling warmly at the other youth before offering him some of the water he had took for himself. “Take some, but steady yourself. If you take too much you won’t be able to work properly." Cautioned the equally mess-looking Magnemea after extending the water-skin to the other. “You’re not a miner are you? What’s your name? I’m Thrax.”
Vangelis wasn't paying any sort of attention to those who worked around him. He had learnt quickly in his first few weeks not to become distracted by the workers that mined practically on top of you in such confined quarters. For while the work was monotonous, boring and hard, there was something hypnotic about it at times. Vangelis found himself lost in his immediate efforts for what could be a few minutes or a few hours, chasing a particular ore or filing away at a particular crack in the landscape, the mind focused on reaching the next milestone.
And if your gaze was turned to that of someone else's efforts you could get lost in their milestones instead of your own. The rhythm of work could be oddly hypnotic when one wasn't carefully attuned to your own efforts.
After the first few days of being warned by the slaver foreman (for whilst the man knew of Vangelis' identity and would never physically punish him as he might the others, he had been instructed to keep the young prince as on task as anyone else) Vangelis had learnt to keep his eyes forward and his ears blocked to all by his immediate supervisors instructions.
As such, when the other youth came forward to offer him a moment of pause, Vangelis took a moment to turn, only realising that he was being addressed when the skin was placed almost to his nose.
Glancing over the man who offered it, Vangelis saw him to be no further into adulthood perhaps than himself. And yet, he already appeared as a man, oddly muscular for one so young and appeared angular at every opportunity. It was an odd appearance - the youth of face barely touched by puberty with the harsh and defined features of a man beneath the neck. Despite being the odd one out in the sea of miners, Vangelis was perhaps more proportioned for his age. Yet, here, he was the strange-looking one.
Pausing to take the neck of the sack, his thumb and forefinger around his hammer and the others curling around the skin and sniffed. Surprised not to find the scent of watered-down mead - for that was the most common of drinks below ground - Vangelis took a mouthful of fresh water. A little grit remained on his tongue for the beverage wasn't entire pure but it served its purpose well enough to quench his thirst for now.
He missed the clean water of the royal estate. One of few such places to be provided with it.
The boy who offered him the drink was quick to pass judgement on his efforts in the mine but Vangelis didn't take it personally. He knew his skills against the rock held little to be desired but then he had been performing the task for only a few weeks. He would get better. And there were many a talent that he could claim to possess thanks to superior tutorship back home. He held no fragile ego to be wounded by one common miner's verdict.
"I am for now." He responded. For whilst the man might surmise him to be no miner, Vangelis was to be little else for the next six months. "Vangelis." Was his equally short and simple answer to the query of his name. For he saw no need to tell such a person of his rank or position. It meant little here, fathoms beneath the ground anyway. And chances were that none would believe him if he spoke of being a prince... Not with this duty and appearance.
His jaw set, Vangelis turned to hammer at his chiselled peg once more, his voice low in the caverns and heard only between the hammerings of those around them.
"I'm not skilled but I work hard." He stated, as if it were a simple truth rather than a defensive comment. "I'll become better..."
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Vangelis wasn't paying any sort of attention to those who worked around him. He had learnt quickly in his first few weeks not to become distracted by the workers that mined practically on top of you in such confined quarters. For while the work was monotonous, boring and hard, there was something hypnotic about it at times. Vangelis found himself lost in his immediate efforts for what could be a few minutes or a few hours, chasing a particular ore or filing away at a particular crack in the landscape, the mind focused on reaching the next milestone.
And if your gaze was turned to that of someone else's efforts you could get lost in their milestones instead of your own. The rhythm of work could be oddly hypnotic when one wasn't carefully attuned to your own efforts.
After the first few days of being warned by the slaver foreman (for whilst the man knew of Vangelis' identity and would never physically punish him as he might the others, he had been instructed to keep the young prince as on task as anyone else) Vangelis had learnt to keep his eyes forward and his ears blocked to all by his immediate supervisors instructions.
As such, when the other youth came forward to offer him a moment of pause, Vangelis took a moment to turn, only realising that he was being addressed when the skin was placed almost to his nose.
Glancing over the man who offered it, Vangelis saw him to be no further into adulthood perhaps than himself. And yet, he already appeared as a man, oddly muscular for one so young and appeared angular at every opportunity. It was an odd appearance - the youth of face barely touched by puberty with the harsh and defined features of a man beneath the neck. Despite being the odd one out in the sea of miners, Vangelis was perhaps more proportioned for his age. Yet, here, he was the strange-looking one.
Pausing to take the neck of the sack, his thumb and forefinger around his hammer and the others curling around the skin and sniffed. Surprised not to find the scent of watered-down mead - for that was the most common of drinks below ground - Vangelis took a mouthful of fresh water. A little grit remained on his tongue for the beverage wasn't entire pure but it served its purpose well enough to quench his thirst for now.
He missed the clean water of the royal estate. One of few such places to be provided with it.
The boy who offered him the drink was quick to pass judgement on his efforts in the mine but Vangelis didn't take it personally. He knew his skills against the rock held little to be desired but then he had been performing the task for only a few weeks. He would get better. And there were many a talent that he could claim to possess thanks to superior tutorship back home. He held no fragile ego to be wounded by one common miner's verdict.
"I am for now." He responded. For whilst the man might surmise him to be no miner, Vangelis was to be little else for the next six months. "Vangelis." Was his equally short and simple answer to the query of his name. For he saw no need to tell such a person of his rank or position. It meant little here, fathoms beneath the ground anyway. And chances were that none would believe him if he spoke of being a prince... Not with this duty and appearance.
His jaw set, Vangelis turned to hammer at his chiselled peg once more, his voice low in the caverns and heard only between the hammerings of those around them.
"I'm not skilled but I work hard." He stated, as if it were a simple truth rather than a defensive comment. "I'll become better..."
Vangelis wasn't paying any sort of attention to those who worked around him. He had learnt quickly in his first few weeks not to become distracted by the workers that mined practically on top of you in such confined quarters. For while the work was monotonous, boring and hard, there was something hypnotic about it at times. Vangelis found himself lost in his immediate efforts for what could be a few minutes or a few hours, chasing a particular ore or filing away at a particular crack in the landscape, the mind focused on reaching the next milestone.
And if your gaze was turned to that of someone else's efforts you could get lost in their milestones instead of your own. The rhythm of work could be oddly hypnotic when one wasn't carefully attuned to your own efforts.
After the first few days of being warned by the slaver foreman (for whilst the man knew of Vangelis' identity and would never physically punish him as he might the others, he had been instructed to keep the young prince as on task as anyone else) Vangelis had learnt to keep his eyes forward and his ears blocked to all by his immediate supervisors instructions.
As such, when the other youth came forward to offer him a moment of pause, Vangelis took a moment to turn, only realising that he was being addressed when the skin was placed almost to his nose.
Glancing over the man who offered it, Vangelis saw him to be no further into adulthood perhaps than himself. And yet, he already appeared as a man, oddly muscular for one so young and appeared angular at every opportunity. It was an odd appearance - the youth of face barely touched by puberty with the harsh and defined features of a man beneath the neck. Despite being the odd one out in the sea of miners, Vangelis was perhaps more proportioned for his age. Yet, here, he was the strange-looking one.
Pausing to take the neck of the sack, his thumb and forefinger around his hammer and the others curling around the skin and sniffed. Surprised not to find the scent of watered-down mead - for that was the most common of drinks below ground - Vangelis took a mouthful of fresh water. A little grit remained on his tongue for the beverage wasn't entire pure but it served its purpose well enough to quench his thirst for now.
He missed the clean water of the royal estate. One of few such places to be provided with it.
The boy who offered him the drink was quick to pass judgement on his efforts in the mine but Vangelis didn't take it personally. He knew his skills against the rock held little to be desired but then he had been performing the task for only a few weeks. He would get better. And there were many a talent that he could claim to possess thanks to superior tutorship back home. He held no fragile ego to be wounded by one common miner's verdict.
"I am for now." He responded. For whilst the man might surmise him to be no miner, Vangelis was to be little else for the next six months. "Vangelis." Was his equally short and simple answer to the query of his name. For he saw no need to tell such a person of his rank or position. It meant little here, fathoms beneath the ground anyway. And chances were that none would believe him if he spoke of being a prince... Not with this duty and appearance.
His jaw set, Vangelis turned to hammer at his chiselled peg once more, his voice low in the caverns and heard only between the hammerings of those around them.
"I'm not skilled but I work hard." He stated, as if it were a simple truth rather than a defensive comment. "I'll become better..."
For a moment, Thrax had come to behold the face of undivided attention that awashed the youthful features of the blue-eyed boy. He had recognized such a look of fierce determination before. It was the same on that he had donned in his earlier years at the mines, when nothing but the hammering and striking of tools against rock were the epitome of daily interactions. Granted, for the most part, the broad-shouldered youth had often found that slaved made for poor conversation partners, and even worse possible friends. Save for some minute detail that eluded him on his daily life, Thrax already assumed to know the common affairs of another chained man like himself. Yet, this boy seemed different…somehow.
His raiment was darkened and covered in filth, grime and dirt, with the irregular splatter of dried appearing in some of the edges of the tunic, and there was little to no indication that the boy was anything but a slave or an extremely lower-classed peasant, like the Magnemean who studied him with quiet interest. Yet, after paying closer attention, the stockier youth noticed an interesting leather bracer on the other’s forearm. Those condemned to work on the mines rarely had enough money to make for foodstuff and essential garments, let alone accessories like the one that this stranger so openly wore. He thought about inquiring about it, exploring to see if whatever he could from that garment, but Thrax ultimately decided to leave that possible conversation for another day.
“For now?” inquired the superficially heavier of the two, with his tone clearly denoting a sense of curiosity. “No man would freely enroll for this shit unless he had to.” Off-handedly commented the Magnemean, nodding at the sight of back-breaking labor and far-distance grunts. “Vangelis huh? You have a fancy name. Too fancy I’d say.” He smiled, picking-up from his bracelet and his elevated name that this youth had to be the son of a wealthy merchant that had displeased his father, or something of that sort. If he had to guess, his parent was one of those mathematicians that simply wanted to teach his son some sort of lesson in Gods knows what. virtue. “You're neither a peasant or a slave are you? Well, it doesn't really matter really what you are. Though I will say, If you are going to live amongst us you might as well be named like us. How about I call you Vang for now? We of the lower class use short, simple names after all." He playfully addressed, smirking in a friendly tone to the person he had just met.
Thrax was by no means someone who was blessed with developed insight into others. He was but a miner, a boy that was forced to grow-up faster than most due to the excruciating circumstances of his birth. Was he observant? Yes. Was he somewhat perceptive? Yes. Could he read everything about another person? No. Though that never stopped him before from putting some basic math together in his head.
