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It was almost hard to believe that it had been seven years since Vangelis had been born. Tython could so starkly remember the sight of the tiny babe held in his wife's arms. The crowning jewel of their marriage already before he was even hours old. Because they had succeeded on producing a male heir on the first try. While neither Tython nor Yanni were doting parents, there was a pride that Tython felt whenever he looked at any of his children. His sons. But Vang was quickly approaching manhood, if the swiftness of the passing years was any indication at all. Who knew what could happen from there on. Tython could have ended up in a campaign and be torn from his family for years. It all depended on the tides of war.
That was why Tython's gift to his son had been so important. A wooden sword by anyone's account, though filled with a core of metal it was. That made it heavy and Tython had spent the last weeks watching Vangelis struggle to lift the faux blade while his peers seemed to have no trouble at all lifting their own wooden swords. The difference was that theirs did not have cores of metal. They did not have the same weight of expectation upon their shoulders that Vangelis would for his entire life.
Tython was a firm believer that it was easiest to learn the hardest lessons while one was still young. It was easy to believe the truth rather to be blind for an entire lifetime. The weight of a blade was no different. As King, someday, Vangelis would need to understand the true gravity of the power he held in his hands. While power would be easy to come by for the young prince, it would be what the boy did with it that would matter most. Strangely, that meant that the small lesson in swordplay was vastly important. Learning to lift a heavy burden even when your shoulders wanted to give out and your mind wanted to falter was a show of strength. A strike against outward weakness that Tython would have all of his children learn, if he had his own way.
Pulling his fur-lined himation a little tighter around his shoulders, Tython trailed through the Kotas manor, his gaze searching for the form of only one person. Vangelis was said to have been out in the small courtyard since the early morning hours, working at lifting the fake blade, at getting used to the footwork and the movements, at strengthening himself so that when he was soon handed a metal blade, he would have little trouble when it came to skill. A lesson. One that Tython's own father had taught him so long ago, and a lesson that Tython himself still valued to this day.
Glancing up to a grey sky that seemed intent on spitting snow about their feet, Tython stepped briskly into the courtyard, his grey-blue gaze on the back of his eldest son as he practiced. There was that little glimmer of pride in his chest that he couldn't hide even as he ignored the fog of his own breath in the air. "Vangelis," Tython greeted quietly as he approached. At first, he simply observed the boy, not interrupting what Vangelis was trying to accomplish. Then, "Spread your feet a little further apart," Tython instructed carefully, "Balance your body against the weight of your blade."
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It was almost hard to believe that it had been seven years since Vangelis had been born. Tython could so starkly remember the sight of the tiny babe held in his wife's arms. The crowning jewel of their marriage already before he was even hours old. Because they had succeeded on producing a male heir on the first try. While neither Tython nor Yanni were doting parents, there was a pride that Tython felt whenever he looked at any of his children. His sons. But Vang was quickly approaching manhood, if the swiftness of the passing years was any indication at all. Who knew what could happen from there on. Tython could have ended up in a campaign and be torn from his family for years. It all depended on the tides of war.
That was why Tython's gift to his son had been so important. A wooden sword by anyone's account, though filled with a core of metal it was. That made it heavy and Tython had spent the last weeks watching Vangelis struggle to lift the faux blade while his peers seemed to have no trouble at all lifting their own wooden swords. The difference was that theirs did not have cores of metal. They did not have the same weight of expectation upon their shoulders that Vangelis would for his entire life.
Tython was a firm believer that it was easiest to learn the hardest lessons while one was still young. It was easy to believe the truth rather to be blind for an entire lifetime. The weight of a blade was no different. As King, someday, Vangelis would need to understand the true gravity of the power he held in his hands. While power would be easy to come by for the young prince, it would be what the boy did with it that would matter most. Strangely, that meant that the small lesson in swordplay was vastly important. Learning to lift a heavy burden even when your shoulders wanted to give out and your mind wanted to falter was a show of strength. A strike against outward weakness that Tython would have all of his children learn, if he had his own way.
Pulling his fur-lined himation a little tighter around his shoulders, Tython trailed through the Kotas manor, his gaze searching for the form of only one person. Vangelis was said to have been out in the small courtyard since the early morning hours, working at lifting the fake blade, at getting used to the footwork and the movements, at strengthening himself so that when he was soon handed a metal blade, he would have little trouble when it came to skill. A lesson. One that Tython's own father had taught him so long ago, and a lesson that Tython himself still valued to this day.
Glancing up to a grey sky that seemed intent on spitting snow about their feet, Tython stepped briskly into the courtyard, his grey-blue gaze on the back of his eldest son as he practiced. There was that little glimmer of pride in his chest that he couldn't hide even as he ignored the fog of his own breath in the air. "Vangelis," Tython greeted quietly as he approached. At first, he simply observed the boy, not interrupting what Vangelis was trying to accomplish. Then, "Spread your feet a little further apart," Tython instructed carefully, "Balance your body against the weight of your blade."
It was almost hard to believe that it had been seven years since Vangelis had been born. Tython could so starkly remember the sight of the tiny babe held in his wife's arms. The crowning jewel of their marriage already before he was even hours old. Because they had succeeded on producing a male heir on the first try. While neither Tython nor Yanni were doting parents, there was a pride that Tython felt whenever he looked at any of his children. His sons. But Vang was quickly approaching manhood, if the swiftness of the passing years was any indication at all. Who knew what could happen from there on. Tython could have ended up in a campaign and be torn from his family for years. It all depended on the tides of war.
That was why Tython's gift to his son had been so important. A wooden sword by anyone's account, though filled with a core of metal it was. That made it heavy and Tython had spent the last weeks watching Vangelis struggle to lift the faux blade while his peers seemed to have no trouble at all lifting their own wooden swords. The difference was that theirs did not have cores of metal. They did not have the same weight of expectation upon their shoulders that Vangelis would for his entire life.
Tython was a firm believer that it was easiest to learn the hardest lessons while one was still young. It was easy to believe the truth rather to be blind for an entire lifetime. The weight of a blade was no different. As King, someday, Vangelis would need to understand the true gravity of the power he held in his hands. While power would be easy to come by for the young prince, it would be what the boy did with it that would matter most. Strangely, that meant that the small lesson in swordplay was vastly important. Learning to lift a heavy burden even when your shoulders wanted to give out and your mind wanted to falter was a show of strength. A strike against outward weakness that Tython would have all of his children learn, if he had his own way.
