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It had been three whole days since the tumultuous events at the Dikastirio chamber had unraveled. What had first started as an accession ceremony to commemorate the rise of his mortal enemy, Vangelis of Kotas, as king, had unraveled in the worst way possible. Despite bearing witness to a poisonous machination that he had secretly wished had been enacted by himself, that blasted son of golden laurels survived it all. Granted, he had been aided by those who wished to curry favor with the then-recently crowned king, but that did not change the fact that an attempt on his life had been struck, if not poorly done so. No doubt the entire thing had been preordained by Lord @hades himself, the great Lord of the Underworld, who had whispered secretly to the ones that moved against that ignoble villain. Alas, it seemed that the one chosen as champions by the Plutonian had been, to put it mildly, inept in their ability to carry out the God of the Lost Soul’s will.
The God of the Underworld had made his will well-known on that day, and his claim on that bloody monster had been set and organized. A soul of the highest caliber, if one could believe such things, had been requested by Hades, and yet, it had been deprived and stolen from him, cheated by the craven sycophants and ass-lickers that surrounded that thief and his kindred. Oh, how he would have rejoiced if that detestable princeling be drugged out of air. Oh! What joy it brough him to see him suffer by bated breath badly brought and tendered skin rendered purple through agonized, unreached air. It had been glorious, absolutely glorious, to watch that heinous bastard claw at his neck, with foam and file spilling from his mouth, with his eyes red with desolation, with his skin tightened purple by the choke on his throat, and by the sonorous, soothing sounds of his final, pleading moments of agony. Truly! What wonderous sight he had beheld!
Alas, it had all been for naught! Blasted fate! Confounded ignominy. What arrogance! What sheer, insurmountable arrogance he had manifested whence he and those of his ilk did all they could do and they could do much, to spare him from the Lord of the Dead’s enthralling call. Regrettably, it was only now, in this, a moment of far-too late inaction, that he had come to comprehend his own folly and delusion. The Plutonian might have made his wishes known to all that had paid close ear at his subtle whisper, but in his pride and arrogance, Damocles had failed to answer his beck and call, and instead had allowed others to administer his divine judgement. He had been unmoved and uncompelled in his actions that day, allowing his master’s claimed soul to remain in this earth despite its summon to the Underworld for the long list of crimes and horrors he and his family had long enacted against Greece. And for that, he would carry out his great personal shame and guilt. Yet, he made no mistakes of it all. He would not fail his master again, never again.
Though he knew naught of the names or identities of the ones who had moved against that sound and furious king of ashes, Damocles knew that the time for amateur tricks and feeble skills as the ones they had demonstrated was at an end. The utter lack of vision and ability that those inferior servants of Hades had shown that night would no longer be allowed to make clear and manifest. Indeed, a debt still had been due, and whilst others had failed to collect it, he would not. What others had been unable to claim by fair price, he would extract from Vangelis’s still purpled blood and mottled flesh. His crimes and the crimes of his father had already been too severe, but they were personal in nature. Damocles might have thought that Tython and his sons dragged his own family to an early grave, but that was a private offense. This latest insult was blasphemy, treachery of the highest level and an insult to the Divines themselves.
He would have his revenge. Of that he was certain. But there was little point in denying that what had transpired was anything but an insult to the Lord of the Dead. The hatred and wrath of a thousand angry memories flashed inside Damocles, rushing him with a singular purpose and a mindful stability towards an objective that satisfied all of the grievances that obstinate fool had raised across the years. He loathed him, that much was true. Damocles despised him with every fiber of his being, and would see the entire world burn to ashes if he could make that man suffer as he had suffered by the hands of his and his own. Nevertheless, for once, in a very long time, the silver-eyed man thought his own objectives, and the interests of his divine Master, aligned in perfect harmony. He would be a harbinger of true suffering upon those of the Kotas bloodline. And just as a fire that had never been properly put out, his wrath and anger would be born anew once more, resonate and infernal, with the strength of a hundred blasting flames.
In the past, he had been young and unfocused, but those days were long over. He had known of the barren desert that was true pain and sorrow at the end of their royal might. True to form, he was convinced that those sanctimonious, bastards could never understand what it felt to lose everything, once and all at the same. Yet he was meant for command and rule, for order and for love of his country, and for long they’ve stood now in his way, and he would see all of their cruelty and their madness and tyrannical wickedness be returned to them a hundredfold, slowly, painfully, torturously so. It was true that he had oftentimes tendered his prayers and words of comfort and solace to the God of the Underworld, of that he would make no disguised effort. For decades now he had bowed and prayed for deliverance. Yet now, when the Master of the Lost Souls appeared to see fit to anoint others to enact his revenge, they had failed, both him and Hades. How dare they? How could they? It just went on to show that whence one wanted someone, one had to do it himself.
