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He was tired. Vangelis could feel it, in the set of his shoulders, the ache of his back and the way that his legs didn't seem willing to walk with any degree of authority unless he set his conscious mind to it. The fighting had been on-going for four days. Day and night, no yielding on either side. Vangelis had ensured that each of his commanding officers at rested at some point, taking on their duties himself so that they could sleep for a few hours and retain their wits. He needed them all to be effective if the renegades from the north were to be beaten.
The men in the northern lands were not like the fighters of Greece. They were rough, aggressive and seemed fuelled by the hot alcohol that they harboured in fur covered skins. Whether it was drunkenness or animal violence that burned through their muscles, Vangelis wasn't sure, but it saw them coming in waves of never-ending determination.
So much so that one of his flanks had broken that afternoon.
When the warriors of the attacking force - the men who wished to take down their enclosure and coastal outpost - had focused upon the right-hand flank, they had been lucky enough to catch the Captain of Pieria's eye. Literally, with an arrow to its socket, the man had been dead within seconds and his men left without command. His Lieutenants had fought with valour but not true order and Vangelis had ordered a retreat of that branch of his forces in order to save the lives of those still standing.
He held three units in his position in this battle. Pieria, Chaossis and Magnemea. The captains of each were well trained and carefully trusted, but without a third this was even more so. For Vangelis was forced to fall into a Captaincy role for the rest of the day, leaving the other two to fight as they saw fit and issuing only the briefest of commands through a runner between their units.
When all was said and done that day, and the Grecians were finally able to break the attacks through an overextended lead on the part of the barbarians, they had been gifted with an evening of quiet. Tense and worried, the men had been assigned to strengthen the walls, trenches and protective spikes around their enclosure. If they fighting went on for much longer and his soldiers were forced to retreat, they would need a secure haven in which to do that. One that would hold long enough to give them the recuperation needed.
Rolling his head on his broad shoulders and removing the heavy helmet that broke like a bear’s jaws over his head, Vangelis stood up from where he had been bent at Commander Linos' infirmary cot. The man was dead and there had been no chance of recovery. The arrow had been fired from too close a distance and sent strong into his skull. Yet, it was not honourable to leave the man out to rot in the fields. He would be burnt appropriately, with coins upon his eyes. But such funeral rites would have to wait until this particular scourge had been settled.
Commander Linos had been more than simple Captain. In charge of only a single unit in this particular campaign - his home provincial unit - he was normally in command of several units at once; a Commander of the Colchian armies. Such positions needed to be filled quickly after the death of the previous holder and Vangelis' plan for attack would require another of exceptional rank to order the troops. He had not the time to wait for his return to the capitol, the careful consideration of applicants and the following ceremonial announcement in the Senate.
He knew his men. He knew every Captain in the Colchian military. He knew whom he intended to promote whenever there was a Commander position in absentia. Now was that time.
"Assemble the troops." Vangelis commander to the retainer that hung at his elbow, the scribe behind him jotted the instruction down for record keeping purposes. "Commander Linos is dead and required a successor. Order the men to file in."
He would make the announcement before all. He didn't have the time to let the rumour of new appointments circle, be doubted and then believed before they would be breaking out into their next conflict.
The retainer ran to leave the infirmary tent and Vangelis turned to the page.
"Let it be noted that Commander Linos died bravely in battle for his kingdom." He told the man, before turning to brush aside the flap over the tent's entrance and striding out into the mud of the northern fields...
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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He was tired. Vangelis could feel it, in the set of his shoulders, the ache of his back and the way that his legs didn't seem willing to walk with any degree of authority unless he set his conscious mind to it. The fighting had been on-going for four days. Day and night, no yielding on either side. Vangelis had ensured that each of his commanding officers at rested at some point, taking on their duties himself so that they could sleep for a few hours and retain their wits. He needed them all to be effective if the renegades from the north were to be beaten.
The men in the northern lands were not like the fighters of Greece. They were rough, aggressive and seemed fuelled by the hot alcohol that they harboured in fur covered skins. Whether it was drunkenness or animal violence that burned through their muscles, Vangelis wasn't sure, but it saw them coming in waves of never-ending determination.
So much so that one of his flanks had broken that afternoon.
When the warriors of the attacking force - the men who wished to take down their enclosure and coastal outpost - had focused upon the right-hand flank, they had been lucky enough to catch the Captain of Pieria's eye. Literally, with an arrow to its socket, the man had been dead within seconds and his men left without command. His Lieutenants had fought with valour but not true order and Vangelis had ordered a retreat of that branch of his forces in order to save the lives of those still standing.
He held three units in his position in this battle. Pieria, Chaossis and Magnemea. The captains of each were well trained and carefully trusted, but without a third this was even more so. For Vangelis was forced to fall into a Captaincy role for the rest of the day, leaving the other two to fight as they saw fit and issuing only the briefest of commands through a runner between their units.
When all was said and done that day, and the Grecians were finally able to break the attacks through an overextended lead on the part of the barbarians, they had been gifted with an evening of quiet. Tense and worried, the men had been assigned to strengthen the walls, trenches and protective spikes around their enclosure. If they fighting went on for much longer and his soldiers were forced to retreat, they would need a secure haven in which to do that. One that would hold long enough to give them the recuperation needed.
Rolling his head on his broad shoulders and removing the heavy helmet that broke like a bear’s jaws over his head, Vangelis stood up from where he had been bent at Commander Linos' infirmary cot. The man was dead and there had been no chance of recovery. The arrow had been fired from too close a distance and sent strong into his skull. Yet, it was not honourable to leave the man out to rot in the fields. He would be burnt appropriately, with coins upon his eyes. But such funeral rites would have to wait until this particular scourge had been settled.
Commander Linos had been more than simple Captain. In charge of only a single unit in this particular campaign - his home provincial unit - he was normally in command of several units at once; a Commander of the Colchian armies. Such positions needed to be filled quickly after the death of the previous holder and Vangelis' plan for attack would require another of exceptional rank to order the troops. He had not the time to wait for his return to the capitol, the careful consideration of applicants and the following ceremonial announcement in the Senate.
He knew his men. He knew every Captain in the Colchian military. He knew whom he intended to promote whenever there was a Commander position in absentia. Now was that time.
"Assemble the troops." Vangelis commander to the retainer that hung at his elbow, the scribe behind him jotted the instruction down for record keeping purposes. "Commander Linos is dead and required a successor. Order the men to file in."
He would make the announcement before all. He didn't have the time to let the rumour of new appointments circle, be doubted and then believed before they would be breaking out into their next conflict.
The retainer ran to leave the infirmary tent and Vangelis turned to the page.
"Let it be noted that Commander Linos died bravely in battle for his kingdom." He told the man, before turning to brush aside the flap over the tent's entrance and striding out into the mud of the northern fields...
He was tired. Vangelis could feel it, in the set of his shoulders, the ache of his back and the way that his legs didn't seem willing to walk with any degree of authority unless he set his conscious mind to it. The fighting had been on-going for four days. Day and night, no yielding on either side. Vangelis had ensured that each of his commanding officers at rested at some point, taking on their duties himself so that they could sleep for a few hours and retain their wits. He needed them all to be effective if the renegades from the north were to be beaten.
The men in the northern lands were not like the fighters of Greece. They were rough, aggressive and seemed fuelled by the hot alcohol that they harboured in fur covered skins. Whether it was drunkenness or animal violence that burned through their muscles, Vangelis wasn't sure, but it saw them coming in waves of never-ending determination.
So much so that one of his flanks had broken that afternoon.
When the warriors of the attacking force - the men who wished to take down their enclosure and coastal outpost - had focused upon the right-hand flank, they had been lucky enough to catch the Captain of Pieria's eye. Literally, with an arrow to its socket, the man had been dead within seconds and his men left without command. His Lieutenants had fought with valour but not true order and Vangelis had ordered a retreat of that branch of his forces in order to save the lives of those still standing.
He held three units in his position in this battle. Pieria, Chaossis and Magnemea. The captains of each were well trained and carefully trusted, but without a third this was even more so. For Vangelis was forced to fall into a Captaincy role for the rest of the day, leaving the other two to fight as they saw fit and issuing only the briefest of commands through a runner between their units.
When all was said and done that day, and the Grecians were finally able to break the attacks through an overextended lead on the part of the barbarians, they had been gifted with an evening of quiet. Tense and worried, the men had been assigned to strengthen the walls, trenches and protective spikes around their enclosure. If they fighting went on for much longer and his soldiers were forced to retreat, they would need a secure haven in which to do that. One that would hold long enough to give them the recuperation needed.
Rolling his head on his broad shoulders and removing the heavy helmet that broke like a bear’s jaws over his head, Vangelis stood up from where he had been bent at Commander Linos' infirmary cot. The man was dead and there had been no chance of recovery. The arrow had been fired from too close a distance and sent strong into his skull. Yet, it was not honourable to leave the man out to rot in the fields. He would be burnt appropriately, with coins upon his eyes. But such funeral rites would have to wait until this particular scourge had been settled.
