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The mines had a strange effect on men. Vangelis could tell that now. It had been over a month since he had first come down to the mines beneath the capitol and he had witnessed the fight between Thrax and the man that had supposedly taken his spot in seeking the yield of iron. Then, he hadn't understood the fight. Saw no benefit to the conflict besides possibly tension release. He didn't comprehend why two grown young men would fight over something so abstract and insignificant, disturbing the productivity of the group over something that they could not hope to possess or own anyway.
He was a little more understanding of it now.
When down in the mines, your world narrowed. It wasn't simply a physical sensation, where you bent your shoulders and bowed your legs in order to walk over rocky terrain in tunnels too short for a tall man. Or how you learnt to draw in your elbows when moving through the narrower spaces of the mining routes. You didn't simply physically withdraw from the world, making yourself smaller and narrower a person over time. But the mentality shifted too. Your focus was on your hands, the ache in your shoulders, the way your feet were stable or not over the jagged ground. Your eyes were trained on that one speck of iron or gold that could be seen, deep in the recesses of the wall. You focused so hard on it, seeking it with all that you had in order to make the day pass and your mind feel as if you were making a difference and holding a purpose... that you forgot there was an entire world above you.
Vangelis had not yet fallen into that trap. Born to a work of rich glamour and luxury, he was always reminded of the life he had lived up on the surface - the life that he would return to after his six months had been concluded down here - just through the sheer contrast in worlds. Yet there were times in which his vision shrank and his mind stayed honed on the task at hand and he forgot about anything that happened more than fifty feet above his head.
For those who were down here since childhood... He could easily see how their worlds could shrink into a focus so specific that it became their life's work and purpose to mine that which they chose to mine. Which explained why anyone would fight over a single claimed vein of ore. They were fighting for their own purpose in life. Over the significance that that focus had given to them.
Vangelis had come to the conclusion that it was a sad existence.
But one that he knew was entirely necessary for the continuing production of Colchis and the value and worth that the islands yielded. Colchis did not have vast open plains on which they could grow large amounts of food. Nor could they pasture animals, or train horses, or any of the other benefits that open space could give. Instead, they were crafters, builders and metal workers by trade and by nature. They created what they could, carved from their lands - literally - the resources and options available to them.
It was the way of the Colchians.
Their metal, gold, bronze and precious stones - all hidden within the belly of their islands - were their biggest form of economy. Whether the goods went to their crafters to be made into jewellery or weapons, or were simply melted into coins it didn't matter. It was the life's blood of Colchis either way.
Which meant that it was a necessary evil. Even if it was a sad one.
A month in upon such a sad workload, Vangelis was in one of the lower tunnels. Several of the men around him were the ones he had mined with for the last thirty days; a few others were new. But he was the only one who seemed to have hit a no-go on his process into the wall in front of him. Covered in sweat, as it was hot within the tunnel, and now stripped to the waist, Vangelis still wore the same tunic and sandals he had arrived in. The smell of his own body had long since merged with that of the other men around him and no-one much cared. Over time, you stopped noticing the stink of working men.
After a month of hard labour, Vangelis had started to fill out in the shoulders and chest. Still soft and small compared to those around him, he at least looked more capable now, if not as strong and tough of those that had spent years in the mines. Yet, 'capable' was not what he felt. He had been hammering away at a particular lug of stone for nearly an hour and all he had managed to do was hurt his hand. Even with the callouses and the rough skin that had developed over the last few weeks, he could feel a blister in the centre of his pain where he had been resting his iron peg when not hammering. He knew there was a vein of iron back there. He could see the tail ends of it either side of the outcropping. But they would never be able to get to it if he couldn't remove the large hunk of rock that covered most of its line. So far, he had managed only to carve straight grooves in the stone and shoot sparks where iron met immovable earth.
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 mines had a strange effect on men. Vangelis could tell that now. It had been over a month since he had first come down to the mines beneath the capitol and he had witnessed the fight between Thrax and the man that had supposedly taken his spot in seeking the yield of iron. Then, he hadn't understood the fight. Saw no benefit to the conflict besides possibly tension release. He didn't comprehend why two grown young men would fight over something so abstract and insignificant, disturbing the productivity of the group over something that they could not hope to possess or own anyway.
He was a little more understanding of it now.
When down in the mines, your world narrowed. It wasn't simply a physical sensation, where you bent your shoulders and bowed your legs in order to walk over rocky terrain in tunnels too short for a tall man. Or how you learnt to draw in your elbows when moving through the narrower spaces of the mining routes. You didn't simply physically withdraw from the world, making yourself smaller and narrower a person over time. But the mentality shifted too. Your focus was on your hands, the ache in your shoulders, the way your feet were stable or not over the jagged ground. Your eyes were trained on that one speck of iron or gold that could be seen, deep in the recesses of the wall. You focused so hard on it, seeking it with all that you had in order to make the day pass and your mind feel as if you were making a difference and holding a purpose... that you forgot there was an entire world above you.
Vangelis had not yet fallen into that trap. Born to a work of rich glamour and luxury, he was always reminded of the life he had lived up on the surface - the life that he would return to after his six months had been concluded down here - just through the sheer contrast in worlds. Yet there were times in which his vision shrank and his mind stayed honed on the task at hand and he forgot about anything that happened more than fifty feet above his head.
For those who were down here since childhood... He could easily see how their worlds could shrink into a focus so specific that it became their life's work and purpose to mine that which they chose to mine. Which explained why anyone would fight over a single claimed vein of ore. They were fighting for their own purpose in life. Over the significance that that focus had given to them.
Vangelis had come to the conclusion that it was a sad existence.
But one that he knew was entirely necessary for the continuing production of Colchis and the value and worth that the islands yielded. Colchis did not have vast open plains on which they could grow large amounts of food. Nor could they pasture animals, or train horses, or any of the other benefits that open space could give. Instead, they were crafters, builders and metal workers by trade and by nature. They created what they could, carved from their lands - literally - the resources and options available to them.
It was the way of the Colchians.
Their metal, gold, bronze and precious stones - all hidden within the belly of their islands - were their biggest form of economy. Whether the goods went to their crafters to be made into jewellery or weapons, or were simply melted into coins it didn't matter. It was the life's blood of Colchis either way.
Which meant that it was a necessary evil. Even if it was a sad one.
A month in upon such a sad workload, Vangelis was in one of the lower tunnels. Several of the men around him were the ones he had mined with for the last thirty days; a few others were new. But he was the only one who seemed to have hit a no-go on his process into the wall in front of him. Covered in sweat, as it was hot within the tunnel, and now stripped to the waist, Vangelis still wore the same tunic and sandals he had arrived in. The smell of his own body had long since merged with that of the other men around him and no-one much cared. Over time, you stopped noticing the stink of working men.
After a month of hard labour, Vangelis had started to fill out in the shoulders and chest. Still soft and small compared to those around him, he at least looked more capable now, if not as strong and tough of those that had spent years in the mines. Yet, 'capable' was not what he felt. He had been hammering away at a particular lug of stone for nearly an hour and all he had managed to do was hurt his hand. Even with the callouses and the rough skin that had developed over the last few weeks, he could feel a blister in the centre of his pain where he had been resting his iron peg when not hammering. He knew there was a vein of iron back there. He could see the tail ends of it either side of the outcropping. But they would never be able to get to it if he couldn't remove the large hunk of rock that covered most of its line. So far, he had managed only to carve straight grooves in the stone and shoot sparks where iron met immovable earth.
The mines had a strange effect on men. Vangelis could tell that now. It had been over a month since he had first come down to the mines beneath the capitol and he had witnessed the fight between Thrax and the man that had supposedly taken his spot in seeking the yield of iron. Then, he hadn't understood the fight. Saw no benefit to the conflict besides possibly tension release. He didn't comprehend why two grown young men would fight over something so abstract and insignificant, disturbing the productivity of the group over something that they could not hope to possess or own anyway.
He was a little more understanding of it now.