Pulling his fur-lined himation a little tighter around his shoulders, Tython trailed through the Kotas manor, his gaze searching for the form of only one person. Vangelis was said to have been out in the small courtyard since the early morning hours, working at lifting the fake blade, at getting used to the footwork and the movements, at strengthening himself so that when he was soon handed a metal blade, he would have little trouble when it came to skill. A lesson. One that Tython's own father had taught him so long ago, and a lesson that Tython himself still valued to this day.
Glancing up to a grey sky that seemed intent on spitting snow about their feet, Tython stepped briskly into the courtyard, his grey-blue gaze on the back of his eldest son as he practiced. There was that little glimmer of pride in his chest that he couldn't hide even as he ignored the fog of his own breath in the air. "Vangelis," Tython greeted quietly as he approached. At first, he simply observed the boy, not interrupting what Vangelis was trying to accomplish. Then, "Spread your feet a little further apart," Tython instructed carefully, "Balance your body against the weight of your blade."
Despite his royal birth - or perhaps because of it - Vangelis had not had an easy upbringing. Whilst one area of his life afforded him all the benefits missing from those born to lower ranks: good food, comfortable living chambers and the finest of clothing and provisions he could ever wish for, he was also handed those privileges alongside the obligations hat followed. He was the crown prince. If any of the nobilities children born after him had learnt to walk before he had, it would have been a comment of dishonour upon the House of Kotas, or a moment of worry over the future skill and blessing of the crown prince.
Whilst vangelis could hardly remember his first steps nor know whether any had surpassed him in the task, it had been a continuous environment of expected perfectionism in which he had been raised. And yet, oddly, never one that had been enforced. Rather than a family that pressured and nagged him to be the very best he could be, disappointment the result of failure, the king and queen of Colchis had always simply made it clear that a leader could never expect his men to do what he could not. Which, in Vangelis' mind, translated to the leader having to be the very vest. He was crown prince. He would one day be king. Therefore, he had to be the best.
Which he wasn't.
The last few months had been a challenge he had yet to face. In schooling and tutoring, Vangelis was smart enough to keep up though not so academic that he needed extra tutoring at times to understand the more complex lessons in tactical militia and politics. At seven years of age, such lessons were basic and taught with his level of understanding in mind, but it didn't stop them being difficult to so young a mind. And yet, some quiet, solitary practice and Vangelis remained equal to the smartest of his noble generation. Or at least able to hold his own in discussions with them.
Yet swordplay, the one ability that the adventurous and fearless prince had been so looking forward to, had become an area of disappointment.
Not only was he struggling in his own talents with so simple a thing as a wooden blade, but his peers in other royal families were finding the tasks before them to be of such ease.
At the age of seven, Vangelis did not consider the potential difference in blades, nor the fact that, as he sailed towards puberty with more speed than some of the others, growing in height quickly as he approached his first decade of life, he was more gangly than the others; his literal shape physically changing between one practice and the next, sending his progress a step backwards.
In Vangelis' mind, he had first thought himself to be cursed by the Gods. Perhaps he had angered the mighty Ares in some way and the God was not wishing him to yet lift the sword that was his tool of life. Or maybe Athena did not think him yet wise enough to deserve to learn the art of war.
Over time, however, and his constant instruction by stewards and father to continue to lift and work with the blade, very slowly progressing in his ability to lift it properly, Vangelis had come to the decision that it was not disappointment but challenge that the Hods wished to convey. His father had always told him that, as king, he would support the heaviest burden of all - the responsibility of his lands and people. This was the Gods' way of testing if he would be ready.
With such a simple and determined conclusion, Vangelis' efforts with the blade had tripled. He went out to practice when he was instructed by his tutor, he went out when instructed by his father through a message delivered by a servants hand. He went out between his other lessons by himself to practice. And he took up the sword yet again each time he came in from a riding lesson. He even, if he had strength and energy left at the end of each day, wielded the weapon in his bedchambers. But since leaving a heavy, slicing dent in the floor and wall (now carefully hidden by the moving of his clothes chest and a rug) Vangelis had relegated such practice time to simply strengthening his arms with the weight of the sword, rather than moving through actual practices.
Now, Vangelis had headed down to the courtyard beside his family home, in the grounds of the estate, at dawn. His body had ached and his eyes had stung with the early morning chill in his rooms but he knew that if he were to stay curled beneath his blankets he would dishonour Ares. Instead of risking a God's wrath that he was healthily fearful of as a child, Vangelis had forced himself from bed and dressed.
In a short tunic of bright blue and black leather belt around his waist, Vangelis was bare on his legs and arms, for he knew he would warm a little with his practice but found his fur stuffed leather boots instead of his sandals. It had been several years since the novelty of wearing a crown had been a source of excitement instead of responsibility so now Vangelis left it in his rooms. Instead, he strapped in place a small dagger at his hip that he had worn since he could walk from one end of a corridor to the other without falling, took up the heavy sword he had been training with for months and descended to the courtyard in question.
Over the weeks, Vangelis had improved, despite his young mind not seeing the incremental changes. Now able to not only lift and swing the weapon, Vangelis could now maintain his balance throughout all of the regimes and practices he had been taught. Hus focus now was attacks that required the full extension of his arm. Open sweeps and forward stabs of the blade meant the weight of it being supported by a fully extended arm, often sending him off balance in a quick stumble or he remained sturdy but could place little power into the attack.
Frustrated, Vangelis had been working on such efforts for over two hours, unbeknownst to him making him late for his Coptic lesson and slowly turning the tips of his frozen fingers grey. His hate was damp with sweat and with frost, his knees and elbows bright pink with the cold. But his muscles were warm and he was determined to push past the razor sharp cold in his throat. Especially when the voice of his father made the king's presence known, right in time to witness his boots scuff the snow beneath as he stumbled again.
At his father's instructions, Vangelis' shoulders straightened and his grip tightened on the cold leather around the handle of his blade. His breath came from his lips in a plume of fog.
"Ye, Sir." He barked, as a soldier would to his commanding officer and Vangelis widened his stance, bent his knees a little more which set his thighs burning with tension, and then repeated the movement. He felt his centre of balance shift again and make him wobble but this time his feet didn't move. It was an improvement at least.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Despite his royal birth - or perhaps because of it - Vangelis had not had an easy upbringing. Whilst one area of his life afforded him all the benefits missing from those born to lower ranks: good food, comfortable living chambers and the finest of clothing and provisions he could ever wish for, he was also handed those privileges alongside the obligations hat followed. He was the crown prince. If any of the nobilities children born after him had learnt to walk before he had, it would have been a comment of dishonour upon the House of Kotas, or a moment of worry over the future skill and blessing of the crown prince.
