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“Good,”Athanasia replied with a shaky smile. “Because you'd have to carry me kicking and screaming all the way … and I bite.” Lord Mihail seemed to understand her need to defend her family and she appreciated that, just as she had appreciated him rescuing her when she was lost so many years ago. If not for the rift between their families, they might have become friends, but she had not seen him much since that day. Perhaps they would become closer now that his sister had saved her brother's life. It wasn't impossible, and she had to admit that she liked him. He seemed like a good man.
And he was an archer as well? Her eyes followed his to the guard holding the bow. “If he refuses to give it to you, I'll order him to do so.” Being a princess did have some advantages. When Mihail let go of her hand, she felt oddly bereft, but she had no time to consider her strange reaction. The doors were about to break down, and as Mihail took the guard's bow, she asked a nearby servant to gather all the knives on the table and place them in a pile on the chair she was standing beside. She would rather have a bow, but she thought she might be more accurate throwing knives than wielding a weapon that was too large and heavy for her.
Evras was still standing beside her, shielding her son, and Athanasia nodded when she told her to remain close to her brothers. “I'll stay right here, I promise,” she replied, lifting a knife and flipping it to her other hand as she plucked up a second one. “I'll be of more use here than in the kitchens pacing back and forth and making everyone uncomfortable.” She gave Dion a reassuring smile, and then her gaze wandered over to where Vangelis stood before his throne, his sword in his hand. Even as weak as he was, she knew he would do everything in his power to protect his people from whomever was attempting to bash down the doors.
Mihail returned to her side, and she smiled again, weighing the knives in her hands. “We'll surprise them and they will never know what hit them when they finally break through.” Her words were brave, but she was quaking inside, much like the doors which seemed about to give way. Her heart pounded and she forced herself to take long slow breaths. She glanced briefly at King Stephanos and his wife, and then turned back toward the entrance, where the bar that had been placed across the doors was creaking ominously.
Without any warning, it shattered into a million pieces and the doors smashed open with an earth-shattering boom. Armed men swarmed in and Athanasia made ready to throw her knives. They looked like bandits but they acted like disciplined soldiers, falling into formation. Instead of attacking, they just stood there with weapons drawn, staring down the royal defenders. Then their lines parted and a tall man in dark armor, probably their leader, strode forward. There was an air of power about him that seemed almost familiar, though the princess told herself that her fear was making her foolish.
She heard the clang of Vangelis sword as he dropped it. Did he know this man? The stranger reached up to remove his helmet and as his face was revealed, Athanasia gasped and the knives slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor. No, it couldn't be …
Yet as soon as she spoke, she knew that her father was indeed alive. Her heart soared with happiness. All those things she had wanted to say to him, all the time she thought she would never get to spend with him … it was all possible now.
Never one to think before acting, she darted forward and threw herself in his arms, hugging him tightly. His armor dug into her flesh but she didn't care. “Father,” she whispered, and pressed her cheek against the cold metal of his breastplate.
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“Good,”Athanasia replied with a shaky smile. “Because you'd have to carry me kicking and screaming all the way … and I bite.” Lord Mihail seemed to understand her need to defend her family and she appreciated that, just as she had appreciated him rescuing her when she was lost so many years ago. If not for the rift between their families, they might have become friends, but she had not seen him much since that day. Perhaps they would become closer now that his sister had saved her brother's life. It wasn't impossible, and she had to admit that she liked him. He seemed like a good man.
And he was an archer as well? Her eyes followed his to the guard holding the bow. “If he refuses to give it to you, I'll order him to do so.” Being a princess did have some advantages. When Mihail let go of her hand, she felt oddly bereft, but she had no time to consider her strange reaction. The doors were about to break down, and as Mihail took the guard's bow, she asked a nearby servant to gather all the knives on the table and place them in a pile on the chair she was standing beside. She would rather have a bow, but she thought she might be more accurate throwing knives than wielding a weapon that was too large and heavy for her.
Evras was still standing beside her, shielding her son, and Athanasia nodded when she told her to remain close to her brothers. “I'll stay right here, I promise,” she replied, lifting a knife and flipping it to her other hand as she plucked up a second one. “I'll be of more use here than in the kitchens pacing back and forth and making everyone uncomfortable.” She gave Dion a reassuring smile, and then her gaze wandered over to where Vangelis stood before his throne, his sword in his hand. Even as weak as he was, she knew he would do everything in his power to protect his people from whomever was attempting to bash down the doors.
Mihail returned to her side, and she smiled again, weighing the knives in her hands. “We'll surprise them and they will never know what hit them when they finally break through.” Her words were brave, but she was quaking inside, much like the doors which seemed about to give way. Her heart pounded and she forced herself to take long slow breaths. She glanced briefly at King Stephanos and his wife, and then turned back toward the entrance, where the bar that had been placed across the doors was creaking ominously.
Without any warning, it shattered into a million pieces and the doors smashed open with an earth-shattering boom. Armed men swarmed in and Athanasia made ready to throw her knives. They looked like bandits but they acted like disciplined soldiers, falling into formation. Instead of attacking, they just stood there with weapons drawn, staring down the royal defenders. Then their lines parted and a tall man in dark armor, probably their leader, strode forward. There was an air of power about him that seemed almost familiar, though the princess told herself that her fear was making her foolish.
She heard the clang of Vangelis sword as he dropped it. Did he know this man? The stranger reached up to remove his helmet and as his face was revealed, Athanasia gasped and the knives slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor. No, it couldn't be …
Yet as soon as she spoke, she knew that her father was indeed alive. Her heart soared with happiness. All those things she had wanted to say to him, all the time she thought she would never get to spend with him … it was all possible now.
Never one to think before acting, she darted forward and threw herself in his arms, hugging him tightly. His armor dug into her flesh but she didn't care. “Father,” she whispered, and pressed her cheek against the cold metal of his breastplate.
“Good,”Athanasia replied with a shaky smile. “Because you'd have to carry me kicking and screaming all the way … and I bite.” Lord Mihail seemed to understand her need to defend her family and she appreciated that, just as she had appreciated him rescuing her when she was lost so many years ago. If not for the rift between their families, they might have become friends, but she had not seen him much since that day. Perhaps they would become closer now that his sister had saved her brother's life. It wasn't impossible, and she had to admit that she liked him. He seemed like a good man.
And he was an archer as well? Her eyes followed his to the guard holding the bow. “If he refuses to give it to you, I'll order him to do so.” Being a princess did have some advantages. When Mihail let go of her hand, she felt oddly bereft, but she had no time to consider her strange reaction. The doors were about to break down, and as Mihail took the guard's bow, she asked a nearby servant to gather all the knives on the table and place them in a pile on the chair she was standing beside. She would rather have a bow, but she thought she might be more accurate throwing knives than wielding a weapon that was too large and heavy for her.
Evras was still standing beside her, shielding her son, and Athanasia nodded when she told her to remain close to her brothers. “I'll stay right here, I promise,” she replied, lifting a knife and flipping it to her other hand as she plucked up a second one. “I'll be of more use here than in the kitchens pacing back and forth and making everyone uncomfortable.” She gave Dion a reassuring smile, and then her gaze wandered over to where Vangelis stood before his throne, his sword in his hand. Even as weak as he was, she knew he would do everything in his power to protect his people from whomever was attempting to bash down the doors.
Mihail returned to her side, and she smiled again, weighing the knives in her hands. “We'll surprise them and they will never know what hit them when they finally break through.” Her words were brave, but she was quaking inside, much like the doors which seemed about to give way. Her heart pounded and she forced herself to take long slow breaths. She glanced briefly at King Stephanos and his wife, and then turned back toward the entrance, where the bar that had been placed across the doors was creaking ominously.
Without any warning, it shattered into a million pieces and the doors smashed open with an earth-shattering boom. Armed men swarmed in and Athanasia made ready to throw her knives. They looked like bandits but they acted like disciplined soldiers, falling into formation. Instead of attacking, they just stood there with weapons drawn, staring down the royal defenders. Then their lines parted and a tall man in dark armor, probably their leader, strode forward. There was an air of power about him that seemed almost familiar, though the princess told herself that her fear was making her foolish.
She heard the clang of Vangelis sword as he dropped it. Did he know this man? The stranger reached up to remove his helmet and as his face was revealed, Athanasia gasped and the knives slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor. No, it couldn't be …
Yet as soon as she spoke, she knew that her father was indeed alive. Her heart soared with happiness. All those things she had wanted to say to him, all the time she thought she would never get to spend with him … it was all possible now.
Never one to think before acting, she darted forward and threw herself in his arms, hugging him tightly. His armor dug into her flesh but she didn't care. “Father,” she whispered, and pressed her cheek against the cold metal of his breastplate.
As the crashing upon the door became louder as the splits in the wood became stronger, Dionysios kept a hand upon his grandson's shoulder and encouraged him back another step, aiding his daughter Evras in pushing him behind her body.
Whilst he would never be so imbecilic as to put the words into some flowery sentiment, he held care for his daughter and wished she would find herself a safe place to hide. But if she insisted on defending her first born, he also could not argue with that. He would take further protection for the heir of the family and for the kingdom from anyone, regardless.
His son Mihail, on the other hand. As a young man he should have been up in the front lines with the other soldiers - like his brother Dysius - and seeking glory for the Thanasi name in victory against the aggressors that were ready to charge through the door. Instead, he hovered with the women and child.
He held a bow and arrow, determined to offer the image of defense, but no courageous fighter used a distance weapon. The king had been poisoned less than three minutes ago and he still stood closer to the enemy than his youngest son, with blade in hand.
In a moment of fury at his own child's wretchedness, Dionysios reached out quickly and snatched at the curling piece of silver woven into his son's hair. Wrapped around his head, it yanked Mihail's skull to one side and, once, free sported several strands of long black hair. Whilst he couldn't take a cloth to the boy's face and make him look less like a painted whore, it was the best he could do in moment they had before the storm.
"You can at least die looking like a man." He grunted, dropping the circlet to the floor with a high pitched clatter - lost in a booming smash against the gates - before he turned to glare at the young and stupidly handsome blonde that had come to stand in their circle.
What the hell was the King of Taengea going to do? He thought uncharitably. The man couldn't look after his own kingdom and keep his own House in order. What made him feel he had the right to try and aid in the Colchian echelons?
But before he could settle his burning disgruntlement any further onto the man's plate, the door was burst open and fighters charged into the room in an organisation that immediately had Dionysios standing straighter and his attitude calming. No renegade fighters behaved like that. These were trained professionals - men of militia blood. Only those who had intention and plan would carry themselves in such a manner and if their disgruntlement was with the Dikastirio, then it was with the ruling House.
As far as the head of Thanasi was concerned, any desire to spill Kotas blood was hardly his concern. Provided they left just one alive... His hand tightened on Dion's shoulder. He could care less if some nobody wanted to try and prove himself by removing his own obstacles to the throne...
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As the crashing upon the door became louder as the splits in the wood became stronger, Dionysios kept a hand upon his grandson's shoulder and encouraged him back another step, aiding his daughter Evras in pushing him behind her body.
Whilst he would never be so imbecilic as to put the words into some flowery sentiment, he held care for his daughter and wished she would find herself a safe place to hide. But if she insisted on defending her first born, he also could not argue with that. He would take further protection for the heir of the family and for the kingdom from anyone, regardless.
His son Mihail, on the other hand. As a young man he should have been up in the front lines with the other soldiers - like his brother Dysius - and seeking glory for the Thanasi name in victory against the aggressors that were ready to charge through the door. Instead, he hovered with the women and child.
He held a bow and arrow, determined to offer the image of defense, but no courageous fighter used a distance weapon. The king had been poisoned less than three minutes ago and he still stood closer to the enemy than his youngest son, with blade in hand.
In a moment of fury at his own child's wretchedness, Dionysios reached out quickly and snatched at the curling piece of silver woven into his son's hair. Wrapped around his head, it yanked Mihail's skull to one side and, once, free sported several strands of long black hair. Whilst he couldn't take a cloth to the boy's face and make him look less like a painted whore, it was the best he could do in moment they had before the storm.
"You can at least die looking like a man." He grunted, dropping the circlet to the floor with a high pitched clatter - lost in a booming smash against the gates - before he turned to glare at the young and stupidly handsome blonde that had come to stand in their circle.
What the hell was the King of Taengea going to do? He thought uncharitably. The man couldn't look after his own kingdom and keep his own House in order. What made him feel he had the right to try and aid in the Colchian echelons?
But before he could settle his burning disgruntlement any further onto the man's plate, the door was burst open and fighters charged into the room in an organisation that immediately had Dionysios standing straighter and his attitude calming. No renegade fighters behaved like that. These were trained professionals - men of militia blood. Only those who had intention and plan would carry themselves in such a manner and if their disgruntlement was with the Dikastirio, then it was with the ruling House.
As far as the head of Thanasi was concerned, any desire to spill Kotas blood was hardly his concern. Provided they left just one alive... His hand tightened on Dion's shoulder. He could care less if some nobody wanted to try and prove himself by removing his own obstacles to the throne...
As the crashing upon the door became louder as the splits in the wood became stronger, Dionysios kept a hand upon his grandson's shoulder and encouraged him back another step, aiding his daughter Evras in pushing him behind her body.
Whilst he would never be so imbecilic as to put the words into some flowery sentiment, he held care for his daughter and wished she would find herself a safe place to hide. But if she insisted on defending her first born, he also could not argue with that. He would take further protection for the heir of the family and for the kingdom from anyone, regardless.
His son Mihail, on the other hand. As a young man he should have been up in the front lines with the other soldiers - like his brother Dysius - and seeking glory for the Thanasi name in victory against the aggressors that were ready to charge through the door. Instead, he hovered with the women and child.
He held a bow and arrow, determined to offer the image of defense, but no courageous fighter used a distance weapon. The king had been poisoned less than three minutes ago and he still stood closer to the enemy than his youngest son, with blade in hand.
In a moment of fury at his own child's wretchedness, Dionysios reached out quickly and snatched at the curling piece of silver woven into his son's hair. Wrapped around his head, it yanked Mihail's skull to one side and, once, free sported several strands of long black hair. Whilst he couldn't take a cloth to the boy's face and make him look less like a painted whore, it was the best he could do in moment they had before the storm.
"You can at least die looking like a man." He grunted, dropping the circlet to the floor with a high pitched clatter - lost in a booming smash against the gates - before he turned to glare at the young and stupidly handsome blonde that had come to stand in their circle.
What the hell was the King of Taengea going to do? He thought uncharitably. The man couldn't look after his own kingdom and keep his own House in order. What made him feel he had the right to try and aid in the Colchian echelons?
But before he could settle his burning disgruntlement any further onto the man's plate, the door was burst open and fighters charged into the room in an organisation that immediately had Dionysios standing straighter and his attitude calming. No renegade fighters behaved like that. These were trained professionals - men of militia blood. Only those who had intention and plan would carry themselves in such a manner and if their disgruntlement was with the Dikastirio, then it was with the ruling House.
As far as the head of Thanasi was concerned, any desire to spill Kotas blood was hardly his concern. Provided they left just one alive... His hand tightened on Dion's shoulder. He could care less if some nobody wanted to try and prove himself by removing his own obstacles to the throne...
Despite the dramatic results of his most recent choices; results that had been set into action over the last few weeks, back home in Midas, Tython's world had been surprisingly peaceful and - at risk of tempting the Fates for more egregious trials of strength and courage - a little boring...
It had taken him an additional week to reach his homelands since leaving the northern settlements and no news of won skirmishes and violent victories could keep him warm enough to enjoy such a delay in the approaching autumn winds of the Northern Straite. The breezes had fed in from the north and brought a bitterness that heralded the future seasons of cold and wet. Whilst lucky to have not yet suffered the soon to arrive hurricane season of the fall, it had rendered his sailing uneventful in the extreme.
Despite rain lashing at bow and deck of his vessel, and the air cutting like knives through his clothes and armour every minute that he risked being above board, he had been denied the triumph of a difficult voyage, for the sea remained mostly calm. Instead, he was permitted only miserable weather and a shivering cold he kept hidden from his crew and most loyal guards.
Having cause for neither victory over Poseidon's domain nor the favour of Helios, Tython had been glad to reach the shores of his home city and find a place once more within the privileged and just; a position in which he could feel both at home and in control; powered by his own birth right and sense of native security. A valued sailor he may not have been judged. But being a king, no-one could ever take from him.
Upon this, however, Tython was quick to realise, he had been wrong. Whilst he and his men were deliberately garbed in simple clothing so as to attract limited attention, it only took one set of eyes - a pretty pair that belonged to a woman who might have been the niece of a wealthy merchant, and therefore able to recognise the visage of the supposed late king - to spark the whispers and gossip that the bedraggled and windswept sailor to have just made port, was in fact the sovereign of the nation.
Tython could not blame his people for their surprise. It had been over half a year since he had left his home to secure another strip of land to the north; slowly encroaching upon the tribelands and expanding Colchis further towards vast areas of flat arable farmlands. And the fact that the usual ceremony and circumstance that attended his returns to his native soil - often decked in colour and roaring with fanfare - were missing.
Tython was hardly a pompous sort and abhorred pretentiousness if and wherever he found it. But he could not deny the tactical significance to ensuring his people were always kept aware of his power and rank. Even if that was communicated only through the call of a trumpet, whenever his vessel came into harbour.
This time, however, it had all been far more subtle. With no colours hanging from the flag post or emblazed across the sail; with none of his men offering sigils or markers to depict them as his own, royal guardsmen... He could hardly blame the Colchian people for not immediately recognising their monarch.
Yet, the recognition of him sparked more rumour than it did respect and instead of bowing or offering a communal show of penitence to their king, the people closest to him appeared to simply stare with a level of bright confusion. One even reached out to attempt to touch him.
Luckily the small shadow of a wave upon the man's digits saved him from losing a hand by the blade of one of his guards, Namaros.
Turning to the guardsman now, Tython simply nodded, without need for expressing his instructions out loud. The man disappeared into the crowd - impressive for a soldier approaching six foot - and would be back in a few moments with the hinted rumours and the wagging tongues of the daily grind.
It was going to become necessary to keep his ear to the ground if his son was intent on leaving their Master Informer in random locations around the Grecian kingdoms - unable to ensure that he was accessible again for... oh.... his occupation, perhaps?
With an amused wry in his features and a quick, joyfulness to his step that could only be present when the strong and salt drenched rocks of the Colchians isles were beneath the soles of his boots, Tython headed his small band of fighters from the docks to the Lower Levels and from the Lowers to the Uppers.
Whilst he was a man who could not always claim to live upon his lands more often than he was away from them, there was something innate in Tython that had him feel his country as more native to him than any conquered territory or ship's deck. It was as if his very energy - his soul.... that which came to him and fuelled him in everything he did, rose up from the stone walkways beneath his feet and seeped into his very being. It gave him life. Gave him purpose.
Colchis was his home and his land and his duty. It was why his heart beat.
The further up the flights of stairs, the more the people of the capitol stopped, stared and then began to whisper behind slanted hands. Yet it was as his brow was furrowing and his gaze was focusing on each element of confusion that he could spot, that Namaros returned to his side. With a few simple words in the ear of the king, it quickly became apparent what had occurred in the last two weeks.
Immediately, he lifted his helmet from where it had been fastened at his waist and secured it on his head. There was no sense in causing further disturbance among the people until he had spoken with his family.
No longer surprised that the people of his city were staring at his presence rather than bending to it, it took Tython little time within Midas to assess the full situation of what had occurred in Nethisa and how his family and the rest of the nobility were now congregated in the Dikastirio.
Tempted to simply allocate himself his old seat in the living quarters of his family home and wait for the Kotas to return to the surprise of their rebirthed patriarch, Tython dismissed the notion in favour for arriving first and foremost in the meeting chamber of the upper circles of the Colchian society.
Whilst not a man who enjoyed making a scene or splash with his presence, Tython could not claim to be a man of patience and dismissal when it came to issues that needed solving. There was a misunderstanding involving the leader of his kingdom, and his conscious would not permit him to sit back and wait for others to realise the error; however, amusing it might have been in the privacy of his own home.
With a decisiveness that had always been a part of his father's mentality, his own, and now several of his children's... Tython turned the small procession of men towards the Dikastirio.
Ignoring the looks of those he passed and no longer concerned for the looks on people's faces, Tython was surprised to find the Dikastirio chambers gated and bolted.
Adrenaline sparked within his bloodstream as he immediately ordered the doors to be opened by his men.
For, if the Dikastirio was locked - an act that never occurred outside the risk of danger to those within - and there were no enemies to speak of outside its doors, then the threat was within.
"Break it down." Tython ordered with a force of voice that gave the illusion of a yell, yet he never called higher than his usual volume. By men whom he had known, trained and trusted for decades, the order was carried out with immediate effect and zero query or question.
Ordered to attack the chamber of peaceful debate within Colchis, it was a testament to the soldiers' faith and loyalty in their monarch, that there was no hesitation. They organised themselves immediately into a rowed attack formation and the front-line taking aim with their shoulders. Charging forwards, they heaved themselves into the wood. Crushing against what Tython knew to be a solid oaken bar on the opposing side.
Whether there were enemies within the chamber who had locked down the council hall, or the doors had been barred to stop enemies from escaping, it did not matter. The latter would be solved by his own men forming a new barrier and the former might require the need for more loyal soldiers.
A door could be replaced. The men and women of the nobility and royal family - his wife and children... They could not.
Despite the thickness of the wood, the heaviness of the doors, and the exhausted state of his men whom had been kept on limited sea rations and frozen conditions on the waters of the north for two weeks, the door eventually caved with an almighty crash and sent the defiant military of the crown streaming into the room.
After several harried steps, they found their footing, slowed their momentum and came to a dramatic halt, allowing Tython to follow them inside.
It took only a few moments in the hushed and surprised silence of his entry for the king of Colchis to assess the situation and come to conclusion that had his mood going from worried, to tense, to wrathful.
Beneath the helmet he still wore, his eyes darkened to coal-burnt embers when he assessed the concoctions across the floor, the worry on the faces of those in the room...
The fear in his wife's eyes.
The courtiers of the room were either hidden or cultivating around the entrance he and his men had forced his way through, or the head table, around which were the destroyed remains of a dish sat before the throne and a denser cluster of his immediate family and for reasons unknown two young women - Thea of Thanasi and a blonde he'd never met.
Whilst his third son was missing and his daughter hovered beside her young nephew, Tython breathed deep with a sense of pride as his remaining offspring stood as three towering warriors - one beside his mother and the other two shoulder to shoulder, facing oncoming danger.
Despite his expecting it, the sight of his eldest child wearing his crown caused an ambivalent sense of disquiet and bittersweet satisfaction, but it was quickly smothered as the knowledge of poison was given a home. He had witnessed the aftermath upon the table and floor, yet the apparent new king's face and stature revealed the victim.
Vangelis stood, sweaty and green, yet held his position as any warlord would. His son and first born. His heir and protege... Someone had tried to kill him.
Every muscle in Tython's body turned to stone, his jaw clamped shut in rage and his blood heat and pounded in his temples. It was the same reaction he had had upon news that Zanon had been perhaps fatally injured, several years ago. The same anger that had sparked when Athanasia had fallen from her horse when young. It didn’t matter if there was someone to blame or if the accused still lived. The reaction was the same; a burning rage of paternal devotion that he had never been able to quiet. The palm of his hand itched to feel the hilt of his blade, his fingers the damp and nauseating sensation of running blood. For someone would die for this.
Years of practice and witnessing the crazed temperament of the soldiers that turned to bloodlust in times of grief, had Tython cooling his temper. His breathing stilled, his eyes finding that of his wife and swallowing back the sense of distress she gave in her expression and, instead, seeking the calm Yanni had given him upon each and every return he made to his home.
When he was sure he could get through his next words without biting off his own tongue in fury, the king reached up to remove his helmet, his eyes now able to flash with a mirth that burnt bright atop his ire and formed his greeting.
"Watch what you eat, son." His words were clipped but unemotional. "Colchis can't lose two kings in so many weeks. It's bad for morale."