“I didn’t say you were are lazy, only unskilled. You’re clearly got drive in you and that’s admirable.” Praised the sweaty Magnemean as he fixed his silvery gaze on the way the other was holding his tools and equipment. “Do your hands hurt?” he asked without waiting for an answer and turning to the side, only to stretch quickly before reaching for a small box that contained old, warn out leather gloves. “Put these on. In time your palms will get tough and strong like an old miner, but for now, I think these will help you a lot.” He once more addressed, offering the gloves to the boy so as to help him as much as he could. He had been a newcomer once, and Thrax knew, probably better than anyone else, just how bothersome the bruises and cuts in one’s palms could be on those first few weeks. “And don’t worry, nobody will think less of you for using them.” And with that, the muscular youth kept his silence for now, letting the other boy either accept or deny the gloves as he saw fit.
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For a moment, Thrax had come to behold the face of undivided attention that awashed the youthful features of the blue-eyed boy. He had recognized such a look of fierce determination before. It was the same on that he had donned in his earlier years at the mines, when nothing but the hammering and striking of tools against rock were the epitome of daily interactions. Granted, for the most part, the broad-shouldered youth had often found that slaved made for poor conversation partners, and even worse possible friends. Save for some minute detail that eluded him on his daily life, Thrax already assumed to know the common affairs of another chained man like himself. Yet, this boy seemed different…somehow.
His raiment was darkened and covered in filth, grime and dirt, with the irregular splatter of dried appearing in some of the edges of the tunic, and there was little to no indication that the boy was anything but a slave or an extremely lower-classed peasant, like the Magnemean who studied him with quiet interest. Yet, after paying closer attention, the stockier youth noticed an interesting leather bracer on the other’s forearm. Those condemned to work on the mines rarely had enough money to make for foodstuff and essential garments, let alone accessories like the one that this stranger so openly wore. He thought about inquiring about it, exploring to see if whatever he could from that garment, but Thrax ultimately decided to leave that possible conversation for another day.
“For now?” inquired the superficially heavier of the two, with his tone clearly denoting a sense of curiosity. “No man would freely enroll for this shit unless he had to.” Off-handedly commented the Magnemean, nodding at the sight of back-breaking labor and far-distance grunts. “Vangelis huh? You have a fancy name. Too fancy I’d say.” He smiled, picking-up from his bracelet and his elevated name that this youth had to be the son of a wealthy merchant that had displeased his father, or something of that sort. If he had to guess, his parent was one of those mathematicians that simply wanted to teach his son some sort of lesson in Gods knows what. virtue. “You're neither a peasant or a slave are you? Well, it doesn't really matter really what you are. Though I will say, If you are going to live amongst us you might as well be named like us. How about I call you Vang for now? We of the lower class use short, simple names after all." He playfully addressed, smirking in a friendly tone to the person he had just met.
Thrax was by no means someone who was blessed with developed insight into others. He was but a miner, a boy that was forced to grow-up faster than most due to the excruciating circumstances of his birth. Was he observant? Yes. Was he somewhat perceptive? Yes. Could he read everything about another person? No. Though that never stopped him before from putting some basic math together in his head.
“I didn’t say you were are lazy, only unskilled. You’re clearly got drive in you and that’s admirable.” Praised the sweaty Magnemean as he fixed his silvery gaze on the way the other was holding his tools and equipment. “Do your hands hurt?” he asked without waiting for an answer and turning to the side, only to stretch quickly before reaching for a small box that contained old, warn out leather gloves. “Put these on. In time your palms will get tough and strong like an old miner, but for now, I think these will help you a lot.” He once more addressed, offering the gloves to the boy so as to help him as much as he could. He had been a newcomer once, and Thrax knew, probably better than anyone else, just how bothersome the bruises and cuts in one’s palms could be on those first few weeks. “And don’t worry, nobody will think less of you for using them.” And with that, the muscular youth kept his silence for now, letting the other boy either accept or deny the gloves as he saw fit.
For a moment, Thrax had come to behold the face of undivided attention that awashed the youthful features of the blue-eyed boy. He had recognized such a look of fierce determination before. It was the same on that he had donned in his earlier years at the mines, when nothing but the hammering and striking of tools against rock were the epitome of daily interactions. Granted, for the most part, the broad-shouldered youth had often found that slaved made for poor conversation partners, and even worse possible friends. Save for some minute detail that eluded him on his daily life, Thrax already assumed to know the common affairs of another chained man like himself. Yet, this boy seemed different…somehow.
His raiment was darkened and covered in filth, grime and dirt, with the irregular splatter of dried appearing in some of the edges of the tunic, and there was little to no indication that the boy was anything but a slave or an extremely lower-classed peasant, like the Magnemean who studied him with quiet interest. Yet, after paying closer attention, the stockier youth noticed an interesting leather bracer on the other’s forearm. Those condemned to work on the mines rarely had enough money to make for foodstuff and essential garments, let alone accessories like the one that this stranger so openly wore. He thought about inquiring about it, exploring to see if whatever he could from that garment, but Thrax ultimately decided to leave that possible conversation for another day.
“For now?” inquired the superficially heavier of the two, with his tone clearly denoting a sense of curiosity. “No man would freely enroll for this shit unless he had to.” Off-handedly commented the Magnemean, nodding at the sight of back-breaking labor and far-distance grunts. “Vangelis huh? You have a fancy name. Too fancy I’d say.” He smiled, picking-up from his bracelet and his elevated name that this youth had to be the son of a wealthy merchant that had displeased his father, or something of that sort. If he had to guess, his parent was one of those mathematicians that simply wanted to teach his son some sort of lesson in Gods knows what. virtue. “You're neither a peasant or a slave are you? Well, it doesn't really matter really what you are. Though I will say, If you are going to live amongst us you might as well be named like us. How about I call you Vang for now? We of the lower class use short, simple names after all." He playfully addressed, smirking in a friendly tone to the person he had just met.
Thrax was by no means someone who was blessed with developed insight into others. He was but a miner, a boy that was forced to grow-up faster than most due to the excruciating circumstances of his birth. Was he observant? Yes. Was he somewhat perceptive? Yes. Could he read everything about another person? No. Though that never stopped him before from putting some basic math together in his head.
“I didn’t say you were are lazy, only unskilled. You’re clearly got drive in you and that’s admirable.” Praised the sweaty Magnemean as he fixed his silvery gaze on the way the other was holding his tools and equipment. “Do your hands hurt?” he asked without waiting for an answer and turning to the side, only to stretch quickly before reaching for a small box that contained old, warn out leather gloves. “Put these on. In time your palms will get tough and strong like an old miner, but for now, I think these will help you a lot.” He once more addressed, offering the gloves to the boy so as to help him as much as he could. He had been a newcomer once, and Thrax knew, probably better than anyone else, just how bothersome the bruises and cuts in one’s palms could be on those first few weeks. “And don’t worry, nobody will think less of you for using them.” And with that, the muscular youth kept his silence for now, letting the other boy either accept or deny the gloves as he saw fit.
Vangelis didn’t really give the young man an answer when he talked of how no-one would enrol in the world of a miner without being made to by powers beyond their control. Whilst that had certainly been the case for him, the circumstances surrounding him being in the mines were a far cry from the reasons that others about him were slaving away in hot conditions, constrained by rock and echoing orders.
As far as the echoes were concerned, Vangelis felt his ears start to ring as he hit upon his chiselled spike once more. When one thought of the mines, they thought of the toll such work took upon the muscles. When minds wandered to the conditions that common born miners experienced deep within the belly of the earth, ideas of heat, dirt and stagnant air were at the forefront of the impressions summoned. What was often overlooked or forgotten by those foreign to the experience of soldiering beneath the earth was that of the noise.
In confined spaces of rock and crag, the noise of every hammering, every bellowed order by the foreman and any shifting and crashing of rock, resounded down the chambers of stone with a harsh repetition that drilled into the ears. The noises that broke around them were as merciless on the ears as the spikes were upon the rockface beneath their hands. It set the ears ringing and a headache banging in the temples that Vangelis hadn’t been able to rid himself of for the last two weeks.
Seeing no means of explaining his situation to the man, Vangelis ignored the conversation starter offered by Thrax, for there wasn’t any true question within his statements of observation. And he wasn’t about to air and pander his rank over the heads of those around him. Not when he was standing amid a mass of muscled men who knew their work and their tools far better than he. He didn’t exactly feel the superior body.
When the man suggested that he call him ‘Vang’, Vangelis restrained himself from insisting otherwise. Only his nearest and dearest called him ‘Vang’ and it rubbed his skin the wrong way to permit a stranger to use such a nickname. But when the boy commented on the fact that ‘Vangelis’ was too long and formal a title for a man in his position, the prince let it go and accepted the fate of false intimacy. For Thrax was right in his assessment of names; Vangelis had not met a man within the mines as yet who boasted more than a single syllable within their name. He could hardly attempt to blend in with the miners around him if his name was such a thing to indicate difference the second it left his mouth.
Shrugging just the one shoulder as he continued to work upon the bronze peg, Vangelis’ silence was permission enough for the man over whatever he wanted to call him.
Pausing when Thrax asked him if his hands hurt, Vangelis looked over his shoulder with an expression of frustration. He was trying to work and this man was asking him questions that seemed obvious and pointless as a means of distraction from the task he held, literally, in hand. And yet his frown of consternation flattened into a clear brow of surprise when the miner offered him something dark and flopping in the dim light of the mines. Given the tendrils that fell over the edge of his hand, it was easy enough to notice the gloves that were handed his way.
Surprised that the miner would have such a thing, for gloves were an intricate sort of garment worn by only the finest of men in the coldest of climates, Vangelis then noted that they held no back. Similar to the sort worn by blacksmiths, with the cloth flat beneath the fingers and bands fastening over the back of the digits and palm, they were designed to provide a second skin on the underside of your hand.
Vangelis’ frown dropped back into place as he glanced around him at the others in the open chamber I which they worked, for he could see no such protection measurement on the others. His look was clearly noticed by Thrax when he commented on how no-one would think any less of him if he was to use them.
His jaw locking at the ear, Vangelis looked upon the gloves, considered the palms of his hands, rubbed raw and regularly left bleeding at the end of the day, but still turned away, his attention on the hammer and spike before him.
“I use those and it’ll take longer for my hands to adapt.” He told the man. And if he only had six months within the mines, he wanted to be able to experience then as a miner would, not (literally) given kid gloves to make it easier for the prince of the realm. “Thanks anyway.” He added, the moment of gratitude an afterthought as he looked over the man in a sweeping glance that took in the gloves and waterskin of water and sparked the thought of wonder inside his head as to who this man was exactly.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” He asked him, glancing around in the other direction in case the foreman of their section was within earshot. For whilst he didn’t approve of the man hovering in an unproductive manner, he also didn’t wish to be the sole reason that the man was reprimanded.