Whilst vangelis could hardly remember his first steps nor know whether any had surpassed him in the task, it had been a continuous environment of expected perfectionism in which he had been raised. And yet, oddly, never one that had been enforced. Rather than a family that pressured and nagged him to be the very best he could be, disappointment the result of failure, the king and queen of Colchis had always simply made it clear that a leader could never expect his men to do what he could not. Which, in Vangelis' mind, translated to the leader having to be the very vest. He was crown prince. He would one day be king. Therefore, he had to be the best.
Which he wasn't.
The last few months had been a challenge he had yet to face. In schooling and tutoring, Vangelis was smart enough to keep up though not so academic that he needed extra tutoring at times to understand the more complex lessons in tactical militia and politics. At seven years of age, such lessons were basic and taught with his level of understanding in mind, but it didn't stop them being difficult to so young a mind. And yet, some quiet, solitary practice and Vangelis remained equal to the smartest of his noble generation. Or at least able to hold his own in discussions with them.
Yet swordplay, the one ability that the adventurous and fearless prince had been so looking forward to, had become an area of disappointment.
Not only was he struggling in his own talents with so simple a thing as a wooden blade, but his peers in other royal families were finding the tasks before them to be of such ease.
At the age of seven, Vangelis did not consider the potential difference in blades, nor the fact that, as he sailed towards puberty with more speed than some of the others, growing in height quickly as he approached his first decade of life, he was more gangly than the others; his literal shape physically changing between one practice and the next, sending his progress a step backwards.
In Vangelis' mind, he had first thought himself to be cursed by the Gods. Perhaps he had angered the mighty Ares in some way and the God was not wishing him to yet lift the sword that was his tool of life. Or maybe Athena did not think him yet wise enough to deserve to learn the art of war.
Over time, however, and his constant instruction by stewards and father to continue to lift and work with the blade, very slowly progressing in his ability to lift it properly, Vangelis had come to the decision that it was not disappointment but challenge that the Hods wished to convey. His father had always told him that, as king, he would support the heaviest burden of all - the responsibility of his lands and people. This was the Gods' way of testing if he would be ready.
With such a simple and determined conclusion, Vangelis' efforts with the blade had tripled. He went out to practice when he was instructed by his tutor, he went out when instructed by his father through a message delivered by a servants hand. He went out between his other lessons by himself to practice. And he took up the sword yet again each time he came in from a riding lesson. He even, if he had strength and energy left at the end of each day, wielded the weapon in his bedchambers. But since leaving a heavy, slicing dent in the floor and wall (now carefully hidden by the moving of his clothes chest and a rug) Vangelis had relegated such practice time to simply strengthening his arms with the weight of the sword, rather than moving through actual practices.
Now, Vangelis had headed down to the courtyard beside his family home, in the grounds of the estate, at dawn. His body had ached and his eyes had stung with the early morning chill in his rooms but he knew that if he were to stay curled beneath his blankets he would dishonour Ares. Instead of risking a God's wrath that he was healthily fearful of as a child, Vangelis had forced himself from bed and dressed.
In a short tunic of bright blue and black leather belt around his waist, Vangelis was bare on his legs and arms, for he knew he would warm a little with his practice but found his fur stuffed leather boots instead of his sandals. It had been several years since the novelty of wearing a crown had been a source of excitement instead of responsibility so now Vangelis left it in his rooms. Instead, he strapped in place a small dagger at his hip that he had worn since he could walk from one end of a corridor to the other without falling, took up the heavy sword he had been training with for months and descended to the courtyard in question.
Over the weeks, Vangelis had improved, despite his young mind not seeing the incremental changes. Now able to not only lift and swing the weapon, Vangelis could now maintain his balance throughout all of the regimes and practices he had been taught. Hus focus now was attacks that required the full extension of his arm. Open sweeps and forward stabs of the blade meant the weight of it being supported by a fully extended arm, often sending him off balance in a quick stumble or he remained sturdy but could place little power into the attack.
Frustrated, Vangelis had been working on such efforts for over two hours, unbeknownst to him making him late for his Coptic lesson and slowly turning the tips of his frozen fingers grey. His hate was damp with sweat and with frost, his knees and elbows bright pink with the cold. But his muscles were warm and he was determined to push past the razor sharp cold in his throat. Especially when the voice of his father made the king's presence known, right in time to witness his boots scuff the snow beneath as he stumbled again.
At his father's instructions, Vangelis' shoulders straightened and his grip tightened on the cold leather around the handle of his blade. His breath came from his lips in a plume of fog.
"Ye, Sir." He barked, as a soldier would to his commanding officer and Vangelis widened his stance, bent his knees a little more which set his thighs burning with tension, and then repeated the movement. He felt his centre of balance shift again and make him wobble but this time his feet didn't move. It was an improvement at least.
Despite his royal birth - or perhaps because of it - Vangelis had not had an easy upbringing. Whilst one area of his life afforded him all the benefits missing from those born to lower ranks: good food, comfortable living chambers and the finest of clothing and provisions he could ever wish for, he was also handed those privileges alongside the obligations hat followed. He was the crown prince. If any of the nobilities children born after him had learnt to walk before he had, it would have been a comment of dishonour upon the House of Kotas, or a moment of worry over the future skill and blessing of the crown prince.
Whilst vangelis could hardly remember his first steps nor know whether any had surpassed him in the task, it had been a continuous environment of expected perfectionism in which he had been raised. And yet, oddly, never one that had been enforced. Rather than a family that pressured and nagged him to be the very best he could be, disappointment the result of failure, the king and queen of Colchis had always simply made it clear that a leader could never expect his men to do what he could not. Which, in Vangelis' mind, translated to the leader having to be the very vest. He was crown prince. He would one day be king. Therefore, he had to be the best.
Which he wasn't.
The last few months had been a challenge he had yet to face. In schooling and tutoring, Vangelis was smart enough to keep up though not so academic that he needed extra tutoring at times to understand the more complex lessons in tactical militia and politics. At seven years of age, such lessons were basic and taught with his level of understanding in mind, but it didn't stop them being difficult to so young a mind. And yet, some quiet, solitary practice and Vangelis remained equal to the smartest of his noble generation. Or at least able to hold his own in discussions with them.
