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”Maybe, but they’ll get to see your pretty face. The ladies might just swoon instead. You never know until you try it!”
Grinning at his brother, he allowed the elder out of the carriage first before descending after him and taking his usual place at his side. The people were well used to seeing the pair of them in such a pose by now, with Zanon always taking up his brother’s lefthand side as defense and support. There were quite a few more people than he had expected gathering around, but then again the Colchian people did love a good display of strength and they were going to get one. It wasn’t often they got to see their princes in action since the Kotas family had been so far strong enough to keep conflict from their walls.
An unknown man’s approach was marked by the second, and he gave a nod of his head of greeting as Achilleas of Mikaelidas introduced himself. He had heard tales of the other man’s prowess with a sword, and he itched to see the battle that might take place if Vangelis and Achilleas were ever pitted against one another. There was also a rumor though that the prince had never been defeated, and though he didn’t know the particulars, it would not do for the Colchian people to see their crown prince beaten by anyone, especially a noble. The second, however, that was another tale.
”My lord Achilleas, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I believe we have cousins in common in the Dimitrou family, so we welcome you as cousin as well.” It was a far more flowery response than the terse answers Vangelis had given, but Zanon had enough experience with his brother to know that there was already a budding respect for the other man even if there wasn’t much emotion shown there. That was what Zan was for, he was the emotional side of the coin to make up for the stoic strength Vangelis had, and vice versa. They were a strong pair, and though he hoped it was a time off, he knew that his place at Vangelis’ side would make Colchis unstoppable.
”I do intend to take part, why deny the people the spectacle they have come for?” He grinned brightly at the others and looked around as if sizing up the competition.
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Mar 15, 2020 15:27:13 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Mar 15, 2020 15:27:13 GMT
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”Maybe, but they’ll get to see your pretty face. The ladies might just swoon instead. You never know until you try it!”
Grinning at his brother, he allowed the elder out of the carriage first before descending after him and taking his usual place at his side. The people were well used to seeing the pair of them in such a pose by now, with Zanon always taking up his brother’s lefthand side as defense and support. There were quite a few more people than he had expected gathering around, but then again the Colchian people did love a good display of strength and they were going to get one. It wasn’t often they got to see their princes in action since the Kotas family had been so far strong enough to keep conflict from their walls.
An unknown man’s approach was marked by the second, and he gave a nod of his head of greeting as Achilleas of Mikaelidas introduced himself. He had heard tales of the other man’s prowess with a sword, and he itched to see the battle that might take place if Vangelis and Achilleas were ever pitted against one another. There was also a rumor though that the prince had never been defeated, and though he didn’t know the particulars, it would not do for the Colchian people to see their crown prince beaten by anyone, especially a noble. The second, however, that was another tale.
”My lord Achilleas, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I believe we have cousins in common in the Dimitrou family, so we welcome you as cousin as well.” It was a far more flowery response than the terse answers Vangelis had given, but Zanon had enough experience with his brother to know that there was already a budding respect for the other man even if there wasn’t much emotion shown there. That was what Zan was for, he was the emotional side of the coin to make up for the stoic strength Vangelis had, and vice versa. They were a strong pair, and though he hoped it was a time off, he knew that his place at Vangelis’ side would make Colchis unstoppable.
”I do intend to take part, why deny the people the spectacle they have come for?” He grinned brightly at the others and looked around as if sizing up the competition.
”Maybe, but they’ll get to see your pretty face. The ladies might just swoon instead. You never know until you try it!”
Grinning at his brother, he allowed the elder out of the carriage first before descending after him and taking his usual place at his side. The people were well used to seeing the pair of them in such a pose by now, with Zanon always taking up his brother’s lefthand side as defense and support. There were quite a few more people than he had expected gathering around, but then again the Colchian people did love a good display of strength and they were going to get one. It wasn’t often they got to see their princes in action since the Kotas family had been so far strong enough to keep conflict from their walls.
An unknown man’s approach was marked by the second, and he gave a nod of his head of greeting as Achilleas of Mikaelidas introduced himself. He had heard tales of the other man’s prowess with a sword, and he itched to see the battle that might take place if Vangelis and Achilleas were ever pitted against one another. There was also a rumor though that the prince had never been defeated, and though he didn’t know the particulars, it would not do for the Colchian people to see their crown prince beaten by anyone, especially a noble. The second, however, that was another tale.
”My lord Achilleas, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I believe we have cousins in common in the Dimitrou family, so we welcome you as cousin as well.” It was a far more flowery response than the terse answers Vangelis had given, but Zanon had enough experience with his brother to know that there was already a budding respect for the other man even if there wasn’t much emotion shown there. That was what Zan was for, he was the emotional side of the coin to make up for the stoic strength Vangelis had, and vice versa. They were a strong pair, and though he hoped it was a time off, he knew that his place at Vangelis’ side would make Colchis unstoppable.
”I do intend to take part, why deny the people the spectacle they have come for?” He grinned brightly at the others and looked around as if sizing up the competition.
Achilleas himself could not be considered a verbose man, but as he faced the Colchian Prince, he realised that perhaps in comparison to Vangleis of Kotas, he might be called so. Blinking at the brief and curt response, he thought for a moment he had erred somehow, neglected some form of etiquette. A little unsettled, he still followed the man’s gaze as he turned it over the gathered crowd, before offering a tentative smile, and then turning his focus to the other Prince, who to his relief was a little less..minimal in his response.
“That we do, your highness” Achilleas affirmed of their distant familial connection. He did not know the Colchian Queen particularly well, like her brother she was a good deal older than the Mikaelidas Lord, and she had been gone to Colchis when Achilleas was just a boy. “Still, I think myself lucky to have the opportunity to acquaint myself with you both away from the field of battle, where I fear most of our brief encounters have been.”
The Taengean was not the only one whose reputation preceded him, indeed Achilleas could not deny some slight curiosity into the ‘Blood General’ had been what had motivated him to make the journey to this event, if not to Colchis itself. The Kotas Princes all were said to be men who held their own in the landscape of war, and that was something Achilleas could respect. Looking back to Vangelis as the man asked if he planned to compete in the event, the Taengean frowned a moment.
He had not intended any such thing when he had arrived at the gathering, thinking instead that he would spectate, make his introductions to the Prince’s and then leave again. But he had also not intended for that unfortunate run with his past, and now, as he turned the idea over in his mind, Achilleas wondered if it would not be a fitting relief from the tension that now drew his shoulders tight. His words then as he made his answer settled into resolve by the time he finished.
“I confess I had not thought to, but then I did not think I would be amongst such illustrious company so perhaps? If you do not think it will cause dissent to have Taengea field a representative?”
He doubted the Crown Prince would have asked the question if such were the case, but Achilleas had previous experience of how quickly what should be friendly sparring could turn unfriendly when on Colchian soil. That turned his thoughts to the man he had just left behind him, and Achilleas realised he would hardly be keeping to that hastily thrown out promise. Damocles himself would likely be competing too. But perhaps that was what was needed, and could even clear the air? Letting the man vent some of his anger in a more controlled manner might be helpful. It was a question that would be answered soon enough.
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Mar 15, 2020 20:23:14 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Mar 15, 2020 20:23:14 GMT
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Achilleas himself could not be considered a verbose man, but as he faced the Colchian Prince, he realised that perhaps in comparison to Vangleis of Kotas, he might be called so. Blinking at the brief and curt response, he thought for a moment he had erred somehow, neglected some form of etiquette. A little unsettled, he still followed the man’s gaze as he turned it over the gathered crowd, before offering a tentative smile, and then turning his focus to the other Prince, who to his relief was a little less..minimal in his response.
“That we do, your highness” Achilleas affirmed of their distant familial connection. He did not know the Colchian Queen particularly well, like her brother she was a good deal older than the Mikaelidas Lord, and she had been gone to Colchis when Achilleas was just a boy. “Still, I think myself lucky to have the opportunity to acquaint myself with you both away from the field of battle, where I fear most of our brief encounters have been.”
The Taengean was not the only one whose reputation preceded him, indeed Achilleas could not deny some slight curiosity into the ‘Blood General’ had been what had motivated him to make the journey to this event, if not to Colchis itself. The Kotas Princes all were said to be men who held their own in the landscape of war, and that was something Achilleas could respect. Looking back to Vangelis as the man asked if he planned to compete in the event, the Taengean frowned a moment.
He had not intended any such thing when he had arrived at the gathering, thinking instead that he would spectate, make his introductions to the Prince’s and then leave again. But he had also not intended for that unfortunate run with his past, and now, as he turned the idea over in his mind, Achilleas wondered if it would not be a fitting relief from the tension that now drew his shoulders tight. His words then as he made his answer settled into resolve by the time he finished.
“I confess I had not thought to, but then I did not think I would be amongst such illustrious company so perhaps? If you do not think it will cause dissent to have Taengea field a representative?”
He doubted the Crown Prince would have asked the question if such were the case, but Achilleas had previous experience of how quickly what should be friendly sparring could turn unfriendly when on Colchian soil. That turned his thoughts to the man he had just left behind him, and Achilleas realised he would hardly be keeping to that hastily thrown out promise. Damocles himself would likely be competing too. But perhaps that was what was needed, and could even clear the air? Letting the man vent some of his anger in a more controlled manner might be helpful. It was a question that would be answered soon enough.
Achilleas himself could not be considered a verbose man, but as he faced the Colchian Prince, he realised that perhaps in comparison to Vangleis of Kotas, he might be called so. Blinking at the brief and curt response, he thought for a moment he had erred somehow, neglected some form of etiquette. A little unsettled, he still followed the man’s gaze as he turned it over the gathered crowd, before offering a tentative smile, and then turning his focus to the other Prince, who to his relief was a little less..minimal in his response.
“That we do, your highness” Achilleas affirmed of their distant familial connection. He did not know the Colchian Queen particularly well, like her brother she was a good deal older than the Mikaelidas Lord, and she had been gone to Colchis when Achilleas was just a boy. “Still, I think myself lucky to have the opportunity to acquaint myself with you both away from the field of battle, where I fear most of our brief encounters have been.”
The Taengean was not the only one whose reputation preceded him, indeed Achilleas could not deny some slight curiosity into the ‘Blood General’ had been what had motivated him to make the journey to this event, if not to Colchis itself. The Kotas Princes all were said to be men who held their own in the landscape of war, and that was something Achilleas could respect. Looking back to Vangelis as the man asked if he planned to compete in the event, the Taengean frowned a moment.
He had not intended any such thing when he had arrived at the gathering, thinking instead that he would spectate, make his introductions to the Prince’s and then leave again. But he had also not intended for that unfortunate run with his past, and now, as he turned the idea over in his mind, Achilleas wondered if it would not be a fitting relief from the tension that now drew his shoulders tight. His words then as he made his answer settled into resolve by the time he finished.
“I confess I had not thought to, but then I did not think I would be amongst such illustrious company so perhaps? If you do not think it will cause dissent to have Taengea field a representative?”
He doubted the Crown Prince would have asked the question if such were the case, but Achilleas had previous experience of how quickly what should be friendly sparring could turn unfriendly when on Colchian soil. That turned his thoughts to the man he had just left behind him, and Achilleas realised he would hardly be keeping to that hastily thrown out promise. Damocles himself would likely be competing too. But perhaps that was what was needed, and could even clear the air? Letting the man vent some of his anger in a more controlled manner might be helpful. It was a question that would be answered soon enough.
Damocles was livid!
Instead of staying around and properly addressing the complications of their past, Achilleas, in a fashion that seemed to be more and more quintessential to him than the Colchian had remembered, turning at his heels with his head tucked between shoulders that mounted the weight of his sins. A part of him, small and fragmented, wished to reach out and apologize for his actions, to soften his words and breath between his enraged snarls so as to try and come to a mutual understanding between them. An even smaller part utterly wished to just hold the man in his arms, tenderly and warmly, as he had in the past, before whispering sweet nothings to the Taengean's ears. Yet, none of those things happened.
