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But occasionally, one may be surprised to find that the best memories are made in the middle of a battlefield. After all, these men were with each other twenty-four seven, day in and day out. They depended on each other for their lives, shared meals, shared tears, aches and pains. While her first few years as a soldier and low ranking officer had been tough, especially with the secret she's had to keep to herself, Nike found herself... somewhat smiling more, laughing more, tossing out quips more often in her more recent years.
After a year of being made a captain, the woman was truly coming into her own. While there was still a large portion of soldiers within the Red Knights who did not see eye to eye to Nike, and disagreed with their general's decision to promote someone they had seen as 'small' and 'weak' due to her smaller size, they conceded due to their military training and rank. However, more of them have rallied to Nike's side, especially when she proved her worth as someone who can be trusted both in and out of battle.
As evening fell, the regiment often gathered around a campfire to share their evening meal that the cook had whipped up, something warm as the evenings got colder, a stew of whatever meat the designated hunters for the day had managed to capture, prepared after they had done their daily offerings to the Gods respectively.
Taking her chance to take a quick wash in the river as Nike often did after everyone else had done (people talked, but they had eventually chalked it up to Nike being eccentric, as she was known), with her hair still slick from her quick romp in the river, she had pulled on her leather vest over the white tunic, a loose black pants tucked into her boots before the young captain of twenty three wandered over to the campfire, jostling her men back as they ribbed her about the day's training, before gratefully accepting the bowl of stew they had ladled up for her.
The warm broth of hare's meat cooked with root vegetables warmed her as she took her first bite, but just as she dug her spoon in for a second one, a loud commotion made her look up sharply. Where the cook was, the fire he had used to cook had somehow been caught in the growing breeze of the evening, growing till a large stick the cook usually used to stir the pot fell from where it had been placed on the edge of his workstation.
The falling stick had knocked the wagon that the cook had loaded with two freshly cooked, large clay pots filled with bubbling stew.
And it was going wildly downhill.
Shouts started out, and when Nike traced the pathway of the wagon, her face almost went pale when she saw where the wagon was headed for - directly at the general's tent, where most of the soldiers could confirm that he had been in not too long ago, going over their next plan of attack in their process of settling the north.
Without much of a second thought, Nike had dropped her almost-full bowl, and started dashing full throttle towards the wagon. In the midst of it, she managed to grab a sword which belonged to a random solider who had just walked out of the shared barracks. Holding it above her head as she ran, she aimed for the wagon's wheels, throwing it in hopes that it would get caught in the spindles and effectively slowing the velocity of the wildly out of control wagon. In the same movement, she yanked out the arm-length dagger she always kept from her boot, tossing it again and hoping that if the sword failed to stop the wagon, at the very least the dagger would serve to crack and break the two pots of boiling hot stew - first degree burns over one's whole body was infinitely worst then minor scrapes and cuts from a splintering wooden wagon.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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No one ever said a battlefield was an easy sight.
But occasionally, one may be surprised to find that the best memories are made in the middle of a battlefield. After all, these men were with each other twenty-four seven, day in and day out. They depended on each other for their lives, shared meals, shared tears, aches and pains. While her first few years as a soldier and low ranking officer had been tough, especially with the secret she's had to keep to herself, Nike found herself... somewhat smiling more, laughing more, tossing out quips more often in her more recent years.
After a year of being made a captain, the woman was truly coming into her own. While there was still a large portion of soldiers within the Red Knights who did not see eye to eye to Nike, and disagreed with their general's decision to promote someone they had seen as 'small' and 'weak' due to her smaller size, they conceded due to their military training and rank. However, more of them have rallied to Nike's side, especially when she proved her worth as someone who can be trusted both in and out of battle.
As evening fell, the regiment often gathered around a campfire to share their evening meal that the cook had whipped up, something warm as the evenings got colder, a stew of whatever meat the designated hunters for the day had managed to capture, prepared after they had done their daily offerings to the Gods respectively.
Taking her chance to take a quick wash in the river as Nike often did after everyone else had done (people talked, but they had eventually chalked it up to Nike being eccentric, as she was known), with her hair still slick from her quick romp in the river, she had pulled on her leather vest over the white tunic, a loose black pants tucked into her boots before the young captain of twenty three wandered over to the campfire, jostling her men back as they ribbed her about the day's training, before gratefully accepting the bowl of stew they had ladled up for her.
The warm broth of hare's meat cooked with root vegetables warmed her as she took her first bite, but just as she dug her spoon in for a second one, a loud commotion made her look up sharply. Where the cook was, the fire he had used to cook had somehow been caught in the growing breeze of the evening, growing till a large stick the cook usually used to stir the pot fell from where it had been placed on the edge of his workstation.
The falling stick had knocked the wagon that the cook had loaded with two freshly cooked, large clay pots filled with bubbling stew.
And it was going wildly downhill.
Shouts started out, and when Nike traced the pathway of the wagon, her face almost went pale when she saw where the wagon was headed for - directly at the general's tent, where most of the soldiers could confirm that he had been in not too long ago, going over their next plan of attack in their process of settling the north.
Without much of a second thought, Nike had dropped her almost-full bowl, and started dashing full throttle towards the wagon. In the midst of it, she managed to grab a sword which belonged to a random solider who had just walked out of the shared barracks. Holding it above her head as she ran, she aimed for the wagon's wheels, throwing it in hopes that it would get caught in the spindles and effectively slowing the velocity of the wildly out of control wagon. In the same movement, she yanked out the arm-length dagger she always kept from her boot, tossing it again and hoping that if the sword failed to stop the wagon, at the very least the dagger would serve to crack and break the two pots of boiling hot stew - first degree burns over one's whole body was infinitely worst then minor scrapes and cuts from a splintering wooden wagon.
No one ever said a battlefield was an easy sight.
But occasionally, one may be surprised to find that the best memories are made in the middle of a battlefield. After all, these men were with each other twenty-four seven, day in and day out. They depended on each other for their lives, shared meals, shared tears, aches and pains. While her first few years as a soldier and low ranking officer had been tough, especially with the secret she's had to keep to herself, Nike found herself... somewhat smiling more, laughing more, tossing out quips more often in her more recent years.
After a year of being made a captain, the woman was truly coming into her own. While there was still a large portion of soldiers within the Red Knights who did not see eye to eye to Nike, and disagreed with their general's decision to promote someone they had seen as 'small' and 'weak' due to her smaller size, they conceded due to their military training and rank. However, more of them have rallied to Nike's side, especially when she proved her worth as someone who can be trusted both in and out of battle.
As evening fell, the regiment often gathered around a campfire to share their evening meal that the cook had whipped up, something warm as the evenings got colder, a stew of whatever meat the designated hunters for the day had managed to capture, prepared after they had done their daily offerings to the Gods respectively.
Taking her chance to take a quick wash in the river as Nike often did after everyone else had done (people talked, but they had eventually chalked it up to Nike being eccentric, as she was known), with her hair still slick from her quick romp in the river, she had pulled on her leather vest over the white tunic, a loose black pants tucked into her boots before the young captain of twenty three wandered over to the campfire, jostling her men back as they ribbed her about the day's training, before gratefully accepting the bowl of stew they had ladled up for her.
The warm broth of hare's meat cooked with root vegetables warmed her as she took her first bite, but just as she dug her spoon in for a second one, a loud commotion made her look up sharply. Where the cook was, the fire he had used to cook had somehow been caught in the growing breeze of the evening, growing till a large stick the cook usually used to stir the pot fell from where it had been placed on the edge of his workstation.
The falling stick had knocked the wagon that the cook had loaded with two freshly cooked, large clay pots filled with bubbling stew.
And it was going wildly downhill.
Shouts started out, and when Nike traced the pathway of the wagon, her face almost went pale when she saw where the wagon was headed for - directly at the general's tent, where most of the soldiers could confirm that he had been in not too long ago, going over their next plan of attack in their process of settling the north.
Without much of a second thought, Nike had dropped her almost-full bowl, and started dashing full throttle towards the wagon. In the midst of it, she managed to grab a sword which belonged to a random solider who had just walked out of the shared barracks. Holding it above her head as she ran, she aimed for the wagon's wheels, throwing it in hopes that it would get caught in the spindles and effectively slowing the velocity of the wildly out of control wagon. In the same movement, she yanked out the arm-length dagger she always kept from her boot, tossing it again and hoping that if the sword failed to stop the wagon, at the very least the dagger would serve to crack and break the two pots of boiling hot stew - first degree burns over one's whole body was infinitely worst then minor scrapes and cuts from a splintering wooden wagon.
While the trundling of a wagon was too far away and too low in pitch to be heard in and amongst the laughing and jeering voices of the encampment, the high-pitched shatter of a pot caught Vangelis' attention just fine.
In fact, he was just looking up from the map he had been staring at when a large wagon of food, dripping in stew and steaming with heat, came crashing through the front of his tent. Already tense and alert from the noise he had heard (which, given the nest of shattered crockery still leaking thick brown juices had been one of the stew pots breaking), Vangelis was able to make a flying leap out of the way - something he would have been unlikely to manage had his mind been mired in tactical plans over strange, cracking pots.
In a blink, half his tent was destroyed, the oil lamp he had been using to read was overturned, his maps and table caught alight and the final pot of his soldier's afternoon dinner was destroyed on impact.
His personal tent now demolished and on fire, Vangelis was crouched beneath one of the fallen pillars that held the fabric up. Annoyed by unafraid, he unsheathed the dual swords at his waist and back and, with two long swipes of his arms, sliced an X into the sheets that had once been the roof of his foreign land bed chambers. With an open space he stepped through the newly carved hole and made three long strides in his heavy boots to put himself clear of the destruction.
Looking at the mess, the wagon damaged, the food everywhere, the fire that had once been his tactical plans now simmering and disappearing in a puff of dark smoke, extinguished by hare stew, and his own living quarters destroyed in the process...