Yet swordplay, the one ability that the adventurous and fearless prince had been so looking forward to, had become an area of disappointment.
Not only was he struggling in his own talents with so simple a thing as a wooden blade, but his peers in other royal families were finding the tasks before them to be of such ease.
At the age of seven, Vangelis did not consider the potential difference in blades, nor the fact that, as he sailed towards puberty with more speed than some of the others, growing in height quickly as he approached his first decade of life, he was more gangly than the others; his literal shape physically changing between one practice and the next, sending his progress a step backwards.
In Vangelis' mind, he had first thought himself to be cursed by the Gods. Perhaps he had angered the mighty Ares in some way and the God was not wishing him to yet lift the sword that was his tool of life. Or maybe Athena did not think him yet wise enough to deserve to learn the art of war.
Over time, however, and his constant instruction by stewards and father to continue to lift and work with the blade, very slowly progressing in his ability to lift it properly, Vangelis had come to the decision that it was not disappointment but challenge that the Hods wished to convey. His father had always told him that, as king, he would support the heaviest burden of all - the responsibility of his lands and people. This was the Gods' way of testing if he would be ready.
With such a simple and determined conclusion, Vangelis' efforts with the blade had tripled. He went out to practice when he was instructed by his tutor, he went out when instructed by his father through a message delivered by a servants hand. He went out between his other lessons by himself to practice. And he took up the sword yet again each time he came in from a riding lesson. He even, if he had strength and energy left at the end of each day, wielded the weapon in his bedchambers. But since leaving a heavy, slicing dent in the floor and wall (now carefully hidden by the moving of his clothes chest and a rug) Vangelis had relegated such practice time to simply strengthening his arms with the weight of the sword, rather than moving through actual practices.
Now, Vangelis had headed down to the courtyard beside his family home, in the grounds of the estate, at dawn. His body had ached and his eyes had stung with the early morning chill in his rooms but he knew that if he were to stay curled beneath his blankets he would dishonour Ares. Instead of risking a God's wrath that he was healthily fearful of as a child, Vangelis had forced himself from bed and dressed.
In a short tunic of bright blue and black leather belt around his waist, Vangelis was bare on his legs and arms, for he knew he would warm a little with his practice but found his fur stuffed leather boots instead of his sandals. It had been several years since the novelty of wearing a crown had been a source of excitement instead of responsibility so now Vangelis left it in his rooms. Instead, he strapped in place a small dagger at his hip that he had worn since he could walk from one end of a corridor to the other without falling, took up the heavy sword he had been training with for months and descended to the courtyard in question.
Over the weeks, Vangelis had improved, despite his young mind not seeing the incremental changes. Now able to not only lift and swing the weapon, Vangelis could now maintain his balance throughout all of the regimes and practices he had been taught. Hus focus now was attacks that required the full extension of his arm. Open sweeps and forward stabs of the blade meant the weight of it being supported by a fully extended arm, often sending him off balance in a quick stumble or he remained sturdy but could place little power into the attack.
Frustrated, Vangelis had been working on such efforts for over two hours, unbeknownst to him making him late for his Coptic lesson and slowly turning the tips of his frozen fingers grey. His hate was damp with sweat and with frost, his knees and elbows bright pink with the cold. But his muscles were warm and he was determined to push past the razor sharp cold in his throat. Especially when the voice of his father made the king's presence known, right in time to witness his boots scuff the snow beneath as he stumbled again.
At his father's instructions, Vangelis' shoulders straightened and his grip tightened on the cold leather around the handle of his blade. His breath came from his lips in a plume of fog.
"Ye, Sir." He barked, as a soldier would to his commanding officer and Vangelis widened his stance, bent his knees a little more which set his thighs burning with tension, and then repeated the movement. He felt his centre of balance shift again and make him wobble but this time his feet didn't move. It was an improvement at least.
It was not overly difficult to note the fading color in Vangelis' extremities, and Tython's first instinct was to chastise his son for not wearing warm enough clothing and gloves, for that matter. But he filed it away for when he pulled Vangelis from his personal lesson in swordplay. Tython was more than pleased about the fortitude and perseverance that Vang showed each and every day, but the King was also aware of when a break was required. Vangelis would only serve to tire himself to the point of exhaustion if he did not step back and look at his sword with a different perspective.
The weight of the sword was not meant to make him obsessive. It was not meant to fill his days and waking hours and non-study times with training and only training. Frankly, Tython could almost see his wife's irritation at their son's newfound obsession and the King may have felt the slightest bit of guilt about it.
So now it was time for a different approach to the blade that Vangelis was gifted, for he would soon find that the weight of his wooden blade was no different, if not harder to manage than the iron blade that he would soon brandish. That was the complicating thing about wood and iron, both were heavy when put together and the weight of an iron sword, depending on its make, could be much easier to wield.
Pressing his hands into the fur-lined folds of his himation, Tython let out a low hum once Vangelis righted himself, showing that he could balance himself well. The slightest of nods and Tython was clearing his throat. "Come, Vangelis," he noted, giving the slightest wave of his hand back toward the manor. "I wish to speak with you and you will sooner catch frostbite than you will master your blade," the king instructed slowly, even reaching out to place a hand on his son's shoulder. It was astounding how tall the boy was getting. Still young, he was at least still short, but Tython could tell from here that Vangelis was not going to take after his mother's shorter stature.
Standing at over six feet himself, Tython had this mild hope that his son would also be a force to tower over his people. Not in intimidation, but in a way that would give them a sort of comfort. Comfort knowing that the Kingdom would be well protected. Vangelis had a lot of weight to carry on his shoulders, but hopefully, his shoulders would become broad and his mind would no longer strain under the weight of what his duties required.
"Bring your sword," Tython instructed, this time nudging his son in the direction of the manor. He knew that Vangelis wouldn't argue. He was too dutiful of a boy for backtalk. Tython still hadn't decided if that was a good or bad thing, but he was sure that he would find out as his son continued to grow.
Guiding Vangelis in and out of the snow, Tython lead the two of them back into the bowels of the manor where a fire had been started in one of the sitting rooms in order to drive away the harsh chill of winter. "Tell me how you feel you are progressing, son.'
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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It was not overly difficult to note the fading color in Vangelis' extremities, and Tython's first instinct was to chastise his son for not wearing warm enough clothing and gloves, for that matter. But he filed it away for when he pulled Vangelis from his personal lesson in swordplay. Tython was more than pleased about the fortitude and perseverance that Vang showed each and every day, but the King was also aware of when a break was required. Vangelis would only serve to tire himself to the point of exhaustion if he did not step back and look at his sword with a different perspective.