Thus, in the still, latest hours of that umbral night, Damocles arrived at the great temple of the Lord of the Underworld, the Nekromanteion, accompanied by soldiers fiercely under his command that grimly carried his offerings to the God of the Lost Souls. Aware that the God of the Dead was allegedly most satisfied with tenebrous, dark animals, the Captain of the Damned had arranged for twelve black rams and three ebony bulls, garbed in garlands of narcissuses, the sacred flower of the God of the Underworld, to be hauled and brought before the temple priests, who, upon noticing the tribute, made fast on the ones tending to the beasts and ushered them to their corresponding place of sacrifice. Once that task was completed, a gaunt, thin man garbed in shadowy cloak motioned for Damocles, and only Damocles, to follow him. Hades was reputed to not be amongst the more receptive Gods, and so, for his summoning to be most effective, it was often expected that men made their case before the Lord of the Underworld alone. Before leaving to tend to his audience however, the colossal militant stared at his men and told them to make their prayers to the other gods of the Hall. In particular, he suggested paying service to Athena, the lady of strategy, Ares, the lord of bloodshed, and Hephaestus, the lord of forges and weapons, a recommendation that all promptly followed through. Subsequently, the silver-eyed man push through the heavy, polished bronze door that lied past the Stygian stone portico of the temple.
The inside of the Nekromanteion was nearly void of all light, save for a few flickering projections cast by torchfire. Quickly the towering military commander noticed the sable robes of the religious men that tended to the temple, wondering about in deathly silence and creepy reassurance. It did not take long for him to arrive before the main chamber of the temple, a large, somewhat more illuminated chamber that hosted a fierce-looking statue of Hades fashioned out of granite and gold detailing, a fitting representation of the Lord of the Underworld and the Beholder of Unearthed Wealth. At the feet of the statue, lied a gaping pit that beheld the remains of the slaughtered beasts that Damocles had offered, organized around the swallowing center forebodingly. In an instant, the accompanying priest clapped once, instructing the blood and sinews of the slain animals to be deposited at the pit, as was expected of all Chthonic sacrifices, especially whence involving the chiefmost deity of those Divine Ones. Expectedly, Damocles was told to close his eyes and abate his gaze from either the statue or pit, before releasing a single sentence in a voice that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the Underworld itself.
“Humble yourself before the Plutonian one.” Commanded the gaunt priest as the experienced soldier bowed in utter reverence, slamming his hands hard against the stony floor, so as to beckon the Ruler of the Dead to witness him. Afterwards, Damocles prostrated himself against the ground, pressing his head down low on the base level of the chamber. Once the proper stance was enacted and the blood sacrifice was finished, the priest exited the room, leaving the Captain of the Damned alone inside the large, empty chamber so that he would have some owed privacy in his prayers.
“Great Hades, Dark Lord of the Underworld, King of the Chthonic Ones, Ruler of the hidden wealth that bejewels the Earth, Invisible One, that passes through the chaos of man unseen In your Helm of Invisibility, Firstborn Son of full-hearted Rhea, and Cronus of the Shining Sickle, I, Damocles of Magnemea, Captain of the Damned of Colchis, hail and call you!” he declared with a booming, baritone voice that rung deep against the walls of the chamber, as if trying to summon the spirits of the dead to heed his words and come forth with their Master.
“O Plutonian, before your Most Sacred and Noble presence, I do so beseech you and beg for that kind forgiveness that only You can bestow upon me. Here, in the sight of the God of the Lost Souls, I hereby my weakness, my pride and my shame. Forgive me, My Lord, for I have failed you in your Divine Wisdom at that Hour of thankful retribution. In my arrogance, I failed to secure the soul of Vangelis of Kotas, accursed be his name forevermore, to and for you, despite your answer to my many years of prayer and sacrifice. Please, Great Lord Hades, absolve me of this sin, I beg of you!” he bellowed across the darkness with eyes shut tightly, hands dug rackingly against the stone and his forehead cemented against the black detailing of the floor.
His body shook with emotion, his eyes welled up with bitter tears and his fingers dug so deep against the stone so as to draw blood from them, unleashing a side that not even his brother, Daedalos, had witnessed before. He was overwhelmed with regret, shame and, what could only be descrived as utter repentance for his inaction. He was a boastful man, an arrogant man, defined by his pride and hubris. And yet, here, in the privacy of the dark temple, he humbled himself in the most solemn and genuine way he knew how.