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Vangelis didn’t really give the young man an answer when he talked of how no-one would enrol in the world of a miner without being made to by powers beyond their control. Whilst that had certainly been the case for him, the circumstances surrounding him being in the mines were a far cry from the reasons that others about him were slaving away in hot conditions, constrained by rock and echoing orders.
As far as the echoes were concerned, Vangelis felt his ears start to ring as he hit upon his chiselled spike once more. When one thought of the mines, they thought of the toll such work took upon the muscles. When minds wandered to the conditions that common born miners experienced deep within the belly of the earth, ideas of heat, dirt and stagnant air were at the forefront of the impressions summoned. What was often overlooked or forgotten by those foreign to the experience of soldiering beneath the earth was that of the noise.
In confined spaces of rock and crag, the noise of every hammering, every bellowed order by the foreman and any shifting and crashing of rock, resounded down the chambers of stone with a harsh repetition that drilled into the ears. The noises that broke around them were as merciless on the ears as the spikes were upon the rockface beneath their hands. It set the ears ringing and a headache banging in the temples that Vangelis hadn’t been able to rid himself of for the last two weeks.
Seeing no means of explaining his situation to the man, Vangelis ignored the conversation starter offered by Thrax, for there wasn’t any true question within his statements of observation. And he wasn’t about to air and pander his rank over the heads of those around him. Not when he was standing amid a mass of muscled men who knew their work and their tools far better than he. He didn’t exactly feel the superior body.
When the man suggested that he call him ‘Vang’, Vangelis restrained himself from insisting otherwise. Only his nearest and dearest called him ‘Vang’ and it rubbed his skin the wrong way to permit a stranger to use such a nickname. But when the boy commented on the fact that ‘Vangelis’ was too long and formal a title for a man in his position, the prince let it go and accepted the fate of false intimacy. For Thrax was right in his assessment of names; Vangelis had not met a man within the mines as yet who boasted more than a single syllable within their name. He could hardly attempt to blend in with the miners around him if his name was such a thing to indicate difference the second it left his mouth.
Shrugging just the one shoulder as he continued to work upon the bronze peg, Vangelis’ silence was permission enough for the man over whatever he wanted to call him.
Pausing when Thrax asked him if his hands hurt, Vangelis looked over his shoulder with an expression of frustration. He was trying to work and this man was asking him questions that seemed obvious and pointless as a means of distraction from the task he held, literally, in hand. And yet his frown of consternation flattened into a clear brow of surprise when the miner offered him something dark and flopping in the dim light of the mines. Given the tendrils that fell over the edge of his hand, it was easy enough to notice the gloves that were handed his way.
Surprised that the miner would have such a thing, for gloves were an intricate sort of garment worn by only the finest of men in the coldest of climates, Vangelis then noted that they held no back. Similar to the sort worn by blacksmiths, with the cloth flat beneath the fingers and bands fastening over the back of the digits and palm, they were designed to provide a second skin on the underside of your hand.
Vangelis’ frown dropped back into place as he glanced around him at the others in the open chamber I which they worked, for he could see no such protection measurement on the others. His look was clearly noticed by Thrax when he commented on how no-one would think any less of him if he was to use them.
His jaw locking at the ear, Vangelis looked upon the gloves, considered the palms of his hands, rubbed raw and regularly left bleeding at the end of the day, but still turned away, his attention on the hammer and spike before him.
“I use those and it’ll take longer for my hands to adapt.” He told the man. And if he only had six months within the mines, he wanted to be able to experience then as a miner would, not (literally) given kid gloves to make it easier for the prince of the realm. “Thanks anyway.” He added, the moment of gratitude an afterthought as he looked over the man in a sweeping glance that took in the gloves and waterskin of water and sparked the thought of wonder inside his head as to who this man was exactly.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” He asked him, glancing around in the other direction in case the foreman of their section was within earshot. For whilst he didn’t approve of the man hovering in an unproductive manner, he also didn’t wish to be the sole reason that the man was reprimanded.
Vangelis didn’t really give the young man an answer when he talked of how no-one would enrol in the world of a miner without being made to by powers beyond their control. Whilst that had certainly been the case for him, the circumstances surrounding him being in the mines were a far cry from the reasons that others about him were slaving away in hot conditions, constrained by rock and echoing orders.
As far as the echoes were concerned, Vangelis felt his ears start to ring as he hit upon his chiselled spike once more. When one thought of the mines, they thought of the toll such work took upon the muscles. When minds wandered to the conditions that common born miners experienced deep within the belly of the earth, ideas of heat, dirt and stagnant air were at the forefront of the impressions summoned. What was often overlooked or forgotten by those foreign to the experience of soldiering beneath the earth was that of the noise.
In confined spaces of rock and crag, the noise of every hammering, every bellowed order by the foreman and any shifting and crashing of rock, resounded down the chambers of stone with a harsh repetition that drilled into the ears. The noises that broke around them were as merciless on the ears as the spikes were upon the rockface beneath their hands. It set the ears ringing and a headache banging in the temples that Vangelis hadn’t been able to rid himself of for the last two weeks.
Seeing no means of explaining his situation to the man, Vangelis ignored the conversation starter offered by Thrax, for there wasn’t any true question within his statements of observation. And he wasn’t about to air and pander his rank over the heads of those around him. Not when he was standing amid a mass of muscled men who knew their work and their tools far better than he. He didn’t exactly feel the superior body.
When the man suggested that he call him ‘Vang’, Vangelis restrained himself from insisting otherwise. Only his nearest and dearest called him ‘Vang’ and it rubbed his skin the wrong way to permit a stranger to use such a nickname. But when the boy commented on the fact that ‘Vangelis’ was too long and formal a title for a man in his position, the prince let it go and accepted the fate of false intimacy. For Thrax was right in his assessment of names; Vangelis had not met a man within the mines as yet who boasted more than a single syllable within their name. He could hardly attempt to blend in with the miners around him if his name was such a thing to indicate difference the second it left his mouth.
Shrugging just the one shoulder as he continued to work upon the bronze peg, Vangelis’ silence was permission enough for the man over whatever he wanted to call him.
Pausing when Thrax asked him if his hands hurt, Vangelis looked over his shoulder with an expression of frustration. He was trying to work and this man was asking him questions that seemed obvious and pointless as a means of distraction from the task he held, literally, in hand. And yet his frown of consternation flattened into a clear brow of surprise when the miner offered him something dark and flopping in the dim light of the mines. Given the tendrils that fell over the edge of his hand, it was easy enough to notice the gloves that were handed his way.
Surprised that the miner would have such a thing, for gloves were an intricate sort of garment worn by only the finest of men in the coldest of climates, Vangelis then noted that they held no back. Similar to the sort worn by blacksmiths, with the cloth flat beneath the fingers and bands fastening over the back of the digits and palm, they were designed to provide a second skin on the underside of your hand.
Vangelis’ frown dropped back into place as he glanced around him at the others in the open chamber I which they worked, for he could see no such protection measurement on the others. His look was clearly noticed by Thrax when he commented on how no-one would think any less of him if he was to use them.
His jaw locking at the ear, Vangelis looked upon the gloves, considered the palms of his hands, rubbed raw and regularly left bleeding at the end of the day, but still turned away, his attention on the hammer and spike before him.
“I use those and it’ll take longer for my hands to adapt.” He told the man. And if he only had six months within the mines, he wanted to be able to experience then as a miner would, not (literally) given kid gloves to make it easier for the prince of the realm. “Thanks anyway.” He added, the moment of gratitude an afterthought as he looked over the man in a sweeping glance that took in the gloves and waterskin of water and sparked the thought of wonder inside his head as to who this man was exactly.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” He asked him, glancing around in the other direction in case the foreman of their section was within earshot. For whilst he didn’t approve of the man hovering in an unproductive manner, he also didn’t wish to be the sole reason that the man was reprimanded.
Ever-perceptive over the directions of others, Damocles could sense that his words had thus far not made much of a dent in the other boy’s stony armor. No matter, he wasn’t here to be a friend or ally, he was here to nominally do a job and hopefully execute his growing plan forth freedom and liberty. Still, he had no reason to be particularly nasty to the relatively thinner-limbed boy. Instead, he paid close attention to what he was saying, both verbally and non-verbally, and tried to deduce a proper course of action so as to reply to his reactions.
Upon suggesting a change of name, the silver-eyed Magnemean noticed a bit of subtle discomfort from the other. It was barely noticeable, but it was there. Mayhaps, he had had made a mistake in recommending such a course of action. In retrospect, it made sense to deduce why the other boy might have not enjoyed the adjustment. Greece was a realm defined by class and social placement, and to conform to an inferior version of one’s name could have indicated a forced abdication of some prior superior status or rank. The thinner-framed boy’s name was proper and highborn, and the fact that he used a leather bracer of some quality all suggested that this youth was of a substantially higher rank in the social ladder. Yet, the broad-shouldered youth was never one for such pretensions or disregards. Instead, he simply smiled and continued to analyze the other Colchian.
“Or you could ignore my advice and use your highborn name.” he retorted to the other’s silent shrug with a slightly dismissive tone to his otherwise jovial voice. “In the grand scheme of things it really is insignificant what our name is or which are family is. When it all comes down to it, what matters is our legacy and that which we leave behind to those we care for.” He pontificated, realizing that he had spoken far too much for such an early stage in what was otherwise an informal introduction and nothing more. “Forgive me, I’ve spoken too much.” Apologized the brawnier boy as he turned his attention at the gloves he had fetched for the other.
True to expectation, the objects were rather wasted and rugged, denoting their all-too-heavy use in the past. It had been years since he had last used such protective garment, but he truly did not think it wrong for someone unaccustomed to the mines to partake in their use. Yes, one would eventually develop the rough, callouses of a hard-wrought miner after working such laborious industry for days and weeks endless, but that didn’t mean one had to enjoy the process. As it was, he could still recall the painful blisters that formed in his palms whence he first began to chisel rock to place and ore from the ground. It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences, he would admit, but it did build character, and that was some small form of recompense, he guessed. “Very well. Suit yourself.” He briefly replied, taking bold of the garments before turning his attention to the conditions of the mine.
As it was, there was not much to dig out as a quick strike in such brief moment. If possible, the silver-eyed youth would rather tend to an easier, less-intense mineral vein. The day had been unforgiving and long, despite not having met the bitter end of a whip yet. His swollen, pumped muscles were not particularly eager to return back to the hellish workload, and his hardened body longed for respite and reprieve. Alas, once the stone was cut there was no use for its fragments. With a gleeful smirk on his clean-shaven face, the powerfully-built Magnemean acknowledged the insight of the other’s words and contemplated doing as the other suggested between his blunt honesty.
“Don’t remind me.” He humored in a deadpan manner as he sighted and focused his attention at a particular vein that seemed promising enough for a few productive hours. “Well, back to it for me.” He said, turning around as he settled the waterskin and gloves in their respective places before walking huskily to the vein he had pondered on before. "Enjoy the mine...if possible."