The weight of the sword was not meant to make him obsessive. It was not meant to fill his days and waking hours and non-study times with training and only training. Frankly, Tython could almost see his wife's irritation at their son's newfound obsession and the King may have felt the slightest bit of guilt about it.
So now it was time for a different approach to the blade that Vangelis was gifted, for he would soon find that the weight of his wooden blade was no different, if not harder to manage than the iron blade that he would soon brandish. That was the complicating thing about wood and iron, both were heavy when put together and the weight of an iron sword, depending on its make, could be much easier to wield.
Pressing his hands into the fur-lined folds of his himation, Tython let out a low hum once Vangelis righted himself, showing that he could balance himself well. The slightest of nods and Tython was clearing his throat. "Come, Vangelis," he noted, giving the slightest wave of his hand back toward the manor. "I wish to speak with you and you will sooner catch frostbite than you will master your blade," the king instructed slowly, even reaching out to place a hand on his son's shoulder. It was astounding how tall the boy was getting. Still young, he was at least still short, but Tython could tell from here that Vangelis was not going to take after his mother's shorter stature.
Standing at over six feet himself, Tython had this mild hope that his son would also be a force to tower over his people. Not in intimidation, but in a way that would give them a sort of comfort. Comfort knowing that the Kingdom would be well protected. Vangelis had a lot of weight to carry on his shoulders, but hopefully, his shoulders would become broad and his mind would no longer strain under the weight of what his duties required.
"Bring your sword," Tython instructed, this time nudging his son in the direction of the manor. He knew that Vangelis wouldn't argue. He was too dutiful of a boy for backtalk. Tython still hadn't decided if that was a good or bad thing, but he was sure that he would find out as his son continued to grow.
Guiding Vangelis in and out of the snow, Tython lead the two of them back into the bowels of the manor where a fire had been started in one of the sitting rooms in order to drive away the harsh chill of winter. "Tell me how you feel you are progressing, son.'
It was not overly difficult to note the fading color in Vangelis' extremities, and Tython's first instinct was to chastise his son for not wearing warm enough clothing and gloves, for that matter. But he filed it away for when he pulled Vangelis from his personal lesson in swordplay. Tython was more than pleased about the fortitude and perseverance that Vang showed each and every day, but the King was also aware of when a break was required. Vangelis would only serve to tire himself to the point of exhaustion if he did not step back and look at his sword with a different perspective.
The weight of the sword was not meant to make him obsessive. It was not meant to fill his days and waking hours and non-study times with training and only training. Frankly, Tython could almost see his wife's irritation at their son's newfound obsession and the King may have felt the slightest bit of guilt about it.
So now it was time for a different approach to the blade that Vangelis was gifted, for he would soon find that the weight of his wooden blade was no different, if not harder to manage than the iron blade that he would soon brandish. That was the complicating thing about wood and iron, both were heavy when put together and the weight of an iron sword, depending on its make, could be much easier to wield.
Pressing his hands into the fur-lined folds of his himation, Tython let out a low hum once Vangelis righted himself, showing that he could balance himself well. The slightest of nods and Tython was clearing his throat. "Come, Vangelis," he noted, giving the slightest wave of his hand back toward the manor. "I wish to speak with you and you will sooner catch frostbite than you will master your blade," the king instructed slowly, even reaching out to place a hand on his son's shoulder. It was astounding how tall the boy was getting. Still young, he was at least still short, but Tython could tell from here that Vangelis was not going to take after his mother's shorter stature.
Standing at over six feet himself, Tython had this mild hope that his son would also be a force to tower over his people. Not in intimidation, but in a way that would give them a sort of comfort. Comfort knowing that the Kingdom would be well protected. Vangelis had a lot of weight to carry on his shoulders, but hopefully, his shoulders would become broad and his mind would no longer strain under the weight of what his duties required.
"Bring your sword," Tython instructed, this time nudging his son in the direction of the manor. He knew that Vangelis wouldn't argue. He was too dutiful of a boy for backtalk. Tython still hadn't decided if that was a good or bad thing, but he was sure that he would find out as his son continued to grow.
Guiding Vangelis in and out of the snow, Tython lead the two of them back into the bowels of the manor where a fire had been started in one of the sitting rooms in order to drive away the harsh chill of winter. "Tell me how you feel you are progressing, son.'
Pleased that he had made a modicum of progress in that particular move, Vangelis' hopes were dashed slightly when his father insisted that he would lose fingers before he mastered his blade. In the eyes of a child, it felt as if his father was confirming that he would never be in control of his weapon and that he was disappointed in his first-born son.
His features turning calm and filial, Vangelis lowered his gaze and his blade when Tython insisted that he wished to speak with him and gestured towards the inside of the manor. Vangelis nodded with a dutiful acceptance of - "Yes, Father." - leaving his lips and then followed in the man's wake.
He took the sword with him, as instructed, his hand around the hilt of the weapon in a manner that was tight with frustration and anger at the thing for not bending to his will, but his face remained one of stoic determination as he walked behind his patriarch and king towards the inner sanctum and warmth of his family home.
As they stepped from the slightly frosty courtyard outside into the welcoming foyer that led to several chambers with fires already burning, Vangelis noted the white and spotted footprints of his father's boots as he walked across the hall and looked down as his own foot came to rest within one of them. Only about half the size.
Taking a slow and determined inhale, Vangelis followed his father into a sitting lounge and began to feel the harsh tingles and aches in his fingers as warmth seeped back into the digits and caused the skin around them to feel tight. Refusing to let go of his weapon as he had been told to carry it, Vangelis unfurled and tightened the fingers of his other hand, working out the pains. His knees were now bright pink at the sudden temperature change, as were his elbows. His hair had immediately started to curl in the heat as the frosty dew melted from his locks and his cheeks were rubbed winter raw.
Rather than sit down or relax within his own home Vangelis, at the age of seven, was still very much aware that he was in the presence of a General and a King as well as his father and he remained standing, holding onto his sword and keeping his shoulders as straight as he could, his spine as elongated as possible, as he stood before his father and sought his next advice or instruction.
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Pleased that he had made a modicum of progress in that particular move, Vangelis' hopes were dashed slightly when his father insisted that he would lose fingers before he mastered his blade. In the eyes of a child, it felt as if his father was confirming that he would never be in control of his weapon and that he was disappointed in his first-born son.