Commander Linos had been more than simple Captain. In charge of only a single unit in this particular campaign - his home provincial unit - he was normally in command of several units at once; a Commander of the Colchian armies. Such positions needed to be filled quickly after the death of the previous holder and Vangelis' plan for attack would require another of exceptional rank to order the troops. He had not the time to wait for his return to the capitol, the careful consideration of applicants and the following ceremonial announcement in the Senate.
He knew his men. He knew every Captain in the Colchian military. He knew whom he intended to promote whenever there was a Commander position in absentia. Now was that time.
"Assemble the troops." Vangelis commander to the retainer that hung at his elbow, the scribe behind him jotted the instruction down for record keeping purposes. "Commander Linos is dead and required a successor. Order the men to file in."
He would make the announcement before all. He didn't have the time to let the rumour of new appointments circle, be doubted and then believed before they would be breaking out into their next conflict.
The retainer ran to leave the infirmary tent and Vangelis turned to the page.
"Let it be noted that Commander Linos died bravely in battle for his kingdom." He told the man, before turning to brush aside the flap over the tent's entrance and striding out into the mud of the northern fields...
Nike was tired.
Days and nights had practically melted into each other as she had to keep up with the neverending avalanche of attacks that seemed to come. She had given up trying to feel her toes, feets, or arms, all she had in her mind for the last four days was just surviving, or doing the best she can, for herself and for her unit. It wasn't as if she had something to prove - but let's be real, she does. It wasn't bad enough that she had been the smallest in the unit, but rumors still ran rampant that she had somehow managed to curry the favor of the general himself, to allow herself to be elevated as Captain so quickly in ranks. Had they seen Vangelis training her? Of course they had.
But that didn't mean Nike was just going to let them say what they liked. Yet, fighting verbally wasn't going to get her anywhere, so instead, Nike just had to do it the hard way, and prove to them that her promotion came with merit, and she had earned it every step of the way. Which meant even when a chance to take a break came, the woman did not take it, and merely pressed on, as if somehow she could have five eyes and be in three places at the same time, as she tried to take on her own enemies, and the ones of her men when they showed a crack in their own defenses.
It didn't help that when Vangelis had ordered a retreat in the units of the fallen Captain, the woman had gotten irritated when people started falling apart without the lead of a General, and her commands and tone got even snappier as she tried to get them in shape. So she was only a Captain, so what? She had to do what had to be done, and if the other captain was being subpar, Nike saw no wrong in stepping in to fill a role that was needed. Her rank or title didn't mean she stopped at what her job description told her to do. The thing about the woman was that she did whatever was necessary to get a job done, or die trying.
By the time they managed to break, the pounding in her head was only lessened when Nike managed to dunk her head in a barrel of freezing cold water, shaking her head to let her short locks dry up quickly. She had given her commands to her men to get their weapons sharpened and ready for battle at the drop of a helmet first, before even seeing to themselves. The woman was well aware that despite it being a respite in the evening, they had no warning should the barbarians decided to attack, and should be on the ready at all times.
Shrugging out of the leather braces in her tent (after she was sure no one else had been around), Nike had been about to change out of her loose tunic and maybe have a chance to replace the bloodied bandages around her chest (nicks and cuts on her waist had stained them, but they also served the dual purpose of keeping her chest hidden), but startled when a head popped in just before she pulled the tunic off her head.
"The general's asking for us."
Nike had jumped, and immediately turned so her chest faced the intruder, but her nod was clear to see, and the woman quickly pulled on her leather bracers again, lacing them up carefully but leaving the ones on her wrist unused, before heading out, her weapons still strapped on her body. Her forearm and upper arm had received kisses from the weapons of the barbarians, but it was nothing a wash of water and some respite from a fight wouldn't heal, Nike just wanted to allow the air to dry it, which is what she was hoping would be done as she listened to what the General wanted.
If there was anything she owed a debt to, it was Vangelis. Who knew her identity and gender, yet not only allowed her to keep her position, but had saw fit to rise her to the rank of Captain on top of personally training her. Thanks to Vangelis, Nike could fight not only brawn, but with brain as well, using her quick thinking and small size to outwit and outmanovre many men that it almost seemed as if she was a better fighter then any of them. Yet, many of their troops also doubted her ability, especially when they compared in size, and while Nike was happy to prove her ability to them, she also couldn't be bothered, seeing it as a waste of energy. So she let the naysayers continued, but her loyalty to Vangelis was unmatched.
Arriving at the northern fields (where she had many a time woken hours before the men's regular waking hours to put in the extra training time herself), Nike settled in with where the rest of her unit, and simply waited for the General to arrive with whatever he wished to address the rest of the men with.
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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Nike was tired.
Days and nights had practically melted into each other as she had to keep up with the neverending avalanche of attacks that seemed to come. She had given up trying to feel her toes, feets, or arms, all she had in her mind for the last four days was just surviving, or doing the best she can, for herself and for her unit. It wasn't as if she had something to prove - but let's be real, she does. It wasn't bad enough that she had been the smallest in the unit, but rumors still ran rampant that she had somehow managed to curry the favor of the general himself, to allow herself to be elevated as Captain so quickly in ranks. Had they seen Vangelis training her? Of course they had.
But that didn't mean Nike was just going to let them say what they liked. Yet, fighting verbally wasn't going to get her anywhere, so instead, Nike just had to do it the hard way, and prove to them that her promotion came with merit, and she had earned it every step of the way. Which meant even when a chance to take a break came, the woman did not take it, and merely pressed on, as if somehow she could have five eyes and be in three places at the same time, as she tried to take on her own enemies, and the ones of her men when they showed a crack in their own defenses.
It didn't help that when Vangelis had ordered a retreat in the units of the fallen Captain, the woman had gotten irritated when people started falling apart without the lead of a General, and her commands and tone got even snappier as she tried to get them in shape. So she was only a Captain, so what? She had to do what had to be done, and if the other captain was being subpar, Nike saw no wrong in stepping in to fill a role that was needed. Her rank or title didn't mean she stopped at what her job description told her to do. The thing about the woman was that she did whatever was necessary to get a job done, or die trying.
By the time they managed to break, the pounding in her head was only lessened when Nike managed to dunk her head in a barrel of freezing cold water, shaking her head to let her short locks dry up quickly. She had given her commands to her men to get their weapons sharpened and ready for battle at the drop of a helmet first, before even seeing to themselves. The woman was well aware that despite it being a respite in the evening, they had no warning should the barbarians decided to attack, and should be on the ready at all times.
Shrugging out of the leather braces in her tent (after she was sure no one else had been around), Nike had been about to change out of her loose tunic and maybe have a chance to replace the bloodied bandages around her chest (nicks and cuts on her waist had stained them, but they also served the dual purpose of keeping her chest hidden), but startled when a head popped in just before she pulled the tunic off her head.
"The general's asking for us."
Nike had jumped, and immediately turned so her chest faced the intruder, but her nod was clear to see, and the woman quickly pulled on her leather bracers again, lacing them up carefully but leaving the ones on her wrist unused, before heading out, her weapons still strapped on her body. Her forearm and upper arm had received kisses from the weapons of the barbarians, but it was nothing a wash of water and some respite from a fight wouldn't heal, Nike just wanted to allow the air to dry it, which is what she was hoping would be done as she listened to what the General wanted.
If there was anything she owed a debt to, it was Vangelis. Who knew her identity and gender, yet not only allowed her to keep her position, but had saw fit to rise her to the rank of Captain on top of personally training her. Thanks to Vangelis, Nike could fight not only brawn, but with brain as well, using her quick thinking and small size to outwit and outmanovre many men that it almost seemed as if she was a better fighter then any of them. Yet, many of their troops also doubted her ability, especially when they compared in size, and while Nike was happy to prove her ability to them, she also couldn't be bothered, seeing it as a waste of energy. So she let the naysayers continued, but her loyalty to Vangelis was unmatched.
Arriving at the northern fields (where she had many a time woken hours before the men's regular waking hours to put in the extra training time herself), Nike settled in with where the rest of her unit, and simply waited for the General to arrive with whatever he wished to address the rest of the men with.
Nike was tired.
Days and nights had practically melted into each other as she had to keep up with the neverending avalanche of attacks that seemed to come. She had given up trying to feel her toes, feets, or arms, all she had in her mind for the last four days was just surviving, or doing the best she can, for herself and for her unit. It wasn't as if she had something to prove - but let's be real, she does. It wasn't bad enough that she had been the smallest in the unit, but rumors still ran rampant that she had somehow managed to curry the favor of the general himself, to allow herself to be elevated as Captain so quickly in ranks. Had they seen Vangelis training her? Of course they had.
