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She served the King and stepped aside like everyone else had, anxiously waiting to be directed elsewhere. Nothing should have happened. The night should have proceeded as normal, without a hitch, uneventful even. She wanted nothing more than to be back where she was comfortable, away from all these people. How she wanted to beg her master to never allow her to do this again. It was terrible, suffocating, all in all terrifying. But she had been doing well, all things considered.
Had.
Then something went wrong.
Terribly wrong.
She hadn’t noticed, not truly, that anything was happening. Her gaze was elsewhere, directed at no one in particular. It wasn’t the sudden movement of the chair that caught her attention, nor that the King was on the floor surrounded by those trying to save him. It was the voice of her master that pulled her attention back to her current situation. And she was too close. Quickly shuffling out of the way, it took her too long to realize what had transpired before her.
Oh no.
Was it not she who had served the King? The implications of that very idea hit her all at once. No. No, no, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen! None of this was supposed to happen! She shook her head slowly, as that would somehow make this all disappear. She wanted nothing more to vanish. She shrunk back further, unaware she was holding her breath until her body forced her to breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Her body swayed with the quickness of her breath. It was hard to swallow, her throat was tight and her heart felt as though it had leapt to her throat. It was hard to do much of anything. Her hands were trembling, terribly so, but she could do nothing to stop them. She could do nothing. Frozen in place and fighting tears, her eyes darted around the room, looking for someone, anyone, who could ease the sheer terror that consumed her.
But she found not one.
She was alone.
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Things were going fine.
She served the King and stepped aside like everyone else had, anxiously waiting to be directed elsewhere. Nothing should have happened. The night should have proceeded as normal, without a hitch, uneventful even. She wanted nothing more than to be back where she was comfortable, away from all these people. How she wanted to beg her master to never allow her to do this again. It was terrible, suffocating, all in all terrifying. But she had been doing well, all things considered.
Had.
Then something went wrong.
Terribly wrong.
She hadn’t noticed, not truly, that anything was happening. Her gaze was elsewhere, directed at no one in particular. It wasn’t the sudden movement of the chair that caught her attention, nor that the King was on the floor surrounded by those trying to save him. It was the voice of her master that pulled her attention back to her current situation. And she was too close. Quickly shuffling out of the way, it took her too long to realize what had transpired before her.
Oh no.
Was it not she who had served the King? The implications of that very idea hit her all at once. No. No, no, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen! None of this was supposed to happen! She shook her head slowly, as that would somehow make this all disappear. She wanted nothing more to vanish. She shrunk back further, unaware she was holding her breath until her body forced her to breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Her body swayed with the quickness of her breath. It was hard to swallow, her throat was tight and her heart felt as though it had leapt to her throat. It was hard to do much of anything. Her hands were trembling, terribly so, but she could do nothing to stop them. She could do nothing. Frozen in place and fighting tears, her eyes darted around the room, looking for someone, anyone, who could ease the sheer terror that consumed her.
But she found not one.
She was alone.
Things were going fine.
She served the King and stepped aside like everyone else had, anxiously waiting to be directed elsewhere. Nothing should have happened. The night should have proceeded as normal, without a hitch, uneventful even. She wanted nothing more than to be back where she was comfortable, away from all these people. How she wanted to beg her master to never allow her to do this again. It was terrible, suffocating, all in all terrifying. But she had been doing well, all things considered.
Had.
Then something went wrong.
Terribly wrong.
She hadn’t noticed, not truly, that anything was happening. Her gaze was elsewhere, directed at no one in particular. It wasn’t the sudden movement of the chair that caught her attention, nor that the King was on the floor surrounded by those trying to save him. It was the voice of her master that pulled her attention back to her current situation. And she was too close. Quickly shuffling out of the way, it took her too long to realize what had transpired before her.
Oh no.
Was it not she who had served the King? The implications of that very idea hit her all at once. No. No, no, no! This wasn’t supposed to happen! None of this was supposed to happen! She shook her head slowly, as that would somehow make this all disappear. She wanted nothing more to vanish. She shrunk back further, unaware she was holding her breath until her body forced her to breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Her body swayed with the quickness of her breath. It was hard to swallow, her throat was tight and her heart felt as though it had leapt to her throat. It was hard to do much of anything. Her hands were trembling, terribly so, but she could do nothing to stop them. She could do nothing. Frozen in place and fighting tears, her eyes darted around the room, looking for someone, anyone, who could ease the sheer terror that consumed her.
But she found not one.
She was alone.
There was a satisfaction in the way Father couldn't do much to counter Mihail's words in such a public place as this. He could see the way his eyes immediately darkened with wrath, and there was an appeal to it which quirked his lips into an approving smirk, regardless of Thea's hissed warning. In fact, the man could not help shooting her a look in return that made clear the pride in his words, not even bothered by the retort with which his father came up. Calling his words idiotic was hardly a well-thought-out response, and he thought it more juvenile than what even Dysius had to say at times.
"Dear me, Father, are we losing our touch? You used to be so eloquent; it's such a shame to see you reduced to these puerile insults." He might have added more, unable to resist the opportunity, when a shriek rang out through the room, and could not have been a single individual whose attention was not immediately diverted towards the royal family. In a moment, the room's entire mood had changed: the King was on the ground, and a multitude had run towards him, two of his own sisters included.
Mihail already knew Thea would be able to help. There was a caring nature in her that most never noticed past all those shouts of 'witch!', and seeing her rushing towards Vangelis's side reminded him of the countless occasions when she'd done the same for him. All those times she had found him lying half-conscious, choking and clammy and blue-lipped with a heartbeat so slow one would barely think him alive, and yet here he still was. There was nobody he trusted with his life more intensely than her, and he knew she could save their new King (even if he privately believed leaving him to die would have done better for their family's legacy).
His almost-pitying expression was fixed on the commotion, even if his view of the dying man was partially obscured, the half-empty goblet of crimson wine in his hand slowly returned to the table as if it may well have also been poisoned. Father's muttering garnered a glance in his direction, the comment more than a little suspicious. There seemed evident guilt to the way he spoke with no emotion whatsoever, and had Mihail cared, he would have suggested the man lower his voice or make some attempt to hide his indifference, but he did not. If he wished to act with such carelessness, then so be it.
There was not much Mihail thought he could do as his eyes scanned the crowd (truth be told, most believed there was not much he could do outright), but as his wandering gaze paused momentarily on Princess Athanasia, he caught her eye and the way she silently seemed to request his approach. She was with Dion, holding him away from the panic, and, although the youngest Thanasi was not typically overly keen on children, he had always held a soft spot for his nephew, which led him to rise from his seat with no questions.
Guards had already surrounded the royal family, and there was an awkward moment as Mihail attempted to push past to reach his nephew, hissing with noticeable frustration at those blocking his way that it was their princess who had requested his presence, and his nephew he was attempting to help before they allowed him to pass. Then he switched the look on his face to that reassuring smile, the apparent emotion far more real than one might at first assume, reaching to place a comforting hand on Dion's shoulder as he spoke to the princess.
"Your Highness. Don't worry. I can assure you that Thea knows what she's doing - I have seen my sister do this before, and she has succeeded. If she had not, then perhaps I would not even be standing before you this day." He neglected to go into further details, but he hoped the comment was enough to calm her nerves somewhat before he knelt before the eleven-year-old boy, hands still in place as he squeezed the child's shoulders soothingly. "Dion, look at me. Everything is going to be alright, but you need to be a brave boy; you're nearly a man now. You show everyone you're just as strong a prince as all your Kotas uncles, and you know that Aunt Thea is going to do everything she can to help. Stay with the two of us, alright?"
Mihail turned back to the princess, a hand trailing down for Dion to grip it tightly, fingers intertwining as he once more attempted to put Athanasia's mind at ease. There was an uncharacteristic kindness to all this, if partially because he understood the closeness of a sibling relationship far more than he did a parental one, and the man knew the pain he would feel if he lost any of his sisters. "Have faith in the gods, and have faith in Thea. They shall not let Vangelis die this day." His tone had turned more informal than some might have thought wholly appropriate, spare hand held out to offer her something to hold to dispel her fears, smile tinted with only a hint of melancholy. "I promise all shall be well."
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There was a satisfaction in the way Father couldn't do much to counter Mihail's words in such a public place as this. He could see the way his eyes immediately darkened with wrath, and there was an appeal to it which quirked his lips into an approving smirk, regardless of Thea's hissed warning. In fact, the man could not help shooting her a look in return that made clear the pride in his words, not even bothered by the retort with which his father came up. Calling his words idiotic was hardly a well-thought-out response, and he thought it more juvenile than what even Dysius had to say at times.
"Dear me, Father, are we losing our touch? You used to be so eloquent; it's such a shame to see you reduced to these puerile insults." He might have added more, unable to resist the opportunity, when a shriek rang out through the room, and could not have been a single individual whose attention was not immediately diverted towards the royal family. In a moment, the room's entire mood had changed: the King was on the ground, and a multitude had run towards him, two of his own sisters included.
Mihail already knew Thea would be able to help. There was a caring nature in her that most never noticed past all those shouts of 'witch!', and seeing her rushing towards Vangelis's side reminded him of the countless occasions when she'd done the same for him. All those times she had found him lying half-conscious, choking and clammy and blue-lipped with a heartbeat so slow one would barely think him alive, and yet here he still was. There was nobody he trusted with his life more intensely than her, and he knew she could save their new King (even if he privately believed leaving him to die would have done better for their family's legacy).
His almost-pitying expression was fixed on the commotion, even if his view of the dying man was partially obscured, the half-empty goblet of crimson wine in his hand slowly returned to the table as if it may well have also been poisoned. Father's muttering garnered a glance in his direction, the comment more than a little suspicious. There seemed evident guilt to the way he spoke with no emotion whatsoever, and had Mihail cared, he would have suggested the man lower his voice or make some attempt to hide his indifference, but he did not. If he wished to act with such carelessness, then so be it.
There was not much Mihail thought he could do as his eyes scanned the crowd (truth be told, most believed there was not much he could do outright), but as his wandering gaze paused momentarily on Princess Athanasia, he caught her eye and the way she silently seemed to request his approach. She was with Dion, holding him away from the panic, and, although the youngest Thanasi was not typically overly keen on children, he had always held a soft spot for his nephew, which led him to rise from his seat with no questions.
Guards had already surrounded the royal family, and there was an awkward moment as Mihail attempted to push past to reach his nephew, hissing with noticeable frustration at those blocking his way that it was their princess who had requested his presence, and his nephew he was attempting to help before they allowed him to pass. Then he switched the look on his face to that reassuring smile, the apparent emotion far more real than one might at first assume, reaching to place a comforting hand on Dion's shoulder as he spoke to the princess.
"Your Highness. Don't worry. I can assure you that Thea knows what she's doing - I have seen my sister do this before, and she has succeeded. If she had not, then perhaps I would not even be standing before you this day." He neglected to go into further details, but he hoped the comment was enough to calm her nerves somewhat before he knelt before the eleven-year-old boy, hands still in place as he squeezed the child's shoulders soothingly. "Dion, look at me. Everything is going to be alright, but you need to be a brave boy; you're nearly a man now. You show everyone you're just as strong a prince as all your Kotas uncles, and you know that Aunt Thea is going to do everything she can to help. Stay with the two of us, alright?"
Mihail turned back to the princess, a hand trailing down for Dion to grip it tightly, fingers intertwining as he once more attempted to put Athanasia's mind at ease. There was an uncharacteristic kindness to all this, if partially because he understood the closeness of a sibling relationship far more than he did a parental one, and the man knew the pain he would feel if he lost any of his sisters. "Have faith in the gods, and have faith in Thea. They shall not let Vangelis die this day." His tone had turned more informal than some might have thought wholly appropriate, spare hand held out to offer her something to hold to dispel her fears, smile tinted with only a hint of melancholy. "I promise all shall be well."
There was a satisfaction in the way Father couldn't do much to counter Mihail's words in such a public place as this. He could see the way his eyes immediately darkened with wrath, and there was an appeal to it which quirked his lips into an approving smirk, regardless of Thea's hissed warning. In fact, the man could not help shooting her a look in return that made clear the pride in his words, not even bothered by the retort with which his father came up. Calling his words idiotic was hardly a well-thought-out response, and he thought it more juvenile than what even Dysius had to say at times.
"Dear me, Father, are we losing our touch? You used to be so eloquent; it's such a shame to see you reduced to these puerile insults." He might have added more, unable to resist the opportunity, when a shriek rang out through the room, and could not have been a single individual whose attention was not immediately diverted towards the royal family. In a moment, the room's entire mood had changed: the King was on the ground, and a multitude had run towards him, two of his own sisters included.
Mihail already knew Thea would be able to help. There was a caring nature in her that most never noticed past all those shouts of 'witch!', and seeing her rushing towards Vangelis's side reminded him of the countless occasions when she'd done the same for him. All those times she had found him lying half-conscious, choking and clammy and blue-lipped with a heartbeat so slow one would barely think him alive, and yet here he still was. There was nobody he trusted with his life more intensely than her, and he knew she could save their new King (even if he privately believed leaving him to die would have done better for their family's legacy).
His almost-pitying expression was fixed on the commotion, even if his view of the dying man was partially obscured, the half-empty goblet of crimson wine in his hand slowly returned to the table as if it may well have also been poisoned. Father's muttering garnered a glance in his direction, the comment more than a little suspicious. There seemed evident guilt to the way he spoke with no emotion whatsoever, and had Mihail cared, he would have suggested the man lower his voice or make some attempt to hide his indifference, but he did not. If he wished to act with such carelessness, then so be it.
There was not much Mihail thought he could do as his eyes scanned the crowd (truth be told, most believed there was not much he could do outright), but as his wandering gaze paused momentarily on Princess Athanasia, he caught her eye and the way she silently seemed to request his approach. She was with Dion, holding him away from the panic, and, although the youngest Thanasi was not typically overly keen on children, he had always held a soft spot for his nephew, which led him to rise from his seat with no questions.
Guards had already surrounded the royal family, and there was an awkward moment as Mihail attempted to push past to reach his nephew, hissing with noticeable frustration at those blocking his way that it was their princess who had requested his presence, and his nephew he was attempting to help before they allowed him to pass. Then he switched the look on his face to that reassuring smile, the apparent emotion far more real than one might at first assume, reaching to place a comforting hand on Dion's shoulder as he spoke to the princess.
"Your Highness. Don't worry. I can assure you that Thea knows what she's doing - I have seen my sister do this before, and she has succeeded. If she had not, then perhaps I would not even be standing before you this day." He neglected to go into further details, but he hoped the comment was enough to calm her nerves somewhat before he knelt before the eleven-year-old boy, hands still in place as he squeezed the child's shoulders soothingly. "Dion, look at me. Everything is going to be alright, but you need to be a brave boy; you're nearly a man now. You show everyone you're just as strong a prince as all your Kotas uncles, and you know that Aunt Thea is going to do everything she can to help. Stay with the two of us, alright?"
Mihail turned back to the princess, a hand trailing down for Dion to grip it tightly, fingers intertwining as he once more attempted to put Athanasia's mind at ease. There was an uncharacteristic kindness to all this, if partially because he understood the closeness of a sibling relationship far more than he did a parental one, and the man knew the pain he would feel if he lost any of his sisters. "Have faith in the gods, and have faith in Thea. They shall not let Vangelis die this day." His tone had turned more informal than some might have thought wholly appropriate, spare hand held out to offer her something to hold to dispel her fears, smile tinted with only a hint of melancholy. "I promise all shall be well."
Leto did her best not to hold her eye contact with Lord Silanos too long, fearing that her lack of practice with holding a neutral, courtly expression would fail her. Leto lightly pretended to listen to the conversation between Lady Iolanthe and Lady Imeeya, sipping as daintily as she could on the wine in her hand, stilling when Lord Silanos spoke.
“Seven years, My Lord,” Leto offered, offering in a kindly voice and with a soft smile, “We moved to from Chaossis seven years ago when my brother, Magnus, attained his position with the Crown…”
Before she could finish speaking, the silence drew her attention, and her eyes grew round with interest as she heard the new King of Colchis address the room. Her expression was rather rapturous - never before in her life would she have imagined to be in the audience of royalty, and the moment impacted her perhaps more than it should have. The names of noble families and the impact of the King’s words were mostly lost on her, understandably not being nearly as familiar with the social circles of nobility as others in the room.
When the speech ended, the meal commenced and Leto smiled to Lady Iolanthe beside her. Her hands remained stilled until she saw that all of the others around her had been served first - after all, despite her invitation to this event, there was still a distinct feeling of difference in her birth versus theirs.
While she waited those few moments, she noted the shift in Lord Silanos mood as he asked a question of Lady Imeeya, her own eyes flashing slightly between their expressions. There was something beneath the surface but Leto could not tell the specifics. Courtiers and their masks….