His features turning calm and filial, Vangelis lowered his gaze and his blade when Tython insisted that he wished to speak with him and gestured towards the inside of the manor. Vangelis nodded with a dutiful acceptance of - "Yes, Father." - leaving his lips and then followed in the man's wake.
He took the sword with him, as instructed, his hand around the hilt of the weapon in a manner that was tight with frustration and anger at the thing for not bending to his will, but his face remained one of stoic determination as he walked behind his patriarch and king towards the inner sanctum and warmth of his family home.
As they stepped from the slightly frosty courtyard outside into the welcoming foyer that led to several chambers with fires already burning, Vangelis noted the white and spotted footprints of his father's boots as he walked across the hall and looked down as his own foot came to rest within one of them. Only about half the size.
Taking a slow and determined inhale, Vangelis followed his father into a sitting lounge and began to feel the harsh tingles and aches in his fingers as warmth seeped back into the digits and caused the skin around them to feel tight. Refusing to let go of his weapon as he had been told to carry it, Vangelis unfurled and tightened the fingers of his other hand, working out the pains. His knees were now bright pink at the sudden temperature change, as were his elbows. His hair had immediately started to curl in the heat as the frosty dew melted from his locks and his cheeks were rubbed winter raw.
Rather than sit down or relax within his own home Vangelis, at the age of seven, was still very much aware that he was in the presence of a General and a King as well as his father and he remained standing, holding onto his sword and keeping his shoulders as straight as he could, his spine as elongated as possible, as he stood before his father and sought his next advice or instruction.
Pleased that he had made a modicum of progress in that particular move, Vangelis' hopes were dashed slightly when his father insisted that he would lose fingers before he mastered his blade. In the eyes of a child, it felt as if his father was confirming that he would never be in control of his weapon and that he was disappointed in his first-born son.
His features turning calm and filial, Vangelis lowered his gaze and his blade when Tython insisted that he wished to speak with him and gestured towards the inside of the manor. Vangelis nodded with a dutiful acceptance of - "Yes, Father." - leaving his lips and then followed in the man's wake.
He took the sword with him, as instructed, his hand around the hilt of the weapon in a manner that was tight with frustration and anger at the thing for not bending to his will, but his face remained one of stoic determination as he walked behind his patriarch and king towards the inner sanctum and warmth of his family home.
As they stepped from the slightly frosty courtyard outside into the welcoming foyer that led to several chambers with fires already burning, Vangelis noted the white and spotted footprints of his father's boots as he walked across the hall and looked down as his own foot came to rest within one of them. Only about half the size.
Taking a slow and determined inhale, Vangelis followed his father into a sitting lounge and began to feel the harsh tingles and aches in his fingers as warmth seeped back into the digits and caused the skin around them to feel tight. Refusing to let go of his weapon as he had been told to carry it, Vangelis unfurled and tightened the fingers of his other hand, working out the pains. His knees were now bright pink at the sudden temperature change, as were his elbows. His hair had immediately started to curl in the heat as the frosty dew melted from his locks and his cheeks were rubbed winter raw.
Rather than sit down or relax within his own home Vangelis, at the age of seven, was still very much aware that he was in the presence of a General and a King as well as his father and he remained standing, holding onto his sword and keeping his shoulders as straight as he could, his spine as elongated as possible, as he stood before his father and sought his next advice or instruction.
Tython was well aware that his son was stubborn. The young boy would practice until his limbs practically froze and the fell off if anyone allowed him such freedom. It was an impressive trait to have, but also one that posed a level of danger that Tython was not willing to face with his son being still too young to truly know how to care for himself. Young boys did not think about the effects that the elements had on their bodies, and that alone was always disconcerting. Tython, once upon a time, had been much the same as Vang.
Ready and willing to try and prove anything in the shortest amount of time with no thought of his environment. His own attendance upon the mines when he was a teenager had not ended in the most glorious of manners. Tython would have worked himself to his death if anyone had allowed it of him, but King Silas had been a tempered, patient hand that was always there to state when enough was enough.
This was Tython telling Vangelis that it was enough of the obsessive behavior. Practice made perfect, but not if your limbs were frozen and you were not taking the proper steps to protect yourself. Only more problems could come from the boy continuing to practice in the snow. As the two of them trailed into the home and Tython soaked in the rare bit of warmth that they were able to hold as the winter months gripped Colchis, the King glanced back at his young son.
Perhaps this would encourage the boy.
They stepped into one of the large sitting rooms, a few of the servants following hot on their heels. There was a fire going in this room, warming the stone underfoot and the air around them. Turning to face Vangelis, Tython let his own hands rest at his sides. His stormy gaze lifted to meet that of one of the servants. "Move the furniture from this room for the time being. The prince is going to use this room to train for the next while," the king ordered before bringing his attention back to his son.
The young king held out his hand to his son, making a motion for the wooden blade that the boy still carried. "I respect your want to train and master your blade, but you are not a master of the elements yet," Tython pointed out, "So you will use this room to train from here on. The first goal is to be able to swing your blade. We will add armor and accessories later, as their weight adds and extra degree of difficulty," the man instructed carefully. "Take a moment to warm your hands, son," the king murmured as he took the wooden blade from Vangelis. "Then I will have you show me again how you are wielding your sword."
Ever the patient man, Tython was in no rush for Vangelis to warm up. The boy could take as long as he wished, especially because the servants were quietly and efficiently working at clearing the room of its expensive furniture and furnishing one of the side tables with chalices and a jug of water for the king and the young prince.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Tython was well aware that his son was stubborn. The young boy would practice until his limbs practically froze and the fell off if anyone allowed him such freedom. It was an impressive trait to have, but also one that posed a level of danger that Tython was not willing to face with his son being still too young to truly know how to care for himself. Young boys did not think about the effects that the elements had on their bodies, and that alone was always disconcerting. Tython, once upon a time, had been much the same as Vang.
Ready and willing to try and prove anything in the shortest amount of time with no thought of his environment. His own attendance upon the mines when he was a teenager had not ended in the most glorious of manners. Tython would have worked himself to his death if anyone had allowed it of him, but King Silas had been a tempered, patient hand that was always there to state when enough was enough.
This was Tython telling Vangelis that it was enough of the obsessive behavior. Practice made perfect, but not if your limbs were frozen and you were not taking the proper steps to protect yourself. Only more problems could come from the boy continuing to practice in the snow. As the two of them trailed into the home and Tython soaked in the rare bit of warmth that they were able to hold as the winter months gripped Colchis, the King glanced back at his young son.