But that didn't mean Nike was just going to let them say what they liked. Yet, fighting verbally wasn't going to get her anywhere, so instead, Nike just had to do it the hard way, and prove to them that her promotion came with merit, and she had earned it every step of the way. Which meant even when a chance to take a break came, the woman did not take it, and merely pressed on, as if somehow she could have five eyes and be in three places at the same time, as she tried to take on her own enemies, and the ones of her men when they showed a crack in their own defenses.
It didn't help that when Vangelis had ordered a retreat in the units of the fallen Captain, the woman had gotten irritated when people started falling apart without the lead of a General, and her commands and tone got even snappier as she tried to get them in shape. So she was only a Captain, so what? She had to do what had to be done, and if the other captain was being subpar, Nike saw no wrong in stepping in to fill a role that was needed. Her rank or title didn't mean she stopped at what her job description told her to do. The thing about the woman was that she did whatever was necessary to get a job done, or die trying.
By the time they managed to break, the pounding in her head was only lessened when Nike managed to dunk her head in a barrel of freezing cold water, shaking her head to let her short locks dry up quickly. She had given her commands to her men to get their weapons sharpened and ready for battle at the drop of a helmet first, before even seeing to themselves. The woman was well aware that despite it being a respite in the evening, they had no warning should the barbarians decided to attack, and should be on the ready at all times.
Shrugging out of the leather braces in her tent (after she was sure no one else had been around), Nike had been about to change out of her loose tunic and maybe have a chance to replace the bloodied bandages around her chest (nicks and cuts on her waist had stained them, but they also served the dual purpose of keeping her chest hidden), but startled when a head popped in just before she pulled the tunic off her head.
"The general's asking for us."
Nike had jumped, and immediately turned so her chest faced the intruder, but her nod was clear to see, and the woman quickly pulled on her leather bracers again, lacing them up carefully but leaving the ones on her wrist unused, before heading out, her weapons still strapped on her body. Her forearm and upper arm had received kisses from the weapons of the barbarians, but it was nothing a wash of water and some respite from a fight wouldn't heal, Nike just wanted to allow the air to dry it, which is what she was hoping would be done as she listened to what the General wanted.
If there was anything she owed a debt to, it was Vangelis. Who knew her identity and gender, yet not only allowed her to keep her position, but had saw fit to rise her to the rank of Captain on top of personally training her. Thanks to Vangelis, Nike could fight not only brawn, but with brain as well, using her quick thinking and small size to outwit and outmanovre many men that it almost seemed as if she was a better fighter then any of them. Yet, many of their troops also doubted her ability, especially when they compared in size, and while Nike was happy to prove her ability to them, she also couldn't be bothered, seeing it as a waste of energy. So she let the naysayers continued, but her loyalty to Vangelis was unmatched.
Arriving at the northern fields (where she had many a time woken hours before the men's regular waking hours to put in the extra training time herself), Nike settled in with where the rest of her unit, and simply waited for the General to arrive with whatever he wished to address the rest of the men with.
It had been a glorious occasion.
Sure, it had also been an exhaustive, tiring day, the fourth of such a state of bellicose anger where a single moment of hesitation or doubt could have meant the difference between life or death. And true to cut, it had been a most gruelingly arduous day, one that had been filled with as much peace and quiet as one could expect from the cacophonous clashing of swords and shields, but then again, Damocles supposed that was as much as one could expect from the riotous, chaotic nature of what exactly war was. His shoulders, broad and heavy by the weight of the armor they had carried, had been exhausted and rendered tired from the long hours of the day. His hands were course, torn and calloused, a reflection of the strength his long fingers had channeled amidst the fighting and brawling. His throat was sore and dried, reduced to such a state due to the intensity of the orders he had aggressively barked nonstop for now four days now. His brow was sweaty and pressed down in marked enervation.
Yet it was a glorious occasion.
Yes, many had fallen. Indeed, a great deal had met their end and would have been welcomed later at night’s rest by Hades’s boatman in his kingdom of the dead. And as one that had paid careful attention to the rites of the time, Damocles was assured that he would honor the fallen with coins in their eyes and words of careful codependence to those that had met their end by the hands of those savage barbarians that had met their might now a day past thrice of their encounter. But he knew better than to mourn the passing of the men and women he had commanded today. Death, he had long understood, had never been the great fear of those that called themselves soldiers of Colchis. No, they had been trained and hardened to endure and make peace with their possible fate long ago. The greater fear had been to pass in dishonor to bring upon oneself and upon one self’s own kindred the shame of loss and disgrace.
Alas, though he quietly would grieve for his fallen brothers and sisters at arms, he would not mourn their fates, for those that had perished, had done so in the pursuit of honor and safety for their hearth and home. And whence weighted against other possible ends, what better way could there be for one to die serving kingdom and domain? As far as he was aware, there was none. To die on a field of battle in service to their homeland was but the most noble cause he could ever hope to admire upon others. So he would not mourn, for there was nothing to mourn. No, he would celebrate the day and sing the praises of his fallen, he would raise his spirits high and consider their met fates well-met and satisfied, and he would do everything in his power to make sure that whatever future stories of great and legend would be shared in equal measure with those that had sacrificed all they could offer and those that still endeavored amongst the living and the Damned.
And thus, he saw the day as a glorious occasion.
For though he had sustained wounds on his chest and sides, and had been laced with blood, sweat and tears, his unit had not faltered in their steadfastness whatsoever. He had held strong to their place and done his best to keep order amongst the rank and file. His eyes, once stark and blasting in clear intent, had dried and sunk with the efforts of the day. Yet he had been proud of his forces, though he would not admit it in public light. The communications of the day had been poor, and the orders of men of higher rank and stature had been far and few between. Thus, he had to held on to his wits and make do with his resources, exercising each and every one of his talents for leadership and command to compel the Damned to stay the course and follow through on their promised victory. In their own way, his men had shown their bravery and courage today, fighting through the wounds and exhaustion to reach for glory and make their mark on the day. And though they had barely been given instructions for the time, they had gone hardly past the mark, with Damocles reflecting positively that his unit had suffered heavy casualties on the onslaught that had been endured.
Naturally, this had pleased the grey-eyed Captain greatly. Given how crude and bitter the fighting had been there had been more than enough reason to consider that a great many would had met their end today, but that had not been the product of the past hours of the now-set sun. Damocles supposed that he could count with the fingers of his hand the number of people that had been ferried to the Underworld today. Though the same could not be said about the injured, with some of his men having suffered scars and wounds that would mark them forevermore. Yet, all in all, he had done better than he had anticipated. No doubt this would reflect positively on his lord once word reached him in Magnemea, but he was not the one owed honor today.
No, just two years ago he had received command of the Damned, a large unit of then-bloody idiots that could not figure they way through a basic set of exercises. He made no secret of it that his men had not had the best reputation in the past. Alas, two years past, Damocles could not come to consider the reputation of his men to be the same as it had been years prior. He had been a harsh teacher, a brutal taskmaster that had demanded nothing but perfection from them all, but it had done the unit well. Now they were a proper force, one that rallied behind a capable leader and a skilled captain who knew each and every one of his warriors as if they had been his own kin. And this wasn’t that far from the truth.
Yes, he was hard on his soldiers, and yes he had been tough on them on purpose, but it was for this purpose that it had all been done so. His men had trusted him to lead them towards victory, and they had put their hopes and dreams of success on his shoulders. It was his responsibility to honor that commitment, to follow through the trusted bond of commander and commanded and to bring about the words of promised glory he had broken in years before. This was his covenant, an embodiment of the sad, but chivalrous dream of all soldiers that had today lain dead on those fields of battle, clutched close to their hearts with their last bated breaths escaping in lifted spirits to the words of he who had sworn to even uphold their will and future as his own. Their dying wish had now been held aloof by their Captain, who had long committed to such oath, making certain that their loyalty had not been eschewed away and discarded in vain. And so, as he recovered from his wounds, Damocles rose his head in pride, knowing that his oath had been upkept and his sworn covenant maintained, that his men had not to fear for their industry and hard-work, nor had he to fear for their lack of support to his will and authority, for he had maintained his contract with them. Perhaps, his return to camp had been less respectful than most would had anticipated, what with the roars and the cheers that came from his soldiers breaking through the quiet solemnity of the time. Then again, even if his men had gained a place of distinction in Colchis, they had not been known for their subtlety or quiet. Rather, it was the opposite of such, for the Damned had been a rowdy, boisterous bunch, one that had fought hard at day and which enjoyed the spoils of night as award for their service. Sure, they had been firm in their resolve today, but even warriors were owed some form of respite, small as it was. He supposed however that it all made sense however. Their Captain had been known as an unorthodox wildman after all, so could others really hope that the unit would be anything but as lively as their leader? As it were, they had been the last to return to camp. Yet, even arrival, a proper one at that, would have to be postponed, for as soon as the armored men of the Damned came to join their fellows, a messenger came upon Damocles, informing him that his soldiers and him had been requested for an assembly of sorts by the northern field, a most peculiar of commands.
