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The laughter died on his lips. Ahead, two figures struggled onto the track. Anger flared in his chest first, chased by mounting alarm. He did not know the man, but the woman held at knife point, he knew intimately well.
He paid no attention to the screams of the crowd. The roar of wheels behind him, of thundering death stampeding toward Olympia consumed his thoughts. No one had time to stop. Most wouldn’t know to stop until it was too late. Dust permeated the air behind him in a blanket of cloud.
His stomach dropped. He clenched his jaw. With no time to second guess his insanity, Stephanos wrenched the reins to the right, sending his team flying into the center of his competitors’ path, giving up the inside track but allowing safe passage to the man immediately behind him.
Sand billowed up and he jerked the reins harder, forcing the horses to spin on the spot, ripping the chariot around with them. The horses lost their footing, their back legs giving out as sand slid out from under them in their frantic struggle to remain upright. His chariot pitched over, launching him out onto the track.
Pain rocket up his shoulder as he hit ground. Sand bit into skin. Disorientation pinned him down for only a second before he scrambled to his feet. His chariot lay broken across the track, his horses a writhing sacrifice, directly in the path of the other racers. There was no getting around the barrier. Blood dripped from his chin. Sand crusted his body but his eyes remained fixed on the two figures in front of him.
Screams erupted above and behind him. He sprinted forward, ignoring the shrieks of his horses as they met a grisly death. His hand drifted up behind his head, reaching for the sword hilt that was not there. In a moment, he realized he could not save her. Hungover, indolent, he’d left the palace unarmed, unprepared. The crowd seethed in the stands above him. His body hurtled down the track, intent on ripping the grinning man apart with his bare hands. Even now he knew he was already too late. He could not reach her before her throat could be slashed open in a scarlet, macabre smile.
All at once, silver streaked through the air. It embedded in the assailant’s neck, instantly he dropping him to the ground. She was almost within reach. Stephanos had the impression of a huge figure in his periphery, barreling toward him. He glanced over in time to understand that Vangelis was running, shouting something but he turned away.
His arms closed around Olympia just as Vangelis reached her too. All three stumbled together, tripping over the dead man but he would not let her go. He panted, his breath coming in hard gasps as he shoved Vangelis back with his elbow, accidentally smearing his own blood on the other prince. Taking hold of Olympia’s jaw, he moved her head from side to side, checking for wounds on her neck.
He was a mess. Launching from the chariot onto the track had ripped skin off his shoulder and forearms as well as one of his knees. His chiton was torn. Sand coated his wounds. They glistened in the afternoon sun, wholly unfelt and ignored.
“Vangelis,” he began but his voice died away.
His gaze had finally drifted up to the stands. Fire wrapped around the whole of the arena. A cacophony of screaming, both man and beast rent the air. “Vangelis,” he said again, his voice flat, his eyes upward, emotionless.
He finally saw what everyone else already knew. His brother’s blood drenched cloak hung wet and limp under an obscured head without a body, mounted on a pike. Though he could not make out the features from this distance, he didn’t have to. Sunlight glinted off his father’s crown.
“Vangelis, I’m going to be sick,” was all he managed before dry heaving racked his body. He couldn’t even vomit.
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The laughter died on his lips. Ahead, two figures struggled onto the track. Anger flared in his chest first, chased by mounting alarm. He did not know the man, but the woman held at knife point, he knew intimately well.
He paid no attention to the screams of the crowd. The roar of wheels behind him, of thundering death stampeding toward Olympia consumed his thoughts. No one had time to stop. Most wouldn’t know to stop until it was too late. Dust permeated the air behind him in a blanket of cloud.
His stomach dropped. He clenched his jaw. With no time to second guess his insanity, Stephanos wrenched the reins to the right, sending his team flying into the center of his competitors’ path, giving up the inside track but allowing safe passage to the man immediately behind him.
Sand billowed up and he jerked the reins harder, forcing the horses to spin on the spot, ripping the chariot around with them. The horses lost their footing, their back legs giving out as sand slid out from under them in their frantic struggle to remain upright. His chariot pitched over, launching him out onto the track.
Pain rocket up his shoulder as he hit ground. Sand bit into skin. Disorientation pinned him down for only a second before he scrambled to his feet. His chariot lay broken across the track, his horses a writhing sacrifice, directly in the path of the other racers. There was no getting around the barrier. Blood dripped from his chin. Sand crusted his body but his eyes remained fixed on the two figures in front of him.
Screams erupted above and behind him. He sprinted forward, ignoring the shrieks of his horses as they met a grisly death. His hand drifted up behind his head, reaching for the sword hilt that was not there. In a moment, he realized he could not save her. Hungover, indolent, he’d left the palace unarmed, unprepared. The crowd seethed in the stands above him. His body hurtled down the track, intent on ripping the grinning man apart with his bare hands. Even now he knew he was already too late. He could not reach her before her throat could be slashed open in a scarlet, macabre smile.
All at once, silver streaked through the air. It embedded in the assailant’s neck, instantly he dropping him to the ground. She was almost within reach. Stephanos had the impression of a huge figure in his periphery, barreling toward him. He glanced over in time to understand that Vangelis was running, shouting something but he turned away.
His arms closed around Olympia just as Vangelis reached her too. All three stumbled together, tripping over the dead man but he would not let her go. He panted, his breath coming in hard gasps as he shoved Vangelis back with his elbow, accidentally smearing his own blood on the other prince. Taking hold of Olympia’s jaw, he moved her head from side to side, checking for wounds on her neck.
He was a mess. Launching from the chariot onto the track had ripped skin off his shoulder and forearms as well as one of his knees. His chiton was torn. Sand coated his wounds. They glistened in the afternoon sun, wholly unfelt and ignored.
“Vangelis,” he began but his voice died away.
His gaze had finally drifted up to the stands. Fire wrapped around the whole of the arena. A cacophony of screaming, both man and beast rent the air. “Vangelis,” he said again, his voice flat, his eyes upward, emotionless.
He finally saw what everyone else already knew. His brother’s blood drenched cloak hung wet and limp under an obscured head without a body, mounted on a pike. Though he could not make out the features from this distance, he didn’t have to. Sunlight glinted off his father’s crown.
“Vangelis, I’m going to be sick,” was all he managed before dry heaving racked his body. He couldn’t even vomit.
The laughter died on his lips. Ahead, two figures struggled onto the track. Anger flared in his chest first, chased by mounting alarm. He did not know the man, but the woman held at knife point, he knew intimately well.
He paid no attention to the screams of the crowd. The roar of wheels behind him, of thundering death stampeding toward Olympia consumed his thoughts. No one had time to stop. Most wouldn’t know to stop until it was too late. Dust permeated the air behind him in a blanket of cloud.
His stomach dropped. He clenched his jaw. With no time to second guess his insanity, Stephanos wrenched the reins to the right, sending his team flying into the center of his competitors’ path, giving up the inside track but allowing safe passage to the man immediately behind him.
Sand billowed up and he jerked the reins harder, forcing the horses to spin on the spot, ripping the chariot around with them. The horses lost their footing, their back legs giving out as sand slid out from under them in their frantic struggle to remain upright. His chariot pitched over, launching him out onto the track.
Pain rocket up his shoulder as he hit ground. Sand bit into skin. Disorientation pinned him down for only a second before he scrambled to his feet. His chariot lay broken across the track, his horses a writhing sacrifice, directly in the path of the other racers. There was no getting around the barrier. Blood dripped from his chin. Sand crusted his body but his eyes remained fixed on the two figures in front of him.
Screams erupted above and behind him. He sprinted forward, ignoring the shrieks of his horses as they met a grisly death. His hand drifted up behind his head, reaching for the sword hilt that was not there. In a moment, he realized he could not save her. Hungover, indolent, he’d left the palace unarmed, unprepared. The crowd seethed in the stands above him. His body hurtled down the track, intent on ripping the grinning man apart with his bare hands. Even now he knew he was already too late. He could not reach her before her throat could be slashed open in a scarlet, macabre smile.
All at once, silver streaked through the air. It embedded in the assailant’s neck, instantly he dropping him to the ground. She was almost within reach. Stephanos had the impression of a huge figure in his periphery, barreling toward him. He glanced over in time to understand that Vangelis was running, shouting something but he turned away.
His arms closed around Olympia just as Vangelis reached her too. All three stumbled together, tripping over the dead man but he would not let her go. He panted, his breath coming in hard gasps as he shoved Vangelis back with his elbow, accidentally smearing his own blood on the other prince. Taking hold of Olympia’s jaw, he moved her head from side to side, checking for wounds on her neck.
He was a mess. Launching from the chariot onto the track had ripped skin off his shoulder and forearms as well as one of his knees. His chiton was torn. Sand coated his wounds. They glistened in the afternoon sun, wholly unfelt and ignored.
“Vangelis,” he began but his voice died away.
His gaze had finally drifted up to the stands. Fire wrapped around the whole of the arena. A cacophony of screaming, both man and beast rent the air. “Vangelis,” he said again, his voice flat, his eyes upward, emotionless.
He finally saw what everyone else already knew. His brother’s blood drenched cloak hung wet and limp under an obscured head without a body, mounted on a pike. Though he could not make out the features from this distance, he didn’t have to. Sunlight glinted off his father’s crown.
“Vangelis, I’m going to be sick,” was all he managed before dry heaving racked his body. He couldn’t even vomit.
She couldn’t breathe and yet her lungs were filled with screams. A man with a knife to her throat had never even crossed her mind as one of the ways she could die, yet here she was, still a bit faint and clinging desperately to the arm that held the knife. Olympia didn’t fight as he dragged her down, even as she realised where the end goal appeared to be. It was as if time had slowed yet her mind was racing. If the chariots could stop in time, she might yet live, but if they didn’t see them until it was too late would it be better to fight and risk her throat to get away or at least die a faster death. The pressure of the cold metal against her skin deterred her from any motion, though a constant stream of whimpers and pleas escaped her lips. Whoever this man was, he was strong and he had a plan. Why she was part of that plan was beyond her, she was nothing special in the world aside from her family’s blood. And the child she held inside her.
It felt as if she met Stephanos’ eyes though it seemed impossible, in a moment, just a few breaths, she would be dead. Killed by the stampede like the riders just minutes before. Trampled by her lover and the father of their child. Had the man known? How could anyone? Only the lady Thea and her own body slave had known of any changes, there was no chance unless she had been betrayed.....like the rest of them in this arena. A sinking feeling hit her and she thought she may very well be sick, but even as the bile rose in her throat she could feel the bite of the knife. If she moved too much she would die. Granted, the way things were going if she didn’t move she would also die.
Until suddenly the movement before them crashed to a halt.
”Stephanos!”
She screamed his name without a thought as bodies, horses, and chariots seemed to fly in different directions. And then she saw it. The blood stained cloak and the head of a man she knew far too well. Before the son, had come the father and though she hoped now it was not the case, Zenon had just as much right as Stephanos to claim parentage of her child. Her whimpers now became sobs as she closed her eyes against the spectacle of death, the screams from the stadium were her mourners and she was certain that any moment her head would be lifted on a pike as well.
The bolt of bodies shocked her eyes open, and she collapsed without the strength of her assailant holding her up, throwing herself forward into the waiting arms. Stephanos. Bloody but not dead and that was all that mattered at the moment. Olympia clung to him, tears still streaming down her cheeks, the stench of sweat and blood and dirt was overwhelming but she had never been so relieved to see him in her life. Clutching his upper arms, she allowed him to look her over, babbling incessantly as he did, her own eyes taking in his wounds that were far more severe than any small cut along her throat.
”I didn’t mean for this to happen, I didn’t want to stop the race just see you win, I’m sorry Stephanos I’m so so sorry..”
It was only when her lover said the other man’s name did she realise who he was and what Stephanos had just seen. As he dry heaved into the sand, Pia stayed close to his side with one arm wrapped around him and the other hand shakily trying to smooth through his hair to calm him. Not that it would do much good. The imminent danger had passed, but the king and crown prince were dead, the circus was on fire, and the man in line for the throne next was in the center of an arena with little cover or protection. The might have survived the first battle, but it appeared war was breaking loose around them.
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She couldn’t breathe and yet her lungs were filled with screams. A man with a knife to her throat had never even crossed her mind as one of the ways she could die, yet here she was, still a bit faint and clinging desperately to the arm that held the knife. Olympia didn’t fight as he dragged her down, even as she realised where the end goal appeared to be. It was as if time had slowed yet her mind was racing. If the chariots could stop in time, she might yet live, but if they didn’t see them until it was too late would it be better to fight and risk her throat to get away or at least die a faster death. The pressure of the cold metal against her skin deterred her from any motion, though a constant stream of whimpers and pleas escaped her lips. Whoever this man was, he was strong and he had a plan. Why she was part of that plan was beyond her, she was nothing special in the world aside from her family’s blood. And the child she held inside her.
It felt as if she met Stephanos’ eyes though it seemed impossible, in a moment, just a few breaths, she would be dead. Killed by the stampede like the riders just minutes before. Trampled by her lover and the father of their child. Had the man known? How could anyone? Only the lady Thea and her own body slave had known of any changes, there was no chance unless she had been betrayed.....like the rest of them in this arena. A sinking feeling hit her and she thought she may very well be sick, but even as the bile rose in her throat she could feel the bite of the knife. If she moved too much she would die. Granted, the way things were going if she didn’t move she would also die.
Until suddenly the movement before them crashed to a halt.
”Stephanos!”
She screamed his name without a thought as bodies, horses, and chariots seemed to fly in different directions. And then she saw it. The blood stained cloak and the head of a man she knew far too well. Before the son, had come the father and though she hoped now it was not the case, Zenon had just as much right as Stephanos to claim parentage of her child. Her whimpers now became sobs as she closed her eyes against the spectacle of death, the screams from the stadium were her mourners and she was certain that any moment her head would be lifted on a pike as well.
The bolt of bodies shocked her eyes open, and she collapsed without the strength of her assailant holding her up, throwing herself forward into the waiting arms. Stephanos. Bloody but not dead and that was all that mattered at the moment. Olympia clung to him, tears still streaming down her cheeks, the stench of sweat and blood and dirt was overwhelming but she had never been so relieved to see him in her life. Clutching his upper arms, she allowed him to look her over, babbling incessantly as he did, her own eyes taking in his wounds that were far more severe than any small cut along her throat.
”I didn’t mean for this to happen, I didn’t want to stop the race just see you win, I’m sorry Stephanos I’m so so sorry..”
It was only when her lover said the other man’s name did she realise who he was and what Stephanos had just seen. As he dry heaved into the sand, Pia stayed close to his side with one arm wrapped around him and the other hand shakily trying to smooth through his hair to calm him. Not that it would do much good. The imminent danger had passed, but the king and crown prince were dead, the circus was on fire, and the man in line for the throne next was in the center of an arena with little cover or protection. The might have survived the first battle, but it appeared war was breaking loose around them.
She couldn’t breathe and yet her lungs were filled with screams. A man with a knife to her throat had never even crossed her mind as one of the ways she could die, yet here she was, still a bit faint and clinging desperately to the arm that held the knife. Olympia didn’t fight as he dragged her down, even as she realised where the end goal appeared to be. It was as if time had slowed yet her mind was racing. If the chariots could stop in time, she might yet live, but if they didn’t see them until it was too late would it be better to fight and risk her throat to get away or at least die a faster death. The pressure of the cold metal against her skin deterred her from any motion, though a constant stream of whimpers and pleas escaped her lips. Whoever this man was, he was strong and he had a plan. Why she was part of that plan was beyond her, she was nothing special in the world aside from her family’s blood. And the child she held inside her.
It felt as if she met Stephanos’ eyes though it seemed impossible, in a moment, just a few breaths, she would be dead. Killed by the stampede like the riders just minutes before. Trampled by her lover and the father of their child. Had the man known? How could anyone? Only the lady Thea and her own body slave had known of any changes, there was no chance unless she had been betrayed.....like the rest of them in this arena. A sinking feeling hit her and she thought she may very well be sick, but even as the bile rose in her throat she could feel the bite of the knife. If she moved too much she would die. Granted, the way things were going if she didn’t move she would also die.