Rather, much to his surprise, when confronted with the legacy of his actions, the blue-eyed royal tucked tailed and turned, rushing away from his presence before the silver-eyed man had even the chance to respond to his sentences. He stood aghast, with his wide, stark stare held in suspended disbelief, while his jaw dropped ever-so-slightly at the perceived cowardice he had witnessed. Was this really the man he had been so enamored with? Was this the same paragon of heroic virtue that had inspired some semblance of nobility into his otherwise calculated frightfulness? It couldn't be. This had to be some cruel, trick played by the Gods of Olympus. It had to be. Or had it? Should he really be that surprised that the man who left him without even a farewell letter was no lion, but a small, skittish kitten...
And yet he was outraged!
Immediately, after Achilleas removed himself from the Magnemean's sight, Damocles snarled with rage and felt his figure puff with anger. His fingers latched on a ceramic jar that sat comfortably by his side, before he gritted his teeth together, rose the object over his form and furiously slammed the item dramatically against the ground, shattering it unto hundreds of tiny pieces. Afterwards, flipped a small table inside the tent, further destroying the content that had once lain on top. He wished he could claim that his wrath was something that he could manually manage, but that wasn't even remotely true. And yet, for as flashy and harsh as his explosive temper had been, it never really lingered for long, usually. After a few breaths, the Magnemean removed three silver owls and dismissively placed threw them at the ground, a small acknowledgment that he had done something wrong against people who really had no need to suffer his anger.
Without any real reason to interact or talk to another, Damocles turned to the business of the competition that would be held today. He had already subscribed to the event in the first place, but his patience for the spectacles had to wait. He needed to collect his thoughts and quell his unruly head still. Thus, he walked around, inspecting the other men that would fight along the day, while leaving his head to find distraction between other means of interaction that took away from the intense moment he had just experienced.
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Mar 16, 2020 22:51:45 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Mar 16, 2020 22:51:45 GMT
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Damocles was livid!
Instead of staying around and properly addressing the complications of their past, Achilleas, in a fashion that seemed to be more and more quintessential to him than the Colchian had remembered, turning at his heels with his head tucked between shoulders that mounted the weight of his sins. A part of him, small and fragmented, wished to reach out and apologize for his actions, to soften his words and breath between his enraged snarls so as to try and come to a mutual understanding between them. An even smaller part utterly wished to just hold the man in his arms, tenderly and warmly, as he had in the past, before whispering sweet nothings to the Taengean's ears. Yet, none of those things happened.
Rather, much to his surprise, when confronted with the legacy of his actions, the blue-eyed royal tucked tailed and turned, rushing away from his presence before the silver-eyed man had even the chance to respond to his sentences. He stood aghast, with his wide, stark stare held in suspended disbelief, while his jaw dropped ever-so-slightly at the perceived cowardice he had witnessed. Was this really the man he had been so enamored with? Was this the same paragon of heroic virtue that had inspired some semblance of nobility into his otherwise calculated frightfulness? It couldn't be. This had to be some cruel, trick played by the Gods of Olympus. It had to be. Or had it? Should he really be that surprised that the man who left him without even a farewell letter was no lion, but a small, skittish kitten...
And yet he was outraged!
Immediately, after Achilleas removed himself from the Magnemean's sight, Damocles snarled with rage and felt his figure puff with anger. His fingers latched on a ceramic jar that sat comfortably by his side, before he gritted his teeth together, rose the object over his form and furiously slammed the item dramatically against the ground, shattering it unto hundreds of tiny pieces. Afterwards, flipped a small table inside the tent, further destroying the content that had once lain on top. He wished he could claim that his wrath was something that he could manually manage, but that wasn't even remotely true. And yet, for as flashy and harsh as his explosive temper had been, it never really lingered for long, usually. After a few breaths, the Magnemean removed three silver owls and dismissively placed threw them at the ground, a small acknowledgment that he had done something wrong against people who really had no need to suffer his anger.
Without any real reason to interact or talk to another, Damocles turned to the business of the competition that would be held today. He had already subscribed to the event in the first place, but his patience for the spectacles had to wait. He needed to collect his thoughts and quell his unruly head still. Thus, he walked around, inspecting the other men that would fight along the day, while leaving his head to find distraction between other means of interaction that took away from the intense moment he had just experienced.
Damocles was livid!
Instead of staying around and properly addressing the complications of their past, Achilleas, in a fashion that seemed to be more and more quintessential to him than the Colchian had remembered, turning at his heels with his head tucked between shoulders that mounted the weight of his sins. A part of him, small and fragmented, wished to reach out and apologize for his actions, to soften his words and breath between his enraged snarls so as to try and come to a mutual understanding between them. An even smaller part utterly wished to just hold the man in his arms, tenderly and warmly, as he had in the past, before whispering sweet nothings to the Taengean's ears. Yet, none of those things happened.
Rather, much to his surprise, when confronted with the legacy of his actions, the blue-eyed royal tucked tailed and turned, rushing away from his presence before the silver-eyed man had even the chance to respond to his sentences. He stood aghast, with his wide, stark stare held in suspended disbelief, while his jaw dropped ever-so-slightly at the perceived cowardice he had witnessed. Was this really the man he had been so enamored with? Was this the same paragon of heroic virtue that had inspired some semblance of nobility into his otherwise calculated frightfulness? It couldn't be. This had to be some cruel, trick played by the Gods of Olympus. It had to be. Or had it? Should he really be that surprised that the man who left him without even a farewell letter was no lion, but a small, skittish kitten...
And yet he was outraged!
Immediately, after Achilleas removed himself from the Magnemean's sight, Damocles snarled with rage and felt his figure puff with anger. His fingers latched on a ceramic jar that sat comfortably by his side, before he gritted his teeth together, rose the object over his form and furiously slammed the item dramatically against the ground, shattering it unto hundreds of tiny pieces. Afterwards, flipped a small table inside the tent, further destroying the content that had once lain on top. He wished he could claim that his wrath was something that he could manually manage, but that wasn't even remotely true. And yet, for as flashy and harsh as his explosive temper had been, it never really lingered for long, usually. After a few breaths, the Magnemean removed three silver owls and dismissively placed threw them at the ground, a small acknowledgment that he had done something wrong against people who really had no need to suffer his anger.
Without any real reason to interact or talk to another, Damocles turned to the business of the competition that would be held today. He had already subscribed to the event in the first place, but his patience for the spectacles had to wait. He needed to collect his thoughts and quell his unruly head still. Thus, he walked around, inspecting the other men that would fight along the day, while leaving his head to find distraction between other means of interaction that took away from the intense moment he had just experienced.
Whilst Vangelis had often been mistaken for curt or displeased over his natural lack of chatter and wordy introductions, he was, in fact, not a particularly rude man. Or, at least, he held no intention to be. Instead, he was as efficient in his words as he was with his work within the militia and as a royal. Perhaps it was the volume of work that had gradually fallen within his remit as he took on the role of baron, crown prince and then General without surrendering the titles that he had held before. Perhaps it was the fact that he literally hadn’t the time to pander and to pad his interactions or his intentions. His day was full of duties enough as it was without making each take twice the length of time that it needed, simply through the social expectation to be overtly wordy.
Instead, Vangelis said what he meant and did what he said. And that was the simple way of it. He didn’t expound, add, or embellish. And whilst many might view that was abrupt and a sign of disgruntlement, it was actually only a sign of effective time management.
When Achilleas and Zanon engaged a little over chatter regarding their shared family, Vangelis did not participate. Instead, he stood, witnessed and listened and nodded where needed and appropriate so that he could at leas hold a mild visage of being polite. What did attract his attention, however, was when Achilleas commented that he might, in fact, partake in the event.
On any given day, Vangelis despised violent games for sport. He disliked the manner in which every day people openly partook in conflict that they considered to be literally entertainment. Despite Colchis being a proud military nation, Vangelis had never accepted the idea of viewing hostilities in a manner of sport.
And yet, he could not help but think upon Achilleas’ reputation. Blessed by the Gods some liked to say, Achilleas was renowned as having not lost his duels and bouts in single combat. He was a man that many spoke of in hushed tones to never wish to be facing off against.
And whilst Vangelis despised everything that could possibly make light of the horror and nature of fighting and war… there was enough male pride and ego within him to consider such a thing with a moment of interest…
Despite his lessons in childhood reminding him that he was no better for his birth than any of his soldiers that were equally willing to lay their lives on the line in the name of their kingdom, one element of Vangelis’ instruction that had been competitive, was the notion that – as the leader of his people – he should be the most skilled. It was he that had to lead by example. It was he that had to train those beneath him. Ergo, his army and his men could only be as good as he was.
The little spirit of confident self-achievement – ego, if you like – woke up when given the potential for fighting before a man that man said had been assured by the Gods to never lose…
“Perhaps I will join you.” Vangelis stated, surprised as any when the words left his mouth in a direct contradiction to everything that he had said in the carriage ride to Pieria.
And with the usual efficiency of his person, Vangelis offered a nod of temporary parting to the Taengean lord and his brother and turned to head in the direction of a table, shaded from the sun by a large Colchian flag stretched across four posts, and arranged for his name to be added to the list of fighters. If he lost the opportunity to fight the Mikaelidas Commander, then at least his presence upon the list of names would turn in more entries or spark a communal essence of interest in the Kotas and the power they wielded…
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Mar 17, 2020 15:24:45 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Mar 17, 2020 15:24:45 GMT
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Whilst Vangelis had often been mistaken for curt or displeased over his natural lack of chatter and wordy introductions, he was, in fact, not a particularly rude man. Or, at least, he held no intention to be. Instead, he was as efficient in his words as he was with his work within the militia and as a royal. Perhaps it was the volume of work that had gradually fallen within his remit as he took on the role of baron, crown prince and then General without surrendering the titles that he had held before. Perhaps it was the fact that he literally hadn’t the time to pander and to pad his interactions or his intentions. His day was full of duties enough as it was without making each take twice the length of time that it needed, simply through the social expectation to be overtly wordy.
Instead, Vangelis said what he meant and did what he said. And that was the simple way of it. He didn’t expound, add, or embellish. And whilst many might view that was abrupt and a sign of disgruntlement, it was actually only a sign of effective time management.
When Achilleas and Zanon engaged a little over chatter regarding their shared family, Vangelis did not participate. Instead, he stood, witnessed and listened and nodded where needed and appropriate so that he could at leas hold a mild visage of being polite. What did attract his attention, however, was when Achilleas commented that he might, in fact, partake in the event.
On any given day, Vangelis despised violent games for sport. He disliked the manner in which every day people openly partook in conflict that they considered to be literally entertainment. Despite Colchis being a proud military nation, Vangelis had never accepted the idea of viewing hostilities in a manner of sport.
And yet, he could not help but think upon Achilleas’ reputation. Blessed by the Gods some liked to say, Achilleas was renowned as having not lost his duels and bouts in single combat. He was a man that many spoke of in hushed tones to never wish to be facing off against.
And whilst Vangelis despised everything that could possibly make light of the horror and nature of fighting and war… there was enough male pride and ego within him to consider such a thing with a moment of interest…
Despite his lessons in childhood reminding him that he was no better for his birth than any of his soldiers that were equally willing to lay their lives on the line in the name of their kingdom, one element of Vangelis’ instruction that had been competitive, was the notion that – as the leader of his people – he should be the most skilled. It was he that had to lead by example. It was he that had to train those beneath him. Ergo, his army and his men could only be as good as he was.
The little spirit of confident self-achievement – ego, if you like – woke up when given the potential for fighting before a man that man said had been assured by the Gods to never lose…
“Perhaps I will join you.” Vangelis stated, surprised as any when the words left his mouth in a direct contradiction to everything that he had said in the carriage ride to Pieria.
And with the usual efficiency of his person, Vangelis offered a nod of temporary parting to the Taengean lord and his brother and turned to head in the direction of a table, shaded from the sun by a large Colchian flag stretched across four posts, and arranged for his name to be added to the list of fighters. If he lost the opportunity to fight the Mikaelidas Commander, then at least his presence upon the list of names would turn in more entries or spark a communal essence of interest in the Kotas and the power they wielded…
Whilst Vangelis had often been mistaken for curt or displeased over his natural lack of chatter and wordy introductions, he was, in fact, not a particularly rude man. Or, at least, he held no intention to be. Instead, he was as efficient in his words as he was with his work within the militia and as a royal. Perhaps it was the volume of work that had gradually fallen within his remit as he took on the role of baron, crown prince and then General without surrendering the titles that he had held before. Perhaps it was the fact that he literally hadn’t the time to pander and to pad his interactions or his intentions. His day was full of duties enough as it was without making each take twice the length of time that it needed, simply through the social expectation to be overtly wordy.