With the vim and vigor of a victorious hero, Damocles strutted along as instructed, striding with a stiff, proud gait to his rushed walk. It was not a particularly long walk towards the northern field, but it was still more than he would have preferred to enjoy at this late hour. His bones and muscles ache, and he had little reason to hear another one of Vangelis’s speeches right now. He had felt accomplished in his own right today and had no need for the other’s eyes to fall upon him again in cast judgement. Still, he did not comment on the whole of it, preferring to find silence in this odd moment of hurried assembly. Once settled by his side, his hands made for his helm, removing the metal object from his head so as to reveal his tired, weary face.
In attendance already was Nike, one that Damocles had come to recognize as an interesting figure to keep track of for the time being. As far as he could tell he was of a smaller, thinner composition than the average soldier, but size was a poor indicator for skill and ability. As he passed his swift gaze, the silver-eyed man returned the other’s stare with an acknowledged nod of his own, quietly offering a small tribute to the other. Sure, he did not know much about that captain, aside from the fact that he had apparently been close to that damned Crown Prince, but that mattered little to the Magnemean. Most interest however was the presence of the soldiers of Pieria, but not their leader, Commander Linos. This struck the Magnemean as odd, for the veteran was not one for tardiness, rousing some light suspicion in the back of his head.
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It had been a glorious occasion.
Sure, it had also been an exhaustive, tiring day, the fourth of such a state of bellicose anger where a single moment of hesitation or doubt could have meant the difference between life or death. And true to cut, it had been a most gruelingly arduous day, one that had been filled with as much peace and quiet as one could expect from the cacophonous clashing of swords and shields, but then again, Damocles supposed that was as much as one could expect from the riotous, chaotic nature of what exactly war was. His shoulders, broad and heavy by the weight of the armor they had carried, had been exhausted and rendered tired from the long hours of the day. His hands were course, torn and calloused, a reflection of the strength his long fingers had channeled amidst the fighting and brawling. His throat was sore and dried, reduced to such a state due to the intensity of the orders he had aggressively barked nonstop for now four days now. His brow was sweaty and pressed down in marked enervation.
Yet it was a glorious occasion.
Yes, many had fallen. Indeed, a great deal had met their end and would have been welcomed later at night’s rest by Hades’s boatman in his kingdom of the dead. And as one that had paid careful attention to the rites of the time, Damocles was assured that he would honor the fallen with coins in their eyes and words of careful codependence to those that had met their end by the hands of those savage barbarians that had met their might now a day past thrice of their encounter. But he knew better than to mourn the passing of the men and women he had commanded today. Death, he had long understood, had never been the great fear of those that called themselves soldiers of Colchis. No, they had been trained and hardened to endure and make peace with their possible fate long ago. The greater fear had been to pass in dishonor to bring upon oneself and upon one self’s own kindred the shame of loss and disgrace.
Alas, though he quietly would grieve for his fallen brothers and sisters at arms, he would not mourn their fates, for those that had perished, had done so in the pursuit of honor and safety for their hearth and home. And whence weighted against other possible ends, what better way could there be for one to die serving kingdom and domain? As far as he was aware, there was none. To die on a field of battle in service to their homeland was but the most noble cause he could ever hope to admire upon others. So he would not mourn, for there was nothing to mourn. No, he would celebrate the day and sing the praises of his fallen, he would raise his spirits high and consider their met fates well-met and satisfied, and he would do everything in his power to make sure that whatever future stories of great and legend would be shared in equal measure with those that had sacrificed all they could offer and those that still endeavored amongst the living and the Damned.
And thus, he saw the day as a glorious occasion.
For though he had sustained wounds on his chest and sides, and had been laced with blood, sweat and tears, his unit had not faltered in their steadfastness whatsoever. He had held strong to their place and done his best to keep order amongst the rank and file. His eyes, once stark and blasting in clear intent, had dried and sunk with the efforts of the day. Yet he had been proud of his forces, though he would not admit it in public light. The communications of the day had been poor, and the orders of men of higher rank and stature had been far and few between. Thus, he had to held on to his wits and make do with his resources, exercising each and every one of his talents for leadership and command to compel the Damned to stay the course and follow through on their promised victory. In their own way, his men had shown their bravery and courage today, fighting through the wounds and exhaustion to reach for glory and make their mark on the day. And though they had barely been given instructions for the time, they had gone hardly past the mark, with Damocles reflecting positively that his unit had suffered heavy casualties on the onslaught that had been endured.
Naturally, this had pleased the grey-eyed Captain greatly. Given how crude and bitter the fighting had been there had been more than enough reason to consider that a great many would had met their end today, but that had not been the product of the past hours of the now-set sun. Damocles supposed that he could count with the fingers of his hand the number of people that had been ferried to the Underworld today. Though the same could not be said about the injured, with some of his men having suffered scars and wounds that would mark them forevermore. Yet, all in all, he had done better than he had anticipated. No doubt this would reflect positively on his lord once word reached him in Magnemea, but he was not the one owed honor today.
No, just two years ago he had received command of the Damned, a large unit of then-bloody idiots that could not figure they way through a basic set of exercises. He made no secret of it that his men had not had the best reputation in the past. Alas, two years past, Damocles could not come to consider the reputation of his men to be the same as it had been years prior. He had been a harsh teacher, a brutal taskmaster that had demanded nothing but perfection from them all, but it had done the unit well. Now they were a proper force, one that rallied behind a capable leader and a skilled captain who knew each and every one of his warriors as if they had been his own kin. And this wasn’t that far from the truth.
Yes, he was hard on his soldiers, and yes he had been tough on them on purpose, but it was for this purpose that it had all been done so. His men had trusted him to lead them towards victory, and they had put their hopes and dreams of success on his shoulders. It was his responsibility to honor that commitment, to follow through the trusted bond of commander and commanded and to bring about the words of promised glory he had broken in years before. This was his covenant, an embodiment of the sad, but chivalrous dream of all soldiers that had today lain dead on those fields of battle, clutched close to their hearts with their last bated breaths escaping in lifted spirits to the words of he who had sworn to even uphold their will and future as his own. Their dying wish had now been held aloof by their Captain, who had long committed to such oath, making certain that their loyalty had not been eschewed away and discarded in vain. And so, as he recovered from his wounds, Damocles rose his head in pride, knowing that his oath had been upkept and his sworn covenant maintained, that his men had not to fear for their industry and hard-work, nor had he to fear for their lack of support to his will and authority, for he had maintained his contract with them. Perhaps, his return to camp had been less respectful than most would had anticipated, what with the roars and the cheers that came from his soldiers breaking through the quiet solemnity of the time. Then again, even if his men had gained a place of distinction in Colchis, they had not been known for their subtlety or quiet. Rather, it was the opposite of such, for the Damned had been a rowdy, boisterous bunch, one that had fought hard at day and which enjoyed the spoils of night as award for their service. Sure, they had been firm in their resolve today, but even warriors were owed some form of respite, small as it was. He supposed however that it all made sense however. Their Captain had been known as an unorthodox wildman after all, so could others really hope that the unit would be anything but as lively as their leader? As it were, they had been the last to return to camp. Yet, even arrival, a proper one at that, would have to be postponed, for as soon as the armored men of the Damned came to join their fellows, a messenger came upon Damocles, informing him that his soldiers and him had been requested for an assembly of sorts by the northern field, a most peculiar of commands.
With the vim and vigor of a victorious hero, Damocles strutted along as instructed, striding with a stiff, proud gait to his rushed walk. It was not a particularly long walk towards the northern field, but it was still more than he would have preferred to enjoy at this late hour. His bones and muscles ache, and he had little reason to hear another one of Vangelis’s speeches right now. He had felt accomplished in his own right today and had no need for the other’s eyes to fall upon him again in cast judgement. Still, he did not comment on the whole of it, preferring to find silence in this odd moment of hurried assembly. Once settled by his side, his hands made for his helm, removing the metal object from his head so as to reveal his tired, weary face.
In attendance already was Nike, one that Damocles had come to recognize as an interesting figure to keep track of for the time being. As far as he could tell he was of a smaller, thinner composition than the average soldier, but size was a poor indicator for skill and ability. As he passed his swift gaze, the silver-eyed man returned the other’s stare with an acknowledged nod of his own, quietly offering a small tribute to the other. Sure, he did not know much about that captain, aside from the fact that he had apparently been close to that damned Crown Prince, but that mattered little to the Magnemean. Most interest however was the presence of the soldiers of Pieria, but not their leader, Commander Linos. This struck the Magnemean as odd, for the veteran was not one for tardiness, rousing some light suspicion in the back of his head.
It had been a glorious occasion.