At last, Leto was able to serve herself, savoring the dish before her indulgently for the briefest moment before a commotion took the room. Utterly confused given their distance from the Royal Table, Leto missed most of the initial actions, only to not a crowd of people around the head table, surrounded the King, prone on the floor.
A chill rushed through her as her hand instinctively reached for Lady Iolanthe’s forearm, eyes wide as the dishes their meals lay upon, “What is it? Wha’s happened?”
In her startlement, the thickness of her more common accent broke through, usually curated and carefully massaged away through the practice. It was not long before shouts and comments informed her of the issue and the sudden movement around the room that secured the chamber had her startled even further, eyes widening as she noted Captain Maleos shift into his duties, eyes watching him. It took the breath from her lungs to see his demeanor shift, along with Captain Damocles and the various other militants in the room - there were so many of them!
Though surrounded by the militants and with her close companion on her arm, Leto wished above all wishes that Magnus were here. Though there was no logical explanation to it, his presence would have made her feel safer, in some strange way. Instead, she flickered an unsettled glance between Lord Silanos, Lady Imeeya, and Lady Iolanthe.
“W-what do we do?”
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Leto did her best not to hold her eye contact with Lord Silanos too long, fearing that her lack of practice with holding a neutral, courtly expression would fail her. Leto lightly pretended to listen to the conversation between Lady Iolanthe and Lady Imeeya, sipping as daintily as she could on the wine in her hand, stilling when Lord Silanos spoke.
“Seven years, My Lord,” Leto offered, offering in a kindly voice and with a soft smile, “We moved to from Chaossis seven years ago when my brother, Magnus, attained his position with the Crown…”
Before she could finish speaking, the silence drew her attention, and her eyes grew round with interest as she heard the new King of Colchis address the room. Her expression was rather rapturous - never before in her life would she have imagined to be in the audience of royalty, and the moment impacted her perhaps more than it should have. The names of noble families and the impact of the King’s words were mostly lost on her, understandably not being nearly as familiar with the social circles of nobility as others in the room.
When the speech ended, the meal commenced and Leto smiled to Lady Iolanthe beside her. Her hands remained stilled until she saw that all of the others around her had been served first - after all, despite her invitation to this event, there was still a distinct feeling of difference in her birth versus theirs.
While she waited those few moments, she noted the shift in Lord Silanos mood as he asked a question of Lady Imeeya, her own eyes flashing slightly between their expressions. There was something beneath the surface but Leto could not tell the specifics. Courtiers and their masks….
At last, Leto was able to serve herself, savoring the dish before her indulgently for the briefest moment before a commotion took the room. Utterly confused given their distance from the Royal Table, Leto missed most of the initial actions, only to not a crowd of people around the head table, surrounded the King, prone on the floor.
A chill rushed through her as her hand instinctively reached for Lady Iolanthe’s forearm, eyes wide as the dishes their meals lay upon, “What is it? Wha’s happened?”
In her startlement, the thickness of her more common accent broke through, usually curated and carefully massaged away through the practice. It was not long before shouts and comments informed her of the issue and the sudden movement around the room that secured the chamber had her startled even further, eyes widening as she noted Captain Maleos shift into his duties, eyes watching him. It took the breath from her lungs to see his demeanor shift, along with Captain Damocles and the various other militants in the room - there were so many of them!
Though surrounded by the militants and with her close companion on her arm, Leto wished above all wishes that Magnus were here. Though there was no logical explanation to it, his presence would have made her feel safer, in some strange way. Instead, she flickered an unsettled glance between Lord Silanos, Lady Imeeya, and Lady Iolanthe.
“W-what do we do?”
Leto did her best not to hold her eye contact with Lord Silanos too long, fearing that her lack of practice with holding a neutral, courtly expression would fail her. Leto lightly pretended to listen to the conversation between Lady Iolanthe and Lady Imeeya, sipping as daintily as she could on the wine in her hand, stilling when Lord Silanos spoke.
“Seven years, My Lord,” Leto offered, offering in a kindly voice and with a soft smile, “We moved to from Chaossis seven years ago when my brother, Magnus, attained his position with the Crown…”
Before she could finish speaking, the silence drew her attention, and her eyes grew round with interest as she heard the new King of Colchis address the room. Her expression was rather rapturous - never before in her life would she have imagined to be in the audience of royalty, and the moment impacted her perhaps more than it should have. The names of noble families and the impact of the King’s words were mostly lost on her, understandably not being nearly as familiar with the social circles of nobility as others in the room.
When the speech ended, the meal commenced and Leto smiled to Lady Iolanthe beside her. Her hands remained stilled until she saw that all of the others around her had been served first - after all, despite her invitation to this event, there was still a distinct feeling of difference in her birth versus theirs.
While she waited those few moments, she noted the shift in Lord Silanos mood as he asked a question of Lady Imeeya, her own eyes flashing slightly between their expressions. There was something beneath the surface but Leto could not tell the specifics. Courtiers and their masks….
At last, Leto was able to serve herself, savoring the dish before her indulgently for the briefest moment before a commotion took the room. Utterly confused given their distance from the Royal Table, Leto missed most of the initial actions, only to not a crowd of people around the head table, surrounded the King, prone on the floor.
A chill rushed through her as her hand instinctively reached for Lady Iolanthe’s forearm, eyes wide as the dishes their meals lay upon, “What is it? Wha’s happened?”
In her startlement, the thickness of her more common accent broke through, usually curated and carefully massaged away through the practice. It was not long before shouts and comments informed her of the issue and the sudden movement around the room that secured the chamber had her startled even further, eyes widening as she noted Captain Maleos shift into his duties, eyes watching him. It took the breath from her lungs to see his demeanor shift, along with Captain Damocles and the various other militants in the room - there were so many of them!
Though surrounded by the militants and with her close companion on her arm, Leto wished above all wishes that Magnus were here. Though there was no logical explanation to it, his presence would have made her feel safer, in some strange way. Instead, she flickered an unsettled glance between Lord Silanos, Lady Imeeya, and Lady Iolanthe.
“W-what do we do?”
Silanos had shot a curious glance at King Stephanos of Mikaelidas when the man had joined them. There was something odd about the nature of such a visit, even amongst the aftermath of the loss of their own King. There had been no court event to receive the King of Taengea nor his Queen or new babe, and it seemed strange indeed for the royal couple to have chosen to be so far from their own Kingdom with a new heir just born. He said nothing of it though, just returned the man’s nod with one of his own.
When his thoughts and gaze wandered toward Athanasia and he found his eyes met her own, the Valaoritis Lord looked away quickly. It would be stupid to try and speak with her when the King was in the same room, he knew that, but it was a horrible feeling – knowing that repercussions of his stupidity were hanging over his head but unable to do anything to mitigate them. He’d finished his wine almost before he’d realised he was drinking it.
As he listlessly pushed his food around his plate and debated how long he would have to stay for politeness’ sake, some commotion from across the room had him look up. The royal table, and before Silanos had even caught up with what was happening, King Stephanos was on his feet and crossing the room, and Sil let his cutlery drop with a dull clatter. Was that the King on his knees? It was confusion on his face as he glanced at those around him, a strange silence having settled over the rest of the hall away from the flurry of activity around the King. There was a cry, and then orders were being shouted and the doors were being manned. Poison?!
He pushed to his feet, leaning to see what was happening was on the dais and he caught of a sight of someone bent over the King, forcing breath into his chest. He knew that was what they were doing because he had watched it happen to Nicomedes, the desperate efforts to see his chest rise and fall again with his own breaths. For a moment Sil felt a sense of dislocation, and he was right back there, looking at Timaeus’ hopeless attempts to save his big brother who lay still like stone. A voice that sounded as though it came from far away broke through and he turned to see Leto, wide eyed and uncertain ‘ Wh..what do we do?’.
He stared at her a moment unblinking, before seeming to really come back to the room and his tone was harsher than he intended it to be when he answered.
“Nothing. We do nothing. Just...let them deal with it. Stay put”
He reached for a jug of wine, and very carefully refilled his cup. The young Lord did not drink though, he just held it, knuckles white and face set, waiting for either confirmation that someone lived, or that someone had died.
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Silanos had shot a curious glance at King Stephanos of Mikaelidas when the man had joined them. There was something odd about the nature of such a visit, even amongst the aftermath of the loss of their own King. There had been no court event to receive the King of Taengea nor his Queen or new babe, and it seemed strange indeed for the royal couple to have chosen to be so far from their own Kingdom with a new heir just born. He said nothing of it though, just returned the man’s nod with one of his own.
When his thoughts and gaze wandered toward Athanasia and he found his eyes met her own, the Valaoritis Lord looked away quickly. It would be stupid to try and speak with her when the King was in the same room, he knew that, but it was a horrible feeling – knowing that repercussions of his stupidity were hanging over his head but unable to do anything to mitigate them. He’d finished his wine almost before he’d realised he was drinking it.
As he listlessly pushed his food around his plate and debated how long he would have to stay for politeness’ sake, some commotion from across the room had him look up. The royal table, and before Silanos had even caught up with what was happening, King Stephanos was on his feet and crossing the room, and Sil let his cutlery drop with a dull clatter. Was that the King on his knees? It was confusion on his face as he glanced at those around him, a strange silence having settled over the rest of the hall away from the flurry of activity around the King. There was a cry, and then orders were being shouted and the doors were being manned. Poison?!
He pushed to his feet, leaning to see what was happening was on the dais and he caught of a sight of someone bent over the King, forcing breath into his chest. He knew that was what they were doing because he had watched it happen to Nicomedes, the desperate efforts to see his chest rise and fall again with his own breaths. For a moment Sil felt a sense of dislocation, and he was right back there, looking at Timaeus’ hopeless attempts to save his big brother who lay still like stone. A voice that sounded as though it came from far away broke through and he turned to see Leto, wide eyed and uncertain ‘ Wh..what do we do?’.
He stared at her a moment unblinking, before seeming to really come back to the room and his tone was harsher than he intended it to be when he answered.
“Nothing. We do nothing. Just...let them deal with it. Stay put”
He reached for a jug of wine, and very carefully refilled his cup. The young Lord did not drink though, he just held it, knuckles white and face set, waiting for either confirmation that someone lived, or that someone had died.
Silanos had shot a curious glance at King Stephanos of Mikaelidas when the man had joined them. There was something odd about the nature of such a visit, even amongst the aftermath of the loss of their own King. There had been no court event to receive the King of Taengea nor his Queen or new babe, and it seemed strange indeed for the royal couple to have chosen to be so far from their own Kingdom with a new heir just born. He said nothing of it though, just returned the man’s nod with one of his own.
When his thoughts and gaze wandered toward Athanasia and he found his eyes met her own, the Valaoritis Lord looked away quickly. It would be stupid to try and speak with her when the King was in the same room, he knew that, but it was a horrible feeling – knowing that repercussions of his stupidity were hanging over his head but unable to do anything to mitigate them. He’d finished his wine almost before he’d realised he was drinking it.
As he listlessly pushed his food around his plate and debated how long he would have to stay for politeness’ sake, some commotion from across the room had him look up. The royal table, and before Silanos had even caught up with what was happening, King Stephanos was on his feet and crossing the room, and Sil let his cutlery drop with a dull clatter. Was that the King on his knees? It was confusion on his face as he glanced at those around him, a strange silence having settled over the rest of the hall away from the flurry of activity around the King. There was a cry, and then orders were being shouted and the doors were being manned. Poison?!
He pushed to his feet, leaning to see what was happening was on the dais and he caught of a sight of someone bent over the King, forcing breath into his chest. He knew that was what they were doing because he had watched it happen to Nicomedes, the desperate efforts to see his chest rise and fall again with his own breaths. For a moment Sil felt a sense of dislocation, and he was right back there, looking at Timaeus’ hopeless attempts to save his big brother who lay still like stone. A voice that sounded as though it came from far away broke through and he turned to see Leto, wide eyed and uncertain ‘ Wh..what do we do?’.
He stared at her a moment unblinking, before seeming to really come back to the room and his tone was harsher than he intended it to be when he answered.
“Nothing. We do nothing. Just...let them deal with it. Stay put”
He reached for a jug of wine, and very carefully refilled his cup. The young Lord did not drink though, he just held it, knuckles white and face set, waiting for either confirmation that someone lived, or that someone had died.
Maleos had been dreading the prolonged conversation with Damocles. Thankfully neither of them had much chance for interaction most of the time, so Maleos could play nice while avoiding the obnoxious way the other Captain conducted himself. And though he had been hoping for some sort of distraction to interrupt the conversation between the two of them, this was not at all what he had in mind. It took a moment for him to figure out what was happening, he moved his way through the crowd, a sudden stone cold seriousness falling onto his face when he saw the King on the ground.
Zanon didn’t need to yell for the chamber to be locked down, Maleos was already working on it as soon as he realized what was going on. Who ever had poisoned the King must still be in the building, or at least nearby. Maleos’ military instincts clicked in, and though the guards that were there were no his own men, it did not matter to him. Commands were given, his tone portraying the seriousness of the situation, none of the guards stopped to question his authority, they seemed almost a little relieved to have some sort of command.
Maleos cursed under his breath, wishing for a weapon of some sort, a sword preferably. Unfortunately, all weapons had been banned. No one had a weapon, except the guards. He paused for a moment, and went to the nearest guard.
“Sword. Now.” He demanded, and the man started to protest. Maleos grabbed the hilt of his sword and unsheathed it, holding it down so it didn’t look threatening. He had a bad feeling about what ever was happening, and his instincts had never been wrong yet. He wanted to be armed, in case it was necessary. There were a lot of innocent people here that could not defend themselves if they had to. He ordered the guard make himself useful and offer assistance if anything needed to be fetched in order to help the King.
For a moment his eyes found Leto, doing a double check to make sure she was safe. She seemed to be alright, shaken up but not hurt in any way. His sense of duty swelled. He had to protect the people in this room, but most importantly he had to protect his King and Leto as well. She used to be alright with a sword, but he doubted she had kept up with her training, and against a stronger swordsman, she hardly stood a chance.
Maleos held the sword tight in his hand, it wasn’t the one he was used to, it felt odd in his hand, but he knew that it would do the job if it was needed. He hoped that it would not be needed. His gaze was observant, watching the crowds for anyone who may be guilty of it as the guards finished locking down the chambers. No one was going to get in or out without causing a commotion and looking guilty, he was sure of it.
He waited there, useless when it came to saving the King from poison, but useful when it came to taking charge of the guards and his skills would prove very useful indeed if combat some how broke out. He waited, heart beating quickly in his chest. The excitement and terror had him on high alert, and he found himself a completely different man than the mild mannered Captain who had been eating just a few moments before.
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Maleos had been dreading the prolonged conversation with Damocles. Thankfully neither of them had much chance for interaction most of the time, so Maleos could play nice while avoiding the obnoxious way the other Captain conducted himself. And though he had been hoping for some sort of distraction to interrupt the conversation between the two of them, this was not at all what he had in mind. It took a moment for him to figure out what was happening, he moved his way through the crowd, a sudden stone cold seriousness falling onto his face when he saw the King on the ground.
Zanon didn’t need to yell for the chamber to be locked down, Maleos was already working on it as soon as he realized what was going on. Who ever had poisoned the King must still be in the building, or at least nearby. Maleos’ military instincts clicked in, and though the guards that were there were no his own men, it did not matter to him. Commands were given, his tone portraying the seriousness of the situation, none of the guards stopped to question his authority, they seemed almost a little relieved to have some sort of command.
Maleos cursed under his breath, wishing for a weapon of some sort, a sword preferably. Unfortunately, all weapons had been banned. No one had a weapon, except the guards. He paused for a moment, and went to the nearest guard.
“Sword. Now.” He demanded, and the man started to protest. Maleos grabbed the hilt of his sword and unsheathed it, holding it down so it didn’t look threatening. He had a bad feeling about what ever was happening, and his instincts had never been wrong yet. He wanted to be armed, in case it was necessary. There were a lot of innocent people here that could not defend themselves if they had to. He ordered the guard make himself useful and offer assistance if anything needed to be fetched in order to help the King.
For a moment his eyes found Leto, doing a double check to make sure she was safe. She seemed to be alright, shaken up but not hurt in any way. His sense of duty swelled. He had to protect the people in this room, but most importantly he had to protect his King and Leto as well. She used to be alright with a sword, but he doubted she had kept up with her training, and against a stronger swordsman, she hardly stood a chance.
Maleos held the sword tight in his hand, it wasn’t the one he was used to, it felt odd in his hand, but he knew that it would do the job if it was needed. He hoped that it would not be needed. His gaze was observant, watching the crowds for anyone who may be guilty of it as the guards finished locking down the chambers. No one was going to get in or out without causing a commotion and looking guilty, he was sure of it.