Perhaps this would encourage the boy.
They stepped into one of the large sitting rooms, a few of the servants following hot on their heels. There was a fire going in this room, warming the stone underfoot and the air around them. Turning to face Vangelis, Tython let his own hands rest at his sides. His stormy gaze lifted to meet that of one of the servants. "Move the furniture from this room for the time being. The prince is going to use this room to train for the next while," the king ordered before bringing his attention back to his son.
The young king held out his hand to his son, making a motion for the wooden blade that the boy still carried. "I respect your want to train and master your blade, but you are not a master of the elements yet," Tython pointed out, "So you will use this room to train from here on. The first goal is to be able to swing your blade. We will add armor and accessories later, as their weight adds and extra degree of difficulty," the man instructed carefully. "Take a moment to warm your hands, son," the king murmured as he took the wooden blade from Vangelis. "Then I will have you show me again how you are wielding your sword."
Ever the patient man, Tython was in no rush for Vangelis to warm up. The boy could take as long as he wished, especially because the servants were quietly and efficiently working at clearing the room of its expensive furniture and furnishing one of the side tables with chalices and a jug of water for the king and the young prince.
Tython was well aware that his son was stubborn. The young boy would practice until his limbs practically froze and the fell off if anyone allowed him such freedom. It was an impressive trait to have, but also one that posed a level of danger that Tython was not willing to face with his son being still too young to truly know how to care for himself. Young boys did not think about the effects that the elements had on their bodies, and that alone was always disconcerting. Tython, once upon a time, had been much the same as Vang.
Ready and willing to try and prove anything in the shortest amount of time with no thought of his environment. His own attendance upon the mines when he was a teenager had not ended in the most glorious of manners. Tython would have worked himself to his death if anyone had allowed it of him, but King Silas had been a tempered, patient hand that was always there to state when enough was enough.
This was Tython telling Vangelis that it was enough of the obsessive behavior. Practice made perfect, but not if your limbs were frozen and you were not taking the proper steps to protect yourself. Only more problems could come from the boy continuing to practice in the snow. As the two of them trailed into the home and Tython soaked in the rare bit of warmth that they were able to hold as the winter months gripped Colchis, the King glanced back at his young son.
Perhaps this would encourage the boy.
They stepped into one of the large sitting rooms, a few of the servants following hot on their heels. There was a fire going in this room, warming the stone underfoot and the air around them. Turning to face Vangelis, Tython let his own hands rest at his sides. His stormy gaze lifted to meet that of one of the servants. "Move the furniture from this room for the time being. The prince is going to use this room to train for the next while," the king ordered before bringing his attention back to his son.
The young king held out his hand to his son, making a motion for the wooden blade that the boy still carried. "I respect your want to train and master your blade, but you are not a master of the elements yet," Tython pointed out, "So you will use this room to train from here on. The first goal is to be able to swing your blade. We will add armor and accessories later, as their weight adds and extra degree of difficulty," the man instructed carefully. "Take a moment to warm your hands, son," the king murmured as he took the wooden blade from Vangelis. "Then I will have you show me again how you are wielding your sword."
Ever the patient man, Tython was in no rush for Vangelis to warm up. The boy could take as long as he wished, especially because the servants were quietly and efficiently working at clearing the room of its expensive furniture and furnishing one of the side tables with chalices and a jug of water for the king and the young prince.
When the king turned to face his son, Vangelis' gaze quickly dropped from where it had been staring an earnest hole into the back of the man's head, to being newly redirected towards the ground. He knew that he was not to meet the man's gaze unless he was told. That was the etiquette that his tutor had taught him and, while it had been odd for him to initially treat his father in such a manner, Vangelis had found it growing easier with more speed and less time than he had imagined.
As he had grown, Vangelis' lessons had advanced. And as his knowledge of what it meant to be a prince... and a soldier... and a man expanded, he had only come to realise how his father was indeed the hero - the role model - that his infantile mind had always thought him to be. Suddenly there was evidence to back up every childlike notion that your father was an insurmountable force. Where others his age were coming to the understanding that their fathers were human, Vangelis was beginning to realise that his was a King.
When the man spoke and held out a hand for the sword, Vangelis glanced around him in surprise. The servant that had been waiting by the door to offer them anything that they might need, immediately darted off in order to collect more staff of the estate to aid them in the task and more quickly than seemed possible, there were at least half a dozen sets of hands seeking to empty the chamber of all that it had previously held dear.
So was the power of a King's command... he thought to himself.
Turning when he was addressed regarding warmth, Vangelis yielded the hilt of his sword, the stretching of his arm making him realise how aching his muscles were now that he had come in from the snowy outdoors. Once he had relinquished the weapon, Vangelis moved towards the fire, out of the way of servants moving the larger pieces of furniture, and stretched out his hands towards the flames.
Careful to ensure that he was close enough to absorb the heat but no so close that the flames themselves would lick upon his skin and burn him, Vangelis felt the tingling in his digits intensify and almost hurt as his hands tried to adapt and absorb the warmth. Like they had to push out the icy cold through his skin to make room for the heat.
Rubbing his hands together to shift some of the feeling, Vangelis kept glancing over his shoulder at the progress made in the room as the fire's warmth seeped into his hands, his arms and the fronts of his thighs. He felt his knees start to shiver and his shoulders lean in for the heat... felt the skin of his face feel tight.
By the time the tingling in his extremities had stopped, Vangelis felt human again, flushed in the face and sluggishly cosy. Blinking to clear his mind, he turned to stand to attention before his father, his posture a clear message that he was ready for whatever challenge might be thrown his way next.
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When the king turned to face his son, Vangelis' gaze quickly dropped from where it had been staring an earnest hole into the back of the man's head, to being newly redirected towards the ground. He knew that he was not to meet the man's gaze unless he was told. That was the etiquette that his tutor had taught him and, while it had been odd for him to initially treat his father in such a manner, Vangelis had found it growing easier with more speed and less time than he had imagined.
As he had grown, Vangelis' lessons had advanced. And as his knowledge of what it meant to be a prince... and a soldier... and a man expanded, he had only come to realise how his father was indeed the hero - the role model - that his infantile mind had always thought him to be. Suddenly there was evidence to back up every childlike notion that your father was an insurmountable force. Where others his age were coming to the understanding that their fathers were human, Vangelis was beginning to realise that his was a King.