Sure, it had also been an exhaustive, tiring day, the fourth of such a state of bellicose anger where a single moment of hesitation or doubt could have meant the difference between life or death. And true to cut, it had been a most gruelingly arduous day, one that had been filled with as much peace and quiet as one could expect from the cacophonous clashing of swords and shields, but then again, Damocles supposed that was as much as one could expect from the riotous, chaotic nature of what exactly war was. His shoulders, broad and heavy by the weight of the armor they had carried, had been exhausted and rendered tired from the long hours of the day. His hands were course, torn and calloused, a reflection of the strength his long fingers had channeled amidst the fighting and brawling. His throat was sore and dried, reduced to such a state due to the intensity of the orders he had aggressively barked nonstop for now four days now. His brow was sweaty and pressed down in marked enervation.
Yet it was a glorious occasion.
Yes, many had fallen. Indeed, a great deal had met their end and would have been welcomed later at night’s rest by Hades’s boatman in his kingdom of the dead. And as one that had paid careful attention to the rites of the time, Damocles was assured that he would honor the fallen with coins in their eyes and words of careful codependence to those that had met their end by the hands of those savage barbarians that had met their might now a day past thrice of their encounter. But he knew better than to mourn the passing of the men and women he had commanded today. Death, he had long understood, had never been the great fear of those that called themselves soldiers of Colchis. No, they had been trained and hardened to endure and make peace with their possible fate long ago. The greater fear had been to pass in dishonor to bring upon oneself and upon one self’s own kindred the shame of loss and disgrace.
Alas, though he quietly would grieve for his fallen brothers and sisters at arms, he would not mourn their fates, for those that had perished, had done so in the pursuit of honor and safety for their hearth and home. And whence weighted against other possible ends, what better way could there be for one to die serving kingdom and domain? As far as he was aware, there was none. To die on a field of battle in service to their homeland was but the most noble cause he could ever hope to admire upon others. So he would not mourn, for there was nothing to mourn. No, he would celebrate the day and sing the praises of his fallen, he would raise his spirits high and consider their met fates well-met and satisfied, and he would do everything in his power to make sure that whatever future stories of great and legend would be shared in equal measure with those that had sacrificed all they could offer and those that still endeavored amongst the living and the Damned.
And thus, he saw the day as a glorious occasion.
For though he had sustained wounds on his chest and sides, and had been laced with blood, sweat and tears, his unit had not faltered in their steadfastness whatsoever. He had held strong to their place and done his best to keep order amongst the rank and file. His eyes, once stark and blasting in clear intent, had dried and sunk with the efforts of the day. Yet he had been proud of his forces, though he would not admit it in public light. The communications of the day had been poor, and the orders of men of higher rank and stature had been far and few between. Thus, he had to held on to his wits and make do with his resources, exercising each and every one of his talents for leadership and command to compel the Damned to stay the course and follow through on their promised victory. In their own way, his men had shown their bravery and courage today, fighting through the wounds and exhaustion to reach for glory and make their mark on the day. And though they had barely been given instructions for the time, they had gone hardly past the mark, with Damocles reflecting positively that his unit had suffered heavy casualties on the onslaught that had been endured.
Naturally, this had pleased the grey-eyed Captain greatly. Given how crude and bitter the fighting had been there had been more than enough reason to consider that a great many would had met their end today, but that had not been the product of the past hours of the now-set sun. Damocles supposed that he could count with the fingers of his hand the number of people that had been ferried to the Underworld today. Though the same could not be said about the injured, with some of his men having suffered scars and wounds that would mark them forevermore. Yet, all in all, he had done better than he had anticipated. No doubt this would reflect positively on his lord once word reached him in Magnemea, but he was not the one owed honor today.
No, just two years ago he had received command of the Damned, a large unit of then-bloody idiots that could not figure they way through a basic set of exercises. He made no secret of it that his men had not had the best reputation in the past. Alas, two years past, Damocles could not come to consider the reputation of his men to be the same as it had been years prior. He had been a harsh teacher, a brutal taskmaster that had demanded nothing but perfection from them all, but it had done the unit well. Now they were a proper force, one that rallied behind a capable leader and a skilled captain who knew each and every one of his warriors as if they had been his own kin. And this wasn’t that far from the truth.
Yes, he was hard on his soldiers, and yes he had been tough on them on purpose, but it was for this purpose that it had all been done so. His men had trusted him to lead them towards victory, and they had put their hopes and dreams of success on his shoulders. It was his responsibility to honor that commitment, to follow through the trusted bond of commander and commanded and to bring about the words of promised glory he had broken in years before. This was his covenant, an embodiment of the sad, but chivalrous dream of all soldiers that had today lain dead on those fields of battle, clutched close to their hearts with their last bated breaths escaping in lifted spirits to the words of he who had sworn to even uphold their will and future as his own. Their dying wish had now been held aloof by their Captain, who had long committed to such oath, making certain that their loyalty had not been eschewed away and discarded in vain. And so, as he recovered from his wounds, Damocles rose his head in pride, knowing that his oath had been upkept and his sworn covenant maintained, that his men had not to fear for their industry and hard-work, nor had he to fear for their lack of support to his will and authority, for he had maintained his contract with them. Perhaps, his return to camp had been less respectful than most would had anticipated, what with the roars and the cheers that came from his soldiers breaking through the quiet solemnity of the time. Then again, even if his men had gained a place of distinction in Colchis, they had not been known for their subtlety or quiet. Rather, it was the opposite of such, for the Damned had been a rowdy, boisterous bunch, one that had fought hard at day and which enjoyed the spoils of night as award for their service. Sure, they had been firm in their resolve today, but even warriors were owed some form of respite, small as it was. He supposed however that it all made sense however. Their Captain had been known as an unorthodox wildman after all, so could others really hope that the unit would be anything but as lively as their leader? As it were, they had been the last to return to camp. Yet, even arrival, a proper one at that, would have to be postponed, for as soon as the armored men of the Damned came to join their fellows, a messenger came upon Damocles, informing him that his soldiers and him had been requested for an assembly of sorts by the northern field, a most peculiar of commands.
With the vim and vigor of a victorious hero, Damocles strutted along as instructed, striding with a stiff, proud gait to his rushed walk. It was not a particularly long walk towards the northern field, but it was still more than he would have preferred to enjoy at this late hour. His bones and muscles ache, and he had little reason to hear another one of Vangelis’s speeches right now. He had felt accomplished in his own right today and had no need for the other’s eyes to fall upon him again in cast judgement. Still, he did not comment on the whole of it, preferring to find silence in this odd moment of hurried assembly. Once settled by his side, his hands made for his helm, removing the metal object from his head so as to reveal his tired, weary face.
In attendance already was Nike, one that Damocles had come to recognize as an interesting figure to keep track of for the time being. As far as he could tell he was of a smaller, thinner composition than the average soldier, but size was a poor indicator for skill and ability. As he passed his swift gaze, the silver-eyed man returned the other’s stare with an acknowledged nod of his own, quietly offering a small tribute to the other. Sure, he did not know much about that captain, aside from the fact that he had apparently been close to that damned Crown Prince, but that mattered little to the Magnemean. Most interest however was the presence of the soldiers of Pieria, but not their leader, Commander Linos. This struck the Magnemean as odd, for the veteran was not one for tardiness, rousing some light suspicion in the back of his head.
The lands beneath Vangelis' boots were churned with the steps of man. The northern lands were more dusty grit and dirt than they were grasslands. The more fertile areas were away from the shoreline, or so his scouts had reported. Perhaps there had once been greenery here, but the decades of fighting had seen to anything that might be able to grow being crushed under foot. Without the roots of knee-high coastal turf, the dirt had suffered under the rain and turned to treacherous sludge. His tread had to adjust, to become light and skimming. Too much pressure and the soles of his shoes slipped and slid across the earth, unhinging the balance in his hips and sending his arms out for balance.
Many a young recruit who had yet to serve in the northern lands fell to the dangers of a misplaced step and ate mud. Hopefully during training or drills rather than in combat. But Vangelis had spent too many years on this barbarous landscape to not now know how to navigate it with skill and a strong gait. He walked as if he might anywhere - be it the sturdy ground of the Kirakles mountains or the rolling deck of ship. He moved with an assurance that kept the loyalty and confidence of his men in times when cold, wet and mud had leeched all hope from their spirits. The role of a General was as much an act as it was one of skill. He had to be able to command his troops, to know how to fight and to lead them in example. But he also had to appeal to their mentality and their strength and courage by showing that he lacked none of such things himself.
As he moved across the land, his sword at his side and his helmet beneath one arm, he approached over a rise with his guardsmen, a few aides and his scribe in toe. His additions to his person walked several strides behind him and allowed him to lead as was his duty and birth right. When he reached the front lines of the three units in his command, he was quick to note with approval that roughly three quarters of them were there. All other men were performing the basic and necessary duties of securing the camp, repairing weaponry for the next assault and keeping a lookout around the circumference of their entrenchment. But, as was his order, the Captains of each unit had assembled all of the men that could be spared and brought them to hear his instructions.