A trace-like stage apprehended him, causing the Captain of the Damned to feel as if a quaking tremor had taken form on him, unleashing itself amidst his bones and muscles in one powerful, singular wave that burrowed deep unto his core before radiating through his limbs for repose. A welter of voices, old and bygone, drowned his thoughts, compelling the Magnemean to feel the majesty the Dark Lord of the Underworld. He thought this was a proclamation of sorts, a declaration from his forebears that beheld him to raise his head after prayers with pride and look onwards unto the future with newly-forged determination. In the depths of his being, he felt power and confidence, the call of the damned, the abandoned and the forgotten, anointing him as their champion against the failures of his past towards a new future that would be crowned by abolishing the foundations of the past.
“O Plutonian, grant unto me your gift of power and might so that I may correct my mistakes and right my wrongs! Make of me your instrument of chaos and death so that I might deliver the soul of this accursed prince of nothingness, this Vangelis of Kotas, before your holy form. Allow your hallowed hand to guide me in sacred path, and bless me with another opportunity to make your will manifest. Lord of the Underworld and Master of the Riches of the Earth, I offer to you his limbs, his head, his mouth, his breath, his liver, his heart, his fingers, his hair, his charred blood, his eyes, his stomach, his speech, his pride, his false glories, his skin, and his spirit. God of the Everlasting Afterlife, let me see him suffer, as I have suffered, and deliver me from the pain and misery he and his have inflicted upon me decades past, and balm the insult lain against your divine flesh recently. Do this, and I shall rejoice and honor your name forevermore!” His voice dragged harrowingly against the darkness, drawing forth a chilling, paralyzing omen that he thought sealed the new covenant he had forged with the God of the Underworld.
“Great Hades, kind one, merciful one, gracious overseer of the departed, may these solemn words reach your busy ear. Otherwise, I thank you for your time and your gifts of shelter, clemency and justice.” And with that, he collapsed, releasing decades worth of anger, rage, sorrow, wrath and hatred against the empty, lonely chamber.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he came back to his senses, settling his silver gaze on his bloodied fingers. Returned to the present, he took note of his rapid, ragged breathing, laboring within himself so as to restore his composure. The dark colors of the clothes he wore allowed him to tend to the wounds on his hand, covering his digits so as to conceal the intensity of his Tartarean oath. As for his hardened tears, he wiped those soon, but not before noticing the quivering, shaking of his body that indicated just how serious his words had sounded and been. Damocles would not have others learn of that he had sworn and asked for in his prayers. Just as the priest that left him by his lonesome knew, words between Immortals and Mortals were private and confidential, secrets that only those that addressed each other broached one-another.
Once his appearance returned to regularity, The Captain of the Damned stood, bowed before the statue of Hades and promptly exited the chamber without turning his back to him. He offered no words to priest that had escorted him inside, but Damocles still left a couple of coins in his hands, a small, token of his appreciation for the respect and privacy he had afforded him. By this time, the hour had turned far later than he had anticipated, given the presence of the men that had helped him with his offerings to the Lord of the Underworld. For now, he would sleep, gather his strengths and hope that his prayers reached the beholder, but come next morning, he would arm himself with the strength of the vows he made, convinced to see all of his promises and goals follow through.
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It had been three whole days since the tumultuous events at the Dikastirio chamber had unraveled. What had first started as an accession ceremony to commemorate the rise of his mortal enemy, Vangelis of Kotas, as king, had unraveled in the worst way possible. Despite bearing witness to a poisonous machination that he had secretly wished had been enacted by himself, that blasted son of golden laurels survived it all. Granted, he had been aided by those who wished to curry favor with the then-recently crowned king, but that did not change the fact that an attempt on his life had been struck, if not poorly done so. No doubt the entire thing had been preordained by Lord @hades himself, the great Lord of the Underworld, who had whispered secretly to the ones that moved against that ignoble villain. Alas, it seemed that the one chosen as champions by the Plutonian had been, to put it mildly, inept in their ability to carry out the God of the Lost Soul’s will.
The God of the Underworld had made his will well-known on that day, and his claim on that bloody monster had been set and organized. A soul of the highest caliber, if one could believe such things, had been requested by Hades, and yet, it had been deprived and stolen from him, cheated by the craven sycophants and ass-lickers that surrounded that thief and his kindred. Oh, how he would have rejoiced if that detestable princeling be drugged out of air. Oh! What joy it brough him to see him suffer by bated breath badly brought and tendered skin rendered purple through agonized, unreached air. It had been glorious, absolutely glorious, to watch that heinous bastard claw at his neck, with foam and file spilling from his mouth, with his eyes red with desolation, with his skin tightened purple by the choke on his throat, and by the sonorous, soothing sounds of his final, pleading moments of agony. Truly! What wonderous sight he had beheld!