Until suddenly the movement before them crashed to a halt.
”Stephanos!”
She screamed his name without a thought as bodies, horses, and chariots seemed to fly in different directions. And then she saw it. The blood stained cloak and the head of a man she knew far too well. Before the son, had come the father and though she hoped now it was not the case, Zenon had just as much right as Stephanos to claim parentage of her child. Her whimpers now became sobs as she closed her eyes against the spectacle of death, the screams from the stadium were her mourners and she was certain that any moment her head would be lifted on a pike as well.
The bolt of bodies shocked her eyes open, and she collapsed without the strength of her assailant holding her up, throwing herself forward into the waiting arms. Stephanos. Bloody but not dead and that was all that mattered at the moment. Olympia clung to him, tears still streaming down her cheeks, the stench of sweat and blood and dirt was overwhelming but she had never been so relieved to see him in her life. Clutching his upper arms, she allowed him to look her over, babbling incessantly as he did, her own eyes taking in his wounds that were far more severe than any small cut along her throat.
”I didn’t mean for this to happen, I didn’t want to stop the race just see you win, I’m sorry Stephanos I’m so so sorry..”
It was only when her lover said the other man’s name did she realise who he was and what Stephanos had just seen. As he dry heaved into the sand, Pia stayed close to his side with one arm wrapped around him and the other hand shakily trying to smooth through his hair to calm him. Not that it would do much good. The imminent danger had passed, but the king and crown prince were dead, the circus was on fire, and the man in line for the throne next was in the center of an arena with little cover or protection. The might have survived the first battle, but it appeared war was breaking loose around them.
When the lady screamed, Nicholai jerked, his body going on high alert, his mind racing as he started to move closer to the princess in his care. Sure Teucer and Hermon were both stationed close to the princess, but he was in charge of her protection, and believe he could do his job best when he was close to her. When she fell out of her seat to the floor, Nicholai swore under his breath, and stopped trying to ease through the crowd, pushing others out of his way. Princess Emilia was down and getting to her was his only concern. This might be an assassination attempt, and even if it wasn’t she was in danger of being trampled under the feet of the panicking crowds.
At the sound of his charge screaming his name, he vaulted over the seat she’d fallen from, landing in a crouch his body shielding hers, pulling her close. “Are you hurt?” He demanded, not bothering to use her title since time was of the essence. The scent of smoke brought his head up sharply, his brown eyes wide as he looked for the nearest safe exit. Teucer and Hermon scrambled to their side. Neither of them had his bulk so it was understandable that they’d taken a few moments more. Dropping his gaze back to Emmy’s small form, huddled on the ground beneath him, he swept his gaze and his free hand over her limbs. His touch was quick, and impersonal as he was merely checking for injuries. Assured that she wasn’t hurt, Nicholai rose, then reached down to draw her up with him.
“This way,” He said as much to his men as to Emmy who he kept close to his side, the shield angled to block any attack that might come at her as he led the princess and the to other guards down the steps towards the wall to the area below. That was the closest exit he could see, though it was not without its own dangers, since there were men with chariots and the horses, but if he kept her close to the wall, his body and those of the other two guards between her and any danger they should be able to make it to the doors that the horses had been led in through.
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When the lady screamed, Nicholai jerked, his body going on high alert, his mind racing as he started to move closer to the princess in his care. Sure Teucer and Hermon were both stationed close to the princess, but he was in charge of her protection, and believe he could do his job best when he was close to her. When she fell out of her seat to the floor, Nicholai swore under his breath, and stopped trying to ease through the crowd, pushing others out of his way. Princess Emilia was down and getting to her was his only concern. This might be an assassination attempt, and even if it wasn’t she was in danger of being trampled under the feet of the panicking crowds.
At the sound of his charge screaming his name, he vaulted over the seat she’d fallen from, landing in a crouch his body shielding hers, pulling her close. “Are you hurt?” He demanded, not bothering to use her title since time was of the essence. The scent of smoke brought his head up sharply, his brown eyes wide as he looked for the nearest safe exit. Teucer and Hermon scrambled to their side. Neither of them had his bulk so it was understandable that they’d taken a few moments more. Dropping his gaze back to Emmy’s small form, huddled on the ground beneath him, he swept his gaze and his free hand over her limbs. His touch was quick, and impersonal as he was merely checking for injuries. Assured that she wasn’t hurt, Nicholai rose, then reached down to draw her up with him.
“This way,” He said as much to his men as to Emmy who he kept close to his side, the shield angled to block any attack that might come at her as he led the princess and the to other guards down the steps towards the wall to the area below. That was the closest exit he could see, though it was not without its own dangers, since there were men with chariots and the horses, but if he kept her close to the wall, his body and those of the other two guards between her and any danger they should be able to make it to the doors that the horses had been led in through.
When the lady screamed, Nicholai jerked, his body going on high alert, his mind racing as he started to move closer to the princess in his care. Sure Teucer and Hermon were both stationed close to the princess, but he was in charge of her protection, and believe he could do his job best when he was close to her. When she fell out of her seat to the floor, Nicholai swore under his breath, and stopped trying to ease through the crowd, pushing others out of his way. Princess Emilia was down and getting to her was his only concern. This might be an assassination attempt, and even if it wasn’t she was in danger of being trampled under the feet of the panicking crowds.
At the sound of his charge screaming his name, he vaulted over the seat she’d fallen from, landing in a crouch his body shielding hers, pulling her close. “Are you hurt?” He demanded, not bothering to use her title since time was of the essence. The scent of smoke brought his head up sharply, his brown eyes wide as he looked for the nearest safe exit. Teucer and Hermon scrambled to their side. Neither of them had his bulk so it was understandable that they’d taken a few moments more. Dropping his gaze back to Emmy’s small form, huddled on the ground beneath him, he swept his gaze and his free hand over her limbs. His touch was quick, and impersonal as he was merely checking for injuries. Assured that she wasn’t hurt, Nicholai rose, then reached down to draw her up with him.
“This way,” He said as much to his men as to Emmy who he kept close to his side, the shield angled to block any attack that might come at her as he led the princess and the to other guards down the steps towards the wall to the area below. That was the closest exit he could see, though it was not without its own dangers, since there were men with chariots and the horses, but if he kept her close to the wall, his body and those of the other two guards between her and any danger they should be able to make it to the doors that the horses had been led in through.
Jolted into action once more by the sudden appearance of Nike - Vangelis was little surprised by her arrival given that, no matter the tasks or side investigations she might conduct while on duty, she always appeared when he needed aid or support from his Commander - the crown prince of Colchis thought little of the fact that this was neither his home nor his responsibility.
Many of other kingdoms or realms would consider the mania, the death and destruction beyond in their interest or duty and would, instead, simply relieve themselves of the danger and risk involved in lending aid.
Vangelis was not like this.
Not only did his sense of justice, honour and the integrity of the union between the three Grecian kingdoms refrain him from standing idly by, but his blessed unfailing courage blocked out any personal fear or self-preservation instincts. Which was possibly why, Nike of Acaris and her tendency to show up and rescue him from any potential risk was so handy when in a jam.
As his Commander asked how they were to get to the lady in danger, Vangelis bothered not with an answer. Instead, he removed both of his dual swords in a vicious swing that sent a keening, metallic ring through the air. With the audience's instincts on red alert, all within a new vicinity hear the noise and immediately backed up with more speed than grace.
Taking the opportunity without hesitation, Vangelis ran straight through the gap the retreating spectators had made and, slipping one of his long-swords back into its sheath and replacing it with a heavy knife, Vangelis charged down the last remaining steps and made a flying leap over the waist high wall, separating audience from track.
Suspecting that his Commander would be right behind him, Vangelis cleared the sand quickly, ignoring an almighty crash that happened just a hundred yards up the race track. Instead, he focused solely on the cultist still holding the Lady Olympia prisoner.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, Vangelis sent the knife flying through the air, his aim true as it soared just an inch over Olympia's shoulder and buried itself deep into her assailant's neck.
The shot was so true and the blade so deeply embedded that there was hardly any blood, yet the fatality of the shot was entirely certain. The cult follower crumpled where he stood, his arms suddenly dropping from around the Lady Olympia's slim frame and jostling her as he fell.
Vangelis hadn't slowed his pace or halted his steps as he had run, throwing the knife on the fly, and he continued his sprint as he saw the lady lose her balance and her knees give out.
By chance, Vangelis reached the lady's side, just a bloodied and beaten Stephanos met her front and the two of them caught the woman before she could fall.
Vangelis heard the prince gasping his name before the man looked upwards and saw what his crashing chariot and the Lady Olympia's jeopardy had hidden from his attentions. He winced in sympathy as the man before him lost all colour in his face, his neck turning an ashen green and his eyes bulging wide. He swallowed as empathy rolled in his stomach. He had no idea what must have been going through Stephanos' mind in that moment, but he knew how unable to function he would be had that been his father's head up there.
Mentally blocking out such a distracting image, Vangelis took most of Olympia's weight for a moment, as Stephanos fell to the ground and started to retch, only her soft frame left his grip quickly when she bent down to try and sooth him.
"Nike..." Vangelis ordered, knowing that his Commander was at his shoulder just from the feel of her presence. "Get to the other drivers and check they're alright - try and call for the audience to come down to the track now. They can leave through the slaves’ entrance. Tell the guards to capture not kill the masked men." Stephanos would need answers more than he needed more bloodshed.
After issuing his instructions, Vangelis bent to retrieve his knife - a dagger with so broad a blade it had nearly decapitated the masked man - and then wiped the blood from the metal across the cultists clothes. He then bent over Olympia and took a hold of her shoulder.
"Don't." He told her, pulling her away from Stephanos' bent form. "Leave him."
It was one thing for a woman to comfort a man in private, behind closed doors where such comfort was needed and appreciated. But not here. Not in public. Not when the man had just become the reigning monarch of his kingdom. No matter how horrific the situation, how devastating a way to come to the throne this was, Stephanos was nor a king. And king stood without aid.
"Get up, Stephanos." Vangelis instructed, his tone deep and unyielding. His voice was loud enough to be heard over the panic and screams that still raged throughout the stadium. Striking forwards without mercy, Vangelis grabbed a hold of Stephanos' arm and heaved. The man was a lot heavier than his lady, but Vangelis was strong too and he managed to get the prince on his feet quickly enough, despite the retching that still shook his body. "Get up, King Stephanos."
Keeping a firm and steady hand on the man's shoulder, Vangelis brandished the long-sword he still held in the other.
"Your orders, Your Majesty...?"
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Jolted into action once more by the sudden appearance of Nike - Vangelis was little surprised by her arrival given that, no matter the tasks or side investigations she might conduct while on duty, she always appeared when he needed aid or support from his Commander - the crown prince of Colchis thought little of the fact that this was neither his home nor his responsibility.
Many of other kingdoms or realms would consider the mania, the death and destruction beyond in their interest or duty and would, instead, simply relieve themselves of the danger and risk involved in lending aid.
Vangelis was not like this.
Not only did his sense of justice, honour and the integrity of the union between the three Grecian kingdoms refrain him from standing idly by, but his blessed unfailing courage blocked out any personal fear or self-preservation instincts. Which was possibly why, Nike of Acaris and her tendency to show up and rescue him from any potential risk was so handy when in a jam.
As his Commander asked how they were to get to the lady in danger, Vangelis bothered not with an answer. Instead, he removed both of his dual swords in a vicious swing that sent a keening, metallic ring through the air. With the audience's instincts on red alert, all within a new vicinity hear the noise and immediately backed up with more speed than grace.
Taking the opportunity without hesitation, Vangelis ran straight through the gap the retreating spectators had made and, slipping one of his long-swords back into its sheath and replacing it with a heavy knife, Vangelis charged down the last remaining steps and made a flying leap over the waist high wall, separating audience from track.
Suspecting that his Commander would be right behind him, Vangelis cleared the sand quickly, ignoring an almighty crash that happened just a hundred yards up the race track. Instead, he focused solely on the cultist still holding the Lady Olympia prisoner.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, Vangelis sent the knife flying through the air, his aim true as it soared just an inch over Olympia's shoulder and buried itself deep into her assailant's neck.
The shot was so true and the blade so deeply embedded that there was hardly any blood, yet the fatality of the shot was entirely certain. The cult follower crumpled where he stood, his arms suddenly dropping from around the Lady Olympia's slim frame and jostling her as he fell.
Vangelis hadn't slowed his pace or halted his steps as he had run, throwing the knife on the fly, and he continued his sprint as he saw the lady lose her balance and her knees give out.
By chance, Vangelis reached the lady's side, just a bloodied and beaten Stephanos met her front and the two of them caught the woman before she could fall.
Vangelis heard the prince gasping his name before the man looked upwards and saw what his crashing chariot and the Lady Olympia's jeopardy had hidden from his attentions. He winced in sympathy as the man before him lost all colour in his face, his neck turning an ashen green and his eyes bulging wide. He swallowed as empathy rolled in his stomach. He had no idea what must have been going through Stephanos' mind in that moment, but he knew how unable to function he would be had that been his father's head up there.
Mentally blocking out such a distracting image, Vangelis took most of Olympia's weight for a moment, as Stephanos fell to the ground and started to retch, only her soft frame left his grip quickly when she bent down to try and sooth him.
"Nike..." Vangelis ordered, knowing that his Commander was at his shoulder just from the feel of her presence. "Get to the other drivers and check they're alright - try and call for the audience to come down to the track now. They can leave through the slaves’ entrance. Tell the guards to capture not kill the masked men." Stephanos would need answers more than he needed more bloodshed.
After issuing his instructions, Vangelis bent to retrieve his knife - a dagger with so broad a blade it had nearly decapitated the masked man - and then wiped the blood from the metal across the cultists clothes. He then bent over Olympia and took a hold of her shoulder.
"Don't." He told her, pulling her away from Stephanos' bent form. "Leave him."
It was one thing for a woman to comfort a man in private, behind closed doors where such comfort was needed and appreciated. But not here. Not in public. Not when the man had just become the reigning monarch of his kingdom. No matter how horrific the situation, how devastating a way to come to the throne this was, Stephanos was nor a king. And king stood without aid.
"Get up, Stephanos." Vangelis instructed, his tone deep and unyielding. His voice was loud enough to be heard over the panic and screams that still raged throughout the stadium. Striking forwards without mercy, Vangelis grabbed a hold of Stephanos' arm and heaved. The man was a lot heavier than his lady, but Vangelis was strong too and he managed to get the prince on his feet quickly enough, despite the retching that still shook his body. "Get up, King Stephanos."
Keeping a firm and steady hand on the man's shoulder, Vangelis brandished the long-sword he still held in the other.
"Your orders, Your Majesty...?"
Jolted into action once more by the sudden appearance of Nike - Vangelis was little surprised by her arrival given that, no matter the tasks or side investigations she might conduct while on duty, she always appeared when he needed aid or support from his Commander - the crown prince of Colchis thought little of the fact that this was neither his home nor his responsibility.
Many of other kingdoms or realms would consider the mania, the death and destruction beyond in their interest or duty and would, instead, simply relieve themselves of the danger and risk involved in lending aid.
Vangelis was not like this.
Not only did his sense of justice, honour and the integrity of the union between the three Grecian kingdoms refrain him from standing idly by, but his blessed unfailing courage blocked out any personal fear or self-preservation instincts. Which was possibly why, Nike of Acaris and her tendency to show up and rescue him from any potential risk was so handy when in a jam.
As his Commander asked how they were to get to the lady in danger, Vangelis bothered not with an answer. Instead, he removed both of his dual swords in a vicious swing that sent a keening, metallic ring through the air. With the audience's instincts on red alert, all within a new vicinity hear the noise and immediately backed up with more speed than grace.
Taking the opportunity without hesitation, Vangelis ran straight through the gap the retreating spectators had made and, slipping one of his long-swords back into its sheath and replacing it with a heavy knife, Vangelis charged down the last remaining steps and made a flying leap over the waist high wall, separating audience from track.