Instead, Vangelis said what he meant and did what he said. And that was the simple way of it. He didn’t expound, add, or embellish. And whilst many might view that was abrupt and a sign of disgruntlement, it was actually only a sign of effective time management.
When Achilleas and Zanon engaged a little over chatter regarding their shared family, Vangelis did not participate. Instead, he stood, witnessed and listened and nodded where needed and appropriate so that he could at leas hold a mild visage of being polite. What did attract his attention, however, was when Achilleas commented that he might, in fact, partake in the event.
On any given day, Vangelis despised violent games for sport. He disliked the manner in which every day people openly partook in conflict that they considered to be literally entertainment. Despite Colchis being a proud military nation, Vangelis had never accepted the idea of viewing hostilities in a manner of sport.
And yet, he could not help but think upon Achilleas’ reputation. Blessed by the Gods some liked to say, Achilleas was renowned as having not lost his duels and bouts in single combat. He was a man that many spoke of in hushed tones to never wish to be facing off against.
And whilst Vangelis despised everything that could possibly make light of the horror and nature of fighting and war… there was enough male pride and ego within him to consider such a thing with a moment of interest…
Despite his lessons in childhood reminding him that he was no better for his birth than any of his soldiers that were equally willing to lay their lives on the line in the name of their kingdom, one element of Vangelis’ instruction that had been competitive, was the notion that – as the leader of his people – he should be the most skilled. It was he that had to lead by example. It was he that had to train those beneath him. Ergo, his army and his men could only be as good as he was.
The little spirit of confident self-achievement – ego, if you like – woke up when given the potential for fighting before a man that man said had been assured by the Gods to never lose…
“Perhaps I will join you.” Vangelis stated, surprised as any when the words left his mouth in a direct contradiction to everything that he had said in the carriage ride to Pieria.
And with the usual efficiency of his person, Vangelis offered a nod of temporary parting to the Taengean lord and his brother and turned to head in the direction of a table, shaded from the sun by a large Colchian flag stretched across four posts, and arranged for his name to be added to the list of fighters. If he lost the opportunity to fight the Mikaelidas Commander, then at least his presence upon the list of names would turn in more entries or spark a communal essence of interest in the Kotas and the power they wielded…
Maximus entered the arena and looked around in awe of seeing men bigger than him train intensely for the tournament. The boy bet that they haven't been training as long and hard as he had. "I've been training since I was six years old!" He thought as he stared at his Xiphos. Although it was a short sword, the blade was big in his hands but already Maximus could swing a sword as effectively as an average hoplite. The smell of stench permeated the air reaching Maximus' nostrils to the average person they would've winced and left immediately but to Maximus it was the smell of hard work and perseverance. Maximus wanted to test his strength, he felt stronger and faster now that he was entering his manhood years. How can he be the best if he can't stand up to the best? Needing time to think, Maximus exited the arena and went next to the betting sections. "I wonder how can train?" he said to himself. "Judging by how the men in their were working out, I have to be driven." After a few moments of pondering, Maximus' eyes lit up. "OF COURSE!" He said. "I just need to find a rival who can drive me to be the very best! But where can I find him?"
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Mar 20, 2020 5:59:37 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Mar 20, 2020 5:59:37 GMT
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Maximus entered the arena and looked around in awe of seeing men bigger than him train intensely for the tournament. The boy bet that they haven't been training as long and hard as he had. "I've been training since I was six years old!" He thought as he stared at his Xiphos. Although it was a short sword, the blade was big in his hands but already Maximus could swing a sword as effectively as an average hoplite. The smell of stench permeated the air reaching Maximus' nostrils to the average person they would've winced and left immediately but to Maximus it was the smell of hard work and perseverance. Maximus wanted to test his strength, he felt stronger and faster now that he was entering his manhood years. How can he be the best if he can't stand up to the best? Needing time to think, Maximus exited the arena and went next to the betting sections. "I wonder how can train?" he said to himself. "Judging by how the men in their were working out, I have to be driven." After a few moments of pondering, Maximus' eyes lit up. "OF COURSE!" He said. "I just need to find a rival who can drive me to be the very best! But where can I find him?"
Maximus entered the arena and looked around in awe of seeing men bigger than him train intensely for the tournament. The boy bet that they haven't been training as long and hard as he had. "I've been training since I was six years old!" He thought as he stared at his Xiphos. Although it was a short sword, the blade was big in his hands but already Maximus could swing a sword as effectively as an average hoplite. The smell of stench permeated the air reaching Maximus' nostrils to the average person they would've winced and left immediately but to Maximus it was the smell of hard work and perseverance. Maximus wanted to test his strength, he felt stronger and faster now that he was entering his manhood years. How can he be the best if he can't stand up to the best? Needing time to think, Maximus exited the arena and went next to the betting sections. "I wonder how can train?" he said to himself. "Judging by how the men in their were working out, I have to be driven." After a few moments of pondering, Maximus' eyes lit up. "OF COURSE!" He said. "I just need to find a rival who can drive me to be the very best! But where can I find him?"
Curveball Heavy Weight
As the men cultivate the lands around them with weapons and shields that bear the name of their families, it is known that such things are for show. Because few of the scheduled fights for the afternoon will permit such weapons. Instead, they are carried as a show of force. A means of psychological warfare before any of the sparring matches are to take place.
As a long bugle-like horn is sounded by a man in livery besides the main desk, however, the men are forced to remove the blades and bows and strip down to their undergarments. The exposure will render them vulnerable to every snatch and grab in each round. All entries are called to present themselves before spectators and the final entries to sign up within the next few minutes if they wish to try their hand at achieving glory...
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As the men cultivate the lands around them with weapons and shields that bear the name of their families, it is known that such things are for show. Because few of the scheduled fights for the afternoon will permit such weapons. Instead, they are carried as a show of force. A means of psychological warfare before any of the sparring matches are to take place.
As a long bugle-like horn is sounded by a man in livery besides the main desk, however, the men are forced to remove the blades and bows and strip down to their undergarments. The exposure will render them vulnerable to every snatch and grab in each round. All entries are called to present themselves before spectators and the final entries to sign up within the next few minutes if they wish to try their hand at achieving glory...
Curveball Heavy Weight
As the men cultivate the lands around them with weapons and shields that bear the name of their families, it is known that such things are for show. Because few of the scheduled fights for the afternoon will permit such weapons. Instead, they are carried as a show of force. A means of psychological warfare before any of the sparring matches are to take place.
As a long bugle-like horn is sounded by a man in livery besides the main desk, however, the men are forced to remove the blades and bows and strip down to their undergarments. The exposure will render them vulnerable to every snatch and grab in each round. All entries are called to present themselves before spectators and the final entries to sign up within the next few minutes if they wish to try their hand at achieving glory...
Having just signed his name to the register of competitors, Vangelis turned at the sound of the bugle that drew those willing to enter into the contest towards the central fight zone. Taking a moment, he finished his official joining of the tournament by melting a stick of maroon wax onto the parchment and pressing his signet ring into the gooey mass. Vangelis peeled away his fist to reveal the symbol of the dancing bear, the spiked ring around it identifying him as the crown born prince of the House.
Brushing away the flecks of red from the ring, Vangelis then turned to face the eager faces of some of the spectators - the less eager faces of some of the competitors - as the gossip spread that the crown prince himself had just entered into the contest and that the second born prince might also become a part of the fun!
Ignoring all such looks and gossip, Vangelis moved away from the onlookers and headed towards a small group of large and muscle-bound men who had each decided to try for the grand prize in the contest. With a casual sigh at the spectatorship of it all, Vangelis reached up to divide his tunic shirt into two pieces and pulled it back and away from his shoulders. The fabric fell and hung around his waist and over his rear as he then lifted a foot to remove his boot. Balancing on one leg, the item was removed quickly enough and then he reversed the position to extract his other foot.
Removing the rest of his clothes so that he wore only his perizoma. His bracers, rings and leather tie around his wrist he left in place, the same for the pendants fastened around his neck with leather string. The golden band that he had worn around his temples, he removed, rubbing a large hand through his locks to resettled the hair more comfortable.
The small pile of his belongings - including that of his travel crown - was taken by a loyal enough looking servant who then disappeared to - he hoped - place the belongings somewhere safe. In his place, a fresh-faced young boy came forward to offer up a bowl of white chalk for Vangelis' use. He took a little on his fingertips and then smeared it across his palms, offering a deadened hue to his normally tan skin. Too much of the stuff and a strong grip would rub the skin of his palm red raw in seconds. Too little and he'd never be able to hold onto his opponent - whomever it might be.
Vangelis looked up and down the line of contestants that he hovered near and considered his chanced against the clearly more able of the pack as they all each shed their clothes and took from the bowl of white powder...
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Apr 4, 2020 15:15:18 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Apr 4, 2020 15:15:18 GMT
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Having just signed his name to the register of competitors, Vangelis turned at the sound of the bugle that drew those willing to enter into the contest towards the central fight zone. Taking a moment, he finished his official joining of the tournament by melting a stick of maroon wax onto the parchment and pressing his signet ring into the gooey mass. Vangelis peeled away his fist to reveal the symbol of the dancing bear, the spiked ring around it identifying him as the crown born prince of the House.
Brushing away the flecks of red from the ring, Vangelis then turned to face the eager faces of some of the spectators - the less eager faces of some of the competitors - as the gossip spread that the crown prince himself had just entered into the contest and that the second born prince might also become a part of the fun!
Ignoring all such looks and gossip, Vangelis moved away from the onlookers and headed towards a small group of large and muscle-bound men who had each decided to try for the grand prize in the contest. With a casual sigh at the spectatorship of it all, Vangelis reached up to divide his tunic shirt into two pieces and pulled it back and away from his shoulders. The fabric fell and hung around his waist and over his rear as he then lifted a foot to remove his boot. Balancing on one leg, the item was removed quickly enough and then he reversed the position to extract his other foot.
Removing the rest of his clothes so that he wore only his perizoma. His bracers, rings and leather tie around his wrist he left in place, the same for the pendants fastened around his neck with leather string. The golden band that he had worn around his temples, he removed, rubbing a large hand through his locks to resettled the hair more comfortable.
The small pile of his belongings - including that of his travel crown - was taken by a loyal enough looking servant who then disappeared to - he hoped - place the belongings somewhere safe. In his place, a fresh-faced young boy came forward to offer up a bowl of white chalk for Vangelis' use. He took a little on his fingertips and then smeared it across his palms, offering a deadened hue to his normally tan skin. Too much of the stuff and a strong grip would rub the skin of his palm red raw in seconds. Too little and he'd never be able to hold onto his opponent - whomever it might be.
Vangelis looked up and down the line of contestants that he hovered near and considered his chanced against the clearly more able of the pack as they all each shed their clothes and took from the bowl of white powder...
Having just signed his name to the register of competitors, Vangelis turned at the sound of the bugle that drew those willing to enter into the contest towards the central fight zone. Taking a moment, he finished his official joining of the tournament by melting a stick of maroon wax onto the parchment and pressing his signet ring into the gooey mass. Vangelis peeled away his fist to reveal the symbol of the dancing bear, the spiked ring around it identifying him as the crown born prince of the House.
Brushing away the flecks of red from the ring, Vangelis then turned to face the eager faces of some of the spectators - the less eager faces of some of the competitors - as the gossip spread that the crown prince himself had just entered into the contest and that the second born prince might also become a part of the fun!
Ignoring all such looks and gossip, Vangelis moved away from the onlookers and headed towards a small group of large and muscle-bound men who had each decided to try for the grand prize in the contest. With a casual sigh at the spectatorship of it all, Vangelis reached up to divide his tunic shirt into two pieces and pulled it back and away from his shoulders. The fabric fell and hung around his waist and over his rear as he then lifted a foot to remove his boot. Balancing on one leg, the item was removed quickly enough and then he reversed the position to extract his other foot.