Mining was not the most exciting of professions, but there was a certain, brief satisfaction in digging a particularly wealthy vein. If anything, the process itself was somewhat rewarding in its exercise. At least this way he could focus on a particular objective for a couple of hours without thinking much of anything else. Arming himself with a hammer and chisel, the tanned youth mused along to his projected corner of the mine, contemplating the slight modicum of entertainment that such project would mean for him. Besides, it was well known that those that dug particularly profitable veins were rewarded in some form or another.
And yet, as he finishing making his way before his small brief corner, the Magnemean beheld a sight that caused his anger to heighten. It seemed he had not been the only one that noticed the vein, with another, similarly aged boy making fast to the place before Damocles could secure it for his own. A look of contempt washed across his features, but rather than lashing out at the first instance of annoyance, the silver-eyed youth took a simple depe breath and tried to compose himself.
“I’m working this vein. Leave.” He bluntly said in a commanding manner that really did not move the other to action. With a shrug and a chuckle, the other boy struck the surface, eliciting a notched eyebrow from the brawny Magnemean. “Oi! Malakas!” he purposely cursed, angrily smiling at the other with thinly-veiled aggression. “I said I’m working that vein. Now get your ass back where you came from before I beat you back to Magnemea.” Threatened the youth as the other boy instinctively reacted by dropping everything and focus on the angry adolescent that just insulted him. Subsequently, a plethora of profane words and colorful insult were exchanged between the two, only breaking their stalemate until the other young man dropped everything and closed a fist that he aimed squarely at Damocles’s jaw. After that, everything devolved.
After enduring the strike, Damocles narrowed his eyes and snarled, closed his large hand tightly and retaliated by delivering a crunching punch right at the other’s exposed abdomen. Once the blows flew, there was little point in hiding the scuffle. A small crowd of outlookers started to witness the fight, quietly looking on as none quelled the boy’s scrap. Thankfully, no slaver was around to stop the sight, but that only prolonged the brawl, with the other brown-eyed boy sinking his teeth against Damocles’s neck, while the other retaliated by striking the other right in his left eye with uncontrolled force.
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Ever-perceptive over the directions of others, Damocles could sense that his words had thus far not made much of a dent in the other boy’s stony armor. No matter, he wasn’t here to be a friend or ally, he was here to nominally do a job and hopefully execute his growing plan forth freedom and liberty. Still, he had no reason to be particularly nasty to the relatively thinner-limbed boy. Instead, he paid close attention to what he was saying, both verbally and non-verbally, and tried to deduce a proper course of action so as to reply to his reactions.
Upon suggesting a change of name, the silver-eyed Magnemean noticed a bit of subtle discomfort from the other. It was barely noticeable, but it was there. Mayhaps, he had had made a mistake in recommending such a course of action. In retrospect, it made sense to deduce why the other boy might have not enjoyed the adjustment. Greece was a realm defined by class and social placement, and to conform to an inferior version of one’s name could have indicated a forced abdication of some prior superior status or rank. The thinner-framed boy’s name was proper and highborn, and the fact that he used a leather bracer of some quality all suggested that this youth was of a substantially higher rank in the social ladder. Yet, the broad-shouldered youth was never one for such pretensions or disregards. Instead, he simply smiled and continued to analyze the other Colchian.
“Or you could ignore my advice and use your highborn name.” he retorted to the other’s silent shrug with a slightly dismissive tone to his otherwise jovial voice. “In the grand scheme of things it really is insignificant what our name is or which are family is. When it all comes down to it, what matters is our legacy and that which we leave behind to those we care for.” He pontificated, realizing that he had spoken far too much for such an early stage in what was otherwise an informal introduction and nothing more. “Forgive me, I’ve spoken too much.” Apologized the brawnier boy as he turned his attention at the gloves he had fetched for the other.
True to expectation, the objects were rather wasted and rugged, denoting their all-too-heavy use in the past. It had been years since he had last used such protective garment, but he truly did not think it wrong for someone unaccustomed to the mines to partake in their use. Yes, one would eventually develop the rough, callouses of a hard-wrought miner after working such laborious industry for days and weeks endless, but that didn’t mean one had to enjoy the process. As it was, he could still recall the painful blisters that formed in his palms whence he first began to chisel rock to place and ore from the ground. It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences, he would admit, but it did build character, and that was some small form of recompense, he guessed. “Very well. Suit yourself.” He briefly replied, taking bold of the garments before turning his attention to the conditions of the mine.
As it was, there was not much to dig out as a quick strike in such brief moment. If possible, the silver-eyed youth would rather tend to an easier, less-intense mineral vein. The day had been unforgiving and long, despite not having met the bitter end of a whip yet. His swollen, pumped muscles were not particularly eager to return back to the hellish workload, and his hardened body longed for respite and reprieve. Alas, once the stone was cut there was no use for its fragments. With a gleeful smirk on his clean-shaven face, the powerfully-built Magnemean acknowledged the insight of the other’s words and contemplated doing as the other suggested between his blunt honesty.
“Don’t remind me.” He humored in a deadpan manner as he sighted and focused his attention at a particular vein that seemed promising enough for a few productive hours. “Well, back to it for me.” He said, turning around as he settled the waterskin and gloves in their respective places before walking huskily to the vein he had pondered on before. "Enjoy the mine...if possible."
Mining was not the most exciting of professions, but there was a certain, brief satisfaction in digging a particularly wealthy vein. If anything, the process itself was somewhat rewarding in its exercise. At least this way he could focus on a particular objective for a couple of hours without thinking much of anything else. Arming himself with a hammer and chisel, the tanned youth mused along to his projected corner of the mine, contemplating the slight modicum of entertainment that such project would mean for him. Besides, it was well known that those that dug particularly profitable veins were rewarded in some form or another.
And yet, as he finishing making his way before his small brief corner, the Magnemean beheld a sight that caused his anger to heighten. It seemed he had not been the only one that noticed the vein, with another, similarly aged boy making fast to the place before Damocles could secure it for his own. A look of contempt washed across his features, but rather than lashing out at the first instance of annoyance, the silver-eyed youth took a simple depe breath and tried to compose himself.
“I’m working this vein. Leave.” He bluntly said in a commanding manner that really did not move the other to action. With a shrug and a chuckle, the other boy struck the surface, eliciting a notched eyebrow from the brawny Magnemean. “Oi! Malakas!” he purposely cursed, angrily smiling at the other with thinly-veiled aggression. “I said I’m working that vein. Now get your ass back where you came from before I beat you back to Magnemea.” Threatened the youth as the other boy instinctively reacted by dropping everything and focus on the angry adolescent that just insulted him. Subsequently, a plethora of profane words and colorful insult were exchanged between the two, only breaking their stalemate until the other young man dropped everything and closed a fist that he aimed squarely at Damocles’s jaw. After that, everything devolved.
After enduring the strike, Damocles narrowed his eyes and snarled, closed his large hand tightly and retaliated by delivering a crunching punch right at the other’s exposed abdomen. Once the blows flew, there was little point in hiding the scuffle. A small crowd of outlookers started to witness the fight, quietly looking on as none quelled the boy’s scrap. Thankfully, no slaver was around to stop the sight, but that only prolonged the brawl, with the other brown-eyed boy sinking his teeth against Damocles’s neck, while the other retaliated by striking the other right in his left eye with uncontrolled force.
Ever-perceptive over the directions of others, Damocles could sense that his words had thus far not made much of a dent in the other boy’s stony armor. No matter, he wasn’t here to be a friend or ally, he was here to nominally do a job and hopefully execute his growing plan forth freedom and liberty. Still, he had no reason to be particularly nasty to the relatively thinner-limbed boy. Instead, he paid close attention to what he was saying, both verbally and non-verbally, and tried to deduce a proper course of action so as to reply to his reactions.
Upon suggesting a change of name, the silver-eyed Magnemean noticed a bit of subtle discomfort from the other. It was barely noticeable, but it was there. Mayhaps, he had had made a mistake in recommending such a course of action. In retrospect, it made sense to deduce why the other boy might have not enjoyed the adjustment. Greece was a realm defined by class and social placement, and to conform to an inferior version of one’s name could have indicated a forced abdication of some prior superior status or rank. The thinner-framed boy’s name was proper and highborn, and the fact that he used a leather bracer of some quality all suggested that this youth was of a substantially higher rank in the social ladder. Yet, the broad-shouldered youth was never one for such pretensions or disregards. Instead, he simply smiled and continued to analyze the other Colchian.
“Or you could ignore my advice and use your highborn name.” he retorted to the other’s silent shrug with a slightly dismissive tone to his otherwise jovial voice. “In the grand scheme of things it really is insignificant what our name is or which are family is. When it all comes down to it, what matters is our legacy and that which we leave behind to those we care for.” He pontificated, realizing that he had spoken far too much for such an early stage in what was otherwise an informal introduction and nothing more. “Forgive me, I’ve spoken too much.” Apologized the brawnier boy as he turned his attention at the gloves he had fetched for the other.
True to expectation, the objects were rather wasted and rugged, denoting their all-too-heavy use in the past. It had been years since he had last used such protective garment, but he truly did not think it wrong for someone unaccustomed to the mines to partake in their use. Yes, one would eventually develop the rough, callouses of a hard-wrought miner after working such laborious industry for days and weeks endless, but that didn’t mean one had to enjoy the process. As it was, he could still recall the painful blisters that formed in his palms whence he first began to chisel rock to place and ore from the ground. It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences, he would admit, but it did build character, and that was some small form of recompense, he guessed. “Very well. Suit yourself.” He briefly replied, taking bold of the garments before turning his attention to the conditions of the mine.
As it was, there was not much to dig out as a quick strike in such brief moment. If possible, the silver-eyed youth would rather tend to an easier, less-intense mineral vein. The day had been unforgiving and long, despite not having met the bitter end of a whip yet. His swollen, pumped muscles were not particularly eager to return back to the hellish workload, and his hardened body longed for respite and reprieve. Alas, once the stone was cut there was no use for its fragments. With a gleeful smirk on his clean-shaven face, the powerfully-built Magnemean acknowledged the insight of the other’s words and contemplated doing as the other suggested between his blunt honesty.
“Don’t remind me.” He humored in a deadpan manner as he sighted and focused his attention at a particular vein that seemed promising enough for a few productive hours. “Well, back to it for me.” He said, turning around as he settled the waterskin and gloves in their respective places before walking huskily to the vein he had pondered on before. "Enjoy the mine...if possible."
Mining was not the most exciting of professions, but there was a certain, brief satisfaction in digging a particularly wealthy vein. If anything, the process itself was somewhat rewarding in its exercise. At least this way he could focus on a particular objective for a couple of hours without thinking much of anything else. Arming himself with a hammer and chisel, the tanned youth mused along to his projected corner of the mine, contemplating the slight modicum of entertainment that such project would mean for him. Besides, it was well known that those that dug particularly profitable veins were rewarded in some form or another.