Suspecting that his Commander would be right behind him, Vangelis cleared the sand quickly, ignoring an almighty crash that happened just a hundred yards up the race track. Instead, he focused solely on the cultist still holding the Lady Olympia prisoner.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, Vangelis sent the knife flying through the air, his aim true as it soared just an inch over Olympia's shoulder and buried itself deep into her assailant's neck.
The shot was so true and the blade so deeply embedded that there was hardly any blood, yet the fatality of the shot was entirely certain. The cult follower crumpled where he stood, his arms suddenly dropping from around the Lady Olympia's slim frame and jostling her as he fell.
Vangelis hadn't slowed his pace or halted his steps as he had run, throwing the knife on the fly, and he continued his sprint as he saw the lady lose her balance and her knees give out.
By chance, Vangelis reached the lady's side, just a bloodied and beaten Stephanos met her front and the two of them caught the woman before she could fall.
Vangelis heard the prince gasping his name before the man looked upwards and saw what his crashing chariot and the Lady Olympia's jeopardy had hidden from his attentions. He winced in sympathy as the man before him lost all colour in his face, his neck turning an ashen green and his eyes bulging wide. He swallowed as empathy rolled in his stomach. He had no idea what must have been going through Stephanos' mind in that moment, but he knew how unable to function he would be had that been his father's head up there.
Mentally blocking out such a distracting image, Vangelis took most of Olympia's weight for a moment, as Stephanos fell to the ground and started to retch, only her soft frame left his grip quickly when she bent down to try and sooth him.
"Nike..." Vangelis ordered, knowing that his Commander was at his shoulder just from the feel of her presence. "Get to the other drivers and check they're alright - try and call for the audience to come down to the track now. They can leave through the slaves’ entrance. Tell the guards to capture not kill the masked men." Stephanos would need answers more than he needed more bloodshed.
After issuing his instructions, Vangelis bent to retrieve his knife - a dagger with so broad a blade it had nearly decapitated the masked man - and then wiped the blood from the metal across the cultists clothes. He then bent over Olympia and took a hold of her shoulder.
"Don't." He told her, pulling her away from Stephanos' bent form. "Leave him."
It was one thing for a woman to comfort a man in private, behind closed doors where such comfort was needed and appreciated. But not here. Not in public. Not when the man had just become the reigning monarch of his kingdom. No matter how horrific the situation, how devastating a way to come to the throne this was, Stephanos was nor a king. And king stood without aid.
"Get up, Stephanos." Vangelis instructed, his tone deep and unyielding. His voice was loud enough to be heard over the panic and screams that still raged throughout the stadium. Striking forwards without mercy, Vangelis grabbed a hold of Stephanos' arm and heaved. The man was a lot heavier than his lady, but Vangelis was strong too and he managed to get the prince on his feet quickly enough, despite the retching that still shook his body. "Get up, King Stephanos."
Keeping a firm and steady hand on the man's shoulder, Vangelis brandished the long-sword he still held in the other.
"Your orders, Your Majesty...?"
Achilleas stole a quick sideways glance at his cousin, grinned and snapped the whip again, urging his own team on. This is what he’d saved them for, to be able to produce a last minute burst of speed, and this was his chance. He leaned forward, not that it mattered as he was behind the horses not on one of them, but it was something he always did at this point in a race.
C’mon, c’mon. He thought, his weight still shifted forward as it would’ve been had be been riding rather than driving his steeds. We can do this, just a little more speed.
For the rest of his life, Achilleas would alway credit Pia with saving him from running his team over her, Vangelis and his cousin Stephanos. If she hadn’t screamed like she had, warning him that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong, he doubted that he’d have seen them through the dust cloud in time to stop.
Because she had screamed, he’d reined his team in, the race be damned. The cloud above him grew thicker and he could smell smoke. “Whoa!” he called, to his horses, squinting through the dust and smoke, trying to slow his horses.
When he could see his cousin’s team and his overturned chariot in the track before him, no sign of Stephanos, Achilleas’ heart jumped into his throat. Where was his cousin?
The race no longer mattered to him, since his family was far more important to the young noble. He stole a quick look back to see where the other driver was, not wanting to be run into by another racer, since he didn't know where his cousin was, nor had he looked up just yet to see the head of his uncle.
As he drew towards the side of the track, Achilleas continued to slow his team. Once he’d gotten them back down to a walk, did he dare look around. Relief filled him as the dust settled enough for him to see Stephanos, Olympia and Vagelis in the middle of the track. There was blood oozing down his cousin’s arms and one leg, but he seemed well enough as he staggered to his feet.
It was then that someone screamed, “The King is dead!” Achilleas’ gaze lifted to find his uncle’s head on a pike, and the cloak of his older cousin hanging below. The reins dropped from his nerveless fingers as he looked back over at Stephanos. Was his cousin now the King?
Staggering a bit unsteadily from the shock of it all, Achilleas made his way over towards his cousin, Pia and the crown prince of Chochis. He moved straight for his cousin, drawing the only weapon he’d carried on him during the race, a long bladed dagger. He clutched it in his fist, his steps still uneven as he moved closer, nausea churning within him for what he was about to do. It was the one thing he’d never, ever dreamed that he would ever have to. When her was a few feet away from the foursome, Achilleas flipped the dagger so he held it by the blade, then went down on one knee before his cousin, the dagger held hilt first towards Stephanos, offering his fealty.
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Achilleas stole a quick sideways glance at his cousin, grinned and snapped the whip again, urging his own team on. This is what he’d saved them for, to be able to produce a last minute burst of speed, and this was his chance. He leaned forward, not that it mattered as he was behind the horses not on one of them, but it was something he always did at this point in a race.
C’mon, c’mon. He thought, his weight still shifted forward as it would’ve been had be been riding rather than driving his steeds. We can do this, just a little more speed.
For the rest of his life, Achilleas would alway credit Pia with saving him from running his team over her, Vangelis and his cousin Stephanos. If she hadn’t screamed like she had, warning him that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong, he doubted that he’d have seen them through the dust cloud in time to stop.
Because she had screamed, he’d reined his team in, the race be damned. The cloud above him grew thicker and he could smell smoke. “Whoa!” he called, to his horses, squinting through the dust and smoke, trying to slow his horses.
When he could see his cousin’s team and his overturned chariot in the track before him, no sign of Stephanos, Achilleas’ heart jumped into his throat. Where was his cousin?
The race no longer mattered to him, since his family was far more important to the young noble. He stole a quick look back to see where the other driver was, not wanting to be run into by another racer, since he didn't know where his cousin was, nor had he looked up just yet to see the head of his uncle.
As he drew towards the side of the track, Achilleas continued to slow his team. Once he’d gotten them back down to a walk, did he dare look around. Relief filled him as the dust settled enough for him to see Stephanos, Olympia and Vagelis in the middle of the track. There was blood oozing down his cousin’s arms and one leg, but he seemed well enough as he staggered to his feet.
It was then that someone screamed, “The King is dead!” Achilleas’ gaze lifted to find his uncle’s head on a pike, and the cloak of his older cousin hanging below. The reins dropped from his nerveless fingers as he looked back over at Stephanos. Was his cousin now the King?
Staggering a bit unsteadily from the shock of it all, Achilleas made his way over towards his cousin, Pia and the crown prince of Chochis. He moved straight for his cousin, drawing the only weapon he’d carried on him during the race, a long bladed dagger. He clutched it in his fist, his steps still uneven as he moved closer, nausea churning within him for what he was about to do. It was the one thing he’d never, ever dreamed that he would ever have to. When her was a few feet away from the foursome, Achilleas flipped the dagger so he held it by the blade, then went down on one knee before his cousin, the dagger held hilt first towards Stephanos, offering his fealty.
Achilleas stole a quick sideways glance at his cousin, grinned and snapped the whip again, urging his own team on. This is what he’d saved them for, to be able to produce a last minute burst of speed, and this was his chance. He leaned forward, not that it mattered as he was behind the horses not on one of them, but it was something he always did at this point in a race.
C’mon, c’mon. He thought, his weight still shifted forward as it would’ve been had be been riding rather than driving his steeds. We can do this, just a little more speed.
For the rest of his life, Achilleas would alway credit Pia with saving him from running his team over her, Vangelis and his cousin Stephanos. If she hadn’t screamed like she had, warning him that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong, he doubted that he’d have seen them through the dust cloud in time to stop.
Because she had screamed, he’d reined his team in, the race be damned. The cloud above him grew thicker and he could smell smoke. “Whoa!” he called, to his horses, squinting through the dust and smoke, trying to slow his horses.
When he could see his cousin’s team and his overturned chariot in the track before him, no sign of Stephanos, Achilleas’ heart jumped into his throat. Where was his cousin?
The race no longer mattered to him, since his family was far more important to the young noble. He stole a quick look back to see where the other driver was, not wanting to be run into by another racer, since he didn't know where his cousin was, nor had he looked up just yet to see the head of his uncle.
As he drew towards the side of the track, Achilleas continued to slow his team. Once he’d gotten them back down to a walk, did he dare look around. Relief filled him as the dust settled enough for him to see Stephanos, Olympia and Vagelis in the middle of the track. There was blood oozing down his cousin’s arms and one leg, but he seemed well enough as he staggered to his feet.
It was then that someone screamed, “The King is dead!” Achilleas’ gaze lifted to find his uncle’s head on a pike, and the cloak of his older cousin hanging below. The reins dropped from his nerveless fingers as he looked back over at Stephanos. Was his cousin now the King?
Staggering a bit unsteadily from the shock of it all, Achilleas made his way over towards his cousin, Pia and the crown prince of Chochis. He moved straight for his cousin, drawing the only weapon he’d carried on him during the race, a long bladed dagger. He clutched it in his fist, his steps still uneven as he moved closer, nausea churning within him for what he was about to do. It was the one thing he’d never, ever dreamed that he would ever have to. When her was a few feet away from the foursome, Achilleas flipped the dagger so he held it by the blade, then went down on one knee before his cousin, the dagger held hilt first towards Stephanos, offering his fealty.
Nausea stuck in the back of his throat. He could not clear it, despite coughing. Olympia crouched next to him, her arm softly about his shoulders but he tensed under her touch. He stared at his own blood running down his bicep. It made a clean red line over the muscle of his forearm. The same blood ran down the pike atop the stadium.
He pushed back and knelt down, his hands resting limply on his lap, leaving smears of red as he stared up at his father’s head and the cloak beneath. Zacharias hadn’t raced because he was dead. The image of the servants taking back the chariot flitted through his mind. He sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood and sand streaked across his lips and nose.
He was dimly aware of Pia being pried off him. He did not look away from the fire as it lept from the top of the arena to the top row. Soon the circus would be ablaze and there was nothing he could do to save it. His eyes wandered dispassionately over the people, running enmass to frantically save their own lives.
“Get up, Stephanos.” Vangelis’s hard voice made him blink. He grimaced as Vangelis gripped his arm, half hauling him to his feet. Screams continued. His other hand came around, fingers digging between the other man’s, attempting to pry him off but he stopped, coming fully back to himself when Vangelis called him king.
Violently ripping his arm away, he leveled Vangelis with an ugly, uncharacteristic glare. “King,” he echoed. The word tasted like ash. For a moment, he stood, letting Vangelis’s hand rest on his shoulder, aware of what it meant. He eyed the ready sword.
He knew the Creed. To order a hunt for the murderers would be to chase ghosts. His gaze slid around, landing on nothing until his attention was caught. Achilleas approached, his expression bathed in sympathy. Stephanos clenched his teeth together until his jaw ached. Without a word he took the dagger hilt held out to him, twisting it around in his hand.
“Where is your father, Lord Achilleas?” Too many people were missing, his uncle among them. If the man was here, he hadn’t seen him. That was enough to arouse Stephanos’s anger.
Vangelis was right. Things needed done. Stephanos handed the dagger back to his cousin with a wary expression meant for the father who was not here to offer fealty. “Achilleas, find my mother. If she lives, I want her taken to Lord Dimitrou. Xene stays. Gianna goes with my mother.” He’d need his sister Xene here, but his mother and Gianna would only add to the confusion.
To Vangelis, “Stay with me. I’m unarmed. I need to get back to the palace.” He needed to get back to a seat of control. He needed to stop the stadium from burning the rest of the city. He needed to take down that fucking pike with his father’s head and Zacharias’s cloak.
But it was too late. Fire swarmed up around it, obscuring it from view. The sky was black with smoke. Behind him the horses still screamed.
Pia. He glanced over, realizing for the first time that she still stood beside him. Rather than reach for her, he said, “Come.” Why had she been dragged onto the track? Their relationship, such as it was, was not widely known, until now. She was a woman of little strategic value. Or had she been random? Had this display been meant for him? Or for them all?
He looked down at the man lying inert at his feet. “And bring the body,” he said to no one in particular. It wasn’t just the four of them now. People and guards he knew surrounded him. There were people he did not know; Colchins. None of it mattered. They had to get out of here before they lost the ability.
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Nausea stuck in the back of his throat. He could not clear it, despite coughing. Olympia crouched next to him, her arm softly about his shoulders but he tensed under her touch. He stared at his own blood running down his bicep. It made a clean red line over the muscle of his forearm. The same blood ran down the pike atop the stadium.
He pushed back and knelt down, his hands resting limply on his lap, leaving smears of red as he stared up at his father’s head and the cloak beneath. Zacharias hadn’t raced because he was dead. The image of the servants taking back the chariot flitted through his mind. He sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood and sand streaked across his lips and nose.
He was dimly aware of Pia being pried off him. He did not look away from the fire as it lept from the top of the arena to the top row. Soon the circus would be ablaze and there was nothing he could do to save it. His eyes wandered dispassionately over the people, running enmass to frantically save their own lives.
“Get up, Stephanos.” Vangelis’s hard voice made him blink. He grimaced as Vangelis gripped his arm, half hauling him to his feet. Screams continued. His other hand came around, fingers digging between the other man’s, attempting to pry him off but he stopped, coming fully back to himself when Vangelis called him king.
Violently ripping his arm away, he leveled Vangelis with an ugly, uncharacteristic glare. “King,” he echoed. The word tasted like ash. For a moment, he stood, letting Vangelis’s hand rest on his shoulder, aware of what it meant. He eyed the ready sword.
He knew the Creed. To order a hunt for the murderers would be to chase ghosts. His gaze slid around, landing on nothing until his attention was caught. Achilleas approached, his expression bathed in sympathy. Stephanos clenched his teeth together until his jaw ached. Without a word he took the dagger hilt held out to him, twisting it around in his hand.
“Where is your father, Lord Achilleas?” Too many people were missing, his uncle among them. If the man was here, he hadn’t seen him. That was enough to arouse Stephanos’s anger.
Vangelis was right. Things needed done. Stephanos handed the dagger back to his cousin with a wary expression meant for the father who was not here to offer fealty. “Achilleas, find my mother. If she lives, I want her taken to Lord Dimitrou. Xene stays. Gianna goes with my mother.” He’d need his sister Xene here, but his mother and Gianna would only add to the confusion.
To Vangelis, “Stay with me. I’m unarmed. I need to get back to the palace.” He needed to get back to a seat of control. He needed to stop the stadium from burning the rest of the city. He needed to take down that fucking pike with his father’s head and Zacharias’s cloak.
But it was too late. Fire swarmed up around it, obscuring it from view. The sky was black with smoke. Behind him the horses still screamed.
Pia. He glanced over, realizing for the first time that she still stood beside him. Rather than reach for her, he said, “Come.” Why had she been dragged onto the track? Their relationship, such as it was, was not widely known, until now. She was a woman of little strategic value. Or had she been random? Had this display been meant for him? Or for them all?
He looked down at the man lying inert at his feet. “And bring the body,” he said to no one in particular. It wasn’t just the four of them now. People and guards he knew surrounded him. There were people he did not know; Colchins. None of it mattered. They had to get out of here before they lost the ability.
Nausea stuck in the back of his throat. He could not clear it, despite coughing. Olympia crouched next to him, her arm softly about his shoulders but he tensed under her touch. He stared at his own blood running down his bicep. It made a clean red line over the muscle of his forearm. The same blood ran down the pike atop the stadium.