When down in the mines, your world narrowed. It wasn't simply a physical sensation, where you bent your shoulders and bowed your legs in order to walk over rocky terrain in tunnels too short for a tall man. Or how you learnt to draw in your elbows when moving through the narrower spaces of the mining routes. You didn't simply physically withdraw from the world, making yourself smaller and narrower a person over time. But the mentality shifted too. Your focus was on your hands, the ache in your shoulders, the way your feet were stable or not over the jagged ground. Your eyes were trained on that one speck of iron or gold that could be seen, deep in the recesses of the wall. You focused so hard on it, seeking it with all that you had in order to make the day pass and your mind feel as if you were making a difference and holding a purpose... that you forgot there was an entire world above you.
Vangelis had not yet fallen into that trap. Born to a work of rich glamour and luxury, he was always reminded of the life he had lived up on the surface - the life that he would return to after his six months had been concluded down here - just through the sheer contrast in worlds. Yet there were times in which his vision shrank and his mind stayed honed on the task at hand and he forgot about anything that happened more than fifty feet above his head.
For those who were down here since childhood... He could easily see how their worlds could shrink into a focus so specific that it became their life's work and purpose to mine that which they chose to mine. Which explained why anyone would fight over a single claimed vein of ore. They were fighting for their own purpose in life. Over the significance that that focus had given to them.
Vangelis had come to the conclusion that it was a sad existence.
But one that he knew was entirely necessary for the continuing production of Colchis and the value and worth that the islands yielded. Colchis did not have vast open plains on which they could grow large amounts of food. Nor could they pasture animals, or train horses, or any of the other benefits that open space could give. Instead, they were crafters, builders and metal workers by trade and by nature. They created what they could, carved from their lands - literally - the resources and options available to them.
It was the way of the Colchians.
Their metal, gold, bronze and precious stones - all hidden within the belly of their islands - were their biggest form of economy. Whether the goods went to their crafters to be made into jewellery or weapons, or were simply melted into coins it didn't matter. It was the life's blood of Colchis either way.
Which meant that it was a necessary evil. Even if it was a sad one.
A month in upon such a sad workload, Vangelis was in one of the lower tunnels. Several of the men around him were the ones he had mined with for the last thirty days; a few others were new. But he was the only one who seemed to have hit a no-go on his process into the wall in front of him. Covered in sweat, as it was hot within the tunnel, and now stripped to the waist, Vangelis still wore the same tunic and sandals he had arrived in. The smell of his own body had long since merged with that of the other men around him and no-one much cared. Over time, you stopped noticing the stink of working men.
After a month of hard labour, Vangelis had started to fill out in the shoulders and chest. Still soft and small compared to those around him, he at least looked more capable now, if not as strong and tough of those that had spent years in the mines. Yet, 'capable' was not what he felt. He had been hammering away at a particular lug of stone for nearly an hour and all he had managed to do was hurt his hand. Even with the callouses and the rough skin that had developed over the last few weeks, he could feel a blister in the centre of his pain where he had been resting his iron peg when not hammering. He knew there was a vein of iron back there. He could see the tail ends of it either side of the outcropping. But they would never be able to get to it if he couldn't remove the large hunk of rock that covered most of its line. So far, he had managed only to carve straight grooves in the stone and shoot sparks where iron met immovable earth.
It had been about a month since Thrax had been reassigned to the mines of the capital, to those only moderately easier tunnels of burrowed metal, stone and ore that were only somewhat less grueling than the ones he had long suffered through the earliest days of his youth up in the north around Magnemea. At least, that was what he had assumed had been the amount of time he had suffered beneath the quarries of black, hardenen rocks he had drilled and excavated through hammers and chisels. Frankly, it was quite difficult to understand what exactly was the time of day beneath the tunnels. Darkness and laborious industry had a way to make one forget about the precise details of wherever was the adequate moment of the day. Yet, as far as he could tell, it had felt like a month, and as such, he believed it was thus.
Nevertheless, in contrast to the mundanity of the north, much had happened in that month away in the lowest levels of Midas. Just two weeks ago he had been assigned a team of his own, one that he could count upon to follow on his instructions and make sure that production did not slow or falter. He still did not determine the amount of ore and metals that had to be mined for the day, for those considerations were well-above his station. Yet it wasn’t as if it had been for naught. Beneath those tenebrous chasms of veined flints, the slightest bit of favor could have meant the difference between a difficult experience and a nightmarish one. He still had to carve our metal and ore like any other man, but his new position allowed him to determine the general distribution of people he had overseen, assigning them their own veins and crevices so as to avoid conflict and potential outbursts.
For all intents and purposes, by any objective measure, Thrax had been young of age. Yet, even if he had been young, the silver-eyed boy was well-acquainted with the nuances of his industry, learning the ins-and-outs of mining by the time he had been of thirteen summers, and had learned how to make the most of such a harrowing experience. Furthermore, though he was young in years, his body did not reflect his age properly. He had already grown a beard across his haggard, stern, emotionless face, worn and beaten down by the experienced endured. His hair was cut short, his features were dried and strained and his eyes, dull as the metal that was dug down, were bare and emptily void in their reflective stare. His hands were rough and covered in blisters, a byproduct of the trade he had tamed and mastered.
Of course, knowledge of mining had not been the only reason why he had gained his small promotion. For years, Thrax has learned the ways of words and letters, studying how to address them and apply their use on daily, small affairs. Most of it was due to his master’s flagrant laziness and distaste for general management. Sure, he had been a good miner, but in his mind, the broad-shouldered youth thought that the reason he was afforded some form of basic education was for the selfishness of his master, letting that broad-bellied, soft-shouldered man do as he wished whilst he handled more and more of the business. Besides, the more he was free do do as he wished, the more Thrax could dedicate his time and resources to making the whole experience of mining better for the workers. Well…as much as he was able.
And thus, it was for this reason that he had been slightly promoted, for, as limited as it was, he had some knowledge over the written-word and knew enough about the mines to back his decisions and advise with experience. In his new capacity, he had organized his workers in a closer position, allowing them to choose where to best mine on a first-come-first-serve basis, yet still maintaining enough order and stability so as to keep the peace and avoid another scenario as the one he had met earlier in the mines of the capital. As much as he wanted to avoid in-fighting, beneath the dark confines of those harrowing tunnels, it was relatively common for miners and slaves to match fists with each other after exchanging heated words. In his eyes Thrax saw it as part of the job, and thus making it impossible to fight amongst oneself had been an unrealistic expectation to him. Yet, he could at least try to temper the passions down-under by at least trying to be fair and equitable in the distribution of assignments he had been given by his superiors.
Nevertheless, even if he been promoted for his organizational inclinations and comparative literacy skills, Thrax was still not excused from the industry and was to work the stones and veins just as any other. With a large hammer resting on his broad shoulders, Thrax moved his body against the rocky surfaces, striking repeatedly in calculated strokes at a precise angle so as to carve out what he had wanted to extract. He had levied his considerable strength from his shoulders and back, turning each time with a fierce push that did him justice to his history as a miner. It wasn’t a secret that he was stronger than the average boy his age, a byproduct of having slaved away so long in the pits of Colchis. It didn’t take him long to snare a portion of his desired ore out and handle it to where he had to report his production, hauling the metal he dug out so as to present it as was the rules of the mines.
With a loud grunt, Thrax made bold on the metal and dragged it across the mine, refraining from complaining about the weight and distance, but still pleased he had done a good job for the day. Once he made his way to the ones who collected the ore, the silver-eyed youth was relieved of his burden and sighed, relaxing his taut muscles as he relaxed his body and loosened his joints. It was around this time that his gaze felt upon a familiar face. Just around a rugged corner of the stone queries, Thrax noticed Vangelis, or rather, Vang, as he had christened him after their initial meeting some long days prior. He had grown different since the days of their first encounter, filling broader in his build, particularly around his chest and shoulders. It was obvious he was hard at work on his own vein, an observation that could have been easily deduced by the way he chipped and struck the surface. A friendly smile formed on the Magnemean’s bearded visage and in a few short strides he made his way towards the other, eager to strike a bit of a small conversation with him, probably one to lighten the mood of the day.