The look on General Vangelis' face said it all. He was not pleased.
As he thundered over to the cluster of men who had clearly been eating before the chaos had ensued, his soldiers got quickly to their feet, their bowls and spoons forgotten and their stances, frames of respect.
"Spread the word." Vangelis ordered them, his tone harsh. "Everyone in full battle armour and at attention here, now!"
His tone brokered no argument and the men hastened away in fright and awe.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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While the trundling of a wagon was too far away and too low in pitch to be heard in and amongst the laughing and jeering voices of the encampment, the high-pitched shatter of a pot caught Vangelis' attention just fine.
In fact, he was just looking up from the map he had been staring at when a large wagon of food, dripping in stew and steaming with heat, came crashing through the front of his tent. Already tense and alert from the noise he had heard (which, given the nest of shattered crockery still leaking thick brown juices had been one of the stew pots breaking), Vangelis was able to make a flying leap out of the way - something he would have been unlikely to manage had his mind been mired in tactical plans over strange, cracking pots.
In a blink, half his tent was destroyed, the oil lamp he had been using to read was overturned, his maps and table caught alight and the final pot of his soldier's afternoon dinner was destroyed on impact.
His personal tent now demolished and on fire, Vangelis was crouched beneath one of the fallen pillars that held the fabric up. Annoyed by unafraid, he unsheathed the dual swords at his waist and back and, with two long swipes of his arms, sliced an X into the sheets that had once been the roof of his foreign land bed chambers. With an open space he stepped through the newly carved hole and made three long strides in his heavy boots to put himself clear of the destruction.
Looking at the mess, the wagon damaged, the food everywhere, the fire that had once been his tactical plans now simmering and disappearing in a puff of dark smoke, extinguished by hare stew, and his own living quarters destroyed in the process...
The look on General Vangelis' face said it all. He was not pleased.
As he thundered over to the cluster of men who had clearly been eating before the chaos had ensued, his soldiers got quickly to their feet, their bowls and spoons forgotten and their stances, frames of respect.
"Spread the word." Vangelis ordered them, his tone harsh. "Everyone in full battle armour and at attention here, now!"
His tone brokered no argument and the men hastened away in fright and awe.
While the trundling of a wagon was too far away and too low in pitch to be heard in and amongst the laughing and jeering voices of the encampment, the high-pitched shatter of a pot caught Vangelis' attention just fine.
In fact, he was just looking up from the map he had been staring at when a large wagon of food, dripping in stew and steaming with heat, came crashing through the front of his tent. Already tense and alert from the noise he had heard (which, given the nest of shattered crockery still leaking thick brown juices had been one of the stew pots breaking), Vangelis was able to make a flying leap out of the way - something he would have been unlikely to manage had his mind been mired in tactical plans over strange, cracking pots.
In a blink, half his tent was destroyed, the oil lamp he had been using to read was overturned, his maps and table caught alight and the final pot of his soldier's afternoon dinner was destroyed on impact.
His personal tent now demolished and on fire, Vangelis was crouched beneath one of the fallen pillars that held the fabric up. Annoyed by unafraid, he unsheathed the dual swords at his waist and back and, with two long swipes of his arms, sliced an X into the sheets that had once been the roof of his foreign land bed chambers. With an open space he stepped through the newly carved hole and made three long strides in his heavy boots to put himself clear of the destruction.
Looking at the mess, the wagon damaged, the food everywhere, the fire that had once been his tactical plans now simmering and disappearing in a puff of dark smoke, extinguished by hare stew, and his own living quarters destroyed in the process...
The look on General Vangelis' face said it all. He was not pleased.
As he thundered over to the cluster of men who had clearly been eating before the chaos had ensued, his soldiers got quickly to their feet, their bowls and spoons forgotten and their stances, frames of respect.
"Spread the word." Vangelis ordered them, his tone harsh. "Everyone in full battle armour and at attention here, now!"
His tone brokered no argument and the men hastened away in fright and awe.
When the wagon, with its stew pots cracked open and the contents of which spilling everywhere, crashed right into the tent, Nike cursed, speeding up her running legs. It wasn't until the flames started, did she skid to a stop, her heart jumping into her throat. For a long time, it was as if her world froze, her senses dulled when she stared at the flames that licked at the tent which had served as her general's sleeping quarters, half believing he was caught under.
That is, until a sharp slicing sound made her gaze flick towards it, and Nike let out a breathe she didn't even realize she was holding, when the usual figure of her general popped out from underneath. He looked unharmed, if a little frustrated, but just seeing his figure not on fire, was enough to let Nike droop her shoulders in relief.
That is, until he started striding over with great, purposeful strides. One look at his face had Nike quick enough to surmise that General Vangelis was not at all pleased with the turn of events.
His words were quick to get everyone quick to action, and everyone jumped to their feet, Nike included. Dashing to their barracks, the soldiers and military men of the Red Knights had never put on their armor and strapped on their weapons as quick as they have before. Nike herself ran a hand through her damp hair, anxious to have it dry quickly once she's pulled on her leather armor over her white tunic and pants, slipping her feet into her thick and heavy boots.
With the snap of her utility belt around her waist, she anxiously ran another hand through her damp hair again, still sticking to her scalp, before joining her men running out to the area where Vangelis had indicated. Breatheless from the speed of which they had needed to get dressed, it was obvious by the way the men jostled and pushed each other to get in position, that all of them had noticed the anger in their general's face - something that did not bade well for any of them.
In their rustle of activity, the men stood to attention, all eyes focused on Vangelis. Nike stood right in front of the men she had under her command, her posture rigid and straight, none of which betrayed just how fast her heart beat in her chest, anxious. She knows firsthand just how dangerous her general's anger can be, and she never wanted to be on the other end of it again.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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When the wagon, with its stew pots cracked open and the contents of which spilling everywhere, crashed right into the tent, Nike cursed, speeding up her running legs. It wasn't until the flames started, did she skid to a stop, her heart jumping into her throat. For a long time, it was as if her world froze, her senses dulled when she stared at the flames that licked at the tent which had served as her general's sleeping quarters, half believing he was caught under.
That is, until a sharp slicing sound made her gaze flick towards it, and Nike let out a breathe she didn't even realize she was holding, when the usual figure of her general popped out from underneath. He looked unharmed, if a little frustrated, but just seeing his figure not on fire, was enough to let Nike droop her shoulders in relief.
That is, until he started striding over with great, purposeful strides. One look at his face had Nike quick enough to surmise that General Vangelis was not at all pleased with the turn of events.
His words were quick to get everyone quick to action, and everyone jumped to their feet, Nike included. Dashing to their barracks, the soldiers and military men of the Red Knights had never put on their armor and strapped on their weapons as quick as they have before. Nike herself ran a hand through her damp hair, anxious to have it dry quickly once she's pulled on her leather armor over her white tunic and pants, slipping her feet into her thick and heavy boots.
With the snap of her utility belt around her waist, she anxiously ran another hand through her damp hair again, still sticking to her scalp, before joining her men running out to the area where Vangelis had indicated. Breatheless from the speed of which they had needed to get dressed, it was obvious by the way the men jostled and pushed each other to get in position, that all of them had noticed the anger in their general's face - something that did not bade well for any of them.
In their rustle of activity, the men stood to attention, all eyes focused on Vangelis. Nike stood right in front of the men she had under her command, her posture rigid and straight, none of which betrayed just how fast her heart beat in her chest, anxious. She knows firsthand just how dangerous her general's anger can be, and she never wanted to be on the other end of it again.
When the wagon, with its stew pots cracked open and the contents of which spilling everywhere, crashed right into the tent, Nike cursed, speeding up her running legs. It wasn't until the flames started, did she skid to a stop, her heart jumping into her throat. For a long time, it was as if her world froze, her senses dulled when she stared at the flames that licked at the tent which had served as her general's sleeping quarters, half believing he was caught under.
That is, until a sharp slicing sound made her gaze flick towards it, and Nike let out a breathe she didn't even realize she was holding, when the usual figure of her general popped out from underneath. He looked unharmed, if a little frustrated, but just seeing his figure not on fire, was enough to let Nike droop her shoulders in relief.
That is, until he started striding over with great, purposeful strides. One look at his face had Nike quick enough to surmise that General Vangelis was not at all pleased with the turn of events.
His words were quick to get everyone quick to action, and everyone jumped to their feet, Nike included. Dashing to their barracks, the soldiers and military men of the Red Knights had never put on their armor and strapped on their weapons as quick as they have before. Nike herself ran a hand through her damp hair, anxious to have it dry quickly once she's pulled on her leather armor over her white tunic and pants, slipping her feet into her thick and heavy boots.
With the snap of her utility belt around her waist, she anxiously ran another hand through her damp hair again, still sticking to her scalp, before joining her men running out to the area where Vangelis had indicated. Breatheless from the speed of which they had needed to get dressed, it was obvious by the way the men jostled and pushed each other to get in position, that all of them had noticed the anger in their general's face - something that did not bade well for any of them.
In their rustle of activity, the men stood to attention, all eyes focused on Vangelis. Nike stood right in front of the men she had under her command, her posture rigid and straight, none of which betrayed just how fast her heart beat in her chest, anxious. She knows firsthand just how dangerous her general's anger can be, and she never wanted to be on the other end of it again.
Vangelis watched as his men scrambled. He said nothing as they hastened to follow his orders, tripped over their own feet in order to get to their tents faster and secure their armour into place sooner.
He simply stood where he was, his feet apart, his arms folded, the destruction of his tent as his backdrop. His expression brokered no argument and held out no hope for a merciful course of actions.
When the men of the unit were back in place, they were quickly followed by the rest of the garrison. Every soldier under his command was awaiting his orders, standing side by side in rows, and clad in full body armour.