He pushed back and knelt down, his hands resting limply on his lap, leaving smears of red as he stared up at his father’s head and the cloak beneath. Zacharias hadn’t raced because he was dead. The image of the servants taking back the chariot flitted through his mind. He sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood and sand streaked across his lips and nose.
He was dimly aware of Pia being pried off him. He did not look away from the fire as it lept from the top of the arena to the top row. Soon the circus would be ablaze and there was nothing he could do to save it. His eyes wandered dispassionately over the people, running enmass to frantically save their own lives.
“Get up, Stephanos.” Vangelis’s hard voice made him blink. He grimaced as Vangelis gripped his arm, half hauling him to his feet. Screams continued. His other hand came around, fingers digging between the other man’s, attempting to pry him off but he stopped, coming fully back to himself when Vangelis called him king.
Violently ripping his arm away, he leveled Vangelis with an ugly, uncharacteristic glare. “King,” he echoed. The word tasted like ash. For a moment, he stood, letting Vangelis’s hand rest on his shoulder, aware of what it meant. He eyed the ready sword.
He knew the Creed. To order a hunt for the murderers would be to chase ghosts. His gaze slid around, landing on nothing until his attention was caught. Achilleas approached, his expression bathed in sympathy. Stephanos clenched his teeth together until his jaw ached. Without a word he took the dagger hilt held out to him, twisting it around in his hand.
“Where is your father, Lord Achilleas?” Too many people were missing, his uncle among them. If the man was here, he hadn’t seen him. That was enough to arouse Stephanos’s anger.
Vangelis was right. Things needed done. Stephanos handed the dagger back to his cousin with a wary expression meant for the father who was not here to offer fealty. “Achilleas, find my mother. If she lives, I want her taken to Lord Dimitrou. Xene stays. Gianna goes with my mother.” He’d need his sister Xene here, but his mother and Gianna would only add to the confusion.
To Vangelis, “Stay with me. I’m unarmed. I need to get back to the palace.” He needed to get back to a seat of control. He needed to stop the stadium from burning the rest of the city. He needed to take down that fucking pike with his father’s head and Zacharias’s cloak.
But it was too late. Fire swarmed up around it, obscuring it from view. The sky was black with smoke. Behind him the horses still screamed.
Pia. He glanced over, realizing for the first time that she still stood beside him. Rather than reach for her, he said, “Come.” Why had she been dragged onto the track? Their relationship, such as it was, was not widely known, until now. She was a woman of little strategic value. Or had she been random? Had this display been meant for him? Or for them all?
He looked down at the man lying inert at his feet. “And bring the body,” he said to no one in particular. It wasn’t just the four of them now. People and guards he knew surrounded him. There were people he did not know; Colchins. None of it mattered. They had to get out of here before they lost the ability.
She knew her general too well. His headstrong nature and ridiculous streak for courage meant Vangelis would stray too close to danger, if only it meant to help someone else, to save another life. But he was the crown prince, and no one knew that better then Nike. It was why over the years, the commander had evolved to become somewhat of a shadow for her general, to ensure that he did not get caught in too big of a danger for him to be unable to get out of, to ensure his life was not snuffed out.
And so when she heard his swords being unsheathed, Nike looked over her shoulder, and proceeded to roll her eyes before taking off after the general, watching as he took out the Creed member holding Lady Olympia hostage.
The commander skidded to a stop as she got to the huddle of three people, and winced at the reaction of the young Mikaedilas prince. Even after years on the battlefield, she... would not wish this upon anyone, not even her worst enemies. To see one's fathers head on a pike, and to face the real possibility of his elder brother being gone as well, it was something no one should have to face.
Eyes flickered to Vangelis the moment she heard the instruction, and the commander wordlessly nodded her head. She gave him a look that obviously warned him to stay out of death's way, before Nike made her way off, sword still sheathed as she turned to do as mentioned.
Her quick feet brought her to the crowds, waving at them to use the doors at the track, as the main entrances were swarming with the Creed members. The commander casted her gaze over to the tracks, watching as the other chariots screeched to a stop, some rolling from being unable to stop from the speed, and crashing to the walls of the tracks. Wincing at the various crashes and screeches of the horses being sacrificial lambs, Nike was just about to get there when the slaves started running out to help their masters.
With that in place, her attention turned again to the other thing on her checklist. Hearing the calls and shouts of the guards, Nike scowled. Her mind was still wondering how the Creed had managed to breach the Circus when all sorts of nobles and royals were in attendance, and had half a mind to question how the guards let slip on such a high profile event. Rushing over, she got there just in time to block an attack with her sword that a Vasiliadon guard was about to deal to a Creed for a killing blow, twisting her wrist so the guard's sword flew out of his grasps.
"Get them alive. King Stephanos needs answers, not dead bodies!" she shouted at the fighting Vasiliadon guards, turning around with the intention to go for the one she had just 'saved' and cursing when she realized that he was gone. Where did these hooded figures come from and how did they move like wraiths?! "Some of you get to the new King! He needs protection!" she yelled, engaging with yet another hooded figure, cursing yet again when the figure dodged and weaved easily. Nike dodged, and hissed when a sharp blade sliced through her arm. Where did they get their speed from?!
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She knew her general too well. His headstrong nature and ridiculous streak for courage meant Vangelis would stray too close to danger, if only it meant to help someone else, to save another life. But he was the crown prince, and no one knew that better then Nike. It was why over the years, the commander had evolved to become somewhat of a shadow for her general, to ensure that he did not get caught in too big of a danger for him to be unable to get out of, to ensure his life was not snuffed out.
And so when she heard his swords being unsheathed, Nike looked over her shoulder, and proceeded to roll her eyes before taking off after the general, watching as he took out the Creed member holding Lady Olympia hostage.
The commander skidded to a stop as she got to the huddle of three people, and winced at the reaction of the young Mikaedilas prince. Even after years on the battlefield, she... would not wish this upon anyone, not even her worst enemies. To see one's fathers head on a pike, and to face the real possibility of his elder brother being gone as well, it was something no one should have to face.
Eyes flickered to Vangelis the moment she heard the instruction, and the commander wordlessly nodded her head. She gave him a look that obviously warned him to stay out of death's way, before Nike made her way off, sword still sheathed as she turned to do as mentioned.
Her quick feet brought her to the crowds, waving at them to use the doors at the track, as the main entrances were swarming with the Creed members. The commander casted her gaze over to the tracks, watching as the other chariots screeched to a stop, some rolling from being unable to stop from the speed, and crashing to the walls of the tracks. Wincing at the various crashes and screeches of the horses being sacrificial lambs, Nike was just about to get there when the slaves started running out to help their masters.
With that in place, her attention turned again to the other thing on her checklist. Hearing the calls and shouts of the guards, Nike scowled. Her mind was still wondering how the Creed had managed to breach the Circus when all sorts of nobles and royals were in attendance, and had half a mind to question how the guards let slip on such a high profile event. Rushing over, she got there just in time to block an attack with her sword that a Vasiliadon guard was about to deal to a Creed for a killing blow, twisting her wrist so the guard's sword flew out of his grasps.
"Get them alive. King Stephanos needs answers, not dead bodies!" she shouted at the fighting Vasiliadon guards, turning around with the intention to go for the one she had just 'saved' and cursing when she realized that he was gone. Where did these hooded figures come from and how did they move like wraiths?! "Some of you get to the new King! He needs protection!" she yelled, engaging with yet another hooded figure, cursing yet again when the figure dodged and weaved easily. Nike dodged, and hissed when a sharp blade sliced through her arm. Where did they get their speed from?!
She knew her general too well. His headstrong nature and ridiculous streak for courage meant Vangelis would stray too close to danger, if only it meant to help someone else, to save another life. But he was the crown prince, and no one knew that better then Nike. It was why over the years, the commander had evolved to become somewhat of a shadow for her general, to ensure that he did not get caught in too big of a danger for him to be unable to get out of, to ensure his life was not snuffed out.
And so when she heard his swords being unsheathed, Nike looked over her shoulder, and proceeded to roll her eyes before taking off after the general, watching as he took out the Creed member holding Lady Olympia hostage.
The commander skidded to a stop as she got to the huddle of three people, and winced at the reaction of the young Mikaedilas prince. Even after years on the battlefield, she... would not wish this upon anyone, not even her worst enemies. To see one's fathers head on a pike, and to face the real possibility of his elder brother being gone as well, it was something no one should have to face.
Eyes flickered to Vangelis the moment she heard the instruction, and the commander wordlessly nodded her head. She gave him a look that obviously warned him to stay out of death's way, before Nike made her way off, sword still sheathed as she turned to do as mentioned.
Her quick feet brought her to the crowds, waving at them to use the doors at the track, as the main entrances were swarming with the Creed members. The commander casted her gaze over to the tracks, watching as the other chariots screeched to a stop, some rolling from being unable to stop from the speed, and crashing to the walls of the tracks. Wincing at the various crashes and screeches of the horses being sacrificial lambs, Nike was just about to get there when the slaves started running out to help their masters.
With that in place, her attention turned again to the other thing on her checklist. Hearing the calls and shouts of the guards, Nike scowled. Her mind was still wondering how the Creed had managed to breach the Circus when all sorts of nobles and royals were in attendance, and had half a mind to question how the guards let slip on such a high profile event. Rushing over, she got there just in time to block an attack with her sword that a Vasiliadon guard was about to deal to a Creed for a killing blow, twisting her wrist so the guard's sword flew out of his grasps.
"Get them alive. King Stephanos needs answers, not dead bodies!" she shouted at the fighting Vasiliadon guards, turning around with the intention to go for the one she had just 'saved' and cursing when she realized that he was gone. Where did these hooded figures come from and how did they move like wraiths?! "Some of you get to the new King! He needs protection!" she yelled, engaging with yet another hooded figure, cursing yet again when the figure dodged and weaved easily. Nike dodged, and hissed when a sharp blade sliced through her arm. Where did they get their speed from?!
Her tears were silent now, simply rolling down her cheeks as she allowed herself to be dragged away from Stephanos. Vangelis was right, he had to show his own strength now in spite of how much she wished she could be there for him. The whole of the kingdom was looking to them now, would spread word of the tale if they survived to the rest of Taengea and the surrounding realms. He had to be strong on his own, and she would simply do what she could.
As Achilleas approached Pia felt herself shaking, nerves, fear, and exhaustion all playing a part, but she looked to her future brother-in-law to draw herself together. Trying to keep her trembling to a minimum, her lips parted in surprise as one cousin knelt before the other and it truly hit her. Stephanos was king. Zenon was dead. There need never be mention of the relationship with one to the other, and there was now no need for her to admit question of parentage. Stephanos lived, he would be the father. And none would ever need know otherwise. It was half relief, half respect that brought her to her knees in the sand as she followed Achilleas' suit, bowing her head to her king.
She remained as she was, taking deep breaths to try to center herself and once again find the will to bring herself to her feet. The eyes of the nation were on all of them, and if she was mother to an heir she had to show herself worthy. Looking up to Stephanos as he spoke, she stood slowly and nodded in response to his command, brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen in her face as she knelt. Her steps were shaky at first, but all attention was focused on getting out of the arena alive and staying as close to the king as he would allow, including walking just off his left shoulder with some respectful space. Now that she could think about it, he was covered in so much blood, it was all she could do to keep the bile down once more, but she bit it back and instead kept her head held high, eyes peeled for any sign of her family.
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Her tears were silent now, simply rolling down her cheeks as she allowed herself to be dragged away from Stephanos. Vangelis was right, he had to show his own strength now in spite of how much she wished she could be there for him. The whole of the kingdom was looking to them now, would spread word of the tale if they survived to the rest of Taengea and the surrounding realms. He had to be strong on his own, and she would simply do what she could.
As Achilleas approached Pia felt herself shaking, nerves, fear, and exhaustion all playing a part, but she looked to her future brother-in-law to draw herself together. Trying to keep her trembling to a minimum, her lips parted in surprise as one cousin knelt before the other and it truly hit her. Stephanos was king. Zenon was dead. There need never be mention of the relationship with one to the other, and there was now no need for her to admit question of parentage. Stephanos lived, he would be the father. And none would ever need know otherwise. It was half relief, half respect that brought her to her knees in the sand as she followed Achilleas' suit, bowing her head to her king.
She remained as she was, taking deep breaths to try to center herself and once again find the will to bring herself to her feet. The eyes of the nation were on all of them, and if she was mother to an heir she had to show herself worthy. Looking up to Stephanos as he spoke, she stood slowly and nodded in response to his command, brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen in her face as she knelt. Her steps were shaky at first, but all attention was focused on getting out of the arena alive and staying as close to the king as he would allow, including walking just off his left shoulder with some respectful space. Now that she could think about it, he was covered in so much blood, it was all she could do to keep the bile down once more, but she bit it back and instead kept her head held high, eyes peeled for any sign of her family.
Her tears were silent now, simply rolling down her cheeks as she allowed herself to be dragged away from Stephanos. Vangelis was right, he had to show his own strength now in spite of how much she wished she could be there for him. The whole of the kingdom was looking to them now, would spread word of the tale if they survived to the rest of Taengea and the surrounding realms. He had to be strong on his own, and she would simply do what she could.
As Achilleas approached Pia felt herself shaking, nerves, fear, and exhaustion all playing a part, but she looked to her future brother-in-law to draw herself together. Trying to keep her trembling to a minimum, her lips parted in surprise as one cousin knelt before the other and it truly hit her. Stephanos was king. Zenon was dead. There need never be mention of the relationship with one to the other, and there was now no need for her to admit question of parentage. Stephanos lived, he would be the father. And none would ever need know otherwise. It was half relief, half respect that brought her to her knees in the sand as she followed Achilleas' suit, bowing her head to her king.
She remained as she was, taking deep breaths to try to center herself and once again find the will to bring herself to her feet. The eyes of the nation were on all of them, and if she was mother to an heir she had to show herself worthy. Looking up to Stephanos as he spoke, she stood slowly and nodded in response to his command, brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen in her face as she knelt. Her steps were shaky at first, but all attention was focused on getting out of the arena alive and staying as close to the king as he would allow, including walking just off his left shoulder with some respectful space. Now that she could think about it, he was covered in so much blood, it was all she could do to keep the bile down once more, but she bit it back and instead kept her head held high, eyes peeled for any sign of her family.
She had always known to rely on Nicholai. Sometimes it was almost like Emilia wouldn't know what she would do without the head bodyguard that had been assigned specifically for the youngest princess of the Xanthos house over the past 6 or 7 years. As she was pushed and kicked by panicking people rushing to get out of the stands, Emilia had instinctively curled into a ball to avoid the feet. She whimpered as a body landed, and it wasn't until she heard the familiar voice, did the brunette pry open her eyes, and the slowly panicking knot around her heart unravelled by a bit when she saw the familiar face of her bodyguard.
With a small whimper, she shook her head, not considering the small scrapes she had got from the feet and gravel she had fallen on very big injuries for now. They could deal with that later. As Emilia felt the heat from the flames, her stomach lurched again when she saw the bloody cloak dripping, the head of the King on the pike, and she instinctively clung to Nicholai when he swept his inspecting fingers over her, before allowing him to draw her up.
Letting the other two guards drift to flank either side of her, for the briefest of moments, Emilia wondered just what Persephone would say once she heard of all of this. The voyage back to Athenia would take 3 days to a week depending on the weather and wind, but she expected news to travel even quicker. No doubt her sister would be waiting for her at the docks.
Following after Nicholai's lead, the girl ensured she was never three paces or more, the little protective bubble offered to her by her bodyguards calming her more then any words could. Down the steps and then pressed to the wall, Emilia's eyes wandered as they got to the stable area, down to the slave entrances. She shied and winced when the spooked animals reared and screeched, trampling anyone in their way. She generally liked the animals, but when they were spooked as they were now, Emilia got terrified, and clung even closer to her guards until they made their way out.
Not that the area outside of the circus was any better. Occasionally, Emilia could catch the glimpses of the hooded figures. What were they called again? She heard whispers of the word, the chilly voice in which they called themselves 'the Creed'. Had Persephone told her about them before? Emilia briefly remembered her history of the kingdoms, but she had not been the best students, and could only remember that they had been wiped out many years ago - the exact number slipped her mind.