And yet, as he finishing making his way before his small brief corner, the Magnemean beheld a sight that caused his anger to heighten. It seemed he had not been the only one that noticed the vein, with another, similarly aged boy making fast to the place before Damocles could secure it for his own. A look of contempt washed across his features, but rather than lashing out at the first instance of annoyance, the silver-eyed youth took a simple depe breath and tried to compose himself.
“I’m working this vein. Leave.” He bluntly said in a commanding manner that really did not move the other to action. With a shrug and a chuckle, the other boy struck the surface, eliciting a notched eyebrow from the brawny Magnemean. “Oi! Malakas!” he purposely cursed, angrily smiling at the other with thinly-veiled aggression. “I said I’m working that vein. Now get your ass back where you came from before I beat you back to Magnemea.” Threatened the youth as the other boy instinctively reacted by dropping everything and focus on the angry adolescent that just insulted him. Subsequently, a plethora of profane words and colorful insult were exchanged between the two, only breaking their stalemate until the other young man dropped everything and closed a fist that he aimed squarely at Damocles’s jaw. After that, everything devolved.
After enduring the strike, Damocles narrowed his eyes and snarled, closed his large hand tightly and retaliated by delivering a crunching punch right at the other’s exposed abdomen. Once the blows flew, there was little point in hiding the scuffle. A small crowd of outlookers started to witness the fight, quietly looking on as none quelled the boy’s scrap. Thankfully, no slaver was around to stop the sight, but that only prolonged the brawl, with the other brown-eyed boy sinking his teeth against Damocles’s neck, while the other retaliated by striking the other right in his left eye with uncontrolled force.
Vangelis gave little to no reaction to the miner's words as he commented on both his name and the manner in which he worked, refusing the accept the gloves that were offered in good nature. When the man commented about him 'enjoying the mine' Vangelis offered a small curl to the corner of his mouth as a minor sign of amusement but nothing further. He was not, even at a young age, an expressive young man and preferred the cool quiet and calmness that came with introspective thought than external expression.
When the man moved away, Vangelis was thankful for the lack of distraction and worked hard for a while, feeling his muscles burn and sweat roll down his temples. It was hot beneath the city and despite the fact that heat rose, there were so many bodies and torches within the tunnels, it didn't matter how quickly the warmth ran towards the surface. It was hot enough to always remain sweltering between the men.
Continuing with his work and, for a moment, almost relishing the feel of being like everyone else, hearing the calls and orders of the mine manager and following the instructions like his peers, Vangelis felt, for a moment, as if he were a part of something larger than himself. Able to relinquish the responsibilities that were normally settled upon his shoulders and would only grow heavier as time went on and he became a full man.
Distracted by his thoughts, it took a moment for Vangelis to notice the violence that was brewing just a little further down the tunnel. Voices in the mine were always echoing, distorted as they bounced off of the walls and down the caverns. They almost always seemed to be shouting or raised in anger, even when their original expulsion was in a murmur or low hum of voices. So, when real anger occurred, it was difficult to distinguish it from others until it rose to a point of clear wrath.
Turning from his work, his own hammering ceasing along with several others, Vangelis turned to witness the two boys - men really - bigger and stronger than himself start in on a physical altercation over a vein of ore that they have both tried to dig.
His brow dropped low as he watched in confusion over the anger and conflict expelled over something that didn't pragmatically matter in the least. The ore went to their leader, who sent it to the surface and the owner of the mine. It held no worth or value to those who dug it from the earth. And even if it did, brawling over it was immature and without honour.
Vangelis had been taught to fight, taught to orchestrate conflict. But he had always been taught what was right and what was worthy of such effort and energy.
"Stop." Vangelis said, before he could quell the impulse. His mind told him that he shouldn't get involved but he was acting on instinct now over logic.
Unsure whether his lesson in the mines was designed to have him learn his place as one of many or have him learn to carve his own as an individual amongst them, Vangelis wasn't sure. But he knew what was worthy of time and effort. And this wasn't it.
And in the mines, all energy was precious.
Carefully putting his tools down, Vangelis shifted and jumped his way over crags and rocks, losing his step a moment when rubble rolled beneath the sole of his sandal and then came upon the two boys. Hovering a foot or so away, Vangelis watched with a trained eye on how to take down a fighter one-on-one and when he saw an opportunity in the one attacking the man that he had spoken to earlier he took it.
Reaching out with a hold, sharp and quick, Vangelis took the assailants arm and wrenched it back. His own elbow he placed into the crook of the man's neck, applying pressure to a point on the edge of his throat that would release his muscles and his have jaw slacken. Forced to renounce the claim his teeth had made on Thrax's shoulder, the youth yelped at the pain in his arm but was held in a manner that stopped him from being able to turn on Vangelis and retaliate.
With a hard push that used the boy's size and current entanglement against him, Vangelis had him sprawled against the rocky wall.
"It matters not who mines the vein." Vangelis found himself saying, his voice echoing with determination. "The value of it goes elsewhere anyway and, as it stands, I see no hammers or chisels in your hands. We're all here for one thing. So, stop being children and do it."
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Check out their information page here.
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Vangelis gave little to no reaction to the miner's words as he commented on both his name and the manner in which he worked, refusing the accept the gloves that were offered in good nature. When the man commented about him 'enjoying the mine' Vangelis offered a small curl to the corner of his mouth as a minor sign of amusement but nothing further. He was not, even at a young age, an expressive young man and preferred the cool quiet and calmness that came with introspective thought than external expression.
When the man moved away, Vangelis was thankful for the lack of distraction and worked hard for a while, feeling his muscles burn and sweat roll down his temples. It was hot beneath the city and despite the fact that heat rose, there were so many bodies and torches within the tunnels, it didn't matter how quickly the warmth ran towards the surface. It was hot enough to always remain sweltering between the men.
Continuing with his work and, for a moment, almost relishing the feel of being like everyone else, hearing the calls and orders of the mine manager and following the instructions like his peers, Vangelis felt, for a moment, as if he were a part of something larger than himself. Able to relinquish the responsibilities that were normally settled upon his shoulders and would only grow heavier as time went on and he became a full man.
Distracted by his thoughts, it took a moment for Vangelis to notice the violence that was brewing just a little further down the tunnel. Voices in the mine were always echoing, distorted as they bounced off of the walls and down the caverns. They almost always seemed to be shouting or raised in anger, even when their original expulsion was in a murmur or low hum of voices. So, when real anger occurred, it was difficult to distinguish it from others until it rose to a point of clear wrath.
Turning from his work, his own hammering ceasing along with several others, Vangelis turned to witness the two boys - men really - bigger and stronger than himself start in on a physical altercation over a vein of ore that they have both tried to dig.
His brow dropped low as he watched in confusion over the anger and conflict expelled over something that didn't pragmatically matter in the least. The ore went to their leader, who sent it to the surface and the owner of the mine. It held no worth or value to those who dug it from the earth. And even if it did, brawling over it was immature and without honour.
Vangelis had been taught to fight, taught to orchestrate conflict. But he had always been taught what was right and what was worthy of such effort and energy.
"Stop." Vangelis said, before he could quell the impulse. His mind told him that he shouldn't get involved but he was acting on instinct now over logic.
Unsure whether his lesson in the mines was designed to have him learn his place as one of many or have him learn to carve his own as an individual amongst them, Vangelis wasn't sure. But he knew what was worthy of time and effort. And this wasn't it.
And in the mines, all energy was precious.
Carefully putting his tools down, Vangelis shifted and jumped his way over crags and rocks, losing his step a moment when rubble rolled beneath the sole of his sandal and then came upon the two boys. Hovering a foot or so away, Vangelis watched with a trained eye on how to take down a fighter one-on-one and when he saw an opportunity in the one attacking the man that he had spoken to earlier he took it.
Reaching out with a hold, sharp and quick, Vangelis took the assailants arm and wrenched it back. His own elbow he placed into the crook of the man's neck, applying pressure to a point on the edge of his throat that would release his muscles and his have jaw slacken. Forced to renounce the claim his teeth had made on Thrax's shoulder, the youth yelped at the pain in his arm but was held in a manner that stopped him from being able to turn on Vangelis and retaliate.
With a hard push that used the boy's size and current entanglement against him, Vangelis had him sprawled against the rocky wall.
"It matters not who mines the vein." Vangelis found himself saying, his voice echoing with determination. "The value of it goes elsewhere anyway and, as it stands, I see no hammers or chisels in your hands. We're all here for one thing. So, stop being children and do it."
Vangelis gave little to no reaction to the miner's words as he commented on both his name and the manner in which he worked, refusing the accept the gloves that were offered in good nature. When the man commented about him 'enjoying the mine' Vangelis offered a small curl to the corner of his mouth as a minor sign of amusement but nothing further. He was not, even at a young age, an expressive young man and preferred the cool quiet and calmness that came with introspective thought than external expression.
When the man moved away, Vangelis was thankful for the lack of distraction and worked hard for a while, feeling his muscles burn and sweat roll down his temples. It was hot beneath the city and despite the fact that heat rose, there were so many bodies and torches within the tunnels, it didn't matter how quickly the warmth ran towards the surface. It was hot enough to always remain sweltering between the men.
Continuing with his work and, for a moment, almost relishing the feel of being like everyone else, hearing the calls and orders of the mine manager and following the instructions like his peers, Vangelis felt, for a moment, as if he were a part of something larger than himself. Able to relinquish the responsibilities that were normally settled upon his shoulders and would only grow heavier as time went on and he became a full man.
Distracted by his thoughts, it took a moment for Vangelis to notice the violence that was brewing just a little further down the tunnel. Voices in the mine were always echoing, distorted as they bounced off of the walls and down the caverns. They almost always seemed to be shouting or raised in anger, even when their original expulsion was in a murmur or low hum of voices. So, when real anger occurred, it was difficult to distinguish it from others until it rose to a point of clear wrath.
Turning from his work, his own hammering ceasing along with several others, Vangelis turned to witness the two boys - men really - bigger and stronger than himself start in on a physical altercation over a vein of ore that they have both tried to dig.
His brow dropped low as he watched in confusion over the anger and conflict expelled over something that didn't pragmatically matter in the least. The ore went to their leader, who sent it to the surface and the owner of the mine. It held no worth or value to those who dug it from the earth. And even if it did, brawling over it was immature and without honour.
Vangelis had been taught to fight, taught to orchestrate conflict. But he had always been taught what was right and what was worthy of such effort and energy.
"Stop." Vangelis said, before he could quell the impulse. His mind told him that he shouldn't get involved but he was acting on instinct now over logic.
Unsure whether his lesson in the mines was designed to have him learn his place as one of many or have him learn to carve his own as an individual amongst them, Vangelis wasn't sure. But he knew what was worthy of time and effort. And this wasn't it.