Removing the rest of his clothes so that he wore only his perizoma. His bracers, rings and leather tie around his wrist he left in place, the same for the pendants fastened around his neck with leather string. The golden band that he had worn around his temples, he removed, rubbing a large hand through his locks to resettled the hair more comfortable.
The small pile of his belongings - including that of his travel crown - was taken by a loyal enough looking servant who then disappeared to - he hoped - place the belongings somewhere safe. In his place, a fresh-faced young boy came forward to offer up a bowl of white chalk for Vangelis' use. He took a little on his fingertips and then smeared it across his palms, offering a deadened hue to his normally tan skin. Too much of the stuff and a strong grip would rub the skin of his palm red raw in seconds. Too little and he'd never be able to hold onto his opponent - whomever it might be.
Vangelis looked up and down the line of contestants that he hovered near and considered his chanced against the clearly more able of the pack as they all each shed their clothes and took from the bowl of white powder...
And so it was that Achilleas - having traveled to the event with no such intent - ended up following the Crown Prince over to where the names for the competition were being listed. He was not even entirely certain as to the nature of the contest, he would need to watch a bout or two to understand the rules that his host nation played by. It would not do to accidentally cause offence through misunderstanding.
Adding his name beneath that of the elder Kotas Prince, Achilleas could not prevent himself from looking for another that he recognised. There in all it’s glory he hesitated a moment, but it was too late for him to back out now and he handed back the stylus with a rather terse smile to the clerk.
The Taengean didn’t stand upon ceremony as he summarily shed his own clothes. There was little he was precious about, though the xiphos he carried had been a gift, and he would be less than impressed should it be misplaced, shooting a weighted glance at the steward whom he handed that and his few other possessions to.
That done, he cast a curious glance over the other men who had put themselves forward for such an event, hardly surprised at the number. He had great respect for the Colchian discipline when it came to fighting, and a small part of Achilleas wondered why he had offered to risk his own reputation in such a company. He was not unaware of the way men talked, of how victory and lucky triumphs littered his past, but he did his best not to let whispers of immortal favor go to his head. The moment one became complacent about such things was the moment one would be caught on the wrong end of a spear or sword.
Though that level of risk was not here now. Instead, it was the very diminutive part of himself that allowed some small pride in his history that felt threatened. It would be a blow indeed to break such a run on foreign soil. And yet another thing for his father to count against him. But Achilleas knew too of how seriously honor and pride were valued by these most martial of men, and he had a sudden twinge of concern that perhaps it would not do to show up the Crown Prince or his brother upon their home soil. Prince Vangelis had not indicated a problem when Achilleas had mentioned his competing, but now he eyed the other man a moment before drifting over.
"I do not know the rules you fight by here, my Lord, but can I assume you are not going to take offence when I do my damndest to win this thing?" he asked quietly, his tone light but with a thread of earnestness. The last thing Achilleas wanted to do was cause difficulties, even if he could admit some desire to pit himself agaist such a worthy opponent. He would bow out gracefully if there was a risk of it.
Stepping forward so he might avail himself of the chalk dust being offered around, Achilleas gave a small sigh of resignation when he spied Damocles.. Brushing the white powder between his palms, the Taengean glanced at the man with no small amount of wariness. That was another complication.
There was much to be defended , it would seem. His reputation, the honor of his kingdom, and finally his pride when it came to the tall, glowering man who he knew had more reason than most to wish defeat upon him.
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Apr 4, 2020 17:25:38 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Apr 4, 2020 17:25:38 GMT
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And so it was that Achilleas - having traveled to the event with no such intent - ended up following the Crown Prince over to where the names for the competition were being listed. He was not even entirely certain as to the nature of the contest, he would need to watch a bout or two to understand the rules that his host nation played by. It would not do to accidentally cause offence through misunderstanding.
Adding his name beneath that of the elder Kotas Prince, Achilleas could not prevent himself from looking for another that he recognised. There in all it’s glory he hesitated a moment, but it was too late for him to back out now and he handed back the stylus with a rather terse smile to the clerk.
The Taengean didn’t stand upon ceremony as he summarily shed his own clothes. There was little he was precious about, though the xiphos he carried had been a gift, and he would be less than impressed should it be misplaced, shooting a weighted glance at the steward whom he handed that and his few other possessions to.
That done, he cast a curious glance over the other men who had put themselves forward for such an event, hardly surprised at the number. He had great respect for the Colchian discipline when it came to fighting, and a small part of Achilleas wondered why he had offered to risk his own reputation in such a company. He was not unaware of the way men talked, of how victory and lucky triumphs littered his past, but he did his best not to let whispers of immortal favor go to his head. The moment one became complacent about such things was the moment one would be caught on the wrong end of a spear or sword.
Though that level of risk was not here now. Instead, it was the very diminutive part of himself that allowed some small pride in his history that felt threatened. It would be a blow indeed to break such a run on foreign soil. And yet another thing for his father to count against him. But Achilleas knew too of how seriously honor and pride were valued by these most martial of men, and he had a sudden twinge of concern that perhaps it would not do to show up the Crown Prince or his brother upon their home soil. Prince Vangelis had not indicated a problem when Achilleas had mentioned his competing, but now he eyed the other man a moment before drifting over.
"I do not know the rules you fight by here, my Lord, but can I assume you are not going to take offence when I do my damndest to win this thing?" he asked quietly, his tone light but with a thread of earnestness. The last thing Achilleas wanted to do was cause difficulties, even if he could admit some desire to pit himself agaist such a worthy opponent. He would bow out gracefully if there was a risk of it.
Stepping forward so he might avail himself of the chalk dust being offered around, Achilleas gave a small sigh of resignation when he spied Damocles.. Brushing the white powder between his palms, the Taengean glanced at the man with no small amount of wariness. That was another complication.
There was much to be defended , it would seem. His reputation, the honor of his kingdom, and finally his pride when it came to the tall, glowering man who he knew had more reason than most to wish defeat upon him.
And so it was that Achilleas - having traveled to the event with no such intent - ended up following the Crown Prince over to where the names for the competition were being listed. He was not even entirely certain as to the nature of the contest, he would need to watch a bout or two to understand the rules that his host nation played by. It would not do to accidentally cause offence through misunderstanding.
Adding his name beneath that of the elder Kotas Prince, Achilleas could not prevent himself from looking for another that he recognised. There in all it’s glory he hesitated a moment, but it was too late for him to back out now and he handed back the stylus with a rather terse smile to the clerk.
The Taengean didn’t stand upon ceremony as he summarily shed his own clothes. There was little he was precious about, though the xiphos he carried had been a gift, and he would be less than impressed should it be misplaced, shooting a weighted glance at the steward whom he handed that and his few other possessions to.
That done, he cast a curious glance over the other men who had put themselves forward for such an event, hardly surprised at the number. He had great respect for the Colchian discipline when it came to fighting, and a small part of Achilleas wondered why he had offered to risk his own reputation in such a company. He was not unaware of the way men talked, of how victory and lucky triumphs littered his past, but he did his best not to let whispers of immortal favor go to his head. The moment one became complacent about such things was the moment one would be caught on the wrong end of a spear or sword.
Though that level of risk was not here now. Instead, it was the very diminutive part of himself that allowed some small pride in his history that felt threatened. It would be a blow indeed to break such a run on foreign soil. And yet another thing for his father to count against him. But Achilleas knew too of how seriously honor and pride were valued by these most martial of men, and he had a sudden twinge of concern that perhaps it would not do to show up the Crown Prince or his brother upon their home soil. Prince Vangelis had not indicated a problem when Achilleas had mentioned his competing, but now he eyed the other man a moment before drifting over.
"I do not know the rules you fight by here, my Lord, but can I assume you are not going to take offence when I do my damndest to win this thing?" he asked quietly, his tone light but with a thread of earnestness. The last thing Achilleas wanted to do was cause difficulties, even if he could admit some desire to pit himself agaist such a worthy opponent. He would bow out gracefully if there was a risk of it.
Stepping forward so he might avail himself of the chalk dust being offered around, Achilleas gave a small sigh of resignation when he spied Damocles.. Brushing the white powder between his palms, the Taengean glanced at the man with no small amount of wariness. That was another complication.
There was much to be defended , it would seem. His reputation, the honor of his kingdom, and finally his pride when it came to the tall, glowering man who he knew had more reason than most to wish defeat upon him.
Vangelis might have cared that his brother and the comrade from Taengea both signed the document that had them declared as competitors in the meet but once he had made the mark of his own name, there was little he could do to ensure that he wasn't the only one of the three to strip down and bear all for the good of his kingdom. Instead, he had focused on the competitors who had officially entered their names into the tournament and wondered momentarily who he might find himself facing in the fights to come.
His trained eye picked up much, his career as a military leader insisting that he could spot weakness in his men from thirty paces. It was his duty and responsibility to ensure that the Red Knights were the strongest and most able fighters in the nation and one could only do that if you were constantly and consistently aware of potential flaw or gaps in knowledge. Skill only worked as well as the muscles that were used to enact it. And muscles only worked as well as the mind that commanded them. The human body was a network of abilities where, if one failed, the entire branch of that skill was lost. And he looked now upon those he was facing with the same critical eye.
There was one of the competitors that stood with his weight more on one side than the other. It indicated his dominant hand and a possible weakness on the opposing side. There was one man who held himself with a slight curve to his spine - a miner or farmer perhaps who spent much of his life bent over. If he could be over-extended; forced back to reach or straighten, his centre of gravity would be set awry. Another only had four fingers on his left hand. If that was a new injury, it might be a painful weak-spot in his defences. If not, it was an obvious flaw that might trick an opponent into suspecting a weakness that wasn't there. All such considerations ran through Vangelis' mind before he was approached by the Mikaelidas Lord.
Having clearly just signed his name on the roster, Lord Achilleas stripped down his clothing and moved to stand beside the crown prince, his carriage one of calm confidence but his features showing a little awkwardness at his present position; a visitor to their kingdom potentially about to fight royalty or nobles in a feat of strength and power.
'I do not know the rules you fight by here, my Lord, but can I assume you are not going to take offence when I do my damndest to win this thing?'
Vangelis' lips curled up to one side in a small show of amusement. He drew one hand to the opposing wrist and refastened and secured his bracers as he spoke...
"Colchians are more likely to take offence if you didn't, Lord Mikaelidas." He assured the man, glancing up from the stays along his inner arm and looking towards the Commander. "There's no loss to an ego in defeat by a worthy adversary." He assured him. "But there's dishonour in your enemy submitting without a challenge. I suggest you fight with all that you have. Here, glory and respect come as one."
And he meant what he said. Vangelis was a secure enough man in his own pride, ego and masculinity, that if he were to lose against another - be they Colchian or Taengean - he would feel no shame. He would, perhaps, work harder; train more and focus on the weaknesses exploited by those who triumphed over him in the event. But he would not feel shame. Besides, he knew himself to be a fit and able fighter enough to give any potential victor a serious challenge in achieving such a thing...
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Vangelis might have cared that his brother and the comrade from Taengea both signed the document that had them declared as competitors in the meet but once he had made the mark of his own name, there was little he could do to ensure that he wasn't the only one of the three to strip down and bear all for the good of his kingdom. Instead, he had focused on the competitors who had officially entered their names into the tournament and wondered momentarily who he might find himself facing in the fights to come.
His trained eye picked up much, his career as a military leader insisting that he could spot weakness in his men from thirty paces. It was his duty and responsibility to ensure that the Red Knights were the strongest and most able fighters in the nation and one could only do that if you were constantly and consistently aware of potential flaw or gaps in knowledge. Skill only worked as well as the muscles that were used to enact it. And muscles only worked as well as the mind that commanded them. The human body was a network of abilities where, if one failed, the entire branch of that skill was lost. And he looked now upon those he was facing with the same critical eye.