He waited there, useless when it came to saving the King from poison, but useful when it came to taking charge of the guards and his skills would prove very useful indeed if combat some how broke out. He waited, heart beating quickly in his chest. The excitement and terror had him on high alert, and he found himself a completely different man than the mild mannered Captain who had been eating just a few moments before.
Maleos had been dreading the prolonged conversation with Damocles. Thankfully neither of them had much chance for interaction most of the time, so Maleos could play nice while avoiding the obnoxious way the other Captain conducted himself. And though he had been hoping for some sort of distraction to interrupt the conversation between the two of them, this was not at all what he had in mind. It took a moment for him to figure out what was happening, he moved his way through the crowd, a sudden stone cold seriousness falling onto his face when he saw the King on the ground.
Zanon didn’t need to yell for the chamber to be locked down, Maleos was already working on it as soon as he realized what was going on. Who ever had poisoned the King must still be in the building, or at least nearby. Maleos’ military instincts clicked in, and though the guards that were there were no his own men, it did not matter to him. Commands were given, his tone portraying the seriousness of the situation, none of the guards stopped to question his authority, they seemed almost a little relieved to have some sort of command.
Maleos cursed under his breath, wishing for a weapon of some sort, a sword preferably. Unfortunately, all weapons had been banned. No one had a weapon, except the guards. He paused for a moment, and went to the nearest guard.
“Sword. Now.” He demanded, and the man started to protest. Maleos grabbed the hilt of his sword and unsheathed it, holding it down so it didn’t look threatening. He had a bad feeling about what ever was happening, and his instincts had never been wrong yet. He wanted to be armed, in case it was necessary. There were a lot of innocent people here that could not defend themselves if they had to. He ordered the guard make himself useful and offer assistance if anything needed to be fetched in order to help the King.
For a moment his eyes found Leto, doing a double check to make sure she was safe. She seemed to be alright, shaken up but not hurt in any way. His sense of duty swelled. He had to protect the people in this room, but most importantly he had to protect his King and Leto as well. She used to be alright with a sword, but he doubted she had kept up with her training, and against a stronger swordsman, she hardly stood a chance.
Maleos held the sword tight in his hand, it wasn’t the one he was used to, it felt odd in his hand, but he knew that it would do the job if it was needed. He hoped that it would not be needed. His gaze was observant, watching the crowds for anyone who may be guilty of it as the guards finished locking down the chambers. No one was going to get in or out without causing a commotion and looking guilty, he was sure of it.
He waited there, useless when it came to saving the King from poison, but useful when it came to taking charge of the guards and his skills would prove very useful indeed if combat some how broke out. He waited, heart beating quickly in his chest. The excitement and terror had him on high alert, and he found himself a completely different man than the mild mannered Captain who had been eating just a few moments before.
From his previous trips to Colchis, he was aware of the rumors surrounding the Thanasi family. Witchcraft and a spirit of vile evil that surrounded the family like a black shroud. The abrupt appearance of Lady Thea of Thanasi and her sister, Princess Evras did not bespeak of nefarious intent toward the new king. He didn’t think much on the notion of witchcraft when she sent him for such basic ingredients as salt and mustard powder, nor Evras for the charcoal. That, he understood. The charcoal would draw the poison to itself inside his stomach; even he, someone not versed in medicine knew that. What she wanted with the other two things was anyone’s guess.
A look to Evras and he darted toward the kitchens with her. It was a horrible thought, but if Vangelis died, he wondered what would become of him and his wife and child. Probably nothing, but the thought was there. This also rattled him and he had an equally horrifying thought: What if the poison wasn’t meant for the new king at all? What if his uncle had somehow sent an assassin who’d managed to poison the wrong person? Worse still: that the poison really was meant for Vangelis and it’d found its mark. He’d jumped from one fire to another.
Was the entirety of Greece under a curse? Three dead kings, three monarchs in active danger - two in exile, and one fighting for his life amidst his own people.
Stephanos blindly entered the kitchens, still entirely consumed by his own thoughts and barely noticed Evras scattering the servants for him. At first he thought she’d given the servants an order, but she hadn’t. He glanced around to find her messing about with the coals. Mustard. Salt. Right.
“Powdered mustard seed,” he demanded of the nearest servant. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the right person. They were nowhere near the mustard powder, but it didn’t matter. They were almost like one entity and someone far down the line piped up with a question of how much did he need? “The whole jar,” he said impatiently, holding out his hand. “And salt,” he barked at someone else. The servants didn’t make the same mistake of asking how much he wanted for the salt. By the time Evras was ready to go, Stephanos was falling into step with her, a jar of powdered mustard in one hand and a jar of salt in the other.
It was difficult to reach the king by this point. Such a crowd of family surrounded him, all wanting to help, all preventing him and Evras from making it through. With a nudge here, a grip to the back of someone’s clothes to pull them away there, he and the princess made it back to Lady Thea’s side. Stephanos stepped back again, folding his arms across his chest and frowning at Thea as she dumped the contents of the jars into a water jug and not with the charcoal, as he’d imagined she would. The charcoal was put into a second, separate jug and Stephanos frowned, still unsure of what was happening with either of these concoctions.
Selene bent over Vangelis and looked for all the world like she was kissing him, but he wasn’t sure how that could be, or how everyone wouldn’t be ripping her back from the king. Obviously he’d missed something when he went to the kitchens. No one appeared to be actively upset at what she was doing and so he didn’t mess with her. His gaze did drift to Pia again, though, as fresh concern over whether she’d eaten or not resurfaced. She did not look well, but she was not gasping for air.
Though he still bore the claw marks from her nails during their fight, he didn’t think he wanted to live if she died. Forcing that unpleasant thought aside, he focused back on the efforts that were being made for Vangelis, though, he wondered how the poison had been administered in the first place. In his palati, everything was tested and he did not know that this was not the case here. That led him to assume that whomever had handed the king his plate was the one who’d administered the poison.
Guards were on either side and it was a simple matter of asking which servant had been the one to do it. The guard pointed to Ariah, looking lost and bewildered. Stephanos moved toward her, clamping his hand around her slender wrist and jerking her in the direction of the guards. “Keep this woman under guard,” he ordered and looked to Zanon. “She’s the one who served your brother his poison.”
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From his previous trips to Colchis, he was aware of the rumors surrounding the Thanasi family. Witchcraft and a spirit of vile evil that surrounded the family like a black shroud. The abrupt appearance of Lady Thea of Thanasi and her sister, Princess Evras did not bespeak of nefarious intent toward the new king. He didn’t think much on the notion of witchcraft when she sent him for such basic ingredients as salt and mustard powder, nor Evras for the charcoal. That, he understood. The charcoal would draw the poison to itself inside his stomach; even he, someone not versed in medicine knew that. What she wanted with the other two things was anyone’s guess.
A look to Evras and he darted toward the kitchens with her. It was a horrible thought, but if Vangelis died, he wondered what would become of him and his wife and child. Probably nothing, but the thought was there. This also rattled him and he had an equally horrifying thought: What if the poison wasn’t meant for the new king at all? What if his uncle had somehow sent an assassin who’d managed to poison the wrong person? Worse still: that the poison really was meant for Vangelis and it’d found its mark. He’d jumped from one fire to another.
Was the entirety of Greece under a curse? Three dead kings, three monarchs in active danger - two in exile, and one fighting for his life amidst his own people.
Stephanos blindly entered the kitchens, still entirely consumed by his own thoughts and barely noticed Evras scattering the servants for him. At first he thought she’d given the servants an order, but she hadn’t. He glanced around to find her messing about with the coals. Mustard. Salt. Right.
“Powdered mustard seed,” he demanded of the nearest servant. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the right person. They were nowhere near the mustard powder, but it didn’t matter. They were almost like one entity and someone far down the line piped up with a question of how much did he need? “The whole jar,” he said impatiently, holding out his hand. “And salt,” he barked at someone else. The servants didn’t make the same mistake of asking how much he wanted for the salt. By the time Evras was ready to go, Stephanos was falling into step with her, a jar of powdered mustard in one hand and a jar of salt in the other.
It was difficult to reach the king by this point. Such a crowd of family surrounded him, all wanting to help, all preventing him and Evras from making it through. With a nudge here, a grip to the back of someone’s clothes to pull them away there, he and the princess made it back to Lady Thea’s side. Stephanos stepped back again, folding his arms across his chest and frowning at Thea as she dumped the contents of the jars into a water jug and not with the charcoal, as he’d imagined she would. The charcoal was put into a second, separate jug and Stephanos frowned, still unsure of what was happening with either of these concoctions.
Selene bent over Vangelis and looked for all the world like she was kissing him, but he wasn’t sure how that could be, or how everyone wouldn’t be ripping her back from the king. Obviously he’d missed something when he went to the kitchens. No one appeared to be actively upset at what she was doing and so he didn’t mess with her. His gaze did drift to Pia again, though, as fresh concern over whether she’d eaten or not resurfaced. She did not look well, but she was not gasping for air.
Though he still bore the claw marks from her nails during their fight, he didn’t think he wanted to live if she died. Forcing that unpleasant thought aside, he focused back on the efforts that were being made for Vangelis, though, he wondered how the poison had been administered in the first place. In his palati, everything was tested and he did not know that this was not the case here. That led him to assume that whomever had handed the king his plate was the one who’d administered the poison.
Guards were on either side and it was a simple matter of asking which servant had been the one to do it. The guard pointed to Ariah, looking lost and bewildered. Stephanos moved toward her, clamping his hand around her slender wrist and jerking her in the direction of the guards. “Keep this woman under guard,” he ordered and looked to Zanon. “She’s the one who served your brother his poison.”
From his previous trips to Colchis, he was aware of the rumors surrounding the Thanasi family. Witchcraft and a spirit of vile evil that surrounded the family like a black shroud. The abrupt appearance of Lady Thea of Thanasi and her sister, Princess Evras did not bespeak of nefarious intent toward the new king. He didn’t think much on the notion of witchcraft when she sent him for such basic ingredients as salt and mustard powder, nor Evras for the charcoal. That, he understood. The charcoal would draw the poison to itself inside his stomach; even he, someone not versed in medicine knew that. What she wanted with the other two things was anyone’s guess.
A look to Evras and he darted toward the kitchens with her. It was a horrible thought, but if Vangelis died, he wondered what would become of him and his wife and child. Probably nothing, but the thought was there. This also rattled him and he had an equally horrifying thought: What if the poison wasn’t meant for the new king at all? What if his uncle had somehow sent an assassin who’d managed to poison the wrong person? Worse still: that the poison really was meant for Vangelis and it’d found its mark. He’d jumped from one fire to another.
Was the entirety of Greece under a curse? Three dead kings, three monarchs in active danger - two in exile, and one fighting for his life amidst his own people.
Stephanos blindly entered the kitchens, still entirely consumed by his own thoughts and barely noticed Evras scattering the servants for him. At first he thought she’d given the servants an order, but she hadn’t. He glanced around to find her messing about with the coals. Mustard. Salt. Right.
“Powdered mustard seed,” he demanded of the nearest servant. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the right person. They were nowhere near the mustard powder, but it didn’t matter. They were almost like one entity and someone far down the line piped up with a question of how much did he need? “The whole jar,” he said impatiently, holding out his hand. “And salt,” he barked at someone else. The servants didn’t make the same mistake of asking how much he wanted for the salt. By the time Evras was ready to go, Stephanos was falling into step with her, a jar of powdered mustard in one hand and a jar of salt in the other.
It was difficult to reach the king by this point. Such a crowd of family surrounded him, all wanting to help, all preventing him and Evras from making it through. With a nudge here, a grip to the back of someone’s clothes to pull them away there, he and the princess made it back to Lady Thea’s side. Stephanos stepped back again, folding his arms across his chest and frowning at Thea as she dumped the contents of the jars into a water jug and not with the charcoal, as he’d imagined she would. The charcoal was put into a second, separate jug and Stephanos frowned, still unsure of what was happening with either of these concoctions.
Selene bent over Vangelis and looked for all the world like she was kissing him, but he wasn’t sure how that could be, or how everyone wouldn’t be ripping her back from the king. Obviously he’d missed something when he went to the kitchens. No one appeared to be actively upset at what she was doing and so he didn’t mess with her. His gaze did drift to Pia again, though, as fresh concern over whether she’d eaten or not resurfaced. She did not look well, but she was not gasping for air.
Though he still bore the claw marks from her nails during their fight, he didn’t think he wanted to live if she died. Forcing that unpleasant thought aside, he focused back on the efforts that were being made for Vangelis, though, he wondered how the poison had been administered in the first place. In his palati, everything was tested and he did not know that this was not the case here. That led him to assume that whomever had handed the king his plate was the one who’d administered the poison.
Guards were on either side and it was a simple matter of asking which servant had been the one to do it. The guard pointed to Ariah, looking lost and bewildered. Stephanos moved toward her, clamping his hand around her slender wrist and jerking her in the direction of the guards. “Keep this woman under guard,” he ordered and looked to Zanon. “She’s the one who served your brother his poison.”
He should have been put on high alert, supposed to have sprung from his chair with eyes held at widely-maintained, firmly formed stark stares. Yet, for the most part, this was not what he did. Whatever instincts to pity or worry for the dying monarch before him were null and void. Silently, he felt it right and proper to admire the tenacity of the assailant, if nothing more however. He would offer up his unspoken respect to the culprit of this act, with sole admittance to the owed determination that had been due for this machination to unfold before the gathered members of the aristocracy. In his eyes, this criminal stood tall for these but brief moments. Surely, had eyes not been attentive at the dying prince-turned mayhaps king, Damocles would had bestowed upon the would-be assassin his highest praise solely for the sheer audacity that his courage and bravery had impelled him towards. Sadly, that would be as far as the silver-eyed military leader would sing this amateur's praises.
In his eyes, Damocles understood murder as the culmination of a list of virtues that manifested through what some would condemn as a heinous act. Without care for the victim, which in this case was just another ignorable king, assassination had to be acknowledged for its intensity and weight. Fortitude, courage and bravery were indeed necessary attributes for the murderous arts to be efficiently carried out, but so were prudence and temperance, to say nothing of cunning, resourcefulness and a certain amount of quick-thinking. This was not the act of an experienced claimer of death, some wayward acolyte of Hades that sprung to take someone through experience and proven ability, but an amateur, a novice that had been coerced into action though some patron of actual worth, no doubt either a noble or royal of borne hatred towards the Kotas.
"Guards! To the royal family proper now!" he sternly instructed, calmly setting himself up from his table as he saw rows of armed men surround the immediate members of the Kotas bloodline. Afterwards, he gently put down the last morsel of food he had found before he tendered a terrifying stare to any who stood in his path, making nobles and royals alike make way as he casually found pace aside the riotous mess that had been gathered around. Where once, their had been gregariousness and friendly-ness in his demeanor, his features had hardened to harsh scowls and an intimidating burrow of his brow that could force even men of nominally equal rank to him to submit to his overwhelming self-confidence and stately composure. Chaos could have ruled over as a pretense for aiding the criminal in his escape, Damocles however would have none of it. "The rest of you lot, secure the Dikastrio Chamber!" He gravely captained as he added a small threat to scare the men into order. It wasn't for good reason that he was known as Damocles the Terrible.
Whereas Maleos, his apparent table-side partner, had made fast to issue speedy commands, Damocles oversaw the sealing of the Dikastrio chamber from its end, trapping inside anyone who had so wished to leave in a hurried haste. Subsequently, he instructed the guards at his end to spread towards the width of the room and keep their eyes peeled for anyone they could possibly conceive as forming part in this endeavor. No orders to kill were issued, only restrain, capture and subsequent removal for questioning. His voice, though terrifyingly stentorian, broke through the screams and gasps of the gathered nobles, scaring anyone who hesitated in following his orders into doing as he was told. Yet, he was not excited or rushed, but rather poised and collected, employing but his own prudence and judgement to inspire the guards into action.
With his commands thoroughly obeyed, Damocles joined the guards stationed at the northern border and demanded a sword be given to him immediately. Subsequently, he gripped it hard in his dominant hand and prepared for anything that might transpire. His eyes were like an Hawk's, attentive and focused on everything that was happening. As for the weapon he used, he had to admit to not being entirely comfortable with it, but still found his fingers with strength. Though he preferred spears, he still had enough skill to satisfy his rank's expectations as a swordsman. The guards under his authoritative de facto command held fast on their position, gulping hard as they experienced men of action do as their positions entailed. He was ready for action, knowing that this could get ugly, really quickly. It was clear that everyone, perhaps him and a select few, were of an uncooled nature. Yet, it would not do well to just commit to panic and allow rationality a fault. With his sheer, terror-inspiring glare, he held the line of men in place, dissuading any thoughts of hesitation away as he maintained his composure and poise through this arduous challenge.