Determining, with a quick glance around the room that the poisoning was the only threat within the walls of the Dikastirio and that the doors had in fact been sealed to prevent the escape of a traitor, Tython glanced over his shoulder and gave a shrug of his head towards the now wide and open doorway. Within seconds, his men had formed a physical barrier that would ensure that guests would not be permitted to leave until their identity was confirmed and listed ready for interview and interrogation at a later date.
His eyes swung back to his son. Despite shock clearly draining whatever energy he had summoned after such an attempt on his life, the man was not dying. At least not today. Which meant that time could be taken to ensure a conviction of whatever coward was foolish enough to attempt treason in such a manner. Tython noted as Vangelis braced himself upon the table but did not reach out to offer comfort or strength. His words too had read as unafraid for his health. For while Vangelis was not yet King as so many had suspected, he would be someday. And it would not do to offer the impression that he needed his father to remain on his feet; for whatever reason.
Instead, Tython found the gaze of his wife as she slowly got to her feet from where she had been crouching behind the royal table, her youngest son a physical shield between her and the advancing danger. His features softened a little at her image and he realised once again - as he always seemed to be surprised upon each homecoming - how much he had missed her in his absence.
Before he could say anything further however, a wild assault of womanly grace and thick, dark hair came barrelling into him and Tython was forced to reach out his arms and support the impact of his youngest child and only daughter.
He found that the scent of her hair - primrose and orchid; as sweet and wild as she - went even further to stilling the rage burning in his lower belly. The warm softness of his daughter's frame stilled his heart and soothed his sole as his arms curled around her waist and held her close, the corner of his mouth turning upwards in spoiled affection. His lips found the crown of her head, as he breathed in her scent and pressed a kiss to her hair.
Not a man of many sentimental words, Tython gave his affection through the strength of his chest and arms and the way in which he cradled her safe...
It was good to be home.
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Despite the dramatic results of his most recent choices; results that had been set into action over the last few weeks, back home in Midas, Tython's world had been surprisingly peaceful and - at risk of tempting the Fates for more egregious trials of strength and courage - a little boring...
It had taken him an additional week to reach his homelands since leaving the northern settlements and no news of won skirmishes and violent victories could keep him warm enough to enjoy such a delay in the approaching autumn winds of the Northern Straite. The breezes had fed in from the north and brought a bitterness that heralded the future seasons of cold and wet. Whilst lucky to have not yet suffered the soon to arrive hurricane season of the fall, it had rendered his sailing uneventful in the extreme.
Despite rain lashing at bow and deck of his vessel, and the air cutting like knives through his clothes and armour every minute that he risked being above board, he had been denied the triumph of a difficult voyage, for the sea remained mostly calm. Instead, he was permitted only miserable weather and a shivering cold he kept hidden from his crew and most loyal guards.
Having cause for neither victory over Poseidon's domain nor the favour of Helios, Tython had been glad to reach the shores of his home city and find a place once more within the privileged and just; a position in which he could feel both at home and in control; powered by his own birth right and sense of native security. A valued sailor he may not have been judged. But being a king, no-one could ever take from him.
Upon this, however, Tython was quick to realise, he had been wrong. Whilst he and his men were deliberately garbed in simple clothing so as to attract limited attention, it only took one set of eyes - a pretty pair that belonged to a woman who might have been the niece of a wealthy merchant, and therefore able to recognise the visage of the supposed late king - to spark the whispers and gossip that the bedraggled and windswept sailor to have just made port, was in fact the sovereign of the nation.
Tython could not blame his people for their surprise. It had been over half a year since he had left his home to secure another strip of land to the north; slowly encroaching upon the tribelands and expanding Colchis further towards vast areas of flat arable farmlands. And the fact that the usual ceremony and circumstance that attended his returns to his native soil - often decked in colour and roaring with fanfare - were missing.
Tython was hardly a pompous sort and abhorred pretentiousness if and wherever he found it. But he could not deny the tactical significance to ensuring his people were always kept aware of his power and rank. Even if that was communicated only through the call of a trumpet, whenever his vessel came into harbour.
This time, however, it had all been far more subtle. With no colours hanging from the flag post or emblazed across the sail; with none of his men offering sigils or markers to depict them as his own, royal guardsmen... He could hardly blame the Colchian people for not immediately recognising their monarch.
Yet, the recognition of him sparked more rumour than it did respect and instead of bowing or offering a communal show of penitence to their king, the people closest to him appeared to simply stare with a level of bright confusion. One even reached out to attempt to touch him.
Luckily the small shadow of a wave upon the man's digits saved him from losing a hand by the blade of one of his guards, Namaros.
Turning to the guardsman now, Tython simply nodded, without need for expressing his instructions out loud. The man disappeared into the crowd - impressive for a soldier approaching six foot - and would be back in a few moments with the hinted rumours and the wagging tongues of the daily grind.
It was going to become necessary to keep his ear to the ground if his son was intent on leaving their Master Informer in random locations around the Grecian kingdoms - unable to ensure that he was accessible again for... oh.... his occupation, perhaps?
With an amused wry in his features and a quick, joyfulness to his step that could only be present when the strong and salt drenched rocks of the Colchians isles were beneath the soles of his boots, Tython headed his small band of fighters from the docks to the Lower Levels and from the Lowers to the Uppers.
Whilst he was a man who could not always claim to live upon his lands more often than he was away from them, there was something innate in Tython that had him feel his country as more native to him than any conquered territory or ship's deck. It was as if his very energy - his soul.... that which came to him and fuelled him in everything he did, rose up from the stone walkways beneath his feet and seeped into his very being. It gave him life. Gave him purpose.
Colchis was his home and his land and his duty. It was why his heart beat.
The further up the flights of stairs, the more the people of the capitol stopped, stared and then began to whisper behind slanted hands. Yet it was as his brow was furrowing and his gaze was focusing on each element of confusion that he could spot, that Namaros returned to his side. With a few simple words in the ear of the king, it quickly became apparent what had occurred in the last two weeks.
Immediately, he lifted his helmet from where it had been fastened at his waist and secured it on his head. There was no sense in causing further disturbance among the people until he had spoken with his family.
No longer surprised that the people of his city were staring at his presence rather than bending to it, it took Tython little time within Midas to assess the full situation of what had occurred in Nethisa and how his family and the rest of the nobility were now congregated in the Dikastirio.
Tempted to simply allocate himself his old seat in the living quarters of his family home and wait for the Kotas to return to the surprise of their rebirthed patriarch, Tython dismissed the notion in favour for arriving first and foremost in the meeting chamber of the upper circles of the Colchian society.
Whilst not a man who enjoyed making a scene or splash with his presence, Tython could not claim to be a man of patience and dismissal when it came to issues that needed solving. There was a misunderstanding involving the leader of his kingdom, and his conscious would not permit him to sit back and wait for others to realise the error; however, amusing it might have been in the privacy of his own home.
With a decisiveness that had always been a part of his father's mentality, his own, and now several of his children's... Tython turned the small procession of men towards the Dikastirio.
Ignoring the looks of those he passed and no longer concerned for the looks on people's faces, Tython was surprised to find the Dikastirio chambers gated and bolted.
Adrenaline sparked within his bloodstream as he immediately ordered the doors to be opened by his men.
For, if the Dikastirio was locked - an act that never occurred outside the risk of danger to those within - and there were no enemies to speak of outside its doors, then the threat was within.
"Break it down." Tython ordered with a force of voice that gave the illusion of a yell, yet he never called higher than his usual volume. By men whom he had known, trained and trusted for decades, the order was carried out with immediate effect and zero query or question.
Ordered to attack the chamber of peaceful debate within Colchis, it was a testament to the soldiers' faith and loyalty in their monarch, that there was no hesitation. They organised themselves immediately into a rowed attack formation and the front-line taking aim with their shoulders. Charging forwards, they heaved themselves into the wood. Crushing against what Tython knew to be a solid oaken bar on the opposing side.
Whether there were enemies within the chamber who had locked down the council hall, or the doors had been barred to stop enemies from escaping, it did not matter. The latter would be solved by his own men forming a new barrier and the former might require the need for more loyal soldiers.
A door could be replaced. The men and women of the nobility and royal family - his wife and children... They could not.
Despite the thickness of the wood, the heaviness of the doors, and the exhausted state of his men whom had been kept on limited sea rations and frozen conditions on the waters of the north for two weeks, the door eventually caved with an almighty crash and sent the defiant military of the crown streaming into the room.
After several harried steps, they found their footing, slowed their momentum and came to a dramatic halt, allowing Tython to follow them inside.
It took only a few moments in the hushed and surprised silence of his entry for the king of Colchis to assess the situation and come to conclusion that had his mood going from worried, to tense, to wrathful.
Beneath the helmet he still wore, his eyes darkened to coal-burnt embers when he assessed the concoctions across the floor, the worry on the faces of those in the room...
The fear in his wife's eyes.
The courtiers of the room were either hidden or cultivating around the entrance he and his men had forced his way through, or the head table, around which were the destroyed remains of a dish sat before the throne and a denser cluster of his immediate family and for reasons unknown two young women - Thea of Thanasi and a blonde he'd never met.
Whilst his third son was missing and his daughter hovered beside her young nephew, Tython breathed deep with a sense of pride as his remaining offspring stood as three towering warriors - one beside his mother and the other two shoulder to shoulder, facing oncoming danger.
Despite his expecting it, the sight of his eldest child wearing his crown caused an ambivalent sense of disquiet and bittersweet satisfaction, but it was quickly smothered as the knowledge of poison was given a home. He had witnessed the aftermath upon the table and floor, yet the apparent new king's face and stature revealed the victim.
Vangelis stood, sweaty and green, yet held his position as any warlord would. His son and first born. His heir and protege... Someone had tried to kill him.
Every muscle in Tython's body turned to stone, his jaw clamped shut in rage and his blood heat and pounded in his temples. It was the same reaction he had had upon news that Zanon had been perhaps fatally injured, several years ago. The same anger that had sparked when Athanasia had fallen from her horse when young. It didn’t matter if there was someone to blame or if the accused still lived. The reaction was the same; a burning rage of paternal devotion that he had never been able to quiet. The palm of his hand itched to feel the hilt of his blade, his fingers the damp and nauseating sensation of running blood. For someone would die for this.
Years of practice and witnessing the crazed temperament of the soldiers that turned to bloodlust in times of grief, had Tython cooling his temper. His breathing stilled, his eyes finding that of his wife and swallowing back the sense of distress she gave in her expression and, instead, seeking the calm Yanni had given him upon each and every return he made to his home.
When he was sure he could get through his next words without biting off his own tongue in fury, the king reached up to remove his helmet, his eyes now able to flash with a mirth that burnt bright atop his ire and formed his greeting.
"Watch what you eat, son." His words were clipped but unemotional. "Colchis can't lose two kings in so many weeks. It's bad for morale."
Determining, with a quick glance around the room that the poisoning was the only threat within the walls of the Dikastirio and that the doors had in fact been sealed to prevent the escape of a traitor, Tython glanced over his shoulder and gave a shrug of his head towards the now wide and open doorway. Within seconds, his men had formed a physical barrier that would ensure that guests would not be permitted to leave until their identity was confirmed and listed ready for interview and interrogation at a later date.
His eyes swung back to his son. Despite shock clearly draining whatever energy he had summoned after such an attempt on his life, the man was not dying. At least not today. Which meant that time could be taken to ensure a conviction of whatever coward was foolish enough to attempt treason in such a manner. Tython noted as Vangelis braced himself upon the table but did not reach out to offer comfort or strength. His words too had read as unafraid for his health. For while Vangelis was not yet King as so many had suspected, he would be someday. And it would not do to offer the impression that he needed his father to remain on his feet; for whatever reason.
Instead, Tython found the gaze of his wife as she slowly got to her feet from where she had been crouching behind the royal table, her youngest son a physical shield between her and the advancing danger. His features softened a little at her image and he realised once again - as he always seemed to be surprised upon each homecoming - how much he had missed her in his absence.
Before he could say anything further however, a wild assault of womanly grace and thick, dark hair came barrelling into him and Tython was forced to reach out his arms and support the impact of his youngest child and only daughter.
He found that the scent of her hair - primrose and orchid; as sweet and wild as she - went even further to stilling the rage burning in his lower belly. The warm softness of his daughter's frame stilled his heart and soothed his sole as his arms curled around her waist and held her close, the corner of his mouth turning upwards in spoiled affection. His lips found the crown of her head, as he breathed in her scent and pressed a kiss to her hair.
Not a man of many sentimental words, Tython gave his affection through the strength of his chest and arms and the way in which he cradled her safe...
It was good to be home.
Despite the dramatic results of his most recent choices; results that had been set into action over the last few weeks, back home in Midas, Tython's world had been surprisingly peaceful and - at risk of tempting the Fates for more egregious trials of strength and courage - a little boring...
It had taken him an additional week to reach his homelands since leaving the northern settlements and no news of won skirmishes and violent victories could keep him warm enough to enjoy such a delay in the approaching autumn winds of the Northern Straite. The breezes had fed in from the north and brought a bitterness that heralded the future seasons of cold and wet. Whilst lucky to have not yet suffered the soon to arrive hurricane season of the fall, it had rendered his sailing uneventful in the extreme.
Despite rain lashing at bow and deck of his vessel, and the air cutting like knives through his clothes and armour every minute that he risked being above board, he had been denied the triumph of a difficult voyage, for the sea remained mostly calm. Instead, he was permitted only miserable weather and a shivering cold he kept hidden from his crew and most loyal guards.
Having cause for neither victory over Poseidon's domain nor the favour of Helios, Tython had been glad to reach the shores of his home city and find a place once more within the privileged and just; a position in which he could feel both at home and in control; powered by his own birth right and sense of native security. A valued sailor he may not have been judged. But being a king, no-one could ever take from him.
Upon this, however, Tython was quick to realise, he had been wrong. Whilst he and his men were deliberately garbed in simple clothing so as to attract limited attention, it only took one set of eyes - a pretty pair that belonged to a woman who might have been the niece of a wealthy merchant, and therefore able to recognise the visage of the supposed late king - to spark the whispers and gossip that the bedraggled and windswept sailor to have just made port, was in fact the sovereign of the nation.
Tython could not blame his people for their surprise. It had been over half a year since he had left his home to secure another strip of land to the north; slowly encroaching upon the tribelands and expanding Colchis further towards vast areas of flat arable farmlands. And the fact that the usual ceremony and circumstance that attended his returns to his native soil - often decked in colour and roaring with fanfare - were missing.
Tython was hardly a pompous sort and abhorred pretentiousness if and wherever he found it. But he could not deny the tactical significance to ensuring his people were always kept aware of his power and rank. Even if that was communicated only through the call of a trumpet, whenever his vessel came into harbour.
This time, however, it had all been far more subtle. With no colours hanging from the flag post or emblazed across the sail; with none of his men offering sigils or markers to depict them as his own, royal guardsmen... He could hardly blame the Colchian people for not immediately recognising their monarch.
Yet, the recognition of him sparked more rumour than it did respect and instead of bowing or offering a communal show of penitence to their king, the people closest to him appeared to simply stare with a level of bright confusion. One even reached out to attempt to touch him.
Luckily the small shadow of a wave upon the man's digits saved him from losing a hand by the blade of one of his guards, Namaros.
Turning to the guardsman now, Tython simply nodded, without need for expressing his instructions out loud. The man disappeared into the crowd - impressive for a soldier approaching six foot - and would be back in a few moments with the hinted rumours and the wagging tongues of the daily grind.
It was going to become necessary to keep his ear to the ground if his son was intent on leaving their Master Informer in random locations around the Grecian kingdoms - unable to ensure that he was accessible again for... oh.... his occupation, perhaps?
With an amused wry in his features and a quick, joyfulness to his step that could only be present when the strong and salt drenched rocks of the Colchians isles were beneath the soles of his boots, Tython headed his small band of fighters from the docks to the Lower Levels and from the Lowers to the Uppers.
Whilst he was a man who could not always claim to live upon his lands more often than he was away from them, there was something innate in Tython that had him feel his country as more native to him than any conquered territory or ship's deck. It was as if his very energy - his soul.... that which came to him and fuelled him in everything he did, rose up from the stone walkways beneath his feet and seeped into his very being. It gave him life. Gave him purpose.
Colchis was his home and his land and his duty. It was why his heart beat.
The further up the flights of stairs, the more the people of the capitol stopped, stared and then began to whisper behind slanted hands. Yet it was as his brow was furrowing and his gaze was focusing on each element of confusion that he could spot, that Namaros returned to his side. With a few simple words in the ear of the king, it quickly became apparent what had occurred in the last two weeks.
Immediately, he lifted his helmet from where it had been fastened at his waist and secured it on his head. There was no sense in causing further disturbance among the people until he had spoken with his family.
No longer surprised that the people of his city were staring at his presence rather than bending to it, it took Tython little time within Midas to assess the full situation of what had occurred in Nethisa and how his family and the rest of the nobility were now congregated in the Dikastirio.
Tempted to simply allocate himself his old seat in the living quarters of his family home and wait for the Kotas to return to the surprise of their rebirthed patriarch, Tython dismissed the notion in favour for arriving first and foremost in the meeting chamber of the upper circles of the Colchian society.
Whilst not a man who enjoyed making a scene or splash with his presence, Tython could not claim to be a man of patience and dismissal when it came to issues that needed solving. There was a misunderstanding involving the leader of his kingdom, and his conscious would not permit him to sit back and wait for others to realise the error; however, amusing it might have been in the privacy of his own home.
With a decisiveness that had always been a part of his father's mentality, his own, and now several of his children's... Tython turned the small procession of men towards the Dikastirio.
Ignoring the looks of those he passed and no longer concerned for the looks on people's faces, Tython was surprised to find the Dikastirio chambers gated and bolted.
Adrenaline sparked within his bloodstream as he immediately ordered the doors to be opened by his men.
For, if the Dikastirio was locked - an act that never occurred outside the risk of danger to those within - and there were no enemies to speak of outside its doors, then the threat was within.
"Break it down." Tython ordered with a force of voice that gave the illusion of a yell, yet he never called higher than his usual volume. By men whom he had known, trained and trusted for decades, the order was carried out with immediate effect and zero query or question.
Ordered to attack the chamber of peaceful debate within Colchis, it was a testament to the soldiers' faith and loyalty in their monarch, that there was no hesitation. They organised themselves immediately into a rowed attack formation and the front-line taking aim with their shoulders. Charging forwards, they heaved themselves into the wood. Crushing against what Tython knew to be a solid oaken bar on the opposing side.
Whether there were enemies within the chamber who had locked down the council hall, or the doors had been barred to stop enemies from escaping, it did not matter. The latter would be solved by his own men forming a new barrier and the former might require the need for more loyal soldiers.
A door could be replaced. The men and women of the nobility and royal family - his wife and children... They could not.
Despite the thickness of the wood, the heaviness of the doors, and the exhausted state of his men whom had been kept on limited sea rations and frozen conditions on the waters of the north for two weeks, the door eventually caved with an almighty crash and sent the defiant military of the crown streaming into the room.
After several harried steps, they found their footing, slowed their momentum and came to a dramatic halt, allowing Tython to follow them inside.
It took only a few moments in the hushed and surprised silence of his entry for the king of Colchis to assess the situation and come to conclusion that had his mood going from worried, to tense, to wrathful.
Beneath the helmet he still wore, his eyes darkened to coal-burnt embers when he assessed the concoctions across the floor, the worry on the faces of those in the room...
The fear in his wife's eyes.
The courtiers of the room were either hidden or cultivating around the entrance he and his men had forced his way through, or the head table, around which were the destroyed remains of a dish sat before the throne and a denser cluster of his immediate family and for reasons unknown two young women - Thea of Thanasi and a blonde he'd never met.
Whilst his third son was missing and his daughter hovered beside her young nephew, Tython breathed deep with a sense of pride as his remaining offspring stood as three towering warriors - one beside his mother and the other two shoulder to shoulder, facing oncoming danger.
Despite his expecting it, the sight of his eldest child wearing his crown caused an ambivalent sense of disquiet and bittersweet satisfaction, but it was quickly smothered as the knowledge of poison was given a home. He had witnessed the aftermath upon the table and floor, yet the apparent new king's face and stature revealed the victim.
Vangelis stood, sweaty and green, yet held his position as any warlord would. His son and first born. His heir and protege... Someone had tried to kill him.
Every muscle in Tython's body turned to stone, his jaw clamped shut in rage and his blood heat and pounded in his temples. It was the same reaction he had had upon news that Zanon had been perhaps fatally injured, several years ago. The same anger that had sparked when Athanasia had fallen from her horse when young. It didn’t matter if there was someone to blame or if the accused still lived. The reaction was the same; a burning rage of paternal devotion that he had never been able to quiet. The palm of his hand itched to feel the hilt of his blade, his fingers the damp and nauseating sensation of running blood. For someone would die for this.
Years of practice and witnessing the crazed temperament of the soldiers that turned to bloodlust in times of grief, had Tython cooling his temper. His breathing stilled, his eyes finding that of his wife and swallowing back the sense of distress she gave in her expression and, instead, seeking the calm Yanni had given him upon each and every return he made to his home.
When he was sure he could get through his next words without biting off his own tongue in fury, the king reached up to remove his helmet, his eyes now able to flash with a mirth that burnt bright atop his ire and formed his greeting.
"Watch what you eat, son." His words were clipped but unemotional. "Colchis can't lose two kings in so many weeks. It's bad for morale."
Determining, with a quick glance around the room that the poisoning was the only threat within the walls of the Dikastirio and that the doors had in fact been sealed to prevent the escape of a traitor, Tython glanced over his shoulder and gave a shrug of his head towards the now wide and open doorway. Within seconds, his men had formed a physical barrier that would ensure that guests would not be permitted to leave until their identity was confirmed and listed ready for interview and interrogation at a later date.
His eyes swung back to his son. Despite shock clearly draining whatever energy he had summoned after such an attempt on his life, the man was not dying. At least not today. Which meant that time could be taken to ensure a conviction of whatever coward was foolish enough to attempt treason in such a manner. Tython noted as Vangelis braced himself upon the table but did not reach out to offer comfort or strength. His words too had read as unafraid for his health. For while Vangelis was not yet King as so many had suspected, he would be someday. And it would not do to offer the impression that he needed his father to remain on his feet; for whatever reason.
Instead, Tython found the gaze of his wife as she slowly got to her feet from where she had been crouching behind the royal table, her youngest son a physical shield between her and the advancing danger. His features softened a little at her image and he realised once again - as he always seemed to be surprised upon each homecoming - how much he had missed her in his absence.
Before he could say anything further however, a wild assault of womanly grace and thick, dark hair came barrelling into him and Tython was forced to reach out his arms and support the impact of his youngest child and only daughter.
He found that the scent of her hair - primrose and orchid; as sweet and wild as she - went even further to stilling the rage burning in his lower belly. The warm softness of his daughter's frame stilled his heart and soothed his sole as his arms curled around her waist and held her close, the corner of his mouth turning upwards in spoiled affection. His lips found the crown of her head, as he breathed in her scent and pressed a kiss to her hair.
Not a man of many sentimental words, Tython gave his affection through the strength of his chest and arms and the way in which he cradled her safe...
It was good to be home.
Over the course of the intruder's hellos and dismal sentimentality, Dionysios was gradually losing his restraint.
It was as if a torch that had burned so assuredly just a few moments prior, had started to burn low in his head. As if between one blink and the next he realised the significance of what lay before him to witness and process. He felt an energy burn in his gut as he watched the leader of the invaders look around, speak with the face and voice of the king and welcome his daughter into his arms.
And all he could taste in his mouth was deceit and lies. All he could chew upon was the certainty that this was all wrong.
All his life he had wished for one single thing. For the name of Thanasi and the blood of his own lost family to rule upon the throne of Colchis. A child raised with nothing to call his own but a name and bloodline that held no significance - not through a parent nor a legacy spoken in anything besides facts and figures of the House's history - his sole desire in life had been to give that name a real and tangible pride. To create something of power and bring the House of Thanasi to a state of strength and glory once more. To make something of the absolute nothing he had been born to; a hollow name and an empty promise, turned into a shining light.
Now, the Thanasi stood on the precipice of power. Married into the royal line, their blood coursing through the veins of the heir. Their very name engendering whispers of witchcraft, power and murder. Fear was just as effective as respect and far easier to manipulate. The Thanasi were the powerhouse of the Kirakles Isles.