Nevertheless however, a shiver passed up her spine when she caught sight of them, and she instinctively shied away, pulling at Nicholai until she saw a familiar blonde head that she had been having a conversation with just this morning. "Lady Selene!" Emily called out, hoping that her newest acquaintence had not been harmed by the proceedings.
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She had always known to rely on Nicholai. Sometimes it was almost like Emilia wouldn't know what she would do without the head bodyguard that had been assigned specifically for the youngest princess of the Xanthos house over the past 6 or 7 years. As she was pushed and kicked by panicking people rushing to get out of the stands, Emilia had instinctively curled into a ball to avoid the feet. She whimpered as a body landed, and it wasn't until she heard the familiar voice, did the brunette pry open her eyes, and the slowly panicking knot around her heart unravelled by a bit when she saw the familiar face of her bodyguard.
With a small whimper, she shook her head, not considering the small scrapes she had got from the feet and gravel she had fallen on very big injuries for now. They could deal with that later. As Emilia felt the heat from the flames, her stomach lurched again when she saw the bloody cloak dripping, the head of the King on the pike, and she instinctively clung to Nicholai when he swept his inspecting fingers over her, before allowing him to draw her up.
Letting the other two guards drift to flank either side of her, for the briefest of moments, Emilia wondered just what Persephone would say once she heard of all of this. The voyage back to Athenia would take 3 days to a week depending on the weather and wind, but she expected news to travel even quicker. No doubt her sister would be waiting for her at the docks.
Following after Nicholai's lead, the girl ensured she was never three paces or more, the little protective bubble offered to her by her bodyguards calming her more then any words could. Down the steps and then pressed to the wall, Emilia's eyes wandered as they got to the stable area, down to the slave entrances. She shied and winced when the spooked animals reared and screeched, trampling anyone in their way. She generally liked the animals, but when they were spooked as they were now, Emilia got terrified, and clung even closer to her guards until they made their way out.
Not that the area outside of the circus was any better. Occasionally, Emilia could catch the glimpses of the hooded figures. What were they called again? She heard whispers of the word, the chilly voice in which they called themselves 'the Creed'. Had Persephone told her about them before? Emilia briefly remembered her history of the kingdoms, but she had not been the best students, and could only remember that they had been wiped out many years ago - the exact number slipped her mind.
Nevertheless however, a shiver passed up her spine when she caught sight of them, and she instinctively shied away, pulling at Nicholai until she saw a familiar blonde head that she had been having a conversation with just this morning. "Lady Selene!" Emily called out, hoping that her newest acquaintence had not been harmed by the proceedings.
She had always known to rely on Nicholai. Sometimes it was almost like Emilia wouldn't know what she would do without the head bodyguard that had been assigned specifically for the youngest princess of the Xanthos house over the past 6 or 7 years. As she was pushed and kicked by panicking people rushing to get out of the stands, Emilia had instinctively curled into a ball to avoid the feet. She whimpered as a body landed, and it wasn't until she heard the familiar voice, did the brunette pry open her eyes, and the slowly panicking knot around her heart unravelled by a bit when she saw the familiar face of her bodyguard.
With a small whimper, she shook her head, not considering the small scrapes she had got from the feet and gravel she had fallen on very big injuries for now. They could deal with that later. As Emilia felt the heat from the flames, her stomach lurched again when she saw the bloody cloak dripping, the head of the King on the pike, and she instinctively clung to Nicholai when he swept his inspecting fingers over her, before allowing him to draw her up.
Letting the other two guards drift to flank either side of her, for the briefest of moments, Emilia wondered just what Persephone would say once she heard of all of this. The voyage back to Athenia would take 3 days to a week depending on the weather and wind, but she expected news to travel even quicker. No doubt her sister would be waiting for her at the docks.
Following after Nicholai's lead, the girl ensured she was never three paces or more, the little protective bubble offered to her by her bodyguards calming her more then any words could. Down the steps and then pressed to the wall, Emilia's eyes wandered as they got to the stable area, down to the slave entrances. She shied and winced when the spooked animals reared and screeched, trampling anyone in their way. She generally liked the animals, but when they were spooked as they were now, Emilia got terrified, and clung even closer to her guards until they made their way out.
Not that the area outside of the circus was any better. Occasionally, Emilia could catch the glimpses of the hooded figures. What were they called again? She heard whispers of the word, the chilly voice in which they called themselves 'the Creed'. Had Persephone told her about them before? Emilia briefly remembered her history of the kingdoms, but she had not been the best students, and could only remember that they had been wiped out many years ago - the exact number slipped her mind.
Nevertheless however, a shiver passed up her spine when she caught sight of them, and she instinctively shied away, pulling at Nicholai until she saw a familiar blonde head that she had been having a conversation with just this morning. "Lady Selene!" Emily called out, hoping that her newest acquaintence had not been harmed by the proceedings.
The king was dead, fire ringed the circus as if they had all been summoned to the deepest parts of the underworld, while masked demons swarmed the area. Hell, there was only hell at this point. With civilians no doubt panicking, many screaming about the king is dead, or some cynically proclaiming to hail the new king, Stephanos, everyone was at unease. It was this unease which caused Alypius to spring from his seat as soon as he heard the first scream ring throughout the audience. His eyes had widen when he say this masked man holding someone down by the tracks, too far away for him to make out who, he spotted Vangelis, marching down, and within moments throwing a blade and slaying the man.
Chaos was soon to break out, as men, women and children ran for the doors, chariots came to a sudden halt. Alypius attempted to make his way down to the tracks, yet the crowds of screaming people blocked his path, besides, the foursome of people where soon surrounded by guards. Although Alypius may of been of use down there, he would of been better up in the stands where he was. Unsheathing his longsword, the singing blade took a step back raising his head. Using his height he looked over the panicked crowds, only to spot those of masked origins causing mayhem within the stands. He watched the guards fight them off, protecting those innocent, then his eyes flickered to the main entrances. Blocked by those of the creed.
His attention was stolen once more as he heard a shriek from the stands next to him. A masked man held a women within his grip, brandishing a knife, raised with murderous intent, he swung the blade down from a stab. Although the masked man was interrupted by the blade of a longsword crunching into the back of his spin. The blade hit the ground, the sound of metal clinking on stone drowned out by the running and screams of people. The masked man was shoved to the ground, as Alypius pulled his blade back, his eyes flickered up to the woman with a reassuring smile. The women was young, probably late teens, therefore it was good to smile, even without words, making a civilian feel safer was his first and foremost job. "Run, go find your friends and stay away from the edges, do not go near the entrances, until it is safe, alright?" Alypius order, as the girl gave a terrified nod before swallowing herself into the crowd.
The masked man groaned as his body weakly moved for the knife on the ground. The singing blade looked down, his smile gone completely as he brought his boot down onto the man's back where his blade had sunk into. A loud shriek emanated from the man, as he desperately reached for the blade, only to have Alypius kick it away off the stands. "If I was you, I would seriously rethink your life choices before I cut off your head." The guardsman growled, before swinging his boot into the side of the man's head, knocking him out cold right there an then.
Grabbing the body, he through it up against the wall with one hand, as the order not to kill but capture was shouted out into the audience, other guards repeating it so everyone got the message. Alypius nodded to himself, looking down at the race tracks once again. Achilleas was on his knees, King Stephanos seemed as panicked as the women he now determined to be Lady Olympia. However what seemed to be most terrifying was the fact that members of the creed seemed to surround them. Growling to himself, he shook his head, he turned to the unconscious creed member "Stay." he ordered before running towards the main enterance, his blade drawn watching out for any more creed members who attempted to jump him. He could of run down to the tracks, yet there where far more people to protect here, and from what he could see plenty of guards had surrounded the new king and his entourage.
Running up to the main entrance, he quickly got into a line with his fellow guards men, weapons drawn, as they faced down a swarming group of the creed. Readying himself, Alypius raised his blade, his brows arching as he began to hum. It was a quiet tune, but a heroic one, one which if preformed properly was meant to inspire armies, but now, Alypius needed to be inspired, if he wanted to live, and if he wanted to protect.
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The king was dead, fire ringed the circus as if they had all been summoned to the deepest parts of the underworld, while masked demons swarmed the area. Hell, there was only hell at this point. With civilians no doubt panicking, many screaming about the king is dead, or some cynically proclaiming to hail the new king, Stephanos, everyone was at unease. It was this unease which caused Alypius to spring from his seat as soon as he heard the first scream ring throughout the audience. His eyes had widen when he say this masked man holding someone down by the tracks, too far away for him to make out who, he spotted Vangelis, marching down, and within moments throwing a blade and slaying the man.
Chaos was soon to break out, as men, women and children ran for the doors, chariots came to a sudden halt. Alypius attempted to make his way down to the tracks, yet the crowds of screaming people blocked his path, besides, the foursome of people where soon surrounded by guards. Although Alypius may of been of use down there, he would of been better up in the stands where he was. Unsheathing his longsword, the singing blade took a step back raising his head. Using his height he looked over the panicked crowds, only to spot those of masked origins causing mayhem within the stands. He watched the guards fight them off, protecting those innocent, then his eyes flickered to the main entrances. Blocked by those of the creed.
His attention was stolen once more as he heard a shriek from the stands next to him. A masked man held a women within his grip, brandishing a knife, raised with murderous intent, he swung the blade down from a stab. Although the masked man was interrupted by the blade of a longsword crunching into the back of his spin. The blade hit the ground, the sound of metal clinking on stone drowned out by the running and screams of people. The masked man was shoved to the ground, as Alypius pulled his blade back, his eyes flickered up to the woman with a reassuring smile. The women was young, probably late teens, therefore it was good to smile, even without words, making a civilian feel safer was his first and foremost job. "Run, go find your friends and stay away from the edges, do not go near the entrances, until it is safe, alright?" Alypius order, as the girl gave a terrified nod before swallowing herself into the crowd.
The masked man groaned as his body weakly moved for the knife on the ground. The singing blade looked down, his smile gone completely as he brought his boot down onto the man's back where his blade had sunk into. A loud shriek emanated from the man, as he desperately reached for the blade, only to have Alypius kick it away off the stands. "If I was you, I would seriously rethink your life choices before I cut off your head." The guardsman growled, before swinging his boot into the side of the man's head, knocking him out cold right there an then.
Grabbing the body, he through it up against the wall with one hand, as the order not to kill but capture was shouted out into the audience, other guards repeating it so everyone got the message. Alypius nodded to himself, looking down at the race tracks once again. Achilleas was on his knees, King Stephanos seemed as panicked as the women he now determined to be Lady Olympia. However what seemed to be most terrifying was the fact that members of the creed seemed to surround them. Growling to himself, he shook his head, he turned to the unconscious creed member "Stay." he ordered before running towards the main enterance, his blade drawn watching out for any more creed members who attempted to jump him. He could of run down to the tracks, yet there where far more people to protect here, and from what he could see plenty of guards had surrounded the new king and his entourage.
Running up to the main entrance, he quickly got into a line with his fellow guards men, weapons drawn, as they faced down a swarming group of the creed. Readying himself, Alypius raised his blade, his brows arching as he began to hum. It was a quiet tune, but a heroic one, one which if preformed properly was meant to inspire armies, but now, Alypius needed to be inspired, if he wanted to live, and if he wanted to protect.
The king was dead, fire ringed the circus as if they had all been summoned to the deepest parts of the underworld, while masked demons swarmed the area. Hell, there was only hell at this point. With civilians no doubt panicking, many screaming about the king is dead, or some cynically proclaiming to hail the new king, Stephanos, everyone was at unease. It was this unease which caused Alypius to spring from his seat as soon as he heard the first scream ring throughout the audience. His eyes had widen when he say this masked man holding someone down by the tracks, too far away for him to make out who, he spotted Vangelis, marching down, and within moments throwing a blade and slaying the man.
Chaos was soon to break out, as men, women and children ran for the doors, chariots came to a sudden halt. Alypius attempted to make his way down to the tracks, yet the crowds of screaming people blocked his path, besides, the foursome of people where soon surrounded by guards. Although Alypius may of been of use down there, he would of been better up in the stands where he was. Unsheathing his longsword, the singing blade took a step back raising his head. Using his height he looked over the panicked crowds, only to spot those of masked origins causing mayhem within the stands. He watched the guards fight them off, protecting those innocent, then his eyes flickered to the main entrances. Blocked by those of the creed.
His attention was stolen once more as he heard a shriek from the stands next to him. A masked man held a women within his grip, brandishing a knife, raised with murderous intent, he swung the blade down from a stab. Although the masked man was interrupted by the blade of a longsword crunching into the back of his spin. The blade hit the ground, the sound of metal clinking on stone drowned out by the running and screams of people. The masked man was shoved to the ground, as Alypius pulled his blade back, his eyes flickered up to the woman with a reassuring smile. The women was young, probably late teens, therefore it was good to smile, even without words, making a civilian feel safer was his first and foremost job. "Run, go find your friends and stay away from the edges, do not go near the entrances, until it is safe, alright?" Alypius order, as the girl gave a terrified nod before swallowing herself into the crowd.
The masked man groaned as his body weakly moved for the knife on the ground. The singing blade looked down, his smile gone completely as he brought his boot down onto the man's back where his blade had sunk into. A loud shriek emanated from the man, as he desperately reached for the blade, only to have Alypius kick it away off the stands. "If I was you, I would seriously rethink your life choices before I cut off your head." The guardsman growled, before swinging his boot into the side of the man's head, knocking him out cold right there an then.
Grabbing the body, he through it up against the wall with one hand, as the order not to kill but capture was shouted out into the audience, other guards repeating it so everyone got the message. Alypius nodded to himself, looking down at the race tracks once again. Achilleas was on his knees, King Stephanos seemed as panicked as the women he now determined to be Lady Olympia. However what seemed to be most terrifying was the fact that members of the creed seemed to surround them. Growling to himself, he shook his head, he turned to the unconscious creed member "Stay." he ordered before running towards the main enterance, his blade drawn watching out for any more creed members who attempted to jump him. He could of run down to the tracks, yet there where far more people to protect here, and from what he could see plenty of guards had surrounded the new king and his entourage.
Running up to the main entrance, he quickly got into a line with his fellow guards men, weapons drawn, as they faced down a swarming group of the creed. Readying himself, Alypius raised his blade, his brows arching as he began to hum. It was a quiet tune, but a heroic one, one which if preformed properly was meant to inspire armies, but now, Alypius needed to be inspired, if he wanted to live, and if he wanted to protect.
As Stephanos finally held his own weight and took several deep breaths to calm himself, he turned to Vangelis and instructed - which Vangelis politely decided to take as a request - for him to stay by him. It was a smart move. While the prince-now-king might feel trust towards his family members or any other members of the nobility, the events of the last ten minutes would throw all of that trust into question. At least until the dust settled and the smoke cleared. And what did Vangelis gain from orchestrating all of this? A weakened Taengea was a weakened ally and he had his own throne to claim one day. Of every nobleman in the stadium, Vangelis was probably the one to be trusted most, simply from his lack of motivation.
At least Vangelis could do one thing to immediately help the man out.
Withdrawing his second sword again, Vangelis handed the weapon to Stephanos, his fingers peeling away from the handle. He wasn't sure if the blade was anything like the ones Stephanos used - Vangelis had a preference for the curved Saracen style blade that he had picked up in the East during one of his campaigns, but he knew the man had skill with a long-sword and would manage just fine, even if the weapon wasn't to his particulars.
"Not anymore you're not." He told the man, when Stephanos mentioned being unarmed, holding the weapon out.
As Achilleas and Olympia both knelt before the new king, Vangelis watched as Stephanos looked like he might be sick again before nudging at Achilleas' shin with the toe of his boot.
"As wonderful as this is, my Lord - and Lady - this isn't the time. We need to get all of you out of here." And with a nudge to Stephanos's good shoulder to make sure he was walking with them, Vangelis took point and started making his way down the chariot track to the nearest slave entrance, his pace a half-walk-half-jog. Running would only identify them as targets amongst the jostling crowd that now filled the stadium's sandy floors - let alone would likely leave behind the Lady Olympia and an injured Stephanos - so he kept to a level of haste that let them reach safety quickly, without putting any of their party in jeopardy.