Alas, it had all been for naught! Blasted fate! Confounded ignominy. What arrogance! What sheer, insurmountable arrogance he had manifested whence he and those of his ilk did all they could do and they could do much, to spare him from the Lord of the Dead’s enthralling call. Regrettably, it was only now, in this, a moment of far-too late inaction, that he had come to comprehend his own folly and delusion. The Plutonian might have made his wishes known to all that had paid close ear at his subtle whisper, but in his pride and arrogance, Damocles had failed to answer his beck and call, and instead had allowed others to administer his divine judgement. He had been unmoved and uncompelled in his actions that day, allowing his master’s claimed soul to remain in this earth despite its summon to the Underworld for the long list of crimes and horrors he and his family had long enacted against Greece. And for that, he would carry out his great personal shame and guilt. Yet, he made no mistakes of it all. He would not fail his master again, never again.
Though he knew naught of the names or identities of the ones who had moved against that sound and furious king of ashes, Damocles knew that the time for amateur tricks and feeble skills as the ones they had demonstrated was at an end. The utter lack of vision and ability that those inferior servants of Hades had shown that night would no longer be allowed to make clear and manifest. Indeed, a debt still had been due, and whilst others had failed to collect it, he would not. What others had been unable to claim by fair price, he would extract from Vangelis’s still purpled blood and mottled flesh. His crimes and the crimes of his father had already been too severe, but they were personal in nature. Damocles might have thought that Tython and his sons dragged his own family to an early grave, but that was a private offense. This latest insult was blasphemy, treachery of the highest level and an insult to the Divines themselves.
He would have his revenge. Of that he was certain. But there was little point in denying that what had transpired was anything but an insult to the Lord of the Dead. The hatred and wrath of a thousand angry memories flashed inside Damocles, rushing him with a singular purpose and a mindful stability towards an objective that satisfied all of the grievances that obstinate fool had raised across the years. He loathed him, that much was true. Damocles despised him with every fiber of his being, and would see the entire world burn to ashes if he could make that man suffer as he had suffered by the hands of his and his own. Nevertheless, for once, in a very long time, the silver-eyed man thought his own objectives, and the interests of his divine Master, aligned in perfect harmony. He would be a harbinger of true suffering upon those of the Kotas bloodline. And just as a fire that had never been properly put out, his wrath and anger would be born anew once more, resonate and infernal, with the strength of a hundred blasting flames.
In the past, he had been young and unfocused, but those days were long over. He had known of the barren desert that was true pain and sorrow at the end of their royal might. True to form, he was convinced that those sanctimonious, bastards could never understand what it felt to lose everything, once and all at the same. Yet he was meant for command and rule, for order and for love of his country, and for long they’ve stood now in his way, and he would see all of their cruelty and their madness and tyrannical wickedness be returned to them a hundredfold, slowly, painfully, torturously so. It was true that he had oftentimes tendered his prayers and words of comfort and solace to the God of the Underworld, of that he would make no disguised effort. For decades now he had bowed and prayed for deliverance. Yet now, when the Master of the Lost Souls appeared to see fit to anoint others to enact his revenge, they had failed, both him and Hades. How dare they? How could they? It just went on to show that whence one wanted someone, one had to do it himself.
Thus, in the still, latest hours of that umbral night, Damocles arrived at the great temple of the Lord of the Underworld, the Nekromanteion, accompanied by soldiers fiercely under his command that grimly carried his offerings to the God of the Lost Souls. Aware that the God of the Dead was allegedly most satisfied with tenebrous, dark animals, the Captain of the Damned had arranged for twelve black rams and three ebony bulls, garbed in garlands of narcissuses, the sacred flower of the God of the Underworld, to be hauled and brought before the temple priests, who, upon noticing the tribute, made fast on the ones tending to the beasts and ushered them to their corresponding place of sacrifice. Once that task was completed, a gaunt, thin man garbed in shadowy cloak motioned for Damocles, and only Damocles, to follow him. Hades was reputed to not be amongst the more receptive Gods, and so, for his summoning to be most effective, it was often expected that men made their case before the Lord of the Underworld alone. Before leaving to tend to his audience however, the colossal militant stared at his men and told them to make their prayers to the other gods of the Hall. In particular, he suggested paying service to Athena, the lady of strategy, Ares, the lord of bloodshed, and Hephaestus, the lord of forges and weapons, a recommendation that all promptly followed through. Subsequently, the silver-eyed man push through the heavy, polished bronze door that lied past the Stygian stone portico of the temple.