And yet they still did not have the crown.
Why? For the Kotas was a blight of miraculous success that turned his stomach. The birth of a son had placed Tython upon the throne. Yet, he had been a warrior - a soldier. One destined to die on the battlefield. Such a victory would surely be short lived?
Then he had done nothing but survive.
Not only had he failed to suffer at the hands of a blade or fall in some glorious homage to the legacy of his family, but he had achieved victories both abroad and at home. For four decades he had fought in battles set with the potential to kill him and never died by the blade. And at home with his pretty wife and frustratingly glorious Queen, he had borne his own legacy - one far richer than could he held to his bloodline.
Four sons. Four! All of more dignity, power and talent than his two could ever muster together nor individually. Nethis was the only one of his children with any real sense or ambition in her head and what good did that do in the body of a woman?
No. The warriors. The powerhouses. The natural born leaders. They were blessed upon the family of the Kotas. Never that of Thanasi.
Yet there was hope. All four of the king's retched sons had gone to war. There would be deaths, there would be tragedy. If luck would shine just once upon the Thanasi name - if the Fates chose to be kind just once - then all four would fall in some manner, leaving a female heir. A young woman whom Mihail or Dysius could take as a wife. He would just have to find something that could remove Eliades from their state of royalty in some way - a rumour of Ria's illegitimacy would be enough - and his own children's claims would be solidified and he would hold the throne in his hands.
Yet none of them fell. Not one.
Like their father, the Kotas boys screamed the irrational miracle of surviving decades at war, building reputations of strength and honour and glory; everything he wished for his own useless offspring who spent their time counting coins and bedding wayward strays.
The Gods were laughing at him.
Then, as the dark clad men and their leader sauntered into the Dikastirio, revealing the face of their leader, Dionysios saw the opportunity for what it was. Saw, that at last the Gods had heard his prayers. That Hades - the immortal and blessed deity whom he had always turned to in times of need - had heard him and given just one blessing upon his own name.
Whilst Ares and Hephaestus abandoned the Thanasi and gave joyful success upon Tython and his obnoxious brood... now was the time that Hades returned Dionysios' patient loyalty with one single master stroke. A way in which he could save himself, the kingdom and all reputation he might have lost in recent years.
For, Dionysios was no fool.
Old he might be, retreated to his chambers he may have done. But Dionysios needed not his own eyes and ears to know the way of the world and had secured much by way of knowledge both at home and across the seas.
He knew of the Creed.
Darkly clad, nondescript fighters, who moved like a well organised machine. Men who hated that of the richer upper classes... Who enjoyed public spectacle...
He knew that there were those in the world that called the Creed, 'the Drowned'. The souls who had failed to cross the River Styx because they had not been buried with formal coins to pay the ferryman...
Such as a king who had drowned at sea without his funeral rites performed...
A man who had literally drowned in his mortal life...
A man whom Dionysios hated with every fibre of his being, who had sought to bring down for more than four decades. Whose body dozens had seen taken from a ship that was discovered in his own lands - in Thanasi lands - so that he would know the monarch to be dead.
The Gods were sending him a message.
Tython was no being of living flesh and blood. This king was a shadow. A creature sent to the mortal world by the God of Lost Souls to give Dionysios the perfect opportunity:
To kill the visage of the man he had always loathed and become the hero of Colchis for ridding them of a terrorist bent on reaping the same destruction on the Kirakles Isles, as they had on the lands to the south...
As his mind pieced together the oh so obvious answers to why the King had been dead and now alive, why he had broken into the chambers that were his own, why his men wore no formal colours, why his Gods had given him a dead king upon his lands despite him offering only loyalty in his worship (for surely it was not a punishment of fate, but a gift of knowledge?)... Dionysios' feet had taken him several very slow and unthreatening steps forward.
His hand rested upon the pummel of his cane; the silver serpent's head with fangs outstretched pressing into the gnarled skin of his palm. His fingers clenched around the head of the piece and within a moment he had detached it from its sheath.
A silver dagger, slight in width and only six inches in length - yet deadly enough to kill even a wraith of the underworld - glinted in his hand and in a whirl of motion he was charging forwards.
The stiffness in his muscles disintegrated, the age of his body melted away. Fuelled by an adrenaline of victory, gratitude and the sheer loyalty to his Gods, Dionysios ran the last few steps towards the supernatural impersonation of the king, drawing back his elbow to ensure a strong and heavy blow of the knife to the Creeder's gut.
With the traitor's weapon on his right hip, his supposed daughter plastered to his side, there was no means for the shadow walker to claim his defence - no time for him to push aside the princess and still reach for the hilt of his armament. Dionysios felt a shot of victory as he saw it in the imposter's face. Knew he had taken him by surprise and given him no form of defending himself. Knew that the Creeder could sense his own death in his inability to free his arms quickly enough to fight for his life.
Instead, the Ghost King could do nothing but turn his body in a single motion, his torso becoming a shield of flesh between the blade Dionysios stabbed forward and the female he pretended to hold so dear...
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Over the course of the intruder's hellos and dismal sentimentality, Dionysios was gradually losing his restraint.
It was as if a torch that had burned so assuredly just a few moments prior, had started to burn low in his head. As if between one blink and the next he realised the significance of what lay before him to witness and process. He felt an energy burn in his gut as he watched the leader of the invaders look around, speak with the face and voice of the king and welcome his daughter into his arms.
And all he could taste in his mouth was deceit and lies. All he could chew upon was the certainty that this was all wrong.
All his life he had wished for one single thing. For the name of Thanasi and the blood of his own lost family to rule upon the throne of Colchis. A child raised with nothing to call his own but a name and bloodline that held no significance - not through a parent nor a legacy spoken in anything besides facts and figures of the House's history - his sole desire in life had been to give that name a real and tangible pride. To create something of power and bring the House of Thanasi to a state of strength and glory once more. To make something of the absolute nothing he had been born to; a hollow name and an empty promise, turned into a shining light.
Now, the Thanasi stood on the precipice of power. Married into the royal line, their blood coursing through the veins of the heir. Their very name engendering whispers of witchcraft, power and murder. Fear was just as effective as respect and far easier to manipulate. The Thanasi were the powerhouse of the Kirakles Isles.
And yet they still did not have the crown.
Why? For the Kotas was a blight of miraculous success that turned his stomach. The birth of a son had placed Tython upon the throne. Yet, he had been a warrior - a soldier. One destined to die on the battlefield. Such a victory would surely be short lived?
Then he had done nothing but survive.
Not only had he failed to suffer at the hands of a blade or fall in some glorious homage to the legacy of his family, but he had achieved victories both abroad and at home. For four decades he had fought in battles set with the potential to kill him and never died by the blade. And at home with his pretty wife and frustratingly glorious Queen, he had borne his own legacy - one far richer than could he held to his bloodline.
Four sons. Four! All of more dignity, power and talent than his two could ever muster together nor individually. Nethis was the only one of his children with any real sense or ambition in her head and what good did that do in the body of a woman?
No. The warriors. The powerhouses. The natural born leaders. They were blessed upon the family of the Kotas. Never that of Thanasi.
Yet there was hope. All four of the king's retched sons had gone to war. There would be deaths, there would be tragedy. If luck would shine just once upon the Thanasi name - if the Fates chose to be kind just once - then all four would fall in some manner, leaving a female heir. A young woman whom Mihail or Dysius could take as a wife. He would just have to find something that could remove Eliades from their state of royalty in some way - a rumour of Ria's illegitimacy would be enough - and his own children's claims would be solidified and he would hold the throne in his hands.
Yet none of them fell. Not one.
Like their father, the Kotas boys screamed the irrational miracle of surviving decades at war, building reputations of strength and honour and glory; everything he wished for his own useless offspring who spent their time counting coins and bedding wayward strays.
The Gods were laughing at him.
Then, as the dark clad men and their leader sauntered into the Dikastirio, revealing the face of their leader, Dionysios saw the opportunity for what it was. Saw, that at last the Gods had heard his prayers. That Hades - the immortal and blessed deity whom he had always turned to in times of need - had heard him and given just one blessing upon his own name.
Whilst Ares and Hephaestus abandoned the Thanasi and gave joyful success upon Tython and his obnoxious brood... now was the time that Hades returned Dionysios' patient loyalty with one single master stroke. A way in which he could save himself, the kingdom and all reputation he might have lost in recent years.
For, Dionysios was no fool.
Old he might be, retreated to his chambers he may have done. But Dionysios needed not his own eyes and ears to know the way of the world and had secured much by way of knowledge both at home and across the seas.
He knew of the Creed.
Darkly clad, nondescript fighters, who moved like a well organised machine. Men who hated that of the richer upper classes... Who enjoyed public spectacle...
He knew that there were those in the world that called the Creed, 'the Drowned'. The souls who had failed to cross the River Styx because they had not been buried with formal coins to pay the ferryman...
Such as a king who had drowned at sea without his funeral rites performed...
A man who had literally drowned in his mortal life...
A man whom Dionysios hated with every fibre of his being, who had sought to bring down for more than four decades. Whose body dozens had seen taken from a ship that was discovered in his own lands - in Thanasi lands - so that he would know the monarch to be dead.
The Gods were sending him a message.
Tython was no being of living flesh and blood. This king was a shadow. A creature sent to the mortal world by the God of Lost Souls to give Dionysios the perfect opportunity:
To kill the visage of the man he had always loathed and become the hero of Colchis for ridding them of a terrorist bent on reaping the same destruction on the Kirakles Isles, as they had on the lands to the south...
As his mind pieced together the oh so obvious answers to why the King had been dead and now alive, why he had broken into the chambers that were his own, why his men wore no formal colours, why his Gods had given him a dead king upon his lands despite him offering only loyalty in his worship (for surely it was not a punishment of fate, but a gift of knowledge?)... Dionysios' feet had taken him several very slow and unthreatening steps forward.
His hand rested upon the pummel of his cane; the silver serpent's head with fangs outstretched pressing into the gnarled skin of his palm. His fingers clenched around the head of the piece and within a moment he had detached it from its sheath.
A silver dagger, slight in width and only six inches in length - yet deadly enough to kill even a wraith of the underworld - glinted in his hand and in a whirl of motion he was charging forwards.
The stiffness in his muscles disintegrated, the age of his body melted away. Fuelled by an adrenaline of victory, gratitude and the sheer loyalty to his Gods, Dionysios ran the last few steps towards the supernatural impersonation of the king, drawing back his elbow to ensure a strong and heavy blow of the knife to the Creeder's gut.
With the traitor's weapon on his right hip, his supposed daughter plastered to his side, there was no means for the shadow walker to claim his defence - no time for him to push aside the princess and still reach for the hilt of his armament. Dionysios felt a shot of victory as he saw it in the imposter's face. Knew he had taken him by surprise and given him no form of defending himself. Knew that the Creeder could sense his own death in his inability to free his arms quickly enough to fight for his life.
Instead, the Ghost King could do nothing but turn his body in a single motion, his torso becoming a shield of flesh between the blade Dionysios stabbed forward and the female he pretended to hold so dear...
Over the course of the intruder's hellos and dismal sentimentality, Dionysios was gradually losing his restraint.
It was as if a torch that had burned so assuredly just a few moments prior, had started to burn low in his head. As if between one blink and the next he realised the significance of what lay before him to witness and process. He felt an energy burn in his gut as he watched the leader of the invaders look around, speak with the face and voice of the king and welcome his daughter into his arms.
And all he could taste in his mouth was deceit and lies. All he could chew upon was the certainty that this was all wrong.
All his life he had wished for one single thing. For the name of Thanasi and the blood of his own lost family to rule upon the throne of Colchis. A child raised with nothing to call his own but a name and bloodline that held no significance - not through a parent nor a legacy spoken in anything besides facts and figures of the House's history - his sole desire in life had been to give that name a real and tangible pride. To create something of power and bring the House of Thanasi to a state of strength and glory once more. To make something of the absolute nothing he had been born to; a hollow name and an empty promise, turned into a shining light.
Now, the Thanasi stood on the precipice of power. Married into the royal line, their blood coursing through the veins of the heir. Their very name engendering whispers of witchcraft, power and murder. Fear was just as effective as respect and far easier to manipulate. The Thanasi were the powerhouse of the Kirakles Isles.
And yet they still did not have the crown.
Why? For the Kotas was a blight of miraculous success that turned his stomach. The birth of a son had placed Tython upon the throne. Yet, he had been a warrior - a soldier. One destined to die on the battlefield. Such a victory would surely be short lived?
Then he had done nothing but survive.
Not only had he failed to suffer at the hands of a blade or fall in some glorious homage to the legacy of his family, but he had achieved victories both abroad and at home. For four decades he had fought in battles set with the potential to kill him and never died by the blade. And at home with his pretty wife and frustratingly glorious Queen, he had borne his own legacy - one far richer than could he held to his bloodline.
Four sons. Four! All of more dignity, power and talent than his two could ever muster together nor individually. Nethis was the only one of his children with any real sense or ambition in her head and what good did that do in the body of a woman?
No. The warriors. The powerhouses. The natural born leaders. They were blessed upon the family of the Kotas. Never that of Thanasi.
Yet there was hope. All four of the king's retched sons had gone to war. There would be deaths, there would be tragedy. If luck would shine just once upon the Thanasi name - if the Fates chose to be kind just once - then all four would fall in some manner, leaving a female heir. A young woman whom Mihail or Dysius could take as a wife. He would just have to find something that could remove Eliades from their state of royalty in some way - a rumour of Ria's illegitimacy would be enough - and his own children's claims would be solidified and he would hold the throne in his hands.
Yet none of them fell. Not one.
Like their father, the Kotas boys screamed the irrational miracle of surviving decades at war, building reputations of strength and honour and glory; everything he wished for his own useless offspring who spent their time counting coins and bedding wayward strays.
The Gods were laughing at him.
Then, as the dark clad men and their leader sauntered into the Dikastirio, revealing the face of their leader, Dionysios saw the opportunity for what it was. Saw, that at last the Gods had heard his prayers. That Hades - the immortal and blessed deity whom he had always turned to in times of need - had heard him and given just one blessing upon his own name.
Whilst Ares and Hephaestus abandoned the Thanasi and gave joyful success upon Tython and his obnoxious brood... now was the time that Hades returned Dionysios' patient loyalty with one single master stroke. A way in which he could save himself, the kingdom and all reputation he might have lost in recent years.
For, Dionysios was no fool.
Old he might be, retreated to his chambers he may have done. But Dionysios needed not his own eyes and ears to know the way of the world and had secured much by way of knowledge both at home and across the seas.
He knew of the Creed.
Darkly clad, nondescript fighters, who moved like a well organised machine. Men who hated that of the richer upper classes... Who enjoyed public spectacle...
He knew that there were those in the world that called the Creed, 'the Drowned'. The souls who had failed to cross the River Styx because they had not been buried with formal coins to pay the ferryman...
Such as a king who had drowned at sea without his funeral rites performed...
A man who had literally drowned in his mortal life...
A man whom Dionysios hated with every fibre of his being, who had sought to bring down for more than four decades. Whose body dozens had seen taken from a ship that was discovered in his own lands - in Thanasi lands - so that he would know the monarch to be dead.
The Gods were sending him a message.
Tython was no being of living flesh and blood. This king was a shadow. A creature sent to the mortal world by the God of Lost Souls to give Dionysios the perfect opportunity:
To kill the visage of the man he had always loathed and become the hero of Colchis for ridding them of a terrorist bent on reaping the same destruction on the Kirakles Isles, as they had on the lands to the south...
As his mind pieced together the oh so obvious answers to why the King had been dead and now alive, why he had broken into the chambers that were his own, why his men wore no formal colours, why his Gods had given him a dead king upon his lands despite him offering only loyalty in his worship (for surely it was not a punishment of fate, but a gift of knowledge?)... Dionysios' feet had taken him several very slow and unthreatening steps forward.
His hand rested upon the pummel of his cane; the silver serpent's head with fangs outstretched pressing into the gnarled skin of his palm. His fingers clenched around the head of the piece and within a moment he had detached it from its sheath.
A silver dagger, slight in width and only six inches in length - yet deadly enough to kill even a wraith of the underworld - glinted in his hand and in a whirl of motion he was charging forwards.
The stiffness in his muscles disintegrated, the age of his body melted away. Fuelled by an adrenaline of victory, gratitude and the sheer loyalty to his Gods, Dionysios ran the last few steps towards the supernatural impersonation of the king, drawing back his elbow to ensure a strong and heavy blow of the knife to the Creeder's gut.
With the traitor's weapon on his right hip, his supposed daughter plastered to his side, there was no means for the shadow walker to claim his defence - no time for him to push aside the princess and still reach for the hilt of his armament. Dionysios felt a shot of victory as he saw it in the imposter's face. Knew he had taken him by surprise and given him no form of defending himself. Knew that the Creeder could sense his own death in his inability to free his arms quickly enough to fight for his life.
Instead, the Ghost King could do nothing but turn his body in a single motion, his torso becoming a shield of flesh between the blade Dionysios stabbed forward and the female he pretended to hold so dear...
Like Dionysios, when the doors bulged inward and smacked down on the stone floor with a colossal slam, Stephanos had visions of the recent past. The dark, nondescript clothes, the weapons, the leader in front. For a horrible, heart stopping moment, he was frozen. Of course he’d brought the Creed here. Not only had they come to finish both him and his wife, but they’d bring Colchis to its knees as well by a massacre of not only its royal family, but the most important nobles of the kingdom.
For a wild second, he searched for a weapon and nearly ripped Mihail’s bow from him. There was no way he was going to be butchered and not take out at least one of the Creed’s number - when Tython revealed himself. The face of the king was older than Stephanos remembered, since his last visit to Colchis had been some years ago, but the man was, reassuringly, not a member of the Creed. The dark clothes were not hooded cloaks and swaths of wraithlike material. They were normal soldiers.
He breathed and realized he’d reached back and had been squeezing Pia’s arm, hard. Abruptly he let go and turned to apologize, when movement made him pause. Dionysios was moving with amazing speed for a man his age, brandishing his cane. Stephanos’s attention was caught for that fact alone, until he saw a blade wrenched from the trunk of the cane. The situation became crystal clear and totally confusing within the same second.
For some reason, the old man was charging both Athanasia and Tython. He saw in a single moment what the man meant to do: he was going to stab the king, with the princess in the way. Why now with so many soldiers in the room, Stephanos didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense to wait to assassinate either the princess or the king, but, ultimately, the reasons didn’t matter. Lord Dionysios was set to his lethal purpose and Stephanos tore away from his wife, taking after the would-be-assassin.
He was younger and faster, but it still took him a few precious seconds to catch up. Whatever aided Dionysios, whether it be supernatural speed or some cruel twist of fate that his age meant nothing, Stephanos did not know. But he didn’t need to outrun him, he needed to stop him. His arm lashed out and he caught the billowing fabric of Dionysios’s fine clothes in his fist and jerked the mad man back.
As soon as he did it, lifting the old man off his feet, he realized his mistake. Twisting like a cat caught by the scruff, Dionysios, eyes wild and weathered mouth agape, slashed across Stephanos’s forearm, attempting to get him to let go. No stranger to battle or wounds inflicted in the heat of a fight, Stephanos didn’t release him as Dionysios might have wished. He gripped Dionysios’s wrist, the one that held the dagger, and wrenched the man’s entire arm to the side until there was a loud ‘pop’. The arm dangled out of its socket, useless until it could be popped back into place.
The weapon clattered to the floor and Stephanos stepped back as people converged on them. Blood dripped from his wound and he clamped his now free hand over the gaping wound, grimacing at how deep it was. He could see bone through the muscle parted muscle tissue. He swallowed. It didn’t hurt much now, with the adrenaline pumping through his system, but it would shortly.
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Like Dionysios, when the doors bulged inward and smacked down on the stone floor with a colossal slam, Stephanos had visions of the recent past. The dark, nondescript clothes, the weapons, the leader in front. For a horrible, heart stopping moment, he was frozen. Of course he’d brought the Creed here. Not only had they come to finish both him and his wife, but they’d bring Colchis to its knees as well by a massacre of not only its royal family, but the most important nobles of the kingdom.
For a wild second, he searched for a weapon and nearly ripped Mihail’s bow from him. There was no way he was going to be butchered and not take out at least one of the Creed’s number - when Tython revealed himself. The face of the king was older than Stephanos remembered, since his last visit to Colchis had been some years ago, but the man was, reassuringly, not a member of the Creed. The dark clothes were not hooded cloaks and swaths of wraithlike material. They were normal soldiers.
He breathed and realized he’d reached back and had been squeezing Pia’s arm, hard. Abruptly he let go and turned to apologize, when movement made him pause. Dionysios was moving with amazing speed for a man his age, brandishing his cane. Stephanos’s attention was caught for that fact alone, until he saw a blade wrenched from the trunk of the cane. The situation became crystal clear and totally confusing within the same second.
For some reason, the old man was charging both Athanasia and Tython. He saw in a single moment what the man meant to do: he was going to stab the king, with the princess in the way. Why now with so many soldiers in the room, Stephanos didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense to wait to assassinate either the princess or the king, but, ultimately, the reasons didn’t matter. Lord Dionysios was set to his lethal purpose and Stephanos tore away from his wife, taking after the would-be-assassin.
He was younger and faster, but it still took him a few precious seconds to catch up. Whatever aided Dionysios, whether it be supernatural speed or some cruel twist of fate that his age meant nothing, Stephanos did not know. But he didn’t need to outrun him, he needed to stop him. His arm lashed out and he caught the billowing fabric of Dionysios’s fine clothes in his fist and jerked the mad man back.
As soon as he did it, lifting the old man off his feet, he realized his mistake. Twisting like a cat caught by the scruff, Dionysios, eyes wild and weathered mouth agape, slashed across Stephanos’s forearm, attempting to get him to let go. No stranger to battle or wounds inflicted in the heat of a fight, Stephanos didn’t release him as Dionysios might have wished. He gripped Dionysios’s wrist, the one that held the dagger, and wrenched the man’s entire arm to the side until there was a loud ‘pop’. The arm dangled out of its socket, useless until it could be popped back into place.
The weapon clattered to the floor and Stephanos stepped back as people converged on them. Blood dripped from his wound and he clamped his now free hand over the gaping wound, grimacing at how deep it was. He could see bone through the muscle parted muscle tissue. He swallowed. It didn’t hurt much now, with the adrenaline pumping through his system, but it would shortly.
Like Dionysios, when the doors bulged inward and smacked down on the stone floor with a colossal slam, Stephanos had visions of the recent past. The dark, nondescript clothes, the weapons, the leader in front. For a horrible, heart stopping moment, he was frozen. Of course he’d brought the Creed here. Not only had they come to finish both him and his wife, but they’d bring Colchis to its knees as well by a massacre of not only its royal family, but the most important nobles of the kingdom.
For a wild second, he searched for a weapon and nearly ripped Mihail’s bow from him. There was no way he was going to be butchered and not take out at least one of the Creed’s number - when Tython revealed himself. The face of the king was older than Stephanos remembered, since his last visit to Colchis had been some years ago, but the man was, reassuringly, not a member of the Creed. The dark clothes were not hooded cloaks and swaths of wraithlike material. They were normal soldiers.
He breathed and realized he’d reached back and had been squeezing Pia’s arm, hard. Abruptly he let go and turned to apologize, when movement made him pause. Dionysios was moving with amazing speed for a man his age, brandishing his cane. Stephanos’s attention was caught for that fact alone, until he saw a blade wrenched from the trunk of the cane. The situation became crystal clear and totally confusing within the same second.
For some reason, the old man was charging both Athanasia and Tython. He saw in a single moment what the man meant to do: he was going to stab the king, with the princess in the way. Why now with so many soldiers in the room, Stephanos didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense to wait to assassinate either the princess or the king, but, ultimately, the reasons didn’t matter. Lord Dionysios was set to his lethal purpose and Stephanos tore away from his wife, taking after the would-be-assassin.
He was younger and faster, but it still took him a few precious seconds to catch up. Whatever aided Dionysios, whether it be supernatural speed or some cruel twist of fate that his age meant nothing, Stephanos did not know. But he didn’t need to outrun him, he needed to stop him. His arm lashed out and he caught the billowing fabric of Dionysios’s fine clothes in his fist and jerked the mad man back.