And in the mines, all energy was precious.
Carefully putting his tools down, Vangelis shifted and jumped his way over crags and rocks, losing his step a moment when rubble rolled beneath the sole of his sandal and then came upon the two boys. Hovering a foot or so away, Vangelis watched with a trained eye on how to take down a fighter one-on-one and when he saw an opportunity in the one attacking the man that he had spoken to earlier he took it.
Reaching out with a hold, sharp and quick, Vangelis took the assailants arm and wrenched it back. His own elbow he placed into the crook of the man's neck, applying pressure to a point on the edge of his throat that would release his muscles and his have jaw slacken. Forced to renounce the claim his teeth had made on Thrax's shoulder, the youth yelped at the pain in his arm but was held in a manner that stopped him from being able to turn on Vangelis and retaliate.
With a hard push that used the boy's size and current entanglement against him, Vangelis had him sprawled against the rocky wall.
"It matters not who mines the vein." Vangelis found himself saying, his voice echoing with determination. "The value of it goes elsewhere anyway and, as it stands, I see no hammers or chisels in your hands. We're all here for one thing. So, stop being children and do it."
There were very few pleasures down in the mines of Colchis. Most days one would be happy to go about without suffering the end of a whip’s sting after a hard day’s work. Yet, to those that had grown used to the grim and stress of that rocky underworld, some small windows of levity could occasionally be struck. This was one of the few things that Damocles thought went unspoken amongst miners. To him, when all the pain and misery and horrors were cast away, one thing remained, sheer, unadulterated and absolute boredom.
Compared to the work of, say, an craftsman or a farmer, the grey-eyed youth saw mining as an uninspiring industry that was repetition at its worst manifestation. The fullest extent of his career beneath rock and stone was to press the tip of a picked hammered against a vein to strike out a precious rock or metal that he knew would not be his own. It was a mere raise of the arm, a lowering of the hand and a strike of precision, that was all that his life as a miner amounted to under the cities and towns of those that enjoyed the minerals he carved through blood, sweat and tears. It was almost laughably cruel when he thought about it, that he was, at every time, surrounded by precious riches that he could not take for his own. Perhaps, it was part of his destiny, one determined by the Divine Ones before his own time in that land, but even in that dark, soulless place, the Magnemean questioned if only rocks and flints would be the such of his life.
He had no answers for such bewildering questions, and he was not going to pretend to know enough so as to ascertain whatever glories or perils the Fates would unravel amongst his tangled skein of a life. Hence, as a means to make sense of his life, the grey-eyed both had learned the patterns of the rock, finding a small semblance of amusement in calculating the right place to chisel and strike so as to make the miner bend to his will, or at least that’s what he liked to believe. He enjoyed the process and deduction of mining, finding the exercise a vague way to pass on the endless hours he spent. Maybe this was why those mathematicians argued so fiercely amongst themselves, seeing as such an exercise in foresight could come to behold an interesting coursework that would lead to efficiency. Of course however, there was the part of his past.
Maybe, if he had been able to warn his master better and use his knowledge in a better way, he could have compelled him to pull back his hand those years prior, leaving the instability of the mines of his birth land to their own volition, whilst his mother, father and three remaining youngest siblings turned back to their shoddy stone house. Maybe, if he had been more convincing and persuasive, it would have not happened thusly, and thus so many lost souls would not have met their end before their fitting time. Alas, the past was the past, and he could not change anything. The only thing he had power over was the performance of his duties and the possible escape towards liberty that he so longed for.
Yet, despite being more than well-aware that it was foolish to argue over a mere vein, the silver-eyed boy could not see his hands move towards inaction. That spot had been perfect for mining, with a nice, plentiful vein of ore that would have afforded him more than enough work for a couple of days, and with a gentler, easier to work corner that would have meant less intensity by his hands. It was all that he wanted for now. Nevertheless, that morose, brown-haired idiot had stepped in and stolen his spot. True, he had not meant to argue with another miner at this hour, but it seemed that brains could not find cause at the time, and when words failed and reason slipped, he lost if, reacting viciously to the other’s aggression with his own untamed rage.
A few exchanges were traded between them. To his advantage, the Magnemean knew that his fists would curry enough weight to make a solid impact, but that did not stop the other boy from fighting back, gnawing and lurching as he did against his exposed, swarthy form. Before he knew it however, a third person appeared, causing the broad-shouldered youth to stare with unexpected interest at the one who came right to side. It had been that thinner boy, the one he had broken words with before, summoning some unexpected skill at grappling that the Magnemean had no idea was something a merchant’s son would be taught.
A dry smirk fastened across him for a moment, swept away by the bite he felt against his shoulder all a sudden. Yelling in creation go the unexpected pain he felt, the strong-armed youth made for the other’s and landed a crackling punch that connected with Vangelis’s hard push, causing some safe distance to be carved out between them. “Fine then! Let the beast have his corner!” kept provoking the built youth with rage in his tone. “Stay the fuck away from me though!” he threatened, glaring at the moron that bit him, with fierce determination in his grey stare. "Let’s go…” he said, turning at the thinner-framed boy with an expression of odd interested across his rectangular face.
Once he was away from that beastly boy that assaulted him, the Magnemean turned to the atheltic built boy that had just stepped in and turned his eyes at him with curios intentions in his metallic orbs. “You’re skilled at fighting...” He assessed in a gruff tone that wasn’t too dissimilar to the one that Vangelis had channeled moments prior. “Those were some good moves you showed there…I’m impressed.” Complimented the somewhat still angry, or rather, annoyed Magnemean. Truthfully, he wanted to sound less bothered and annoyed, but he didn’t have the energy to change his form of address. “Sorry for that scene just now. I didn’t mean to drag you into it. I guess I made a bad impression today huh?” he said, sounding a bit more optimistic at the end as a means to poke fun of himself in an effort to lighten the mood a bit.
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There were very few pleasures down in the mines of Colchis. Most days one would be happy to go about without suffering the end of a whip’s sting after a hard day’s work. Yet, to those that had grown used to the grim and stress of that rocky underworld, some small windows of levity could occasionally be struck. This was one of the few things that Damocles thought went unspoken amongst miners. To him, when all the pain and misery and horrors were cast away, one thing remained, sheer, unadulterated and absolute boredom.
Compared to the work of, say, an craftsman or a farmer, the grey-eyed youth saw mining as an uninspiring industry that was repetition at its worst manifestation. The fullest extent of his career beneath rock and stone was to press the tip of a picked hammered against a vein to strike out a precious rock or metal that he knew would not be his own. It was a mere raise of the arm, a lowering of the hand and a strike of precision, that was all that his life as a miner amounted to under the cities and towns of those that enjoyed the minerals he carved through blood, sweat and tears. It was almost laughably cruel when he thought about it, that he was, at every time, surrounded by precious riches that he could not take for his own. Perhaps, it was part of his destiny, one determined by the Divine Ones before his own time in that land, but even in that dark, soulless place, the Magnemean questioned if only rocks and flints would be the such of his life.
He had no answers for such bewildering questions, and he was not going to pretend to know enough so as to ascertain whatever glories or perils the Fates would unravel amongst his tangled skein of a life. Hence, as a means to make sense of his life, the grey-eyed both had learned the patterns of the rock, finding a small semblance of amusement in calculating the right place to chisel and strike so as to make the miner bend to his will, or at least that’s what he liked to believe. He enjoyed the process and deduction of mining, finding the exercise a vague way to pass on the endless hours he spent. Maybe this was why those mathematicians argued so fiercely amongst themselves, seeing as such an exercise in foresight could come to behold an interesting coursework that would lead to efficiency. Of course however, there was the part of his past.
Maybe, if he had been able to warn his master better and use his knowledge in a better way, he could have compelled him to pull back his hand those years prior, leaving the instability of the mines of his birth land to their own volition, whilst his mother, father and three remaining youngest siblings turned back to their shoddy stone house. Maybe, if he had been more convincing and persuasive, it would have not happened thusly, and thus so many lost souls would not have met their end before their fitting time. Alas, the past was the past, and he could not change anything. The only thing he had power over was the performance of his duties and the possible escape towards liberty that he so longed for.
Yet, despite being more than well-aware that it was foolish to argue over a mere vein, the silver-eyed boy could not see his hands move towards inaction. That spot had been perfect for mining, with a nice, plentiful vein of ore that would have afforded him more than enough work for a couple of days, and with a gentler, easier to work corner that would have meant less intensity by his hands. It was all that he wanted for now. Nevertheless, that morose, brown-haired idiot had stepped in and stolen his spot. True, he had not meant to argue with another miner at this hour, but it seemed that brains could not find cause at the time, and when words failed and reason slipped, he lost if, reacting viciously to the other’s aggression with his own untamed rage.
A few exchanges were traded between them. To his advantage, the Magnemean knew that his fists would curry enough weight to make a solid impact, but that did not stop the other boy from fighting back, gnawing and lurching as he did against his exposed, swarthy form. Before he knew it however, a third person appeared, causing the broad-shouldered youth to stare with unexpected interest at the one who came right to side. It had been that thinner boy, the one he had broken words with before, summoning some unexpected skill at grappling that the Magnemean had no idea was something a merchant’s son would be taught.
A dry smirk fastened across him for a moment, swept away by the bite he felt against his shoulder all a sudden. Yelling in creation go the unexpected pain he felt, the strong-armed youth made for the other’s and landed a crackling punch that connected with Vangelis’s hard push, causing some safe distance to be carved out between them. “Fine then! Let the beast have his corner!” kept provoking the built youth with rage in his tone. “Stay the fuck away from me though!” he threatened, glaring at the moron that bit him, with fierce determination in his grey stare. "Let’s go…” he said, turning at the thinner-framed boy with an expression of odd interested across his rectangular face.
Once he was away from that beastly boy that assaulted him, the Magnemean turned to the atheltic built boy that had just stepped in and turned his eyes at him with curios intentions in his metallic orbs. “You’re skilled at fighting...” He assessed in a gruff tone that wasn’t too dissimilar to the one that Vangelis had channeled moments prior. “Those were some good moves you showed there…I’m impressed.” Complimented the somewhat still angry, or rather, annoyed Magnemean. Truthfully, he wanted to sound less bothered and annoyed, but he didn’t have the energy to change his form of address. “Sorry for that scene just now. I didn’t mean to drag you into it. I guess I made a bad impression today huh?” he said, sounding a bit more optimistic at the end as a means to poke fun of himself in an effort to lighten the mood a bit.
There were very few pleasures down in the mines of Colchis. Most days one would be happy to go about without suffering the end of a whip’s sting after a hard day’s work. Yet, to those that had grown used to the grim and stress of that rocky underworld, some small windows of levity could occasionally be struck. This was one of the few things that Damocles thought went unspoken amongst miners. To him, when all the pain and misery and horrors were cast away, one thing remained, sheer, unadulterated and absolute boredom.