This was good, for Vangelis had neither the time, nor the patience, to wait whilst his announcements were transfused to each man by word of mouth and doubted rumour. He would set all gossip and records straight loud and clear and turn the information into an efficient means of command.
"Commander Linos is dead." Vangelis stated. His voice was loud and bold and shared no emotion. It was a simple matter of fact; the man was dead. "He died in the service of his kingdom and will be given appropriate burial rites in accordance with his conduct and courage." Again, there was no emotion - only the simple but powerful promise of a leader to his men. The soldiers needed to know that, in the possible event of their own death, Vangelis would not fall apart to his feelings of grief and would see to their burial and rites with as much attention and efficiency as he was for Commander Linos.
"These last few days have broken the backs of our enemies." He called out over the heads of his men. "And were it not for @hades' righteous claim upon our Commander, I believe that we would have reached victory come the setting of the sun yester eve." He unsheathed his short sword and lifted it to the air. "Our Lord and God @ares wishes to see our courage for one more bout before he is willing to bestow us victory."
"Men of Colchis, can I count upon that courage?" He called, encouraging a cheer of anger and determination that would embolden his men to see through one final day.
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The lands beneath Vangelis' boots were churned with the steps of man. The northern lands were more dusty grit and dirt than they were grasslands. The more fertile areas were away from the shoreline, or so his scouts had reported. Perhaps there had once been greenery here, but the decades of fighting had seen to anything that might be able to grow being crushed under foot. Without the roots of knee-high coastal turf, the dirt had suffered under the rain and turned to treacherous sludge. His tread had to adjust, to become light and skimming. Too much pressure and the soles of his shoes slipped and slid across the earth, unhinging the balance in his hips and sending his arms out for balance.
Many a young recruit who had yet to serve in the northern lands fell to the dangers of a misplaced step and ate mud. Hopefully during training or drills rather than in combat. But Vangelis had spent too many years on this barbarous landscape to not now know how to navigate it with skill and a strong gait. He walked as if he might anywhere - be it the sturdy ground of the Kirakles mountains or the rolling deck of ship. He moved with an assurance that kept the loyalty and confidence of his men in times when cold, wet and mud had leeched all hope from their spirits. The role of a General was as much an act as it was one of skill. He had to be able to command his troops, to know how to fight and to lead them in example. But he also had to appeal to their mentality and their strength and courage by showing that he lacked none of such things himself.
As he moved across the land, his sword at his side and his helmet beneath one arm, he approached over a rise with his guardsmen, a few aides and his scribe in toe. His additions to his person walked several strides behind him and allowed him to lead as was his duty and birth right. When he reached the front lines of the three units in his command, he was quick to note with approval that roughly three quarters of them were there. All other men were performing the basic and necessary duties of securing the camp, repairing weaponry for the next assault and keeping a lookout around the circumference of their entrenchment. But, as was his order, the Captains of each unit had assembled all of the men that could be spared and brought them to hear his instructions.
This was good, for Vangelis had neither the time, nor the patience, to wait whilst his announcements were transfused to each man by word of mouth and doubted rumour. He would set all gossip and records straight loud and clear and turn the information into an efficient means of command.
"Commander Linos is dead." Vangelis stated. His voice was loud and bold and shared no emotion. It was a simple matter of fact; the man was dead. "He died in the service of his kingdom and will be given appropriate burial rites in accordance with his conduct and courage." Again, there was no emotion - only the simple but powerful promise of a leader to his men. The soldiers needed to know that, in the possible event of their own death, Vangelis would not fall apart to his feelings of grief and would see to their burial and rites with as much attention and efficiency as he was for Commander Linos.
"These last few days have broken the backs of our enemies." He called out over the heads of his men. "And were it not for @hades' righteous claim upon our Commander, I believe that we would have reached victory come the setting of the sun yester eve." He unsheathed his short sword and lifted it to the air. "Our Lord and God @ares wishes to see our courage for one more bout before he is willing to bestow us victory."
"Men of Colchis, can I count upon that courage?" He called, encouraging a cheer of anger and determination that would embolden his men to see through one final day.
The lands beneath Vangelis' boots were churned with the steps of man. The northern lands were more dusty grit and dirt than they were grasslands. The more fertile areas were away from the shoreline, or so his scouts had reported. Perhaps there had once been greenery here, but the decades of fighting had seen to anything that might be able to grow being crushed under foot. Without the roots of knee-high coastal turf, the dirt had suffered under the rain and turned to treacherous sludge. His tread had to adjust, to become light and skimming. Too much pressure and the soles of his shoes slipped and slid across the earth, unhinging the balance in his hips and sending his arms out for balance.
Many a young recruit who had yet to serve in the northern lands fell to the dangers of a misplaced step and ate mud. Hopefully during training or drills rather than in combat. But Vangelis had spent too many years on this barbarous landscape to not now know how to navigate it with skill and a strong gait. He walked as if he might anywhere - be it the sturdy ground of the Kirakles mountains or the rolling deck of ship. He moved with an assurance that kept the loyalty and confidence of his men in times when cold, wet and mud had leeched all hope from their spirits. The role of a General was as much an act as it was one of skill. He had to be able to command his troops, to know how to fight and to lead them in example. But he also had to appeal to their mentality and their strength and courage by showing that he lacked none of such things himself.
As he moved across the land, his sword at his side and his helmet beneath one arm, he approached over a rise with his guardsmen, a few aides and his scribe in toe. His additions to his person walked several strides behind him and allowed him to lead as was his duty and birth right. When he reached the front lines of the three units in his command, he was quick to note with approval that roughly three quarters of them were there. All other men were performing the basic and necessary duties of securing the camp, repairing weaponry for the next assault and keeping a lookout around the circumference of their entrenchment. But, as was his order, the Captains of each unit had assembled all of the men that could be spared and brought them to hear his instructions.
This was good, for Vangelis had neither the time, nor the patience, to wait whilst his announcements were transfused to each man by word of mouth and doubted rumour. He would set all gossip and records straight loud and clear and turn the information into an efficient means of command.
"Commander Linos is dead." Vangelis stated. His voice was loud and bold and shared no emotion. It was a simple matter of fact; the man was dead. "He died in the service of his kingdom and will be given appropriate burial rites in accordance with his conduct and courage." Again, there was no emotion - only the simple but powerful promise of a leader to his men. The soldiers needed to know that, in the possible event of their own death, Vangelis would not fall apart to his feelings of grief and would see to their burial and rites with as much attention and efficiency as he was for Commander Linos.
"These last few days have broken the backs of our enemies." He called out over the heads of his men. "And were it not for @hades' righteous claim upon our Commander, I believe that we would have reached victory come the setting of the sun yester eve." He unsheathed his short sword and lifted it to the air. "Our Lord and God @ares wishes to see our courage for one more bout before he is willing to bestow us victory."
"Men of Colchis, can I count upon that courage?" He called, encouraging a cheer of anger and determination that would embolden his men to see through one final day.
The death of the Commander was no news to her - things travelled fast when all soldiers and military men had to do was gossip with each other. Occasionally, Nike wanted to scoff at how the men would complain that their wives spent too long talking behind people's backs of things they have no relation to, because that was exactly what the men themselves did over a campfire and meat roasting over a spit. Humans just talked when they were bored, it was a natural process.
So as the news was announced, while some of the less informed members of the military wore looks of surprised, Nike's was one of nonchalance, all too similar to the way Vangelis would behave. But if anyone knew her, they would understand, considering how much Nike had spent in private training with the General himself. It seemed second nature for her to emulate what he did. His words were said with a deep baritone, the kind that would show strength but also solid like a wall, and it did half his battles for him. For a General's strength was the one that would be borrowed by his men in the heat of a battle.
Her men were well trained, and under her own Commander, Nike did her duties well. As expected, the moment Vangelis called out to encourage cheer and determination, the cries went up in support. While military men spent many hours in training, many would be surprised perhaps, to hear that the camraderie and sense of brotherhood between them helped just as much when it came to them emerging from the other side of a war or battle alive. Adrenaline would heighten their sense of sharpness, and fostering rapport between the men ensured less of them died under the knives of the other party.
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 death of the Commander was no news to her - things travelled fast when all soldiers and military men had to do was gossip with each other. Occasionally, Nike wanted to scoff at how the men would complain that their wives spent too long talking behind people's backs of things they have no relation to, because that was exactly what the men themselves did over a campfire and meat roasting over a spit. Humans just talked when they were bored, it was a natural process.