As soon as he did it, lifting the old man off his feet, he realized his mistake. Twisting like a cat caught by the scruff, Dionysios, eyes wild and weathered mouth agape, slashed across Stephanos’s forearm, attempting to get him to let go. No stranger to battle or wounds inflicted in the heat of a fight, Stephanos didn’t release him as Dionysios might have wished. He gripped Dionysios’s wrist, the one that held the dagger, and wrenched the man’s entire arm to the side until there was a loud ‘pop’. The arm dangled out of its socket, useless until it could be popped back into place.
The weapon clattered to the floor and Stephanos stepped back as people converged on them. Blood dripped from his wound and he clamped his now free hand over the gaping wound, grimacing at how deep it was. He could see bone through the muscle parted muscle tissue. He swallowed. It didn’t hurt much now, with the adrenaline pumping through his system, but it would shortly.
For a brief moment from where Evras stood with Mihail, Athanasia and her father just a few steps away from her, she smiled when Tython made his appearance, and Athanasia all but left decorum to the wind to run to her father. It had been no secret that the grief was palpable within the Kotas manor when it was deduced the dead body in the ship ran aground a few weeks ago was the body of the supposedly dead King. While Queen Yanni showed strength, as did her children, it would be a falsity to claim that none of them felt a profound sense of melancholy knowing the leader and King was dead. Even Evras, who had been raised to think of the Kotas as obstacles to the Thanasi's name on the throne, and to dislike her own husband's family, felt a sense of loss. For despite her father's delusional words as he had raised her, in the years she had spent residing with her husband's family, she has come to known the King for who he was, a strong and just man who was a pillar of strength.
In that same way, Evras no longer shared her father's wishes for a Thanasi name on the throne - at the very least, not for her children. Seeing first the supposed death of Tython, and then an attempt on Vangelis's life, only solidified her wish to no have Dion in such a precarious position. While her son loved to swordplay, he was also a young boy who had a gentle soul, and not at all like a strong warrior her uncle and grandfather was. Dion would make a spectacular politician and an adequete fighter, but Evras did not need his life at risk at every turn in his life. And neither did she wish for such a life for her unborn child.
Focused on the way in which the reunion of father and daughter exuded warmth, Evras almost missed the way in which her father had moved, until it happened in what seemed to be too short a frame of time.
When Dionysios ran, Evras instinctively pushed Dion towards Mihail, the closest one they were with, and turned to stare agape as her father started charging to Tython and Athanasia. Her mind could not compute why in the world the wizened old man was holding the dagger, too shocked by the turn of events. What was her father thinking? Sure, she knew Dionysios had longed for a Thanasi on the throne, and that Nethis fully intended to carry out the wishes of their father, but Evras had also done her best to veer them away from using Dion as their tool. At the same time, why would her father attempt something so foolish as endangering the life of Tython in a room full of soldiers and his own sons?
Before Evras could further react, the Taengean king had shot forward, that the dark-haired princess could only take one step with her hands outstretched before Stephanos had caught her father's clothes and jerked him backwards, so that the weapon injured the young King instead of the one who now stood between the senile old man and his daughter.
As the weapon clattered to the ground, Evras quickly tossed words to her brother over her shoulder. "Bring Dion to Zanon, now Mihail." In her life, Evras had always been soft spoken, but for the first time, there was a bite to her tone that insisted her brother do it, and do it now, before she darted to where her father, despite being on the ground, still tried to reach outstretched for the clattered weapon with his good arm. With her feet, Evras stepped on the dagger so no one could reach for it, and then looked wildly around for Thea and Nethis, her eyes all but pleading for help as she picked up the dagger and moved to stand in front of Stephanos. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I...." Evras trailed off, staring at the blood that had been on the dagger, now staining the hands that held them.
There was no way she could reason her way out with Zanon from this one. But whatever it was, she could not let her father come to harm from this either. Evras was well and truly caught between Hades and the deep blue sea.
She could feel her chest tightened as the soldiers came, surrounding Tython, with some grabbing Dionysios by his arm, not even caring that he was an old man with an injured arm. The woman felt as if the sounds around her was now muted and from a far off place, before she took another deep breathe and pinned her determined gaze on Stephanos. "Thank you. I don't know what would've happened if you weren't around, but we thank you for stepping in to save our King." She could feel her breathe shudder as she bowed at Stephanos again. "Please, take your Queen and see to your daughter. I instructed guards at Princess Tisiphone's room before we came for our feast here, but I'm sure Queen Olympia wishes to check upon your offspring after the events which had transpired."
Hoping that was sufficient, and looking for Roxana to signal her to bring the Taengean's and see to the wound of the young King, Evras then sought out for her siblings, as she went to stand by her father, scowling when she saw how hard they held the man by. "He is still a lord of nobility, so I would advise you to not manhandle an old man who had just suffered a shoulder injury, and usually needs a walking stick just to move." Evras's voice was curt and sharp. She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn't, but if she had to, at the very least she had to ensure her father was not further injured then he was.
And if Zanon wished to damn her for this well... there was only so much she could deal with, if her husband wished to believe she and her family did something she had no clue of, and to take the responsibility of the actions of a man clearly no longer in his right mind.
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For a brief moment from where Evras stood with Mihail, Athanasia and her father just a few steps away from her, she smiled when Tython made his appearance, and Athanasia all but left decorum to the wind to run to her father. It had been no secret that the grief was palpable within the Kotas manor when it was deduced the dead body in the ship ran aground a few weeks ago was the body of the supposedly dead King. While Queen Yanni showed strength, as did her children, it would be a falsity to claim that none of them felt a profound sense of melancholy knowing the leader and King was dead. Even Evras, who had been raised to think of the Kotas as obstacles to the Thanasi's name on the throne, and to dislike her own husband's family, felt a sense of loss. For despite her father's delusional words as he had raised her, in the years she had spent residing with her husband's family, she has come to known the King for who he was, a strong and just man who was a pillar of strength.
In that same way, Evras no longer shared her father's wishes for a Thanasi name on the throne - at the very least, not for her children. Seeing first the supposed death of Tython, and then an attempt on Vangelis's life, only solidified her wish to no have Dion in such a precarious position. While her son loved to swordplay, he was also a young boy who had a gentle soul, and not at all like a strong warrior her uncle and grandfather was. Dion would make a spectacular politician and an adequete fighter, but Evras did not need his life at risk at every turn in his life. And neither did she wish for such a life for her unborn child.
Focused on the way in which the reunion of father and daughter exuded warmth, Evras almost missed the way in which her father had moved, until it happened in what seemed to be too short a frame of time.
When Dionysios ran, Evras instinctively pushed Dion towards Mihail, the closest one they were with, and turned to stare agape as her father started charging to Tython and Athanasia. Her mind could not compute why in the world the wizened old man was holding the dagger, too shocked by the turn of events. What was her father thinking? Sure, she knew Dionysios had longed for a Thanasi on the throne, and that Nethis fully intended to carry out the wishes of their father, but Evras had also done her best to veer them away from using Dion as their tool. At the same time, why would her father attempt something so foolish as endangering the life of Tython in a room full of soldiers and his own sons?
Before Evras could further react, the Taengean king had shot forward, that the dark-haired princess could only take one step with her hands outstretched before Stephanos had caught her father's clothes and jerked him backwards, so that the weapon injured the young King instead of the one who now stood between the senile old man and his daughter.
As the weapon clattered to the ground, Evras quickly tossed words to her brother over her shoulder. "Bring Dion to Zanon, now Mihail." In her life, Evras had always been soft spoken, but for the first time, there was a bite to her tone that insisted her brother do it, and do it now, before she darted to where her father, despite being on the ground, still tried to reach outstretched for the clattered weapon with his good arm. With her feet, Evras stepped on the dagger so no one could reach for it, and then looked wildly around for Thea and Nethis, her eyes all but pleading for help as she picked up the dagger and moved to stand in front of Stephanos. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I...." Evras trailed off, staring at the blood that had been on the dagger, now staining the hands that held them.
There was no way she could reason her way out with Zanon from this one. But whatever it was, she could not let her father come to harm from this either. Evras was well and truly caught between Hades and the deep blue sea.
She could feel her chest tightened as the soldiers came, surrounding Tython, with some grabbing Dionysios by his arm, not even caring that he was an old man with an injured arm. The woman felt as if the sounds around her was now muted and from a far off place, before she took another deep breathe and pinned her determined gaze on Stephanos. "Thank you. I don't know what would've happened if you weren't around, but we thank you for stepping in to save our King." She could feel her breathe shudder as she bowed at Stephanos again. "Please, take your Queen and see to your daughter. I instructed guards at Princess Tisiphone's room before we came for our feast here, but I'm sure Queen Olympia wishes to check upon your offspring after the events which had transpired."
Hoping that was sufficient, and looking for Roxana to signal her to bring the Taengean's and see to the wound of the young King, Evras then sought out for her siblings, as she went to stand by her father, scowling when she saw how hard they held the man by. "He is still a lord of nobility, so I would advise you to not manhandle an old man who had just suffered a shoulder injury, and usually needs a walking stick just to move." Evras's voice was curt and sharp. She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn't, but if she had to, at the very least she had to ensure her father was not further injured then he was.
And if Zanon wished to damn her for this well... there was only so much she could deal with, if her husband wished to believe she and her family did something she had no clue of, and to take the responsibility of the actions of a man clearly no longer in his right mind.
For a brief moment from where Evras stood with Mihail, Athanasia and her father just a few steps away from her, she smiled when Tython made his appearance, and Athanasia all but left decorum to the wind to run to her father. It had been no secret that the grief was palpable within the Kotas manor when it was deduced the dead body in the ship ran aground a few weeks ago was the body of the supposedly dead King. While Queen Yanni showed strength, as did her children, it would be a falsity to claim that none of them felt a profound sense of melancholy knowing the leader and King was dead. Even Evras, who had been raised to think of the Kotas as obstacles to the Thanasi's name on the throne, and to dislike her own husband's family, felt a sense of loss. For despite her father's delusional words as he had raised her, in the years she had spent residing with her husband's family, she has come to known the King for who he was, a strong and just man who was a pillar of strength.
In that same way, Evras no longer shared her father's wishes for a Thanasi name on the throne - at the very least, not for her children. Seeing first the supposed death of Tython, and then an attempt on Vangelis's life, only solidified her wish to no have Dion in such a precarious position. While her son loved to swordplay, he was also a young boy who had a gentle soul, and not at all like a strong warrior her uncle and grandfather was. Dion would make a spectacular politician and an adequete fighter, but Evras did not need his life at risk at every turn in his life. And neither did she wish for such a life for her unborn child.
Focused on the way in which the reunion of father and daughter exuded warmth, Evras almost missed the way in which her father had moved, until it happened in what seemed to be too short a frame of time.
When Dionysios ran, Evras instinctively pushed Dion towards Mihail, the closest one they were with, and turned to stare agape as her father started charging to Tython and Athanasia. Her mind could not compute why in the world the wizened old man was holding the dagger, too shocked by the turn of events. What was her father thinking? Sure, she knew Dionysios had longed for a Thanasi on the throne, and that Nethis fully intended to carry out the wishes of their father, but Evras had also done her best to veer them away from using Dion as their tool. At the same time, why would her father attempt something so foolish as endangering the life of Tython in a room full of soldiers and his own sons?
Before Evras could further react, the Taengean king had shot forward, that the dark-haired princess could only take one step with her hands outstretched before Stephanos had caught her father's clothes and jerked him backwards, so that the weapon injured the young King instead of the one who now stood between the senile old man and his daughter.
As the weapon clattered to the ground, Evras quickly tossed words to her brother over her shoulder. "Bring Dion to Zanon, now Mihail." In her life, Evras had always been soft spoken, but for the first time, there was a bite to her tone that insisted her brother do it, and do it now, before she darted to where her father, despite being on the ground, still tried to reach outstretched for the clattered weapon with his good arm. With her feet, Evras stepped on the dagger so no one could reach for it, and then looked wildly around for Thea and Nethis, her eyes all but pleading for help as she picked up the dagger and moved to stand in front of Stephanos. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I...." Evras trailed off, staring at the blood that had been on the dagger, now staining the hands that held them.
There was no way she could reason her way out with Zanon from this one. But whatever it was, she could not let her father come to harm from this either. Evras was well and truly caught between Hades and the deep blue sea.
She could feel her chest tightened as the soldiers came, surrounding Tython, with some grabbing Dionysios by his arm, not even caring that he was an old man with an injured arm. The woman felt as if the sounds around her was now muted and from a far off place, before she took another deep breathe and pinned her determined gaze on Stephanos. "Thank you. I don't know what would've happened if you weren't around, but we thank you for stepping in to save our King." She could feel her breathe shudder as she bowed at Stephanos again. "Please, take your Queen and see to your daughter. I instructed guards at Princess Tisiphone's room before we came for our feast here, but I'm sure Queen Olympia wishes to check upon your offspring after the events which had transpired."
Hoping that was sufficient, and looking for Roxana to signal her to bring the Taengean's and see to the wound of the young King, Evras then sought out for her siblings, as she went to stand by her father, scowling when she saw how hard they held the man by. "He is still a lord of nobility, so I would advise you to not manhandle an old man who had just suffered a shoulder injury, and usually needs a walking stick just to move." Evras's voice was curt and sharp. She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn't, but if she had to, at the very least she had to ensure her father was not further injured then he was.
And if Zanon wished to damn her for this well... there was only so much she could deal with, if her husband wished to believe she and her family did something she had no clue of, and to take the responsibility of the actions of a man clearly no longer in his right mind.
Mihail could sense there was fear behind Athanasia's words, despite the way she held herself and the weapons she too had gathered. It was the same subtle tremble which his own voice bore when he feigned such courage, paired with those nervous breaths. He would have reached to take her hand in his once more, hold it in another prolonged act of comfort, but it was not the moment, and there was not the time, for it seemed his father had other plans.
One could never suggest Mihail liked his father. He had not been around long enough for the pair of them to form much of a lasting relationship: it was overwhelmingly evident that the youngest Thanasi had mostly been left to his siblings and whichever nanny had supposedly led Dysius to become such a terrible excuse for a man. One could, perhaps, even tell that Mihail did not care for his father in the slightest, for it seemed the man always had some issue with how he acted or carried himself or dressed, and Hades hath no fury like the Thanasi patriarch angered.
It happened so fast that he hardly knew what occurred. He felt the pain before he saw Father reach for the circlet, a hand reaching instinctively up to touch where the man's actions had tugged out a few strands of that thick hair of which he was so proud, trying to smooth out the unwanted dishevelment. He could feel his pale cheeks flushing a bright scarlet, though why he felt so intensely humiliated at that precise instance, he could not tell. His brows furrowed together in annoyance as he bent to pick the circlet from the ground once more, ready to hiss the worst words he could imagine at the man, and threaten him with all the wrath inside him, regardless of their current setting, but, no sooner had his lips parted to offer a response, that the doors - quite literally - crashed open.
A pack of armed men rushed the room, yet they did nothing. Mihail was barely aware of what was happening, taking a step forward as he raised his bow, twice as prepared now that his father had made such a comment regarding his masculinity. It stayed raised as the man removed his helmet, fixed in place as it seemed a ripple of astonishment spread through the crowd. For a moment, his mind was overcome with the fantasy of releasing an arrow and watching it fly mercilessly toward whichever intruder had burst into the hall, so that all would worship his heroic nature. It was only the clanking of knives hitting the stone floor that made him fall back to reality, and he lifted his gaze to see their thought-dead king.
The princess rushed from his side to her father, and he let her go, for it would scarcely be appropriate for him to prevent the girl from embracing the man she had thought lost. It would have been a cruelty to stop her, even in the name of security. But, perhaps it would have been wise to reach out an arm and stop her from running, for, seconds later, his father had - in some almost inhuman burst of speed - abandoned their small group and raced towards King Tython, dagger brandished with the apparent intention to harm. There did not seem anything any could do, either, for his nephew was suddenly pushed in his direction, and King Stephanos had made a move to stop the elderly man's actions.
Ordinarily, Mihail was drawn to guarding his only nephew. He didn't usually hold much care for children - truthfully, he found the majority to be an unnecessary nuisance - but there was a special place in his heart for Dion. Perhaps it was because the child so closely resembled a version of him long since grown up, or maybe it was because there was none other to which he could offer his protection. As Evras thrust the boy towards him, his arm slid around Dion's shoulders, pulling him close. "Don't watch, Dion," he whispered to the boy, slipping his hand around to cover his eyes so that he would not be forced to watch the way the Taengean monarch pulled his father's arm out of its socket. It seemed excruciatingly painful, but Mihail couldn't say he felt any pity for the man, and especially not after that act of embarrassment, and the way he'd torn his hair from his scalp. He thought the man deserved to suffer.
Evras was ordering him to take his nephew to his brother-in-law's side, and the tone of her voice made it astoundingly clear that the decision to do so was not up for debate. Mihail supposed it was the safest place for him, for who knew what light would be shadowing the Thanasi name after Dionysios's actions? He could not risk being seen as refusing to hand over a future heir to the throne when his father had done something so idiotic (doubtless Nethis would soon have plenty to say as to the man's public actions), and, thus, he could only reach down to take the boy's hand once more, leading him to Zanon's side.
"I apologize for my father's insanity," he muttered to the prince, as if it was a valid excuse, squeezing the eleven-year-old's hand before he released it, confident he would now be well-secured. He was near Vangelis, and half of the Kotas family, and though Mihail was not especially keen on most of them, he knew they care for Dion as much as he. Bending down, so his gaze was level with his nephew's, he made an attempt to calm him. "Stay with your Papa and your family, alright? They know how to keep you safe." Even if, apparently, they didn't quite know how to keep themselves safe.
Mihail straightened himself, ruffled the boy's hair gently, and then turned back toward the commotion. There was not much he could do to help. He was neither strong, nor as brave as he sometimes liked to pretend, and he found himself at a conflict of interests. His family - his eldest sister, at least - likely expected him to come to their father's aid, and, at the same moment, he imagined there was that logical belief that all would go against what Dionysios had done. It was not a decision he had ever thought he'd have to make, for Mihail had always thought he would follow his family to the end, but he had thought they would at least value subtlety in their schemes, and he could not stand behind such a display of ineptitude. Besides, he did not believe he would forgive the man for tearing out his circlet any time soon, if his father even made it out of this ordeal alive.
There seemed nobody bothered by the welfare of the princess who had been caught unsuspectingly in the midst of it all, and Mihail could not help but feel oddly merciful towards her. He shifted through the crowd to where his sister and father stood with the two kings, taking advantage of the commotion to ease himself into a position once more at Athanasia's side. "Are you alright, your Highness?" he questioned, as if he thought that could make for all which had happened. Had she been one of his sisters, he might have put his arms around her and tugged her further from the possibility of more danger, but he could only lift a hand and place it on her upper arm. "I...can only apologize. I do not think any of us could have expected this. My father has not been well, and he evidently does not think." It was weak, but there was not much else which could be said, and Mihail had never thought himself the best at apologies. They did not come so often. "I apologize on behalf of us all."
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Mihail could sense there was fear behind Athanasia's words, despite the way she held herself and the weapons she too had gathered. It was the same subtle tremble which his own voice bore when he feigned such courage, paired with those nervous breaths. He would have reached to take her hand in his once more, hold it in another prolonged act of comfort, but it was not the moment, and there was not the time, for it seemed his father had other plans.
One could never suggest Mihail liked his father. He had not been around long enough for the pair of them to form much of a lasting relationship: it was overwhelmingly evident that the youngest Thanasi had mostly been left to his siblings and whichever nanny had supposedly led Dysius to become such a terrible excuse for a man. One could, perhaps, even tell that Mihail did not care for his father in the slightest, for it seemed the man always had some issue with how he acted or carried himself or dressed, and Hades hath no fury like the Thanasi patriarch angered.
It happened so fast that he hardly knew what occurred. He felt the pain before he saw Father reach for the circlet, a hand reaching instinctively up to touch where the man's actions had tugged out a few strands of that thick hair of which he was so proud, trying to smooth out the unwanted dishevelment. He could feel his pale cheeks flushing a bright scarlet, though why he felt so intensely humiliated at that precise instance, he could not tell. His brows furrowed together in annoyance as he bent to pick the circlet from the ground once more, ready to hiss the worst words he could imagine at the man, and threaten him with all the wrath inside him, regardless of their current setting, but, no sooner had his lips parted to offer a response, that the doors - quite literally - crashed open.
A pack of armed men rushed the room, yet they did nothing. Mihail was barely aware of what was happening, taking a step forward as he raised his bow, twice as prepared now that his father had made such a comment regarding his masculinity. It stayed raised as the man removed his helmet, fixed in place as it seemed a ripple of astonishment spread through the crowd. For a moment, his mind was overcome with the fantasy of releasing an arrow and watching it fly mercilessly toward whichever intruder had burst into the hall, so that all would worship his heroic nature. It was only the clanking of knives hitting the stone floor that made him fall back to reality, and he lifted his gaze to see their thought-dead king.
The princess rushed from his side to her father, and he let her go, for it would scarcely be appropriate for him to prevent the girl from embracing the man she had thought lost. It would have been a cruelty to stop her, even in the name of security. But, perhaps it would have been wise to reach out an arm and stop her from running, for, seconds later, his father had - in some almost inhuman burst of speed - abandoned their small group and raced towards King Tython, dagger brandished with the apparent intention to harm. There did not seem anything any could do, either, for his nephew was suddenly pushed in his direction, and King Stephanos had made a move to stop the elderly man's actions.
Ordinarily, Mihail was drawn to guarding his only nephew. He didn't usually hold much care for children - truthfully, he found the majority to be an unnecessary nuisance - but there was a special place in his heart for Dion. Perhaps it was because the child so closely resembled a version of him long since grown up, or maybe it was because there was none other to which he could offer his protection. As Evras thrust the boy towards him, his arm slid around Dion's shoulders, pulling him close. "Don't watch, Dion," he whispered to the boy, slipping his hand around to cover his eyes so that he would not be forced to watch the way the Taengean monarch pulled his father's arm out of its socket. It seemed excruciatingly painful, but Mihail couldn't say he felt any pity for the man, and especially not after that act of embarrassment, and the way he'd torn his hair from his scalp. He thought the man deserved to suffer.
Evras was ordering him to take his nephew to his brother-in-law's side, and the tone of her voice made it astoundingly clear that the decision to do so was not up for debate. Mihail supposed it was the safest place for him, for who knew what light would be shadowing the Thanasi name after Dionysios's actions? He could not risk being seen as refusing to hand over a future heir to the throne when his father had done something so idiotic (doubtless Nethis would soon have plenty to say as to the man's public actions), and, thus, he could only reach down to take the boy's hand once more, leading him to Zanon's side.
"I apologize for my father's insanity," he muttered to the prince, as if it was a valid excuse, squeezing the eleven-year-old's hand before he released it, confident he would now be well-secured. He was near Vangelis, and half of the Kotas family, and though Mihail was not especially keen on most of them, he knew they care for Dion as much as he. Bending down, so his gaze was level with his nephew's, he made an attempt to calm him. "Stay with your Papa and your family, alright? They know how to keep you safe." Even if, apparently, they didn't quite know how to keep themselves safe.
Mihail straightened himself, ruffled the boy's hair gently, and then turned back toward the commotion. There was not much he could do to help. He was neither strong, nor as brave as he sometimes liked to pretend, and he found himself at a conflict of interests. His family - his eldest sister, at least - likely expected him to come to their father's aid, and, at the same moment, he imagined there was that logical belief that all would go against what Dionysios had done. It was not a decision he had ever thought he'd have to make, for Mihail had always thought he would follow his family to the end, but he had thought they would at least value subtlety in their schemes, and he could not stand behind such a display of ineptitude. Besides, he did not believe he would forgive the man for tearing out his circlet any time soon, if his father even made it out of this ordeal alive.