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He should have been put on high alert, supposed to have sprung from his chair with eyes held at widely-maintained, firmly formed stark stares. Yet, for the most part, this was not what he did. Whatever instincts to pity or worry for the dying monarch before him were null and void. Silently, he felt it right and proper to admire the tenacity of the assailant, if nothing more however. He would offer up his unspoken respect to the culprit of this act, with sole admittance to the owed determination that had been due for this machination to unfold before the gathered members of the aristocracy. In his eyes, this criminal stood tall for these but brief moments. Surely, had eyes not been attentive at the dying prince-turned mayhaps king, Damocles would had bestowed upon the would-be assassin his highest praise solely for the sheer audacity that his courage and bravery had impelled him towards. Sadly, that would be as far as the silver-eyed military leader would sing this amateur's praises.
In his eyes, Damocles understood murder as the culmination of a list of virtues that manifested through what some would condemn as a heinous act. Without care for the victim, which in this case was just another ignorable king, assassination had to be acknowledged for its intensity and weight. Fortitude, courage and bravery were indeed necessary attributes for the murderous arts to be efficiently carried out, but so were prudence and temperance, to say nothing of cunning, resourcefulness and a certain amount of quick-thinking. This was not the act of an experienced claimer of death, some wayward acolyte of Hades that sprung to take someone through experience and proven ability, but an amateur, a novice that had been coerced into action though some patron of actual worth, no doubt either a noble or royal of borne hatred towards the Kotas.
"Guards! To the royal family proper now!" he sternly instructed, calmly setting himself up from his table as he saw rows of armed men surround the immediate members of the Kotas bloodline. Afterwards, he gently put down the last morsel of food he had found before he tendered a terrifying stare to any who stood in his path, making nobles and royals alike make way as he casually found pace aside the riotous mess that had been gathered around. Where once, their had been gregariousness and friendly-ness in his demeanor, his features had hardened to harsh scowls and an intimidating burrow of his brow that could force even men of nominally equal rank to him to submit to his overwhelming self-confidence and stately composure. Chaos could have ruled over as a pretense for aiding the criminal in his escape, Damocles however would have none of it. "The rest of you lot, secure the Dikastrio Chamber!" He gravely captained as he added a small threat to scare the men into order. It wasn't for good reason that he was known as Damocles the Terrible.
Whereas Maleos, his apparent table-side partner, had made fast to issue speedy commands, Damocles oversaw the sealing of the Dikastrio chamber from its end, trapping inside anyone who had so wished to leave in a hurried haste. Subsequently, he instructed the guards at his end to spread towards the width of the room and keep their eyes peeled for anyone they could possibly conceive as forming part in this endeavor. No orders to kill were issued, only restrain, capture and subsequent removal for questioning. His voice, though terrifyingly stentorian, broke through the screams and gasps of the gathered nobles, scaring anyone who hesitated in following his orders into doing as he was told. Yet, he was not excited or rushed, but rather poised and collected, employing but his own prudence and judgement to inspire the guards into action.
With his commands thoroughly obeyed, Damocles joined the guards stationed at the northern border and demanded a sword be given to him immediately. Subsequently, he gripped it hard in his dominant hand and prepared for anything that might transpire. His eyes were like an Hawk's, attentive and focused on everything that was happening. As for the weapon he used, he had to admit to not being entirely comfortable with it, but still found his fingers with strength. Though he preferred spears, he still had enough skill to satisfy his rank's expectations as a swordsman. The guards under his authoritative de facto command held fast on their position, gulping hard as they experienced men of action do as their positions entailed. He was ready for action, knowing that this could get ugly, really quickly. It was clear that everyone, perhaps him and a select few, were of an uncooled nature. Yet, it would not do well to just commit to panic and allow rationality a fault. With his sheer, terror-inspiring glare, he held the line of men in place, dissuading any thoughts of hesitation away as he maintained his composure and poise through this arduous challenge.
He should have been put on high alert, supposed to have sprung from his chair with eyes held at widely-maintained, firmly formed stark stares. Yet, for the most part, this was not what he did. Whatever instincts to pity or worry for the dying monarch before him were null and void. Silently, he felt it right and proper to admire the tenacity of the assailant, if nothing more however. He would offer up his unspoken respect to the culprit of this act, with sole admittance to the owed determination that had been due for this machination to unfold before the gathered members of the aristocracy. In his eyes, this criminal stood tall for these but brief moments. Surely, had eyes not been attentive at the dying prince-turned mayhaps king, Damocles would had bestowed upon the would-be assassin his highest praise solely for the sheer audacity that his courage and bravery had impelled him towards. Sadly, that would be as far as the silver-eyed military leader would sing this amateur's praises.
In his eyes, Damocles understood murder as the culmination of a list of virtues that manifested through what some would condemn as a heinous act. Without care for the victim, which in this case was just another ignorable king, assassination had to be acknowledged for its intensity and weight. Fortitude, courage and bravery were indeed necessary attributes for the murderous arts to be efficiently carried out, but so were prudence and temperance, to say nothing of cunning, resourcefulness and a certain amount of quick-thinking. This was not the act of an experienced claimer of death, some wayward acolyte of Hades that sprung to take someone through experience and proven ability, but an amateur, a novice that had been coerced into action though some patron of actual worth, no doubt either a noble or royal of borne hatred towards the Kotas.
"Guards! To the royal family proper now!" he sternly instructed, calmly setting himself up from his table as he saw rows of armed men surround the immediate members of the Kotas bloodline. Afterwards, he gently put down the last morsel of food he had found before he tendered a terrifying stare to any who stood in his path, making nobles and royals alike make way as he casually found pace aside the riotous mess that had been gathered around. Where once, their had been gregariousness and friendly-ness in his demeanor, his features had hardened to harsh scowls and an intimidating burrow of his brow that could force even men of nominally equal rank to him to submit to his overwhelming self-confidence and stately composure. Chaos could have ruled over as a pretense for aiding the criminal in his escape, Damocles however would have none of it. "The rest of you lot, secure the Dikastrio Chamber!" He gravely captained as he added a small threat to scare the men into order. It wasn't for good reason that he was known as Damocles the Terrible.
Whereas Maleos, his apparent table-side partner, had made fast to issue speedy commands, Damocles oversaw the sealing of the Dikastrio chamber from its end, trapping inside anyone who had so wished to leave in a hurried haste. Subsequently, he instructed the guards at his end to spread towards the width of the room and keep their eyes peeled for anyone they could possibly conceive as forming part in this endeavor. No orders to kill were issued, only restrain, capture and subsequent removal for questioning. His voice, though terrifyingly stentorian, broke through the screams and gasps of the gathered nobles, scaring anyone who hesitated in following his orders into doing as he was told. Yet, he was not excited or rushed, but rather poised and collected, employing but his own prudence and judgement to inspire the guards into action.
With his commands thoroughly obeyed, Damocles joined the guards stationed at the northern border and demanded a sword be given to him immediately. Subsequently, he gripped it hard in his dominant hand and prepared for anything that might transpire. His eyes were like an Hawk's, attentive and focused on everything that was happening. As for the weapon he used, he had to admit to not being entirely comfortable with it, but still found his fingers with strength. Though he preferred spears, he still had enough skill to satisfy his rank's expectations as a swordsman. The guards under his authoritative de facto command held fast on their position, gulping hard as they experienced men of action do as their positions entailed. He was ready for action, knowing that this could get ugly, really quickly. It was clear that everyone, perhaps him and a select few, were of an uncooled nature. Yet, it would not do well to just commit to panic and allow rationality a fault. With his sheer, terror-inspiring glare, he held the line of men in place, dissuading any thoughts of hesitation away as he maintained his composure and poise through this arduous challenge.
The edges of Thea's nerves began to fray, doing only as much as she could with mixing the charcoals into the water until the bottom of the bowl was shrouded in opaque black. It would be enough. Accepting the two jars from King Stephanos, she issued a hurried thanks before her unblinking eyes set to the work in front of her.
As much mustard powder as could be managed was mixed into the water by her own hand, the burnt yellow fluid sloshing up the sides of the bowl and sprinkling onto the ground and the fabric of her peplos. The color screamed brightly against the formally colored fabric around it. Taking no time to ask for a drying cloth, she wiped her hands away on her skirts before picking up the jar of salt.
It was here that her focus narrowed down to a significant precision as she cupped one hand and filled the small circle - about the diameter of a drachmae - three times, dumping the salt into the water after each fill. Setting the jar down she used her hand to stir the mixture once more, trying to urge the granules to dissolve in the water as she looked up to Selene, who confirmed his airway may be clear.
Without decorum and with perhaps a touch more force than one should have used when placing hands on the King as she looped one hand behind his head to level it. Thea tried to draw his eyes to meet hers, whether they could see her face or not in whatever state of consciousness he existed in, she cradled his head in place and placed the rim of the mustard and salt mixture to his lips, speaking, "Your Majesty. Don't breathe it in. Drink."
The liquid poured into his mouth, and much to her satisfaction, did not pool in his mouth, only his shaking limbs causing a dribble of the ochre liquid streaming down his face. Once the solution had been drained into him, she set the jug down with a thud off to her side, and a hand extended out to touch Lady Selene's shoulder - partially in comfort, but mostly to prevent impact from what would happen next.
As a relatively weak precaution, Thea tried to set a bowl to the side of him and gave a look between the Crown Prince and the bowl.
Moments later, the sound of retching filled the hall, and several bystanders notably took a step back to protect their sandals and the hems of their skirts from the splashback. The stench caused a slight wrinkle in her nose and she blinked a moment, glancing between Prince Zanon as he supported the King, Lady Selene, and then immediately to her sister Evras, with her hands extended then making a grasping motion.
The King seemed to have voided the few items in his stomach, with dry retches followed by gasps.
"Your Highness, sit him up," Thea requested, her hand swirling the jug of black liquid a moment more before catching her eyes with the King again, noting a touch more clarity to them. Cradling his head once again, she met his eyes and raised the second jug to his lips.
"Drink. All of it. Keep it down," Thea urged, nodding as he seemed to follow her instructions, assisting and offering quiet reassurances, knowing the taste of the liquid was repulsive at best. This would coat his stomach. This would stop the poison from spreading. This would reverse the worst effects.
This would help him live.
Once the jug was drained, Thea's hand lingered a moment against his face and to the nape of his neck, as if by some miracle of vision she could see the effects take place.
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The edges of Thea's nerves began to fray, doing only as much as she could with mixing the charcoals into the water until the bottom of the bowl was shrouded in opaque black. It would be enough. Accepting the two jars from King Stephanos, she issued a hurried thanks before her unblinking eyes set to the work in front of her.
As much mustard powder as could be managed was mixed into the water by her own hand, the burnt yellow fluid sloshing up the sides of the bowl and sprinkling onto the ground and the fabric of her peplos. The color screamed brightly against the formally colored fabric around it. Taking no time to ask for a drying cloth, she wiped her hands away on her skirts before picking up the jar of salt.
It was here that her focus narrowed down to a significant precision as she cupped one hand and filled the small circle - about the diameter of a drachmae - three times, dumping the salt into the water after each fill. Setting the jar down she used her hand to stir the mixture once more, trying to urge the granules to dissolve in the water as she looked up to Selene, who confirmed his airway may be clear.
Without decorum and with perhaps a touch more force than one should have used when placing hands on the King as she looped one hand behind his head to level it. Thea tried to draw his eyes to meet hers, whether they could see her face or not in whatever state of consciousness he existed in, she cradled his head in place and placed the rim of the mustard and salt mixture to his lips, speaking, "Your Majesty. Don't breathe it in. Drink."
The liquid poured into his mouth, and much to her satisfaction, did not pool in his mouth, only his shaking limbs causing a dribble of the ochre liquid streaming down his face. Once the solution had been drained into him, she set the jug down with a thud off to her side, and a hand extended out to touch Lady Selene's shoulder - partially in comfort, but mostly to prevent impact from what would happen next.
As a relatively weak precaution, Thea tried to set a bowl to the side of him and gave a look between the Crown Prince and the bowl.
Moments later, the sound of retching filled the hall, and several bystanders notably took a step back to protect their sandals and the hems of their skirts from the splashback. The stench caused a slight wrinkle in her nose and she blinked a moment, glancing between Prince Zanon as he supported the King, Lady Selene, and then immediately to her sister Evras, with her hands extended then making a grasping motion.
The King seemed to have voided the few items in his stomach, with dry retches followed by gasps.
"Your Highness, sit him up," Thea requested, her hand swirling the jug of black liquid a moment more before catching her eyes with the King again, noting a touch more clarity to them. Cradling his head once again, she met his eyes and raised the second jug to his lips.
"Drink. All of it. Keep it down," Thea urged, nodding as he seemed to follow her instructions, assisting and offering quiet reassurances, knowing the taste of the liquid was repulsive at best. This would coat his stomach. This would stop the poison from spreading. This would reverse the worst effects.
This would help him live.
Once the jug was drained, Thea's hand lingered a moment against his face and to the nape of his neck, as if by some miracle of vision she could see the effects take place.
The edges of Thea's nerves began to fray, doing only as much as she could with mixing the charcoals into the water until the bottom of the bowl was shrouded in opaque black. It would be enough. Accepting the two jars from King Stephanos, she issued a hurried thanks before her unblinking eyes set to the work in front of her.
As much mustard powder as could be managed was mixed into the water by her own hand, the burnt yellow fluid sloshing up the sides of the bowl and sprinkling onto the ground and the fabric of her peplos. The color screamed brightly against the formally colored fabric around it. Taking no time to ask for a drying cloth, she wiped her hands away on her skirts before picking up the jar of salt.
It was here that her focus narrowed down to a significant precision as she cupped one hand and filled the small circle - about the diameter of a drachmae - three times, dumping the salt into the water after each fill. Setting the jar down she used her hand to stir the mixture once more, trying to urge the granules to dissolve in the water as she looked up to Selene, who confirmed his airway may be clear.
Without decorum and with perhaps a touch more force than one should have used when placing hands on the King as she looped one hand behind his head to level it. Thea tried to draw his eyes to meet hers, whether they could see her face or not in whatever state of consciousness he existed in, she cradled his head in place and placed the rim of the mustard and salt mixture to his lips, speaking, "Your Majesty. Don't breathe it in. Drink."
The liquid poured into his mouth, and much to her satisfaction, did not pool in his mouth, only his shaking limbs causing a dribble of the ochre liquid streaming down his face. Once the solution had been drained into him, she set the jug down with a thud off to her side, and a hand extended out to touch Lady Selene's shoulder - partially in comfort, but mostly to prevent impact from what would happen next.
As a relatively weak precaution, Thea tried to set a bowl to the side of him and gave a look between the Crown Prince and the bowl.
Moments later, the sound of retching filled the hall, and several bystanders notably took a step back to protect their sandals and the hems of their skirts from the splashback. The stench caused a slight wrinkle in her nose and she blinked a moment, glancing between Prince Zanon as he supported the King, Lady Selene, and then immediately to her sister Evras, with her hands extended then making a grasping motion.
The King seemed to have voided the few items in his stomach, with dry retches followed by gasps.
"Your Highness, sit him up," Thea requested, her hand swirling the jug of black liquid a moment more before catching her eyes with the King again, noting a touch more clarity to them. Cradling his head once again, she met his eyes and raised the second jug to his lips.
"Drink. All of it. Keep it down," Thea urged, nodding as he seemed to follow her instructions, assisting and offering quiet reassurances, knowing the taste of the liquid was repulsive at best. This would coat his stomach. This would stop the poison from spreading. This would reverse the worst effects.
This would help him live.
Once the jug was drained, Thea's hand lingered a moment against his face and to the nape of his neck, as if by some miracle of vision she could see the effects take place.
Had someone asked him at a later point in his life, what he remembered from his brushes with death, Vangelis would have been hard pressed to find the appropriate words, even if he were feeling uncharacteristically verbose. From the time one of his wounds had been infected and he'd caught a fever when he was seventeen, on his first war campaign, all the way through to his near crushing in the caves of the Midas mines during the storm three months ago... to now, in the grips of a deadly concoction that was determined to steal his life from the inside out... All such experiences, as time went by, seemed to fog, cloud and darken in his mind's vault. As if the human brain and body did not wish you to recall the most dangerous periods in your mortality, in the hopes that you might be foolish enough to repeat the risk of them.
As the poison took hold and Vangelis' muscles betrayed him, forcing him to fall to his knees and then to the floor, he felt more anger than fear. He raged internally at how his body joined the side of the enemy and refused his commands to stand back up, to take the threat upon his life like a man; like the warrior that he was. Secondly, wrath filled him at the cowardice of his would-be killer. If someone sought to severe his life's thread then they should have the courage to do so in person, with a sword, or journey down to the Underworld themselves and liaise with the Grey Sisters. ‘Twas such a fearful and deceitful way to take a life with the invisible tendrils of poison.