“You’ve grown bigger eh?” began Thrax as he crossed his muscle-ridged arms over his brawny chest. A wayward grin was fastened on his long, bold-featured face, and even though he had toiled for long on his own, now-reported deposits of ore, the olive-skinned youth still tried to keep a cheerful upbeat demeanor to his presence. “Still, you’re a shit miner haha!” he playfully teased, making light of the other’s industry. Truthfully, Vang’s performance was by no means a poor one. He had improved, possibly more than the other had assumed. Yet, he wasn’t going to just give out free compliments, especially when it was obvious that his tone was a humorous one and did not mean offense. “Want my help? I already reported my own so I have a hand or two I can lend.” He offered, waiting for the other’s response so as to see whether or not he would once more wield a hammer to use as his preferred tool for mining. Usually, he would have jumped right into action immediately. Yet, he knew how zealous some could get beneath the mines. In these situations it was always best to ask first and wait for an answer. Thus, he waited, fine on whether or not the other wanted his help or not.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
Badges
Deleted
Deleted
It had been about a month since Thrax had been reassigned to the mines of the capital, to those only moderately easier tunnels of burrowed metal, stone and ore that were only somewhat less grueling than the ones he had long suffered through the earliest days of his youth up in the north around Magnemea. At least, that was what he had assumed had been the amount of time he had suffered beneath the quarries of black, hardenen rocks he had drilled and excavated through hammers and chisels. Frankly, it was quite difficult to understand what exactly was the time of day beneath the tunnels. Darkness and laborious industry had a way to make one forget about the precise details of wherever was the adequate moment of the day. Yet, as far as he could tell, it had felt like a month, and as such, he believed it was thus.
Nevertheless, in contrast to the mundanity of the north, much had happened in that month away in the lowest levels of Midas. Just two weeks ago he had been assigned a team of his own, one that he could count upon to follow on his instructions and make sure that production did not slow or falter. He still did not determine the amount of ore and metals that had to be mined for the day, for those considerations were well-above his station. Yet it wasn’t as if it had been for naught. Beneath those tenebrous chasms of veined flints, the slightest bit of favor could have meant the difference between a difficult experience and a nightmarish one. He still had to carve our metal and ore like any other man, but his new position allowed him to determine the general distribution of people he had overseen, assigning them their own veins and crevices so as to avoid conflict and potential outbursts.
For all intents and purposes, by any objective measure, Thrax had been young of age. Yet, even if he had been young, the silver-eyed boy was well-acquainted with the nuances of his industry, learning the ins-and-outs of mining by the time he had been of thirteen summers, and had learned how to make the most of such a harrowing experience. Furthermore, though he was young in years, his body did not reflect his age properly. He had already grown a beard across his haggard, stern, emotionless face, worn and beaten down by the experienced endured. His hair was cut short, his features were dried and strained and his eyes, dull as the metal that was dug down, were bare and emptily void in their reflective stare. His hands were rough and covered in blisters, a byproduct of the trade he had tamed and mastered.
Of course, knowledge of mining had not been the only reason why he had gained his small promotion. For years, Thrax has learned the ways of words and letters, studying how to address them and apply their use on daily, small affairs. Most of it was due to his master’s flagrant laziness and distaste for general management. Sure, he had been a good miner, but in his mind, the broad-shouldered youth thought that the reason he was afforded some form of basic education was for the selfishness of his master, letting that broad-bellied, soft-shouldered man do as he wished whilst he handled more and more of the business. Besides, the more he was free do do as he wished, the more Thrax could dedicate his time and resources to making the whole experience of mining better for the workers. Well…as much as he was able.
And thus, it was for this reason that he had been slightly promoted, for, as limited as it was, he had some knowledge over the written-word and knew enough about the mines to back his decisions and advise with experience. In his new capacity, he had organized his workers in a closer position, allowing them to choose where to best mine on a first-come-first-serve basis, yet still maintaining enough order and stability so as to keep the peace and avoid another scenario as the one he had met earlier in the mines of the capital. As much as he wanted to avoid in-fighting, beneath the dark confines of those harrowing tunnels, it was relatively common for miners and slaves to match fists with each other after exchanging heated words. In his eyes Thrax saw it as part of the job, and thus making it impossible to fight amongst oneself had been an unrealistic expectation to him. Yet, he could at least try to temper the passions down-under by at least trying to be fair and equitable in the distribution of assignments he had been given by his superiors.
Nevertheless, even if he been promoted for his organizational inclinations and comparative literacy skills, Thrax was still not excused from the industry and was to work the stones and veins just as any other. With a large hammer resting on his broad shoulders, Thrax moved his body against the rocky surfaces, striking repeatedly in calculated strokes at a precise angle so as to carve out what he had wanted to extract. He had levied his considerable strength from his shoulders and back, turning each time with a fierce push that did him justice to his history as a miner. It wasn’t a secret that he was stronger than the average boy his age, a byproduct of having slaved away so long in the pits of Colchis. It didn’t take him long to snare a portion of his desired ore out and handle it to where he had to report his production, hauling the metal he dug out so as to present it as was the rules of the mines.
With a loud grunt, Thrax made bold on the metal and dragged it across the mine, refraining from complaining about the weight and distance, but still pleased he had done a good job for the day. Once he made his way to the ones who collected the ore, the silver-eyed youth was relieved of his burden and sighed, relaxing his taut muscles as he relaxed his body and loosened his joints. It was around this time that his gaze felt upon a familiar face. Just around a rugged corner of the stone queries, Thrax noticed Vangelis, or rather, Vang, as he had christened him after their initial meeting some long days prior. He had grown different since the days of their first encounter, filling broader in his build, particularly around his chest and shoulders. It was obvious he was hard at work on his own vein, an observation that could have been easily deduced by the way he chipped and struck the surface. A friendly smile formed on the Magnemean’s bearded visage and in a few short strides he made his way towards the other, eager to strike a bit of a small conversation with him, probably one to lighten the mood of the day.
“You’ve grown bigger eh?” began Thrax as he crossed his muscle-ridged arms over his brawny chest. A wayward grin was fastened on his long, bold-featured face, and even though he had toiled for long on his own, now-reported deposits of ore, the olive-skinned youth still tried to keep a cheerful upbeat demeanor to his presence. “Still, you’re a shit miner haha!” he playfully teased, making light of the other’s industry. Truthfully, Vang’s performance was by no means a poor one. He had improved, possibly more than the other had assumed. Yet, he wasn’t going to just give out free compliments, especially when it was obvious that his tone was a humorous one and did not mean offense. “Want my help? I already reported my own so I have a hand or two I can lend.” He offered, waiting for the other’s response so as to see whether or not he would once more wield a hammer to use as his preferred tool for mining. Usually, he would have jumped right into action immediately. Yet, he knew how zealous some could get beneath the mines. In these situations it was always best to ask first and wait for an answer. Thus, he waited, fine on whether or not the other wanted his help or not.
It had been about a month since Thrax had been reassigned to the mines of the capital, to those only moderately easier tunnels of burrowed metal, stone and ore that were only somewhat less grueling than the ones he had long suffered through the earliest days of his youth up in the north around Magnemea. At least, that was what he had assumed had been the amount of time he had suffered beneath the quarries of black, hardenen rocks he had drilled and excavated through hammers and chisels. Frankly, it was quite difficult to understand what exactly was the time of day beneath the tunnels. Darkness and laborious industry had a way to make one forget about the precise details of wherever was the adequate moment of the day. Yet, as far as he could tell, it had felt like a month, and as such, he believed it was thus.
Nevertheless, in contrast to the mundanity of the north, much had happened in that month away in the lowest levels of Midas. Just two weeks ago he had been assigned a team of his own, one that he could count upon to follow on his instructions and make sure that production did not slow or falter. He still did not determine the amount of ore and metals that had to be mined for the day, for those considerations were well-above his station. Yet it wasn’t as if it had been for naught. Beneath those tenebrous chasms of veined flints, the slightest bit of favor could have meant the difference between a difficult experience and a nightmarish one. He still had to carve our metal and ore like any other man, but his new position allowed him to determine the general distribution of people he had overseen, assigning them their own veins and crevices so as to avoid conflict and potential outbursts.