Compared to the work of, say, an craftsman or a farmer, the grey-eyed youth saw mining as an uninspiring industry that was repetition at its worst manifestation. The fullest extent of his career beneath rock and stone was to press the tip of a picked hammered against a vein to strike out a precious rock or metal that he knew would not be his own. It was a mere raise of the arm, a lowering of the hand and a strike of precision, that was all that his life as a miner amounted to under the cities and towns of those that enjoyed the minerals he carved through blood, sweat and tears. It was almost laughably cruel when he thought about it, that he was, at every time, surrounded by precious riches that he could not take for his own. Perhaps, it was part of his destiny, one determined by the Divine Ones before his own time in that land, but even in that dark, soulless place, the Magnemean questioned if only rocks and flints would be the such of his life.
He had no answers for such bewildering questions, and he was not going to pretend to know enough so as to ascertain whatever glories or perils the Fates would unravel amongst his tangled skein of a life. Hence, as a means to make sense of his life, the grey-eyed both had learned the patterns of the rock, finding a small semblance of amusement in calculating the right place to chisel and strike so as to make the miner bend to his will, or at least that’s what he liked to believe. He enjoyed the process and deduction of mining, finding the exercise a vague way to pass on the endless hours he spent. Maybe this was why those mathematicians argued so fiercely amongst themselves, seeing as such an exercise in foresight could come to behold an interesting coursework that would lead to efficiency. Of course however, there was the part of his past.
Maybe, if he had been able to warn his master better and use his knowledge in a better way, he could have compelled him to pull back his hand those years prior, leaving the instability of the mines of his birth land to their own volition, whilst his mother, father and three remaining youngest siblings turned back to their shoddy stone house. Maybe, if he had been more convincing and persuasive, it would have not happened thusly, and thus so many lost souls would not have met their end before their fitting time. Alas, the past was the past, and he could not change anything. The only thing he had power over was the performance of his duties and the possible escape towards liberty that he so longed for.
Yet, despite being more than well-aware that it was foolish to argue over a mere vein, the silver-eyed boy could not see his hands move towards inaction. That spot had been perfect for mining, with a nice, plentiful vein of ore that would have afforded him more than enough work for a couple of days, and with a gentler, easier to work corner that would have meant less intensity by his hands. It was all that he wanted for now. Nevertheless, that morose, brown-haired idiot had stepped in and stolen his spot. True, he had not meant to argue with another miner at this hour, but it seemed that brains could not find cause at the time, and when words failed and reason slipped, he lost if, reacting viciously to the other’s aggression with his own untamed rage.
A few exchanges were traded between them. To his advantage, the Magnemean knew that his fists would curry enough weight to make a solid impact, but that did not stop the other boy from fighting back, gnawing and lurching as he did against his exposed, swarthy form. Before he knew it however, a third person appeared, causing the broad-shouldered youth to stare with unexpected interest at the one who came right to side. It had been that thinner boy, the one he had broken words with before, summoning some unexpected skill at grappling that the Magnemean had no idea was something a merchant’s son would be taught.
A dry smirk fastened across him for a moment, swept away by the bite he felt against his shoulder all a sudden. Yelling in creation go the unexpected pain he felt, the strong-armed youth made for the other’s and landed a crackling punch that connected with Vangelis’s hard push, causing some safe distance to be carved out between them. “Fine then! Let the beast have his corner!” kept provoking the built youth with rage in his tone. “Stay the fuck away from me though!” he threatened, glaring at the moron that bit him, with fierce determination in his grey stare. "Let’s go…” he said, turning at the thinner-framed boy with an expression of odd interested across his rectangular face.
Once he was away from that beastly boy that assaulted him, the Magnemean turned to the atheltic built boy that had just stepped in and turned his eyes at him with curios intentions in his metallic orbs. “You’re skilled at fighting...” He assessed in a gruff tone that wasn’t too dissimilar to the one that Vangelis had channeled moments prior. “Those were some good moves you showed there…I’m impressed.” Complimented the somewhat still angry, or rather, annoyed Magnemean. Truthfully, he wanted to sound less bothered and annoyed, but he didn’t have the energy to change his form of address. “Sorry for that scene just now. I didn’t mean to drag you into it. I guess I made a bad impression today huh?” he said, sounding a bit more optimistic at the end as a means to poke fun of himself in an effort to lighten the mood a bit.
Vangelis gave no reaction when the man was shoved back the miner decided to take a moment to bark an insult his way, telling him to mine what he wanted but to stay the hell away from him. The instruction rang a little funny in Vangelis' ears given that it had been Thrax that had started the fight. The other had been mining and he'd started in on him for mining 'his' area. Now the man said he could have the area but to leave him alone? Vangelis turned away from the awkward tension that the fight had left behind and turned back towards the area of the tunnel he had been mining. Perhaps the people down here were just odd. Holding a sense of ownership or quick changes in mentalities that Vangelis wasn't used to. In his word, people thought in a linear pattern of determined ambition and happenstance.
When the man who had called himself Thrax followed him along the tunnel, pausing when Vangelis had to make a high step or tricky scaling of a piece of rocky earth, Vangelis only glanced at the man and his persistence. He was minorly surprised by the words he offered in compliment. He had gone from a shit minor to an impressive fighter in a single interaction. He wasn't sure whether he would be able to befriend or immediately dislike a man who he seemed to only gain favour with if he was violent.
He would have replied to the miner, claimed that the skill in fighting was nothing much and that he had simply received lessons for a long time, attributing his skill by hand to the skill by teaching of his tutor. But he hadn't the chance as Thrax cannonaded on, permitting Vangelis to remain silent. He spoke of how he hadn't formed a good impression of himself and apologised for the conflict he had sparked. As if Vangelis' opinion of him mattered somehow.
Vangelis offered a shrug.
"I was taught never to form opinions on first impressions." He said, his voice low in the caverns of the caves and almost to himself. He had reached the spot upon which he had been perched, working on his piece of wall. He bent and picked up his tools, looking towards the man that had followed him like a shadow. "I just think that we should all work together. Not be at each others' throats. Would make the process more efficient." He offered a shrug with one shoulder as he positioned his chisel back into place, at the edge of a vein he had been working at. He was about to hit upon the pin, his hammer in hand and hanging loose at his side when he looked back at Thrax once more. His gaze stole over the fallen tools about the cave floor and then at the wall, his meaning clear as day.
Are you going to stand around there all day, or get to work?
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Check out their information page here.
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Vangelis gave no reaction when the man was shoved back the miner decided to take a moment to bark an insult his way, telling him to mine what he wanted but to stay the hell away from him. The instruction rang a little funny in Vangelis' ears given that it had been Thrax that had started the fight. The other had been mining and he'd started in on him for mining 'his' area. Now the man said he could have the area but to leave him alone? Vangelis turned away from the awkward tension that the fight had left behind and turned back towards the area of the tunnel he had been mining. Perhaps the people down here were just odd. Holding a sense of ownership or quick changes in mentalities that Vangelis wasn't used to. In his word, people thought in a linear pattern of determined ambition and happenstance.
When the man who had called himself Thrax followed him along the tunnel, pausing when Vangelis had to make a high step or tricky scaling of a piece of rocky earth, Vangelis only glanced at the man and his persistence. He was minorly surprised by the words he offered in compliment. He had gone from a shit minor to an impressive fighter in a single interaction. He wasn't sure whether he would be able to befriend or immediately dislike a man who he seemed to only gain favour with if he was violent.
He would have replied to the miner, claimed that the skill in fighting was nothing much and that he had simply received lessons for a long time, attributing his skill by hand to the skill by teaching of his tutor. But he hadn't the chance as Thrax cannonaded on, permitting Vangelis to remain silent. He spoke of how he hadn't formed a good impression of himself and apologised for the conflict he had sparked. As if Vangelis' opinion of him mattered somehow.
Vangelis offered a shrug.
"I was taught never to form opinions on first impressions." He said, his voice low in the caverns of the caves and almost to himself. He had reached the spot upon which he had been perched, working on his piece of wall. He bent and picked up his tools, looking towards the man that had followed him like a shadow. "I just think that we should all work together. Not be at each others' throats. Would make the process more efficient." He offered a shrug with one shoulder as he positioned his chisel back into place, at the edge of a vein he had been working at. He was about to hit upon the pin, his hammer in hand and hanging loose at his side when he looked back at Thrax once more. His gaze stole over the fallen tools about the cave floor and then at the wall, his meaning clear as day.
Are you going to stand around there all day, or get to work?
Vangelis gave no reaction when the man was shoved back the miner decided to take a moment to bark an insult his way, telling him to mine what he wanted but to stay the hell away from him. The instruction rang a little funny in Vangelis' ears given that it had been Thrax that had started the fight. The other had been mining and he'd started in on him for mining 'his' area. Now the man said he could have the area but to leave him alone? Vangelis turned away from the awkward tension that the fight had left behind and turned back towards the area of the tunnel he had been mining. Perhaps the people down here were just odd. Holding a sense of ownership or quick changes in mentalities that Vangelis wasn't used to. In his word, people thought in a linear pattern of determined ambition and happenstance.
When the man who had called himself Thrax followed him along the tunnel, pausing when Vangelis had to make a high step or tricky scaling of a piece of rocky earth, Vangelis only glanced at the man and his persistence. He was minorly surprised by the words he offered in compliment. He had gone from a shit minor to an impressive fighter in a single interaction. He wasn't sure whether he would be able to befriend or immediately dislike a man who he seemed to only gain favour with if he was violent.
He would have replied to the miner, claimed that the skill in fighting was nothing much and that he had simply received lessons for a long time, attributing his skill by hand to the skill by teaching of his tutor. But he hadn't the chance as Thrax cannonaded on, permitting Vangelis to remain silent. He spoke of how he hadn't formed a good impression of himself and apologised for the conflict he had sparked. As if Vangelis' opinion of him mattered somehow.
Vangelis offered a shrug.
"I was taught never to form opinions on first impressions." He said, his voice low in the caverns of the caves and almost to himself. He had reached the spot upon which he had been perched, working on his piece of wall. He bent and picked up his tools, looking towards the man that had followed him like a shadow. "I just think that we should all work together. Not be at each others' throats. Would make the process more efficient." He offered a shrug with one shoulder as he positioned his chisel back into place, at the edge of a vein he had been working at. He was about to hit upon the pin, his hammer in hand and hanging loose at his side when he looked back at Thrax once more. His gaze stole over the fallen tools about the cave floor and then at the wall, his meaning clear as day.
Are you going to stand around there all day, or get to work?
It might have been distasteful to admit a certain appeal at the prospect of violence, a temporary thrill that elevated the day from a mostly uneventful and rather forgettable moment in time that had gained a slight improvement by means of the petty squabble, but to move otherwise and uphold the opposite would be dishonest and untrue. Frankly, as far as the Magnemean could tell, it had been the highlight of his day, one that he was certain would be condemned to the blank memories of forgotten days had the occurrence not happened. Still, even if it was distasteful and bellicose, the silver-eyed youth was not going to deny that the temporary amusement he found amidst those brief instances of prior aggression.