The next ten minutes seemed to pass in a strange series of flashes. His senses drew together to collect the appropriate information of his surroundings and yet it was as if they make a connecting pattern that his mind could not place into the correct order.
He noticed the smell of his brother - a scent most familiar from his childhood - along with a warmth that drew him close and moved his body upright. Not to mention the taste of his fingers as some small part of Vangelis' brain tried to inform him that Zanon was attempting to make him vomit. His throat rebelled, his neck stung and his belly clenched down hard but for whatever reason, he wasn't able to bring up that which he had eaten.
Then there was little more to be concerned of with regards to his belly. His limbs and everything from his ribcage down seemed to disappear as his chest revolted. His ribs seemed to close down upon his lungs, his lungs upon his heart. His eyes watered, his lips grew dry and sucked at the air around him that found no entry to his chest. He felt as if he were drowning on stone; choking on his own tongue.
With lack of air came a lack of vision. His eyesight winked in and out of focus, a darkness creeping in upon it and turning the images before him muddled; the shapes and colours wrong. His vision was... slippery... trying to make sense of what he could witness like his mind attempted to order his reactions. Neither having any such luck.
He felt pressure in different parts of his body. Perhaps someone was touching him, assessing him... perhaps those muscles were simply clamping down hard in retaliation for lack of air and he wasn't being touched at all. He couldn't tell. His eyes rolled back into his head and suddenly his world was more dark than it was light and his entire focus was on the spasming of his lungs, as his heart beat heavy in his ears and seeming to toll like the bells of doom.
There were winks of light, yells of voices - some deep, some soft. He felt a pressure on his hand, his fingers curling around something warm that stroked at his nostalgia. Then there was more warmth - upon his mouth. A sensation that was familiar as it was distant. It disappeared and returned, then repeated its pattern before shifting and changing. The change was accompanied by a pretty scent.
Needing to accept that he no longer had any idea what was going on, or how he could still be alive, Vangelis was surprised to note a strong and refreshing heat move through his mouth, inch itself down his throat and finally enter his lungs. His chest inflated - not much but just enough - and he wanted to cry with frustration when it sunk down once more, sending him back to his sensation of drowning. After a moment that felt like an age the warmth on his mouth returned and he sought that semblance of life once more.
With the air came clarity. A little at a time and not wholly encompassing but enough for Vangelis to hear what was happening around him, lift his lids and wonder at the blotchy view of the Dikastirio's ceiling.
The first voice that he heard was Thea's, yet it only made his wish to frown - whether he did or not, he had no idea, as his body did not seem willing to respond - for the voice did not match the scent...
Distracted by the way his lover spoke with an air of urgent authority, Vangelis found his head being tilted, his body realigned and the pressure of a small bowl or container at his lips. Liquid trickled over his tongue, with a strange and savoury taste that almost choked him. But with the words in his ears and his mind switching to a state in which it obeyed the orders of a commander in an emergency, his throat seemed to work as it should and allow the harsh taste to descend into his stomach, leaving an almost spicy residue in his mouth.
What on earth had that be-?
Almost immediately, Vangelis did not wish to know, for his stomach did not like it. Drawing in a breath that was still a rasping drag on his lungs, his eyes flying wide, Vangelis felt his mouth fill with saliva, his tongue feel heavy in his mouth and his belly turn over.
He couldn't vomit. Not in a public place with so many people. Bad enough that his life had been threatened and his health so obviously destroyed in front of so many people. No. He had to keep it down and maintain his dignity. Else everyone would say the new King could not keep his head through a little poison.
Poison!
In the moment he remembered that throwing up was actually the smartest move to make, Vangelis was helpless against the potent concoction Thea had forced into his mouth and immediately launched himself to one side. Of course, it was only this time that his limbs obeyed, and he almost hit the floor with the force of his shifting, restrained only by the hands of his brother as he retched and ejected the small amount he had eaten at the meal into a small bowl and across the stone floor of the Dikastirio.
With no morning or noon day repast that day, Vangelis had little to bring up, which some might consider a blessing and yet it seemed all the worse for its victim as, without substance, the dry heaves set in and burned his throat raw.
Whilst his instinct was to seal his lips shut and back away from the hands that came to him once more, Vangelis was too weak to move away when Thea subjected him to the next part of what he didn't yet realise was treatment. His brow sweaty, his hair sticking to his ears and neck, his chiton suddenly feeling like a fur cloak, Vangelis wasn't able to stop his trembling as Thea insisted with earnest pleas that he swallow something else.
Half tempted to tell her that her last suggestion to that effect had been a horrendous experience, Vangelis did not argue but was given an even worse tasting beverage of.... was that ash? Sputtering on this one, trickles of each liquid congealed on his chin and in the corners of his lips, the charcoal mix, having had its way cleared for just a moment by his vomitting, found its way to his belly where it felt like a chalky and uncomfortable balm across grazed skin.
Worries that he might actually throw up again, had Vangelis clamping down upon his jaws, settle his tongue and breathe slowly through his nose, which was somehow actually possible now. The breaths were slow, shallow, and could only take in what felt like a tenth of what he needed with each inhale... but he was breathing. In some manner at least.
Swallowing and wincing at the acrid taste on his tongue, Vangelis waited to see if the respite from his suffocation was temporary or - praise the Gods - long-lasting, as he lay in what he now realised to be his brother's arms. His lashes lifted and despite the light lines of salt water upon his cheeks where his eyes had streamed, his vision was clearer. He was hot and his nerves still shook with erratic little shakes, but his breathing was slowly becoming deeper and easier.
Opening his mouth and taking the first long and deep breath he had managed in what felt like an age, ignoring how it felt like a burning poker being shoved down his neck, Vangelis found his mind to click back into gear faster than he had ever considered himself smart enough to achieve.
Whilst his emotions were non-existent, his mentality out to lunch and his muscles still struggling to respond, Vangelis' instincts and the regimented military training that he knew better than his own name came to his rescue as they assessed the situation around him. His thoughts moved with the pace of a fully conscious man, yet with a distance that felt as if they weren't his own. His eyes took in the people around him, his ears the noises of the room and where people were stationed; what they were doing. He recognised orders for weapons and the securing of the chamber. He heard the accusation of servants.
And then, as if to knock him out of his near fatal stupor entirely, there was a resounding boom throughout the entirety of the Dikastirio.
Frowning and turning his head to look through the legs of both people and tables and chairs, Vangelis - from his position supported in the lap of his brother - noticed the shudder of the main doors of the large room; a tremble that accompanied a second heavy pound that echoed off the walls and ceiling.
Attentions shifted and the focus in the room turned from the royal table at one end of the Dikastirio to the main doors at the other. Wooden and half a foot thick, they set off a deep and low note of violence each time they were struck by whomever was outside.
Guards stood on either side of the immense doorway, clearly having been instructed to keep everyone indoors, expecting any and all threats to come from within the monitored perimeter. The lock on the front doorway had been engaged - a heavy beam of wood that took two men to lift barring the invaders’ progress.
Unsteady at his best and fragile at his worst, Vangelis started to move, struggling to reach the throne he had abandoned so that he might use it as a crutch to move back to a position of standing. His muscles were shaky and his head pounded with the fog of one to narrowly escape death… but his military acumen was working just fine. For what better way to ensure a successful attack upon the political centre of Colchis, than to wait for a formal feast in which weapons were forbidden, kill the king by treachery and set those within into a blind panic… and then make your move?
Ignoring those around him – not for lack of gratitude or care, but simply because his brain had not yet caught up and processed what had happened since he had fallen from his position at the head of the table, Vangelis rubbed a hand roughly over his face to clean away traces of tears, remedy and death, and issued an order.
With the rasping pain of his throat and his inability to project in that moment, his words were not loud. But, given that the entire room had fallen silent in shock at the booming noise upon the front entrance, his words carried easily enough.
“Guards in formation.” He ordered, needing to draw heavily to produce enough air for his next words as he braced himself on the table where his discarded meal lay strewn over its surface. His pulse was heavy in his temples and his head pounded but he winced and carried on regardless. “Women and children to the kitchens.” Such an order would keep them away from the violence he feared was about to spring upon them.
But his words were too late. For three more booming confrontations had filled the room – the sound of shoulders bashing upon the external wooden grain… The doors caved a little more with each shove and the wooden bar had started to crack…
There would be no time to escape whatever was about to come through those doors. Only enough to hurry the guardsmen into position and move those more vulnerable further away from the door.
Vangelis braced his weight heavily into his left shoulder and arm as he bore himself up from the table. Regardless of the fact that he could barely lift his head, let alone a blade, his dominant hand found its way to the hilt of the sword hanging at his waist…
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Had someone asked him at a later point in his life, what he remembered from his brushes with death, Vangelis would have been hard pressed to find the appropriate words, even if he were feeling uncharacteristically verbose. From the time one of his wounds had been infected and he'd caught a fever when he was seventeen, on his first war campaign, all the way through to his near crushing in the caves of the Midas mines during the storm three months ago... to now, in the grips of a deadly concoction that was determined to steal his life from the inside out... All such experiences, as time went by, seemed to fog, cloud and darken in his mind's vault. As if the human brain and body did not wish you to recall the most dangerous periods in your mortality, in the hopes that you might be foolish enough to repeat the risk of them.
As the poison took hold and Vangelis' muscles betrayed him, forcing him to fall to his knees and then to the floor, he felt more anger than fear. He raged internally at how his body joined the side of the enemy and refused his commands to stand back up, to take the threat upon his life like a man; like the warrior that he was. Secondly, wrath filled him at the cowardice of his would-be killer. If someone sought to severe his life's thread then they should have the courage to do so in person, with a sword, or journey down to the Underworld themselves and liaise with the Grey Sisters. ‘Twas such a fearful and deceitful way to take a life with the invisible tendrils of poison.
The next ten minutes seemed to pass in a strange series of flashes. His senses drew together to collect the appropriate information of his surroundings and yet it was as if they make a connecting pattern that his mind could not place into the correct order.
He noticed the smell of his brother - a scent most familiar from his childhood - along with a warmth that drew him close and moved his body upright. Not to mention the taste of his fingers as some small part of Vangelis' brain tried to inform him that Zanon was attempting to make him vomit. His throat rebelled, his neck stung and his belly clenched down hard but for whatever reason, he wasn't able to bring up that which he had eaten.
Then there was little more to be concerned of with regards to his belly. His limbs and everything from his ribcage down seemed to disappear as his chest revolted. His ribs seemed to close down upon his lungs, his lungs upon his heart. His eyes watered, his lips grew dry and sucked at the air around him that found no entry to his chest. He felt as if he were drowning on stone; choking on his own tongue.
With lack of air came a lack of vision. His eyesight winked in and out of focus, a darkness creeping in upon it and turning the images before him muddled; the shapes and colours wrong. His vision was... slippery... trying to make sense of what he could witness like his mind attempted to order his reactions. Neither having any such luck.
He felt pressure in different parts of his body. Perhaps someone was touching him, assessing him... perhaps those muscles were simply clamping down hard in retaliation for lack of air and he wasn't being touched at all. He couldn't tell. His eyes rolled back into his head and suddenly his world was more dark than it was light and his entire focus was on the spasming of his lungs, as his heart beat heavy in his ears and seeming to toll like the bells of doom.
There were winks of light, yells of voices - some deep, some soft. He felt a pressure on his hand, his fingers curling around something warm that stroked at his nostalgia. Then there was more warmth - upon his mouth. A sensation that was familiar as it was distant. It disappeared and returned, then repeated its pattern before shifting and changing. The change was accompanied by a pretty scent.
Needing to accept that he no longer had any idea what was going on, or how he could still be alive, Vangelis was surprised to note a strong and refreshing heat move through his mouth, inch itself down his throat and finally enter his lungs. His chest inflated - not much but just enough - and he wanted to cry with frustration when it sunk down once more, sending him back to his sensation of drowning. After a moment that felt like an age the warmth on his mouth returned and he sought that semblance of life once more.
With the air came clarity. A little at a time and not wholly encompassing but enough for Vangelis to hear what was happening around him, lift his lids and wonder at the blotchy view of the Dikastirio's ceiling.
The first voice that he heard was Thea's, yet it only made his wish to frown - whether he did or not, he had no idea, as his body did not seem willing to respond - for the voice did not match the scent...
Distracted by the way his lover spoke with an air of urgent authority, Vangelis found his head being tilted, his body realigned and the pressure of a small bowl or container at his lips. Liquid trickled over his tongue, with a strange and savoury taste that almost choked him. But with the words in his ears and his mind switching to a state in which it obeyed the orders of a commander in an emergency, his throat seemed to work as it should and allow the harsh taste to descend into his stomach, leaving an almost spicy residue in his mouth.
What on earth had that be-?
Almost immediately, Vangelis did not wish to know, for his stomach did not like it. Drawing in a breath that was still a rasping drag on his lungs, his eyes flying wide, Vangelis felt his mouth fill with saliva, his tongue feel heavy in his mouth and his belly turn over.
He couldn't vomit. Not in a public place with so many people. Bad enough that his life had been threatened and his health so obviously destroyed in front of so many people. No. He had to keep it down and maintain his dignity. Else everyone would say the new King could not keep his head through a little poison.
Poison!
In the moment he remembered that throwing up was actually the smartest move to make, Vangelis was helpless against the potent concoction Thea had forced into his mouth and immediately launched himself to one side. Of course, it was only this time that his limbs obeyed, and he almost hit the floor with the force of his shifting, restrained only by the hands of his brother as he retched and ejected the small amount he had eaten at the meal into a small bowl and across the stone floor of the Dikastirio.
With no morning or noon day repast that day, Vangelis had little to bring up, which some might consider a blessing and yet it seemed all the worse for its victim as, without substance, the dry heaves set in and burned his throat raw.
Whilst his instinct was to seal his lips shut and back away from the hands that came to him once more, Vangelis was too weak to move away when Thea subjected him to the next part of what he didn't yet realise was treatment. His brow sweaty, his hair sticking to his ears and neck, his chiton suddenly feeling like a fur cloak, Vangelis wasn't able to stop his trembling as Thea insisted with earnest pleas that he swallow something else.
Half tempted to tell her that her last suggestion to that effect had been a horrendous experience, Vangelis did not argue but was given an even worse tasting beverage of.... was that ash? Sputtering on this one, trickles of each liquid congealed on his chin and in the corners of his lips, the charcoal mix, having had its way cleared for just a moment by his vomitting, found its way to his belly where it felt like a chalky and uncomfortable balm across grazed skin.
Worries that he might actually throw up again, had Vangelis clamping down upon his jaws, settle his tongue and breathe slowly through his nose, which was somehow actually possible now. The breaths were slow, shallow, and could only take in what felt like a tenth of what he needed with each inhale... but he was breathing. In some manner at least.
Swallowing and wincing at the acrid taste on his tongue, Vangelis waited to see if the respite from his suffocation was temporary or - praise the Gods - long-lasting, as he lay in what he now realised to be his brother's arms. His lashes lifted and despite the light lines of salt water upon his cheeks where his eyes had streamed, his vision was clearer. He was hot and his nerves still shook with erratic little shakes, but his breathing was slowly becoming deeper and easier.
Opening his mouth and taking the first long and deep breath he had managed in what felt like an age, ignoring how it felt like a burning poker being shoved down his neck, Vangelis found his mind to click back into gear faster than he had ever considered himself smart enough to achieve.
Whilst his emotions were non-existent, his mentality out to lunch and his muscles still struggling to respond, Vangelis' instincts and the regimented military training that he knew better than his own name came to his rescue as they assessed the situation around him. His thoughts moved with the pace of a fully conscious man, yet with a distance that felt as if they weren't his own. His eyes took in the people around him, his ears the noises of the room and where people were stationed; what they were doing. He recognised orders for weapons and the securing of the chamber. He heard the accusation of servants.
And then, as if to knock him out of his near fatal stupor entirely, there was a resounding boom throughout the entirety of the Dikastirio.
Frowning and turning his head to look through the legs of both people and tables and chairs, Vangelis - from his position supported in the lap of his brother - noticed the shudder of the main doors of the large room; a tremble that accompanied a second heavy pound that echoed off the walls and ceiling.
Attentions shifted and the focus in the room turned from the royal table at one end of the Dikastirio to the main doors at the other. Wooden and half a foot thick, they set off a deep and low note of violence each time they were struck by whomever was outside.
Guards stood on either side of the immense doorway, clearly having been instructed to keep everyone indoors, expecting any and all threats to come from within the monitored perimeter. The lock on the front doorway had been engaged - a heavy beam of wood that took two men to lift barring the invaders’ progress.