There seemed nobody bothered by the welfare of the princess who had been caught unsuspectingly in the midst of it all, and Mihail could not help but feel oddly merciful towards her. He shifted through the crowd to where his sister and father stood with the two kings, taking advantage of the commotion to ease himself into a position once more at Athanasia's side. "Are you alright, your Highness?" he questioned, as if he thought that could make for all which had happened. Had she been one of his sisters, he might have put his arms around her and tugged her further from the possibility of more danger, but he could only lift a hand and place it on her upper arm. "I...can only apologize. I do not think any of us could have expected this. My father has not been well, and he evidently does not think." It was weak, but there was not much else which could be said, and Mihail had never thought himself the best at apologies. They did not come so often. "I apologize on behalf of us all."
Mihail could sense there was fear behind Athanasia's words, despite the way she held herself and the weapons she too had gathered. It was the same subtle tremble which his own voice bore when he feigned such courage, paired with those nervous breaths. He would have reached to take her hand in his once more, hold it in another prolonged act of comfort, but it was not the moment, and there was not the time, for it seemed his father had other plans.
One could never suggest Mihail liked his father. He had not been around long enough for the pair of them to form much of a lasting relationship: it was overwhelmingly evident that the youngest Thanasi had mostly been left to his siblings and whichever nanny had supposedly led Dysius to become such a terrible excuse for a man. One could, perhaps, even tell that Mihail did not care for his father in the slightest, for it seemed the man always had some issue with how he acted or carried himself or dressed, and Hades hath no fury like the Thanasi patriarch angered.
It happened so fast that he hardly knew what occurred. He felt the pain before he saw Father reach for the circlet, a hand reaching instinctively up to touch where the man's actions had tugged out a few strands of that thick hair of which he was so proud, trying to smooth out the unwanted dishevelment. He could feel his pale cheeks flushing a bright scarlet, though why he felt so intensely humiliated at that precise instance, he could not tell. His brows furrowed together in annoyance as he bent to pick the circlet from the ground once more, ready to hiss the worst words he could imagine at the man, and threaten him with all the wrath inside him, regardless of their current setting, but, no sooner had his lips parted to offer a response, that the doors - quite literally - crashed open.
A pack of armed men rushed the room, yet they did nothing. Mihail was barely aware of what was happening, taking a step forward as he raised his bow, twice as prepared now that his father had made such a comment regarding his masculinity. It stayed raised as the man removed his helmet, fixed in place as it seemed a ripple of astonishment spread through the crowd. For a moment, his mind was overcome with the fantasy of releasing an arrow and watching it fly mercilessly toward whichever intruder had burst into the hall, so that all would worship his heroic nature. It was only the clanking of knives hitting the stone floor that made him fall back to reality, and he lifted his gaze to see their thought-dead king.
The princess rushed from his side to her father, and he let her go, for it would scarcely be appropriate for him to prevent the girl from embracing the man she had thought lost. It would have been a cruelty to stop her, even in the name of security. But, perhaps it would have been wise to reach out an arm and stop her from running, for, seconds later, his father had - in some almost inhuman burst of speed - abandoned their small group and raced towards King Tython, dagger brandished with the apparent intention to harm. There did not seem anything any could do, either, for his nephew was suddenly pushed in his direction, and King Stephanos had made a move to stop the elderly man's actions.
Ordinarily, Mihail was drawn to guarding his only nephew. He didn't usually hold much care for children - truthfully, he found the majority to be an unnecessary nuisance - but there was a special place in his heart for Dion. Perhaps it was because the child so closely resembled a version of him long since grown up, or maybe it was because there was none other to which he could offer his protection. As Evras thrust the boy towards him, his arm slid around Dion's shoulders, pulling him close. "Don't watch, Dion," he whispered to the boy, slipping his hand around to cover his eyes so that he would not be forced to watch the way the Taengean monarch pulled his father's arm out of its socket. It seemed excruciatingly painful, but Mihail couldn't say he felt any pity for the man, and especially not after that act of embarrassment, and the way he'd torn his hair from his scalp. He thought the man deserved to suffer.
Evras was ordering him to take his nephew to his brother-in-law's side, and the tone of her voice made it astoundingly clear that the decision to do so was not up for debate. Mihail supposed it was the safest place for him, for who knew what light would be shadowing the Thanasi name after Dionysios's actions? He could not risk being seen as refusing to hand over a future heir to the throne when his father had done something so idiotic (doubtless Nethis would soon have plenty to say as to the man's public actions), and, thus, he could only reach down to take the boy's hand once more, leading him to Zanon's side.
"I apologize for my father's insanity," he muttered to the prince, as if it was a valid excuse, squeezing the eleven-year-old's hand before he released it, confident he would now be well-secured. He was near Vangelis, and half of the Kotas family, and though Mihail was not especially keen on most of them, he knew they care for Dion as much as he. Bending down, so his gaze was level with his nephew's, he made an attempt to calm him. "Stay with your Papa and your family, alright? They know how to keep you safe." Even if, apparently, they didn't quite know how to keep themselves safe.
Mihail straightened himself, ruffled the boy's hair gently, and then turned back toward the commotion. There was not much he could do to help. He was neither strong, nor as brave as he sometimes liked to pretend, and he found himself at a conflict of interests. His family - his eldest sister, at least - likely expected him to come to their father's aid, and, at the same moment, he imagined there was that logical belief that all would go against what Dionysios had done. It was not a decision he had ever thought he'd have to make, for Mihail had always thought he would follow his family to the end, but he had thought they would at least value subtlety in their schemes, and he could not stand behind such a display of ineptitude. Besides, he did not believe he would forgive the man for tearing out his circlet any time soon, if his father even made it out of this ordeal alive.
There seemed nobody bothered by the welfare of the princess who had been caught unsuspectingly in the midst of it all, and Mihail could not help but feel oddly merciful towards her. He shifted through the crowd to where his sister and father stood with the two kings, taking advantage of the commotion to ease himself into a position once more at Athanasia's side. "Are you alright, your Highness?" he questioned, as if he thought that could make for all which had happened. Had she been one of his sisters, he might have put his arms around her and tugged her further from the possibility of more danger, but he could only lift a hand and place it on her upper arm. "I...can only apologize. I do not think any of us could have expected this. My father has not been well, and he evidently does not think." It was weak, but there was not much else which could be said, and Mihail had never thought himself the best at apologies. They did not come so often. "I apologize on behalf of us all."
Everything seemed to happen in an instant. One moment, her hands had been on the face of the King, urging the remedy into his mouth and down his throat to save his life. Then, the air seemed to shake at the echo of the assault on the Dikastirio doors. There were shouts that filled the air, some out of fear and some out of preparation.
In the midst of it all, King Vangelis had managed to draw himself up off the floor, with Thea’s hands flying forward to offer some support. In all the years she had known the man, she knew that telling him to remain still was going to be wasted breath - a valuable commodity that she noticed felt a little shorter in her own chest in that moment.
Hearing her name coupled with that of Lady Selene in the midst of it all, the Crown Prince Zanon had ordered them to escort the king, and another order came from the King’s personal guard, Commander Nike. There was so much that happened in a moment, and in the midst of chaos, the Stone King had managed to hobble and drag himself away from the quarrel and towards the issues.
Thea nearly pursued when she felt a touch on her arm, turning to see Lady Selene. It seemed that they both knew that following after the man who embodied stoic stubbornness would be futile. In response, Thea placed a hand upon Lady Selene’s, a sad attempt at comfort, when a bowl was placed in her hand by her sister, Evras. Her words were sound and Thea accepted the bowl with a nod, watching as the Lady Selene received the same treatment and ensuring that the Lady followed the orders.
Contorting her face at the familiar yet viciously rank flavor of the remedy, Thea kept her thoughts to herself regarding the usefulness of a poison’s antidote when under siege but it was not in her nature to voice such things nor was this the time or the place. Instead, her hands reached out to Lady Selene’s upper arms, sympathetic to the foul taste and also rocked with her own anxiousness of the surrounding chaos.
Halfway holding the Lady in her unsteady stance, Thea was able to see nearly everything from where she now stood.
Her family - Nethis, Dionysios, Mihail, and now Evras and Athanasia, surrounded Dion. Seeing the prickle of fear in her young nephews eyes nearly rent her heart in half, causing an unfamiliar crease of worry at the edge of her eyes. He was a sensitive soul and if they survived this, oh, the nightmares he would have from the trauma.
The guards surrounded the room and both of the eldest Kotas had surged toward the front by the time the doors clattered open. Thea could not help the slight tightening of her grip on Lady Selene when the unmarked militia moved in.
The Creed.
Thea had been there at the Arcus when the regicidal attack in Taengea seemed to start the topple of dominos that sent the kingdoms into chaos. Kings and Crown Princes were what they seemed to be Hades-bent on collecting, and with King Tython’s death, it would not take much for them to collect the pair.
There was nowhere to run or to hide, yet in a moment, Thea realized they did not need to - at least for now. The militia was not attacking and one pronounce figure stepped forward. This...was unlike the Creed, who was bound for chaos among the upper class. They did not deal in spokesmen. Confusion set in as Thea watched the drama unfold - the Stone King’s recognition, the Princess’ vault forward - and the King risen up from Hades.
Blinking rapidly at the circumstance, Thea naturally turned toward her family to see their reactions in time to see Dionysios stepping - no, lunging - forth towards the group.
Thea knew about the blade, even before it was drawn.
“Father!! No!” Thea all but screamed, confused by her father’s purpose as the glimmer of the blade shone in the torchlight. In the walls of their home, there had been a number of confusing actions and occurrences prompted by her father’s ailing mind. Thea found herself constantly trying to solve the puzzle of his addled logic, trying to understand where he mind could be to say and do such things.
...did he think the King an apparition?
The reasoning did not matter as the sight of the cluster of people tangled a moment, and a flash of blood red saw her lose her grip on the Taengean noblewoman. The royal table stood as a barrier between her and the chaos, with Evras also having seen the issue arise and flung herself towards the situation first.
That sight caused another pit of dread to form in her stomach. Evras carried another child, news that was not well known to those in the room at the moment, but in a scuffle of blades and grapples, she and her child were at risk.
Her feet carried her to the situation, bent initially on pulling Evras away from the issue, her voice rapid as she asked, "Did he strike the King??"
Then, Thea watched in horror as the King of Taengea dislocated her father’s arm at the shoulder. At her father’s pained yowl, Thea released an appalled exclamation of her own.
Logic and sentimentality battled in her for a moment. For the past several years, one of her personal drives had been to protect her father not only from others but from himself, the harm his ailing mind could cause in its confusion. Shattered dinner plates and fearful servants had been scattered around their home as a result, including the occasional landing of that very cane on her when she was not dexterous enough to move out of the way. Now, she had failed in doing so.
A shoulder dislocation was not a fatal injury, but Thea feared that her father’s backlash would result in more harm to himself than any others he would attack. Guards were beginning to descend on the situation, and her prime focus returned to her as her hands closed around her younger sister’s arms to pull her away from the fray, despite giving orders that Thea supported.
Once she had tried to urge her sister away from the worst of the scuffle, Thea stepped forward among the masses to see the situation, then to try to see face-to-face with her father. Having served as his unspoken caretaker for so long, it was second nature to her. At their duty, the guards were set to restrain him, though the dislocation of his arm was causing some issue.
Thea tried to step closer, attempting to remain level at the guards. Upon seeing their mishandling of the Thanasi Lord started to lose her collected nature, partially due to the stress of the situation in addition to feeling unwell from either the poison or the charcoal mixture or a combination of the two that left her uncomfortable and irritable. It loosened her tongue as well.
"Use care with him! Please! He is injured...and has not been well of mind," Thea started, feeling bile forming at the base of her throat as she uttered the next words steadily, eyes flicking from her Father to the set of Kings and Princes before her, "His fits take him at times. Trust that I have tried to assist him in this...condition."
Had she not proven her knowledge thusfar on this very evening?
Feeling beyond unsettled at all of this, she met eyes with the royals before her, eyes uncharacterisically pleading and concerned, "Majesties, please understand. He is not in his right mind."
It was a significant admission in many cases. Dionysios held a significant clout as the head of the Dynastia Thanasi and this profession against him felt like a severance between them. In an odd sense, there felt a soft release, to finally admit such things aloud. Above all, Thea wished not to look Nethis or her father in the eyes and instead.
In how many ways has she betrayed her family name in one night?
Still, madness seemed the only explanation, but would they believe it? The vitriol between Houses Kotas and Thanasi had been palpable through the generations. Had their father sealed their fate with this....bizarre assassination attempt?
Stepping back, Thea felt a sense of blankness wash over her. Not a chill or fear or dread….but a simple emptiness as if she had been drained of most of her senses. Part of her remained lightheaded from the attempts to save the once-King and likely from the remnants of poison.
The world seemed to rush and blur around her, so much that she reached an arm out for Evras once again. Whether it was for moral or physical support, she was uncertain, but her eyes met with the King of Taengea, noting the severity of his wound. Thea found that she had a very practical understanding of the human body, but seeing blood seeping rhythmically from the refugee King's arm churned her stomach a moment, causing her to swallow hard.
"Your Majesty, you have saved the King from my father and my father from himself...but, the cut is deep. The bleeding must be stopped." Thea wanted to step forward to help but only made a single step, her arm still partially gripping Evras' forearm. The words in her mouth ran dry a moment, and she looked to Evras as if to have her somehow help find where her words went.
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Everything seemed to happen in an instant. One moment, her hands had been on the face of the King, urging the remedy into his mouth and down his throat to save his life. Then, the air seemed to shake at the echo of the assault on the Dikastirio doors. There were shouts that filled the air, some out of fear and some out of preparation.
In the midst of it all, King Vangelis had managed to draw himself up off the floor, with Thea’s hands flying forward to offer some support. In all the years she had known the man, she knew that telling him to remain still was going to be wasted breath - a valuable commodity that she noticed felt a little shorter in her own chest in that moment.
Hearing her name coupled with that of Lady Selene in the midst of it all, the Crown Prince Zanon had ordered them to escort the king, and another order came from the King’s personal guard, Commander Nike. There was so much that happened in a moment, and in the midst of chaos, the Stone King had managed to hobble and drag himself away from the quarrel and towards the issues.
Thea nearly pursued when she felt a touch on her arm, turning to see Lady Selene. It seemed that they both knew that following after the man who embodied stoic stubbornness would be futile. In response, Thea placed a hand upon Lady Selene’s, a sad attempt at comfort, when a bowl was placed in her hand by her sister, Evras. Her words were sound and Thea accepted the bowl with a nod, watching as the Lady Selene received the same treatment and ensuring that the Lady followed the orders.
Contorting her face at the familiar yet viciously rank flavor of the remedy, Thea kept her thoughts to herself regarding the usefulness of a poison’s antidote when under siege but it was not in her nature to voice such things nor was this the time or the place. Instead, her hands reached out to Lady Selene’s upper arms, sympathetic to the foul taste and also rocked with her own anxiousness of the surrounding chaos.
Halfway holding the Lady in her unsteady stance, Thea was able to see nearly everything from where she now stood.
Her family - Nethis, Dionysios, Mihail, and now Evras and Athanasia, surrounded Dion. Seeing the prickle of fear in her young nephews eyes nearly rent her heart in half, causing an unfamiliar crease of worry at the edge of her eyes. He was a sensitive soul and if they survived this, oh, the nightmares he would have from the trauma.
The guards surrounded the room and both of the eldest Kotas had surged toward the front by the time the doors clattered open. Thea could not help the slight tightening of her grip on Lady Selene when the unmarked militia moved in.
The Creed.
Thea had been there at the Arcus when the regicidal attack in Taengea seemed to start the topple of dominos that sent the kingdoms into chaos. Kings and Crown Princes were what they seemed to be Hades-bent on collecting, and with King Tython’s death, it would not take much for them to collect the pair.
There was nowhere to run or to hide, yet in a moment, Thea realized they did not need to - at least for now. The militia was not attacking and one pronounce figure stepped forward. This...was unlike the Creed, who was bound for chaos among the upper class. They did not deal in spokesmen. Confusion set in as Thea watched the drama unfold - the Stone King’s recognition, the Princess’ vault forward - and the King risen up from Hades.
Blinking rapidly at the circumstance, Thea naturally turned toward her family to see their reactions in time to see Dionysios stepping - no, lunging - forth towards the group.
Thea knew about the blade, even before it was drawn.
“Father!! No!” Thea all but screamed, confused by her father’s purpose as the glimmer of the blade shone in the torchlight. In the walls of their home, there had been a number of confusing actions and occurrences prompted by her father’s ailing mind. Thea found herself constantly trying to solve the puzzle of his addled logic, trying to understand where he mind could be to say and do such things.
...did he think the King an apparition?
The reasoning did not matter as the sight of the cluster of people tangled a moment, and a flash of blood red saw her lose her grip on the Taengean noblewoman. The royal table stood as a barrier between her and the chaos, with Evras also having seen the issue arise and flung herself towards the situation first.
That sight caused another pit of dread to form in her stomach. Evras carried another child, news that was not well known to those in the room at the moment, but in a scuffle of blades and grapples, she and her child were at risk.
Her feet carried her to the situation, bent initially on pulling Evras away from the issue, her voice rapid as she asked, "Did he strike the King??"
Then, Thea watched in horror as the King of Taengea dislocated her father’s arm at the shoulder. At her father’s pained yowl, Thea released an appalled exclamation of her own.
Logic and sentimentality battled in her for a moment. For the past several years, one of her personal drives had been to protect her father not only from others but from himself, the harm his ailing mind could cause in its confusion. Shattered dinner plates and fearful servants had been scattered around their home as a result, including the occasional landing of that very cane on her when she was not dexterous enough to move out of the way. Now, she had failed in doing so.
A shoulder dislocation was not a fatal injury, but Thea feared that her father’s backlash would result in more harm to himself than any others he would attack. Guards were beginning to descend on the situation, and her prime focus returned to her as her hands closed around her younger sister’s arms to pull her away from the fray, despite giving orders that Thea supported.
Once she had tried to urge her sister away from the worst of the scuffle, Thea stepped forward among the masses to see the situation, then to try to see face-to-face with her father. Having served as his unspoken caretaker for so long, it was second nature to her. At their duty, the guards were set to restrain him, though the dislocation of his arm was causing some issue.
Thea tried to step closer, attempting to remain level at the guards. Upon seeing their mishandling of the Thanasi Lord started to lose her collected nature, partially due to the stress of the situation in addition to feeling unwell from either the poison or the charcoal mixture or a combination of the two that left her uncomfortable and irritable. It loosened her tongue as well.
"Use care with him! Please! He is injured...and has not been well of mind," Thea started, feeling bile forming at the base of her throat as she uttered the next words steadily, eyes flicking from her Father to the set of Kings and Princes before her, "His fits take him at times. Trust that I have tried to assist him in this...condition."
Had she not proven her knowledge thusfar on this very evening?
Feeling beyond unsettled at all of this, she met eyes with the royals before her, eyes uncharacterisically pleading and concerned, "Majesties, please understand. He is not in his right mind."
It was a significant admission in many cases. Dionysios held a significant clout as the head of the Dynastia Thanasi and this profession against him felt like a severance between them. In an odd sense, there felt a soft release, to finally admit such things aloud. Above all, Thea wished not to look Nethis or her father in the eyes and instead.
In how many ways has she betrayed her family name in one night?
Still, madness seemed the only explanation, but would they believe it? The vitriol between Houses Kotas and Thanasi had been palpable through the generations. Had their father sealed their fate with this....bizarre assassination attempt?
Stepping back, Thea felt a sense of blankness wash over her. Not a chill or fear or dread….but a simple emptiness as if she had been drained of most of her senses. Part of her remained lightheaded from the attempts to save the once-King and likely from the remnants of poison.
The world seemed to rush and blur around her, so much that she reached an arm out for Evras once again. Whether it was for moral or physical support, she was uncertain, but her eyes met with the King of Taengea, noting the severity of his wound. Thea found that she had a very practical understanding of the human body, but seeing blood seeping rhythmically from the refugee King's arm churned her stomach a moment, causing her to swallow hard.
"Your Majesty, you have saved the King from my father and my father from himself...but, the cut is deep. The bleeding must be stopped." Thea wanted to step forward to help but only made a single step, her arm still partially gripping Evras' forearm. The words in her mouth ran dry a moment, and she looked to Evras as if to have her somehow help find where her words went.
Everything seemed to happen in an instant. One moment, her hands had been on the face of the King, urging the remedy into his mouth and down his throat to save his life. Then, the air seemed to shake at the echo of the assault on the Dikastirio doors. There were shouts that filled the air, some out of fear and some out of preparation.
In the midst of it all, King Vangelis had managed to draw himself up off the floor, with Thea’s hands flying forward to offer some support. In all the years she had known the man, she knew that telling him to remain still was going to be wasted breath - a valuable commodity that she noticed felt a little shorter in her own chest in that moment.
Hearing her name coupled with that of Lady Selene in the midst of it all, the Crown Prince Zanon had ordered them to escort the king, and another order came from the King’s personal guard, Commander Nike. There was so much that happened in a moment, and in the midst of chaos, the Stone King had managed to hobble and drag himself away from the quarrel and towards the issues.
Thea nearly pursued when she felt a touch on her arm, turning to see Lady Selene. It seemed that they both knew that following after the man who embodied stoic stubbornness would be futile. In response, Thea placed a hand upon Lady Selene’s, a sad attempt at comfort, when a bowl was placed in her hand by her sister, Evras. Her words were sound and Thea accepted the bowl with a nod, watching as the Lady Selene received the same treatment and ensuring that the Lady followed the orders.
Contorting her face at the familiar yet viciously rank flavor of the remedy, Thea kept her thoughts to herself regarding the usefulness of a poison’s antidote when under siege but it was not in her nature to voice such things nor was this the time or the place. Instead, her hands reached out to Lady Selene’s upper arms, sympathetic to the foul taste and also rocked with her own anxiousness of the surrounding chaos.
Halfway holding the Lady in her unsteady stance, Thea was able to see nearly everything from where she now stood.
Her family - Nethis, Dionysios, Mihail, and now Evras and Athanasia, surrounded Dion. Seeing the prickle of fear in her young nephews eyes nearly rent her heart in half, causing an unfamiliar crease of worry at the edge of her eyes. He was a sensitive soul and if they survived this, oh, the nightmares he would have from the trauma.
The guards surrounded the room and both of the eldest Kotas had surged toward the front by the time the doors clattered open. Thea could not help the slight tightening of her grip on Lady Selene when the unmarked militia moved in.
The Creed.
Thea had been there at the Arcus when the regicidal attack in Taengea seemed to start the topple of dominos that sent the kingdoms into chaos. Kings and Crown Princes were what they seemed to be Hades-bent on collecting, and with King Tython’s death, it would not take much for them to collect the pair.
There was nowhere to run or to hide, yet in a moment, Thea realized they did not need to - at least for now. The militia was not attacking and one pronounce figure stepped forward. This...was unlike the Creed, who was bound for chaos among the upper class. They did not deal in spokesmen. Confusion set in as Thea watched the drama unfold - the Stone King’s recognition, the Princess’ vault forward - and the King risen up from Hades.
Blinking rapidly at the circumstance, Thea naturally turned toward her family to see their reactions in time to see Dionysios stepping - no, lunging - forth towards the group.
Thea knew about the blade, even before it was drawn.
“Father!! No!” Thea all but screamed, confused by her father’s purpose as the glimmer of the blade shone in the torchlight. In the walls of their home, there had been a number of confusing actions and occurrences prompted by her father’s ailing mind. Thea found herself constantly trying to solve the puzzle of his addled logic, trying to understand where he mind could be to say and do such things.
...did he think the King an apparition?
The reasoning did not matter as the sight of the cluster of people tangled a moment, and a flash of blood red saw her lose her grip on the Taengean noblewoman. The royal table stood as a barrier between her and the chaos, with Evras also having seen the issue arise and flung herself towards the situation first.
That sight caused another pit of dread to form in her stomach. Evras carried another child, news that was not well known to those in the room at the moment, but in a scuffle of blades and grapples, she and her child were at risk.
Her feet carried her to the situation, bent initially on pulling Evras away from the issue, her voice rapid as she asked, "Did he strike the King??"
Then, Thea watched in horror as the King of Taengea dislocated her father’s arm at the shoulder. At her father’s pained yowl, Thea released an appalled exclamation of her own.
