There was much on his mind, a great many things that had just recently transpired upon the passage of just the briefest of hours he could come to behold. It was quite remarkable, how one could account for nearly all of the possible variables in a systematic equation, and yet still be rendered obsolete by the mere presence of just one falsely anointed dead king now made undead. He could supposed that his idealism had been clouded by his ambition, but then again, no evidence would have suggested that Tython would have been rejected by Hades and thrust once more upon has Earthly, temporal seat. The Kotas were once more at the ascendancy, and with them, the Drakos as well. Long may their accursed name be cast down to the annals of history! Long may they be sentenced to the deepest, darkest pit of Tartarus! His rage could not be more impressed upon. Though, then again, it was still true that patience was key. 

In many ways, from a purely objective standpoint, he could find the amusement in the whole revelation. The games that he had machinated and the words he had sung had all been too indicative of an otherwise different scenic outcome. It was still too early for him to make his move. Plus, despite the threat that the undead king posed, he was quite very interesting. Mayhaps, this turn of events had forced him to fold his hand, but still the cards lain on the table. It just all meant a new cluster of ideas and considerations. He would have to dig deeper and deeper still, piercing through that veritably sharp darkness that cut down so bitterly until all the pieces of his light mended together against such tenebrous obstacles. Everything he had come to learn only exposed the frailty of his prior considerations, which, despite the drawbacks, was not an inherent obstacle to his objectives. This was not an end to his aspirations, but rather a mere setback, an additional variable to keep in mind as he waited carefully behind the meticulous intrigues forged through his web of lies. There was still so many aces up his sleeve and tools at his disposal. How wonderful! Indeed how wonderful! That he had but to once more come to principles of origins, of calculation and of careful, fastidious planning. If he was being honest, despite his seething frustration, it was all rather fascinating! 

Besides, despite the spoiling presence of Tython, it wasn't as if everything that had just unraveled had been for naught. Many new variables aside the king also had to be accounted for, rendering myriad of possibilities beneath his plutonian conspiracies of hushed tones. Despite the lack of formality, it was abundantly clear that the presence of the Leventi was indicative of marriages born not from love or romance, but of convenience. Granted, it would not be up to him to determine under what paradigm would the presence of love be held as forth measured indicators. Nevertheless, just as Tython had proven a momentary setback, the Leventi might very well prove to be a fruitful channel. Still, only time and the mercy of the Fates would come to determine whether or not the presence of these foreign royals would be of either plentiful opportunity or bygone inopportunely. 

In particular, he had found cause in the fetching oldest daughter of such a dynastic bloodline. He would like to say that Selene of the Leventi was an interesting woman, but that would be dishonest of himself. He didn't see her, or any of her kindred for that matter, as anything remotely captivating. And yet,while he wished to discard her as yet another beautiful girl with another affluent name, he didn't see her as such as castaway card upon the glossed deck of fortune. Her proximity, her reaction and her apparant worry about Vangelis as he laid down on the floor, breathless and disgracefully pitiful, opened his own curiosity.

Would she become his rival's eventual betrothed, a future dutiful, honest and faithful wife-queen to his apparently preordained kingly destiny, or would she inadvertently water the seeds of discord he so carefully tended to? Could he use his own wile and brains court this unbeknown would-be queen to tempered amity just as he had done with the ladies of the bloodline that he nominally bent the knee to? The wife of a ordained monarch that arrived from a distant land was in desperate need of friends, of allies and confidants that would guard her confidence and maintain her trust against the backdrop of conspiracy and treachery. Hark! How marvelously these mid-light connivances played in his thoughts! 

And yet, he had to be subtle, to be of a hushed and quiet voice of stilled wisdom and obedience so as to not attract some unwarranted repercussions. There was little point in trying to drive through his grand deceptions in such an uncouth way, as that old, decrepit and sorely incomprehensibly rash Dionysios had done so. No, he would be charming and educated, as had his master taught him to be whence surrounded by those that thought little of him. But all of this, these plans and grand schemes, would all have their time and place. For now, after such an eventful night, he laid deep against Midas's hot springs, submerging himself by the honing light of the kindly moon. 

For years now, he had made a small habit of visiting the thermal waters of these heated springs whenever he stayed at the capital. Whereas Magnemea's darkly presence had mostly given him cause to keep busy with either the titular functions and duties as his official place as captain or the unofficial responsibility of running the province along autocratic lines as its un-titled dictator, he had to admit that there was very little in actual leisure he could summarily enjoy. Hence the springs, one of the few places that granted him some much needed respite. He enjoyed these rejuvenating springs that he lounged in, enjoying the feel of their diminished, yet still slightly simmering temperature against his Herculean built.

Damocles had long discarded his raiments, setting them by a lonely stone that jut from the group up, exposing his strong physique beneath the kneeded waters. In more ways than one, he had often considered himself imposingly tall, classically dark and unusually handsome. His powerful shoulders were broad and heavy, tapering to a narrow waist that made way to his firmly sculpted chest, and limbs, which were just as chiseled as his core; manifesting thusly a tutelary statue statue carved from expensive marble. Likewise, his rich, dark hair, which was kept neatly slicked back in a backwards sweep, was reminiscent in color to that of ebony. An abundance of battle-won scars caved against his swarthy, olive complexion. Yet, as he understood, the aspect that most struck those around him was not his commanding height or brawny appearance, but the striking color of his steely, gray eyes. They were the color of the iron he and his kinsmen had once mined on the province he now controlled in all but name. Not many were beholden to such rare color, pleasing him greatly when he used his penetrating stare to sway others to his alignment. They had been his greatest feature thus far, and whilst he still drew breath he would continue to make use of them. 

And thus, he laid, the beautiful liar that he was, against the calmed pleasantness of the relaxing waters that exposed him in his natural, yet iron-forged appearance. A look of stoic disposition formed on his strongly-marked face, mostly a byproduct of how his visage downpoured when he eased his countenance like he did at the present time. A deep sight escaped Damocles, primarily because of the long-held stress his body endured as a result of the tensions born out of his contrivances. He closed his eyelids, manifestly enjoying the heat as he experienced his thoughts fly away to oblivion, whilst allowing him some modicum of calmness. Was it that much of a request to have someone reproduce these pools at Magnemea? Surely, their surely had to be another, less remotely detached way for him to find solace! After all, these trips to Midas were neither quick or particularly pleasant, even if the company sometimes was bearable... sometimes.