Upon reaching the alcove to the slave exit it became instantly clear why more people hadn't left the circus already. A pile up of civilians had caused a jam and slow movement through the wide doors as panic had overridden sense.
With a shout and a yell, Vangelis had those immediately closest to him backing away hastily and, when a gap was formed, he made a hurrying gesture to the small group to leave.
Once Stephanos, Olympia and Achilleas had all left the immediate danger zone, Vangelis grabbed two able bodied men and shouted instructions.
"Keep these people in line!" He told them. "They need to file out just a few at a time, or someone is going to get hurt!"
The men didn't know who he was. Didn't know his rank or his authority or his significance but there was clearly something on his face and clothing that had their eyes bulging and their heads bobbing up and down in assent.
Vangelis let them go and only then looked down at himself to see Stephanos' blood over his tunic. There were likely spots on his face too from when he had heaved free his knife from the neck of the cultist. No wonder the men looked terrified of him.
As he came rushing back into the sunlight of the stadium rink, Vangelis saw and directed a man taller than any other he'd seen to head down the side of the now more organised crowd. Looking at the gown worn by the young women he was half carrying, the man's cargo was rich, of high birth or both and it was wise to get her out of a stadium full of fighters who hated royalty.
Looking around to analyse the situation properly, Vangelis took a moment of inner calm to assess the circus. It was huge with thousands of distraught audience members trying to flee in every direction. He spotted some who had been unable to escape the flames and whose clothing had been set alight. They ran like flaming phantoms, sending more panic and fright in every direction before they fell to the stone steps, burnt bryond recognition. The smell of cooked flesh filled the air and the pitch that had been used to light the fires in the first place. The smoke had darkened the air, the screams and cries were still piercing his ears... The entire place was a disaster.
But it did look as if the soldiers and guards around the arena were getting the cultists under control. Whether the men had run or had been killed or captured, Vangelis could see only a few of the masked cultists still fighting or patrolling the exits... That didn't, however, mean that others weren't lurking...
Spotting Nike on the other side of the stadium fighting off just one such man, Vangelis kicked off to begin his attack there. Drawing his knife in order to fight with duel weapons as was his favour, the crown prince skidded into the combat to parry an attack aimed for Nike's neck. The distraction allowed his Commander to gain control of the situation and have the cultist pinned to the ground a heartbeat later.
"I believe that puts me back out on top." Vangelis muttered, referring to a private game between the two of them.
Spotting a man of similar military skill wearing Taengean armour, Vangelis watched as the man knocked out a second insurgent and then called to him.
"You!" He called with a pointed finger in the soldier's direction. "You're with me." He instructed him, without waiting for a reply. "Come on, Commander." He said to Nike, ensuring himself a fighter at either shoulder before he started mounting the steps of the stadium in long and leaping strides. Each giant step and sprinting stride took him closer to the far end of the stadium where a small group of four masked men still stood - surrounding the wooden pike, heedless of the flames around them that would - in short order - destroy the post and that which was attached to it.
As they grew closer to their target, his Commander picked up her pace to be running beside him and asked for his orders.
"We get the king." He told the two of them. "Before he burns."
And when he was asked if he wanted these men captured too, Vangelis gnashed his teeth, remembering the ashen colour of Stephanos' skin when he had seen what they had done.
"No." He commanded the two of them. "Kill them all."
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As Stephanos finally held his own weight and took several deep breaths to calm himself, he turned to Vangelis and instructed - which Vangelis politely decided to take as a request - for him to stay by him. It was a smart move. While the prince-now-king might feel trust towards his family members or any other members of the nobility, the events of the last ten minutes would throw all of that trust into question. At least until the dust settled and the smoke cleared. And what did Vangelis gain from orchestrating all of this? A weakened Taengea was a weakened ally and he had his own throne to claim one day. Of every nobleman in the stadium, Vangelis was probably the one to be trusted most, simply from his lack of motivation.
At least Vangelis could do one thing to immediately help the man out.
Withdrawing his second sword again, Vangelis handed the weapon to Stephanos, his fingers peeling away from the handle. He wasn't sure if the blade was anything like the ones Stephanos used - Vangelis had a preference for the curved Saracen style blade that he had picked up in the East during one of his campaigns, but he knew the man had skill with a long-sword and would manage just fine, even if the weapon wasn't to his particulars.
"Not anymore you're not." He told the man, when Stephanos mentioned being unarmed, holding the weapon out.
As Achilleas and Olympia both knelt before the new king, Vangelis watched as Stephanos looked like he might be sick again before nudging at Achilleas' shin with the toe of his boot.
"As wonderful as this is, my Lord - and Lady - this isn't the time. We need to get all of you out of here." And with a nudge to Stephanos's good shoulder to make sure he was walking with them, Vangelis took point and started making his way down the chariot track to the nearest slave entrance, his pace a half-walk-half-jog. Running would only identify them as targets amongst the jostling crowd that now filled the stadium's sandy floors - let alone would likely leave behind the Lady Olympia and an injured Stephanos - so he kept to a level of haste that let them reach safety quickly, without putting any of their party in jeopardy.
Upon reaching the alcove to the slave exit it became instantly clear why more people hadn't left the circus already. A pile up of civilians had caused a jam and slow movement through the wide doors as panic had overridden sense.
With a shout and a yell, Vangelis had those immediately closest to him backing away hastily and, when a gap was formed, he made a hurrying gesture to the small group to leave.
Once Stephanos, Olympia and Achilleas had all left the immediate danger zone, Vangelis grabbed two able bodied men and shouted instructions.
"Keep these people in line!" He told them. "They need to file out just a few at a time, or someone is going to get hurt!"
The men didn't know who he was. Didn't know his rank or his authority or his significance but there was clearly something on his face and clothing that had their eyes bulging and their heads bobbing up and down in assent.
Vangelis let them go and only then looked down at himself to see Stephanos' blood over his tunic. There were likely spots on his face too from when he had heaved free his knife from the neck of the cultist. No wonder the men looked terrified of him.
As he came rushing back into the sunlight of the stadium rink, Vangelis saw and directed a man taller than any other he'd seen to head down the side of the now more organised crowd. Looking at the gown worn by the young women he was half carrying, the man's cargo was rich, of high birth or both and it was wise to get her out of a stadium full of fighters who hated royalty.
Looking around to analyse the situation properly, Vangelis took a moment of inner calm to assess the circus. It was huge with thousands of distraught audience members trying to flee in every direction. He spotted some who had been unable to escape the flames and whose clothing had been set alight. They ran like flaming phantoms, sending more panic and fright in every direction before they fell to the stone steps, burnt bryond recognition. The smell of cooked flesh filled the air and the pitch that had been used to light the fires in the first place. The smoke had darkened the air, the screams and cries were still piercing his ears... The entire place was a disaster.
But it did look as if the soldiers and guards around the arena were getting the cultists under control. Whether the men had run or had been killed or captured, Vangelis could see only a few of the masked cultists still fighting or patrolling the exits... That didn't, however, mean that others weren't lurking...
Spotting Nike on the other side of the stadium fighting off just one such man, Vangelis kicked off to begin his attack there. Drawing his knife in order to fight with duel weapons as was his favour, the crown prince skidded into the combat to parry an attack aimed for Nike's neck. The distraction allowed his Commander to gain control of the situation and have the cultist pinned to the ground a heartbeat later.
"I believe that puts me back out on top." Vangelis muttered, referring to a private game between the two of them.
Spotting a man of similar military skill wearing Taengean armour, Vangelis watched as the man knocked out a second insurgent and then called to him.
"You!" He called with a pointed finger in the soldier's direction. "You're with me." He instructed him, without waiting for a reply. "Come on, Commander." He said to Nike, ensuring himself a fighter at either shoulder before he started mounting the steps of the stadium in long and leaping strides. Each giant step and sprinting stride took him closer to the far end of the stadium where a small group of four masked men still stood - surrounding the wooden pike, heedless of the flames around them that would - in short order - destroy the post and that which was attached to it.
As they grew closer to their target, his Commander picked up her pace to be running beside him and asked for his orders.
"We get the king." He told the two of them. "Before he burns."
And when he was asked if he wanted these men captured too, Vangelis gnashed his teeth, remembering the ashen colour of Stephanos' skin when he had seen what they had done.
"No." He commanded the two of them. "Kill them all."
As Stephanos finally held his own weight and took several deep breaths to calm himself, he turned to Vangelis and instructed - which Vangelis politely decided to take as a request - for him to stay by him. It was a smart move. While the prince-now-king might feel trust towards his family members or any other members of the nobility, the events of the last ten minutes would throw all of that trust into question. At least until the dust settled and the smoke cleared. And what did Vangelis gain from orchestrating all of this? A weakened Taengea was a weakened ally and he had his own throne to claim one day. Of every nobleman in the stadium, Vangelis was probably the one to be trusted most, simply from his lack of motivation.
At least Vangelis could do one thing to immediately help the man out.
Withdrawing his second sword again, Vangelis handed the weapon to Stephanos, his fingers peeling away from the handle. He wasn't sure if the blade was anything like the ones Stephanos used - Vangelis had a preference for the curved Saracen style blade that he had picked up in the East during one of his campaigns, but he knew the man had skill with a long-sword and would manage just fine, even if the weapon wasn't to his particulars.
"Not anymore you're not." He told the man, when Stephanos mentioned being unarmed, holding the weapon out.
As Achilleas and Olympia both knelt before the new king, Vangelis watched as Stephanos looked like he might be sick again before nudging at Achilleas' shin with the toe of his boot.
"As wonderful as this is, my Lord - and Lady - this isn't the time. We need to get all of you out of here." And with a nudge to Stephanos's good shoulder to make sure he was walking with them, Vangelis took point and started making his way down the chariot track to the nearest slave entrance, his pace a half-walk-half-jog. Running would only identify them as targets amongst the jostling crowd that now filled the stadium's sandy floors - let alone would likely leave behind the Lady Olympia and an injured Stephanos - so he kept to a level of haste that let them reach safety quickly, without putting any of their party in jeopardy.
Upon reaching the alcove to the slave exit it became instantly clear why more people hadn't left the circus already. A pile up of civilians had caused a jam and slow movement through the wide doors as panic had overridden sense.
With a shout and a yell, Vangelis had those immediately closest to him backing away hastily and, when a gap was formed, he made a hurrying gesture to the small group to leave.
Once Stephanos, Olympia and Achilleas had all left the immediate danger zone, Vangelis grabbed two able bodied men and shouted instructions.
"Keep these people in line!" He told them. "They need to file out just a few at a time, or someone is going to get hurt!"
The men didn't know who he was. Didn't know his rank or his authority or his significance but there was clearly something on his face and clothing that had their eyes bulging and their heads bobbing up and down in assent.
Vangelis let them go and only then looked down at himself to see Stephanos' blood over his tunic. There were likely spots on his face too from when he had heaved free his knife from the neck of the cultist. No wonder the men looked terrified of him.
As he came rushing back into the sunlight of the stadium rink, Vangelis saw and directed a man taller than any other he'd seen to head down the side of the now more organised crowd. Looking at the gown worn by the young women he was half carrying, the man's cargo was rich, of high birth or both and it was wise to get her out of a stadium full of fighters who hated royalty.
Looking around to analyse the situation properly, Vangelis took a moment of inner calm to assess the circus. It was huge with thousands of distraught audience members trying to flee in every direction. He spotted some who had been unable to escape the flames and whose clothing had been set alight. They ran like flaming phantoms, sending more panic and fright in every direction before they fell to the stone steps, burnt bryond recognition. The smell of cooked flesh filled the air and the pitch that had been used to light the fires in the first place. The smoke had darkened the air, the screams and cries were still piercing his ears... The entire place was a disaster.
But it did look as if the soldiers and guards around the arena were getting the cultists under control. Whether the men had run or had been killed or captured, Vangelis could see only a few of the masked cultists still fighting or patrolling the exits... That didn't, however, mean that others weren't lurking...
Spotting Nike on the other side of the stadium fighting off just one such man, Vangelis kicked off to begin his attack there. Drawing his knife in order to fight with duel weapons as was his favour, the crown prince skidded into the combat to parry an attack aimed for Nike's neck. The distraction allowed his Commander to gain control of the situation and have the cultist pinned to the ground a heartbeat later.
"I believe that puts me back out on top." Vangelis muttered, referring to a private game between the two of them.
Spotting a man of similar military skill wearing Taengean armour, Vangelis watched as the man knocked out a second insurgent and then called to him.
"You!" He called with a pointed finger in the soldier's direction. "You're with me." He instructed him, without waiting for a reply. "Come on, Commander." He said to Nike, ensuring himself a fighter at either shoulder before he started mounting the steps of the stadium in long and leaping strides. Each giant step and sprinting stride took him closer to the far end of the stadium where a small group of four masked men still stood - surrounding the wooden pike, heedless of the flames around them that would - in short order - destroy the post and that which was attached to it.
As they grew closer to their target, his Commander picked up her pace to be running beside him and asked for his orders.
"We get the king." He told the two of them. "Before he burns."
And when he was asked if he wanted these men captured too, Vangelis gnashed his teeth, remembering the ashen colour of Stephanos' skin when he had seen what they had done.
"No." He commanded the two of them. "Kill them all."
They were fast. Too fast for the eye to see. At this point, Nike was beginning to think that these hooded creatures were really ghosts or wraiths of some form. Gritting her teeth as she attempted to move fast on her feet, even with her added speed that surpassed regular soldiers, Nike found it hard to keep up, managing to spear some and injure others, yet never causing much major harm enough to capture them. If she had seriously maimed one, another was quick to take its place, until Nike was driven to a point where she had no choice but to kill one.
Her eyes were wildly trying to keep up with the movements of the veiled creatures, her mind tuning out the sounds of others as she concentrated on staying on point, staying alive. But for one split second, her booted feet spun, lost its balance, and as she fell on her knee, her eyes spied the coming of a sharp point at her neck, way too close for her to dodge or counter.
About to roll out of the way however, Nike's body was blocked when a large figure skidded its way in front of her. The commander needed no words to tell her who it was, moving quickly in tuned to slide to the side, hook her legs with the cultists's, and trip them, with just enough time for her to roll over and drive her longsword through their chest.
She heard his muttered words, a smirk flashed his way, but they had no time to exchange conversation at this crucial point.
Quickly, Nike hurried after her general, keeping at his shoulder as they started going up the stairs, her sword kept by her side, eyes forever watchful. Her eyes were wary on the flames licking the stands, the fire by now too large to control unless Boreas or Zeus decided to split the heavens for them now. When her eyes flickered back to where Vangelis was heading, they fell on the piked head and fluttering, blood-soaked cloak.
Hearing her general's instructions, Nike nodded firmly, and with a determined expression, sped up her last few steps, and immediately engaged the four men around the pike. Swords clashed, and she did her best to draw the two out of the four away from the pike, hopefully leaving enough space for Vangelis to scale the pike to retrieve the head and cloak. With her free hand, she drove her palm against one cloaked figure, knocking the breathe out of him so she could swing a sword, only to curse when her swing was met with thin air. As she pivoted on her heels, it was to no surprise that both her attackers were now behind her, heading right for her. Nike ducked, letting them sail across her head, turned and lunged forward with her sword, thankfully finding aim in the chest of one. The sharp end driving in, and Nike heard the bubbling sound of death escaping her target.
Which leaves her with one more, unless the other Taengean soldier needed help.
She turned, narrowed eyes eyeing the hooded figure, wary stance and sword at ready. "What is it you seek to achieve with all of this?!" Nike spat out, obviously angered at the unprecedented attack launched on such a large scale event.
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Check out their information page here.
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They were fast. Too fast for the eye to see. At this point, Nike was beginning to think that these hooded creatures were really ghosts or wraiths of some form. Gritting her teeth as she attempted to move fast on her feet, even with her added speed that surpassed regular soldiers, Nike found it hard to keep up, managing to spear some and injure others, yet never causing much major harm enough to capture them. If she had seriously maimed one, another was quick to take its place, until Nike was driven to a point where she had no choice but to kill one.