Logic and sentimentality battled in her for a moment. For the past several years, one of her personal drives had been to protect her father not only from others but from himself, the harm his ailing mind could cause in its confusion. Shattered dinner plates and fearful servants had been scattered around their home as a result, including the occasional landing of that very cane on her when she was not dexterous enough to move out of the way. Now, she had failed in doing so.
A shoulder dislocation was not a fatal injury, but Thea feared that her father’s backlash would result in more harm to himself than any others he would attack. Guards were beginning to descend on the situation, and her prime focus returned to her as her hands closed around her younger sister’s arms to pull her away from the fray, despite giving orders that Thea supported.
Once she had tried to urge her sister away from the worst of the scuffle, Thea stepped forward among the masses to see the situation, then to try to see face-to-face with her father. Having served as his unspoken caretaker for so long, it was second nature to her. At their duty, the guards were set to restrain him, though the dislocation of his arm was causing some issue.
Thea tried to step closer, attempting to remain level at the guards. Upon seeing their mishandling of the Thanasi Lord started to lose her collected nature, partially due to the stress of the situation in addition to feeling unwell from either the poison or the charcoal mixture or a combination of the two that left her uncomfortable and irritable. It loosened her tongue as well.
"Use care with him! Please! He is injured...and has not been well of mind," Thea started, feeling bile forming at the base of her throat as she uttered the next words steadily, eyes flicking from her Father to the set of Kings and Princes before her, "His fits take him at times. Trust that I have tried to assist him in this...condition."
Had she not proven her knowledge thusfar on this very evening?
Feeling beyond unsettled at all of this, she met eyes with the royals before her, eyes uncharacterisically pleading and concerned, "Majesties, please understand. He is not in his right mind."
It was a significant admission in many cases. Dionysios held a significant clout as the head of the Dynastia Thanasi and this profession against him felt like a severance between them. In an odd sense, there felt a soft release, to finally admit such things aloud. Above all, Thea wished not to look Nethis or her father in the eyes and instead.
In how many ways has she betrayed her family name in one night?
Still, madness seemed the only explanation, but would they believe it? The vitriol between Houses Kotas and Thanasi had been palpable through the generations. Had their father sealed their fate with this....bizarre assassination attempt?
Stepping back, Thea felt a sense of blankness wash over her. Not a chill or fear or dread….but a simple emptiness as if she had been drained of most of her senses. Part of her remained lightheaded from the attempts to save the once-King and likely from the remnants of poison.
The world seemed to rush and blur around her, so much that she reached an arm out for Evras once again. Whether it was for moral or physical support, she was uncertain, but her eyes met with the King of Taengea, noting the severity of his wound. Thea found that she had a very practical understanding of the human body, but seeing blood seeping rhythmically from the refugee King's arm churned her stomach a moment, causing her to swallow hard.
"Your Majesty, you have saved the King from my father and my father from himself...but, the cut is deep. The bleeding must be stopped." Thea wanted to step forward to help but only made a single step, her arm still partially gripping Evras' forearm. The words in her mouth ran dry a moment, and she looked to Evras as if to have her somehow help find where her words went.
Maleos’ adrenaline was running high, and though he was thinking about the ultimate need to save those innocent people behind him, he couldn’t help the thirst for blood that ran through him. Slaughtering his enemies and the enemies of his King was indescribable. He would never admit that to anyone, for fear of coming off as some crazed murderer, but taking someones life was, in his mind at least, the single most powerful thing a person could do. Choosing whether someone lived or died was a thrill like no other had had ever experienced, and he was looking forward to facing who ever it was that came through those doors. He stood there, at the front line, thirsty for combat, a solid statue of strength and skill. He felt invincible in that moment, the sword that was held in one hand, the one that had felt so awkward only moments ago, suddenly felt as if he had been born with it in his hand. An extension of his own arm.
The doors burst open, and he stood ready, unflinching in the face of the wood splinters that burst from the door. One of them nicked his arm, causing a bit of blood to drip down towards his wrist, but he paid it no mind. He was completely and utterly focused on the promise of combat ahead of them. He didn’t move yet, even as the unknown soldiers marched in. He would not make the first move, despite his desire to kill, he did not lose his head. That was one of his biggest strengths and the reason, despite his common blood, he had made it to the rank of Captain, and if he had his way, even higher in the ranks. He was skilled at combat, but he also had a good head on his shoulders and could follow orders well.
He was waiting for the other group to attack, but the attack never came, but to the surprise of him and the other guards who were ready to fight. Instead, the man who seemed to be their leader stepped forward and removed his helmet and Maleos nearly dropped his sword. It couldn’t be. And yet it was, there stood King Tython, the man they all thought to be dead. He was alive and well, and Maleos did not understand. He supposed he was in the same boat as everyone else, he doubted any of them understood what was happening.
Before anyone could gather their thoughts, someone that Maleos did not recognize charged at the King, and Maleos moved to assist, but unfortunately his current position put him too far away to make it over in time to do anything, and so he watched helplessly as the intruder was thwarted. That helpless feeling was not something he enjoyed, and his inner dialogue turned malicious, berating himself for every mistake that he had made in the past few minutes. He knew that he had to jump to action, he could not allow more mistakes to be made, not when so many attempts at taking royal lives had been made in the past few minutes.
He turned to a few guards who looked half competent and motioned them over. They approached and he quickly spoke.
“You three, I want names and identities of everyone that is here. Exact connections of why they are in attendance.” He said, and they stood there for a moment, looking a bit unsure.
“Now.” He commanded, the anger clear in his voice, and they quickly split up, in search of some parchment. Once it was found, they began taking names and information of everyone in the room. Once he was satisfied they had been set to that task, Maleos turned his attentions elsewhere, there was more to be done. Though the King’s men had moved to block the door, Maleos wasn’t satisfied that the room was fully secure. He did not want a single person to get out until this whole thing had been dealt with. He approached a group of guards, and commanded them to stand watch, issuing them to any vulnerable point that might even slightly serve as a hiding spot or escape route. Once more satisfied that this task was being attended to, he once more approached the scene where the King had been attacked, approaching the princess who held the dagger that had been used to attack the King. He ripped a piece of fabric from his own clothing, no longer caring about looks in the moment, and held it out in his hand.
“The dagger.” He said, motioning for her to place the bloodied weapon on the cloth, so his hands wouldn’t be covered in the blood. He would secure the weapon in case it was needed for evidence.
Once that job was done, he tucked the covered dagger into his belt to free his hands. His adrenaline was dying down now, and he was attempting to process everything, though he knew his part was not yet done with.
His next step was to ensure that the innocent people were okay, mostly the women in the room. As if a piece clicked, he remembered Leto had been in attendance and his blue green eyes searched for her with an almost look of panic. It calmed as he spotted her, she seemed unharmed but shaking up. He approached her, with no real regard for titles at the moment or who she was with.
“Leto. Are you hurt?” He asked, knowing it was a real possibility she could have been injured in the panic, or hit by a splinter from the door as he had. The cut on his arm was starting to throb a little, but he paid no attention to it, his own comfort wasn’t even sort of on his mind. There were many others who were not used to this sort of frenzy and danger, and he new the toll it could take on a person if they were not made for such things. He knew Leto was strong, but also that she probably had never faced anything like this.
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Maleos’ adrenaline was running high, and though he was thinking about the ultimate need to save those innocent people behind him, he couldn’t help the thirst for blood that ran through him. Slaughtering his enemies and the enemies of his King was indescribable. He would never admit that to anyone, for fear of coming off as some crazed murderer, but taking someones life was, in his mind at least, the single most powerful thing a person could do. Choosing whether someone lived or died was a thrill like no other had had ever experienced, and he was looking forward to facing who ever it was that came through those doors. He stood there, at the front line, thirsty for combat, a solid statue of strength and skill. He felt invincible in that moment, the sword that was held in one hand, the one that had felt so awkward only moments ago, suddenly felt as if he had been born with it in his hand. An extension of his own arm.
The doors burst open, and he stood ready, unflinching in the face of the wood splinters that burst from the door. One of them nicked his arm, causing a bit of blood to drip down towards his wrist, but he paid it no mind. He was completely and utterly focused on the promise of combat ahead of them. He didn’t move yet, even as the unknown soldiers marched in. He would not make the first move, despite his desire to kill, he did not lose his head. That was one of his biggest strengths and the reason, despite his common blood, he had made it to the rank of Captain, and if he had his way, even higher in the ranks. He was skilled at combat, but he also had a good head on his shoulders and could follow orders well.
He was waiting for the other group to attack, but the attack never came, but to the surprise of him and the other guards who were ready to fight. Instead, the man who seemed to be their leader stepped forward and removed his helmet and Maleos nearly dropped his sword. It couldn’t be. And yet it was, there stood King Tython, the man they all thought to be dead. He was alive and well, and Maleos did not understand. He supposed he was in the same boat as everyone else, he doubted any of them understood what was happening.
Before anyone could gather their thoughts, someone that Maleos did not recognize charged at the King, and Maleos moved to assist, but unfortunately his current position put him too far away to make it over in time to do anything, and so he watched helplessly as the intruder was thwarted. That helpless feeling was not something he enjoyed, and his inner dialogue turned malicious, berating himself for every mistake that he had made in the past few minutes. He knew that he had to jump to action, he could not allow more mistakes to be made, not when so many attempts at taking royal lives had been made in the past few minutes.
He turned to a few guards who looked half competent and motioned them over. They approached and he quickly spoke.
“You three, I want names and identities of everyone that is here. Exact connections of why they are in attendance.” He said, and they stood there for a moment, looking a bit unsure.
“Now.” He commanded, the anger clear in his voice, and they quickly split up, in search of some parchment. Once it was found, they began taking names and information of everyone in the room. Once he was satisfied they had been set to that task, Maleos turned his attentions elsewhere, there was more to be done. Though the King’s men had moved to block the door, Maleos wasn’t satisfied that the room was fully secure. He did not want a single person to get out until this whole thing had been dealt with. He approached a group of guards, and commanded them to stand watch, issuing them to any vulnerable point that might even slightly serve as a hiding spot or escape route. Once more satisfied that this task was being attended to, he once more approached the scene where the King had been attacked, approaching the princess who held the dagger that had been used to attack the King. He ripped a piece of fabric from his own clothing, no longer caring about looks in the moment, and held it out in his hand.
“The dagger.” He said, motioning for her to place the bloodied weapon on the cloth, so his hands wouldn’t be covered in the blood. He would secure the weapon in case it was needed for evidence.
Once that job was done, he tucked the covered dagger into his belt to free his hands. His adrenaline was dying down now, and he was attempting to process everything, though he knew his part was not yet done with.
His next step was to ensure that the innocent people were okay, mostly the women in the room. As if a piece clicked, he remembered Leto had been in attendance and his blue green eyes searched for her with an almost look of panic. It calmed as he spotted her, she seemed unharmed but shaking up. He approached her, with no real regard for titles at the moment or who she was with.
“Leto. Are you hurt?” He asked, knowing it was a real possibility she could have been injured in the panic, or hit by a splinter from the door as he had. The cut on his arm was starting to throb a little, but he paid no attention to it, his own comfort wasn’t even sort of on his mind. There were many others who were not used to this sort of frenzy and danger, and he new the toll it could take on a person if they were not made for such things. He knew Leto was strong, but also that she probably had never faced anything like this.
Maleos’ adrenaline was running high, and though he was thinking about the ultimate need to save those innocent people behind him, he couldn’t help the thirst for blood that ran through him. Slaughtering his enemies and the enemies of his King was indescribable. He would never admit that to anyone, for fear of coming off as some crazed murderer, but taking someones life was, in his mind at least, the single most powerful thing a person could do. Choosing whether someone lived or died was a thrill like no other had had ever experienced, and he was looking forward to facing who ever it was that came through those doors. He stood there, at the front line, thirsty for combat, a solid statue of strength and skill. He felt invincible in that moment, the sword that was held in one hand, the one that had felt so awkward only moments ago, suddenly felt as if he had been born with it in his hand. An extension of his own arm.
The doors burst open, and he stood ready, unflinching in the face of the wood splinters that burst from the door. One of them nicked his arm, causing a bit of blood to drip down towards his wrist, but he paid it no mind. He was completely and utterly focused on the promise of combat ahead of them. He didn’t move yet, even as the unknown soldiers marched in. He would not make the first move, despite his desire to kill, he did not lose his head. That was one of his biggest strengths and the reason, despite his common blood, he had made it to the rank of Captain, and if he had his way, even higher in the ranks. He was skilled at combat, but he also had a good head on his shoulders and could follow orders well.
He was waiting for the other group to attack, but the attack never came, but to the surprise of him and the other guards who were ready to fight. Instead, the man who seemed to be their leader stepped forward and removed his helmet and Maleos nearly dropped his sword. It couldn’t be. And yet it was, there stood King Tython, the man they all thought to be dead. He was alive and well, and Maleos did not understand. He supposed he was in the same boat as everyone else, he doubted any of them understood what was happening.
Before anyone could gather their thoughts, someone that Maleos did not recognize charged at the King, and Maleos moved to assist, but unfortunately his current position put him too far away to make it over in time to do anything, and so he watched helplessly as the intruder was thwarted. That helpless feeling was not something he enjoyed, and his inner dialogue turned malicious, berating himself for every mistake that he had made in the past few minutes. He knew that he had to jump to action, he could not allow more mistakes to be made, not when so many attempts at taking royal lives had been made in the past few minutes.
He turned to a few guards who looked half competent and motioned them over. They approached and he quickly spoke.
“You three, I want names and identities of everyone that is here. Exact connections of why they are in attendance.” He said, and they stood there for a moment, looking a bit unsure.
“Now.” He commanded, the anger clear in his voice, and they quickly split up, in search of some parchment. Once it was found, they began taking names and information of everyone in the room. Once he was satisfied they had been set to that task, Maleos turned his attentions elsewhere, there was more to be done. Though the King’s men had moved to block the door, Maleos wasn’t satisfied that the room was fully secure. He did not want a single person to get out until this whole thing had been dealt with. He approached a group of guards, and commanded them to stand watch, issuing them to any vulnerable point that might even slightly serve as a hiding spot or escape route. Once more satisfied that this task was being attended to, he once more approached the scene where the King had been attacked, approaching the princess who held the dagger that had been used to attack the King. He ripped a piece of fabric from his own clothing, no longer caring about looks in the moment, and held it out in his hand.
“The dagger.” He said, motioning for her to place the bloodied weapon on the cloth, so his hands wouldn’t be covered in the blood. He would secure the weapon in case it was needed for evidence.
Once that job was done, he tucked the covered dagger into his belt to free his hands. His adrenaline was dying down now, and he was attempting to process everything, though he knew his part was not yet done with.
His next step was to ensure that the innocent people were okay, mostly the women in the room. As if a piece clicked, he remembered Leto had been in attendance and his blue green eyes searched for her with an almost look of panic. It calmed as he spotted her, she seemed unharmed but shaking up. He approached her, with no real regard for titles at the moment or who she was with.
“Leto. Are you hurt?” He asked, knowing it was a real possibility she could have been injured in the panic, or hit by a splinter from the door as he had. The cut on his arm was starting to throb a little, but he paid no attention to it, his own comfort wasn’t even sort of on his mind. There were many others who were not used to this sort of frenzy and danger, and he new the toll it could take on a person if they were not made for such things. He knew Leto was strong, but also that she probably had never faced anything like this.
There had been a hope, within the core of her soul, that the action was completed The the near poisoning of the standing King alongside the arrival of the thought dead King was enough for anyone to handle in one evening. It would be talked about for months, and tomorrow it would bring true celebration throughout Colchis. From her past visit, she had picked up quickly that Tython was well-loved in the kingdom. He may have been absent more often than not, but he was fair and his sons did well with Colchis in his stead.
It was undeniable the connect that her and the Lady Thea had made that night. It seemed that everything the Gods had thrown into the room that night, she had been able to handle it because she had been there. She had known exactly what to do to save him, had guided her in assisting with the process and has offered her stability when the men broke down the door to the room. Now that she had a moment to process everything, she remembered that Thea had been apart of Vangelis’ party in Taengea that day. She had been there when the Creed had flipped the whole world upside down.
She knew the same fear that her and Pia had experienced.
Selene had quickly learned that there was an odd bonding power in trauma. And while she hadn’t realized that Thea had a part in it until now, she likely wouldn’t forget it again. Her own arm rotated in her hand so that she was gripping her forearm, hoping that it relayed just how grateful she was to be there with Thea in this moment. Chaos had one more act planned for the night, it would seem. Grabbing a cloth from the table to wipe her mouth, the eldest blonde almost missed the old man grabbing his weapon to charge at the King.
It was as if Chronos slowed down time to allow her to fully take in the event as it happened. She watched him lunge forward, the glint in his eye one of almost psychotic determination. Watched as his children tried, each in their own way, to stop what they could see happening, too. Her hands came up to her mouth in shock as Stephanos stopped him from harming the King, sustaining a large gash in his own arm. Time sped up then, exclamations and motion whirling all around her.
While the majority of them seemed to be set on either holding the old man and his injured arm, securing the room to question whoever had poisoned Vangelis, or the condition of the King. But Selene’s focus was on Vangelis, eyes narrowing in on him as he was trying so hard to maintain his composure. In the months that she had come to know him, she had learned that control was important to him. Not being in control of other, no that didn’t seem to be the case— more wholly in control of himself and his emotions. He wore his mask of the Blood General and Stone Prince with pride. Weakness was not something he wished to show.
But in this moment, she knew he didn’t have much of a choice. Now that he was no longer King, he could relax and focus on himself rather than what had happened.
Grabbing the same cloth and dipping it into water, she wiped her own mouth from the water that was brought from the kitchens and gave it a moment, waiting to see if she experienced any ill effects from it. Once she was satisfied it was safe, she grabbed a different cloth, soaking it in the same water. There was no hesitation as she stepped up to the Prince’s side, letting the world move around them as she focused on him. Handing him the towel, her eyes were full of concern as she looked him over closer. ”Here, Vangelis.” She said quietly, the use of his first name in such a crowd a very telling indicator of just how worried she was for him.
She could have lost him then.
Swallowing down the thought, she instead waited for him to take it from her. Once he did, her eyes glanced down to his forgotten sword on the ground. Knowing that his balance was most likely suffering still, she didn’t wait for permission before kneeling down to pick it up.
The object felt completely foreign to her, large and heavy in her tiny hands. She had no experience with holding anything like it, so the weight of it took her a moment to get used to. She took her time getting up, knowing that her own balance was a little off kilter as well. Hand wrapped around the pummel, blade pointing down to the ground, Selene’s blue eyes met his. ”Your sword, my prince.” She said, wondering if he had yet to realize just what his father’s return meant for him.
He was no longer a King. No longer in charge of everything. No longer mourning and no longer dealing with the weight of the Kingdom on his shoulders. He could relax a bit, could go back to the way things were.
There was so much she wanted to say, and yet, it died on her tongue, unable to say anything as she watched him, as she waited for him to take his sword from her and step up into the action. He was Vangelis, and she had rarely seen him allow anything like this to stop him from doing what had to be done.
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There had been a hope, within the core of her soul, that the action was completed The the near poisoning of the standing King alongside the arrival of the thought dead King was enough for anyone to handle in one evening. It would be talked about for months, and tomorrow it would bring true celebration throughout Colchis. From her past visit, she had picked up quickly that Tython was well-loved in the kingdom. He may have been absent more often than not, but he was fair and his sons did well with Colchis in his stead.
It was undeniable the connect that her and the Lady Thea had made that night. It seemed that everything the Gods had thrown into the room that night, she had been able to handle it because she had been there. She had known exactly what to do to save him, had guided her in assisting with the process and has offered her stability when the men broke down the door to the room. Now that she had a moment to process everything, she remembered that Thea had been apart of Vangelis’ party in Taengea that day. She had been there when the Creed had flipped the whole world upside down.
She knew the same fear that her and Pia had experienced.
Selene had quickly learned that there was an odd bonding power in trauma. And while she hadn’t realized that Thea had a part in it until now, she likely wouldn’t forget it again. Her own arm rotated in her hand so that she was gripping her forearm, hoping that it relayed just how grateful she was to be there with Thea in this moment. Chaos had one more act planned for the night, it would seem. Grabbing a cloth from the table to wipe her mouth, the eldest blonde almost missed the old man grabbing his weapon to charge at the King.
It was as if Chronos slowed down time to allow her to fully take in the event as it happened. She watched him lunge forward, the glint in his eye one of almost psychotic determination. Watched as his children tried, each in their own way, to stop what they could see happening, too. Her hands came up to her mouth in shock as Stephanos stopped him from harming the King, sustaining a large gash in his own arm. Time sped up then, exclamations and motion whirling all around her.
While the majority of them seemed to be set on either holding the old man and his injured arm, securing the room to question whoever had poisoned Vangelis, or the condition of the King. But Selene’s focus was on Vangelis, eyes narrowing in on him as he was trying so hard to maintain his composure. In the months that she had come to know him, she had learned that control was important to him. Not being in control of other, no that didn’t seem to be the case— more wholly in control of himself and his emotions. He wore his mask of the Blood General and Stone Prince with pride. Weakness was not something he wished to show.
But in this moment, she knew he didn’t have much of a choice. Now that he was no longer King, he could relax and focus on himself rather than what had happened.
Grabbing the same cloth and dipping it into water, she wiped her own mouth from the water that was brought from the kitchens and gave it a moment, waiting to see if she experienced any ill effects from it. Once she was satisfied it was safe, she grabbed a different cloth, soaking it in the same water. There was no hesitation as she stepped up to the Prince’s side, letting the world move around them as she focused on him. Handing him the towel, her eyes were full of concern as she looked him over closer. ”Here, Vangelis.” She said quietly, the use of his first name in such a crowd a very telling indicator of just how worried she was for him.
She could have lost him then.
Swallowing down the thought, she instead waited for him to take it from her. Once he did, her eyes glanced down to his forgotten sword on the ground. Knowing that his balance was most likely suffering still, she didn’t wait for permission before kneeling down to pick it up.
The object felt completely foreign to her, large and heavy in her tiny hands. She had no experience with holding anything like it, so the weight of it took her a moment to get used to. She took her time getting up, knowing that her own balance was a little off kilter as well. Hand wrapped around the pummel, blade pointing down to the ground, Selene’s blue eyes met his. ”Your sword, my prince.” She said, wondering if he had yet to realize just what his father’s return meant for him.
He was no longer a King. No longer in charge of everything. No longer mourning and no longer dealing with the weight of the Kingdom on his shoulders. He could relax a bit, could go back to the way things were.
There was so much she wanted to say, and yet, it died on her tongue, unable to say anything as she watched him, as she waited for him to take his sword from her and step up into the action. He was Vangelis, and she had rarely seen him allow anything like this to stop him from doing what had to be done.
There had been a hope, within the core of her soul, that the action was completed The the near poisoning of the standing King alongside the arrival of the thought dead King was enough for anyone to handle in one evening. It would be talked about for months, and tomorrow it would bring true celebration throughout Colchis. From her past visit, she had picked up quickly that Tython was well-loved in the kingdom. He may have been absent more often than not, but he was fair and his sons did well with Colchis in his stead.
It was undeniable the connect that her and the Lady Thea had made that night. It seemed that everything the Gods had thrown into the room that night, she had been able to handle it because she had been there. She had known exactly what to do to save him, had guided her in assisting with the process and has offered her stability when the men broke down the door to the room. Now that she had a moment to process everything, she remembered that Thea had been apart of Vangelis’ party in Taengea that day. She had been there when the Creed had flipped the whole world upside down.
She knew the same fear that her and Pia had experienced.
Selene had quickly learned that there was an odd bonding power in trauma. And while she hadn’t realized that Thea had a part in it until now, she likely wouldn’t forget it again. Her own arm rotated in her hand so that she was gripping her forearm, hoping that it relayed just how grateful she was to be there with Thea in this moment. Chaos had one more act planned for the night, it would seem. Grabbing a cloth from the table to wipe her mouth, the eldest blonde almost missed the old man grabbing his weapon to charge at the King.
It was as if Chronos slowed down time to allow her to fully take in the event as it happened. She watched him lunge forward, the glint in his eye one of almost psychotic determination. Watched as his children tried, each in their own way, to stop what they could see happening, too. Her hands came up to her mouth in shock as Stephanos stopped him from harming the King, sustaining a large gash in his own arm. Time sped up then, exclamations and motion whirling all around her.