Unsteady at his best and fragile at his worst, Vangelis started to move, struggling to reach the throne he had abandoned so that he might use it as a crutch to move back to a position of standing. His muscles were shaky and his head pounded with the fog of one to narrowly escape death… but his military acumen was working just fine. For what better way to ensure a successful attack upon the political centre of Colchis, than to wait for a formal feast in which weapons were forbidden, kill the king by treachery and set those within into a blind panic… and then make your move?
Ignoring those around him – not for lack of gratitude or care, but simply because his brain had not yet caught up and processed what had happened since he had fallen from his position at the head of the table, Vangelis rubbed a hand roughly over his face to clean away traces of tears, remedy and death, and issued an order.
With the rasping pain of his throat and his inability to project in that moment, his words were not loud. But, given that the entire room had fallen silent in shock at the booming noise upon the front entrance, his words carried easily enough.
“Guards in formation.” He ordered, needing to draw heavily to produce enough air for his next words as he braced himself on the table where his discarded meal lay strewn over its surface. His pulse was heavy in his temples and his head pounded but he winced and carried on regardless. “Women and children to the kitchens.” Such an order would keep them away from the violence he feared was about to spring upon them.
But his words were too late. For three more booming confrontations had filled the room – the sound of shoulders bashing upon the external wooden grain… The doors caved a little more with each shove and the wooden bar had started to crack…
There would be no time to escape whatever was about to come through those doors. Only enough to hurry the guardsmen into position and move those more vulnerable further away from the door.
Vangelis braced his weight heavily into his left shoulder and arm as he bore himself up from the table. Regardless of the fact that he could barely lift his head, let alone a blade, his dominant hand found its way to the hilt of the sword hanging at his waist…
Had someone asked him at a later point in his life, what he remembered from his brushes with death, Vangelis would have been hard pressed to find the appropriate words, even if he were feeling uncharacteristically verbose. From the time one of his wounds had been infected and he'd caught a fever when he was seventeen, on his first war campaign, all the way through to his near crushing in the caves of the Midas mines during the storm three months ago... to now, in the grips of a deadly concoction that was determined to steal his life from the inside out... All such experiences, as time went by, seemed to fog, cloud and darken in his mind's vault. As if the human brain and body did not wish you to recall the most dangerous periods in your mortality, in the hopes that you might be foolish enough to repeat the risk of them.
As the poison took hold and Vangelis' muscles betrayed him, forcing him to fall to his knees and then to the floor, he felt more anger than fear. He raged internally at how his body joined the side of the enemy and refused his commands to stand back up, to take the threat upon his life like a man; like the warrior that he was. Secondly, wrath filled him at the cowardice of his would-be killer. If someone sought to severe his life's thread then they should have the courage to do so in person, with a sword, or journey down to the Underworld themselves and liaise with the Grey Sisters. ‘Twas such a fearful and deceitful way to take a life with the invisible tendrils of poison.
The next ten minutes seemed to pass in a strange series of flashes. His senses drew together to collect the appropriate information of his surroundings and yet it was as if they make a connecting pattern that his mind could not place into the correct order.
He noticed the smell of his brother - a scent most familiar from his childhood - along with a warmth that drew him close and moved his body upright. Not to mention the taste of his fingers as some small part of Vangelis' brain tried to inform him that Zanon was attempting to make him vomit. His throat rebelled, his neck stung and his belly clenched down hard but for whatever reason, he wasn't able to bring up that which he had eaten.
Then there was little more to be concerned of with regards to his belly. His limbs and everything from his ribcage down seemed to disappear as his chest revolted. His ribs seemed to close down upon his lungs, his lungs upon his heart. His eyes watered, his lips grew dry and sucked at the air around him that found no entry to his chest. He felt as if he were drowning on stone; choking on his own tongue.
With lack of air came a lack of vision. His eyesight winked in and out of focus, a darkness creeping in upon it and turning the images before him muddled; the shapes and colours wrong. His vision was... slippery... trying to make sense of what he could witness like his mind attempted to order his reactions. Neither having any such luck.
He felt pressure in different parts of his body. Perhaps someone was touching him, assessing him... perhaps those muscles were simply clamping down hard in retaliation for lack of air and he wasn't being touched at all. He couldn't tell. His eyes rolled back into his head and suddenly his world was more dark than it was light and his entire focus was on the spasming of his lungs, as his heart beat heavy in his ears and seeming to toll like the bells of doom.
There were winks of light, yells of voices - some deep, some soft. He felt a pressure on his hand, his fingers curling around something warm that stroked at his nostalgia. Then there was more warmth - upon his mouth. A sensation that was familiar as it was distant. It disappeared and returned, then repeated its pattern before shifting and changing. The change was accompanied by a pretty scent.
Needing to accept that he no longer had any idea what was going on, or how he could still be alive, Vangelis was surprised to note a strong and refreshing heat move through his mouth, inch itself down his throat and finally enter his lungs. His chest inflated - not much but just enough - and he wanted to cry with frustration when it sunk down once more, sending him back to his sensation of drowning. After a moment that felt like an age the warmth on his mouth returned and he sought that semblance of life once more.
With the air came clarity. A little at a time and not wholly encompassing but enough for Vangelis to hear what was happening around him, lift his lids and wonder at the blotchy view of the Dikastirio's ceiling.
The first voice that he heard was Thea's, yet it only made his wish to frown - whether he did or not, he had no idea, as his body did not seem willing to respond - for the voice did not match the scent...
Distracted by the way his lover spoke with an air of urgent authority, Vangelis found his head being tilted, his body realigned and the pressure of a small bowl or container at his lips. Liquid trickled over his tongue, with a strange and savoury taste that almost choked him. But with the words in his ears and his mind switching to a state in which it obeyed the orders of a commander in an emergency, his throat seemed to work as it should and allow the harsh taste to descend into his stomach, leaving an almost spicy residue in his mouth.
What on earth had that be-?
Almost immediately, Vangelis did not wish to know, for his stomach did not like it. Drawing in a breath that was still a rasping drag on his lungs, his eyes flying wide, Vangelis felt his mouth fill with saliva, his tongue feel heavy in his mouth and his belly turn over.
He couldn't vomit. Not in a public place with so many people. Bad enough that his life had been threatened and his health so obviously destroyed in front of so many people. No. He had to keep it down and maintain his dignity. Else everyone would say the new King could not keep his head through a little poison.
Poison!
In the moment he remembered that throwing up was actually the smartest move to make, Vangelis was helpless against the potent concoction Thea had forced into his mouth and immediately launched himself to one side. Of course, it was only this time that his limbs obeyed, and he almost hit the floor with the force of his shifting, restrained only by the hands of his brother as he retched and ejected the small amount he had eaten at the meal into a small bowl and across the stone floor of the Dikastirio.
With no morning or noon day repast that day, Vangelis had little to bring up, which some might consider a blessing and yet it seemed all the worse for its victim as, without substance, the dry heaves set in and burned his throat raw.
Whilst his instinct was to seal his lips shut and back away from the hands that came to him once more, Vangelis was too weak to move away when Thea subjected him to the next part of what he didn't yet realise was treatment. His brow sweaty, his hair sticking to his ears and neck, his chiton suddenly feeling like a fur cloak, Vangelis wasn't able to stop his trembling as Thea insisted with earnest pleas that he swallow something else.
Half tempted to tell her that her last suggestion to that effect had been a horrendous experience, Vangelis did not argue but was given an even worse tasting beverage of.... was that ash? Sputtering on this one, trickles of each liquid congealed on his chin and in the corners of his lips, the charcoal mix, having had its way cleared for just a moment by his vomitting, found its way to his belly where it felt like a chalky and uncomfortable balm across grazed skin.
Worries that he might actually throw up again, had Vangelis clamping down upon his jaws, settle his tongue and breathe slowly through his nose, which was somehow actually possible now. The breaths were slow, shallow, and could only take in what felt like a tenth of what he needed with each inhale... but he was breathing. In some manner at least.
Swallowing and wincing at the acrid taste on his tongue, Vangelis waited to see if the respite from his suffocation was temporary or - praise the Gods - long-lasting, as he lay in what he now realised to be his brother's arms. His lashes lifted and despite the light lines of salt water upon his cheeks where his eyes had streamed, his vision was clearer. He was hot and his nerves still shook with erratic little shakes, but his breathing was slowly becoming deeper and easier.
Opening his mouth and taking the first long and deep breath he had managed in what felt like an age, ignoring how it felt like a burning poker being shoved down his neck, Vangelis found his mind to click back into gear faster than he had ever considered himself smart enough to achieve.
Whilst his emotions were non-existent, his mentality out to lunch and his muscles still struggling to respond, Vangelis' instincts and the regimented military training that he knew better than his own name came to his rescue as they assessed the situation around him. His thoughts moved with the pace of a fully conscious man, yet with a distance that felt as if they weren't his own. His eyes took in the people around him, his ears the noises of the room and where people were stationed; what they were doing. He recognised orders for weapons and the securing of the chamber. He heard the accusation of servants.
And then, as if to knock him out of his near fatal stupor entirely, there was a resounding boom throughout the entirety of the Dikastirio.
Frowning and turning his head to look through the legs of both people and tables and chairs, Vangelis - from his position supported in the lap of his brother - noticed the shudder of the main doors of the large room; a tremble that accompanied a second heavy pound that echoed off the walls and ceiling.
Attentions shifted and the focus in the room turned from the royal table at one end of the Dikastirio to the main doors at the other. Wooden and half a foot thick, they set off a deep and low note of violence each time they were struck by whomever was outside.
Guards stood on either side of the immense doorway, clearly having been instructed to keep everyone indoors, expecting any and all threats to come from within the monitored perimeter. The lock on the front doorway had been engaged - a heavy beam of wood that took two men to lift barring the invaders’ progress.
Unsteady at his best and fragile at his worst, Vangelis started to move, struggling to reach the throne he had abandoned so that he might use it as a crutch to move back to a position of standing. His muscles were shaky and his head pounded with the fog of one to narrowly escape death… but his military acumen was working just fine. For what better way to ensure a successful attack upon the political centre of Colchis, than to wait for a formal feast in which weapons were forbidden, kill the king by treachery and set those within into a blind panic… and then make your move?
Ignoring those around him – not for lack of gratitude or care, but simply because his brain had not yet caught up and processed what had happened since he had fallen from his position at the head of the table, Vangelis rubbed a hand roughly over his face to clean away traces of tears, remedy and death, and issued an order.
With the rasping pain of his throat and his inability to project in that moment, his words were not loud. But, given that the entire room had fallen silent in shock at the booming noise upon the front entrance, his words carried easily enough.
“Guards in formation.” He ordered, needing to draw heavily to produce enough air for his next words as he braced himself on the table where his discarded meal lay strewn over its surface. His pulse was heavy in his temples and his head pounded but he winced and carried on regardless. “Women and children to the kitchens.” Such an order would keep them away from the violence he feared was about to spring upon them.
But his words were too late. For three more booming confrontations had filled the room – the sound of shoulders bashing upon the external wooden grain… The doors caved a little more with each shove and the wooden bar had started to crack…
There would be no time to escape whatever was about to come through those doors. Only enough to hurry the guardsmen into position and move those more vulnerable further away from the door.
Vangelis braced his weight heavily into his left shoulder and arm as he bore himself up from the table. Regardless of the fact that he could barely lift his head, let alone a blade, his dominant hand found its way to the hilt of the sword hanging at his waist…
Selene knew that she couldn’t worry about what others were doing around her. If Thea wanted her to breath for the King, she would do nothing else. She found a rhythm for the few breaths that she was giving, each breath slow and full. She was getting light-headed with each breath, unable to really gather her thoughts before she was breathing life into him. Her head swirled, and she almost missed Thea’s new direction to sit back so that she could force the concoction down his throat.
She missed him vomiting, registering the sound only barely. And she hadn’t been able to process if he had been able to keep the second drink down either. Her own mind was still trying to recover, forcing a few calming, deep breaths from her own lungs to allow them to fill. As she recovered from the oxygen deprivation, it was impossible not to notice several things all at once. It was the sound that broke through her haze, and yet she couldn’t quite decide if it was the sound of her heart in her ears or of something else.
It wasn’t hard for her to miss Vangelis pulling himself up to the throne, trying to give orders that she wasn’t sure she heard. She was still trying to process the thumping on the door.
It wasn’t until the door started to splinter that she realized that more was very, very wrong.
Standing quickly, the room spun around her. A fear ripped through her gut, wondering if this was the effects of the possible possible poison that had attempted to kill the king? Would her life be sacrificed to save him? She didn’t know, reaching out to the table to steady herself. Her eyes searched for Thea, her hand gripping onto her forearm, hoping that the woman had somewhat of a plan for what to do next. Vangelis wouldn’t be able to much except worry about the current threat. And while her family was already positioned towards the back of the room, she was close to the front, feeling weak from what had just happened.
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Selene knew that she couldn’t worry about what others were doing around her. If Thea wanted her to breath for the King, she would do nothing else. She found a rhythm for the few breaths that she was giving, each breath slow and full. She was getting light-headed with each breath, unable to really gather her thoughts before she was breathing life into him. Her head swirled, and she almost missed Thea’s new direction to sit back so that she could force the concoction down his throat.
She missed him vomiting, registering the sound only barely. And she hadn’t been able to process if he had been able to keep the second drink down either. Her own mind was still trying to recover, forcing a few calming, deep breaths from her own lungs to allow them to fill. As she recovered from the oxygen deprivation, it was impossible not to notice several things all at once. It was the sound that broke through her haze, and yet she couldn’t quite decide if it was the sound of her heart in her ears or of something else.
It wasn’t hard for her to miss Vangelis pulling himself up to the throne, trying to give orders that she wasn’t sure she heard. She was still trying to process the thumping on the door.
It wasn’t until the door started to splinter that she realized that more was very, very wrong.
Standing quickly, the room spun around her. A fear ripped through her gut, wondering if this was the effects of the possible possible poison that had attempted to kill the king? Would her life be sacrificed to save him? She didn’t know, reaching out to the table to steady herself. Her eyes searched for Thea, her hand gripping onto her forearm, hoping that the woman had somewhat of a plan for what to do next. Vangelis wouldn’t be able to much except worry about the current threat. And while her family was already positioned towards the back of the room, she was close to the front, feeling weak from what had just happened.
Selene knew that she couldn’t worry about what others were doing around her. If Thea wanted her to breath for the King, she would do nothing else. She found a rhythm for the few breaths that she was giving, each breath slow and full. She was getting light-headed with each breath, unable to really gather her thoughts before she was breathing life into him. Her head swirled, and she almost missed Thea’s new direction to sit back so that she could force the concoction down his throat.
She missed him vomiting, registering the sound only barely. And she hadn’t been able to process if he had been able to keep the second drink down either. Her own mind was still trying to recover, forcing a few calming, deep breaths from her own lungs to allow them to fill. As she recovered from the oxygen deprivation, it was impossible not to notice several things all at once. It was the sound that broke through her haze, and yet she couldn’t quite decide if it was the sound of her heart in her ears or of something else.
It wasn’t hard for her to miss Vangelis pulling himself up to the throne, trying to give orders that she wasn’t sure she heard. She was still trying to process the thumping on the door.
It wasn’t until the door started to splinter that she realized that more was very, very wrong.
Standing quickly, the room spun around her. A fear ripped through her gut, wondering if this was the effects of the possible possible poison that had attempted to kill the king? Would her life be sacrificed to save him? She didn’t know, reaching out to the table to steady herself. Her eyes searched for Thea, her hand gripping onto her forearm, hoping that the woman had somewhat of a plan for what to do next. Vangelis wouldn’t be able to much except worry about the current threat. And while her family was already positioned towards the back of the room, she was close to the front, feeling weak from what had just happened.
Time seemed frozen as the flurry of movement around the room to secure the main door and bar any from entering or leaving the room, Leto's observant eyes flickered around. Her hands clung to Lady Iolanthe's arm, as improper as it may have been. Propriety was not the most prevalent thing on her mind when there may have been an assassin in the room.
Leto's eyes snapped to Lord Silanos as he replied, and she hoped that his words would be more of a comfort. 'Nothing. We do nothing. Just...let them deal with it. Stay put.'
They bore truth. Nothing could be done. Still, sitting down before a meal while a man nearly died did not seem to be the answer. Nervous and tenuous in her movement, Leto stood slowly to see if there was any telling what was happening from this distance.
Suddenly, the air seemed to quake with the thunderous boom, echoing off the stone in a way that made it difficult to determine the origin of the sound. A second boom sent everyone's attention to the main door, a few dozen feet away from where their table had been placed. Another crash sent Leto's hand flying to Lady Iolanthe's upper arm in fear.
Someone was trying to get into the Dikastirio and they were breaking down the monolithic doors to do so.