Her eyes were wildly trying to keep up with the movements of the veiled creatures, her mind tuning out the sounds of others as she concentrated on staying on point, staying alive. But for one split second, her booted feet spun, lost its balance, and as she fell on her knee, her eyes spied the coming of a sharp point at her neck, way too close for her to dodge or counter.
About to roll out of the way however, Nike's body was blocked when a large figure skidded its way in front of her. The commander needed no words to tell her who it was, moving quickly in tuned to slide to the side, hook her legs with the cultists's, and trip them, with just enough time for her to roll over and drive her longsword through their chest.
She heard his muttered words, a smirk flashed his way, but they had no time to exchange conversation at this crucial point.
Quickly, Nike hurried after her general, keeping at his shoulder as they started going up the stairs, her sword kept by her side, eyes forever watchful. Her eyes were wary on the flames licking the stands, the fire by now too large to control unless Boreas or Zeus decided to split the heavens for them now. When her eyes flickered back to where Vangelis was heading, they fell on the piked head and fluttering, blood-soaked cloak.
Hearing her general's instructions, Nike nodded firmly, and with a determined expression, sped up her last few steps, and immediately engaged the four men around the pike. Swords clashed, and she did her best to draw the two out of the four away from the pike, hopefully leaving enough space for Vangelis to scale the pike to retrieve the head and cloak. With her free hand, she drove her palm against one cloaked figure, knocking the breathe out of him so she could swing a sword, only to curse when her swing was met with thin air. As she pivoted on her heels, it was to no surprise that both her attackers were now behind her, heading right for her. Nike ducked, letting them sail across her head, turned and lunged forward with her sword, thankfully finding aim in the chest of one. The sharp end driving in, and Nike heard the bubbling sound of death escaping her target.
Which leaves her with one more, unless the other Taengean soldier needed help.
She turned, narrowed eyes eyeing the hooded figure, wary stance and sword at ready. "What is it you seek to achieve with all of this?!" Nike spat out, obviously angered at the unprecedented attack launched on such a large scale event.
They were fast. Too fast for the eye to see. At this point, Nike was beginning to think that these hooded creatures were really ghosts or wraiths of some form. Gritting her teeth as she attempted to move fast on her feet, even with her added speed that surpassed regular soldiers, Nike found it hard to keep up, managing to spear some and injure others, yet never causing much major harm enough to capture them. If she had seriously maimed one, another was quick to take its place, until Nike was driven to a point where she had no choice but to kill one.
Her eyes were wildly trying to keep up with the movements of the veiled creatures, her mind tuning out the sounds of others as she concentrated on staying on point, staying alive. But for one split second, her booted feet spun, lost its balance, and as she fell on her knee, her eyes spied the coming of a sharp point at her neck, way too close for her to dodge or counter.
About to roll out of the way however, Nike's body was blocked when a large figure skidded its way in front of her. The commander needed no words to tell her who it was, moving quickly in tuned to slide to the side, hook her legs with the cultists's, and trip them, with just enough time for her to roll over and drive her longsword through their chest.
She heard his muttered words, a smirk flashed his way, but they had no time to exchange conversation at this crucial point.
Quickly, Nike hurried after her general, keeping at his shoulder as they started going up the stairs, her sword kept by her side, eyes forever watchful. Her eyes were wary on the flames licking the stands, the fire by now too large to control unless Boreas or Zeus decided to split the heavens for them now. When her eyes flickered back to where Vangelis was heading, they fell on the piked head and fluttering, blood-soaked cloak.
Hearing her general's instructions, Nike nodded firmly, and with a determined expression, sped up her last few steps, and immediately engaged the four men around the pike. Swords clashed, and she did her best to draw the two out of the four away from the pike, hopefully leaving enough space for Vangelis to scale the pike to retrieve the head and cloak. With her free hand, she drove her palm against one cloaked figure, knocking the breathe out of him so she could swing a sword, only to curse when her swing was met with thin air. As she pivoted on her heels, it was to no surprise that both her attackers were now behind her, heading right for her. Nike ducked, letting them sail across her head, turned and lunged forward with her sword, thankfully finding aim in the chest of one. The sharp end driving in, and Nike heard the bubbling sound of death escaping her target.
Which leaves her with one more, unless the other Taengean soldier needed help.
She turned, narrowed eyes eyeing the hooded figure, wary stance and sword at ready. "What is it you seek to achieve with all of this?!" Nike spat out, obviously angered at the unprecedented attack launched on such a large scale event.
Hauling the man up to the wall, Alypius was suddenly called to attention. His head snapped towards a man, barely hearing his words over the ensuing chaos. At first he didn’t recognise the man, but as soon as he heard his voice, his eyes widened under his helmet. It was the man who slayed the first of the cloaked men, even still there was something about him which screamed authority, so not to waste time, Alypius was quick to follow his side. “Ay Sir.” He called out with a nod, before he matched his side. With a man on his other side, by which the man addressed as commander, he gave a nod, to him as well, yet said nothing more. After all this was not a time for words in the slightest, however the simplest of gestures spoke speeches in times like this.
Approaching the pole which held the head of the now late king, Alypius gashed his teeth, holding his blade within both hands. The singing blade watched as the commandeered wasted no time in engaging the four men. A grin grew under his helmet, appreciating the man’s thinking and confidence, he followed suite.
“Now, generally I would say drop your weapons or die, however since I’ve been given the order to kill, at least make this a bit of a challenge will you?” Alypius teased, as he expertly twirled the blade in one hand, before bringing it into a stance, holding it’s handle with both of his hands. After that he was quick to sprint into battle, taking on the other two masked men, before they had a chance to surround Nike.
Alypius charged in, swinging his blade in one fluid motion down upon the first masked man. With some unholy speed, the creed member drew out a short sword from his belt, blocking the attack, by redirecting his swing, to the right and far away from his attacker. The creed member was quick to close in, throwing out the blade of his short sword towards Alypius’ chest. Yet with the pure momentum behind his blade, he brought it around in a circle. The blade swung around wildly, it’s tip scraping off the cold stone ground, only to collide with the masked man’s shin. The masked man buckled down onto one knee, the blade dropping from his hand before it reached his chest. Taking this moment Alypius grinned, as with his left hand he let go of his blade, and reached out for the masked man’s face. Grabbing hold, he threw the creed member’s body and head back flying into the ground, Alypius’ own weight contributing to the force of the push.
With a sickening crunch, Alypius held the head of the creed member, as he knelt over the body. From what Alypius knew, he was still alive, therefore he lifted his blade sinking it into the neck of the creed member. Blood spilled out instantly as the man’s half conscious screams were drowned out by the gurgling of his own blood.
Raising to his feet, Alypius turned on his heel, to spot whatever other creed members where left. In the time it had taken him to dispose of one, it seemed his partner in the fight had also disposed of another, leaving two left. However the second one he was fighting seemed to be out of sight.
That was until he left a sharp pain hit run across his back. Shouting out in pain, Alypius turned in a moment of fury swinging a fist wildly. His fist barely missed contact, as the creed member took a step back. “Ok, You got me there.” Alypius smirked, rolling his shoulders back as pain ran through his back.
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Hauling the man up to the wall, Alypius was suddenly called to attention. His head snapped towards a man, barely hearing his words over the ensuing chaos. At first he didn’t recognise the man, but as soon as he heard his voice, his eyes widened under his helmet. It was the man who slayed the first of the cloaked men, even still there was something about him which screamed authority, so not to waste time, Alypius was quick to follow his side. “Ay Sir.” He called out with a nod, before he matched his side. With a man on his other side, by which the man addressed as commander, he gave a nod, to him as well, yet said nothing more. After all this was not a time for words in the slightest, however the simplest of gestures spoke speeches in times like this.
Approaching the pole which held the head of the now late king, Alypius gashed his teeth, holding his blade within both hands. The singing blade watched as the commandeered wasted no time in engaging the four men. A grin grew under his helmet, appreciating the man’s thinking and confidence, he followed suite.
“Now, generally I would say drop your weapons or die, however since I’ve been given the order to kill, at least make this a bit of a challenge will you?” Alypius teased, as he expertly twirled the blade in one hand, before bringing it into a stance, holding it’s handle with both of his hands. After that he was quick to sprint into battle, taking on the other two masked men, before they had a chance to surround Nike.
Alypius charged in, swinging his blade in one fluid motion down upon the first masked man. With some unholy speed, the creed member drew out a short sword from his belt, blocking the attack, by redirecting his swing, to the right and far away from his attacker. The creed member was quick to close in, throwing out the blade of his short sword towards Alypius’ chest. Yet with the pure momentum behind his blade, he brought it around in a circle. The blade swung around wildly, it’s tip scraping off the cold stone ground, only to collide with the masked man’s shin. The masked man buckled down onto one knee, the blade dropping from his hand before it reached his chest. Taking this moment Alypius grinned, as with his left hand he let go of his blade, and reached out for the masked man’s face. Grabbing hold, he threw the creed member’s body and head back flying into the ground, Alypius’ own weight contributing to the force of the push.
With a sickening crunch, Alypius held the head of the creed member, as he knelt over the body. From what Alypius knew, he was still alive, therefore he lifted his blade sinking it into the neck of the creed member. Blood spilled out instantly as the man’s half conscious screams were drowned out by the gurgling of his own blood.
Raising to his feet, Alypius turned on his heel, to spot whatever other creed members where left. In the time it had taken him to dispose of one, it seemed his partner in the fight had also disposed of another, leaving two left. However the second one he was fighting seemed to be out of sight.
That was until he left a sharp pain hit run across his back. Shouting out in pain, Alypius turned in a moment of fury swinging a fist wildly. His fist barely missed contact, as the creed member took a step back. “Ok, You got me there.” Alypius smirked, rolling his shoulders back as pain ran through his back.
Hauling the man up to the wall, Alypius was suddenly called to attention. His head snapped towards a man, barely hearing his words over the ensuing chaos. At first he didn’t recognise the man, but as soon as he heard his voice, his eyes widened under his helmet. It was the man who slayed the first of the cloaked men, even still there was something about him which screamed authority, so not to waste time, Alypius was quick to follow his side. “Ay Sir.” He called out with a nod, before he matched his side. With a man on his other side, by which the man addressed as commander, he gave a nod, to him as well, yet said nothing more. After all this was not a time for words in the slightest, however the simplest of gestures spoke speeches in times like this.
Approaching the pole which held the head of the now late king, Alypius gashed his teeth, holding his blade within both hands. The singing blade watched as the commandeered wasted no time in engaging the four men. A grin grew under his helmet, appreciating the man’s thinking and confidence, he followed suite.
“Now, generally I would say drop your weapons or die, however since I’ve been given the order to kill, at least make this a bit of a challenge will you?” Alypius teased, as he expertly twirled the blade in one hand, before bringing it into a stance, holding it’s handle with both of his hands. After that he was quick to sprint into battle, taking on the other two masked men, before they had a chance to surround Nike.
Alypius charged in, swinging his blade in one fluid motion down upon the first masked man. With some unholy speed, the creed member drew out a short sword from his belt, blocking the attack, by redirecting his swing, to the right and far away from his attacker. The creed member was quick to close in, throwing out the blade of his short sword towards Alypius’ chest. Yet with the pure momentum behind his blade, he brought it around in a circle. The blade swung around wildly, it’s tip scraping off the cold stone ground, only to collide with the masked man’s shin. The masked man buckled down onto one knee, the blade dropping from his hand before it reached his chest. Taking this moment Alypius grinned, as with his left hand he let go of his blade, and reached out for the masked man’s face. Grabbing hold, he threw the creed member’s body and head back flying into the ground, Alypius’ own weight contributing to the force of the push.
With a sickening crunch, Alypius held the head of the creed member, as he knelt over the body. From what Alypius knew, he was still alive, therefore he lifted his blade sinking it into the neck of the creed member. Blood spilled out instantly as the man’s half conscious screams were drowned out by the gurgling of his own blood.
Raising to his feet, Alypius turned on his heel, to spot whatever other creed members where left. In the time it had taken him to dispose of one, it seemed his partner in the fight had also disposed of another, leaving two left. However the second one he was fighting seemed to be out of sight.
That was until he left a sharp pain hit run across his back. Shouting out in pain, Alypius turned in a moment of fury swinging a fist wildly. His fist barely missed contact, as the creed member took a step back. “Ok, You got me there.” Alypius smirked, rolling his shoulders back as pain ran through his back.
Leading the two men (sort of) that he acquired, Vangelis charged forward and didn't even look at the four cultists the others quickly engaged. As if they had rehearsed it, the three of them leapt in opposing directions, Nike and the Taengean soldiers towards the immediate threats and Vangelis at the pole directly in their centre.
Having little to no experience of pole climbing beyond climbing trees as a youth, Vangelis took a moment to secure the ankles of his boots around the pole and then, using mostly his upper body strength rather than any kind of skill or technique, he hiked himself up the pole.
He was half way up when a gasp of pain caught his attention and, looking down he saw the Taengean hunched from a strike across the back. Measuring the distance as best he could and re-positioning his hands, Vangelis called out below.
"Duck, Taengean!"
And with an almighty swing, Vangelis spun his legs around the pole and - with a rather satisfying thwack caught the cultist under the chin.
Securing himself back onto the pole and trying to avoid slipping, Vangelis looked back to see that his kick had sent the assailant several steps back and upset his balance. Vangelis looked down in just enough time to see his arms pinwheel and his feet slip, before the man fell over the top edge of the stadium. A yell of fright was heard as he dropped the entire height of the arena and a sickening smack ended his screams.
Without wasting time on the terrorist, or his fate, Vangelis carried on scrambling up the pole, only to find the second stretch harder than the first. Trails of blood ran down the veins of the wood and Vangelis had to be careful in how he placed his grip so he wouldn't slip and fall. By the time he reaches the top, his was covered in crimson, but he didn't let it slow him down.
Unhooking the cloak first and calling to his Commander, Vangelis hugged the pole - damp and sticky blood seeping its way through the front of his shirt - so that he could bunch the fabric up a little and drop it soundly down to Nike.
He then turned with a grim expression to the king.
Or what was left of him.
Swallowing back the bile he could feel rising in the back of his throat, Vangelis met the blank gaze of the king. The man's face was contorted, his mouth hanging open. Vangelis could see the wooden pole deep in his throat as it had been pierced straight through his skull, replacing where his spine should have sat.
Before anything else, Vangelis used the pad of his thumb to close the late monarch's eyelids and then relieved him of his crown. The accessory was unlikely to ever be used again by a royal but Vangelis still treated it with the rest it deserved, intent on returning both head and diadem to the royal palace.
"Taengean!" He called this time, attracting the soldier's attention from where he was trying to check his wound. "Guard it with your life." Vangelis dropped the crown down to the man.
While this might have seemed foolish - to trust one of the most sacred items in the kingdom to a man he hardly knew, Vangelis was a firm believer that you saw a man's true character when in war. And this particular soldier had not only followed his orders without question but dived into obvious danger in order to help retrieve the remains of his late king. Such believe screamed of him being an honourable man.
Turning back to the task at hand, Vangelis gritted his teeth and tried to keep his features clear of his own disgust as he carefully placed a hand on either side of Zenon of Mikaelidas' head. With a wiggling motion that offered sounds too gruesome for Vangelis to ever want to remember, he worked the head free of its pillar, his stomach churning the whole time.
Just when the squelches of blood and the dull scraping of bone risked causing him to vomit entirely, Vangelis had the head free and a fresh wave of blood was released down the pole. Careful to keep his hands away from it as best her could, Vangelis kept the head close to his chest, drenching any of his clothes that had escaped stains on the way up, and started to pick his way back down to the ground.
His progress was slower than it had been in the other direction but Vangelis finally made it down, just as the stadium was finally managing to clear of people.
The flames all around the circus were now as high as a man and working their way down the stairs towards the main rink. Any masked raiders who were still alive had disappeared in the flames and panic. All that were left were the prone bodies of those who had been knocked out or captured - all of whom were being dragged away by the guards.
Vangelis looked down at himself, coated in the blood of the late Taengean king - which he didn't give one jot about - but as annoyed for a moment that he had shrugged out of his cloak back when he had been sitting with Lady Selene at the start of the race.