After walking back to his former place, the light-eyed youth took noticed of the other, equally-young man, looking at him in a much different light than he had before. Being physically mighty had never been a noticeable quality for those that worked the hellish mines of Colchis, for decades spent under tunnels of rock and stone turned even the softest featured boy into a muscle-hardened strongman. Thus, while Vangelis’s strength might have stunned others less accustomed to the harsh environments of the metal quarries, the Magnemean remained unimpressed in that regard. No, it hadn’t been his strength that had impressed, but rather the skill and deftness that had been shown in a mere moment. Those movements were precise and clear, confident in their execution and certain in their grasp. No mere boy he had ever known had moved like that, none whatsoever. Whomever this youth was, he was certainly no merchant’s son.
In fact, as he put his body against the stones and rocks so as to continue his work and trade, the Magnemean came to consider the wealth of possibilities he had come to behold against the presence of the mysterious, blue-eyed youth he had just met. From what he could gather he seemed to be a focused, insightful and dedicated young man. Even if he did not appear to be particularly inclined towards the industry of mining, he seemed committed to his course, whatever that might have been. He had refused to use the gloves, which the Magnemean took as indication that this boy had a confident side to him. As he saw it, it was either that, or stubbornness, and he did not want to think it was the latter of his two reasonings. Moreover, he didn’t seem to be that lighthearted or interested in talking, which wasn’t that out of the ordinary, but it was still something to keep track of if he was going to interact with him any further. Indeed, there seemed to be more than met the eye with this one, but only time and the Gods would determine whether or not the Magnemean’s suspicions and considerations had any weight to them. For now, he resumed his work and decided to let his curiosities remain just that, mere curiosities.
“That’s good…”he replied after hearing the other explain a bit about not being one for judging others by first interactions. In that moment, the better part of wisdom had suggested that he led the other continue with his words, assuming that perhaps a more quiet approach would be fitting whence interrelating with this mysterious fellow. With a simple nod of his weary head, he acknowledged the other’s words and made for his tools, silently, but politely excusing himself as he attempted to return to the task at hand before another man appeared, thin and hurried.
Wasting no time to catch his breath, the lad came over to the Magnemean, informing him that he had been summoned to report to his manager immediately. In his mind, the light-eyed youth assumed that this was related to some sort of production idea that his, in his personal opinion, not-so-brilliant slaver had conjured up at the latest hour. Resigning himself to his invocation, the heavy-shouldered boy set his equipment by the side and began to walk away unassumingly, before stopping for a moment and turning on his heels to face the enigmatic stranger he had met today.
“You’re a strange one. Not in a bad way...I believe, but in an unusual way. A good way.” both acknowledged and somewhat clarified the Magnemean as he softened his bold features to a dry smile. “I pray we take away much from this initial meeting, Vangelis.” He tried to say in a friendly manner as he addressed the other with his proper name so as to behave respectfully, before turning back on his pathway and following the messenger, promptly leaving behind the enigmatic youth that he somehow felt oddly interested in. Perhaps, he would meet him again and learn more about the mystery that surrounded him, and mayhaps he would find cause to return his odd favor with one of his own. But, none of that mattered now, for he was to come elsewhere, and he, as usual, was not amused by the prospective face of his supervisor.
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It might have been distasteful to admit a certain appeal at the prospect of violence, a temporary thrill that elevated the day from a mostly uneventful and rather forgettable moment in time that had gained a slight improvement by means of the petty squabble, but to move otherwise and uphold the opposite would be dishonest and untrue. Frankly, as far as the Magnemean could tell, it had been the highlight of his day, one that he was certain would be condemned to the blank memories of forgotten days had the occurrence not happened. Still, even if it was distasteful and bellicose, the silver-eyed youth was not going to deny that the temporary amusement he found amidst those brief instances of prior aggression.
After walking back to his former place, the light-eyed youth took noticed of the other, equally-young man, looking at him in a much different light than he had before. Being physically mighty had never been a noticeable quality for those that worked the hellish mines of Colchis, for decades spent under tunnels of rock and stone turned even the softest featured boy into a muscle-hardened strongman. Thus, while Vangelis’s strength might have stunned others less accustomed to the harsh environments of the metal quarries, the Magnemean remained unimpressed in that regard. No, it hadn’t been his strength that had impressed, but rather the skill and deftness that had been shown in a mere moment. Those movements were precise and clear, confident in their execution and certain in their grasp. No mere boy he had ever known had moved like that, none whatsoever. Whomever this youth was, he was certainly no merchant’s son.
In fact, as he put his body against the stones and rocks so as to continue his work and trade, the Magnemean came to consider the wealth of possibilities he had come to behold against the presence of the mysterious, blue-eyed youth he had just met. From what he could gather he seemed to be a focused, insightful and dedicated young man. Even if he did not appear to be particularly inclined towards the industry of mining, he seemed committed to his course, whatever that might have been. He had refused to use the gloves, which the Magnemean took as indication that this boy had a confident side to him. As he saw it, it was either that, or stubbornness, and he did not want to think it was the latter of his two reasonings. Moreover, he didn’t seem to be that lighthearted or interested in talking, which wasn’t that out of the ordinary, but it was still something to keep track of if he was going to interact with him any further. Indeed, there seemed to be more than met the eye with this one, but only time and the Gods would determine whether or not the Magnemean’s suspicions and considerations had any weight to them. For now, he resumed his work and decided to let his curiosities remain just that, mere curiosities.
“That’s good…”he replied after hearing the other explain a bit about not being one for judging others by first interactions. In that moment, the better part of wisdom had suggested that he led the other continue with his words, assuming that perhaps a more quiet approach would be fitting whence interrelating with this mysterious fellow. With a simple nod of his weary head, he acknowledged the other’s words and made for his tools, silently, but politely excusing himself as he attempted to return to the task at hand before another man appeared, thin and hurried.
Wasting no time to catch his breath, the lad came over to the Magnemean, informing him that he had been summoned to report to his manager immediately. In his mind, the light-eyed youth assumed that this was related to some sort of production idea that his, in his personal opinion, not-so-brilliant slaver had conjured up at the latest hour. Resigning himself to his invocation, the heavy-shouldered boy set his equipment by the side and began to walk away unassumingly, before stopping for a moment and turning on his heels to face the enigmatic stranger he had met today.
“You’re a strange one. Not in a bad way...I believe, but in an unusual way. A good way.” both acknowledged and somewhat clarified the Magnemean as he softened his bold features to a dry smile. “I pray we take away much from this initial meeting, Vangelis.” He tried to say in a friendly manner as he addressed the other with his proper name so as to behave respectfully, before turning back on his pathway and following the messenger, promptly leaving behind the enigmatic youth that he somehow felt oddly interested in. Perhaps, he would meet him again and learn more about the mystery that surrounded him, and mayhaps he would find cause to return his odd favor with one of his own. But, none of that mattered now, for he was to come elsewhere, and he, as usual, was not amused by the prospective face of his supervisor.
It might have been distasteful to admit a certain appeal at the prospect of violence, a temporary thrill that elevated the day from a mostly uneventful and rather forgettable moment in time that had gained a slight improvement by means of the petty squabble, but to move otherwise and uphold the opposite would be dishonest and untrue. Frankly, as far as the Magnemean could tell, it had been the highlight of his day, one that he was certain would be condemned to the blank memories of forgotten days had the occurrence not happened. Still, even if it was distasteful and bellicose, the silver-eyed youth was not going to deny that the temporary amusement he found amidst those brief instances of prior aggression.
After walking back to his former place, the light-eyed youth took noticed of the other, equally-young man, looking at him in a much different light than he had before. Being physically mighty had never been a noticeable quality for those that worked the hellish mines of Colchis, for decades spent under tunnels of rock and stone turned even the softest featured boy into a muscle-hardened strongman. Thus, while Vangelis’s strength might have stunned others less accustomed to the harsh environments of the metal quarries, the Magnemean remained unimpressed in that regard. No, it hadn’t been his strength that had impressed, but rather the skill and deftness that had been shown in a mere moment. Those movements were precise and clear, confident in their execution and certain in their grasp. No mere boy he had ever known had moved like that, none whatsoever. Whomever this youth was, he was certainly no merchant’s son.
In fact, as he put his body against the stones and rocks so as to continue his work and trade, the Magnemean came to consider the wealth of possibilities he had come to behold against the presence of the mysterious, blue-eyed youth he had just met. From what he could gather he seemed to be a focused, insightful and dedicated young man. Even if he did not appear to be particularly inclined towards the industry of mining, he seemed committed to his course, whatever that might have been. He had refused to use the gloves, which the Magnemean took as indication that this boy had a confident side to him. As he saw it, it was either that, or stubbornness, and he did not want to think it was the latter of his two reasonings. Moreover, he didn’t seem to be that lighthearted or interested in talking, which wasn’t that out of the ordinary, but it was still something to keep track of if he was going to interact with him any further. Indeed, there seemed to be more than met the eye with this one, but only time and the Gods would determine whether or not the Magnemean’s suspicions and considerations had any weight to them. For now, he resumed his work and decided to let his curiosities remain just that, mere curiosities.
“That’s good…”he replied after hearing the other explain a bit about not being one for judging others by first interactions. In that moment, the better part of wisdom had suggested that he led the other continue with his words, assuming that perhaps a more quiet approach would be fitting whence interrelating with this mysterious fellow. With a simple nod of his weary head, he acknowledged the other’s words and made for his tools, silently, but politely excusing himself as he attempted to return to the task at hand before another man appeared, thin and hurried.
Wasting no time to catch his breath, the lad came over to the Magnemean, informing him that he had been summoned to report to his manager immediately. In his mind, the light-eyed youth assumed that this was related to some sort of production idea that his, in his personal opinion, not-so-brilliant slaver had conjured up at the latest hour. Resigning himself to his invocation, the heavy-shouldered boy set his equipment by the side and began to walk away unassumingly, before stopping for a moment and turning on his heels to face the enigmatic stranger he had met today.
“You’re a strange one. Not in a bad way...I believe, but in an unusual way. A good way.” both acknowledged and somewhat clarified the Magnemean as he softened his bold features to a dry smile. “I pray we take away much from this initial meeting, Vangelis.” He tried to say in a friendly manner as he addressed the other with his proper name so as to behave respectfully, before turning back on his pathway and following the messenger, promptly leaving behind the enigmatic youth that he somehow felt oddly interested in. Perhaps, he would meet him again and learn more about the mystery that surrounded him, and mayhaps he would find cause to return his odd favor with one of his own. But, none of that mattered now, for he was to come elsewhere, and he, as usual, was not amused by the prospective face of his supervisor.