The inside of the Nekromanteion was nearly void of all light, save for a few flickering projections cast by torchfire. Quickly the towering military commander noticed the sable robes of the religious men that tended to the temple, wondering about in deathly silence and creepy reassurance. It did not take long for him to arrive before the main chamber of the temple, a large, somewhat more illuminated chamber that hosted a fierce-looking statue of Hades fashioned out of granite and gold detailing, a fitting representation of the Lord of the Underworld and the Beholder of Unearthed Wealth. At the feet of the statue, lied a gaping pit that beheld the remains of the slaughtered beasts that Damocles had offered, organized around the swallowing center forebodingly. In an instant, the accompanying priest clapped once, instructing the blood and sinews of the slain animals to be deposited at the pit, as was expected of all Chthonic sacrifices, especially whence involving the chiefmost deity of those Divine Ones. Expectedly, Damocles was told to close his eyes and abate his gaze from either the statue or pit, before releasing a single sentence in a voice that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the Underworld itself.
“Humble yourself before the Plutonian one.” Commanded the gaunt priest as the experienced soldier bowed in utter reverence, slamming his hands hard against the stony floor, so as to beckon the Ruler of the Dead to witness him. Afterwards, Damocles prostrated himself against the ground, pressing his head down low on the base level of the chamber. Once the proper stance was enacted and the blood sacrifice was finished, the priest exited the room, leaving the Captain of the Damned alone inside the large, empty chamber so that he would have some owed privacy in his prayers.
“Great Hades, Dark Lord of the Underworld, King of the Chthonic Ones, Ruler of the hidden wealth that bejewels the Earth, Invisible One, that passes through the chaos of man unseen In your Helm of Invisibility, Firstborn Son of full-hearted Rhea, and Cronus of the Shining Sickle, I, Damocles of Magnemea, Captain of the Damned of Colchis, hail and call you!” he declared with a booming, baritone voice that rung deep against the walls of the chamber, as if trying to summon the spirits of the dead to heed his words and come forth with their Master.
“O Plutonian, before your Most Sacred and Noble presence, I do so beseech you and beg for that kind forgiveness that only You can bestow upon me. Here, in the sight of the God of the Lost Souls, I hereby my weakness, my pride and my shame. Forgive me, My Lord, for I have failed you in your Divine Wisdom at that Hour of thankful retribution. In my arrogance, I failed to secure the soul of Vangelis of Kotas, accursed be his name forevermore, to and for you, despite your answer to my many years of prayer and sacrifice. Please, Great Lord Hades, absolve me of this sin, I beg of you!” he bellowed across the darkness with eyes shut tightly, hands dug rackingly against the stone and his forehead cemented against the black detailing of the floor.
His body shook with emotion, his eyes welled up with bitter tears and his fingers dug so deep against the stone so as to draw blood from them, unleashing a side that not even his brother, Daedalos, had witnessed before. He was overwhelmed with regret, shame and, what could only be descrived as utter repentance for his inaction. He was a boastful man, an arrogant man, defined by his pride and hubris. And yet, here, in the privacy of the dark temple, he humbled himself in the most solemn and genuine way he knew how.
A trace-like stage apprehended him, causing the Captain of the Damned to feel as if a quaking tremor had taken form on him, unleashing itself amidst his bones and muscles in one powerful, singular wave that burrowed deep unto his core before radiating through his limbs for repose. A welter of voices, old and bygone, drowned his thoughts, compelling the Magnemean to feel the majesty the Dark Lord of the Underworld. He thought this was a proclamation of sorts, a declaration from his forebears that beheld him to raise his head after prayers with pride and look onwards unto the future with newly-forged determination. In the depths of his being, he felt power and confidence, the call of the damned, the abandoned and the forgotten, anointing him as their champion against the failures of his past towards a new future that would be crowned by abolishing the foundations of the past.
“O Plutonian, grant unto me your gift of power and might so that I may correct my mistakes and right my wrongs! Make of me your instrument of chaos and death so that I might deliver the soul of this accursed prince of nothingness, this Vangelis of Kotas, before your holy form. Allow your hallowed hand to guide me in sacred path, and bless me with another opportunity to make your will manifest. Lord of the Underworld and Master of the Riches of the Earth, I offer to you his limbs, his head, his mouth, his breath, his liver, his heart, his fingers, his hair, his charred blood, his eyes, his stomach, his speech, his pride, his false glories, his skin, and his spirit. God of the Everlasting Afterlife, let me see him suffer, as I have suffered, and deliver me from the pain and misery he and his have inflicted upon me decades past, and balm the insult lain against your divine flesh recently. Do this, and I shall rejoice and honor your name forevermore!” His voice dragged harrowingly against the darkness, drawing forth a chilling, paralyzing omen that he thought sealed the new covenant he had forged with the God of the Underworld.