When he was certain he had all of their attentions Vangelis let his arms fall and stood before them - the only one without metal protection and yet the one to appear the most infallible among them.
"Soldiers do not die in war." He began, choosing his words carefully and walking up and down his front line. "They do not die in combat. They do not die under attacks."
He stopped moving to emphasise his next point.
"If I am forced to carry your ashes back to your families, it will not be because an enemy struck you or defeated you." He raised a hand, his finger pointed skywards to make his next words sink in. "It will be because you did not see the attack coming. You did not defend against it. You did not survive... In war, it is not about who lives. It is about who is the last to die."
His tone turned angry.
"I do not except carelessness in my camp." His voice was raised in volume but not in any way out of control. It was firm. Decisive. And chilling. "Carelessness, unobservant soldiers die very quickly because they do not defend against their enemy. They do not notice when Hades has come to call. Fight and Ares will bless you. Be ignorant and Hades will take you."
Vangelis raised his hands as if he were at a loss.
"How can I expect my men to survive a battle - where a thousand things can happen, a thousands elements that could mean your death... When no-one here seems able to see the danger in not putting bracing stops against the food cart's wheels?!" This last piece Vangelis did yell.
"I am insulted that you are a part of my garrison." He told them. It was only as he held up his hands again and steel caught the light from the fire dying out over his tent that he realised he had done his entire speech with both swords in his hands.
As he swung them again, the front line looked nervous.
"You will run." He told them, in total calmness. "The entire garrison will run. Around the encampment. In full battle armour..." There was a long pause in which Vangelis narrowed his eyes. "Until I say you can stop." He finished.
His eyes narrowed again as he then turned to stand in front of his captain, Nike of Acaris.
"Captain Nike..." He addressed loud enough for everyone else to hear. "You are responsible for this unit. Any mistakes they make are on your shoulders..." His jaw set as he spoke out his ruling on that subject. The fact that every captain and every unit in the garrison was running because of her unit's false step would be a punishment all itself but he would also decide one for all to see. "You will run for twice as long."
Taking a step back Vangelis looked out over the crowd.
Now, whose is this?"
He removed from the back of his belt the dagger that had been set into the shattered remains of the stew pot that had reached its final conclusion in his tent. He had salvaged it when he had exited the tent. Holding it aloft, he looked towards his men, ready to make one final comment on the recent events once he found out the owner of the dagger and before he sent them on a run that would be lasting until none of them could breathe.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Vangelis watched as his men scrambled. He said nothing as they hastened to follow his orders, tripped over their own feet in order to get to their tents faster and secure their armour into place sooner.
He simply stood where he was, his feet apart, his arms folded, the destruction of his tent as his backdrop. His expression brokered no argument and held out no hope for a merciful course of actions.
When the men of the unit were back in place, they were quickly followed by the rest of the garrison. Every soldier under his command was awaiting his orders, standing side by side in rows, and clad in full body armour.
When he was certain he had all of their attentions Vangelis let his arms fall and stood before them - the only one without metal protection and yet the one to appear the most infallible among them.
"Soldiers do not die in war." He began, choosing his words carefully and walking up and down his front line. "They do not die in combat. They do not die under attacks."
He stopped moving to emphasise his next point.
"If I am forced to carry your ashes back to your families, it will not be because an enemy struck you or defeated you." He raised a hand, his finger pointed skywards to make his next words sink in. "It will be because you did not see the attack coming. You did not defend against it. You did not survive... In war, it is not about who lives. It is about who is the last to die."
His tone turned angry.
"I do not except carelessness in my camp." His voice was raised in volume but not in any way out of control. It was firm. Decisive. And chilling. "Carelessness, unobservant soldiers die very quickly because they do not defend against their enemy. They do not notice when Hades has come to call. Fight and Ares will bless you. Be ignorant and Hades will take you."
Vangelis raised his hands as if he were at a loss.
"How can I expect my men to survive a battle - where a thousand things can happen, a thousands elements that could mean your death... When no-one here seems able to see the danger in not putting bracing stops against the food cart's wheels?!" This last piece Vangelis did yell.
"I am insulted that you are a part of my garrison." He told them. It was only as he held up his hands again and steel caught the light from the fire dying out over his tent that he realised he had done his entire speech with both swords in his hands.
As he swung them again, the front line looked nervous.
"You will run." He told them, in total calmness. "The entire garrison will run. Around the encampment. In full battle armour..." There was a long pause in which Vangelis narrowed his eyes. "Until I say you can stop." He finished.
His eyes narrowed again as he then turned to stand in front of his captain, Nike of Acaris.
"Captain Nike..." He addressed loud enough for everyone else to hear. "You are responsible for this unit. Any mistakes they make are on your shoulders..." His jaw set as he spoke out his ruling on that subject. The fact that every captain and every unit in the garrison was running because of her unit's false step would be a punishment all itself but he would also decide one for all to see. "You will run for twice as long."
Taking a step back Vangelis looked out over the crowd.
Now, whose is this?"
He removed from the back of his belt the dagger that had been set into the shattered remains of the stew pot that had reached its final conclusion in his tent. He had salvaged it when he had exited the tent. Holding it aloft, he looked towards his men, ready to make one final comment on the recent events once he found out the owner of the dagger and before he sent them on a run that would be lasting until none of them could breathe.
Vangelis watched as his men scrambled. He said nothing as they hastened to follow his orders, tripped over their own feet in order to get to their tents faster and secure their armour into place sooner.
He simply stood where he was, his feet apart, his arms folded, the destruction of his tent as his backdrop. His expression brokered no argument and held out no hope for a merciful course of actions.
When the men of the unit were back in place, they were quickly followed by the rest of the garrison. Every soldier under his command was awaiting his orders, standing side by side in rows, and clad in full body armour.
When he was certain he had all of their attentions Vangelis let his arms fall and stood before them - the only one without metal protection and yet the one to appear the most infallible among them.
"Soldiers do not die in war." He began, choosing his words carefully and walking up and down his front line. "They do not die in combat. They do not die under attacks."
He stopped moving to emphasise his next point.
"If I am forced to carry your ashes back to your families, it will not be because an enemy struck you or defeated you." He raised a hand, his finger pointed skywards to make his next words sink in. "It will be because you did not see the attack coming. You did not defend against it. You did not survive... In war, it is not about who lives. It is about who is the last to die."
His tone turned angry.
"I do not except carelessness in my camp." His voice was raised in volume but not in any way out of control. It was firm. Decisive. And chilling. "Carelessness, unobservant soldiers die very quickly because they do not defend against their enemy. They do not notice when Hades has come to call. Fight and Ares will bless you. Be ignorant and Hades will take you."
Vangelis raised his hands as if he were at a loss.
"How can I expect my men to survive a battle - where a thousand things can happen, a thousands elements that could mean your death... When no-one here seems able to see the danger in not putting bracing stops against the food cart's wheels?!" This last piece Vangelis did yell.
"I am insulted that you are a part of my garrison." He told them. It was only as he held up his hands again and steel caught the light from the fire dying out over his tent that he realised he had done his entire speech with both swords in his hands.
As he swung them again, the front line looked nervous.
"You will run." He told them, in total calmness. "The entire garrison will run. Around the encampment. In full battle armour..." There was a long pause in which Vangelis narrowed his eyes. "Until I say you can stop." He finished.
His eyes narrowed again as he then turned to stand in front of his captain, Nike of Acaris.
"Captain Nike..." He addressed loud enough for everyone else to hear. "You are responsible for this unit. Any mistakes they make are on your shoulders..." His jaw set as he spoke out his ruling on that subject. The fact that every captain and every unit in the garrison was running because of her unit's false step would be a punishment all itself but he would also decide one for all to see. "You will run for twice as long."
Taking a step back Vangelis looked out over the crowd.
Now, whose is this?"
He removed from the back of his belt the dagger that had been set into the shattered remains of the stew pot that had reached its final conclusion in his tent. He had salvaged it when he had exited the tent. Holding it aloft, he looked towards his men, ready to make one final comment on the recent events once he found out the owner of the dagger and before he sent them on a run that would be lasting until none of them could breathe.
While she has gotten way more comfortable with the general ever since he had started training her in the wee hours of the mornings and whatever time they could find, there was still no doubt that, when the situation called for it, General and Crown Prince Vangelis of Kotas was terrifying when the situation called for it. From the corner of her eyes, she could already see some of the men newly inducted into her unit quaking in their boots as he brandished his swords as he spoke.
The silence and terror was palpable in the air as her general's words cut through the air in the late afternoon sun, its rays slowly turning golden, the air cooling and less scorching as it was an hour or so ago.
Nike herself had no clue who was it that forgot to put the stops next to the food cart. The captain suspected the food cart had been ready to be rolled down, and as such the men who had been in charge of their meals for the day had taken it off, just before they brought it down, but a bad circumstance plus a minor distraction had resulted in it rumbling down - in the worst direction possible.
Flinching when Vangelis issued the punishment, no one even dared to groan, but she was sure that when night fell and everyone turned in, Nike would once again be on the receiving end of many stink eyes, for technically being responsible for her men's carelessness. As it was, there were plenty who was out for her blood simply because they didn't see her worthy for her position as captain due to her smaller stature and supposedly weaker blows. None of them saw the improvements and her strengths - merely that she did not measure up to the strong, bulked up forms of the other captains.
Making a firm note to check on which of her men had been in charge of the meal and had been at the pots that day, her eyes remained motionless, doing her best to not show any reaction when the general addressed her. A simply, sharp "Yes, sir!" was her reply, knowing better then to cause anything in front of the men. She would question, she pried, and while she had a curious mind, she knew to follow instructions in the face of others when it came to her general. Nike was astute in reading situations, and this was one of them. But that didn't mean she was happy with the turn of events - considering she had almost dashed halfway across the campsite to get to his tent as fast as she could, and possibly damaging her dagger by tossing it at a solid clay pot.