Glancing at the Taengean soldier who continued to stand loyally with them, he noted the man's short cloak. It held the national symbol of the peacock and a white tree in its centre and Vangelis held out a hand. His fingers dripped with crimson, he quickly wiped them on his riding pants, down by the knee, before reaching out again.
"Give me your cloak." He told the man. "We need something to wrap this in..."
They couldn't very well wander around the city with the morbid head beneath an arm. They would need to wrap it and Vangelis could think of no better quilt than the symbol of the nation the man had ruled.
"Then we need to make sure the guards organise keeping the people away from the stadium and head to the palace."
Luckily, if Vangelis remembered correctly, the stadium was such a large structure that the road surrounding it was wide for large numbers of foot traffic. There would be minimal risk of the fires and their sparks being able to jump across so wide a thoroughfare to set alight nearby residences. All they would need to focus on was ensuring no civilians drew close to the stadium.
That, and getting themselves and their precious cargo out of the circus and to the royal palace, where the new king would be waiting...
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Leading the two men (sort of) that he acquired, Vangelis charged forward and didn't even look at the four cultists the others quickly engaged. As if they had rehearsed it, the three of them leapt in opposing directions, Nike and the Taengean soldiers towards the immediate threats and Vangelis at the pole directly in their centre.
Having little to no experience of pole climbing beyond climbing trees as a youth, Vangelis took a moment to secure the ankles of his boots around the pole and then, using mostly his upper body strength rather than any kind of skill or technique, he hiked himself up the pole.
He was half way up when a gasp of pain caught his attention and, looking down he saw the Taengean hunched from a strike across the back. Measuring the distance as best he could and re-positioning his hands, Vangelis called out below.
"Duck, Taengean!"
And with an almighty swing, Vangelis spun his legs around the pole and - with a rather satisfying thwack caught the cultist under the chin.
Securing himself back onto the pole and trying to avoid slipping, Vangelis looked back to see that his kick had sent the assailant several steps back and upset his balance. Vangelis looked down in just enough time to see his arms pinwheel and his feet slip, before the man fell over the top edge of the stadium. A yell of fright was heard as he dropped the entire height of the arena and a sickening smack ended his screams.
Without wasting time on the terrorist, or his fate, Vangelis carried on scrambling up the pole, only to find the second stretch harder than the first. Trails of blood ran down the veins of the wood and Vangelis had to be careful in how he placed his grip so he wouldn't slip and fall. By the time he reaches the top, his was covered in crimson, but he didn't let it slow him down.
Unhooking the cloak first and calling to his Commander, Vangelis hugged the pole - damp and sticky blood seeping its way through the front of his shirt - so that he could bunch the fabric up a little and drop it soundly down to Nike.
He then turned with a grim expression to the king.
Or what was left of him.
Swallowing back the bile he could feel rising in the back of his throat, Vangelis met the blank gaze of the king. The man's face was contorted, his mouth hanging open. Vangelis could see the wooden pole deep in his throat as it had been pierced straight through his skull, replacing where his spine should have sat.
Before anything else, Vangelis used the pad of his thumb to close the late monarch's eyelids and then relieved him of his crown. The accessory was unlikely to ever be used again by a royal but Vangelis still treated it with the rest it deserved, intent on returning both head and diadem to the royal palace.
"Taengean!" He called this time, attracting the soldier's attention from where he was trying to check his wound. "Guard it with your life." Vangelis dropped the crown down to the man.
While this might have seemed foolish - to trust one of the most sacred items in the kingdom to a man he hardly knew, Vangelis was a firm believer that you saw a man's true character when in war. And this particular soldier had not only followed his orders without question but dived into obvious danger in order to help retrieve the remains of his late king. Such believe screamed of him being an honourable man.
Turning back to the task at hand, Vangelis gritted his teeth and tried to keep his features clear of his own disgust as he carefully placed a hand on either side of Zenon of Mikaelidas' head. With a wiggling motion that offered sounds too gruesome for Vangelis to ever want to remember, he worked the head free of its pillar, his stomach churning the whole time.
Just when the squelches of blood and the dull scraping of bone risked causing him to vomit entirely, Vangelis had the head free and a fresh wave of blood was released down the pole. Careful to keep his hands away from it as best her could, Vangelis kept the head close to his chest, drenching any of his clothes that had escaped stains on the way up, and started to pick his way back down to the ground.
His progress was slower than it had been in the other direction but Vangelis finally made it down, just as the stadium was finally managing to clear of people.
The flames all around the circus were now as high as a man and working their way down the stairs towards the main rink. Any masked raiders who were still alive had disappeared in the flames and panic. All that were left were the prone bodies of those who had been knocked out or captured - all of whom were being dragged away by the guards.
Vangelis looked down at himself, coated in the blood of the late Taengean king - which he didn't give one jot about - but as annoyed for a moment that he had shrugged out of his cloak back when he had been sitting with Lady Selene at the start of the race.
Glancing at the Taengean soldier who continued to stand loyally with them, he noted the man's short cloak. It held the national symbol of the peacock and a white tree in its centre and Vangelis held out a hand. His fingers dripped with crimson, he quickly wiped them on his riding pants, down by the knee, before reaching out again.
"Give me your cloak." He told the man. "We need something to wrap this in..."
They couldn't very well wander around the city with the morbid head beneath an arm. They would need to wrap it and Vangelis could think of no better quilt than the symbol of the nation the man had ruled.
"Then we need to make sure the guards organise keeping the people away from the stadium and head to the palace."
Luckily, if Vangelis remembered correctly, the stadium was such a large structure that the road surrounding it was wide for large numbers of foot traffic. There would be minimal risk of the fires and their sparks being able to jump across so wide a thoroughfare to set alight nearby residences. All they would need to focus on was ensuring no civilians drew close to the stadium.
That, and getting themselves and their precious cargo out of the circus and to the royal palace, where the new king would be waiting...
Leading the two men (sort of) that he acquired, Vangelis charged forward and didn't even look at the four cultists the others quickly engaged. As if they had rehearsed it, the three of them leapt in opposing directions, Nike and the Taengean soldiers towards the immediate threats and Vangelis at the pole directly in their centre.
Having little to no experience of pole climbing beyond climbing trees as a youth, Vangelis took a moment to secure the ankles of his boots around the pole and then, using mostly his upper body strength rather than any kind of skill or technique, he hiked himself up the pole.
He was half way up when a gasp of pain caught his attention and, looking down he saw the Taengean hunched from a strike across the back. Measuring the distance as best he could and re-positioning his hands, Vangelis called out below.
"Duck, Taengean!"
And with an almighty swing, Vangelis spun his legs around the pole and - with a rather satisfying thwack caught the cultist under the chin.
Securing himself back onto the pole and trying to avoid slipping, Vangelis looked back to see that his kick had sent the assailant several steps back and upset his balance. Vangelis looked down in just enough time to see his arms pinwheel and his feet slip, before the man fell over the top edge of the stadium. A yell of fright was heard as he dropped the entire height of the arena and a sickening smack ended his screams.
Without wasting time on the terrorist, or his fate, Vangelis carried on scrambling up the pole, only to find the second stretch harder than the first. Trails of blood ran down the veins of the wood and Vangelis had to be careful in how he placed his grip so he wouldn't slip and fall. By the time he reaches the top, his was covered in crimson, but he didn't let it slow him down.
Unhooking the cloak first and calling to his Commander, Vangelis hugged the pole - damp and sticky blood seeping its way through the front of his shirt - so that he could bunch the fabric up a little and drop it soundly down to Nike.
He then turned with a grim expression to the king.
Or what was left of him.
Swallowing back the bile he could feel rising in the back of his throat, Vangelis met the blank gaze of the king. The man's face was contorted, his mouth hanging open. Vangelis could see the wooden pole deep in his throat as it had been pierced straight through his skull, replacing where his spine should have sat.
Before anything else, Vangelis used the pad of his thumb to close the late monarch's eyelids and then relieved him of his crown. The accessory was unlikely to ever be used again by a royal but Vangelis still treated it with the rest it deserved, intent on returning both head and diadem to the royal palace.
"Taengean!" He called this time, attracting the soldier's attention from where he was trying to check his wound. "Guard it with your life." Vangelis dropped the crown down to the man.
While this might have seemed foolish - to trust one of the most sacred items in the kingdom to a man he hardly knew, Vangelis was a firm believer that you saw a man's true character when in war. And this particular soldier had not only followed his orders without question but dived into obvious danger in order to help retrieve the remains of his late king. Such believe screamed of him being an honourable man.
Turning back to the task at hand, Vangelis gritted his teeth and tried to keep his features clear of his own disgust as he carefully placed a hand on either side of Zenon of Mikaelidas' head. With a wiggling motion that offered sounds too gruesome for Vangelis to ever want to remember, he worked the head free of its pillar, his stomach churning the whole time.
Just when the squelches of blood and the dull scraping of bone risked causing him to vomit entirely, Vangelis had the head free and a fresh wave of blood was released down the pole. Careful to keep his hands away from it as best her could, Vangelis kept the head close to his chest, drenching any of his clothes that had escaped stains on the way up, and started to pick his way back down to the ground.
His progress was slower than it had been in the other direction but Vangelis finally made it down, just as the stadium was finally managing to clear of people.
The flames all around the circus were now as high as a man and working their way down the stairs towards the main rink. Any masked raiders who were still alive had disappeared in the flames and panic. All that were left were the prone bodies of those who had been knocked out or captured - all of whom were being dragged away by the guards.
Vangelis looked down at himself, coated in the blood of the late Taengean king - which he didn't give one jot about - but as annoyed for a moment that he had shrugged out of his cloak back when he had been sitting with Lady Selene at the start of the race.
Glancing at the Taengean soldier who continued to stand loyally with them, he noted the man's short cloak. It held the national symbol of the peacock and a white tree in its centre and Vangelis held out a hand. His fingers dripped with crimson, he quickly wiped them on his riding pants, down by the knee, before reaching out again.
"Give me your cloak." He told the man. "We need something to wrap this in..."
They couldn't very well wander around the city with the morbid head beneath an arm. They would need to wrap it and Vangelis could think of no better quilt than the symbol of the nation the man had ruled.
"Then we need to make sure the guards organise keeping the people away from the stadium and head to the palace."
Luckily, if Vangelis remembered correctly, the stadium was such a large structure that the road surrounding it was wide for large numbers of foot traffic. There would be minimal risk of the fires and their sparks being able to jump across so wide a thoroughfare to set alight nearby residences. All they would need to focus on was ensuring no civilians drew close to the stadium.
That, and getting themselves and their precious cargo out of the circus and to the royal palace, where the new king would be waiting...
“My father?” Achilleas stammered, honestly bewildered by his cousin’s seemingly random question. Still down on one knee he looked up at Stephanos with a shake of his head. “I last saw him at the Leventi’s feast. Shortly after my betrothal was announced last night.” It occurred to him then why Stephanos asked such a thing and he looked up at his cousin in stunned dismay. He knew all too well of his father’s scheming but he couldn’t quite believe his father would commit treason or fratricide.
Accepting his dagger back, Achilleas sheathed it and rose to his feet, “Of course. I will guard them with my life.” He said simply and sincerely. And he would, they were family after all. Achilleas’ gaze shifted from Stephanos to the lady Pia and back again. “Majesty? What of the lady? I could see her back to her family once I’ve found my aunt and cousins.” He offered, mostly so Stephanos could do what he needed without having to worry for the lady’s safety. there was a part of him that knew he offered in the hopes he’d be able to see for himself that Theo was safe if he were the one to take Pia to her home.
But when Stephanos just shook his head, Achilleas didn't push the matter, instead he followed in his cousin’s wake until all three were clear of the arena, then headed off to find his aunt and two female cousins as he’d been ordered by his sovereign. Even armed with just a dagger he was a formidable fighter and it didn't take him long before he was more suitably armed. Never again will I go so unarmed. He thought as he hurried along, Chariot race rules be damned!
At the palace, he organized the guards that had been protecting the queen and the princesses, relayed the new king's orders, and personally escorted his aunt and younger cousin to the ship that would take them to safety. He left a compliment of men to protect the princess Xene, and see her to her brother’s side. That way there would be more men protecting Stephanos against the cultists.
Now that his duty was done, Achilleas went in search of his own mother, his two younger half sisters, their mother, (not that he had any great love for Meena, but she was Tasia and Sara’s mother) and his betrothed, Theodora, these were the four women who meant the most to him.
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Staff Team
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“My father?” Achilleas stammered, honestly bewildered by his cousin’s seemingly random question. Still down on one knee he looked up at Stephanos with a shake of his head. “I last saw him at the Leventi’s feast. Shortly after my betrothal was announced last night.” It occurred to him then why Stephanos asked such a thing and he looked up at his cousin in stunned dismay. He knew all too well of his father’s scheming but he couldn’t quite believe his father would commit treason or fratricide.
Accepting his dagger back, Achilleas sheathed it and rose to his feet, “Of course. I will guard them with my life.” He said simply and sincerely. And he would, they were family after all. Achilleas’ gaze shifted from Stephanos to the lady Pia and back again. “Majesty? What of the lady? I could see her back to her family once I’ve found my aunt and cousins.” He offered, mostly so Stephanos could do what he needed without having to worry for the lady’s safety. there was a part of him that knew he offered in the hopes he’d be able to see for himself that Theo was safe if he were the one to take Pia to her home.
But when Stephanos just shook his head, Achilleas didn't push the matter, instead he followed in his cousin’s wake until all three were clear of the arena, then headed off to find his aunt and two female cousins as he’d been ordered by his sovereign. Even armed with just a dagger he was a formidable fighter and it didn't take him long before he was more suitably armed. Never again will I go so unarmed. He thought as he hurried along, Chariot race rules be damned!
At the palace, he organized the guards that had been protecting the queen and the princesses, relayed the new king's orders, and personally escorted his aunt and younger cousin to the ship that would take them to safety. He left a compliment of men to protect the princess Xene, and see her to her brother’s side. That way there would be more men protecting Stephanos against the cultists.
Now that his duty was done, Achilleas went in search of his own mother, his two younger half sisters, their mother, (not that he had any great love for Meena, but she was Tasia and Sara’s mother) and his betrothed, Theodora, these were the four women who meant the most to him.
“My father?” Achilleas stammered, honestly bewildered by his cousin’s seemingly random question. Still down on one knee he looked up at Stephanos with a shake of his head. “I last saw him at the Leventi’s feast. Shortly after my betrothal was announced last night.” It occurred to him then why Stephanos asked such a thing and he looked up at his cousin in stunned dismay. He knew all too well of his father’s scheming but he couldn’t quite believe his father would commit treason or fratricide.
Accepting his dagger back, Achilleas sheathed it and rose to his feet, “Of course. I will guard them with my life.” He said simply and sincerely. And he would, they were family after all. Achilleas’ gaze shifted from Stephanos to the lady Pia and back again. “Majesty? What of the lady? I could see her back to her family once I’ve found my aunt and cousins.” He offered, mostly so Stephanos could do what he needed without having to worry for the lady’s safety. there was a part of him that knew he offered in the hopes he’d be able to see for himself that Theo was safe if he were the one to take Pia to her home.
But when Stephanos just shook his head, Achilleas didn't push the matter, instead he followed in his cousin’s wake until all three were clear of the arena, then headed off to find his aunt and two female cousins as he’d been ordered by his sovereign. Even armed with just a dagger he was a formidable fighter and it didn't take him long before he was more suitably armed. Never again will I go so unarmed. He thought as he hurried along, Chariot race rules be damned!
At the palace, he organized the guards that had been protecting the queen and the princesses, relayed the new king's orders, and personally escorted his aunt and younger cousin to the ship that would take them to safety. He left a compliment of men to protect the princess Xene, and see her to her brother’s side. That way there would be more men protecting Stephanos against the cultists.
Now that his duty was done, Achilleas went in search of his own mother, his two younger half sisters, their mother, (not that he had any great love for Meena, but she was Tasia and Sara’s mother) and his betrothed, Theodora, these were the four women who meant the most to him.