There was chaos in movement and Leto's heart began to race, sending blood rushing to her ears in a deafening roar. Fear sent images of terror flashing through her mind. There were stories of old that told of such slaughter, trapping a room filled with people with no exit, followed by a bloodbath.
The blood drained from her face and she felt lightheaded where she stood, a cold wash over her skin at the thought of these being her last minutes alive.
"Athena....save us..." Leto found herself begging in a hushed whisper, frozen into place like a deer facing down the bow of the huntsman. At the last moment before the splinters flew from the bar holding the door, which sent her recoiling, hands thrown up almost defensively as she took a step back with wide eyes, her eyes flicked once more between Lady Iolanthe, Lord Silanos....and her friend, Captain Maleos, who stood like statue of Ares himself before the door - dauntless.
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Time seemed frozen as the flurry of movement around the room to secure the main door and bar any from entering or leaving the room, Leto's observant eyes flickered around. Her hands clung to Lady Iolanthe's arm, as improper as it may have been. Propriety was not the most prevalent thing on her mind when there may have been an assassin in the room.
Leto's eyes snapped to Lord Silanos as he replied, and she hoped that his words would be more of a comfort. 'Nothing. We do nothing. Just...let them deal with it. Stay put.'
They bore truth. Nothing could be done. Still, sitting down before a meal while a man nearly died did not seem to be the answer. Nervous and tenuous in her movement, Leto stood slowly to see if there was any telling what was happening from this distance.
Suddenly, the air seemed to quake with the thunderous boom, echoing off the stone in a way that made it difficult to determine the origin of the sound. A second boom sent everyone's attention to the main door, a few dozen feet away from where their table had been placed. Another crash sent Leto's hand flying to Lady Iolanthe's upper arm in fear.
Someone was trying to get into the Dikastirio and they were breaking down the monolithic doors to do so.
There was chaos in movement and Leto's heart began to race, sending blood rushing to her ears in a deafening roar. Fear sent images of terror flashing through her mind. There were stories of old that told of such slaughter, trapping a room filled with people with no exit, followed by a bloodbath.
The blood drained from her face and she felt lightheaded where she stood, a cold wash over her skin at the thought of these being her last minutes alive.
"Athena....save us..." Leto found herself begging in a hushed whisper, frozen into place like a deer facing down the bow of the huntsman. At the last moment before the splinters flew from the bar holding the door, which sent her recoiling, hands thrown up almost defensively as she took a step back with wide eyes, her eyes flicked once more between Lady Iolanthe, Lord Silanos....and her friend, Captain Maleos, who stood like statue of Ares himself before the door - dauntless.
Time seemed frozen as the flurry of movement around the room to secure the main door and bar any from entering or leaving the room, Leto's observant eyes flickered around. Her hands clung to Lady Iolanthe's arm, as improper as it may have been. Propriety was not the most prevalent thing on her mind when there may have been an assassin in the room.
Leto's eyes snapped to Lord Silanos as he replied, and she hoped that his words would be more of a comfort. 'Nothing. We do nothing. Just...let them deal with it. Stay put.'
They bore truth. Nothing could be done. Still, sitting down before a meal while a man nearly died did not seem to be the answer. Nervous and tenuous in her movement, Leto stood slowly to see if there was any telling what was happening from this distance.
Suddenly, the air seemed to quake with the thunderous boom, echoing off the stone in a way that made it difficult to determine the origin of the sound. A second boom sent everyone's attention to the main door, a few dozen feet away from where their table had been placed. Another crash sent Leto's hand flying to Lady Iolanthe's upper arm in fear.
Someone was trying to get into the Dikastirio and they were breaking down the monolithic doors to do so.
There was chaos in movement and Leto's heart began to race, sending blood rushing to her ears in a deafening roar. Fear sent images of terror flashing through her mind. There were stories of old that told of such slaughter, trapping a room filled with people with no exit, followed by a bloodbath.
The blood drained from her face and she felt lightheaded where she stood, a cold wash over her skin at the thought of these being her last minutes alive.
"Athena....save us..." Leto found herself begging in a hushed whisper, frozen into place like a deer facing down the bow of the huntsman. At the last moment before the splinters flew from the bar holding the door, which sent her recoiling, hands thrown up almost defensively as she took a step back with wide eyes, her eyes flicked once more between Lady Iolanthe, Lord Silanos....and her friend, Captain Maleos, who stood like statue of Ares himself before the door - dauntless.
"Stay with us, Vangelis. Please."
Time felt utterly frozen as the women moved around him, Vangelis' head on his shoulder seeming a dead weight as he clung to his elder brother. In this he was helpless, supporting Vang in his final moments as their mother was pulled away and instead Thea was there, barking her orders and trying to breathe air into the king's lungs. His eyes darted about aimlessly as if seeking answers and further assistance, trying to keep from feeling entirely powerless. On the field of battle, he had no fear. He knew what he could and could not do, and how that would affect the outcome of the war. In a time like this, with the cold grip of poison, no one was safe, and it could not be detected.
Only when Evras and Stephanos returned from their duties was Zanon's attention finally drawn back to where his brother fought to hold on to life. Selene was now the one breathing for him while the two Thanasi women mixed up whatever potion they had. In spite of everything that he knew, and everything that he feared, he never once doubted that Thea and Evras could save Vangelis' life. If they had such powers, all could be forgiven of them if they would only keep the king alive. Each rattling fill of the lungs gave him reason to hope, and he caught sight of each of his family members in turn, surprised to see another Thanasi standing with his sister and son. He'd always hated Mihail, but the love the man bore for his nephew was enough to content him for now.
Helping Thea shift Vangelis over the bowl, he propped the king up with a firm grip so he could focus on the most important thing, voiding the poison from his body. The strain of the effort reminded him that it had been a long while since he had been in proper training, but he was determined here not to fail the man who he had sworn to protect and support to his own death. Relief surged through him as he heard the spatter of sick, and he helped ease the monarch back enough so that he could drink the second concoction. The black liquid looked ominous, but everything else had worked so far.
"Water, bring it now."
His order was for the nearest person, and he held out his hand to offer it to his brother to clear the taste from his mouth, catching sight of the king of Taengea holding tight to Ariah in the corner. He'd shouted something about her, and his eyes narrowed for a moment before the bang against the doors shook him from focus. Goblet clattering to the floor, Zanon froze and stared as the doors shook again, jumping into action as Vangelis began struggling up right and hoarsely barking orders.
"Silas, take Mother and Evras, kitchens. Now. Mihail, Athanasia keep hold of Dion and go. Selene, Thea, escort the king to safety."
The odds of Vangelis giving in and going with them were nearly zero, as hurt and ill as he was the king of Colchis would not surrender without a fight. Zanon stayed close to him, knocking dishes aside and leaping over the table with considerable pain as he landed on his bad leg. It mattered not, the doors shattered as he drew his sword and the crown prince knew this battle would be one not just for his life but for the kingdom itself.
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"Stay with us, Vangelis. Please."
Time felt utterly frozen as the women moved around him, Vangelis' head on his shoulder seeming a dead weight as he clung to his elder brother. In this he was helpless, supporting Vang in his final moments as their mother was pulled away and instead Thea was there, barking her orders and trying to breathe air into the king's lungs. His eyes darted about aimlessly as if seeking answers and further assistance, trying to keep from feeling entirely powerless. On the field of battle, he had no fear. He knew what he could and could not do, and how that would affect the outcome of the war. In a time like this, with the cold grip of poison, no one was safe, and it could not be detected.
Only when Evras and Stephanos returned from their duties was Zanon's attention finally drawn back to where his brother fought to hold on to life. Selene was now the one breathing for him while the two Thanasi women mixed up whatever potion they had. In spite of everything that he knew, and everything that he feared, he never once doubted that Thea and Evras could save Vangelis' life. If they had such powers, all could be forgiven of them if they would only keep the king alive. Each rattling fill of the lungs gave him reason to hope, and he caught sight of each of his family members in turn, surprised to see another Thanasi standing with his sister and son. He'd always hated Mihail, but the love the man bore for his nephew was enough to content him for now.
Helping Thea shift Vangelis over the bowl, he propped the king up with a firm grip so he could focus on the most important thing, voiding the poison from his body. The strain of the effort reminded him that it had been a long while since he had been in proper training, but he was determined here not to fail the man who he had sworn to protect and support to his own death. Relief surged through him as he heard the spatter of sick, and he helped ease the monarch back enough so that he could drink the second concoction. The black liquid looked ominous, but everything else had worked so far.
"Water, bring it now."
His order was for the nearest person, and he held out his hand to offer it to his brother to clear the taste from his mouth, catching sight of the king of Taengea holding tight to Ariah in the corner. He'd shouted something about her, and his eyes narrowed for a moment before the bang against the doors shook him from focus. Goblet clattering to the floor, Zanon froze and stared as the doors shook again, jumping into action as Vangelis began struggling up right and hoarsely barking orders.
"Silas, take Mother and Evras, kitchens. Now. Mihail, Athanasia keep hold of Dion and go. Selene, Thea, escort the king to safety."
The odds of Vangelis giving in and going with them were nearly zero, as hurt and ill as he was the king of Colchis would not surrender without a fight. Zanon stayed close to him, knocking dishes aside and leaping over the table with considerable pain as he landed on his bad leg. It mattered not, the doors shattered as he drew his sword and the crown prince knew this battle would be one not just for his life but for the kingdom itself.
"Stay with us, Vangelis. Please."
Time felt utterly frozen as the women moved around him, Vangelis' head on his shoulder seeming a dead weight as he clung to his elder brother. In this he was helpless, supporting Vang in his final moments as their mother was pulled away and instead Thea was there, barking her orders and trying to breathe air into the king's lungs. His eyes darted about aimlessly as if seeking answers and further assistance, trying to keep from feeling entirely powerless. On the field of battle, he had no fear. He knew what he could and could not do, and how that would affect the outcome of the war. In a time like this, with the cold grip of poison, no one was safe, and it could not be detected.
Only when Evras and Stephanos returned from their duties was Zanon's attention finally drawn back to where his brother fought to hold on to life. Selene was now the one breathing for him while the two Thanasi women mixed up whatever potion they had. In spite of everything that he knew, and everything that he feared, he never once doubted that Thea and Evras could save Vangelis' life. If they had such powers, all could be forgiven of them if they would only keep the king alive. Each rattling fill of the lungs gave him reason to hope, and he caught sight of each of his family members in turn, surprised to see another Thanasi standing with his sister and son. He'd always hated Mihail, but the love the man bore for his nephew was enough to content him for now.
Helping Thea shift Vangelis over the bowl, he propped the king up with a firm grip so he could focus on the most important thing, voiding the poison from his body. The strain of the effort reminded him that it had been a long while since he had been in proper training, but he was determined here not to fail the man who he had sworn to protect and support to his own death. Relief surged through him as he heard the spatter of sick, and he helped ease the monarch back enough so that he could drink the second concoction. The black liquid looked ominous, but everything else had worked so far.
"Water, bring it now."
His order was for the nearest person, and he held out his hand to offer it to his brother to clear the taste from his mouth, catching sight of the king of Taengea holding tight to Ariah in the corner. He'd shouted something about her, and his eyes narrowed for a moment before the bang against the doors shook him from focus. Goblet clattering to the floor, Zanon froze and stared as the doors shook again, jumping into action as Vangelis began struggling up right and hoarsely barking orders.
"Silas, take Mother and Evras, kitchens. Now. Mihail, Athanasia keep hold of Dion and go. Selene, Thea, escort the king to safety."
The odds of Vangelis giving in and going with them were nearly zero, as hurt and ill as he was the king of Colchis would not surrender without a fight. Zanon stayed close to him, knocking dishes aside and leaping over the table with considerable pain as he landed on his bad leg. It mattered not, the doors shattered as he drew his sword and the crown prince knew this battle would be one not just for his life but for the kingdom itself.
Her mother's offer to take the baby for a night was a welcome relief, and Olympia reached over to take her hand in gratitude. Though Selene had borne much of the burden of caring for her daughter when she began to break, any additional guidance and assistance in child raising would be incredible. The king's speech saw her maintaining her silence, keeping her eyes on the royal family and feeling a twinge of envy in her chest. They were all so at peace, in spite of the loss they had experienced, the Kotas were a united family and their queen and princesses looked assured that they had nothing to ever fear.
Before she could stop herself her eyes flicked to where Stephanos sat, and she longed to sit beside him like they had before, proud and united like the family at the back of the room. In the past they had been like that, but not since Tisiphone had been revealed as a disappointment. Alastair had remained behind at the Kotas manor with a few nurses, tending to the little princess in her absence, and though she should have felt pleased to be relieved of the burden of caring for her, there was a discomfort at being so far from her child.
Pushing her food about on her plate, still entirely lacking an appetite, the sounds of the distress at the head table caught her attention and Pia looked up in alarm. Reaching out and gripping her mother's arm in fear, she tried to catch hold of Selene as well but her elder sister was out of her grasp before she could reach her. Her heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline and fear leaping as Stephanos ran past to the table next, though seeing he was unaffected by the poison eased some of her anxiety. It felt like a nightmare, and her knees were weak as she sank back into her seat, pale and shaing at the thought of losing the one man who could guarantee their safety. If Vangelis died, they could be set adrift, returned to Taengea, exchanged to Irakles as prisoners and executed.
Her selfish fears mingled with true grief pushed aside as she hid her face in her mother's skirts, tears rolling down her cheeks at the thought of losing protector and friend. Only when a gasping breath echoed through the hall did she lift her head, searching for a sign that this evil had been reversed. A shaky breath blew from her lips followed shortly by a scream as the doors close to them reverberated. Spinning around, Olympia stood and backed away, clutching at her mother's hand to try to drag her along with her.
"Oh gods no... not again. Please Hera save us."
The prayers continued under her breath as a second slam shook against the door. Someone was determined to break in, and given the attempted assassination of the king, it could only be part of their plan to take them off guard now. The shout for women and children to head to the kitchens was not unheeded, and Olympia kept a tight hold of her mother as she finally turned and ran. The third bang shattered the doors and she fell to the ground, letting to of Evelli's hand as shards of wood splintered around them. Her daughter was with Alastair, he would never allow anything to hurt her. But Stephanos, her sisters and mother, they were here, in harms way right now. Instinct sent her to her feet as she set her gaze on her husband and ran through people as quickly as she could to try to get to his side.
"Stephanos!"
Panic was her guide now, eyes wild with fear as the sounds of soldiers and people screaming echoed through the hall. Nothing that had passed between them now mattered, the arguments and cruel words were forgotten, all that mattered was getting to his side.
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Her mother's offer to take the baby for a night was a welcome relief, and Olympia reached over to take her hand in gratitude. Though Selene had borne much of the burden of caring for her daughter when she began to break, any additional guidance and assistance in child raising would be incredible. The king's speech saw her maintaining her silence, keeping her eyes on the royal family and feeling a twinge of envy in her chest. They were all so at peace, in spite of the loss they had experienced, the Kotas were a united family and their queen and princesses looked assured that they had nothing to ever fear.
Before she could stop herself her eyes flicked to where Stephanos sat, and she longed to sit beside him like they had before, proud and united like the family at the back of the room. In the past they had been like that, but not since Tisiphone had been revealed as a disappointment. Alastair had remained behind at the Kotas manor with a few nurses, tending to the little princess in her absence, and though she should have felt pleased to be relieved of the burden of caring for her, there was a discomfort at being so far from her child.
Pushing her food about on her plate, still entirely lacking an appetite, the sounds of the distress at the head table caught her attention and Pia looked up in alarm. Reaching out and gripping her mother's arm in fear, she tried to catch hold of Selene as well but her elder sister was out of her grasp before she could reach her. Her heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline and fear leaping as Stephanos ran past to the table next, though seeing he was unaffected by the poison eased some of her anxiety. It felt like a nightmare, and her knees were weak as she sank back into her seat, pale and shaing at the thought of losing the one man who could guarantee their safety. If Vangelis died, they could be set adrift, returned to Taengea, exchanged to Irakles as prisoners and executed.
Her selfish fears mingled with true grief pushed aside as she hid her face in her mother's skirts, tears rolling down her cheeks at the thought of losing protector and friend. Only when a gasping breath echoed through the hall did she lift her head, searching for a sign that this evil had been reversed. A shaky breath blew from her lips followed shortly by a scream as the doors close to them reverberated. Spinning around, Olympia stood and backed away, clutching at her mother's hand to try to drag her along with her.
"Oh gods no... not again. Please Hera save us."