For all intents and purposes, by any objective measure, Thrax had been young of age. Yet, even if he had been young, the silver-eyed boy was well-acquainted with the nuances of his industry, learning the ins-and-outs of mining by the time he had been of thirteen summers, and had learned how to make the most of such a harrowing experience. Furthermore, though he was young in years, his body did not reflect his age properly. He had already grown a beard across his haggard, stern, emotionless face, worn and beaten down by the experienced endured. His hair was cut short, his features were dried and strained and his eyes, dull as the metal that was dug down, were bare and emptily void in their reflective stare. His hands were rough and covered in blisters, a byproduct of the trade he had tamed and mastered.
Of course, knowledge of mining had not been the only reason why he had gained his small promotion. For years, Thrax has learned the ways of words and letters, studying how to address them and apply their use on daily, small affairs. Most of it was due to his master’s flagrant laziness and distaste for general management. Sure, he had been a good miner, but in his mind, the broad-shouldered youth thought that the reason he was afforded some form of basic education was for the selfishness of his master, letting that broad-bellied, soft-shouldered man do as he wished whilst he handled more and more of the business. Besides, the more he was free do do as he wished, the more Thrax could dedicate his time and resources to making the whole experience of mining better for the workers. Well…as much as he was able.
And thus, it was for this reason that he had been slightly promoted, for, as limited as it was, he had some knowledge over the written-word and knew enough about the mines to back his decisions and advise with experience. In his new capacity, he had organized his workers in a closer position, allowing them to choose where to best mine on a first-come-first-serve basis, yet still maintaining enough order and stability so as to keep the peace and avoid another scenario as the one he had met earlier in the mines of the capital. As much as he wanted to avoid in-fighting, beneath the dark confines of those harrowing tunnels, it was relatively common for miners and slaves to match fists with each other after exchanging heated words. In his eyes Thrax saw it as part of the job, and thus making it impossible to fight amongst oneself had been an unrealistic expectation to him. Yet, he could at least try to temper the passions down-under by at least trying to be fair and equitable in the distribution of assignments he had been given by his superiors.
Nevertheless, even if he been promoted for his organizational inclinations and comparative literacy skills, Thrax was still not excused from the industry and was to work the stones and veins just as any other. With a large hammer resting on his broad shoulders, Thrax moved his body against the rocky surfaces, striking repeatedly in calculated strokes at a precise angle so as to carve out what he had wanted to extract. He had levied his considerable strength from his shoulders and back, turning each time with a fierce push that did him justice to his history as a miner. It wasn’t a secret that he was stronger than the average boy his age, a byproduct of having slaved away so long in the pits of Colchis. It didn’t take him long to snare a portion of his desired ore out and handle it to where he had to report his production, hauling the metal he dug out so as to present it as was the rules of the mines.
With a loud grunt, Thrax made bold on the metal and dragged it across the mine, refraining from complaining about the weight and distance, but still pleased he had done a good job for the day. Once he made his way to the ones who collected the ore, the silver-eyed youth was relieved of his burden and sighed, relaxing his taut muscles as he relaxed his body and loosened his joints. It was around this time that his gaze felt upon a familiar face. Just around a rugged corner of the stone queries, Thrax noticed Vangelis, or rather, Vang, as he had christened him after their initial meeting some long days prior. He had grown different since the days of their first encounter, filling broader in his build, particularly around his chest and shoulders. It was obvious he was hard at work on his own vein, an observation that could have been easily deduced by the way he chipped and struck the surface. A friendly smile formed on the Magnemean’s bearded visage and in a few short strides he made his way towards the other, eager to strike a bit of a small conversation with him, probably one to lighten the mood of the day.
“You’ve grown bigger eh?” began Thrax as he crossed his muscle-ridged arms over his brawny chest. A wayward grin was fastened on his long, bold-featured face, and even though he had toiled for long on his own, now-reported deposits of ore, the olive-skinned youth still tried to keep a cheerful upbeat demeanor to his presence. “Still, you’re a shit miner haha!” he playfully teased, making light of the other’s industry. Truthfully, Vang’s performance was by no means a poor one. He had improved, possibly more than the other had assumed. Yet, he wasn’t going to just give out free compliments, especially when it was obvious that his tone was a humorous one and did not mean offense. “Want my help? I already reported my own so I have a hand or two I can lend.” He offered, waiting for the other’s response so as to see whether or not he would once more wield a hammer to use as his preferred tool for mining. Usually, he would have jumped right into action immediately. Yet, he knew how zealous some could get beneath the mines. In these situations it was always best to ask first and wait for an answer. Thus, he waited, fine on whether or not the other wanted his help or not.
At Thrax's approach, Vangelis did not notice the encroachment upon his space. He was focused on the work he was issuing onto the stubborn rock beneath his tools. With each strike of the hammer upon the chisel, a shrill ring and spark fizzled and sounded in his ears. The same noise could be heard from all directions, bouncing off of walls and ceilings, echoing down corridors of stone. It was hard to pick out distinctive noises, when everything around you was harsh in your ears and distorted in every way possible.
He heard the man's voice though. And when the large and engulfing presence of the slave came to stand beside Vangelis, his light eyes on the lode he was working down a crack in the wall, the prince paused in his efforts to turn and look at the man.
When Thrax commented on Vangelis's size - that he was bigger - he instinctively looked towards his shadow, assuming that the man meant he had grown taller. Which he might have. The Kotas blood tended to ensure height came quickly once the boys in the family became men. It didn't strike him to notice the change in his muscles and physique when his work ethic was so strong. However powerful he was in his frame, he drilled himself harder into the walls upon which he worked, ensuring that he was just as exhausted at the end of every day as he was on his first. The only distinctive difference that he had noticed were the palms of his hands which had blistered, inflamed and then cooled into a rough skin that held his tools with more determination and less soreness.
"If you say so." Vangelis murmured, when the man appeared to be waiting on some kind of response to his assessment. He hadn't noticed the way that his shoulders filled out his tunic better now (when he wasn't wearing it around his waist), nor could he see a difference in height. But he wasn't about to argue with a man almost twice his size.
What Vangelis assumed was supposed to be a compliment was quickly followed by an insult. The light tone of his voice was clearly meant to make the words a joke, but Vangelis wasn't used to this kind of humour. He looked at the man confused. Not defensive, but clearly not understanding the comedy he had been trying to build. He gave Thrax an awkward half smile and raised just the one shoulder in a shrug of nonchalance. As if he were saying - 'ah, well.'
He was working hard. And that was all he could do.
Thrax then offered him help to work on the tunnels and Vangelis was eager to deny him. Not because he distrusted the man or disliked him. But because he had been raised with the classic sense of honour that most Colchians held so dear to the heart. The slightest suggestion of help or support could be rendered an insult so easily on the Kirakles Isles. And whilst Vangelis wasn't old enough yet to truly find offence in Thrax's words, he was old enough to hold a preference for completing his tasks himself.
"No." He answered simply. "I've nearly finished my quota. I just need to..." And as he was speaking, he was able to hit a block just right so that it caved, broke from the wall and yielded a large hunk of iron the size of Vangelis' fist. Vangelis moved quickly, taking a step back to avoid the piece landing on his foot, and then had to dive and scuttle for the rock to place it inside his own woven sack.
When he was finally able to pull the tie at the neck of the bag, he was just in time of the gong that echoed down the caves for their section, declaring it time to eat, rest and then sleep...
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At Thrax's approach, Vangelis did not notice the encroachment upon his space. He was focused on the work he was issuing onto the stubborn rock beneath his tools. With each strike of the hammer upon the chisel, a shrill ring and spark fizzled and sounded in his ears. The same noise could be heard from all directions, bouncing off of walls and ceilings, echoing down corridors of stone. It was hard to pick out distinctive noises, when everything around you was harsh in your ears and distorted in every way possible.