There was one of the competitors that stood with his weight more on one side than the other. It indicated his dominant hand and a possible weakness on the opposing side. There was one man who held himself with a slight curve to his spine - a miner or farmer perhaps who spent much of his life bent over. If he could be over-extended; forced back to reach or straighten, his centre of gravity would be set awry. Another only had four fingers on his left hand. If that was a new injury, it might be a painful weak-spot in his defences. If not, it was an obvious flaw that might trick an opponent into suspecting a weakness that wasn't there. All such considerations ran through Vangelis' mind before he was approached by the Mikaelidas Lord.
Having clearly just signed his name on the roster, Lord Achilleas stripped down his clothing and moved to stand beside the crown prince, his carriage one of calm confidence but his features showing a little awkwardness at his present position; a visitor to their kingdom potentially about to fight royalty or nobles in a feat of strength and power.
'I do not know the rules you fight by here, my Lord, but can I assume you are not going to take offence when I do my damndest to win this thing?'
Vangelis' lips curled up to one side in a small show of amusement. He drew one hand to the opposing wrist and refastened and secured his bracers as he spoke...
"Colchians are more likely to take offence if you didn't, Lord Mikaelidas." He assured the man, glancing up from the stays along his inner arm and looking towards the Commander. "There's no loss to an ego in defeat by a worthy adversary." He assured him. "But there's dishonour in your enemy submitting without a challenge. I suggest you fight with all that you have. Here, glory and respect come as one."
And he meant what he said. Vangelis was a secure enough man in his own pride, ego and masculinity, that if he were to lose against another - be they Colchian or Taengean - he would feel no shame. He would, perhaps, work harder; train more and focus on the weaknesses exploited by those who triumphed over him in the event. But he would not feel shame. Besides, he knew himself to be a fit and able fighter enough to give any potential victor a serious challenge in achieving such a thing...
Vangelis might have cared that his brother and the comrade from Taengea both signed the document that had them declared as competitors in the meet but once he had made the mark of his own name, there was little he could do to ensure that he wasn't the only one of the three to strip down and bear all for the good of his kingdom. Instead, he had focused on the competitors who had officially entered their names into the tournament and wondered momentarily who he might find himself facing in the fights to come.
His trained eye picked up much, his career as a military leader insisting that he could spot weakness in his men from thirty paces. It was his duty and responsibility to ensure that the Red Knights were the strongest and most able fighters in the nation and one could only do that if you were constantly and consistently aware of potential flaw or gaps in knowledge. Skill only worked as well as the muscles that were used to enact it. And muscles only worked as well as the mind that commanded them. The human body was a network of abilities where, if one failed, the entire branch of that skill was lost. And he looked now upon those he was facing with the same critical eye.
There was one of the competitors that stood with his weight more on one side than the other. It indicated his dominant hand and a possible weakness on the opposing side. There was one man who held himself with a slight curve to his spine - a miner or farmer perhaps who spent much of his life bent over. If he could be over-extended; forced back to reach or straighten, his centre of gravity would be set awry. Another only had four fingers on his left hand. If that was a new injury, it might be a painful weak-spot in his defences. If not, it was an obvious flaw that might trick an opponent into suspecting a weakness that wasn't there. All such considerations ran through Vangelis' mind before he was approached by the Mikaelidas Lord.
Having clearly just signed his name on the roster, Lord Achilleas stripped down his clothing and moved to stand beside the crown prince, his carriage one of calm confidence but his features showing a little awkwardness at his present position; a visitor to their kingdom potentially about to fight royalty or nobles in a feat of strength and power.
'I do not know the rules you fight by here, my Lord, but can I assume you are not going to take offence when I do my damndest to win this thing?'
Vangelis' lips curled up to one side in a small show of amusement. He drew one hand to the opposing wrist and refastened and secured his bracers as he spoke...
"Colchians are more likely to take offence if you didn't, Lord Mikaelidas." He assured the man, glancing up from the stays along his inner arm and looking towards the Commander. "There's no loss to an ego in defeat by a worthy adversary." He assured him. "But there's dishonour in your enemy submitting without a challenge. I suggest you fight with all that you have. Here, glory and respect come as one."
And he meant what he said. Vangelis was a secure enough man in his own pride, ego and masculinity, that if he were to lose against another - be they Colchian or Taengean - he would feel no shame. He would, perhaps, work harder; train more and focus on the weaknesses exploited by those who triumphed over him in the event. But he would not feel shame. Besides, he knew himself to be a fit and able fighter enough to give any potential victor a serious challenge in achieving such a thing...
Zanon followed his brother and cousin to the list, signing his own name beneath them. With the prowess of both of the other men, he knew he was unlikely to win against them, he stood a good several inches shorter than both and though he enjoyed training and fighting as much as the rest, his true skill lay in archery which was not the skill that would be necessary today. Still, it would be a day of amusement and merriment, and he was determined to be gracious whether he won or lost.
Almost as soon as his name was signed, he whipped off his chiton and kicked aside his sandals, handing the clothes with a wink to one of the servants that attended on the Kotas men. He'd foregone any kind of ornaments today aside from the ring he wore on his left hand, a symbol of his marriage and family which had been passed off as well. Joining his family members in their similar state of undress, Zanon couldn't help but give a wave to the crowd of onlookers and made a show of flexing at them. Laughter and cheers came his way as he waved them off in a moment of mock humbleness.
He was here to provide entertainment and ensure that his brother showed off to the best of his ability. And if he happened to win a few bouts well, he wouldn't say no to that. He only wished Evras was here to see, showing off for her was infinitely more fun and she would no doubt be more than willing to help him lick his wounds if he lost.
"He's right, cousin. If you don't do your very best to try to beat Vang we'll all be offended. I can think of some who'd like to see him taken down a peg." He spoke in jest and gave his brother a wink and good natured smile. There wasn't anyone he knew of who would truly enjoy to see his brother humbled in any way, but in the safety of this contest it was as good a place as any to show humor in both victory and defeat.
"May as well give him some competition. I'll show off properly if we move on to a contest of archery."
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Apr 6, 2020 11:53:23 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Apr 6, 2020 11:53:23 GMT
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Zanon followed his brother and cousin to the list, signing his own name beneath them. With the prowess of both of the other men, he knew he was unlikely to win against them, he stood a good several inches shorter than both and though he enjoyed training and fighting as much as the rest, his true skill lay in archery which was not the skill that would be necessary today. Still, it would be a day of amusement and merriment, and he was determined to be gracious whether he won or lost.
Almost as soon as his name was signed, he whipped off his chiton and kicked aside his sandals, handing the clothes with a wink to one of the servants that attended on the Kotas men. He'd foregone any kind of ornaments today aside from the ring he wore on his left hand, a symbol of his marriage and family which had been passed off as well. Joining his family members in their similar state of undress, Zanon couldn't help but give a wave to the crowd of onlookers and made a show of flexing at them. Laughter and cheers came his way as he waved them off in a moment of mock humbleness.
He was here to provide entertainment and ensure that his brother showed off to the best of his ability. And if he happened to win a few bouts well, he wouldn't say no to that. He only wished Evras was here to see, showing off for her was infinitely more fun and she would no doubt be more than willing to help him lick his wounds if he lost.
"He's right, cousin. If you don't do your very best to try to beat Vang we'll all be offended. I can think of some who'd like to see him taken down a peg." He spoke in jest and gave his brother a wink and good natured smile. There wasn't anyone he knew of who would truly enjoy to see his brother humbled in any way, but in the safety of this contest it was as good a place as any to show humor in both victory and defeat.
"May as well give him some competition. I'll show off properly if we move on to a contest of archery."
Zanon followed his brother and cousin to the list, signing his own name beneath them. With the prowess of both of the other men, he knew he was unlikely to win against them, he stood a good several inches shorter than both and though he enjoyed training and fighting as much as the rest, his true skill lay in archery which was not the skill that would be necessary today. Still, it would be a day of amusement and merriment, and he was determined to be gracious whether he won or lost.
Almost as soon as his name was signed, he whipped off his chiton and kicked aside his sandals, handing the clothes with a wink to one of the servants that attended on the Kotas men. He'd foregone any kind of ornaments today aside from the ring he wore on his left hand, a symbol of his marriage and family which had been passed off as well. Joining his family members in their similar state of undress, Zanon couldn't help but give a wave to the crowd of onlookers and made a show of flexing at them. Laughter and cheers came his way as he waved them off in a moment of mock humbleness.
He was here to provide entertainment and ensure that his brother showed off to the best of his ability. And if he happened to win a few bouts well, he wouldn't say no to that. He only wished Evras was here to see, showing off for her was infinitely more fun and she would no doubt be more than willing to help him lick his wounds if he lost.
"He's right, cousin. If you don't do your very best to try to beat Vang we'll all be offended. I can think of some who'd like to see him taken down a peg." He spoke in jest and gave his brother a wink and good natured smile. There wasn't anyone he knew of who would truly enjoy to see his brother humbled in any way, but in the safety of this contest it was as good a place as any to show humor in both victory and defeat.
"May as well give him some competition. I'll show off properly if we move on to a contest of archery."
When the horn sounded, Maleos knew that the tournament was about to start, and that was their signal to prepare. Not one to carry his weapons into such a thing, he did not believe that he needed to show off in that way, his skills would prove themselves upon his entrance into the arena. He moved with the rest of the men who had signed up, and stripped himself down to nothing but his under garments. He took the moments left to stretch a little, to make sure his muscles were ready to go, he knew he was not the largest man here, nor would he necessarily be the strongest, but he was fast, and he could hold his own fairly well. He would perform his best, and while he did not think he had a large chance to win, he wished to test himself anyways.
He remained on his own for the moment, he didn’t really know any of the men there, though he did recognize two of the Kotas princes, he had never really spoken to anyone there. Nor did he particularly care if he did. He was not a talkative man and he wasn’t exactly there to make friends either.
Though if he were approached, he would not shun someone, he would make polite conversation as needed. So far it seemed as if none of them had much interest in talking to him either. Every man there just seemed as if he was in his own head, ready to start this competition and prove themselves as the best out of all gathered. Every man was here for the same reason. To show off, to claim the title of winner and beat friends and strangers a like in a friendly competition.
He remained silent for the moment, not minding observing as he waited for the contest to start. His blue-green eyes moved to look up at those who were spectating. He did not think there would be anyone he would recognize, his friends were all military men, and would likely have spent their off time going home to their families, and his own family was in Eubocris and very unlikely to travel such a distance to see Maleos compete in a silly tournament.
That didn’t matter, he didn’t need someone in the crowd cheering for him. When he was on a campaign or training, it wasn’t as if he had people cheering for him then. He didn’t do it to hear the cheers from the crowd, he did it for the glory of a long and victorious military career. And this competition he competed in for the chance to see where he would place, and well if he was being honest, to kill some time between campaigns as well. It didn’t hurt that he had some spare time to attend this competition. With a little encouragement from his friends he had agreed to make the journey and at least test himself against the other men of Colchis and beyond.
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Apr 6, 2020 15:00:31 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Apr 6, 2020 15:00:31 GMT
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When the horn sounded, Maleos knew that the tournament was about to start, and that was their signal to prepare. Not one to carry his weapons into such a thing, he did not believe that he needed to show off in that way, his skills would prove themselves upon his entrance into the arena. He moved with the rest of the men who had signed up, and stripped himself down to nothing but his under garments. He took the moments left to stretch a little, to make sure his muscles were ready to go, he knew he was not the largest man here, nor would he necessarily be the strongest, but he was fast, and he could hold his own fairly well. He would perform his best, and while he did not think he had a large chance to win, he wished to test himself anyways.
He remained on his own for the moment, he didn’t really know any of the men there, though he did recognize two of the Kotas princes, he had never really spoken to anyone there. Nor did he particularly care if he did. He was not a talkative man and he wasn’t exactly there to make friends either.
Though if he were approached, he would not shun someone, he would make polite conversation as needed. So far it seemed as if none of them had much interest in talking to him either. Every man there just seemed as if he was in his own head, ready to start this competition and prove themselves as the best out of all gathered. Every man was here for the same reason. To show off, to claim the title of winner and beat friends and strangers a like in a friendly competition.