In her ready stance, her eyes flickered to the dagger she had thrown, the golden hilt glinting in the sunlight, the embedded emerald clear as day. Her mother had given it to her when her father had started his abusive nature, and Nike had kept it with her since. She had never asked how a simple merchant's wife could have such an extravagant dagger - merely kept it close to her, a final remembrance of her mother, and a small weapon that had saved her countless times.
Not this time though. It saved someone else.
Swallowing a gulp, she spoke up to break the silence of the others, in her clear and sharp voice. "Mine, sir. I threw the dagger. My sword failed to stop the wagon."
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While she has gotten way more comfortable with the general ever since he had started training her in the wee hours of the mornings and whatever time they could find, there was still no doubt that, when the situation called for it, General and Crown Prince Vangelis of Kotas was terrifying when the situation called for it. From the corner of her eyes, she could already see some of the men newly inducted into her unit quaking in their boots as he brandished his swords as he spoke.
The silence and terror was palpable in the air as her general's words cut through the air in the late afternoon sun, its rays slowly turning golden, the air cooling and less scorching as it was an hour or so ago.
Nike herself had no clue who was it that forgot to put the stops next to the food cart. The captain suspected the food cart had been ready to be rolled down, and as such the men who had been in charge of their meals for the day had taken it off, just before they brought it down, but a bad circumstance plus a minor distraction had resulted in it rumbling down - in the worst direction possible.
Flinching when Vangelis issued the punishment, no one even dared to groan, but she was sure that when night fell and everyone turned in, Nike would once again be on the receiving end of many stink eyes, for technically being responsible for her men's carelessness. As it was, there were plenty who was out for her blood simply because they didn't see her worthy for her position as captain due to her smaller stature and supposedly weaker blows. None of them saw the improvements and her strengths - merely that she did not measure up to the strong, bulked up forms of the other captains.
Making a firm note to check on which of her men had been in charge of the meal and had been at the pots that day, her eyes remained motionless, doing her best to not show any reaction when the general addressed her. A simply, sharp "Yes, sir!" was her reply, knowing better then to cause anything in front of the men. She would question, she pried, and while she had a curious mind, she knew to follow instructions in the face of others when it came to her general. Nike was astute in reading situations, and this was one of them. But that didn't mean she was happy with the turn of events - considering she had almost dashed halfway across the campsite to get to his tent as fast as she could, and possibly damaging her dagger by tossing it at a solid clay pot.
In her ready stance, her eyes flickered to the dagger she had thrown, the golden hilt glinting in the sunlight, the embedded emerald clear as day. Her mother had given it to her when her father had started his abusive nature, and Nike had kept it with her since. She had never asked how a simple merchant's wife could have such an extravagant dagger - merely kept it close to her, a final remembrance of her mother, and a small weapon that had saved her countless times.
Not this time though. It saved someone else.
Swallowing a gulp, she spoke up to break the silence of the others, in her clear and sharp voice. "Mine, sir. I threw the dagger. My sword failed to stop the wagon."
While she has gotten way more comfortable with the general ever since he had started training her in the wee hours of the mornings and whatever time they could find, there was still no doubt that, when the situation called for it, General and Crown Prince Vangelis of Kotas was terrifying when the situation called for it. From the corner of her eyes, she could already see some of the men newly inducted into her unit quaking in their boots as he brandished his swords as he spoke.
The silence and terror was palpable in the air as her general's words cut through the air in the late afternoon sun, its rays slowly turning golden, the air cooling and less scorching as it was an hour or so ago.
Nike herself had no clue who was it that forgot to put the stops next to the food cart. The captain suspected the food cart had been ready to be rolled down, and as such the men who had been in charge of their meals for the day had taken it off, just before they brought it down, but a bad circumstance plus a minor distraction had resulted in it rumbling down - in the worst direction possible.
Flinching when Vangelis issued the punishment, no one even dared to groan, but she was sure that when night fell and everyone turned in, Nike would once again be on the receiving end of many stink eyes, for technically being responsible for her men's carelessness. As it was, there were plenty who was out for her blood simply because they didn't see her worthy for her position as captain due to her smaller stature and supposedly weaker blows. None of them saw the improvements and her strengths - merely that she did not measure up to the strong, bulked up forms of the other captains.
Making a firm note to check on which of her men had been in charge of the meal and had been at the pots that day, her eyes remained motionless, doing her best to not show any reaction when the general addressed her. A simply, sharp "Yes, sir!" was her reply, knowing better then to cause anything in front of the men. She would question, she pried, and while she had a curious mind, she knew to follow instructions in the face of others when it came to her general. Nike was astute in reading situations, and this was one of them. But that didn't mean she was happy with the turn of events - considering she had almost dashed halfway across the campsite to get to his tent as fast as she could, and possibly damaging her dagger by tossing it at a solid clay pot.
In her ready stance, her eyes flickered to the dagger she had thrown, the golden hilt glinting in the sunlight, the embedded emerald clear as day. Her mother had given it to her when her father had started his abusive nature, and Nike had kept it with her since. She had never asked how a simple merchant's wife could have such an extravagant dagger - merely kept it close to her, a final remembrance of her mother, and a small weapon that had saved her countless times.
Not this time though. It saved someone else.
Swallowing a gulp, she spoke up to break the silence of the others, in her clear and sharp voice. "Mine, sir. I threw the dagger. My sword failed to stop the wagon."
Vangelis had been suspecting but also sort of hoping that the dagger wasn't Nike's. In fact, the entire hope was pointless because he already knew that it was his newest captain's blade. The item had been in her boot sheath every day they had been practising in the mornings and he remembered the emerald set into the hilt. He had always supposed that such a nice weapon, on such a poor soldier had been stolen, so he had never mentioned it. But he mentioned it now...
Taking a deep breath and straightening his features into a cold expression of defiance, Vangelis moved back to stand in front of his captain again...
He liked Nike. He honestly did. She was strong, capable, determined... she worked harder than most in his garrison and was open to learning and improving. They used to work closely together, training every morning before dawn to improve her skills, keep her cover and make her fight more like a man... then - as she had improved - the exercises had trailed off to once a week. And he enjoyed those few hours on the final day of the week, in the morning as the sun came up, just working on technique and watching his subordinate gradually improve with time and dedication.
But he wasn't a man that showed favouritism. Ever.
Emotions on the battlefield got you killed and it didn't matter how much he liked Nike or how much he respected her for her efforts. This had been a mistake on her part and he was going to make it very clear that he expected her to own it and face appropriate retribution for it.
Vangelis knew that most of the men in the garrison did not approve of his appointment of Nike of Acaris to captain. Other than the Commander who had actually recommended her for the position, Vangelis had ended up having discussions with nearly every other high-ranking officer in which his choice was (politely) questioned. He had shot them all down.
To show favouritism now, or to treat her any differently to any other soldier in this position, would only lend credit to the idea that she wasn't as tough or as capable as every other captain in the garrison.
So, he would lay the punishment on just as he would with anyone else. And she would slowly gain more respect for it in the end.
"The fact that you reacted quickly enough to throw this Captain Nike..." Vangelis stated, loudly enough to be heard by most of the men in the front line - their gossip later in the evening would have his words reaching the rest of them by daybreak. "Tells me that you have eyes in your face and a brain in your head... which only makes your lack of being able to notice such a simple thing a wheel stoppers so much worse." Vangelis' face turned into a glaring frown. "I expect more from my ranking officers. Especially when this-" He held up the dagger pointedly - "...shows that you were capable of noticing this issue before it became a danger." His eyes narrowed. "You will run twice as much again." He condemned, assigning Nike with four times the punishment of anyone else.
If nothing else, pure sympathy from the other men would start to prop up some of that respect he knew she wasn't receiving from a lot of them. Especially when she - as he knew she would - completed the assigned punishment. It would be near impossible but he knew that if anyone in his garrison had the determination to complete any assignment given, it was Nike. Seeing their newest officer running around the campsite long after everyone else had stopped (which Vangelis would ensure would only happen after they all felt like they were going to die) would engender at least begrudging awe in the woman. The same awe he had felt when she had stood defiant against his strikes on that first night he had confronted her regarding her gender.
Backing away from the woman after having dropped that anvil on her head, Vangelis used her dagger, which he still held, to offer up directions with the wave of his arm. He split the garrison into four units, to run at different points around the camp, ensuring that the watch guards would not be necessary, and that they would all be free to carry out his allocated task.
With a bark of a command, the men started running, their eyes darting back to him every so often to check if he would comment on their speed.
Vangelis did no such thing, allowing his silence and his frown to keep their feet moving at a quick pace. He just folded his arms stubbornly. He wondered when it would dawn on them that, after their run, there would be no food... even that it had been destroyed along with his tent.
A night exhausted and hungry would remind them all of the importance of vigilance. There was a reason Vangelis was a complete perfectionist in everything he did. And it was strongly connected to why he was still alive.
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Vangelis had been suspecting but also sort of hoping that the dagger wasn't Nike's. In fact, the entire hope was pointless because he already knew that it was his newest captain's blade. The item had been in her boot sheath every day they had been practising in the mornings and he remembered the emerald set into the hilt. He had always supposed that such a nice weapon, on such a poor soldier had been stolen, so he had never mentioned it. But he mentioned it now...
Taking a deep breath and straightening his features into a cold expression of defiance, Vangelis moved back to stand in front of his captain again...
He liked Nike. He honestly did. She was strong, capable, determined... she worked harder than most in his garrison and was open to learning and improving. They used to work closely together, training every morning before dawn to improve her skills, keep her cover and make her fight more like a man... then - as she had improved - the exercises had trailed off to once a week. And he enjoyed those few hours on the final day of the week, in the morning as the sun came up, just working on technique and watching his subordinate gradually improve with time and dedication.
But he wasn't a man that showed favouritism. Ever.