He heard the man's voice though. And when the large and engulfing presence of the slave came to stand beside Vangelis, his light eyes on the lode he was working down a crack in the wall, the prince paused in his efforts to turn and look at the man.
When Thrax commented on Vangelis's size - that he was bigger - he instinctively looked towards his shadow, assuming that the man meant he had grown taller. Which he might have. The Kotas blood tended to ensure height came quickly once the boys in the family became men. It didn't strike him to notice the change in his muscles and physique when his work ethic was so strong. However powerful he was in his frame, he drilled himself harder into the walls upon which he worked, ensuring that he was just as exhausted at the end of every day as he was on his first. The only distinctive difference that he had noticed were the palms of his hands which had blistered, inflamed and then cooled into a rough skin that held his tools with more determination and less soreness.
"If you say so." Vangelis murmured, when the man appeared to be waiting on some kind of response to his assessment. He hadn't noticed the way that his shoulders filled out his tunic better now (when he wasn't wearing it around his waist), nor could he see a difference in height. But he wasn't about to argue with a man almost twice his size.
What Vangelis assumed was supposed to be a compliment was quickly followed by an insult. The light tone of his voice was clearly meant to make the words a joke, but Vangelis wasn't used to this kind of humour. He looked at the man confused. Not defensive, but clearly not understanding the comedy he had been trying to build. He gave Thrax an awkward half smile and raised just the one shoulder in a shrug of nonchalance. As if he were saying - 'ah, well.'
He was working hard. And that was all he could do.
Thrax then offered him help to work on the tunnels and Vangelis was eager to deny him. Not because he distrusted the man or disliked him. But because he had been raised with the classic sense of honour that most Colchians held so dear to the heart. The slightest suggestion of help or support could be rendered an insult so easily on the Kirakles Isles. And whilst Vangelis wasn't old enough yet to truly find offence in Thrax's words, he was old enough to hold a preference for completing his tasks himself.
"No." He answered simply. "I've nearly finished my quota. I just need to..." And as he was speaking, he was able to hit a block just right so that it caved, broke from the wall and yielded a large hunk of iron the size of Vangelis' fist. Vangelis moved quickly, taking a step back to avoid the piece landing on his foot, and then had to dive and scuttle for the rock to place it inside his own woven sack.
When he was finally able to pull the tie at the neck of the bag, he was just in time of the gong that echoed down the caves for their section, declaring it time to eat, rest and then sleep...
At Thrax's approach, Vangelis did not notice the encroachment upon his space. He was focused on the work he was issuing onto the stubborn rock beneath his tools. With each strike of the hammer upon the chisel, a shrill ring and spark fizzled and sounded in his ears. The same noise could be heard from all directions, bouncing off of walls and ceilings, echoing down corridors of stone. It was hard to pick out distinctive noises, when everything around you was harsh in your ears and distorted in every way possible.
He heard the man's voice though. And when the large and engulfing presence of the slave came to stand beside Vangelis, his light eyes on the lode he was working down a crack in the wall, the prince paused in his efforts to turn and look at the man.
When Thrax commented on Vangelis's size - that he was bigger - he instinctively looked towards his shadow, assuming that the man meant he had grown taller. Which he might have. The Kotas blood tended to ensure height came quickly once the boys in the family became men. It didn't strike him to notice the change in his muscles and physique when his work ethic was so strong. However powerful he was in his frame, he drilled himself harder into the walls upon which he worked, ensuring that he was just as exhausted at the end of every day as he was on his first. The only distinctive difference that he had noticed were the palms of his hands which had blistered, inflamed and then cooled into a rough skin that held his tools with more determination and less soreness.
"If you say so." Vangelis murmured, when the man appeared to be waiting on some kind of response to his assessment. He hadn't noticed the way that his shoulders filled out his tunic better now (when he wasn't wearing it around his waist), nor could he see a difference in height. But he wasn't about to argue with a man almost twice his size.
What Vangelis assumed was supposed to be a compliment was quickly followed by an insult. The light tone of his voice was clearly meant to make the words a joke, but Vangelis wasn't used to this kind of humour. He looked at the man confused. Not defensive, but clearly not understanding the comedy he had been trying to build. He gave Thrax an awkward half smile and raised just the one shoulder in a shrug of nonchalance. As if he were saying - 'ah, well.'
He was working hard. And that was all he could do.
Thrax then offered him help to work on the tunnels and Vangelis was eager to deny him. Not because he distrusted the man or disliked him. But because he had been raised with the classic sense of honour that most Colchians held so dear to the heart. The slightest suggestion of help or support could be rendered an insult so easily on the Kirakles Isles. And whilst Vangelis wasn't old enough yet to truly find offence in Thrax's words, he was old enough to hold a preference for completing his tasks himself.
"No." He answered simply. "I've nearly finished my quota. I just need to..." And as he was speaking, he was able to hit a block just right so that it caved, broke from the wall and yielded a large hunk of iron the size of Vangelis' fist. Vangelis moved quickly, taking a step back to avoid the piece landing on his foot, and then had to dive and scuttle for the rock to place it inside his own woven sack.
When he was finally able to pull the tie at the neck of the bag, he was just in time of the gong that echoed down the caves for their section, declaring it time to eat, rest and then sleep...
Thrax wasn’t trying to break the wheel here and seduce the thinner-limbed boy through duplicity and schemes, at least he thought he wasn’t doing that in purpose. Far from it, he simply wanted to talk to the oddly-rich youth and find some modicum of entertainment in his company. Dumbfoundingly simpleminded as it was, the Magnemean only wished to find some sort of relief from the mundane toil of the monotonous life he had only known for then, amidst the rocks and ore he dug and excavated through chisels and hammers. At least, that was his primary motivation for now, a temporary ease of the tedium that was mining.
Frankly, he had taken an interested in Vangelis, admitting only to himself that he had paid attention to the boy a bit more than he would have other miners here, beneath the rubble that formed the lifestream of the kingdom’s source of might. It was a fascination of curiosity, one that made his thoughts occasionally peak with interest about why a boy that used such an aristocratic name and donned a brace of such high artistry and craftmanship drenched in sweat and wallowed in the nefariously unyielding mines of Colchis. In his privacy, he had thought about a number of scenarios that perhaps explained the presence of the boy. Maybe he had been some sort of ward for a wealthy patron that had grown upset with Vangelis, sentencing him down to the quarries in order to learn discipline and respect. Or perchance he had been once a properborn son to some upstanding citizen who had fallen on hard times and indentured his heir as a means to pay off his debts.
He supposed there wasn’t any harm in asking why exactly he had been at the mines, regardless of the indicators that stressed he had no reason to be down there in the muck and rocks like the slaves. After all, honestly and bluntness were often perceived to be staple traits of the people of the realm, so he assumed that toeing the cultural line would at least be the most expected thing to do in these scenarios. It would be the most direct means of attaining the answers to the puzzle that had bewildered him for so long. Thus, with a resigned look on his face, he determined to be open about his inquiry and press the matter onwards. Though perhaps later, seeing as the boy had dug out enough stone to call it a day.
“Impressive. That was a sizable prize right there. Maybe you are getting the hang of this after all.” He tried to compliment, finding that his previous attempts at humor and lightheartedness had failed him. “I’m sure the masters will be happy with your results.” Thrax continued observing, recalling how occasionally, those that performed better than most were rewarded with either better rations or less hours, though either was rare. Fortunately, the day’s operations had ended up already and they had little to do now but try to enjoy any comfort that came with being down at the pits.
His grey eyes scanned Vangelis, noticing how he picked the ore and hauled it over his shoulder in his attempts to channel the fruits of his labor for those that oversaw the mines. Without asking the other if it was alright to accompany him, Thrax walked by the other’s side and decided to vocalize his inquests about Vangelis.