He remained silent for the moment, not minding observing as he waited for the contest to start. His blue-green eyes moved to look up at those who were spectating. He did not think there would be anyone he would recognize, his friends were all military men, and would likely have spent their off time going home to their families, and his own family was in Eubocris and very unlikely to travel such a distance to see Maleos compete in a silly tournament.
That didn’t matter, he didn’t need someone in the crowd cheering for him. When he was on a campaign or training, it wasn’t as if he had people cheering for him then. He didn’t do it to hear the cheers from the crowd, he did it for the glory of a long and victorious military career. And this competition he competed in for the chance to see where he would place, and well if he was being honest, to kill some time between campaigns as well. It didn’t hurt that he had some spare time to attend this competition. With a little encouragement from his friends he had agreed to make the journey and at least test himself against the other men of Colchis and beyond.
When the horn sounded, Maleos knew that the tournament was about to start, and that was their signal to prepare. Not one to carry his weapons into such a thing, he did not believe that he needed to show off in that way, his skills would prove themselves upon his entrance into the arena. He moved with the rest of the men who had signed up, and stripped himself down to nothing but his under garments. He took the moments left to stretch a little, to make sure his muscles were ready to go, he knew he was not the largest man here, nor would he necessarily be the strongest, but he was fast, and he could hold his own fairly well. He would perform his best, and while he did not think he had a large chance to win, he wished to test himself anyways.
He remained on his own for the moment, he didn’t really know any of the men there, though he did recognize two of the Kotas princes, he had never really spoken to anyone there. Nor did he particularly care if he did. He was not a talkative man and he wasn’t exactly there to make friends either.
Though if he were approached, he would not shun someone, he would make polite conversation as needed. So far it seemed as if none of them had much interest in talking to him either. Every man there just seemed as if he was in his own head, ready to start this competition and prove themselves as the best out of all gathered. Every man was here for the same reason. To show off, to claim the title of winner and beat friends and strangers a like in a friendly competition.
He remained silent for the moment, not minding observing as he waited for the contest to start. His blue-green eyes moved to look up at those who were spectating. He did not think there would be anyone he would recognize, his friends were all military men, and would likely have spent their off time going home to their families, and his own family was in Eubocris and very unlikely to travel such a distance to see Maleos compete in a silly tournament.
That didn’t matter, he didn’t need someone in the crowd cheering for him. When he was on a campaign or training, it wasn’t as if he had people cheering for him then. He didn’t do it to hear the cheers from the crowd, he did it for the glory of a long and victorious military career. And this competition he competed in for the chance to see where he would place, and well if he was being honest, to kill some time between campaigns as well. It didn’t hurt that he had some spare time to attend this competition. With a little encouragement from his friends he had agreed to make the journey and at least test himself against the other men of Colchis and beyond.
Curveball Heavy Weight
And the games begin! As a bugle sounds once more, now that the contestants are ready in a crowd of skin, a caller of note moves to check with the registration desk exactly who is to face one another. As he stands straighter, his voice carries over the crowds to announce the first competitors... As there are two arenas: dirt circles, identified by small bags of sand lining their edges, two pairs would be fighting simultaneously for the entertainment of the people.
@maleos is summoned to fight Lord Kalkos of Laconia, a large man who relies on his impressive height and muscle to over-power his opponents and stand durable against their attacks.
@achilleas is summoned to fight Lord Xenos of Pieria, lord of this province and a man known for his wiry and dirty tactics. An honourable man at heart, Lord Xenos applies to the theory of victory at all costs.
Let the games begin!
JD
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And the games begin! As a bugle sounds once more, now that the contestants are ready in a crowd of skin, a caller of note moves to check with the registration desk exactly who is to face one another. As he stands straighter, his voice carries over the crowds to announce the first competitors... As there are two arenas: dirt circles, identified by small bags of sand lining their edges, two pairs would be fighting simultaneously for the entertainment of the people.
@maleos is summoned to fight Lord Kalkos of Laconia, a large man who relies on his impressive height and muscle to over-power his opponents and stand durable against their attacks.
@achilleas is summoned to fight Lord Xenos of Pieria, lord of this province and a man known for his wiry and dirty tactics. An honourable man at heart, Lord Xenos applies to the theory of victory at all costs.
Let the games begin!
Curveball Heavy Weight
And the games begin! As a bugle sounds once more, now that the contestants are ready in a crowd of skin, a caller of note moves to check with the registration desk exactly who is to face one another. As he stands straighter, his voice carries over the crowds to announce the first competitors... As there are two arenas: dirt circles, identified by small bags of sand lining their edges, two pairs would be fighting simultaneously for the entertainment of the people.
@maleos is summoned to fight Lord Kalkos of Laconia, a large man who relies on his impressive height and muscle to over-power his opponents and stand durable against their attacks.
@achilleas is summoned to fight Lord Xenos of Pieria, lord of this province and a man known for his wiry and dirty tactics. An honourable man at heart, Lord Xenos applies to the theory of victory at all costs.
Let the games begin!
With both the Colchian princes assuring him that there would be no bad feeling if he were to triumph, Achilleas felt a little better about it. The last thing he wanted was to inadvertently cause offence. As the final competitors stripped off their outer garments, there was a second sounding of the horns, and perhaps to his dismay, the Taengean Lord found himself drawn in one of the first bouts.
He should have liked to have a chance to spectate a couple of rounds, but as it was, had only chance to limber up a little before he was being beckoned forward to one of the two fighting rings marked out. As his competition’s name was announced, there was enough of a stir from the crowd for Achilleas to realise that the man must be on home turf, and he grimaced a little. He was not overly bothered by who the crowd would cheer for, but it would test the Prince’s promises that a Taengean victory would cause no issues.
As he stepped into the ring and offered the opposition a slight bow, Achilleas was looking for any obvious weak points, anything that might prove pertinent for the coming fight. Without knowing any of these men, he was operating blind, and could only take them upon face value. There was a little to note in appearance alone of the Lord Xenos. He did not stand as tall nor as broad as Achilleas himself, and yet the man was clearly fit. There were a few scars that shone silvery in the sun, one across his right shoulder that looked newer, and the Taengean wondered if perhaps the muscles had regained all of their strength yet after the convalescence such a wound would have required.
The time allowed for such speculation was scant though, and before long Achilleas was settling into a slight crouch, feet planted so as to be able to move quickly but not compromise his balance, waiting. Never one to rush in anything without due consideration, his fighting style was much the same. Let Lord Xenos show his hand first.
But his opponent was no fool to rush in, and for a little while, the pair just moved in a restless circle, the odd feint thrown in to test the other’s reflexes. It was Achilleas himself in the end who moved, stepped in with a kick thrown in towards the lord’s left side, only for it to be blocked, and then it was on, each man seeking the submission of the other.
Achilleas let out a grunt as a well-placed elbow caught him in the ribs, lost his grip around the other’s torso and had to move quickly so as not to get hit in the face as Lord Xenos threw his head back.
That would have really hurt
They were neither man holding back, and there was no space to think about putting on a good show or worrying about angering the home crowd when one was avoiding chokeholds and flying fists. His opponent was quick, and though Achilleas was agile for a man of his size, he had to be careful not to leave himself open for the fast counter attacks the Colchian Lord was capable of. More than once he found himself in receipt of a well-placed foot or fist when the other evaded his attempts at a joint lock or throw down.
Lord Xenos did not hesitate in exploiting any mistakes, nor was he shy of taking the odd cheap shot presented to him, so Achilleas threw himself more fully into ending the bout quickly.
By the time, he finally managed to twist the man’s arm up and drive him down to a knee, Achilleas’ breaths were coming fast and his skin slick with sweat. It was a tangle of limbs but an effective one as the Taengean pressed down upon the wrist of the man’s overextended arm, stressing that same joint that he had noted earlier. And it was that which saw Lord Xenos lift a single finger to concede.
Achilleas immediately released his hold, stood up and offered the Lord a hand back to his feet. “You fight well, my Lord” he offered with a smile, even as he pressed at a tender spot on his ribs.
The Colchian man shook his head. “But not well enough to defeat our visiting, Lord. At least I can say I was best by one who is rumored blessed” he mused, before lifting a hand to salute those in the crowd who had cheered for their Lord. Achilleas, momentarily surprised that the man would know him, gave a half shrug. “And not easily best either” Which was probably good, because a crushing defeat would be hard for any man to swallow in his own province. Relieved that it had not gone on any longer, the Mikaelidas Lord gave a bow and then retreated from the ring, eager to slake his thirst and catch what he could of the fight still going on in the second ring.
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Apr 9, 2020 13:35:06 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Apr 9, 2020 13:35:06 GMT
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With both the Colchian princes assuring him that there would be no bad feeling if he were to triumph, Achilleas felt a little better about it. The last thing he wanted was to inadvertently cause offence. As the final competitors stripped off their outer garments, there was a second sounding of the horns, and perhaps to his dismay, the Taengean Lord found himself drawn in one of the first bouts.
He should have liked to have a chance to spectate a couple of rounds, but as it was, had only chance to limber up a little before he was being beckoned forward to one of the two fighting rings marked out. As his competition’s name was announced, there was enough of a stir from the crowd for Achilleas to realise that the man must be on home turf, and he grimaced a little. He was not overly bothered by who the crowd would cheer for, but it would test the Prince’s promises that a Taengean victory would cause no issues.
As he stepped into the ring and offered the opposition a slight bow, Achilleas was looking for any obvious weak points, anything that might prove pertinent for the coming fight. Without knowing any of these men, he was operating blind, and could only take them upon face value. There was a little to note in appearance alone of the Lord Xenos. He did not stand as tall nor as broad as Achilleas himself, and yet the man was clearly fit. There were a few scars that shone silvery in the sun, one across his right shoulder that looked newer, and the Taengean wondered if perhaps the muscles had regained all of their strength yet after the convalescence such a wound would have required.
The time allowed for such speculation was scant though, and before long Achilleas was settling into a slight crouch, feet planted so as to be able to move quickly but not compromise his balance, waiting. Never one to rush in anything without due consideration, his fighting style was much the same. Let Lord Xenos show his hand first.
But his opponent was no fool to rush in, and for a little while, the pair just moved in a restless circle, the odd feint thrown in to test the other’s reflexes. It was Achilleas himself in the end who moved, stepped in with a kick thrown in towards the lord’s left side, only for it to be blocked, and then it was on, each man seeking the submission of the other.
Achilleas let out a grunt as a well-placed elbow caught him in the ribs, lost his grip around the other’s torso and had to move quickly so as not to get hit in the face as Lord Xenos threw his head back.
That would have really hurt
They were neither man holding back, and there was no space to think about putting on a good show or worrying about angering the home crowd when one was avoiding chokeholds and flying fists. His opponent was quick, and though Achilleas was agile for a man of his size, he had to be careful not to leave himself open for the fast counter attacks the Colchian Lord was capable of. More than once he found himself in receipt of a well-placed foot or fist when the other evaded his attempts at a joint lock or throw down.
Lord Xenos did not hesitate in exploiting any mistakes, nor was he shy of taking the odd cheap shot presented to him, so Achilleas threw himself more fully into ending the bout quickly.
By the time, he finally managed to twist the man’s arm up and drive him down to a knee, Achilleas’ breaths were coming fast and his skin slick with sweat. It was a tangle of limbs but an effective one as the Taengean pressed down upon the wrist of the man’s overextended arm, stressing that same joint that he had noted earlier. And it was that which saw Lord Xenos lift a single finger to concede.
Achilleas immediately released his hold, stood up and offered the Lord a hand back to his feet. “You fight well, my Lord” he offered with a smile, even as he pressed at a tender spot on his ribs.
The Colchian man shook his head. “But not well enough to defeat our visiting, Lord. At least I can say I was best by one who is rumored blessed” he mused, before lifting a hand to salute those in the crowd who had cheered for their Lord. Achilleas, momentarily surprised that the man would know him, gave a half shrug. “And not easily best either” Which was probably good, because a crushing defeat would be hard for any man to swallow in his own province. Relieved that it had not gone on any longer, the Mikaelidas Lord gave a bow and then retreated from the ring, eager to slake his thirst and catch what he could of the fight still going on in the second ring.