Emotions on the battlefield got you killed and it didn't matter how much he liked Nike or how much he respected her for her efforts. This had been a mistake on her part and he was going to make it very clear that he expected her to own it and face appropriate retribution for it.
Vangelis knew that most of the men in the garrison did not approve of his appointment of Nike of Acaris to captain. Other than the Commander who had actually recommended her for the position, Vangelis had ended up having discussions with nearly every other high-ranking officer in which his choice was (politely) questioned. He had shot them all down.
To show favouritism now, or to treat her any differently to any other soldier in this position, would only lend credit to the idea that she wasn't as tough or as capable as every other captain in the garrison.
So, he would lay the punishment on just as he would with anyone else. And she would slowly gain more respect for it in the end.
"The fact that you reacted quickly enough to throw this Captain Nike..." Vangelis stated, loudly enough to be heard by most of the men in the front line - their gossip later in the evening would have his words reaching the rest of them by daybreak. "Tells me that you have eyes in your face and a brain in your head... which only makes your lack of being able to notice such a simple thing a wheel stoppers so much worse." Vangelis' face turned into a glaring frown. "I expect more from my ranking officers. Especially when this-" He held up the dagger pointedly - "...shows that you were capable of noticing this issue before it became a danger." His eyes narrowed. "You will run twice as much again." He condemned, assigning Nike with four times the punishment of anyone else.
If nothing else, pure sympathy from the other men would start to prop up some of that respect he knew she wasn't receiving from a lot of them. Especially when she - as he knew she would - completed the assigned punishment. It would be near impossible but he knew that if anyone in his garrison had the determination to complete any assignment given, it was Nike. Seeing their newest officer running around the campsite long after everyone else had stopped (which Vangelis would ensure would only happen after they all felt like they were going to die) would engender at least begrudging awe in the woman. The same awe he had felt when she had stood defiant against his strikes on that first night he had confronted her regarding her gender.
Backing away from the woman after having dropped that anvil on her head, Vangelis used her dagger, which he still held, to offer up directions with the wave of his arm. He split the garrison into four units, to run at different points around the camp, ensuring that the watch guards would not be necessary, and that they would all be free to carry out his allocated task.
With a bark of a command, the men started running, their eyes darting back to him every so often to check if he would comment on their speed.
Vangelis did no such thing, allowing his silence and his frown to keep their feet moving at a quick pace. He just folded his arms stubbornly. He wondered when it would dawn on them that, after their run, there would be no food... even that it had been destroyed along with his tent.
A night exhausted and hungry would remind them all of the importance of vigilance. There was a reason Vangelis was a complete perfectionist in everything he did. And it was strongly connected to why he was still alive.
Vangelis had been suspecting but also sort of hoping that the dagger wasn't Nike's. In fact, the entire hope was pointless because he already knew that it was his newest captain's blade. The item had been in her boot sheath every day they had been practising in the mornings and he remembered the emerald set into the hilt. He had always supposed that such a nice weapon, on such a poor soldier had been stolen, so he had never mentioned it. But he mentioned it now...
Taking a deep breath and straightening his features into a cold expression of defiance, Vangelis moved back to stand in front of his captain again...
He liked Nike. He honestly did. She was strong, capable, determined... she worked harder than most in his garrison and was open to learning and improving. They used to work closely together, training every morning before dawn to improve her skills, keep her cover and make her fight more like a man... then - as she had improved - the exercises had trailed off to once a week. And he enjoyed those few hours on the final day of the week, in the morning as the sun came up, just working on technique and watching his subordinate gradually improve with time and dedication.
But he wasn't a man that showed favouritism. Ever.
Emotions on the battlefield got you killed and it didn't matter how much he liked Nike or how much he respected her for her efforts. This had been a mistake on her part and he was going to make it very clear that he expected her to own it and face appropriate retribution for it.
Vangelis knew that most of the men in the garrison did not approve of his appointment of Nike of Acaris to captain. Other than the Commander who had actually recommended her for the position, Vangelis had ended up having discussions with nearly every other high-ranking officer in which his choice was (politely) questioned. He had shot them all down.
To show favouritism now, or to treat her any differently to any other soldier in this position, would only lend credit to the idea that she wasn't as tough or as capable as every other captain in the garrison.
So, he would lay the punishment on just as he would with anyone else. And she would slowly gain more respect for it in the end.
"The fact that you reacted quickly enough to throw this Captain Nike..." Vangelis stated, loudly enough to be heard by most of the men in the front line - their gossip later in the evening would have his words reaching the rest of them by daybreak. "Tells me that you have eyes in your face and a brain in your head... which only makes your lack of being able to notice such a simple thing a wheel stoppers so much worse." Vangelis' face turned into a glaring frown. "I expect more from my ranking officers. Especially when this-" He held up the dagger pointedly - "...shows that you were capable of noticing this issue before it became a danger." His eyes narrowed. "You will run twice as much again." He condemned, assigning Nike with four times the punishment of anyone else.
If nothing else, pure sympathy from the other men would start to prop up some of that respect he knew she wasn't receiving from a lot of them. Especially when she - as he knew she would - completed the assigned punishment. It would be near impossible but he knew that if anyone in his garrison had the determination to complete any assignment given, it was Nike. Seeing their newest officer running around the campsite long after everyone else had stopped (which Vangelis would ensure would only happen after they all felt like they were going to die) would engender at least begrudging awe in the woman. The same awe he had felt when she had stood defiant against his strikes on that first night he had confronted her regarding her gender.
Backing away from the woman after having dropped that anvil on her head, Vangelis used her dagger, which he still held, to offer up directions with the wave of his arm. He split the garrison into four units, to run at different points around the camp, ensuring that the watch guards would not be necessary, and that they would all be free to carry out his allocated task.
With a bark of a command, the men started running, their eyes darting back to him every so often to check if he would comment on their speed.
Vangelis did no such thing, allowing his silence and his frown to keep their feet moving at a quick pace. He just folded his arms stubbornly. He wondered when it would dawn on them that, after their run, there would be no food... even that it had been destroyed along with his tent.
A night exhausted and hungry would remind them all of the importance of vigilance. There was a reason Vangelis was a complete perfectionist in everything he did. And it was strongly connected to why he was still alive.
A part of Nike wanted to groan. She recognized that face. She's seen it plenty of times. When he wants to berate her for something she's done wrong, when he's taking her to task for a new move that she just could not get fast enough... basically whenever he was unhappy, she'd get that. And one would think Nike was used to it, but really, can one ever get used to have a temperamental general yell or nag at you?
The answer is no.
So swallowing an internal sigh, Nike took it like the man she had grown up to be, gender be damned. She had a position to earn, a name to prove, and a lot of other people's wagging tongues to shut. Plus, she already knew by now, six years serving under her general, that he was not one to favor a particular soldier. Nike enjoyed their mornings together, both of them usually sweaty and panting before they returned to the campsite, yet you would think after a year of the same routine, he'd know by now that Nike was not careless on purpose.
She did not expect being favored, no. That would mean more dirt being thrown in her direction, and make her efforts to earn the respect of others doubly hard. No, she did not want his favoritism, but neither did she appreciate it when, not only did he offer no thanks for possibly saving his sorry arse for being drowned in stew or burnt to the bed, her efforts was only rewarded in an extra set of punishments.
Take it like a man.
Narrowing her own eyes in return, she gritted her teeth, tightening her jaw in obvious irritation. But she said nary a word, dropping her sword to start running, following her assigned area. It started as an exercise, but soon became mechanical, as the sun fell lower, and one by one, everyone finished their required rounds.
Everyone, that is, except for Nike.
The captain was nothing if not stubborn. Her calves screamed mercy, her thighs burned, but she did not stop, doggedly going at the task her general had punished her with, lacking the energy to even curse at the idiotic temper he's got. He's got no heart, or so people say. Most of the times, Nike was inclined to agree with them. And yet those times, she was reminded again of how he patiently taught her every morning, agreed to her promotion, kept her there when no one else would in the military.
It was a conundrum for sure, and one Nike tried not to entertain.
The warmth of the sun had long gone by the time she was done as the general saw fit, and Apollo had retreated to allow the glowing orb to replace it in the night sky, the stars dancing as if they were handmaidens around their queen. With sweat on her forehead, her hair clinging to her face, and her stomach stinging with bile and acid (considering Nike barely got in a whole mouthful before the whole debacle was done), she had no energy to even stand up straight, and instead, the woman bent over, hands on knees, breathe coming in pants, not even wanting to look at the general for fear that her irritation at him may get the better of her.
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A part of Nike wanted to groan. She recognized that face. She's seen it plenty of times. When he wants to berate her for something she's done wrong, when he's taking her to task for a new move that she just could not get fast enough... basically whenever he was unhappy, she'd get that. And one would think Nike was used to it, but really, can one ever get used to have a temperamental general yell or nag at you?
The answer is no.
So swallowing an internal sigh, Nike took it like the man she had grown up to be, gender be damned. She had a position to earn, a name to prove, and a lot of other people's wagging tongues to shut. Plus, she already knew by now, six years serving under her general, that he was not one to favor a particular soldier. Nike enjoyed their mornings together, both of them usually sweaty and panting before they returned to the campsite, yet you would think after a year of the same routine, he'd know by now that Nike was not careless on purpose.
She did not expect being favored, no. That would mean more dirt being thrown in her direction, and make her efforts to earn the respect of others doubly hard. No, she did not want his favoritism, but neither did she appreciate it when, not only did he offer no thanks for possibly saving his sorry arse for being drowned in stew or burnt to the bed, her efforts was only rewarded in an extra set of punishments.
Take it like a man.
Narrowing her own eyes in return, she gritted her teeth, tightening her jaw in obvious irritation. But she said nary a word, dropping her sword to start running, following her assigned area. It started as an exercise, but soon became mechanical, as the sun fell lower, and one by one, everyone finished their required rounds.