“So, tell me, what is your story? Why is a someone with such a fancy name and expensive brace down here in the mines? As far as I can tell you aren’t like the rest of my lot, poor and miserable. And anyone with brains between their eyes knows that the mines are not something you do without good reason, unless you are damned to it. So, I ask again, why are you here?” he asked, bluntly and directly perhaps, but not in a tone that was meant to cause disrespect or insult. There wasn’t any mockery in his tone, or at least he tried to avoid it, and he was sincere and honest with his words. He was a Colchian, plain-speaking and unsubtle in his approach, as was the stereotype, and he would not dress his inquiries with verbosity and pomp, like he heard the Athenians often did. And so, with the same to-the-point attitude he had voice his manifested curiosity, he kept his ears attentive and perked to interest, waiting with evident inquisitiveness the response that he would gain from the other.
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Thrax wasn’t trying to break the wheel here and seduce the thinner-limbed boy through duplicity and schemes, at least he thought he wasn’t doing that in purpose. Far from it, he simply wanted to talk to the oddly-rich youth and find some modicum of entertainment in his company. Dumbfoundingly simpleminded as it was, the Magnemean only wished to find some sort of relief from the mundane toil of the monotonous life he had only known for then, amidst the rocks and ore he dug and excavated through chisels and hammers. At least, that was his primary motivation for now, a temporary ease of the tedium that was mining.
Frankly, he had taken an interested in Vangelis, admitting only to himself that he had paid attention to the boy a bit more than he would have other miners here, beneath the rubble that formed the lifestream of the kingdom’s source of might. It was a fascination of curiosity, one that made his thoughts occasionally peak with interest about why a boy that used such an aristocratic name and donned a brace of such high artistry and craftmanship drenched in sweat and wallowed in the nefariously unyielding mines of Colchis. In his privacy, he had thought about a number of scenarios that perhaps explained the presence of the boy. Maybe he had been some sort of ward for a wealthy patron that had grown upset with Vangelis, sentencing him down to the quarries in order to learn discipline and respect. Or perchance he had been once a properborn son to some upstanding citizen who had fallen on hard times and indentured his heir as a means to pay off his debts.
He supposed there wasn’t any harm in asking why exactly he had been at the mines, regardless of the indicators that stressed he had no reason to be down there in the muck and rocks like the slaves. After all, honestly and bluntness were often perceived to be staple traits of the people of the realm, so he assumed that toeing the cultural line would at least be the most expected thing to do in these scenarios. It would be the most direct means of attaining the answers to the puzzle that had bewildered him for so long. Thus, with a resigned look on his face, he determined to be open about his inquiry and press the matter onwards. Though perhaps later, seeing as the boy had dug out enough stone to call it a day.
“Impressive. That was a sizable prize right there. Maybe you are getting the hang of this after all.” He tried to compliment, finding that his previous attempts at humor and lightheartedness had failed him. “I’m sure the masters will be happy with your results.” Thrax continued observing, recalling how occasionally, those that performed better than most were rewarded with either better rations or less hours, though either was rare. Fortunately, the day’s operations had ended up already and they had little to do now but try to enjoy any comfort that came with being down at the pits.
His grey eyes scanned Vangelis, noticing how he picked the ore and hauled it over his shoulder in his attempts to channel the fruits of his labor for those that oversaw the mines. Without asking the other if it was alright to accompany him, Thrax walked by the other’s side and decided to vocalize his inquests about Vangelis.
“So, tell me, what is your story? Why is a someone with such a fancy name and expensive brace down here in the mines? As far as I can tell you aren’t like the rest of my lot, poor and miserable. And anyone with brains between their eyes knows that the mines are not something you do without good reason, unless you are damned to it. So, I ask again, why are you here?” he asked, bluntly and directly perhaps, but not in a tone that was meant to cause disrespect or insult. There wasn’t any mockery in his tone, or at least he tried to avoid it, and he was sincere and honest with his words. He was a Colchian, plain-speaking and unsubtle in his approach, as was the stereotype, and he would not dress his inquiries with verbosity and pomp, like he heard the Athenians often did. And so, with the same to-the-point attitude he had voice his manifested curiosity, he kept his ears attentive and perked to interest, waiting with evident inquisitiveness the response that he would gain from the other.
Thrax wasn’t trying to break the wheel here and seduce the thinner-limbed boy through duplicity and schemes, at least he thought he wasn’t doing that in purpose. Far from it, he simply wanted to talk to the oddly-rich youth and find some modicum of entertainment in his company. Dumbfoundingly simpleminded as it was, the Magnemean only wished to find some sort of relief from the mundane toil of the monotonous life he had only known for then, amidst the rocks and ore he dug and excavated through chisels and hammers. At least, that was his primary motivation for now, a temporary ease of the tedium that was mining.
Frankly, he had taken an interested in Vangelis, admitting only to himself that he had paid attention to the boy a bit more than he would have other miners here, beneath the rubble that formed the lifestream of the kingdom’s source of might. It was a fascination of curiosity, one that made his thoughts occasionally peak with interest about why a boy that used such an aristocratic name and donned a brace of such high artistry and craftmanship drenched in sweat and wallowed in the nefariously unyielding mines of Colchis. In his privacy, he had thought about a number of scenarios that perhaps explained the presence of the boy. Maybe he had been some sort of ward for a wealthy patron that had grown upset with Vangelis, sentencing him down to the quarries in order to learn discipline and respect. Or perchance he had been once a properborn son to some upstanding citizen who had fallen on hard times and indentured his heir as a means to pay off his debts.
He supposed there wasn’t any harm in asking why exactly he had been at the mines, regardless of the indicators that stressed he had no reason to be down there in the muck and rocks like the slaves. After all, honestly and bluntness were often perceived to be staple traits of the people of the realm, so he assumed that toeing the cultural line would at least be the most expected thing to do in these scenarios. It would be the most direct means of attaining the answers to the puzzle that had bewildered him for so long. Thus, with a resigned look on his face, he determined to be open about his inquiry and press the matter onwards. Though perhaps later, seeing as the boy had dug out enough stone to call it a day.
“Impressive. That was a sizable prize right there. Maybe you are getting the hang of this after all.” He tried to compliment, finding that his previous attempts at humor and lightheartedness had failed him. “I’m sure the masters will be happy with your results.” Thrax continued observing, recalling how occasionally, those that performed better than most were rewarded with either better rations or less hours, though either was rare. Fortunately, the day’s operations had ended up already and they had little to do now but try to enjoy any comfort that came with being down at the pits.
His grey eyes scanned Vangelis, noticing how he picked the ore and hauled it over his shoulder in his attempts to channel the fruits of his labor for those that oversaw the mines. Without asking the other if it was alright to accompany him, Thrax walked by the other’s side and decided to vocalize his inquests about Vangelis.
“So, tell me, what is your story? Why is a someone with such a fancy name and expensive brace down here in the mines? As far as I can tell you aren’t like the rest of my lot, poor and miserable. And anyone with brains between their eyes knows that the mines are not something you do without good reason, unless you are damned to it. So, I ask again, why are you here?” he asked, bluntly and directly perhaps, but not in a tone that was meant to cause disrespect or insult. There wasn’t any mockery in his tone, or at least he tried to avoid it, and he was sincere and honest with his words. He was a Colchian, plain-speaking and unsubtle in his approach, as was the stereotype, and he would not dress his inquiries with verbosity and pomp, like he heard the Athenians often did. And so, with the same to-the-point attitude he had voice his manifested curiosity, he kept his ears attentive and perked to interest, waiting with evident inquisitiveness the response that he would gain from the other.
Thrax kept his distance when asked and Vangelis was thankful for it. He allowed the prince to scuffle and grab at the piece of wall he had dropped and sent scattering over the tunnel and he allowed Vangelis to secure the bag and settle it over his shoulder himself. The man had a peculiar way of trying to endear himself to his fellow miners - offering help one moment and insulting their efforts the next, meaning that Vangelis wasn't interested in accepting any help from him. Instead, he was more thankful when the man just allowed him to complete the duty that his father and king had assigned to him without insult or complaint.
In return, he had no issues if Thrax wanted to accompany Vangelis as they headed down towards an open plateau that welcomed the minors to bring their sacks and goods to the harvest pile and then line up to accept their dinner of a little broth and piece of flatbread.