“Great Hades, kind one, merciful one, gracious overseer of the departed, may these solemn words reach your busy ear. Otherwise, I thank you for your time and your gifts of shelter, clemency and justice.” And with that, he collapsed, releasing decades worth of anger, rage, sorrow, wrath and hatred against the empty, lonely chamber.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he came back to his senses, settling his silver gaze on his bloodied fingers. Returned to the present, he took note of his rapid, ragged breathing, laboring within himself so as to restore his composure. The dark colors of the clothes he wore allowed him to tend to the wounds on his hand, covering his digits so as to conceal the intensity of his Tartarean oath. As for his hardened tears, he wiped those soon, but not before noticing the quivering, shaking of his body that indicated just how serious his words had sounded and been. Damocles would not have others learn of that he had sworn and asked for in his prayers. Just as the priest that left him by his lonesome knew, words between Immortals and Mortals were private and confidential, secrets that only those that addressed each other broached one-another.
Once his appearance returned to regularity, The Captain of the Damned stood, bowed before the statue of Hades and promptly exited the chamber without turning his back to him. He offered no words to priest that had escorted him inside, but Damocles still left a couple of coins in his hands, a small, token of his appreciation for the respect and privacy he had afforded him. By this time, the hour had turned far later than he had anticipated, given the presence of the men that had helped him with his offerings to the Lord of the Underworld. For now, he would sleep, gather his strengths and hope that his prayers reached the beholder, but come next morning, he would arm himself with the strength of the vows he made, convinced to see all of his promises and goals follow through.
It had been three whole days since the tumultuous events at the Dikastirio chamber had unraveled. What had first started as an accession ceremony to commemorate the rise of his mortal enemy, Vangelis of Kotas, as king, had unraveled in the worst way possible. Despite bearing witness to a poisonous machination that he had secretly wished had been enacted by himself, that blasted son of golden laurels survived it all. Granted, he had been aided by those who wished to curry favor with the then-recently crowned king, but that did not change the fact that an attempt on his life had been struck, if not poorly done so. No doubt the entire thing had been preordained by Lord @hades himself, the great Lord of the Underworld, who had whispered secretly to the ones that moved against that ignoble villain. Alas, it seemed that the one chosen as champions by the Plutonian had been, to put it mildly, inept in their ability to carry out the God of the Lost Soul’s will.
The God of the Underworld had made his will well-known on that day, and his claim on that bloody monster had been set and organized. A soul of the highest caliber, if one could believe such things, had been requested by Hades, and yet, it had been deprived and stolen from him, cheated by the craven sycophants and ass-lickers that surrounded that thief and his kindred. Oh, how he would have rejoiced if that detestable princeling be drugged out of air. Oh! What joy it brough him to see him suffer by bated breath badly brought and tendered skin rendered purple through agonized, unreached air. It had been glorious, absolutely glorious, to watch that heinous bastard claw at his neck, with foam and file spilling from his mouth, with his eyes red with desolation, with his skin tightened purple by the choke on his throat, and by the sonorous, soothing sounds of his final, pleading moments of agony. Truly! What wonderous sight he had beheld!
Alas, it had all been for naught! Blasted fate! Confounded ignominy. What arrogance! What sheer, insurmountable arrogance he had manifested whence he and those of his ilk did all they could do and they could do much, to spare him from the Lord of the Dead’s enthralling call. Regrettably, it was only now, in this, a moment of far-too late inaction, that he had come to comprehend his own folly and delusion. The Plutonian might have made his wishes known to all that had paid close ear at his subtle whisper, but in his pride and arrogance, Damocles had failed to answer his beck and call, and instead had allowed others to administer his divine judgement. He had been unmoved and uncompelled in his actions that day, allowing his master’s claimed soul to remain in this earth despite its summon to the Underworld for the long list of crimes and horrors he and his family had long enacted against Greece. And for that, he would carry out his great personal shame and guilt. Yet, he made no mistakes of it all. He would not fail his master again, never again.
Though he knew naught of the names or identities of the ones who had moved against that sound and furious king of ashes, Damocles knew that the time for amateur tricks and feeble skills as the ones they had demonstrated was at an end. The utter lack of vision and ability that those inferior servants of Hades had shown that night would no longer be allowed to make clear and manifest. Indeed, a debt still had been due, and whilst others had failed to collect it, he would not. What others had been unable to claim by fair price, he would extract from Vangelis’s still purpled blood and mottled flesh. His crimes and the crimes of his father had already been too severe, but they were personal in nature. Damocles might have thought that Tython and his sons dragged his own family to an early grave, but that was a private offense. This latest insult was blasphemy, treachery of the highest level and an insult to the Divines themselves.