The prayers continued under her breath as a second slam shook against the door. Someone was determined to break in, and given the attempted assassination of the king, it could only be part of their plan to take them off guard now. The shout for women and children to head to the kitchens was not unheeded, and Olympia kept a tight hold of her mother as she finally turned and ran. The third bang shattered the doors and she fell to the ground, letting to of Evelli's hand as shards of wood splintered around them. Her daughter was with Alastair, he would never allow anything to hurt her. But Stephanos, her sisters and mother, they were here, in harms way right now. Instinct sent her to her feet as she set her gaze on her husband and ran through people as quickly as she could to try to get to his side.
"Stephanos!"
Panic was her guide now, eyes wild with fear as the sounds of soldiers and people screaming echoed through the hall. Nothing that had passed between them now mattered, the arguments and cruel words were forgotten, all that mattered was getting to his side.
Her mother's offer to take the baby for a night was a welcome relief, and Olympia reached over to take her hand in gratitude. Though Selene had borne much of the burden of caring for her daughter when she began to break, any additional guidance and assistance in child raising would be incredible. The king's speech saw her maintaining her silence, keeping her eyes on the royal family and feeling a twinge of envy in her chest. They were all so at peace, in spite of the loss they had experienced, the Kotas were a united family and their queen and princesses looked assured that they had nothing to ever fear.
Before she could stop herself her eyes flicked to where Stephanos sat, and she longed to sit beside him like they had before, proud and united like the family at the back of the room. In the past they had been like that, but not since Tisiphone had been revealed as a disappointment. Alastair had remained behind at the Kotas manor with a few nurses, tending to the little princess in her absence, and though she should have felt pleased to be relieved of the burden of caring for her, there was a discomfort at being so far from her child.
Pushing her food about on her plate, still entirely lacking an appetite, the sounds of the distress at the head table caught her attention and Pia looked up in alarm. Reaching out and gripping her mother's arm in fear, she tried to catch hold of Selene as well but her elder sister was out of her grasp before she could reach her. Her heart pounded in her chest, adrenaline and fear leaping as Stephanos ran past to the table next, though seeing he was unaffected by the poison eased some of her anxiety. It felt like a nightmare, and her knees were weak as she sank back into her seat, pale and shaing at the thought of losing the one man who could guarantee their safety. If Vangelis died, they could be set adrift, returned to Taengea, exchanged to Irakles as prisoners and executed.
Her selfish fears mingled with true grief pushed aside as she hid her face in her mother's skirts, tears rolling down her cheeks at the thought of losing protector and friend. Only when a gasping breath echoed through the hall did she lift her head, searching for a sign that this evil had been reversed. A shaky breath blew from her lips followed shortly by a scream as the doors close to them reverberated. Spinning around, Olympia stood and backed away, clutching at her mother's hand to try to drag her along with her.
"Oh gods no... not again. Please Hera save us."
The prayers continued under her breath as a second slam shook against the door. Someone was determined to break in, and given the attempted assassination of the king, it could only be part of their plan to take them off guard now. The shout for women and children to head to the kitchens was not unheeded, and Olympia kept a tight hold of her mother as she finally turned and ran. The third bang shattered the doors and she fell to the ground, letting to of Evelli's hand as shards of wood splintered around them. Her daughter was with Alastair, he would never allow anything to hurt her. But Stephanos, her sisters and mother, they were here, in harms way right now. Instinct sent her to her feet as she set her gaze on her husband and ran through people as quickly as she could to try to get to his side.
"Stephanos!"
Panic was her guide now, eyes wild with fear as the sounds of soldiers and people screaming echoed through the hall. Nothing that had passed between them now mattered, the arguments and cruel words were forgotten, all that mattered was getting to his side.
Her man had scattered like ants, knowing full well on the ways and measures in which to put in place in situations such as these. Morbid as it may sound, Nike was well prepared for any scenario, even if it was the death of the King, albeit it was something she'd rather not think of. So instead, the loyal Commander simply hovered around the royal family. Her eyes flickered to the servant girl when Stephanos pointed her out, but seeing as the outcasted King of Taengea also moved in one swift movement to ensure the servant girl did not move, Nike merely observed her men heading two to each door, whilst half a dozen more headed to the back entrances and the kitchen. Outside, the one's patrolling the surrounding areas of the Dikasitrio would soon be informed and the place would be furthered secured so no one could go in or out.
Or so Nike thought.
The sudden booming sound of the thick wooden doors made her turn sharply, grip tightening around her claymore as her eyes sharpened. Every inch of Nike was poised to attack like a jaguar, her eyes sharp and attentive even as one of them flickered to where Vangelis had been sputtering and coughing. Through the haze of him newly awake from the afterffects of poison, Nike almost rolled her eyes at how quickly he tried to give orders, as if he was in any shape to do so. A knot inside her loosened with relief at the fact that at least, her General was no longer in dire danger of losing his life through ingesting poison, but that didn't mean they were out of the woods yet.
No longer needing to worry about the life or death of Vangelis, Nike could now put her full focus on whatever it was banging loudly on the thick wooden doors of the Dikasitrio. Moving to stand in front of Vangelis even as he moved sluggishly, her words were tossed behind her shoulders as she widened her stance in front of him.
"Guard's already in formation. You're in no shape to defend yourself, let alone other's, General." she murmured, as her men ran to the front of the door to try and hold it in place to give the children and women more time to get to safety. The grain cracked with each shove, meaning they had little time, but whatever seconds she could buy would count. "Lady Selene, take the King down to the kitchens with everyone else." her tone bore no argument as her next words were louder, addressed to her men. "Hold the doors as long as you can, men!"
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Her man had scattered like ants, knowing full well on the ways and measures in which to put in place in situations such as these. Morbid as it may sound, Nike was well prepared for any scenario, even if it was the death of the King, albeit it was something she'd rather not think of. So instead, the loyal Commander simply hovered around the royal family. Her eyes flickered to the servant girl when Stephanos pointed her out, but seeing as the outcasted King of Taengea also moved in one swift movement to ensure the servant girl did not move, Nike merely observed her men heading two to each door, whilst half a dozen more headed to the back entrances and the kitchen. Outside, the one's patrolling the surrounding areas of the Dikasitrio would soon be informed and the place would be furthered secured so no one could go in or out.
Or so Nike thought.
The sudden booming sound of the thick wooden doors made her turn sharply, grip tightening around her claymore as her eyes sharpened. Every inch of Nike was poised to attack like a jaguar, her eyes sharp and attentive even as one of them flickered to where Vangelis had been sputtering and coughing. Through the haze of him newly awake from the afterffects of poison, Nike almost rolled her eyes at how quickly he tried to give orders, as if he was in any shape to do so. A knot inside her loosened with relief at the fact that at least, her General was no longer in dire danger of losing his life through ingesting poison, but that didn't mean they were out of the woods yet.
No longer needing to worry about the life or death of Vangelis, Nike could now put her full focus on whatever it was banging loudly on the thick wooden doors of the Dikasitrio. Moving to stand in front of Vangelis even as he moved sluggishly, her words were tossed behind her shoulders as she widened her stance in front of him.
"Guard's already in formation. You're in no shape to defend yourself, let alone other's, General." she murmured, as her men ran to the front of the door to try and hold it in place to give the children and women more time to get to safety. The grain cracked with each shove, meaning they had little time, but whatever seconds she could buy would count. "Lady Selene, take the King down to the kitchens with everyone else." her tone bore no argument as her next words were louder, addressed to her men. "Hold the doors as long as you can, men!"
Her man had scattered like ants, knowing full well on the ways and measures in which to put in place in situations such as these. Morbid as it may sound, Nike was well prepared for any scenario, even if it was the death of the King, albeit it was something she'd rather not think of. So instead, the loyal Commander simply hovered around the royal family. Her eyes flickered to the servant girl when Stephanos pointed her out, but seeing as the outcasted King of Taengea also moved in one swift movement to ensure the servant girl did not move, Nike merely observed her men heading two to each door, whilst half a dozen more headed to the back entrances and the kitchen. Outside, the one's patrolling the surrounding areas of the Dikasitrio would soon be informed and the place would be furthered secured so no one could go in or out.
Or so Nike thought.
The sudden booming sound of the thick wooden doors made her turn sharply, grip tightening around her claymore as her eyes sharpened. Every inch of Nike was poised to attack like a jaguar, her eyes sharp and attentive even as one of them flickered to where Vangelis had been sputtering and coughing. Through the haze of him newly awake from the afterffects of poison, Nike almost rolled her eyes at how quickly he tried to give orders, as if he was in any shape to do so. A knot inside her loosened with relief at the fact that at least, her General was no longer in dire danger of losing his life through ingesting poison, but that didn't mean they were out of the woods yet.
No longer needing to worry about the life or death of Vangelis, Nike could now put her full focus on whatever it was banging loudly on the thick wooden doors of the Dikasitrio. Moving to stand in front of Vangelis even as he moved sluggishly, her words were tossed behind her shoulders as she widened her stance in front of him.
"Guard's already in formation. You're in no shape to defend yourself, let alone other's, General." she murmured, as her men ran to the front of the door to try and hold it in place to give the children and women more time to get to safety. The grain cracked with each shove, meaning they had little time, but whatever seconds she could buy would count. "Lady Selene, take the King down to the kitchens with everyone else." her tone bore no argument as her next words were louder, addressed to her men. "Hold the doors as long as you can, men!"
It felt rusty, the way she had to move her hands to grind the charcoal mixed with water into paste, ensuring it was thick enough so it would bind with the poison in the stomach acid, but also liquid enough so it would slip easily down a poisoned man who had no control over his peristaltic movement of his throat. Around her, she could hear the loud proclamation from the Taengean king, but Evras's eyes only briefly glanced at the serving girl she recognized to be Zanon's own slave. While she would no doubt hear further of it later, that was a matter she would look into when she was trying to ensure the newly minted King of Colchis wasn't about to die under her and her sister's hands.
Dodging to allow Stephanos to hand Thea the mustard seed powder and salt, Evras soon handed the paste of charcoal to Thea and watched as her sister finished the process, before feeding it to the King.
While she had faith in Thea, she still breathed a sigh of relief when Vangelis finally retched the contents of his stomach, however little they were, into the bowl. While vomiting was not always a good thing, after poison, it was the most comforting thing one could have, as the stomach ejected whatever was causing the body harm.
But her job wasn't yet done.
As Thea fed the paste of charcoal to the heaving King, Evras quickly grabbed the mustard seed powder and salt, grabbing another jug half filled with water. Pouring it into two deep bowls, she did the same thing as she did earlier with the remaining charcoal, instead this time, she mixed in smaller amounts of salt and just a pinch of mustard seed powder, before thoroughly mixing it.
Looking up when Lady Selene suddenly moved, only by the third bang of the door did Evras suddenly realized what was going on, and her hands went cold as they gripped the two bowls. Her first thought went to her son's whereabouts as she stood up. Evras only breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the visage of the young teenager standing with Athanasia and her brothers and sister, before turning to Selene, quickly pushing the two bowls into the hands of the Taengean and her own sister.
"The mouth of the King was likely laced with poison as well, so drink this to ensure you suffer to ill-effects in a moment. Down it all," she murmured to Selene especially. "It will taste foul, but it is necessary."
That done, Evras was quick to pick up her skirts, avoiding Silas to hurry to where Dion stood. Yes, her husband had been the one to instruct Silas to bring them to safety, but Evras was not likely to move without Dion, and she made it clear in the way she wrenched her arms out of Silas's well-meaning grip, to weave her way away from safety, heading directly to where Dion stood with her brother. There, Evras was quick to take Dion from Mihail and Athanasia's hold, double-checking her boy to make sure he hadn't ingested any poison himself. "Thank you Asia, Mihail." the mother's genuine thanks was murmured as she glanced at both the young princess and her own brother - but her detour meant that now more time had elapsed, and as the door crashed one more time, Evras turned to push Dion behind her as she stared warily at the large wooden entrance.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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It felt rusty, the way she had to move her hands to grind the charcoal mixed with water into paste, ensuring it was thick enough so it would bind with the poison in the stomach acid, but also liquid enough so it would slip easily down a poisoned man who had no control over his peristaltic movement of his throat. Around her, she could hear the loud proclamation from the Taengean king, but Evras's eyes only briefly glanced at the serving girl she recognized to be Zanon's own slave. While she would no doubt hear further of it later, that was a matter she would look into when she was trying to ensure the newly minted King of Colchis wasn't about to die under her and her sister's hands.
Dodging to allow Stephanos to hand Thea the mustard seed powder and salt, Evras soon handed the paste of charcoal to Thea and watched as her sister finished the process, before feeding it to the King.
While she had faith in Thea, she still breathed a sigh of relief when Vangelis finally retched the contents of his stomach, however little they were, into the bowl. While vomiting was not always a good thing, after poison, it was the most comforting thing one could have, as the stomach ejected whatever was causing the body harm.
But her job wasn't yet done.
As Thea fed the paste of charcoal to the heaving King, Evras quickly grabbed the mustard seed powder and salt, grabbing another jug half filled with water. Pouring it into two deep bowls, she did the same thing as she did earlier with the remaining charcoal, instead this time, she mixed in smaller amounts of salt and just a pinch of mustard seed powder, before thoroughly mixing it.
Looking up when Lady Selene suddenly moved, only by the third bang of the door did Evras suddenly realized what was going on, and her hands went cold as they gripped the two bowls. Her first thought went to her son's whereabouts as she stood up. Evras only breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the visage of the young teenager standing with Athanasia and her brothers and sister, before turning to Selene, quickly pushing the two bowls into the hands of the Taengean and her own sister.
"The mouth of the King was likely laced with poison as well, so drink this to ensure you suffer to ill-effects in a moment. Down it all," she murmured to Selene especially. "It will taste foul, but it is necessary."
That done, Evras was quick to pick up her skirts, avoiding Silas to hurry to where Dion stood. Yes, her husband had been the one to instruct Silas to bring them to safety, but Evras was not likely to move without Dion, and she made it clear in the way she wrenched her arms out of Silas's well-meaning grip, to weave her way away from safety, heading directly to where Dion stood with her brother. There, Evras was quick to take Dion from Mihail and Athanasia's hold, double-checking her boy to make sure he hadn't ingested any poison himself. "Thank you Asia, Mihail." the mother's genuine thanks was murmured as she glanced at both the young princess and her own brother - but her detour meant that now more time had elapsed, and as the door crashed one more time, Evras turned to push Dion behind her as she stared warily at the large wooden entrance.
It felt rusty, the way she had to move her hands to grind the charcoal mixed with water into paste, ensuring it was thick enough so it would bind with the poison in the stomach acid, but also liquid enough so it would slip easily down a poisoned man who had no control over his peristaltic movement of his throat. Around her, she could hear the loud proclamation from the Taengean king, but Evras's eyes only briefly glanced at the serving girl she recognized to be Zanon's own slave. While she would no doubt hear further of it later, that was a matter she would look into when she was trying to ensure the newly minted King of Colchis wasn't about to die under her and her sister's hands.
Dodging to allow Stephanos to hand Thea the mustard seed powder and salt, Evras soon handed the paste of charcoal to Thea and watched as her sister finished the process, before feeding it to the King.
While she had faith in Thea, she still breathed a sigh of relief when Vangelis finally retched the contents of his stomach, however little they were, into the bowl. While vomiting was not always a good thing, after poison, it was the most comforting thing one could have, as the stomach ejected whatever was causing the body harm.
But her job wasn't yet done.
As Thea fed the paste of charcoal to the heaving King, Evras quickly grabbed the mustard seed powder and salt, grabbing another jug half filled with water. Pouring it into two deep bowls, she did the same thing as she did earlier with the remaining charcoal, instead this time, she mixed in smaller amounts of salt and just a pinch of mustard seed powder, before thoroughly mixing it.
Looking up when Lady Selene suddenly moved, only by the third bang of the door did Evras suddenly realized what was going on, and her hands went cold as they gripped the two bowls. Her first thought went to her son's whereabouts as she stood up. Evras only breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the visage of the young teenager standing with Athanasia and her brothers and sister, before turning to Selene, quickly pushing the two bowls into the hands of the Taengean and her own sister.
"The mouth of the King was likely laced with poison as well, so drink this to ensure you suffer to ill-effects in a moment. Down it all," she murmured to Selene especially. "It will taste foul, but it is necessary."
That done, Evras was quick to pick up her skirts, avoiding Silas to hurry to where Dion stood. Yes, her husband had been the one to instruct Silas to bring them to safety, but Evras was not likely to move without Dion, and she made it clear in the way she wrenched her arms out of Silas's well-meaning grip, to weave her way away from safety, heading directly to where Dion stood with her brother. There, Evras was quick to take Dion from Mihail and Athanasia's hold, double-checking her boy to make sure he hadn't ingested any poison himself. "Thank you Asia, Mihail." the mother's genuine thanks was murmured as she glanced at both the young princess and her own brother - but her detour meant that now more time had elapsed, and as the door crashed one more time, Evras turned to push Dion behind her as she stared warily at the large wooden entrance.