With both the Colchian princes assuring him that there would be no bad feeling if he were to triumph, Achilleas felt a little better about it. The last thing he wanted was to inadvertently cause offence. As the final competitors stripped off their outer garments, there was a second sounding of the horns, and perhaps to his dismay, the Taengean Lord found himself drawn in one of the first bouts.
He should have liked to have a chance to spectate a couple of rounds, but as it was, had only chance to limber up a little before he was being beckoned forward to one of the two fighting rings marked out. As his competition’s name was announced, there was enough of a stir from the crowd for Achilleas to realise that the man must be on home turf, and he grimaced a little. He was not overly bothered by who the crowd would cheer for, but it would test the Prince’s promises that a Taengean victory would cause no issues.
As he stepped into the ring and offered the opposition a slight bow, Achilleas was looking for any obvious weak points, anything that might prove pertinent for the coming fight. Without knowing any of these men, he was operating blind, and could only take them upon face value. There was a little to note in appearance alone of the Lord Xenos. He did not stand as tall nor as broad as Achilleas himself, and yet the man was clearly fit. There were a few scars that shone silvery in the sun, one across his right shoulder that looked newer, and the Taengean wondered if perhaps the muscles had regained all of their strength yet after the convalescence such a wound would have required.
The time allowed for such speculation was scant though, and before long Achilleas was settling into a slight crouch, feet planted so as to be able to move quickly but not compromise his balance, waiting. Never one to rush in anything without due consideration, his fighting style was much the same. Let Lord Xenos show his hand first.
But his opponent was no fool to rush in, and for a little while, the pair just moved in a restless circle, the odd feint thrown in to test the other’s reflexes. It was Achilleas himself in the end who moved, stepped in with a kick thrown in towards the lord’s left side, only for it to be blocked, and then it was on, each man seeking the submission of the other.
Achilleas let out a grunt as a well-placed elbow caught him in the ribs, lost his grip around the other’s torso and had to move quickly so as not to get hit in the face as Lord Xenos threw his head back.
That would have really hurt
They were neither man holding back, and there was no space to think about putting on a good show or worrying about angering the home crowd when one was avoiding chokeholds and flying fists. His opponent was quick, and though Achilleas was agile for a man of his size, he had to be careful not to leave himself open for the fast counter attacks the Colchian Lord was capable of. More than once he found himself in receipt of a well-placed foot or fist when the other evaded his attempts at a joint lock or throw down.
Lord Xenos did not hesitate in exploiting any mistakes, nor was he shy of taking the odd cheap shot presented to him, so Achilleas threw himself more fully into ending the bout quickly.
By the time, he finally managed to twist the man’s arm up and drive him down to a knee, Achilleas’ breaths were coming fast and his skin slick with sweat. It was a tangle of limbs but an effective one as the Taengean pressed down upon the wrist of the man’s overextended arm, stressing that same joint that he had noted earlier. And it was that which saw Lord Xenos lift a single finger to concede.
Achilleas immediately released his hold, stood up and offered the Lord a hand back to his feet. “You fight well, my Lord” he offered with a smile, even as he pressed at a tender spot on his ribs.
The Colchian man shook his head. “But not well enough to defeat our visiting, Lord. At least I can say I was best by one who is rumored blessed” he mused, before lifting a hand to salute those in the crowd who had cheered for their Lord. Achilleas, momentarily surprised that the man would know him, gave a half shrug. “And not easily best either” Which was probably good, because a crushing defeat would be hard for any man to swallow in his own province. Relieved that it had not gone on any longer, the Mikaelidas Lord gave a bow and then retreated from the ring, eager to slake his thirst and catch what he could of the fight still going on in the second ring.
Maleos felt nervous as his name was called as one of the first fighters. He normally wasn’t nervous, he knew that he was skilled, he had spent the majority of his life practising with weapons, practising to fight a variety of opponents. But that was the thing, he had been mostly practising with weapons, and now he was expected to fight without any. He had done it before, but it was not his greatest strength.
Upon seeing his opponent, the size difference between them was obvious, this man was larger and very likely stronger than he was. This didn’t mean he would win though, and it was something Maleos knew well. He had faced larger opponents before, stronger opponents. And he had emerged victorious. If he had not, he would not be standing there drawing breath in that moment.
He just needed to study his opposition, just needed to have enough time to figure out his fighting style and how to combat it, to use his strength against him. To Maleos, combat was as much mental as it was physical. You had to know what moves to make and when, and how to change your combat style for the moment.
He and his opponent gave each other a small bow of respect, and Maleos braced his feet in the sand. The man had a cocky smile on his face, as if he was confident that the younger and smaller man had no chance against him. That made Maleos feel more confident himself, if the man thought there was no chance he would lose, then he was more likely to just attack rather than think things out.
As predicted, the Lord came at him directly, and seemed almost surprised as Maleos was able to side step the attack. A quick spin found a punch landed to the Lord’s right side, and the man had a look of shock on his face that Maleos landed the first blow.
A smile came across Maleos’ face, one that would only be found when he was fighting. There was something about the thrill of the fight that made him happier than anything else in his life.
The Lord quickly regained his footing, spinning to face Maleos once more, he spit sideways onto the sand, gritting his teeth. Maleos still made no move to attack, knowing he needed to catch the other man off guard to use his size against him, if he made a direct attack, he would likely lose faster than he could realize what happened.
The other man grew impatient again and charged him once more, this time a little quicker, hoping the combination of speed and strength would be enough, but Maleos ducked his attack and instead managed to grab the other’s wrist. He used the man’s momentum to flip him, sending him flying into the air. The Lord landed on his front and Maleos was quick to make his move, jumping onto his back, one arm went around his neck, squeezing to cut off his air supply, the other arm attempting to thwart any attempts at ripping out of his grip.
Eventually the Lord realized he had been beat, and if Maleos did not let go, he would pass out and it would be much more embarrassing than being beat. He lifted his hand in the air to signal for surrender, and Maleos let go, rolling away from him, he got to his feet, covered in sweat and sand.
The crowd cheered and Maleos felt a swell of pride in his chest as he realized he had beat the odds and won.
He gave his opponent a bow, though the man did not return it, and then Maleos hurried out of the ring to make room for the next fighters.
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Apr 18, 2020 18:24:37 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Apr 18, 2020 18:24:37 GMT
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Maleos felt nervous as his name was called as one of the first fighters. He normally wasn’t nervous, he knew that he was skilled, he had spent the majority of his life practising with weapons, practising to fight a variety of opponents. But that was the thing, he had been mostly practising with weapons, and now he was expected to fight without any. He had done it before, but it was not his greatest strength.
Upon seeing his opponent, the size difference between them was obvious, this man was larger and very likely stronger than he was. This didn’t mean he would win though, and it was something Maleos knew well. He had faced larger opponents before, stronger opponents. And he had emerged victorious. If he had not, he would not be standing there drawing breath in that moment.
He just needed to study his opposition, just needed to have enough time to figure out his fighting style and how to combat it, to use his strength against him. To Maleos, combat was as much mental as it was physical. You had to know what moves to make and when, and how to change your combat style for the moment.
He and his opponent gave each other a small bow of respect, and Maleos braced his feet in the sand. The man had a cocky smile on his face, as if he was confident that the younger and smaller man had no chance against him. That made Maleos feel more confident himself, if the man thought there was no chance he would lose, then he was more likely to just attack rather than think things out.
As predicted, the Lord came at him directly, and seemed almost surprised as Maleos was able to side step the attack. A quick spin found a punch landed to the Lord’s right side, and the man had a look of shock on his face that Maleos landed the first blow.
A smile came across Maleos’ face, one that would only be found when he was fighting. There was something about the thrill of the fight that made him happier than anything else in his life.
The Lord quickly regained his footing, spinning to face Maleos once more, he spit sideways onto the sand, gritting his teeth. Maleos still made no move to attack, knowing he needed to catch the other man off guard to use his size against him, if he made a direct attack, he would likely lose faster than he could realize what happened.
The other man grew impatient again and charged him once more, this time a little quicker, hoping the combination of speed and strength would be enough, but Maleos ducked his attack and instead managed to grab the other’s wrist. He used the man’s momentum to flip him, sending him flying into the air. The Lord landed on his front and Maleos was quick to make his move, jumping onto his back, one arm went around his neck, squeezing to cut off his air supply, the other arm attempting to thwart any attempts at ripping out of his grip.
Eventually the Lord realized he had been beat, and if Maleos did not let go, he would pass out and it would be much more embarrassing than being beat. He lifted his hand in the air to signal for surrender, and Maleos let go, rolling away from him, he got to his feet, covered in sweat and sand.
The crowd cheered and Maleos felt a swell of pride in his chest as he realized he had beat the odds and won.
He gave his opponent a bow, though the man did not return it, and then Maleos hurried out of the ring to make room for the next fighters.
Maleos felt nervous as his name was called as one of the first fighters. He normally wasn’t nervous, he knew that he was skilled, he had spent the majority of his life practising with weapons, practising to fight a variety of opponents. But that was the thing, he had been mostly practising with weapons, and now he was expected to fight without any. He had done it before, but it was not his greatest strength.
Upon seeing his opponent, the size difference between them was obvious, this man was larger and very likely stronger than he was. This didn’t mean he would win though, and it was something Maleos knew well. He had faced larger opponents before, stronger opponents. And he had emerged victorious. If he had not, he would not be standing there drawing breath in that moment.
He just needed to study his opposition, just needed to have enough time to figure out his fighting style and how to combat it, to use his strength against him. To Maleos, combat was as much mental as it was physical. You had to know what moves to make and when, and how to change your combat style for the moment.
He and his opponent gave each other a small bow of respect, and Maleos braced his feet in the sand. The man had a cocky smile on his face, as if he was confident that the younger and smaller man had no chance against him. That made Maleos feel more confident himself, if the man thought there was no chance he would lose, then he was more likely to just attack rather than think things out.
As predicted, the Lord came at him directly, and seemed almost surprised as Maleos was able to side step the attack. A quick spin found a punch landed to the Lord’s right side, and the man had a look of shock on his face that Maleos landed the first blow.
A smile came across Maleos’ face, one that would only be found when he was fighting. There was something about the thrill of the fight that made him happier than anything else in his life.
The Lord quickly regained his footing, spinning to face Maleos once more, he spit sideways onto the sand, gritting his teeth. Maleos still made no move to attack, knowing he needed to catch the other man off guard to use his size against him, if he made a direct attack, he would likely lose faster than he could realize what happened.
The other man grew impatient again and charged him once more, this time a little quicker, hoping the combination of speed and strength would be enough, but Maleos ducked his attack and instead managed to grab the other’s wrist. He used the man’s momentum to flip him, sending him flying into the air. The Lord landed on his front and Maleos was quick to make his move, jumping onto his back, one arm went around his neck, squeezing to cut off his air supply, the other arm attempting to thwart any attempts at ripping out of his grip.
Eventually the Lord realized he had been beat, and if Maleos did not let go, he would pass out and it would be much more embarrassing than being beat. He lifted his hand in the air to signal for surrender, and Maleos let go, rolling away from him, he got to his feet, covered in sweat and sand.
The crowd cheered and Maleos felt a swell of pride in his chest as he realized he had beat the odds and won.
He gave his opponent a bow, though the man did not return it, and then Maleos hurried out of the ring to make room for the next fighters.
Upon hearing the blasting bellowing of announcing horns, Damocles snapped from his thought-induced trance and focused on the task at hand. He might have been one of the largest and physically strongest men in the entire competition, but he was no fool. Had the event been one of blunt might, it might have meant a relatively easy challenge for him. Half a life spent amidst the sisphean task that was mining, coupled with another half forged by means of arms and warring had chiseled him into a man beholden to a personal strength that he figured few could rival. Alas, fighting was not solely determined by one's physical might alone. As far as brute force went, he figured he probably held the lion's share amongst some of the fiercer, more serious fighters, but when it came to decades-forged skill, he was afraid to confess that others had him beat. Still, there was little point in wallowing in circumstances that could not be changed in the instances between the then and the near-future that awaited his inevitable match.