So as the news was announced, while some of the less informed members of the military wore looks of surprised, Nike's was one of nonchalance, all too similar to the way Vangelis would behave. But if anyone knew her, they would understand, considering how much Nike had spent in private training with the General himself. It seemed second nature for her to emulate what he did. His words were said with a deep baritone, the kind that would show strength but also solid like a wall, and it did half his battles for him. For a General's strength was the one that would be borrowed by his men in the heat of a battle.
Her men were well trained, and under her own Commander, Nike did her duties well. As expected, the moment Vangelis called out to encourage cheer and determination, the cries went up in support. While military men spent many hours in training, many would be surprised perhaps, to hear that the camraderie and sense of brotherhood between them helped just as much when it came to them emerging from the other side of a war or battle alive. Adrenaline would heighten their sense of sharpness, and fostering rapport between the men ensured less of them died under the knives of the other party.
The death of the Commander was no news to her - things travelled fast when all soldiers and military men had to do was gossip with each other. Occasionally, Nike wanted to scoff at how the men would complain that their wives spent too long talking behind people's backs of things they have no relation to, because that was exactly what the men themselves did over a campfire and meat roasting over a spit. Humans just talked when they were bored, it was a natural process.
So as the news was announced, while some of the less informed members of the military wore looks of surprised, Nike's was one of nonchalance, all too similar to the way Vangelis would behave. But if anyone knew her, they would understand, considering how much Nike had spent in private training with the General himself. It seemed second nature for her to emulate what he did. His words were said with a deep baritone, the kind that would show strength but also solid like a wall, and it did half his battles for him. For a General's strength was the one that would be borrowed by his men in the heat of a battle.
Her men were well trained, and under her own Commander, Nike did her duties well. As expected, the moment Vangelis called out to encourage cheer and determination, the cries went up in support. While military men spent many hours in training, many would be surprised perhaps, to hear that the camraderie and sense of brotherhood between them helped just as much when it came to them emerging from the other side of a war or battle alive. Adrenaline would heighten their sense of sharpness, and fostering rapport between the men ensured less of them died under the knives of the other party.
Linos was dead...
A certain part of him did not wish harm fell upon the old man. Though he had rarely spent long hours by the seasoned warrior's side, he had enough of a reputation to at least consider it praiseworthy, if anything. Perhaps, he should have been therefore inclined to show a little more sadness in his face, a little more dismay in the announcement, and a little more shock at the declaratory statements made by Vangelis.
Yet, this was not the case.
Linos was dead, and as such the Fates presented themselves in perfect harmony, heralding the most wondrous opportunity that had been imparted to him now. There was little reason in mourning fallen warriors, for their actions would see them carried off to the golden isles of @hades's underworld, but there was much to profit from the loss of such an old man. So Linos had passed? Good riddance! Finally, it was time to move upwards and onwards, to make manifest his ambitions and seize the moment. Of course, the weltering voices of those loyal to the decrepit bastard cried teary agony, but not Damocles. Instead, he kept his features stoic and unmoved, failing to surrender any emotion in the face of this most glorious of circumstances. Well, that was not entirely true...
Some might have taken comfort in the words of the Kotas General, but despite the inflection of his tone and the obvious attempt at sounding inspirational and charismatic, Damocles could not help but roll his eyes in silent, quiet boredom, finding neither a compelling reason to break from his cold exterior, nor cause to make his voice ring out in weltering acknowledgement. If this had been an attempt at channeling an applause of sorts, then the Magnemean could only understand this to be nothing short of a failure. Alas, though he was not particularly moved by the words of the blue-eyed general, Damocles still allowed his soldiers to cheer in support if they wished. Evidently, judging by the deafening silence of his usually rowdy and boisterous men, it seemed he had not been the only one that had remained uninterested in this exercise in oratory. Yet, it was of no matter. There were other, more important matters to tend to than the delivery of a speech.
Noticing the quiet atmosphere of the assembly, Damocles was compelled to break away the awkwardness of the moment and move forward with the progression of the time. Confident in his stride and fierce in his demeanor, the proud Captain of the Damned cut an imposing figure, wreathing himself with the gravity of the time as he first opened his mouth.
“General Vangelis, I neither doubt nor underestimate the commitment of our men, but in these times of dire desperation and agonized sadness, we must remember that not only is the loss of one man important, but the loss of all our countless comrades who have had to make the ultimate sacrifice.” He contradicted before taking a calculated pause, looking at the higher-ranked officer with nothing but aloof calmness, raising a small, trite swipe at Vangelis. “Yet, let there be no misunderstanding, I stand by the intentions of our General, for this is the right course to take in these dire times of need.” There was a pause in his words. Then, his eyes moved towards the gathered army and the Captain once more spoke.
“My friends, my brethren, my countrymen, listen to me!” he called out again, immediately causing a flurry of heads to turn their attention to the spellbinding militant. “Today I stand as a mere, humble soldier and pose before you all one simple question: Why do we fight? Is it for selfish glory and arrogant pride?” he rhetorically asked, waving a hand at the assembled warriors who soundly answered with a loud, uniform ‘no’. “Then do we fight for greed and the stoked ego of the few?” he repeated, gaining a mirrored reaction from the gathered men who once more answered in the negative. “No, my brothers and sisters, we do not fight for the glory of distant others! We fight for one thing: Our Hearth and Home, for the promised peace and stability that our struggle guarantee. For the protection of our families and friends, of which a great many have suffered here, in this frosty neverland of misery and torment.” He reiterated, staring fiercely at the armed soldiers who looked unwaveringly at the magnetic Damocles.
“We have suffered a lot of deaths in this campaign, and as such, I will not begrudge you for mourning the sacrifices of our brothers and sisters. Yet, rest assured and know that for as long as I draw breath I shall honor my pledged love for Colchis and fight on, with my sword and my shield and my spear, until of all Her enemies have been eradicated!” A welter of gathered voices soon erupted at this to arms, causing the fierce-speaking Magnemean to hold back a smirk at his own success. “My brother and sisters, we are Colchians, born from our land of War and Fire to make manifest our birthright towards victory and triumph against any who would dare threaten us and ours! You make me proud to fight with you, to mourn with you, and yes, to triumph with you!” Continued the towering Captain, exuding nothing but motivating passion that burned hot enough to melt the frigid ice of the Northern Lands. “What I ask, I ask plainly: will you answer the call for Hearth and Home Or will you sit by and dishonor our fallen?” posed Damocles once more with the same rhetorical flourished he had used before. Then, there was silence, a quiet moment of contemplation, before a single voice rung out from one of the hoplites.
“For Hearth and Home!” declared a first soldier.
“For Hearth and Home!” shouted another.
“For Hearth and Home!” roared more until the loud, declaration became a repeated chant followed by the thumping of spears against the ground and swords against shields. Then, Damocles calmed the swirling voices and addressed the gathered army again.
“Yes, my friends, yes! For Hearth and Home indeed! Now, let us honor the memory of Commander Linos, and all of our comrades, and move both onwards and upwards to victory!” and with that, the silver eyed man raised both his hands in a strong gesture of motivation, hiding his deception through the energy and ferocity he roused. A hinting smirk formed at the edge of his mouth, and as he turned back to return the attention to Vangelis, he mockingly smiled at the prince, amusing himself in what had a grandiose display of showmanship and flair that showed his popularity and sway.
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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Linos was dead...
A certain part of him did not wish harm fell upon the old man. Though he had rarely spent long hours by the seasoned warrior's side, he had enough of a reputation to at least consider it praiseworthy, if anything. Perhaps, he should have been therefore inclined to show a little more sadness in his face, a little more dismay in the announcement, and a little more shock at the declaratory statements made by Vangelis.
Yet, this was not the case.
Linos was dead, and as such the Fates presented themselves in perfect harmony, heralding the most wondrous opportunity that had been imparted to him now. There was little reason in mourning fallen warriors, for their actions would see them carried off to the golden isles of @hades's underworld, but there was much to profit from the loss of such an old man. So Linos had passed? Good riddance! Finally, it was time to move upwards and onwards, to make manifest his ambitions and seize the moment. Of course, the weltering voices of those loyal to the decrepit bastard cried teary agony, but not Damocles. Instead, he kept his features stoic and unmoved, failing to surrender any emotion in the face of this most glorious of circumstances. Well, that was not entirely true...
Some might have taken comfort in the words of the Kotas General, but despite the inflection of his tone and the obvious attempt at sounding inspirational and charismatic, Damocles could not help but roll his eyes in silent, quiet boredom, finding neither a compelling reason to break from his cold exterior, nor cause to make his voice ring out in weltering acknowledgement. If this had been an attempt at channeling an applause of sorts, then the Magnemean could only understand this to be nothing short of a failure. Alas, though he was not particularly moved by the words of the blue-eyed general, Damocles still allowed his soldiers to cheer in support if they wished. Evidently, judging by the deafening silence of his usually rowdy and boisterous men, it seemed he had not been the only one that had remained uninterested in this exercise in oratory. Yet, it was of no matter. There were other, more important matters to tend to than the delivery of a speech.