Everyone, that is, except for Nike.
The captain was nothing if not stubborn. Her calves screamed mercy, her thighs burned, but she did not stop, doggedly going at the task her general had punished her with, lacking the energy to even curse at the idiotic temper he's got. He's got no heart, or so people say. Most of the times, Nike was inclined to agree with them. And yet those times, she was reminded again of how he patiently taught her every morning, agreed to her promotion, kept her there when no one else would in the military.
It was a conundrum for sure, and one Nike tried not to entertain.
The warmth of the sun had long gone by the time she was done as the general saw fit, and Apollo had retreated to allow the glowing orb to replace it in the night sky, the stars dancing as if they were handmaidens around their queen. With sweat on her forehead, her hair clinging to her face, and her stomach stinging with bile and acid (considering Nike barely got in a whole mouthful before the whole debacle was done), she had no energy to even stand up straight, and instead, the woman bent over, hands on knees, breathe coming in pants, not even wanting to look at the general for fear that her irritation at him may get the better of her.
A part of Nike wanted to groan. She recognized that face. She's seen it plenty of times. When he wants to berate her for something she's done wrong, when he's taking her to task for a new move that she just could not get fast enough... basically whenever he was unhappy, she'd get that. And one would think Nike was used to it, but really, can one ever get used to have a temperamental general yell or nag at you?
The answer is no.
So swallowing an internal sigh, Nike took it like the man she had grown up to be, gender be damned. She had a position to earn, a name to prove, and a lot of other people's wagging tongues to shut. Plus, she already knew by now, six years serving under her general, that he was not one to favor a particular soldier. Nike enjoyed their mornings together, both of them usually sweaty and panting before they returned to the campsite, yet you would think after a year of the same routine, he'd know by now that Nike was not careless on purpose.
She did not expect being favored, no. That would mean more dirt being thrown in her direction, and make her efforts to earn the respect of others doubly hard. No, she did not want his favoritism, but neither did she appreciate it when, not only did he offer no thanks for possibly saving his sorry arse for being drowned in stew or burnt to the bed, her efforts was only rewarded in an extra set of punishments.
Take it like a man.
Narrowing her own eyes in return, she gritted her teeth, tightening her jaw in obvious irritation. But she said nary a word, dropping her sword to start running, following her assigned area. It started as an exercise, but soon became mechanical, as the sun fell lower, and one by one, everyone finished their required rounds.
Everyone, that is, except for Nike.
The captain was nothing if not stubborn. Her calves screamed mercy, her thighs burned, but she did not stop, doggedly going at the task her general had punished her with, lacking the energy to even curse at the idiotic temper he's got. He's got no heart, or so people say. Most of the times, Nike was inclined to agree with them. And yet those times, she was reminded again of how he patiently taught her every morning, agreed to her promotion, kept her there when no one else would in the military.
It was a conundrum for sure, and one Nike tried not to entertain.
The warmth of the sun had long gone by the time she was done as the general saw fit, and Apollo had retreated to allow the glowing orb to replace it in the night sky, the stars dancing as if they were handmaidens around their queen. With sweat on her forehead, her hair clinging to her face, and her stomach stinging with bile and acid (considering Nike barely got in a whole mouthful before the whole debacle was done), she had no energy to even stand up straight, and instead, the woman bent over, hands on knees, breathe coming in pants, not even wanting to look at the general for fear that her irritation at him may get the better of her.
By the time Nike had finished her run, Vangelis a few other soldiers who he had mercilessly picked to do manual labour after their own run was finished, had set up a temporary replacement tent for him to sleep in that night. They had also disposed of the majority of the carnage that was his previous home away from home.
As Nike came back into the encampment, panting and barely able to stand, one of her unit's soldiers came up to her to inform her that the general wanted to see her in his new tent as soon as she finished her run - no loitering.
Vangelis was in his new set up, trying to make heads and tails of his territory maps - the ones that weren't burn or soggy with stew that is, when Nike stepped into his tent. He could hear her breathing heavily, as well as the efforts she was making to subdue it but he made no comment. He knew the run would have been near impossible. Chances are her legs were about to either turn to stone or collapse under her, her lungs were ready to give out and her head felt like it was going to explode with the pressure of such arduous physicality. I would be expecting her stomach to be practically eating itself by now too.
"Sit down, before you fall down Nike." He told his captain, gesturing to the chair the soldiers had managed to salvage from his first tent. The new abode was a smaller tent and the two were forced into much more intimate proximity than they would have been previously but at least the chair was available for her to use before she collapsed to the floor. Even if she did have to duck her head to avoid the cloth of the ceiling when heading over to it.
Once she was seated, Vangelis picked up a bowl he had ready and fished out - from one of his personal saddle bags that hadn't been too badly damaged and bruised in the collapse - two apples, a half loaf of soda bread and some raw vegetables.
Before she could gather her breath in order to say anything, Vangelis dumped the food into the bowl and dumped the bowl onto Nike's lap.
"Eat." He simply commanded. "And thank you."
And then he turned back to his work. As Vangelis tried to piece together two burnt halves of a map, unsure whether the two sides even belonged to the same document originally, he kept his shoulders straight and his eyes facing forwards, allowing his captain the chance to eat in private - a luxury he had not allowed any of the other men in his garrison that night.
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By the time Nike had finished her run, Vangelis a few other soldiers who he had mercilessly picked to do manual labour after their own run was finished, had set up a temporary replacement tent for him to sleep in that night. They had also disposed of the majority of the carnage that was his previous home away from home.
As Nike came back into the encampment, panting and barely able to stand, one of her unit's soldiers came up to her to inform her that the general wanted to see her in his new tent as soon as she finished her run - no loitering.
Vangelis was in his new set up, trying to make heads and tails of his territory maps - the ones that weren't burn or soggy with stew that is, when Nike stepped into his tent. He could hear her breathing heavily, as well as the efforts she was making to subdue it but he made no comment. He knew the run would have been near impossible. Chances are her legs were about to either turn to stone or collapse under her, her lungs were ready to give out and her head felt like it was going to explode with the pressure of such arduous physicality. I would be expecting her stomach to be practically eating itself by now too.
"Sit down, before you fall down Nike." He told his captain, gesturing to the chair the soldiers had managed to salvage from his first tent. The new abode was a smaller tent and the two were forced into much more intimate proximity than they would have been previously but at least the chair was available for her to use before she collapsed to the floor. Even if she did have to duck her head to avoid the cloth of the ceiling when heading over to it.
Once she was seated, Vangelis picked up a bowl he had ready and fished out - from one of his personal saddle bags that hadn't been too badly damaged and bruised in the collapse - two apples, a half loaf of soda bread and some raw vegetables.
Before she could gather her breath in order to say anything, Vangelis dumped the food into the bowl and dumped the bowl onto Nike's lap.
"Eat." He simply commanded. "And thank you."
And then he turned back to his work. As Vangelis tried to piece together two burnt halves of a map, unsure whether the two sides even belonged to the same document originally, he kept his shoulders straight and his eyes facing forwards, allowing his captain the chance to eat in private - a luxury he had not allowed any of the other men in his garrison that night.
By the time Nike had finished her run, Vangelis a few other soldiers who he had mercilessly picked to do manual labour after their own run was finished, had set up a temporary replacement tent for him to sleep in that night. They had also disposed of the majority of the carnage that was his previous home away from home.
As Nike came back into the encampment, panting and barely able to stand, one of her unit's soldiers came up to her to inform her that the general wanted to see her in his new tent as soon as she finished her run - no loitering.
Vangelis was in his new set up, trying to make heads and tails of his territory maps - the ones that weren't burn or soggy with stew that is, when Nike stepped into his tent. He could hear her breathing heavily, as well as the efforts she was making to subdue it but he made no comment. He knew the run would have been near impossible. Chances are her legs were about to either turn to stone or collapse under her, her lungs were ready to give out and her head felt like it was going to explode with the pressure of such arduous physicality. I would be expecting her stomach to be practically eating itself by now too.
"Sit down, before you fall down Nike." He told his captain, gesturing to the chair the soldiers had managed to salvage from his first tent. The new abode was a smaller tent and the two were forced into much more intimate proximity than they would have been previously but at least the chair was available for her to use before she collapsed to the floor. Even if she did have to duck her head to avoid the cloth of the ceiling when heading over to it.
Once she was seated, Vangelis picked up a bowl he had ready and fished out - from one of his personal saddle bags that hadn't been too badly damaged and bruised in the collapse - two apples, a half loaf of soda bread and some raw vegetables.
Before she could gather her breath in order to say anything, Vangelis dumped the food into the bowl and dumped the bowl onto Nike's lap.
"Eat." He simply commanded. "And thank you."
And then he turned back to his work. As Vangelis tried to piece together two burnt halves of a map, unsure whether the two sides even belonged to the same document originally, he kept his shoulders straight and his eyes facing forwards, allowing his captain the chance to eat in private - a luxury he had not allowed any of the other men in his garrison that night.
Her legs could barely hold her at that point. Mush as they were, sometimes people may be surprised to learn that the mind was a lot stronger over matter. If Nike had been the type to succumb to physical issues, she would have been a goner ages ago. Instead, Nike was a prime example that if one set one's mind to something, there was little the universe could throw in one's way to get over problems.
That, plus the woman was a stubborn one.
So despite how her bones had turned soft in her limbs, and how she flinched as her stomach burned with the acid that now ate away at its own insides, she scowled at what her soldier told her, but started to make her way to the tent.
In a way, Nike could see the logic behind his commands, but after a hours of running in full armor, with no meal to boot and after a long day of training, she was in no mood to be nice to her general - admire him as she may. It was an interesting relationship between the two. Respect was present without a doubt, yet as the time prolongs, and Nike found herself growing more comfortable with the general's presence, astute as she was, the twenty-three year old captain also picked up on a lot of little nuances that made up who others called the Blood General. She was beginning to realize he was not as heartless as he made himself to be, and instead had more compassion then others, merely hidden under a tough exterior.