As Vangelis dumped the sack of rough netting and woven thread, he glanced at the larger miner, listening to his questions and the justification for them. It was true that Vangelis didn't easily fit in with the people in the mines. His bracers were clearly of fine leather (despite now being scuffed and damaged to high Hades) and the same for his sandals. His tunic was practically only a loincloth now it spent so much time around his waist to allow the skin of his upper body to breathe. But even outside of his appearance - his limited skills with the rock, the way his hands still bled after each day of work because his palms were unused to the labour... There were signs all over of his inexperience not only to the mines but to the hard means of life.
And yet, he wasn't sure how to answer Thrax's question. He had been sent to the mines as an exercise in honour and integrity. To test his fortitude and remind him of the people on which he stood - the legs that they provided to the kingdom. He was there in order to remember what it meant to serve others so that he would one day be able to rule in service to them - not rule over them.
But the idea was that he wasn't a prince here. He was not given the luxuries of better food, was not allowed to sleep in better quarters or ever leave the mines, just like the other men around him. He wasn't given preferential treatment and only the chief captain of the miners was allowed to know his true identity. No-one here, or whom he interacted with on a daily basis knew him to be Crown Prince Vangelis of Kotas.
Their treatment of him would change if they knew his real identity. And his experiences down in the mines would be moot for their purpose. He did not wish to dishonour or disrespect his father by trying to circumnavigate the experience he was being forced to endure. And so... he was forced to lie. Or... at least to omit certain truths.
"My family is rich." Vangelis offered, trying to maintain as much truth in his words as possible. For dishonesty - however necessary in this case - was not a natural state of affairs for him. He liked things direct and sensical. Not duplicitous and conniving. "And I've been forced here for six months to... learn a lesson." He shrugged a little, dusting his hands of the sack. "I'll return to them afterwards but until then I'm no more privileged than anyone else here."
Accepting the fact that Thrax would likely follow him, no doubt concocting ideas as to why Vangelis needed to learn his 'lesson' or who his family might be, Vangelis joined the back of the queue that was standing in an orderly fashion. He unhooked the little metal cup they each possessed from his belt and waited to be served his own portion of broth from a large vat up ahead. He looked around at Thrax who lingered behind him.
"You... You've always been a slave here?" He asked, supposing it was only fair to offer the same level of curiosity that the older boy had shown him.
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Thrax kept his distance when asked and Vangelis was thankful for it. He allowed the prince to scuffle and grab at the piece of wall he had dropped and sent scattering over the tunnel and he allowed Vangelis to secure the bag and settle it over his shoulder himself. The man had a peculiar way of trying to endear himself to his fellow miners - offering help one moment and insulting their efforts the next, meaning that Vangelis wasn't interested in accepting any help from him. Instead, he was more thankful when the man just allowed him to complete the duty that his father and king had assigned to him without insult or complaint.
In return, he had no issues if Thrax wanted to accompany Vangelis as they headed down towards an open plateau that welcomed the minors to bring their sacks and goods to the harvest pile and then line up to accept their dinner of a little broth and piece of flatbread.
As Vangelis dumped the sack of rough netting and woven thread, he glanced at the larger miner, listening to his questions and the justification for them. It was true that Vangelis didn't easily fit in with the people in the mines. His bracers were clearly of fine leather (despite now being scuffed and damaged to high Hades) and the same for his sandals. His tunic was practically only a loincloth now it spent so much time around his waist to allow the skin of his upper body to breathe. But even outside of his appearance - his limited skills with the rock, the way his hands still bled after each day of work because his palms were unused to the labour... There were signs all over of his inexperience not only to the mines but to the hard means of life.
And yet, he wasn't sure how to answer Thrax's question. He had been sent to the mines as an exercise in honour and integrity. To test his fortitude and remind him of the people on which he stood - the legs that they provided to the kingdom. He was there in order to remember what it meant to serve others so that he would one day be able to rule in service to them - not rule over them.
But the idea was that he wasn't a prince here. He was not given the luxuries of better food, was not allowed to sleep in better quarters or ever leave the mines, just like the other men around him. He wasn't given preferential treatment and only the chief captain of the miners was allowed to know his true identity. No-one here, or whom he interacted with on a daily basis knew him to be Crown Prince Vangelis of Kotas.
Their treatment of him would change if they knew his real identity. And his experiences down in the mines would be moot for their purpose. He did not wish to dishonour or disrespect his father by trying to circumnavigate the experience he was being forced to endure. And so... he was forced to lie. Or... at least to omit certain truths.
"My family is rich." Vangelis offered, trying to maintain as much truth in his words as possible. For dishonesty - however necessary in this case - was not a natural state of affairs for him. He liked things direct and sensical. Not duplicitous and conniving. "And I've been forced here for six months to... learn a lesson." He shrugged a little, dusting his hands of the sack. "I'll return to them afterwards but until then I'm no more privileged than anyone else here."
Accepting the fact that Thrax would likely follow him, no doubt concocting ideas as to why Vangelis needed to learn his 'lesson' or who his family might be, Vangelis joined the back of the queue that was standing in an orderly fashion. He unhooked the little metal cup they each possessed from his belt and waited to be served his own portion of broth from a large vat up ahead. He looked around at Thrax who lingered behind him.
"You... You've always been a slave here?" He asked, supposing it was only fair to offer the same level of curiosity that the older boy had shown him.
Thrax kept his distance when asked and Vangelis was thankful for it. He allowed the prince to scuffle and grab at the piece of wall he had dropped and sent scattering over the tunnel and he allowed Vangelis to secure the bag and settle it over his shoulder himself. The man had a peculiar way of trying to endear himself to his fellow miners - offering help one moment and insulting their efforts the next, meaning that Vangelis wasn't interested in accepting any help from him. Instead, he was more thankful when the man just allowed him to complete the duty that his father and king had assigned to him without insult or complaint.
In return, he had no issues if Thrax wanted to accompany Vangelis as they headed down towards an open plateau that welcomed the minors to bring their sacks and goods to the harvest pile and then line up to accept their dinner of a little broth and piece of flatbread.
As Vangelis dumped the sack of rough netting and woven thread, he glanced at the larger miner, listening to his questions and the justification for them. It was true that Vangelis didn't easily fit in with the people in the mines. His bracers were clearly of fine leather (despite now being scuffed and damaged to high Hades) and the same for his sandals. His tunic was practically only a loincloth now it spent so much time around his waist to allow the skin of his upper body to breathe. But even outside of his appearance - his limited skills with the rock, the way his hands still bled after each day of work because his palms were unused to the labour... There were signs all over of his inexperience not only to the mines but to the hard means of life.
And yet, he wasn't sure how to answer Thrax's question. He had been sent to the mines as an exercise in honour and integrity. To test his fortitude and remind him of the people on which he stood - the legs that they provided to the kingdom. He was there in order to remember what it meant to serve others so that he would one day be able to rule in service to them - not rule over them.
But the idea was that he wasn't a prince here. He was not given the luxuries of better food, was not allowed to sleep in better quarters or ever leave the mines, just like the other men around him. He wasn't given preferential treatment and only the chief captain of the miners was allowed to know his true identity. No-one here, or whom he interacted with on a daily basis knew him to be Crown Prince Vangelis of Kotas.
Their treatment of him would change if they knew his real identity. And his experiences down in the mines would be moot for their purpose. He did not wish to dishonour or disrespect his father by trying to circumnavigate the experience he was being forced to endure. And so... he was forced to lie. Or... at least to omit certain truths.
"My family is rich." Vangelis offered, trying to maintain as much truth in his words as possible. For dishonesty - however necessary in this case - was not a natural state of affairs for him. He liked things direct and sensical. Not duplicitous and conniving. "And I've been forced here for six months to... learn a lesson." He shrugged a little, dusting his hands of the sack. "I'll return to them afterwards but until then I'm no more privileged than anyone else here."