While the majority of them seemed to be set on either holding the old man and his injured arm, securing the room to question whoever had poisoned Vangelis, or the condition of the King. But Selene’s focus was on Vangelis, eyes narrowing in on him as he was trying so hard to maintain his composure. In the months that she had come to know him, she had learned that control was important to him. Not being in control of other, no that didn’t seem to be the case— more wholly in control of himself and his emotions. He wore his mask of the Blood General and Stone Prince with pride. Weakness was not something he wished to show.
But in this moment, she knew he didn’t have much of a choice. Now that he was no longer King, he could relax and focus on himself rather than what had happened.
Grabbing the same cloth and dipping it into water, she wiped her own mouth from the water that was brought from the kitchens and gave it a moment, waiting to see if she experienced any ill effects from it. Once she was satisfied it was safe, she grabbed a different cloth, soaking it in the same water. There was no hesitation as she stepped up to the Prince’s side, letting the world move around them as she focused on him. Handing him the towel, her eyes were full of concern as she looked him over closer. ”Here, Vangelis.” She said quietly, the use of his first name in such a crowd a very telling indicator of just how worried she was for him.
She could have lost him then.
Swallowing down the thought, she instead waited for him to take it from her. Once he did, her eyes glanced down to his forgotten sword on the ground. Knowing that his balance was most likely suffering still, she didn’t wait for permission before kneeling down to pick it up.
The object felt completely foreign to her, large and heavy in her tiny hands. She had no experience with holding anything like it, so the weight of it took her a moment to get used to. She took her time getting up, knowing that her own balance was a little off kilter as well. Hand wrapped around the pummel, blade pointing down to the ground, Selene’s blue eyes met his. ”Your sword, my prince.” She said, wondering if he had yet to realize just what his father’s return meant for him.
He was no longer a King. No longer in charge of everything. No longer mourning and no longer dealing with the weight of the Kingdom on his shoulders. He could relax a bit, could go back to the way things were.
There was so much she wanted to say, and yet, it died on her tongue, unable to say anything as she watched him, as she waited for him to take his sword from her and step up into the action. He was Vangelis, and she had rarely seen him allow anything like this to stop him from doing what had to be done.
Her eyes were fixed on her husband as she ran across the room, dodging people as they tried to duck under tables or run into the kitchens. Only once she had barreled into his side and felt his arms wrap around her did she stop, hiding her face in his shoulder for a moment as he shifted them aside. Terrifying flashes of memory and nightmare were impossible to escape as she recalled the attack in the Circus. Their lives had changed forever that day, and it seemed the dark shadows she always feared she saw in the dark had come to haunt them again.
Nodding at his request, she kept a tight hold on him as if to try to prevent him going forward into the fight. There was no use in that, she couldn't stop him from being the soldier he was. It had been his greatest legend before his rise to the throne, what a skilled fighter he was and a cunning general, but none of it made it any easier as his wife to let him go into the thick of the fray. Their earlier fight was for the moment forgotten, truth in feeling coming to the front now that they were faced with death.
"She's trying to find Nana, we have to get out, get Tisiphone and.."
The rambling plan had nowhere else to go and she found she had little breath to continue, trembling as he pushed her behind him and against the wall. Her eyes were on the door as it began to break, mouthing prayers to the gods, asking Ares to give Stephanos strength and victory against their enemy, and Hera to watch over her daughter. If this was their final moment at least they were together, and she could only hope that Alastair had kept Tisiphone safe.
"I love you. I wish I could change-"
Olympia barely had time to acknowledge his words with a soft "I know.." when the doors finally broke. Holding back her own scream she held tight to Stephanos' arm and hid her face against his shoulder blade, determined to stay upright as long as she could when instead silence hit her ears. There was no shrieking sound of death, no roar from soldiers on attack, only the sound of one heavy set of footsteps that drew closer.
Peering out from behind her husband, there was no recognition in the former queen's gaze that seemed to hit the Colchians around them. Only when Athanasia threw herself into the stranger's arms did she realize there was no danger here for them. It seemed impossible, for a king to rise from the dead, but it appeared that was exactly the case for Tython of Kotas, a man she knew only from reputation. Giving a shaky laugh of relief, she loosened her hold on Stephanos slightly but had no time to speak before suddenly things were happening again.
The old man who had stood next to them had bolted forward, the dagger glinting in his hand, and Stephanos had run to intercept him before she could stop him. Taking a few staggering steps forward, Pia watched in horror as the Taengean king prevented the regicide while sustaining a gash that brought with it the sound of ripping flesh that she realized faintly she was far too familiar with. A feral sounding scream broke through the roaring in her ears and it wasn't until she was halfway across the space between them that she realized it had come from her. After everything, and in spite of everything, she couldn't lose him now.
"Stephanos!"
By the time she reached his side amidst the confusion and motion of the others several soldiers had already restrained the mad man, Princess Evras and Lady Thea on hand and scolding the soldiers for handling him too roughly. Rage returned as they defended the man who'd tried to kill one king and succeeded in injuring another, but she could only glare at the other women as she caught hold of her husband once more. The sight of bone as blood began to seep along the seams of the wound made her stomach turn, and she felt herself waver a bit but refused to give in.
Grabbing at the loose material of her chiton, she held fast to his arm and with the excess of her skirts made a poor attempt at some kind of tourniquet, ignoring the squelch of blood as it began to seep through and stain her pale hands. His life was the most important thing, and she cast her eyes about wildly for someone to help them. Surely some physician had to be present who would be able to ensure he didn't bleed to death. Her own recent experiences with blood loss had given her too keen a knowledge on how miserable a death like that could be.
"A healer, we have to find a healer. Come, sit, it will be alright."
This character is currently a work in progress.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Her eyes were fixed on her husband as she ran across the room, dodging people as they tried to duck under tables or run into the kitchens. Only once she had barreled into his side and felt his arms wrap around her did she stop, hiding her face in his shoulder for a moment as he shifted them aside. Terrifying flashes of memory and nightmare were impossible to escape as she recalled the attack in the Circus. Their lives had changed forever that day, and it seemed the dark shadows she always feared she saw in the dark had come to haunt them again.
Nodding at his request, she kept a tight hold on him as if to try to prevent him going forward into the fight. There was no use in that, she couldn't stop him from being the soldier he was. It had been his greatest legend before his rise to the throne, what a skilled fighter he was and a cunning general, but none of it made it any easier as his wife to let him go into the thick of the fray. Their earlier fight was for the moment forgotten, truth in feeling coming to the front now that they were faced with death.
"She's trying to find Nana, we have to get out, get Tisiphone and.."
The rambling plan had nowhere else to go and she found she had little breath to continue, trembling as he pushed her behind him and against the wall. Her eyes were on the door as it began to break, mouthing prayers to the gods, asking Ares to give Stephanos strength and victory against their enemy, and Hera to watch over her daughter. If this was their final moment at least they were together, and she could only hope that Alastair had kept Tisiphone safe.
"I love you. I wish I could change-"
Olympia barely had time to acknowledge his words with a soft "I know.." when the doors finally broke. Holding back her own scream she held tight to Stephanos' arm and hid her face against his shoulder blade, determined to stay upright as long as she could when instead silence hit her ears. There was no shrieking sound of death, no roar from soldiers on attack, only the sound of one heavy set of footsteps that drew closer.
Peering out from behind her husband, there was no recognition in the former queen's gaze that seemed to hit the Colchians around them. Only when Athanasia threw herself into the stranger's arms did she realize there was no danger here for them. It seemed impossible, for a king to rise from the dead, but it appeared that was exactly the case for Tython of Kotas, a man she knew only from reputation. Giving a shaky laugh of relief, she loosened her hold on Stephanos slightly but had no time to speak before suddenly things were happening again.
The old man who had stood next to them had bolted forward, the dagger glinting in his hand, and Stephanos had run to intercept him before she could stop him. Taking a few staggering steps forward, Pia watched in horror as the Taengean king prevented the regicide while sustaining a gash that brought with it the sound of ripping flesh that she realized faintly she was far too familiar with. A feral sounding scream broke through the roaring in her ears and it wasn't until she was halfway across the space between them that she realized it had come from her. After everything, and in spite of everything, she couldn't lose him now.
"Stephanos!"
By the time she reached his side amidst the confusion and motion of the others several soldiers had already restrained the mad man, Princess Evras and Lady Thea on hand and scolding the soldiers for handling him too roughly. Rage returned as they defended the man who'd tried to kill one king and succeeded in injuring another, but she could only glare at the other women as she caught hold of her husband once more. The sight of bone as blood began to seep along the seams of the wound made her stomach turn, and she felt herself waver a bit but refused to give in.
Grabbing at the loose material of her chiton, she held fast to his arm and with the excess of her skirts made a poor attempt at some kind of tourniquet, ignoring the squelch of blood as it began to seep through and stain her pale hands. His life was the most important thing, and she cast her eyes about wildly for someone to help them. Surely some physician had to be present who would be able to ensure he didn't bleed to death. Her own recent experiences with blood loss had given her too keen a knowledge on how miserable a death like that could be.
"A healer, we have to find a healer. Come, sit, it will be alright."
Her eyes were fixed on her husband as she ran across the room, dodging people as they tried to duck under tables or run into the kitchens. Only once she had barreled into his side and felt his arms wrap around her did she stop, hiding her face in his shoulder for a moment as he shifted them aside. Terrifying flashes of memory and nightmare were impossible to escape as she recalled the attack in the Circus. Their lives had changed forever that day, and it seemed the dark shadows she always feared she saw in the dark had come to haunt them again.
Nodding at his request, she kept a tight hold on him as if to try to prevent him going forward into the fight. There was no use in that, she couldn't stop him from being the soldier he was. It had been his greatest legend before his rise to the throne, what a skilled fighter he was and a cunning general, but none of it made it any easier as his wife to let him go into the thick of the fray. Their earlier fight was for the moment forgotten, truth in feeling coming to the front now that they were faced with death.
"She's trying to find Nana, we have to get out, get Tisiphone and.."
The rambling plan had nowhere else to go and she found she had little breath to continue, trembling as he pushed her behind him and against the wall. Her eyes were on the door as it began to break, mouthing prayers to the gods, asking Ares to give Stephanos strength and victory against their enemy, and Hera to watch over her daughter. If this was their final moment at least they were together, and she could only hope that Alastair had kept Tisiphone safe.
"I love you. I wish I could change-"
Olympia barely had time to acknowledge his words with a soft "I know.." when the doors finally broke. Holding back her own scream she held tight to Stephanos' arm and hid her face against his shoulder blade, determined to stay upright as long as she could when instead silence hit her ears. There was no shrieking sound of death, no roar from soldiers on attack, only the sound of one heavy set of footsteps that drew closer.
Peering out from behind her husband, there was no recognition in the former queen's gaze that seemed to hit the Colchians around them. Only when Athanasia threw herself into the stranger's arms did she realize there was no danger here for them. It seemed impossible, for a king to rise from the dead, but it appeared that was exactly the case for Tython of Kotas, a man she knew only from reputation. Giving a shaky laugh of relief, she loosened her hold on Stephanos slightly but had no time to speak before suddenly things were happening again.
The old man who had stood next to them had bolted forward, the dagger glinting in his hand, and Stephanos had run to intercept him before she could stop him. Taking a few staggering steps forward, Pia watched in horror as the Taengean king prevented the regicide while sustaining a gash that brought with it the sound of ripping flesh that she realized faintly she was far too familiar with. A feral sounding scream broke through the roaring in her ears and it wasn't until she was halfway across the space between them that she realized it had come from her. After everything, and in spite of everything, she couldn't lose him now.
"Stephanos!"
By the time she reached his side amidst the confusion and motion of the others several soldiers had already restrained the mad man, Princess Evras and Lady Thea on hand and scolding the soldiers for handling him too roughly. Rage returned as they defended the man who'd tried to kill one king and succeeded in injuring another, but she could only glare at the other women as she caught hold of her husband once more. The sight of bone as blood began to seep along the seams of the wound made her stomach turn, and she felt herself waver a bit but refused to give in.
Grabbing at the loose material of her chiton, she held fast to his arm and with the excess of her skirts made a poor attempt at some kind of tourniquet, ignoring the squelch of blood as it began to seep through and stain her pale hands. His life was the most important thing, and she cast her eyes about wildly for someone to help them. Surely some physician had to be present who would be able to ensure he didn't bleed to death. Her own recent experiences with blood loss had given her too keen a knowledge on how miserable a death like that could be.
"A healer, we have to find a healer. Come, sit, it will be alright."
Leto's eyes remained wide on the door, watching the panicked faces swirl around them and take up what limited arms they could against the intruders. Her breath came rapidly as she saw there was no way out of this, no way to run back toward the kitchens. The nobles in the room seemed to cluster amongst their own, further back along the chamber.
At last, Silanos spoke, urging them to get beneath the tables to hide. One of her hands reached out to touch Lady Iolanthe's arm as she immediately dropped down beneath the table. Leto set a hand on the table to support her own descent down when her hand landed on the handle of a table knife. Almost foolishly, she gripped it and took it beneath the table with her, panic clear in her eyes and yet the metal in the palm of her hand using it as fuel as she made a decision - if they were going down, she was not going to go without a fight. A terrified, flailing fight, more than likely....
Lady Iolanthe's words at her ear were a slight comfort as Leto pulled one of the wooden benches closer in, eyes at the level of the seat where her hand gripped it for support. A soft gasp of a scream escaped her as the doors flung open, eyes trained on Captain Maleos as he stood in the front lines. Fear pitted itself in her stomach as her mind raced forward, thinking itself an oracle, and painting images of bloodshed before it ever occurred - like the vivid passages in the books she hungrily consumed. Would it be so different here, without words to beautify the spill of blood?
And yet, the bloodshed never came. Wide blue eyes watched as the unmarked soldiers fanned out but did not attack, and that a stoic leader walked through a cleared path. Who was this?
Confusion set in even further as King Vangelis dropped his weapon and the Princess came running to hug the figure. Brows drawn into confusion, Leto was certain she had never seen the man in her life, particularly not when Queen Yanni had hosted the only court session prior to this one that she had attended. The late King Tython had been away then....and was now dead, right?
"Lady Iolanthe, who is that...?" Leto asked, knowing that if she asked aloud if it was the dead king that she would sound utterly ridiculous, on top of feeling utterly ridiculous with fear, hiding beneath a table with a dinner knife in her hand.
Before anyone could answer, there was a fray, and a splash of blood scattered and pooling across the situation. A man in black was apprehended, but, he looked like a noble? Was he in disguise? Her mind made up so many stories about the people she did not know, but they remained silent in her mind as she watched the fray dissolve.
It was then that Maleos' booming orders drew a near frightened gasp from her lips, sending her recoiling slightly. It was startling, really. In all their interactions, from childhood to now, he had always been so soft-spoken and gentle. Here? This seemed like a different man - a man possessed by Ares himself. It both frightened and thrilled her to see it, a warring of emotions in her chest, particularly when his eyes met hers and he crossed over to them.
Taking his offered hand, she pushed the bench away and stood, glancing briefly down at the knife in her hand before setting in on top of the table. At first, her words were not coming to her, but she shook her head briefly, licking her lips a moment to urge the words forth.
"No, I'm not hurt," she replied, her voice holding a bit more quiver to it than she would prefer, "Lord Silanos urged us under the table in time, myself and Lady Iolanthe. We're alright. Thank you." An attempt at a nervous pressed smile faltered as she saw the blood down his arm, "You're bleeding. Here."
Reaching back, Leto found a cloth napkin and offered it to him, pressing it against his forearm a moment before her eyes went back to Lady Iolanthe and she offered her hands to assist the lady up. There was still quite the commotion around the returned King, the poisoned King, and the bleeding King, but it was far enough away that she could not hear all that was happening.
"My Lady....this is Captain Maleos," Leto offered lightly before noting the tears on her face, "Are you alright?"
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Leto's eyes remained wide on the door, watching the panicked faces swirl around them and take up what limited arms they could against the intruders. Her breath came rapidly as she saw there was no way out of this, no way to run back toward the kitchens. The nobles in the room seemed to cluster amongst their own, further back along the chamber.
At last, Silanos spoke, urging them to get beneath the tables to hide. One of her hands reached out to touch Lady Iolanthe's arm as she immediately dropped down beneath the table. Leto set a hand on the table to support her own descent down when her hand landed on the handle of a table knife. Almost foolishly, she gripped it and took it beneath the table with her, panic clear in her eyes and yet the metal in the palm of her hand using it as fuel as she made a decision - if they were going down, she was not going to go without a fight. A terrified, flailing fight, more than likely....
Lady Iolanthe's words at her ear were a slight comfort as Leto pulled one of the wooden benches closer in, eyes at the level of the seat where her hand gripped it for support. A soft gasp of a scream escaped her as the doors flung open, eyes trained on Captain Maleos as he stood in the front lines. Fear pitted itself in her stomach as her mind raced forward, thinking itself an oracle, and painting images of bloodshed before it ever occurred - like the vivid passages in the books she hungrily consumed. Would it be so different here, without words to beautify the spill of blood?
And yet, the bloodshed never came. Wide blue eyes watched as the unmarked soldiers fanned out but did not attack, and that a stoic leader walked through a cleared path. Who was this?
Confusion set in even further as King Vangelis dropped his weapon and the Princess came running to hug the figure. Brows drawn into confusion, Leto was certain she had never seen the man in her life, particularly not when Queen Yanni had hosted the only court session prior to this one that she had attended. The late King Tython had been away then....and was now dead, right?
"Lady Iolanthe, who is that...?" Leto asked, knowing that if she asked aloud if it was the dead king that she would sound utterly ridiculous, on top of feeling utterly ridiculous with fear, hiding beneath a table with a dinner knife in her hand.
Before anyone could answer, there was a fray, and a splash of blood scattered and pooling across the situation. A man in black was apprehended, but, he looked like a noble? Was he in disguise? Her mind made up so many stories about the people she did not know, but they remained silent in her mind as she watched the fray dissolve.
It was then that Maleos' booming orders drew a near frightened gasp from her lips, sending her recoiling slightly. It was startling, really. In all their interactions, from childhood to now, he had always been so soft-spoken and gentle. Here? This seemed like a different man - a man possessed by Ares himself. It both frightened and thrilled her to see it, a warring of emotions in her chest, particularly when his eyes met hers and he crossed over to them.
Taking his offered hand, she pushed the bench away and stood, glancing briefly down at the knife in her hand before setting in on top of the table. At first, her words were not coming to her, but she shook her head briefly, licking her lips a moment to urge the words forth.
"No, I'm not hurt," she replied, her voice holding a bit more quiver to it than she would prefer, "Lord Silanos urged us under the table in time, myself and Lady Iolanthe. We're alright. Thank you." An attempt at a nervous pressed smile faltered as she saw the blood down his arm, "You're bleeding. Here."
Reaching back, Leto found a cloth napkin and offered it to him, pressing it against his forearm a moment before her eyes went back to Lady Iolanthe and she offered her hands to assist the lady up. There was still quite the commotion around the returned King, the poisoned King, and the bleeding King, but it was far enough away that she could not hear all that was happening.
"My Lady....this is Captain Maleos," Leto offered lightly before noting the tears on her face, "Are you alright?"
Leto's eyes remained wide on the door, watching the panicked faces swirl around them and take up what limited arms they could against the intruders. Her breath came rapidly as she saw there was no way out of this, no way to run back toward the kitchens. The nobles in the room seemed to cluster amongst their own, further back along the chamber.
At last, Silanos spoke, urging them to get beneath the tables to hide. One of her hands reached out to touch Lady Iolanthe's arm as she immediately dropped down beneath the table. Leto set a hand on the table to support her own descent down when her hand landed on the handle of a table knife. Almost foolishly, she gripped it and took it beneath the table with her, panic clear in her eyes and yet the metal in the palm of her hand using it as fuel as she made a decision - if they were going down, she was not going to go without a fight. A terrified, flailing fight, more than likely....
Lady Iolanthe's words at her ear were a slight comfort as Leto pulled one of the wooden benches closer in, eyes at the level of the seat where her hand gripped it for support. A soft gasp of a scream escaped her as the doors flung open, eyes trained on Captain Maleos as he stood in the front lines. Fear pitted itself in her stomach as her mind raced forward, thinking itself an oracle, and painting images of bloodshed before it ever occurred - like the vivid passages in the books she hungrily consumed. Would it be so different here, without words to beautify the spill of blood?
And yet, the bloodshed never came. Wide blue eyes watched as the unmarked soldiers fanned out but did not attack, and that a stoic leader walked through a cleared path. Who was this?
Confusion set in even further as King Vangelis dropped his weapon and the Princess came running to hug the figure. Brows drawn into confusion, Leto was certain she had never seen the man in her life, particularly not when Queen Yanni had hosted the only court session prior to this one that she had attended. The late King Tython had been away then....and was now dead, right?
"Lady Iolanthe, who is that...?" Leto asked, knowing that if she asked aloud if it was the dead king that she would sound utterly ridiculous, on top of feeling utterly ridiculous with fear, hiding beneath a table with a dinner knife in her hand.
Before anyone could answer, there was a fray, and a splash of blood scattered and pooling across the situation. A man in black was apprehended, but, he looked like a noble? Was he in disguise? Her mind made up so many stories about the people she did not know, but they remained silent in her mind as she watched the fray dissolve.
It was then that Maleos' booming orders drew a near frightened gasp from her lips, sending her recoiling slightly. It was startling, really. In all their interactions, from childhood to now, he had always been so soft-spoken and gentle. Here? This seemed like a different man - a man possessed by Ares himself. It both frightened and thrilled her to see it, a warring of emotions in her chest, particularly when his eyes met hers and he crossed over to them.
Taking his offered hand, she pushed the bench away and stood, glancing briefly down at the knife in her hand before setting in on top of the table. At first, her words were not coming to her, but she shook her head briefly, licking her lips a moment to urge the words forth.
"No, I'm not hurt," she replied, her voice holding a bit more quiver to it than she would prefer, "Lord Silanos urged us under the table in time, myself and Lady Iolanthe. We're alright. Thank you." An attempt at a nervous pressed smile faltered as she saw the blood down his arm, "You're bleeding. Here."
Reaching back, Leto found a cloth napkin and offered it to him, pressing it against his forearm a moment before her eyes went back to Lady Iolanthe and she offered her hands to assist the lady up. There was still quite the commotion around the returned King, the poisoned King, and the bleeding King, but it was far enough away that she could not hear all that was happening.
"My Lady....this is Captain Maleos," Leto offered lightly before noting the tears on her face, "Are you alright?"
Silanos wasn’t sure what protection, if any, might be offered in the women concealing themselves beneath the table, but with little time, other hiding places were scarce. His cousin and Leto were quick to heed his words, but true to form, the Lady Imeeya proved more stubborn, and Sil was less gentle than he might have been in ‘encouraging’ her to comply. “You can’t get to Essa” he said, judging the distance. “ She’ll be fine, think about yourself for a minute and get under the table!”
But though he was ready to wrestle her under there if needed, the blonde noblewoman went easier than he would have thought, and when she was there, Sil positioned the chairs and himself so they were as well hidden as they could be. It was as much as he could do, and the sound of splintering wood heralded it had been done not a moment too soon.
Muscles tensed though he didn't know what for, Silanos waited. In that moment, he began to see the reason for Timaues’ insistence that he become more of a soldier. Even if he were armed, his swordplay was more style over substance, and he had learned the hard way that it did not stand up to those more invested in combat. It left him a little useless now, and all he could do was watch as the soldiers mustered themselves to the shouts of their Captains and everyone else scrambled for whatever safety they could find.
Across the hall, his gaze found his cousin Roxana looking wide eyes and afraid, and Sil took half a step as if he might go to her, but there was a sudden loud bang, the great doors buckling under outside pressure and at once there was a spill of dark clad men into the dikastirio, an expectant thrum of fearful anticipation that seemed to crackle across the hall.
More soldiers filed forwards, and it was as if the room itself held its breath but there was no ringing of metal nor cries of pain. No hostile move at all actually, and Sil felt a flutter of uncertainty. What the fuck was happening? Even when one of the intruders, their leader for all appearances, stepped right up towards the royal family, no one did anything.