And then he pulls an act like that that makes Nike want to retract all her thoughts of how he made a good man and general.
When she pulled open the flap of the smaller tent and announced her arrival to the general, considered her surprised when the general gestured to a chair for her. In all honesty, she had no clue on why he wanted to see her - hadn't he already meted out all the punishment? As it was, she could hear the mild grumblings of the men on missing dinner. Was withholding a meal not enough? What else was she supposed to face now? For a goddamn cart of bloody stew?
Tired as she was though, the woman did not argue, not as she usually would. Instead, she dragged her soft limbs over to the chair and more or less fell into it, barely noticing the general moving until the bowl fell into her lap. Caught off guard, she froze, and then turned wide eyes at the general - an unspoken question in them. And this was exactly why the blasted man confused her. He ran hot and cold almost in the same instant, so much so that Nike simply could not draw an easy conclusion about him.
With her body too focused on its basic needs though, her hands instinctively grasped the soda bread, biting off a few huge chunks and almost gulping them down, the silence in the smaller tent was palpable, the only sound of her breathing as she ate, and whatever movements he made.
It wasn't until Nike had finished the hunk of bread, and started on a raw carrot, did she finally flickered her gaze up, hooded eyes wary and with the faint hint of irritation that still lingered, even if most of it had been dissipated by the offer of food. "You have a weird way of showing your thanks." she muttered, finishing up the carrot, before asking, "Do you need help putting together... that?" she motioned her hand at what left of the burnt pieces of his maps and documents. In a way, he was right about it having been her responsibility, so she was wont to offer whatever help she could at this point.
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Her legs could barely hold her at that point. Mush as they were, sometimes people may be surprised to learn that the mind was a lot stronger over matter. If Nike had been the type to succumb to physical issues, she would have been a goner ages ago. Instead, Nike was a prime example that if one set one's mind to something, there was little the universe could throw in one's way to get over problems.
That, plus the woman was a stubborn one.
So despite how her bones had turned soft in her limbs, and how she flinched as her stomach burned with the acid that now ate away at its own insides, she scowled at what her soldier told her, but started to make her way to the tent.
In a way, Nike could see the logic behind his commands, but after a hours of running in full armor, with no meal to boot and after a long day of training, she was in no mood to be nice to her general - admire him as she may. It was an interesting relationship between the two. Respect was present without a doubt, yet as the time prolongs, and Nike found herself growing more comfortable with the general's presence, astute as she was, the twenty-three year old captain also picked up on a lot of little nuances that made up who others called the Blood General. She was beginning to realize he was not as heartless as he made himself to be, and instead had more compassion then others, merely hidden under a tough exterior.
And then he pulls an act like that that makes Nike want to retract all her thoughts of how he made a good man and general.
When she pulled open the flap of the smaller tent and announced her arrival to the general, considered her surprised when the general gestured to a chair for her. In all honesty, she had no clue on why he wanted to see her - hadn't he already meted out all the punishment? As it was, she could hear the mild grumblings of the men on missing dinner. Was withholding a meal not enough? What else was she supposed to face now? For a goddamn cart of bloody stew?
Tired as she was though, the woman did not argue, not as she usually would. Instead, she dragged her soft limbs over to the chair and more or less fell into it, barely noticing the general moving until the bowl fell into her lap. Caught off guard, she froze, and then turned wide eyes at the general - an unspoken question in them. And this was exactly why the blasted man confused her. He ran hot and cold almost in the same instant, so much so that Nike simply could not draw an easy conclusion about him.
With her body too focused on its basic needs though, her hands instinctively grasped the soda bread, biting off a few huge chunks and almost gulping them down, the silence in the smaller tent was palpable, the only sound of her breathing as she ate, and whatever movements he made.
It wasn't until Nike had finished the hunk of bread, and started on a raw carrot, did she finally flickered her gaze up, hooded eyes wary and with the faint hint of irritation that still lingered, even if most of it had been dissipated by the offer of food. "You have a weird way of showing your thanks." she muttered, finishing up the carrot, before asking, "Do you need help putting together... that?" she motioned her hand at what left of the burnt pieces of his maps and documents. In a way, he was right about it having been her responsibility, so she was wont to offer whatever help she could at this point.
Her legs could barely hold her at that point. Mush as they were, sometimes people may be surprised to learn that the mind was a lot stronger over matter. If Nike had been the type to succumb to physical issues, she would have been a goner ages ago. Instead, Nike was a prime example that if one set one's mind to something, there was little the universe could throw in one's way to get over problems.
That, plus the woman was a stubborn one.
So despite how her bones had turned soft in her limbs, and how she flinched as her stomach burned with the acid that now ate away at its own insides, she scowled at what her soldier told her, but started to make her way to the tent.
In a way, Nike could see the logic behind his commands, but after a hours of running in full armor, with no meal to boot and after a long day of training, she was in no mood to be nice to her general - admire him as she may. It was an interesting relationship between the two. Respect was present without a doubt, yet as the time prolongs, and Nike found herself growing more comfortable with the general's presence, astute as she was, the twenty-three year old captain also picked up on a lot of little nuances that made up who others called the Blood General. She was beginning to realize he was not as heartless as he made himself to be, and instead had more compassion then others, merely hidden under a tough exterior.
And then he pulls an act like that that makes Nike want to retract all her thoughts of how he made a good man and general.
When she pulled open the flap of the smaller tent and announced her arrival to the general, considered her surprised when the general gestured to a chair for her. In all honesty, she had no clue on why he wanted to see her - hadn't he already meted out all the punishment? As it was, she could hear the mild grumblings of the men on missing dinner. Was withholding a meal not enough? What else was she supposed to face now? For a goddamn cart of bloody stew?
Tired as she was though, the woman did not argue, not as she usually would. Instead, she dragged her soft limbs over to the chair and more or less fell into it, barely noticing the general moving until the bowl fell into her lap. Caught off guard, she froze, and then turned wide eyes at the general - an unspoken question in them. And this was exactly why the blasted man confused her. He ran hot and cold almost in the same instant, so much so that Nike simply could not draw an easy conclusion about him.
With her body too focused on its basic needs though, her hands instinctively grasped the soda bread, biting off a few huge chunks and almost gulping them down, the silence in the smaller tent was palpable, the only sound of her breathing as she ate, and whatever movements he made.
It wasn't until Nike had finished the hunk of bread, and started on a raw carrot, did she finally flickered her gaze up, hooded eyes wary and with the faint hint of irritation that still lingered, even if most of it had been dissipated by the offer of food. "You have a weird way of showing your thanks." she muttered, finishing up the carrot, before asking, "Do you need help putting together... that?" she motioned her hand at what left of the burnt pieces of his maps and documents. In a way, he was right about it having been her responsibility, so she was wont to offer whatever help she could at this point.
Vangelis said nothing as Nike finished her meal, allowing her the time to eat at whatever pace her stomach now required her to. Depending on what stage of exhaustion she was at, her belly would either demand feeding quickly or particularly slowly for risk of sudden upset. And so he allowed her to deal with her own hunger cravings however she wanted.
Instead, he focused on the maps and had already reassembled several of them by the time she had finished her meal, his attention completely diverted. Anyone who knew Vangelis intimately would understand the level of respect he showed just from being unconcerned for watching his back. As with most people, his life was his most prize possession and to turn his attentions fully away from another offered it to them on a silver plate... as he was beginning to do so for Nike.
She had been a captain with him for a year now and he had worked closely with her throughout that period. Vangelis was also quick to make judgement on people and an astute assessor of character. It was safe to say that the newest addition to his ranking officers was one he had complete faith in.
As she grumbled about the manner in which he showed his thanks, Vangelis shook his head, still refusing to look her way.
"You failed in a duty that was given you; you were reprimanded for it. You saved my life; I thanked you for it with food that no-one else was given..." Vangelis turned back to face her, bracing his backside against the table and folding his arms across his chest he just watched her with a calm expression. "As one should not negate the other, how is it you would have preferred me to handle the situation?"
A wave of his hand dismissed the maps from the topic of conversation. They were his responsibility, not hers. And while he held his men to the highest standards with regards to their duties, so too did he keep himself to his own.
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Vangelis said nothing as Nike finished her meal, allowing her the time to eat at whatever pace her stomach now required her to. Depending on what stage of exhaustion she was at, her belly would either demand feeding quickly or particularly slowly for risk of sudden upset. And so he allowed her to deal with her own hunger cravings however she wanted.
Instead, he focused on the maps and had already reassembled several of them by the time she had finished her meal, his attention completely diverted. Anyone who knew Vangelis intimately would understand the level of respect he showed just from being unconcerned for watching his back. As with most people, his life was his most prize possession and to turn his attentions fully away from another offered it to them on a silver plate... as he was beginning to do so for Nike.
She had been a captain with him for a year now and he had worked closely with her throughout that period. Vangelis was also quick to make judgement on people and an astute assessor of character. It was safe to say that the newest addition to his ranking officers was one he had complete faith in.
As she grumbled about the manner in which he showed his thanks, Vangelis shook his head, still refusing to look her way.
"You failed in a duty that was given you; you were reprimanded for it. You saved my life; I thanked you for it with food that no-one else was given..." Vangelis turned back to face her, bracing his backside against the table and folding his arms across his chest he just watched her with a calm expression. "As one should not negate the other, how is it you would have preferred me to handle the situation?"
A wave of his hand dismissed the maps from the topic of conversation. They were his responsibility, not hers. And while he held his men to the highest standards with regards to their duties, so too did he keep himself to his own.
Vangelis said nothing as Nike finished her meal, allowing her the time to eat at whatever pace her stomach now required her to. Depending on what stage of exhaustion she was at, her belly would either demand feeding quickly or particularly slowly for risk of sudden upset. And so he allowed her to deal with her own hunger cravings however she wanted.