Resigning himself to the peculiarities of the day, the Herculean Magnemean rid himself of his clothes, casting them aside in the peculiar meticulousness that he often showed concerning his own personal things. Yet, seeing as this was an event meant for amusement and entertainment, the silver-eyed militant took to giving some of the audience a bit of a show, flaunting his assets with calculated casualness at some of the fairer noble ladies that he knew not about so as to set their small hearts aflutter. Tall, handsome and black-bearded, with a broad body that was muscled like a maiden's fantasy, Damocles was never shy of showing off his good-looks if it was for a good cause. And what better cause than to give to the people what they wanted. Ever the consumate showman, the warrior made sure to get more than a few fairer-gendered faces looking at him, causing him to smirk in enjoyment. Perhaps, had he not been a soldier, he would've had a successful career as an actor. Gods knew he enjoyed the spotlight a bit too much. Alas, once he finished, Damocles returned his attentions at the competition.
Returning to a small sect of familiar faces, mostly about men of military backgrounds that he had fought alongside at the last great war in Egypt, the sociable veteran exchanged wity and humorous words of banter amongst his peers, from time earning the occasional laughter here and there. In time, the first round of combatants was revealed. Much to his surprise, the one man that he did not want to either charm or amuse, Achilleas, was drawn first, forming in him the first bout of the day. Cold aloofness appeared on his features as he saw the fair-skinned Taengean make his way to the arena. His arms crossed over his chest as he patiently paid attention to the match.
Though he had little personal knowledge of the man who fought him, Damocles silently wished that Lord Xenos somehow found a way to best that unbearable Taengean. Turning to the man besides him, the silver-eyed militant playfully made an extremely small bet of wine in favor of the hometown hero of Pieria. Meanwhile the golden-haired man besides him smiled and took up his wager. It was an expected thing, seeing as, if anything, Achilleas was a decent military man before the eyes of the Magnemean. Of course, his opinion was biased against the one he had once been close to, but that was neither here nor there. He predicted that he would lose his small bet, but perhaps, there was a glimmer of hope if the Gods were to listen to his rather minor plea. When the fight finished, Damocles feigned disappointment, but pat the golden-haired man beside him in the back, telling him to find him after the event had ended so they could have their fill, a proposition that the other agreed to eagerly. Yet, not faster had the winner been declared before the silver-eyed Colchian felt compelled to come before the winner. He was sweat-laced and evidently warn from a moderately intense fight, prompting Damocles to fill a small cup with of crystal-clear water that he offered to the other man with a still-cold expression on his long face.
“To the winner goes the spoils.” He mused half-heartedly as he handed the other the gift of a chilled drink. “Fair is fair. You earned this.” Surprisingly admitted Damocles as he extended his offering to the other.
Had Achilleas truly remembered him, he would have known that Damocles was not the most expressive man. when it came to peace-offerings. Nevermind the water or the coldness of his voice, for the Colchian figured that he still had the right to not exactly be thrilled to have his former lover around him. Yet, deep-down, even if did not wish to admit it, he did not want to argue with him, at least publicly.
Thus, he extended a small olive branch to the other, a temporary truce in the best way he knew how. “Though really, between us…why did you take so long to beat that man?” he poked, teasing the Taengean in a way not too dissimilar to the tone he had once shared with him so many years ago, back when they were closest. “You’ve gone fat…” he once more joked in an obvious manner that elicited a laugh from the Colchian as he tried to show to the Taengean that he did not wish for them to continue on with the day as coldly as before. Surely, whatever he still wished to say to the man could wait until the conclusion of the event. “We can talk later. Come, let’s watch the next match, friend..."
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Apr 19, 2020 6:32:20 GMT
Posted In Heavy Weight on Apr 19, 2020 6:32:20 GMT
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Upon hearing the blasting bellowing of announcing horns, Damocles snapped from his thought-induced trance and focused on the task at hand. He might have been one of the largest and physically strongest men in the entire competition, but he was no fool. Had the event been one of blunt might, it might have meant a relatively easy challenge for him. Half a life spent amidst the sisphean task that was mining, coupled with another half forged by means of arms and warring had chiseled him into a man beholden to a personal strength that he figured few could rival. Alas, fighting was not solely determined by one's physical might alone. As far as brute force went, he figured he probably held the lion's share amongst some of the fiercer, more serious fighters, but when it came to decades-forged skill, he was afraid to confess that others had him beat. Still, there was little point in wallowing in circumstances that could not be changed in the instances between the then and the near-future that awaited his inevitable match.
Resigning himself to the peculiarities of the day, the Herculean Magnemean rid himself of his clothes, casting them aside in the peculiar meticulousness that he often showed concerning his own personal things. Yet, seeing as this was an event meant for amusement and entertainment, the silver-eyed militant took to giving some of the audience a bit of a show, flaunting his assets with calculated casualness at some of the fairer noble ladies that he knew not about so as to set their small hearts aflutter. Tall, handsome and black-bearded, with a broad body that was muscled like a maiden's fantasy, Damocles was never shy of showing off his good-looks if it was for a good cause. And what better cause than to give to the people what they wanted. Ever the consumate showman, the warrior made sure to get more than a few fairer-gendered faces looking at him, causing him to smirk in enjoyment. Perhaps, had he not been a soldier, he would've had a successful career as an actor. Gods knew he enjoyed the spotlight a bit too much. Alas, once he finished, Damocles returned his attentions at the competition.
Returning to a small sect of familiar faces, mostly about men of military backgrounds that he had fought alongside at the last great war in Egypt, the sociable veteran exchanged wity and humorous words of banter amongst his peers, from time earning the occasional laughter here and there. In time, the first round of combatants was revealed. Much to his surprise, the one man that he did not want to either charm or amuse, Achilleas, was drawn first, forming in him the first bout of the day. Cold aloofness appeared on his features as he saw the fair-skinned Taengean make his way to the arena. His arms crossed over his chest as he patiently paid attention to the match.
Though he had little personal knowledge of the man who fought him, Damocles silently wished that Lord Xenos somehow found a way to best that unbearable Taengean. Turning to the man besides him, the silver-eyed militant playfully made an extremely small bet of wine in favor of the hometown hero of Pieria. Meanwhile the golden-haired man besides him smiled and took up his wager. It was an expected thing, seeing as, if anything, Achilleas was a decent military man before the eyes of the Magnemean. Of course, his opinion was biased against the one he had once been close to, but that was neither here nor there. He predicted that he would lose his small bet, but perhaps, there was a glimmer of hope if the Gods were to listen to his rather minor plea. When the fight finished, Damocles feigned disappointment, but pat the golden-haired man beside him in the back, telling him to find him after the event had ended so they could have their fill, a proposition that the other agreed to eagerly. Yet, not faster had the winner been declared before the silver-eyed Colchian felt compelled to come before the winner. He was sweat-laced and evidently warn from a moderately intense fight, prompting Damocles to fill a small cup with of crystal-clear water that he offered to the other man with a still-cold expression on his long face.
“To the winner goes the spoils.” He mused half-heartedly as he handed the other the gift of a chilled drink. “Fair is fair. You earned this.” Surprisingly admitted Damocles as he extended his offering to the other.
Had Achilleas truly remembered him, he would have known that Damocles was not the most expressive man. when it came to peace-offerings. Nevermind the water or the coldness of his voice, for the Colchian figured that he still had the right to not exactly be thrilled to have his former lover around him. Yet, deep-down, even if did not wish to admit it, he did not want to argue with him, at least publicly.
Thus, he extended a small olive branch to the other, a temporary truce in the best way he knew how. “Though really, between us…why did you take so long to beat that man?” he poked, teasing the Taengean in a way not too dissimilar to the tone he had once shared with him so many years ago, back when they were closest. “You’ve gone fat…” he once more joked in an obvious manner that elicited a laugh from the Colchian as he tried to show to the Taengean that he did not wish for them to continue on with the day as coldly as before. Surely, whatever he still wished to say to the man could wait until the conclusion of the event. “We can talk later. Come, let’s watch the next match, friend..."
Upon hearing the blasting bellowing of announcing horns, Damocles snapped from his thought-induced trance and focused on the task at hand. He might have been one of the largest and physically strongest men in the entire competition, but he was no fool. Had the event been one of blunt might, it might have meant a relatively easy challenge for him. Half a life spent amidst the sisphean task that was mining, coupled with another half forged by means of arms and warring had chiseled him into a man beholden to a personal strength that he figured few could rival. Alas, fighting was not solely determined by one's physical might alone. As far as brute force went, he figured he probably held the lion's share amongst some of the fiercer, more serious fighters, but when it came to decades-forged skill, he was afraid to confess that others had him beat. Still, there was little point in wallowing in circumstances that could not be changed in the instances between the then and the near-future that awaited his inevitable match.
Resigning himself to the peculiarities of the day, the Herculean Magnemean rid himself of his clothes, casting them aside in the peculiar meticulousness that he often showed concerning his own personal things. Yet, seeing as this was an event meant for amusement and entertainment, the silver-eyed militant took to giving some of the audience a bit of a show, flaunting his assets with calculated casualness at some of the fairer noble ladies that he knew not about so as to set their small hearts aflutter. Tall, handsome and black-bearded, with a broad body that was muscled like a maiden's fantasy, Damocles was never shy of showing off his good-looks if it was for a good cause. And what better cause than to give to the people what they wanted. Ever the consumate showman, the warrior made sure to get more than a few fairer-gendered faces looking at him, causing him to smirk in enjoyment. Perhaps, had he not been a soldier, he would've had a successful career as an actor. Gods knew he enjoyed the spotlight a bit too much. Alas, once he finished, Damocles returned his attentions at the competition.
Returning to a small sect of familiar faces, mostly about men of military backgrounds that he had fought alongside at the last great war in Egypt, the sociable veteran exchanged wity and humorous words of banter amongst his peers, from time earning the occasional laughter here and there. In time, the first round of combatants was revealed. Much to his surprise, the one man that he did not want to either charm or amuse, Achilleas, was drawn first, forming in him the first bout of the day. Cold aloofness appeared on his features as he saw the fair-skinned Taengean make his way to the arena. His arms crossed over his chest as he patiently paid attention to the match.
Though he had little personal knowledge of the man who fought him, Damocles silently wished that Lord Xenos somehow found a way to best that unbearable Taengean. Turning to the man besides him, the silver-eyed militant playfully made an extremely small bet of wine in favor of the hometown hero of Pieria. Meanwhile the golden-haired man besides him smiled and took up his wager. It was an expected thing, seeing as, if anything, Achilleas was a decent military man before the eyes of the Magnemean. Of course, his opinion was biased against the one he had once been close to, but that was neither here nor there. He predicted that he would lose his small bet, but perhaps, there was a glimmer of hope if the Gods were to listen to his rather minor plea. When the fight finished, Damocles feigned disappointment, but pat the golden-haired man beside him in the back, telling him to find him after the event had ended so they could have their fill, a proposition that the other agreed to eagerly. Yet, not faster had the winner been declared before the silver-eyed Colchian felt compelled to come before the winner. He was sweat-laced and evidently warn from a moderately intense fight, prompting Damocles to fill a small cup with of crystal-clear water that he offered to the other man with a still-cold expression on his long face.
“To the winner goes the spoils.” He mused half-heartedly as he handed the other the gift of a chilled drink. “Fair is fair. You earned this.” Surprisingly admitted Damocles as he extended his offering to the other.
Had Achilleas truly remembered him, he would have known that Damocles was not the most expressive man. when it came to peace-offerings. Nevermind the water or the coldness of his voice, for the Colchian figured that he still had the right to not exactly be thrilled to have his former lover around him. Yet, deep-down, even if did not wish to admit it, he did not want to argue with him, at least publicly.
Thus, he extended a small olive branch to the other, a temporary truce in the best way he knew how. “Though really, between us…why did you take so long to beat that man?” he poked, teasing the Taengean in a way not too dissimilar to the tone he had once shared with him so many years ago, back when they were closest. “You’ve gone fat…” he once more joked in an obvious manner that elicited a laugh from the Colchian as he tried to show to the Taengean that he did not wish for them to continue on with the day as coldly as before. Surely, whatever he still wished to say to the man could wait until the conclusion of the event. “We can talk later. Come, let’s watch the next match, friend..."