He would have his revenge. Of that he was certain. But there was little point in denying that what had transpired was anything but an insult to the Lord of the Dead. The hatred and wrath of a thousand angry memories flashed inside Damocles, rushing him with a singular purpose and a mindful stability towards an objective that satisfied all of the grievances that obstinate fool had raised across the years. He loathed him, that much was true. Damocles despised him with every fiber of his being, and would see the entire world burn to ashes if he could make that man suffer as he had suffered by the hands of his and his own. Nevertheless, for once, in a very long time, the silver-eyed man thought his own objectives, and the interests of his divine Master, aligned in perfect harmony. He would be a harbinger of true suffering upon those of the Kotas bloodline. And just as a fire that had never been properly put out, his wrath and anger would be born anew once more, resonate and infernal, with the strength of a hundred blasting flames.
In the past, he had been young and unfocused, but those days were long over. He had known of the barren desert that was true pain and sorrow at the end of their royal might. True to form, he was convinced that those sanctimonious, bastards could never understand what it felt to lose everything, once and all at the same. Yet he was meant for command and rule, for order and for love of his country, and for long they’ve stood now in his way, and he would see all of their cruelty and their madness and tyrannical wickedness be returned to them a hundredfold, slowly, painfully, torturously so. It was true that he had oftentimes tendered his prayers and words of comfort and solace to the God of the Underworld, of that he would make no disguised effort. For decades now he had bowed and prayed for deliverance. Yet now, when the Master of the Lost Souls appeared to see fit to anoint others to enact his revenge, they had failed, both him and Hades. How dare they? How could they? It just went on to show that whence one wanted someone, one had to do it himself.
Thus, in the still, latest hours of that umbral night, Damocles arrived at the great temple of the Lord of the Underworld, the Nekromanteion, accompanied by soldiers fiercely under his command that grimly carried his offerings to the God of the Lost Souls. Aware that the God of the Dead was allegedly most satisfied with tenebrous, dark animals, the Captain of the Damned had arranged for twelve black rams and three ebony bulls, garbed in garlands of narcissuses, the sacred flower of the God of the Underworld, to be hauled and brought before the temple priests, who, upon noticing the tribute, made fast on the ones tending to the beasts and ushered them to their corresponding place of sacrifice. Once that task was completed, a gaunt, thin man garbed in shadowy cloak motioned for Damocles, and only Damocles, to follow him. Hades was reputed to not be amongst the more receptive Gods, and so, for his summoning to be most effective, it was often expected that men made their case before the Lord of the Underworld alone. Before leaving to tend to his audience however, the colossal militant stared at his men and told them to make their prayers to the other gods of the Hall. In particular, he suggested paying service to Athena, the lady of strategy, Ares, the lord of bloodshed, and Hephaestus, the lord of forges and weapons, a recommendation that all promptly followed through. Subsequently, the silver-eyed man push through the heavy, polished bronze door that lied past the Stygian stone portico of the temple.
The inside of the Nekromanteion was nearly void of all light, save for a few flickering projections cast by torchfire. Quickly the towering military commander noticed the sable robes of the religious men that tended to the temple, wondering about in deathly silence and creepy reassurance. It did not take long for him to arrive before the main chamber of the temple, a large, somewhat more illuminated chamber that hosted a fierce-looking statue of Hades fashioned out of granite and gold detailing, a fitting representation of the Lord of the Underworld and the Beholder of Unearthed Wealth. At the feet of the statue, lied a gaping pit that beheld the remains of the slaughtered beasts that Damocles had offered, organized around the swallowing center forebodingly. In an instant, the accompanying priest clapped once, instructing the blood and sinews of the slain animals to be deposited at the pit, as was expected of all Chthonic sacrifices, especially whence involving the chiefmost deity of those Divine Ones. Expectedly, Damocles was told to close his eyes and abate his gaze from either the statue or pit, before releasing a single sentence in a voice that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the Underworld itself.
“Humble yourself before the Plutonian one.” Commanded the gaunt priest as the experienced soldier bowed in utter reverence, slamming his hands hard against the stony floor, so as to beckon the Ruler of the Dead to witness him. Afterwards, Damocles prostrated himself against the ground, pressing his head down low on the base level of the chamber. Once the proper stance was enacted and the blood sacrifice was finished, the priest exited the room, leaving the Captain of the Damned alone inside the large, empty chamber so that he would have some owed privacy in his prayers.