Accepting the fact that Thrax would likely follow him, no doubt concocting ideas as to why Vangelis needed to learn his 'lesson' or who his family might be, Vangelis joined the back of the queue that was standing in an orderly fashion. He unhooked the little metal cup they each possessed from his belt and waited to be served his own portion of broth from a large vat up ahead. He looked around at Thrax who lingered behind him.
"You... You've always been a slave here?" He asked, supposing it was only fair to offer the same level of curiosity that the older boy had shown him.
He knew it! He knew that Vangelis had not been some baseborn son of a random peasant or worker. The telltale signs had just been too many to ignore, and though Thrax did not think himself favored by any god or goddess of Olympus, he still thought himself a perceptive and intuitive one, capable of at least ascertaining when things were not normal or frequent. He trusted his gut quite well, and his hunches had seldom failed him yet. At least for tonight, he could claim a small personal victory in figuring out that his instincts had been true and fair. Small and insignificant as such a small delight was, it was still something. And in those cold, cavernous stone quarries, any victory was worth it, regardless of scope or extent.
Nevertheless, though he thought it predictable that he wanted to ask more about the reasons as for why the strongly-built youth had been forced to suffer the mines, Thrax did not want to make his intentions too obvious. Thus, he only casually nodded in acknowledgement upon hearing the revelation of the other’s origins as the son of a wealthy man. He thought that just inquiring on the myriad of details and offering up such obnoxious line of questioning would just turn the other away, and though he had been a bit too close for comfort in his invitation towards a possible friendship, the Magnemean was still interested in pursuing a relationship with the impressively-heighed man.
“No, I’ve only arrived here a few days before you first came.” He answered, taking his own serving of broth and hard flatbread, which would be enough substance for tonight. Thankfully, it had been this and not the usual grub that the cooks often drew up consisting of questionable meats and even more questionable drink. “By the way, dip it in the broth. It’ll soften the bread.” He advised in a friendly tone, knowing that, on occasions, the bread that was served was barely one that could be crushed by the weight of one’s teeth. “Your teeth will thank you!” he joked, trying to find some humor in what was otherwise a pretty brutal experience.
A bit of time passed between them in subdued silence, but Thrax did not believe that would entirely constitute to some sort of awkwardness or tension. Sometimes, it was best to not just say the first thing that came to one’s mind and just contemplate the whole before offering up an actual topic of conversation that would be moderately entertaining. Fortunately, such a thing did come up in the form of a polis board that had all the usual pieces needed to play a full game between the two. “You play?” He asked, being somewhat inexperienced in the board game itself, but still thinking it a good opportunity to try and get close to the other man if it was the case that the other knew a thing or two about it. He was the son of a rich man after all, so it was not entirely out of the ordinary for the man to be aware of the rules of the game. “Dice is more of my style, but I guess that’s not available much tonight.” He said, standing as he went up and picked the game and brought it back to their own corner of the dimly lit mess hall. “What do you say, wanna have a bit of fun?” he smiled, knowing that, despite their rugged, muscular appearance, the two were still, just boys doing the work of men.
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He knew it! He knew that Vangelis had not been some baseborn son of a random peasant or worker. The telltale signs had just been too many to ignore, and though Thrax did not think himself favored by any god or goddess of Olympus, he still thought himself a perceptive and intuitive one, capable of at least ascertaining when things were not normal or frequent. He trusted his gut quite well, and his hunches had seldom failed him yet. At least for tonight, he could claim a small personal victory in figuring out that his instincts had been true and fair. Small and insignificant as such a small delight was, it was still something. And in those cold, cavernous stone quarries, any victory was worth it, regardless of scope or extent.
Nevertheless, though he thought it predictable that he wanted to ask more about the reasons as for why the strongly-built youth had been forced to suffer the mines, Thrax did not want to make his intentions too obvious. Thus, he only casually nodded in acknowledgement upon hearing the revelation of the other’s origins as the son of a wealthy man. He thought that just inquiring on the myriad of details and offering up such obnoxious line of questioning would just turn the other away, and though he had been a bit too close for comfort in his invitation towards a possible friendship, the Magnemean was still interested in pursuing a relationship with the impressively-heighed man.
“No, I’ve only arrived here a few days before you first came.” He answered, taking his own serving of broth and hard flatbread, which would be enough substance for tonight. Thankfully, it had been this and not the usual grub that the cooks often drew up consisting of questionable meats and even more questionable drink. “By the way, dip it in the broth. It’ll soften the bread.” He advised in a friendly tone, knowing that, on occasions, the bread that was served was barely one that could be crushed by the weight of one’s teeth. “Your teeth will thank you!” he joked, trying to find some humor in what was otherwise a pretty brutal experience.
A bit of time passed between them in subdued silence, but Thrax did not believe that would entirely constitute to some sort of awkwardness or tension. Sometimes, it was best to not just say the first thing that came to one’s mind and just contemplate the whole before offering up an actual topic of conversation that would be moderately entertaining. Fortunately, such a thing did come up in the form of a polis board that had all the usual pieces needed to play a full game between the two. “You play?” He asked, being somewhat inexperienced in the board game itself, but still thinking it a good opportunity to try and get close to the other man if it was the case that the other knew a thing or two about it. He was the son of a rich man after all, so it was not entirely out of the ordinary for the man to be aware of the rules of the game. “Dice is more of my style, but I guess that’s not available much tonight.” He said, standing as he went up and picked the game and brought it back to their own corner of the dimly lit mess hall. “What do you say, wanna have a bit of fun?” he smiled, knowing that, despite their rugged, muscular appearance, the two were still, just boys doing the work of men.
He knew it! He knew that Vangelis had not been some baseborn son of a random peasant or worker. The telltale signs had just been too many to ignore, and though Thrax did not think himself favored by any god or goddess of Olympus, he still thought himself a perceptive and intuitive one, capable of at least ascertaining when things were not normal or frequent. He trusted his gut quite well, and his hunches had seldom failed him yet. At least for tonight, he could claim a small personal victory in figuring out that his instincts had been true and fair. Small and insignificant as such a small delight was, it was still something. And in those cold, cavernous stone quarries, any victory was worth it, regardless of scope or extent.
Nevertheless, though he thought it predictable that he wanted to ask more about the reasons as for why the strongly-built youth had been forced to suffer the mines, Thrax did not want to make his intentions too obvious. Thus, he only casually nodded in acknowledgement upon hearing the revelation of the other’s origins as the son of a wealthy man. He thought that just inquiring on the myriad of details and offering up such obnoxious line of questioning would just turn the other away, and though he had been a bit too close for comfort in his invitation towards a possible friendship, the Magnemean was still interested in pursuing a relationship with the impressively-heighed man.
“No, I’ve only arrived here a few days before you first came.” He answered, taking his own serving of broth and hard flatbread, which would be enough substance for tonight. Thankfully, it had been this and not the usual grub that the cooks often drew up consisting of questionable meats and even more questionable drink. “By the way, dip it in the broth. It’ll soften the bread.” He advised in a friendly tone, knowing that, on occasions, the bread that was served was barely one that could be crushed by the weight of one’s teeth. “Your teeth will thank you!” he joked, trying to find some humor in what was otherwise a pretty brutal experience.
A bit of time passed between them in subdued silence, but Thrax did not believe that would entirely constitute to some sort of awkwardness or tension. Sometimes, it was best to not just say the first thing that came to one’s mind and just contemplate the whole before offering up an actual topic of conversation that would be moderately entertaining. Fortunately, such a thing did come up in the form of a polis board that had all the usual pieces needed to play a full game between the two. “You play?” He asked, being somewhat inexperienced in the board game itself, but still thinking it a good opportunity to try and get close to the other man if it was the case that the other knew a thing or two about it. He was the son of a rich man after all, so it was not entirely out of the ordinary for the man to be aware of the rules of the game. “Dice is more of my style, but I guess that’s not available much tonight.” He said, standing as he went up and picked the game and brought it back to their own corner of the dimly lit mess hall. “What do you say, wanna have a bit of fun?” he smiled, knowing that, despite their rugged, muscular appearance, the two were still, just boys doing the work of men.