Instead, he focused on the maps and had already reassembled several of them by the time she had finished her meal, his attention completely diverted. Anyone who knew Vangelis intimately would understand the level of respect he showed just from being unconcerned for watching his back. As with most people, his life was his most prize possession and to turn his attentions fully away from another offered it to them on a silver plate... as he was beginning to do so for Nike.
She had been a captain with him for a year now and he had worked closely with her throughout that period. Vangelis was also quick to make judgement on people and an astute assessor of character. It was safe to say that the newest addition to his ranking officers was one he had complete faith in.
As she grumbled about the manner in which he showed his thanks, Vangelis shook his head, still refusing to look her way.
"You failed in a duty that was given you; you were reprimanded for it. You saved my life; I thanked you for it with food that no-one else was given..." Vangelis turned back to face her, bracing his backside against the table and folding his arms across his chest he just watched her with a calm expression. "As one should not negate the other, how is it you would have preferred me to handle the situation?"
A wave of his hand dismissed the maps from the topic of conversation. They were his responsibility, not hers. And while he held his men to the highest standards with regards to their duties, so too did he keep himself to his own.
It wasn't a big surprise that the general would speak to her while he was concentrating on a different task - it was something he did quite often, something Nike bet was a skill he picked up along his many years being in the military. She was used to it by now, but that didn't do much to calm the irritation that still rippled along his chest at his behaviour. Not that it was entirely justified, but sometimes it was not as if she could do anything. He was the general afterall, was he not?
That being said, to a certain degree, she knew he trusted her. Trusted her enough at least, to task her with certain responsibilities and personally saw to her training on top of it. The level of respect and trust between the two was still vague for now, but it was slowly building.
With his matter-of-fact tone, Nike bit back the remainder of her grumbles, and returned to biting off the second apple that had been in the bowl, finishing it gratefully. The captain felt mildly bad at leaving her subordinates out there hungry to bed, while she had some form of sustenance, but at the same time Nike also justified that if they were all starving, no one would be available to take night watch - she'd relieve them of night watch later, at least.
Her eyes flickered to meet his when he turned to face her, eyes reflecting the low flame of the torch that illuminated the tent, highlighting the remaining dissatisfaction that Nike left unvoiced, but would dissipate as time went by. It was usual frustration one felt after having to do arduous punishment - nothing more, and nothing lasting. The silence she offered to his question directed at her was response enough - it was a fair punishment, albeit one that just grated on her nerves. On one hand, Nike would've preferred if the one who actually did the mistake get punished, yet on the other hand, there was truth to his words. She was their officer in charge.
With her limbs and muscles rested and no longer shivering as they had before food had entered her system, the captain straightened up slowly, replacing the bowl on the chair she had just vacated. "Thank you for the food." For a brief second, it was almost as if Nike was going to exit the tent, before her steps stilled, and then she turned to face him, a curious eye roaming the area, before falling back on the general again. "My... dagger. Do you have it?" her question came haltingly, as if she wasn't sure if it was appropriate for her to ask for it. While it was valuable for sure, Nike treasured it more for its sentimental value, it being the last thing she actually had of her mother.
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Check out their information page here.
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It wasn't a big surprise that the general would speak to her while he was concentrating on a different task - it was something he did quite often, something Nike bet was a skill he picked up along his many years being in the military. She was used to it by now, but that didn't do much to calm the irritation that still rippled along his chest at his behaviour. Not that it was entirely justified, but sometimes it was not as if she could do anything. He was the general afterall, was he not?
That being said, to a certain degree, she knew he trusted her. Trusted her enough at least, to task her with certain responsibilities and personally saw to her training on top of it. The level of respect and trust between the two was still vague for now, but it was slowly building.
With his matter-of-fact tone, Nike bit back the remainder of her grumbles, and returned to biting off the second apple that had been in the bowl, finishing it gratefully. The captain felt mildly bad at leaving her subordinates out there hungry to bed, while she had some form of sustenance, but at the same time Nike also justified that if they were all starving, no one would be available to take night watch - she'd relieve them of night watch later, at least.
Her eyes flickered to meet his when he turned to face her, eyes reflecting the low flame of the torch that illuminated the tent, highlighting the remaining dissatisfaction that Nike left unvoiced, but would dissipate as time went by. It was usual frustration one felt after having to do arduous punishment - nothing more, and nothing lasting. The silence she offered to his question directed at her was response enough - it was a fair punishment, albeit one that just grated on her nerves. On one hand, Nike would've preferred if the one who actually did the mistake get punished, yet on the other hand, there was truth to his words. She was their officer in charge.
With her limbs and muscles rested and no longer shivering as they had before food had entered her system, the captain straightened up slowly, replacing the bowl on the chair she had just vacated. "Thank you for the food." For a brief second, it was almost as if Nike was going to exit the tent, before her steps stilled, and then she turned to face him, a curious eye roaming the area, before falling back on the general again. "My... dagger. Do you have it?" her question came haltingly, as if she wasn't sure if it was appropriate for her to ask for it. While it was valuable for sure, Nike treasured it more for its sentimental value, it being the last thing she actually had of her mother.
It wasn't a big surprise that the general would speak to her while he was concentrating on a different task - it was something he did quite often, something Nike bet was a skill he picked up along his many years being in the military. She was used to it by now, but that didn't do much to calm the irritation that still rippled along his chest at his behaviour. Not that it was entirely justified, but sometimes it was not as if she could do anything. He was the general afterall, was he not?
That being said, to a certain degree, she knew he trusted her. Trusted her enough at least, to task her with certain responsibilities and personally saw to her training on top of it. The level of respect and trust between the two was still vague for now, but it was slowly building.
With his matter-of-fact tone, Nike bit back the remainder of her grumbles, and returned to biting off the second apple that had been in the bowl, finishing it gratefully. The captain felt mildly bad at leaving her subordinates out there hungry to bed, while she had some form of sustenance, but at the same time Nike also justified that if they were all starving, no one would be available to take night watch - she'd relieve them of night watch later, at least.
Her eyes flickered to meet his when he turned to face her, eyes reflecting the low flame of the torch that illuminated the tent, highlighting the remaining dissatisfaction that Nike left unvoiced, but would dissipate as time went by. It was usual frustration one felt after having to do arduous punishment - nothing more, and nothing lasting. The silence she offered to his question directed at her was response enough - it was a fair punishment, albeit one that just grated on her nerves. On one hand, Nike would've preferred if the one who actually did the mistake get punished, yet on the other hand, there was truth to his words. She was their officer in charge.
With her limbs and muscles rested and no longer shivering as they had before food had entered her system, the captain straightened up slowly, replacing the bowl on the chair she had just vacated. "Thank you for the food." For a brief second, it was almost as if Nike was going to exit the tent, before her steps stilled, and then she turned to face him, a curious eye roaming the area, before falling back on the general again. "My... dagger. Do you have it?" her question came haltingly, as if she wasn't sure if it was appropriate for her to ask for it. While it was valuable for sure, Nike treasured it more for its sentimental value, it being the last thing she actually had of her mother.
There was many a man in many a military unit who would have kept the dagger that Vangelis had confiscated from Nike. It was expensive, well crafted, well cared for... and the emerald in the hilt would be worth a good few drachmae. It didn't seem to matter that most high ranking officers were rich and of wealthy families - those with money seemed to only crave more. But Vangelis wasn't like such men. He wasn't materialistic, despite being raised around everything he could want, and he wasn't a snob, despite never having lived without the finer things in life.
Instead, he was honourable and fair to a stubborn fault.
So, when Nike asked for her dagger back, Vangelis fished it up from where he had left it, tucked in beneath the strap of one of his belts and then held it out to her, taking a step forward to place the hilt of the blade within her reach.
As she took the weapon from him, he made sure to grip the blade momentarily, stilling her motion to draw in back towards her and he met her gaze.
"Truly..." He said, his features sincere... "Thank-you, Nike of Acaris."
And then he let her and the dagger, go...
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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There was many a man in many a military unit who would have kept the dagger that Vangelis had confiscated from Nike. It was expensive, well crafted, well cared for... and the emerald in the hilt would be worth a good few drachmae. It didn't seem to matter that most high ranking officers were rich and of wealthy families - those with money seemed to only crave more. But Vangelis wasn't like such men. He wasn't materialistic, despite being raised around everything he could want, and he wasn't a snob, despite never having lived without the finer things in life.
Instead, he was honourable and fair to a stubborn fault.
So, when Nike asked for her dagger back, Vangelis fished it up from where he had left it, tucked in beneath the strap of one of his belts and then held it out to her, taking a step forward to place the hilt of the blade within her reach.
As she took the weapon from him, he made sure to grip the blade momentarily, stilling her motion to draw in back towards her and he met her gaze.
"Truly..." He said, his features sincere... "Thank-you, Nike of Acaris."
And then he let her and the dagger, go...
There was many a man in many a military unit who would have kept the dagger that Vangelis had confiscated from Nike. It was expensive, well crafted, well cared for... and the emerald in the hilt would be worth a good few drachmae. It didn't seem to matter that most high ranking officers were rich and of wealthy families - those with money seemed to only crave more. But Vangelis wasn't like such men. He wasn't materialistic, despite being raised around everything he could want, and he wasn't a snob, despite never having lived without the finer things in life.
Instead, he was honourable and fair to a stubborn fault.
So, when Nike asked for her dagger back, Vangelis fished it up from where he had left it, tucked in beneath the strap of one of his belts and then held it out to her, taking a step forward to place the hilt of the blade within her reach.
As she took the weapon from him, he made sure to grip the blade momentarily, stilling her motion to draw in back towards her and he met her gaze.
"Truly..." He said, his features sincere... "Thank-you, Nike of Acaris."