Noticing the quiet atmosphere of the assembly, Damocles was compelled to break away the awkwardness of the moment and move forward with the progression of the time. Confident in his stride and fierce in his demeanor, the proud Captain of the Damned cut an imposing figure, wreathing himself with the gravity of the time as he first opened his mouth.
“General Vangelis, I neither doubt nor underestimate the commitment of our men, but in these times of dire desperation and agonized sadness, we must remember that not only is the loss of one man important, but the loss of all our countless comrades who have had to make the ultimate sacrifice.” He contradicted before taking a calculated pause, looking at the higher-ranked officer with nothing but aloof calmness, raising a small, trite swipe at Vangelis. “Yet, let there be no misunderstanding, I stand by the intentions of our General, for this is the right course to take in these dire times of need.” There was a pause in his words. Then, his eyes moved towards the gathered army and the Captain once more spoke.
“My friends, my brethren, my countrymen, listen to me!” he called out again, immediately causing a flurry of heads to turn their attention to the spellbinding militant. “Today I stand as a mere, humble soldier and pose before you all one simple question: Why do we fight? Is it for selfish glory and arrogant pride?” he rhetorically asked, waving a hand at the assembled warriors who soundly answered with a loud, uniform ‘no’. “Then do we fight for greed and the stoked ego of the few?” he repeated, gaining a mirrored reaction from the gathered men who once more answered in the negative. “No, my brothers and sisters, we do not fight for the glory of distant others! We fight for one thing: Our Hearth and Home, for the promised peace and stability that our struggle guarantee. For the protection of our families and friends, of which a great many have suffered here, in this frosty neverland of misery and torment.” He reiterated, staring fiercely at the armed soldiers who looked unwaveringly at the magnetic Damocles.
“We have suffered a lot of deaths in this campaign, and as such, I will not begrudge you for mourning the sacrifices of our brothers and sisters. Yet, rest assured and know that for as long as I draw breath I shall honor my pledged love for Colchis and fight on, with my sword and my shield and my spear, until of all Her enemies have been eradicated!” A welter of gathered voices soon erupted at this to arms, causing the fierce-speaking Magnemean to hold back a smirk at his own success. “My brother and sisters, we are Colchians, born from our land of War and Fire to make manifest our birthright towards victory and triumph against any who would dare threaten us and ours! You make me proud to fight with you, to mourn with you, and yes, to triumph with you!” Continued the towering Captain, exuding nothing but motivating passion that burned hot enough to melt the frigid ice of the Northern Lands. “What I ask, I ask plainly: will you answer the call for Hearth and Home Or will you sit by and dishonor our fallen?” posed Damocles once more with the same rhetorical flourished he had used before. Then, there was silence, a quiet moment of contemplation, before a single voice rung out from one of the hoplites.
“For Hearth and Home!” declared a first soldier.
“For Hearth and Home!” shouted another.
“For Hearth and Home!” roared more until the loud, declaration became a repeated chant followed by the thumping of spears against the ground and swords against shields. Then, Damocles calmed the swirling voices and addressed the gathered army again.
“Yes, my friends, yes! For Hearth and Home indeed! Now, let us honor the memory of Commander Linos, and all of our comrades, and move both onwards and upwards to victory!” and with that, the silver eyed man raised both his hands in a strong gesture of motivation, hiding his deception through the energy and ferocity he roused. A hinting smirk formed at the edge of his mouth, and as he turned back to return the attention to Vangelis, he mockingly smiled at the prince, amusing himself in what had a grandiose display of showmanship and flair that showed his popularity and sway.
Linos was dead...
A certain part of him did not wish harm fell upon the old man. Though he had rarely spent long hours by the seasoned warrior's side, he had enough of a reputation to at least consider it praiseworthy, if anything. Perhaps, he should have been therefore inclined to show a little more sadness in his face, a little more dismay in the announcement, and a little more shock at the declaratory statements made by Vangelis.
Yet, this was not the case.
Linos was dead, and as such the Fates presented themselves in perfect harmony, heralding the most wondrous opportunity that had been imparted to him now. There was little reason in mourning fallen warriors, for their actions would see them carried off to the golden isles of @hades's underworld, but there was much to profit from the loss of such an old man. So Linos had passed? Good riddance! Finally, it was time to move upwards and onwards, to make manifest his ambitions and seize the moment. Of course, the weltering voices of those loyal to the decrepit bastard cried teary agony, but not Damocles. Instead, he kept his features stoic and unmoved, failing to surrender any emotion in the face of this most glorious of circumstances. Well, that was not entirely true...
Some might have taken comfort in the words of the Kotas General, but despite the inflection of his tone and the obvious attempt at sounding inspirational and charismatic, Damocles could not help but roll his eyes in silent, quiet boredom, finding neither a compelling reason to break from his cold exterior, nor cause to make his voice ring out in weltering acknowledgement. If this had been an attempt at channeling an applause of sorts, then the Magnemean could only understand this to be nothing short of a failure. Alas, though he was not particularly moved by the words of the blue-eyed general, Damocles still allowed his soldiers to cheer in support if they wished. Evidently, judging by the deafening silence of his usually rowdy and boisterous men, it seemed he had not been the only one that had remained uninterested in this exercise in oratory. Yet, it was of no matter. There were other, more important matters to tend to than the delivery of a speech.
Noticing the quiet atmosphere of the assembly, Damocles was compelled to break away the awkwardness of the moment and move forward with the progression of the time. Confident in his stride and fierce in his demeanor, the proud Captain of the Damned cut an imposing figure, wreathing himself with the gravity of the time as he first opened his mouth.
“General Vangelis, I neither doubt nor underestimate the commitment of our men, but in these times of dire desperation and agonized sadness, we must remember that not only is the loss of one man important, but the loss of all our countless comrades who have had to make the ultimate sacrifice.” He contradicted before taking a calculated pause, looking at the higher-ranked officer with nothing but aloof calmness, raising a small, trite swipe at Vangelis. “Yet, let there be no misunderstanding, I stand by the intentions of our General, for this is the right course to take in these dire times of need.” There was a pause in his words. Then, his eyes moved towards the gathered army and the Captain once more spoke.
“My friends, my brethren, my countrymen, listen to me!” he called out again, immediately causing a flurry of heads to turn their attention to the spellbinding militant. “Today I stand as a mere, humble soldier and pose before you all one simple question: Why do we fight? Is it for selfish glory and arrogant pride?” he rhetorically asked, waving a hand at the assembled warriors who soundly answered with a loud, uniform ‘no’. “Then do we fight for greed and the stoked ego of the few?” he repeated, gaining a mirrored reaction from the gathered men who once more answered in the negative. “No, my brothers and sisters, we do not fight for the glory of distant others! We fight for one thing: Our Hearth and Home, for the promised peace and stability that our struggle guarantee. For the protection of our families and friends, of which a great many have suffered here, in this frosty neverland of misery and torment.” He reiterated, staring fiercely at the armed soldiers who looked unwaveringly at the magnetic Damocles.
“We have suffered a lot of deaths in this campaign, and as such, I will not begrudge you for mourning the sacrifices of our brothers and sisters. Yet, rest assured and know that for as long as I draw breath I shall honor my pledged love for Colchis and fight on, with my sword and my shield and my spear, until of all Her enemies have been eradicated!” A welter of gathered voices soon erupted at this to arms, causing the fierce-speaking Magnemean to hold back a smirk at his own success. “My brother and sisters, we are Colchians, born from our land of War and Fire to make manifest our birthright towards victory and triumph against any who would dare threaten us and ours! You make me proud to fight with you, to mourn with you, and yes, to triumph with you!” Continued the towering Captain, exuding nothing but motivating passion that burned hot enough to melt the frigid ice of the Northern Lands. “What I ask, I ask plainly: will you answer the call for Hearth and Home Or will you sit by and dishonor our fallen?” posed Damocles once more with the same rhetorical flourished he had used before. Then, there was silence, a quiet moment of contemplation, before a single voice rung out from one of the hoplites.
“For Hearth and Home!” declared a first soldier.
“For Hearth and Home!” shouted another.
“For Hearth and Home!” roared more until the loud, declaration became a repeated chant followed by the thumping of spears against the ground and swords against shields. Then, Damocles calmed the swirling voices and addressed the gathered army again.
“Yes, my friends, yes! For Hearth and Home indeed! Now, let us honor the memory of Commander Linos, and all of our comrades, and move both onwards and upwards to victory!” and with that, the silver eyed man raised both his hands in a strong gesture of motivation, hiding his deception through the energy and ferocity he roused. A hinting smirk formed at the edge of his mouth, and as he turned back to return the attention to Vangelis, he mockingly smiled at the prince, amusing himself in what had a grandiose display of showmanship and flair that showed his popularity and sway.