Until, with almost agonising slowness, the man removed his helmet, and Sil blinked, his mouth dropping open in shock. The King. There was a peculiar hush, and then the man’s voice broke the silence, and with that one motion, seemed to cut through the tension that had risen to almost shattering point.
“It's the King” Sil had hissed quietly, in case his cousin or Leto and Imeeya could not hear. It seemed that the threat of danger had passed, and he was turning to kick away the bench that fenced in the women when there was yet more commotion, and the Lord turned and tried to make out what had happened. Whatever it was, it was contained, and there was a brisk sort of efficiency in the way that soldiers were now going around taking names and restoring order.
When none other than Captain Maleos had stalked over to where he stood, Sil eyeballed him warily,following his gaze to where he looked, brows shooting up in surprise as the Captain called Leto, brushed past him to help her out from under the table. That there was some familiarity there was obvious, and Sil rolled his eyes at the irony of that even as he helped Iolanthe and Imeeya to stand. He had just reached for the wine abandoned earlier because, fuck knows if he didnt want a drink after all that, when he heard Leto mention his name, and so flashed a tight smile at her and the good Captain who he really didn’t like all that much right now. With no desire to engage in conversation with that little group, he looked to check Lady Imeeya was alright. It was her family after all, at the centre of all this.
“Here” he said, offering the wine, his eyes darkening a little at her hesitation. As if she thought he would be so stupid. “Its fine. Just...it’ll settle your nerves. Then you can go check on your family. Some kind of reunion going on I heard”
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Silanos wasn’t sure what protection, if any, might be offered in the women concealing themselves beneath the table, but with little time, other hiding places were scarce. His cousin and Leto were quick to heed his words, but true to form, the Lady Imeeya proved more stubborn, and Sil was less gentle than he might have been in ‘encouraging’ her to comply. “You can’t get to Essa” he said, judging the distance. “ She’ll be fine, think about yourself for a minute and get under the table!”
But though he was ready to wrestle her under there if needed, the blonde noblewoman went easier than he would have thought, and when she was there, Sil positioned the chairs and himself so they were as well hidden as they could be. It was as much as he could do, and the sound of splintering wood heralded it had been done not a moment too soon.
Muscles tensed though he didn't know what for, Silanos waited. In that moment, he began to see the reason for Timaues’ insistence that he become more of a soldier. Even if he were armed, his swordplay was more style over substance, and he had learned the hard way that it did not stand up to those more invested in combat. It left him a little useless now, and all he could do was watch as the soldiers mustered themselves to the shouts of their Captains and everyone else scrambled for whatever safety they could find.
Across the hall, his gaze found his cousin Roxana looking wide eyes and afraid, and Sil took half a step as if he might go to her, but there was a sudden loud bang, the great doors buckling under outside pressure and at once there was a spill of dark clad men into the dikastirio, an expectant thrum of fearful anticipation that seemed to crackle across the hall.
More soldiers filed forwards, and it was as if the room itself held its breath but there was no ringing of metal nor cries of pain. No hostile move at all actually, and Sil felt a flutter of uncertainty. What the fuck was happening? Even when one of the intruders, their leader for all appearances, stepped right up towards the royal family, no one did anything.
Until, with almost agonising slowness, the man removed his helmet, and Sil blinked, his mouth dropping open in shock. The King. There was a peculiar hush, and then the man’s voice broke the silence, and with that one motion, seemed to cut through the tension that had risen to almost shattering point.
“It's the King” Sil had hissed quietly, in case his cousin or Leto and Imeeya could not hear. It seemed that the threat of danger had passed, and he was turning to kick away the bench that fenced in the women when there was yet more commotion, and the Lord turned and tried to make out what had happened. Whatever it was, it was contained, and there was a brisk sort of efficiency in the way that soldiers were now going around taking names and restoring order.
When none other than Captain Maleos had stalked over to where he stood, Sil eyeballed him warily,following his gaze to where he looked, brows shooting up in surprise as the Captain called Leto, brushed past him to help her out from under the table. That there was some familiarity there was obvious, and Sil rolled his eyes at the irony of that even as he helped Iolanthe and Imeeya to stand. He had just reached for the wine abandoned earlier because, fuck knows if he didnt want a drink after all that, when he heard Leto mention his name, and so flashed a tight smile at her and the good Captain who he really didn’t like all that much right now. With no desire to engage in conversation with that little group, he looked to check Lady Imeeya was alright. It was her family after all, at the centre of all this.
“Here” he said, offering the wine, his eyes darkening a little at her hesitation. As if she thought he would be so stupid. “Its fine. Just...it’ll settle your nerves. Then you can go check on your family. Some kind of reunion going on I heard”
Silanos wasn’t sure what protection, if any, might be offered in the women concealing themselves beneath the table, but with little time, other hiding places were scarce. His cousin and Leto were quick to heed his words, but true to form, the Lady Imeeya proved more stubborn, and Sil was less gentle than he might have been in ‘encouraging’ her to comply. “You can’t get to Essa” he said, judging the distance. “ She’ll be fine, think about yourself for a minute and get under the table!”
But though he was ready to wrestle her under there if needed, the blonde noblewoman went easier than he would have thought, and when she was there, Sil positioned the chairs and himself so they were as well hidden as they could be. It was as much as he could do, and the sound of splintering wood heralded it had been done not a moment too soon.
Muscles tensed though he didn't know what for, Silanos waited. In that moment, he began to see the reason for Timaues’ insistence that he become more of a soldier. Even if he were armed, his swordplay was more style over substance, and he had learned the hard way that it did not stand up to those more invested in combat. It left him a little useless now, and all he could do was watch as the soldiers mustered themselves to the shouts of their Captains and everyone else scrambled for whatever safety they could find.
Across the hall, his gaze found his cousin Roxana looking wide eyes and afraid, and Sil took half a step as if he might go to her, but there was a sudden loud bang, the great doors buckling under outside pressure and at once there was a spill of dark clad men into the dikastirio, an expectant thrum of fearful anticipation that seemed to crackle across the hall.
More soldiers filed forwards, and it was as if the room itself held its breath but there was no ringing of metal nor cries of pain. No hostile move at all actually, and Sil felt a flutter of uncertainty. What the fuck was happening? Even when one of the intruders, their leader for all appearances, stepped right up towards the royal family, no one did anything.
Until, with almost agonising slowness, the man removed his helmet, and Sil blinked, his mouth dropping open in shock. The King. There was a peculiar hush, and then the man’s voice broke the silence, and with that one motion, seemed to cut through the tension that had risen to almost shattering point.
“It's the King” Sil had hissed quietly, in case his cousin or Leto and Imeeya could not hear. It seemed that the threat of danger had passed, and he was turning to kick away the bench that fenced in the women when there was yet more commotion, and the Lord turned and tried to make out what had happened. Whatever it was, it was contained, and there was a brisk sort of efficiency in the way that soldiers were now going around taking names and restoring order.
When none other than Captain Maleos had stalked over to where he stood, Sil eyeballed him warily,following his gaze to where he looked, brows shooting up in surprise as the Captain called Leto, brushed past him to help her out from under the table. That there was some familiarity there was obvious, and Sil rolled his eyes at the irony of that even as he helped Iolanthe and Imeeya to stand. He had just reached for the wine abandoned earlier because, fuck knows if he didnt want a drink after all that, when he heard Leto mention his name, and so flashed a tight smile at her and the good Captain who he really didn’t like all that much right now. With no desire to engage in conversation with that little group, he looked to check Lady Imeeya was alright. It was her family after all, at the centre of all this.
“Here” he said, offering the wine, his eyes darkening a little at her hesitation. As if she thought he would be so stupid. “Its fine. Just...it’ll settle your nerves. Then you can go check on your family. Some kind of reunion going on I heard”
Imeeya could hear the thuds as the door was beaten on. In fact, she was so close that she could hear the creak as the hinges began to give, or at least she would have sworn that she could. As the door finally burst open she retreated further beneath the table shielding her head as if that might be able to help her, but the clash of battle never came. Instead, a voice spoke out to those around them, something about it sounded familiar, so she looked up just in time to see the man remove his helmet. It was the King! He was back. As if on cue, Silanos hissed the same thing in her ear that she had been thinking.
The sudden relief of no longer being in danger, combined with the relief of seeing her uncle alive and well after everyone had thought him dead brought tears to her eyes. She fought the tears, not wanting to let any of the others see her in this moment of weakness. Then her cousin ran into her uncle’s arms and she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She knew that feeling of wishing that your father would one day just walk through the door. She’d lost her own father at an age where she hadn’t quite realized what that meant and had spent weeks expecting that her father was going to come home one day. It was a feeling from years ago that she had thought she had completely forgotten, and yet this brought all those complicated feelings flooding back and she found herself sobbing into her hands.
She was so much inside her own head that she only looked up when she heard a gasp from the people around her. She looked up to see that the king had been attacked and Stephanos had been injured. There was a lot to take in and she found herself almost numb to all of the things that had just happened. Here she was still hiding under a table, when there was nothing that was still placing her in any danger. A hand was offered to help her out from under the table and she accepted it before realizing whose it was. She might have slapped it away had she realized that it belonged to Silanos, but it was too late now. At the very least, she could prevent him from seeing her in tears. She wiped her face with the back of her hand.
Then he decided to offer her a glass of wine. After what happened the last time he had offered her wine. The nerve of him. She took the glass of wine from him for just long enough to throw the wine back on him. “I can get my own wine, thanks.” If she could be anywhere else right now, Imeeya wanted to be there. She looked up to see that Asia was now standing with Mihail of Thanasi. After what had just happened, Imeeya was not pleased with this turn of events. Imeeya hurried over to her cousin’s side. “Asia, is he bothering you?” Imeeya asked. She rounded on Mihail eying him accusingly.
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Imeeya could hear the thuds as the door was beaten on. In fact, she was so close that she could hear the creak as the hinges began to give, or at least she would have sworn that she could. As the door finally burst open she retreated further beneath the table shielding her head as if that might be able to help her, but the clash of battle never came. Instead, a voice spoke out to those around them, something about it sounded familiar, so she looked up just in time to see the man remove his helmet. It was the King! He was back. As if on cue, Silanos hissed the same thing in her ear that she had been thinking.
The sudden relief of no longer being in danger, combined with the relief of seeing her uncle alive and well after everyone had thought him dead brought tears to her eyes. She fought the tears, not wanting to let any of the others see her in this moment of weakness. Then her cousin ran into her uncle’s arms and she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She knew that feeling of wishing that your father would one day just walk through the door. She’d lost her own father at an age where she hadn’t quite realized what that meant and had spent weeks expecting that her father was going to come home one day. It was a feeling from years ago that she had thought she had completely forgotten, and yet this brought all those complicated feelings flooding back and she found herself sobbing into her hands.
She was so much inside her own head that she only looked up when she heard a gasp from the people around her. She looked up to see that the king had been attacked and Stephanos had been injured. There was a lot to take in and she found herself almost numb to all of the things that had just happened. Here she was still hiding under a table, when there was nothing that was still placing her in any danger. A hand was offered to help her out from under the table and she accepted it before realizing whose it was. She might have slapped it away had she realized that it belonged to Silanos, but it was too late now. At the very least, she could prevent him from seeing her in tears. She wiped her face with the back of her hand.
Then he decided to offer her a glass of wine. After what happened the last time he had offered her wine. The nerve of him. She took the glass of wine from him for just long enough to throw the wine back on him. “I can get my own wine, thanks.” If she could be anywhere else right now, Imeeya wanted to be there. She looked up to see that Asia was now standing with Mihail of Thanasi. After what had just happened, Imeeya was not pleased with this turn of events. Imeeya hurried over to her cousin’s side. “Asia, is he bothering you?” Imeeya asked. She rounded on Mihail eying him accusingly.
Imeeya could hear the thuds as the door was beaten on. In fact, she was so close that she could hear the creak as the hinges began to give, or at least she would have sworn that she could. As the door finally burst open she retreated further beneath the table shielding her head as if that might be able to help her, but the clash of battle never came. Instead, a voice spoke out to those around them, something about it sounded familiar, so she looked up just in time to see the man remove his helmet. It was the King! He was back. As if on cue, Silanos hissed the same thing in her ear that she had been thinking.
The sudden relief of no longer being in danger, combined with the relief of seeing her uncle alive and well after everyone had thought him dead brought tears to her eyes. She fought the tears, not wanting to let any of the others see her in this moment of weakness. Then her cousin ran into her uncle’s arms and she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She knew that feeling of wishing that your father would one day just walk through the door. She’d lost her own father at an age where she hadn’t quite realized what that meant and had spent weeks expecting that her father was going to come home one day. It was a feeling from years ago that she had thought she had completely forgotten, and yet this brought all those complicated feelings flooding back and she found herself sobbing into her hands.
She was so much inside her own head that she only looked up when she heard a gasp from the people around her. She looked up to see that the king had been attacked and Stephanos had been injured. There was a lot to take in and she found herself almost numb to all of the things that had just happened. Here she was still hiding under a table, when there was nothing that was still placing her in any danger. A hand was offered to help her out from under the table and she accepted it before realizing whose it was. She might have slapped it away had she realized that it belonged to Silanos, but it was too late now. At the very least, she could prevent him from seeing her in tears. She wiped her face with the back of her hand.
Then he decided to offer her a glass of wine. After what happened the last time he had offered her wine. The nerve of him. She took the glass of wine from him for just long enough to throw the wine back on him. “I can get my own wine, thanks.” If she could be anywhere else right now, Imeeya wanted to be there. She looked up to see that Asia was now standing with Mihail of Thanasi. After what had just happened, Imeeya was not pleased with this turn of events. Imeeya hurried over to her cousin’s side. “Asia, is he bothering you?” Imeeya asked. She rounded on Mihail eying him accusingly.
All of the grief and anxiety Athanasia had felt during the past few days, as well as the tension that had her body strung as tight as the string on her bow, melted away as she clung to the father she had thought that she had lost forever. She couldn't remember being happier than she was at this moment, with his arms wrapped affectionately around her waist. Ordinarily, she would have scoffed if he had held her like this, but now she wished that she could remain in his embrace forever.
So much joy filled her heart that she feared it would burst. On the ship after the daughter of King Stephanos and Queen Olympia had been born and they had seemed disappointed that she was a girl, the princess had realized how lucky she was to have such doting parents who loved her as she was. She had promised herself that she would let them know how much she appreciated them and would never again complain when they coddled and spoiled her.
But with news of her father's death, that chance had been cruelly ripped away from her. She could still show her mother how much she cared about her, but her father would never know how she was trying to change. Now the opportunity had been returned to her, and she intended to make the most of it. Athanasia would never give up her unconventional ways or let them curtail her freedom, but she could try to please them more than she had done in the past.
She sighed happily when her father kissed the top of her hair, closing her eyes and breathing in the familiar scent of him. Yet suddenly, he thrust her behind him and her eyes flew open as she stumbled backwards. The blood drained from her face when she saw the elderly Lord of Thanasi hurtling toward them, brandishing a silver dagger that gleamed in the light of the chamber. No! She would not lose him again. Colchis would not mourn their King a second time. Her fists clenched, wishing that she had kept hold of the knives she planned to use against the invaders. There was nothing she could do was watch and pray …
Her prayers were answered in the form of King Stephanos who pulled Dionysios back. The old man struck at him and she saw blood spurting from the Taengean King's arm. Though he was injured, he didn't let go of her father's would-be killer, but dislodged his shoulder so that he would drop the dagger. Soldiers immediately surrounded her father and subdued the Thanasi lord, not caring that he had been hurt. It was difficult for Athanasia to have any sympathy for him either. She had been afraid of him ever since she saw him at Zanon and Evras' wedding and it was easy to believe him capable of violence … and even treason.
Before she could consider his fate further, Lord Mihail was by her side, asking if she was all right. Another woman might have recoiled from any relative of the man who had tried to murder her father, but the young princess did not hold sons responsible for their father's crimes. Mihail couldn't have known what his father planned to do, if it had been planned at all.
“I'm fine, my lord,” she replied. “And the King, my father, is also unharmed.” She didn't draw back when he placed a hand on her arm. It was a comforting gesture, and she appreciated it. She listened as he explained that his father was not well and had not been thinking straight. There had been rage in the elder Thanasi's eyes, perhaps madness as well. Maybe he hadn't known what he was doing. She looked over at him, and at King Stephanos, who was being tended by his wife and Lady Thea. Later, when all this was over, she would thank him for saving her father's life.
“It wasn't your fault,” she told Mihail. “There is no need to apologize. If he is mad, perhaps his actions will have few repercussions.” If he was found guilty, he would most likely be executed and his family stripped of their titles, wealth, and lands, maybe even exiled. In her opinion, Mihail had more to worry about that she did, and yet here he was, more concerned about her than he was about himself or his own father. That said a lot about the kind of man he was. “I will tell my father that he is unwell. Perhaps it will help. He listens to me. And there is also the fact that your sister saved my brother's life.”
Her cousin's familiar voice spoke behind her and she whirled around to see Imeeya glaring at Mihail, as if he was to blame for everything. Considering what she had been accused of, she had no right to treat him like that. Athanasia's already strained composure snapped. “No, Imeeya, he's not bothering me. You are! Go find your pirate friend and leave me alone!”
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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All of the grief and anxiety Athanasia had felt during the past few days, as well as the tension that had her body strung as tight as the string on her bow, melted away as she clung to the father she had thought that she had lost forever. She couldn't remember being happier than she was at this moment, with his arms wrapped affectionately around her waist. Ordinarily, she would have scoffed if he had held her like this, but now she wished that she could remain in his embrace forever.
So much joy filled her heart that she feared it would burst. On the ship after the daughter of King Stephanos and Queen Olympia had been born and they had seemed disappointed that she was a girl, the princess had realized how lucky she was to have such doting parents who loved her as she was. She had promised herself that she would let them know how much she appreciated them and would never again complain when they coddled and spoiled her.
But with news of her father's death, that chance had been cruelly ripped away from her. She could still show her mother how much she cared about her, but her father would never know how she was trying to change. Now the opportunity had been returned to her, and she intended to make the most of it. Athanasia would never give up her unconventional ways or let them curtail her freedom, but she could try to please them more than she had done in the past.
She sighed happily when her father kissed the top of her hair, closing her eyes and breathing in the familiar scent of him. Yet suddenly, he thrust her behind him and her eyes flew open as she stumbled backwards. The blood drained from her face when she saw the elderly Lord of Thanasi hurtling toward them, brandishing a silver dagger that gleamed in the light of the chamber. No! She would not lose him again. Colchis would not mourn their King a second time. Her fists clenched, wishing that she had kept hold of the knives she planned to use against the invaders. There was nothing she could do was watch and pray …
Her prayers were answered in the form of King Stephanos who pulled Dionysios back. The old man struck at him and she saw blood spurting from the Taengean King's arm. Though he was injured, he didn't let go of her father's would-be killer, but dislodged his shoulder so that he would drop the dagger. Soldiers immediately surrounded her father and subdued the Thanasi lord, not caring that he had been hurt. It was difficult for Athanasia to have any sympathy for him either. She had been afraid of him ever since she saw him at Zanon and Evras' wedding and it was easy to believe him capable of violence … and even treason.
Before she could consider his fate further, Lord Mihail was by her side, asking if she was all right. Another woman might have recoiled from any relative of the man who had tried to murder her father, but the young princess did not hold sons responsible for their father's crimes. Mihail couldn't have known what his father planned to do, if it had been planned at all.
“I'm fine, my lord,” she replied. “And the King, my father, is also unharmed.” She didn't draw back when he placed a hand on her arm. It was a comforting gesture, and she appreciated it. She listened as he explained that his father was not well and had not been thinking straight. There had been rage in the elder Thanasi's eyes, perhaps madness as well. Maybe he hadn't known what he was doing. She looked over at him, and at King Stephanos, who was being tended by his wife and Lady Thea. Later, when all this was over, she would thank him for saving her father's life.
“It wasn't your fault,” she told Mihail. “There is no need to apologize. If he is mad, perhaps his actions will have few repercussions.” If he was found guilty, he would most likely be executed and his family stripped of their titles, wealth, and lands, maybe even exiled. In her opinion, Mihail had more to worry about that she did, and yet here he was, more concerned about her than he was about himself or his own father. That said a lot about the kind of man he was. “I will tell my father that he is unwell. Perhaps it will help. He listens to me. And there is also the fact that your sister saved my brother's life.”
Her cousin's familiar voice spoke behind her and she whirled around to see Imeeya glaring at Mihail, as if he was to blame for everything. Considering what she had been accused of, she had no right to treat him like that. Athanasia's already strained composure snapped. “No, Imeeya, he's not bothering me. You are! Go find your pirate friend and leave me alone!”
All of the grief and anxiety Athanasia had felt during the past few days, as well as the tension that had her body strung as tight as the string on her bow, melted away as she clung to the father she had thought that she had lost forever. She couldn't remember being happier than she was at this moment, with his arms wrapped affectionately around her waist. Ordinarily, she would have scoffed if he had held her like this, but now she wished that she could remain in his embrace forever.
So much joy filled her heart that she feared it would burst. On the ship after the daughter of King Stephanos and Queen Olympia had been born and they had seemed disappointed that she was a girl, the princess had realized how lucky she was to have such doting parents who loved her as she was. She had promised herself that she would let them know how much she appreciated them and would never again complain when they coddled and spoiled her.
But with news of her father's death, that chance had been cruelly ripped away from her. She could still show her mother how much she cared about her, but her father would never know how she was trying to change. Now the opportunity had been returned to her, and she intended to make the most of it. Athanasia would never give up her unconventional ways or let them curtail her freedom, but she could try to please them more than she had done in the past.
She sighed happily when her father kissed the top of her hair, closing her eyes and breathing in the familiar scent of him. Yet suddenly, he thrust her behind him and her eyes flew open as she stumbled backwards. The blood drained from her face when she saw the elderly Lord of Thanasi hurtling toward them, brandishing a silver dagger that gleamed in the light of the chamber. No! She would not lose him again. Colchis would not mourn their King a second time. Her fists clenched, wishing that she had kept hold of the knives she planned to use against the invaders. There was nothing she could do was watch and pray …
Her prayers were answered in the form of King Stephanos who pulled Dionysios back. The old man struck at him and she saw blood spurting from the Taengean King's arm. Though he was injured, he didn't let go of her father's would-be killer, but dislodged his shoulder so that he would drop the dagger. Soldiers immediately surrounded her father and subdued the Thanasi lord, not caring that he had been hurt. It was difficult for Athanasia to have any sympathy for him either. She had been afraid of him ever since she saw him at Zanon and Evras' wedding and it was easy to believe him capable of violence … and even treason.
Before she could consider his fate further, Lord Mihail was by her side, asking if she was all right. Another woman might have recoiled from any relative of the man who had tried to murder her father, but the young princess did not hold sons responsible for their father's crimes. Mihail couldn't have known what his father planned to do, if it had been planned at all.
“I'm fine, my lord,” she replied. “And the King, my father, is also unharmed.” She didn't draw back when he placed a hand on her arm. It was a comforting gesture, and she appreciated it. She listened as he explained that his father was not well and had not been thinking straight. There had been rage in the elder Thanasi's eyes, perhaps madness as well. Maybe he hadn't known what he was doing. She looked over at him, and at King Stephanos, who was being tended by his wife and Lady Thea. Later, when all this was over, she would thank him for saving her father's life.
“It wasn't your fault,” she told Mihail. “There is no need to apologize. If he is mad, perhaps his actions will have few repercussions.” If he was found guilty, he would most likely be executed and his family stripped of their titles, wealth, and lands, maybe even exiled. In her opinion, Mihail had more to worry about that she did, and yet here he was, more concerned about her than he was about himself or his own father. That said a lot about the kind of man he was. “I will tell my father that he is unwell. Perhaps it will help. He listens to me. And there is also the fact that your sister saved my brother's life.”
Her cousin's familiar voice spoke behind her and she whirled around to see Imeeya glaring at Mihail, as if he was to blame for everything. Considering what she had been accused of, she had no right to treat him like that. Athanasia's already strained composure snapped. “No, Imeeya, he's not bothering me. You are! Go find your pirate friend and leave me alone!”