“Great Hades, Dark Lord of the Underworld, King of the Chthonic Ones, Ruler of the hidden wealth that bejewels the Earth, Invisible One, that passes through the chaos of man unseen In your Helm of Invisibility, Firstborn Son of full-hearted Rhea, and Cronus of the Shining Sickle, I, Damocles of Magnemea, Captain of the Damned of Colchis, hail and call you!” he declared with a booming, baritone voice that rung deep against the walls of the chamber, as if trying to summon the spirits of the dead to heed his words and come forth with their Master.
“O Plutonian, before your Most Sacred and Noble presence, I do so beseech you and beg for that kind forgiveness that only You can bestow upon me. Here, in the sight of the God of the Lost Souls, I hereby my weakness, my pride and my shame. Forgive me, My Lord, for I have failed you in your Divine Wisdom at that Hour of thankful retribution. In my arrogance, I failed to secure the soul of Vangelis of Kotas, accursed be his name forevermore, to and for you, despite your answer to my many years of prayer and sacrifice. Please, Great Lord Hades, absolve me of this sin, I beg of you!” he bellowed across the darkness with eyes shut tightly, hands dug rackingly against the stone and his forehead cemented against the black detailing of the floor.
His body shook with emotion, his eyes welled up with bitter tears and his fingers dug so deep against the stone so as to draw blood from them, unleashing a side that not even his brother, Daedalos, had witnessed before. He was overwhelmed with regret, shame and, what could only be descrived as utter repentance for his inaction. He was a boastful man, an arrogant man, defined by his pride and hubris. And yet, here, in the privacy of the dark temple, he humbled himself in the most solemn and genuine way he knew how.
A trace-like stage apprehended him, causing the Captain of the Damned to feel as if a quaking tremor had taken form on him, unleashing itself amidst his bones and muscles in one powerful, singular wave that burrowed deep unto his core before radiating through his limbs for repose. A welter of voices, old and bygone, drowned his thoughts, compelling the Magnemean to feel the majesty the Dark Lord of the Underworld. He thought this was a proclamation of sorts, a declaration from his forebears that beheld him to raise his head after prayers with pride and look onwards unto the future with newly-forged determination. In the depths of his being, he felt power and confidence, the call of the damned, the abandoned and the forgotten, anointing him as their champion against the failures of his past towards a new future that would be crowned by abolishing the foundations of the past.
“O Plutonian, grant unto me your gift of power and might so that I may correct my mistakes and right my wrongs! Make of me your instrument of chaos and death so that I might deliver the soul of this accursed prince of nothingness, this Vangelis of Kotas, before your holy form. Allow your hallowed hand to guide me in sacred path, and bless me with another opportunity to make your will manifest. Lord of the Underworld and Master of the Riches of the Earth, I offer to you his limbs, his head, his mouth, his breath, his liver, his heart, his fingers, his hair, his charred blood, his eyes, his stomach, his speech, his pride, his false glories, his skin, and his spirit. God of the Everlasting Afterlife, let me see him suffer, as I have suffered, and deliver me from the pain and misery he and his have inflicted upon me decades past, and balm the insult lain against your divine flesh recently. Do this, and I shall rejoice and honor your name forevermore!” His voice dragged harrowingly against the darkness, drawing forth a chilling, paralyzing omen that he thought sealed the new covenant he had forged with the God of the Underworld.
“Great Hades, kind one, merciful one, gracious overseer of the departed, may these solemn words reach your busy ear. Otherwise, I thank you for your time and your gifts of shelter, clemency and justice.” And with that, he collapsed, releasing decades worth of anger, rage, sorrow, wrath and hatred against the empty, lonely chamber.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he came back to his senses, settling his silver gaze on his bloodied fingers. Returned to the present, he took note of his rapid, ragged breathing, laboring within himself so as to restore his composure. The dark colors of the clothes he wore allowed him to tend to the wounds on his hand, covering his digits so as to conceal the intensity of his Tartarean oath. As for his hardened tears, he wiped those soon, but not before noticing the quivering, shaking of his body that indicated just how serious his words had sounded and been. Damocles would not have others learn of that he had sworn and asked for in his prayers. Just as the priest that left him by his lonesome knew, words between Immortals and Mortals were private and confidential, secrets that only those that addressed each other broached one-another.
Once his appearance returned to regularity, The Captain of the Damned stood, bowed before the statue of Hades and promptly exited the chamber without turning his back to him. He offered no words to priest that had escorted him inside, but Damocles still left a couple of coins in his hands, a small, token of his appreciation for the respect and privacy he had afforded him. By this time, the hour had turned far later than he had anticipated, given the presence of the men that had helped him with his offerings to the Lord of the Underworld. For now, he would sleep, gather his strengths and hope that his prayers reached the beholder, but come next morning, he would arm himself with the strength of the vows he made, convinced to see all of his promises and goals follow through.