When the man spoke and held out a hand for the sword, Vangelis glanced around him in surprise. The servant that had been waiting by the door to offer them anything that they might need, immediately darted off in order to collect more staff of the estate to aid them in the task and more quickly than seemed possible, there were at least half a dozen sets of hands seeking to empty the chamber of all that it had previously held dear.
So was the power of a King's command... he thought to himself.
Turning when he was addressed regarding warmth, Vangelis yielded the hilt of his sword, the stretching of his arm making him realise how aching his muscles were now that he had come in from the snowy outdoors. Once he had relinquished the weapon, Vangelis moved towards the fire, out of the way of servants moving the larger pieces of furniture, and stretched out his hands towards the flames.
Careful to ensure that he was close enough to absorb the heat but no so close that the flames themselves would lick upon his skin and burn him, Vangelis felt the tingling in his digits intensify and almost hurt as his hands tried to adapt and absorb the warmth. Like they had to push out the icy cold through his skin to make room for the heat.
Rubbing his hands together to shift some of the feeling, Vangelis kept glancing over his shoulder at the progress made in the room as the fire's warmth seeped into his hands, his arms and the fronts of his thighs. He felt his knees start to shiver and his shoulders lean in for the heat... felt the skin of his face feel tight.
By the time the tingling in his extremities had stopped, Vangelis felt human again, flushed in the face and sluggishly cosy. Blinking to clear his mind, he turned to stand to attention before his father, his posture a clear message that he was ready for whatever challenge might be thrown his way next.
When the king turned to face his son, Vangelis' gaze quickly dropped from where it had been staring an earnest hole into the back of the man's head, to being newly redirected towards the ground. He knew that he was not to meet the man's gaze unless he was told. That was the etiquette that his tutor had taught him and, while it had been odd for him to initially treat his father in such a manner, Vangelis had found it growing easier with more speed and less time than he had imagined.
As he had grown, Vangelis' lessons had advanced. And as his knowledge of what it meant to be a prince... and a soldier... and a man expanded, he had only come to realise how his father was indeed the hero - the role model - that his infantile mind had always thought him to be. Suddenly there was evidence to back up every childlike notion that your father was an insurmountable force. Where others his age were coming to the understanding that their fathers were human, Vangelis was beginning to realise that his was a King.
When the man spoke and held out a hand for the sword, Vangelis glanced around him in surprise. The servant that had been waiting by the door to offer them anything that they might need, immediately darted off in order to collect more staff of the estate to aid them in the task and more quickly than seemed possible, there were at least half a dozen sets of hands seeking to empty the chamber of all that it had previously held dear.
So was the power of a King's command... he thought to himself.
Turning when he was addressed regarding warmth, Vangelis yielded the hilt of his sword, the stretching of his arm making him realise how aching his muscles were now that he had come in from the snowy outdoors. Once he had relinquished the weapon, Vangelis moved towards the fire, out of the way of servants moving the larger pieces of furniture, and stretched out his hands towards the flames.
Careful to ensure that he was close enough to absorb the heat but no so close that the flames themselves would lick upon his skin and burn him, Vangelis felt the tingling in his digits intensify and almost hurt as his hands tried to adapt and absorb the warmth. Like they had to push out the icy cold through his skin to make room for the heat.
Rubbing his hands together to shift some of the feeling, Vangelis kept glancing over his shoulder at the progress made in the room as the fire's warmth seeped into his hands, his arms and the fronts of his thighs. He felt his knees start to shiver and his shoulders lean in for the heat... felt the skin of his face feel tight.
By the time the tingling in his extremities had stopped, Vangelis felt human again, flushed in the face and sluggishly cosy. Blinking to clear his mind, he turned to stand to attention before his father, his posture a clear message that he was ready for whatever challenge might be thrown his way next.
Many people did not get to train in the warmth, and under normal circumstances, Tython would not allow it. However, he had a bias here, one of few, and that meant he would shift his own view. His firstborn son was given the privilege of heat and warmth, but Tython's worry had simply been his son's inability to care for himself and dress properly for the cold weather. If that was how Vangelis would treat himself, then Tython was going to flip the scales.
Heat could be just as dangerous as cold if one was not careful, and as servants removed furniture, Tython leaned toward one of them. "More logs for the fire," he instructed quietly so that Vangelis couldn't hear him. Vangelis would sweat it out in here, making working in the heat unbearable. By the time the child was done working in here one single day, he would hopefully be thinking more on his person rather than obsessing about his training.
While Tython was pleased that Vangelis was taking to his physical studies well, Tython did not want to see him do so at a sacrifice to his own person, his extremities, and the potential loss of feeling or limb because he let the cold seep too far into his bones. It was a subtle lesson, but one Tython thought his young son would appreciate. On the battlefield, one could not be self-destructive or one would die. It was that simple of a concept, and Vangelis needed to learn to balance himself.
The king watched his son as he warmed himself by the first, casually working the sword in his own hand. One-handed, the King let himself flourish the blunt blade in his grip, twisting it around, spinning it, and seeming particularly at ease with it. It was something he did absently in order to fill the quiet and keep himself from thinking of the distracting movements of the servants who were clearing out the last pieces of furniture from the room.
Finally, Vangelis turned back toward his father, and Tython stilled his movements with the blade. Assessing his son quietly to ensure that he was warm and flushed instead of shivering and at risk of losing any of his fingers, Tython finally nodded his approval. Stepping forward, he crouched before Vangelis and offered the child his sword back, using his own hand to brace it just in case Vangelis did not remember how much the blade weighed.
"I want you to show me, slowly, how you are using your blade. Show me each step in turn so that I may asses the minutiae of your movements and help you ease your frustrations," Tython's voice was gentle though commanding and he motioned his son into the center of the room. "From the beginning."
From there, it would be easy to assess what Vangelis needed to improve on. From the back and in the snow, it was not completely easy to tell if Vangelis was simply not holding his blade correctly, or if he needed to distribute the weight of himself and his blade further than he was.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Many people did not get to train in the warmth, and under normal circumstances, Tython would not allow it. However, he had a bias here, one of few, and that meant he would shift his own view. His firstborn son was given the privilege of heat and warmth, but Tython's worry had simply been his son's inability to care for himself and dress properly for the cold weather. If that was how Vangelis would treat himself, then Tython was going to flip the scales.
Heat could be just as dangerous as cold if one was not careful, and as servants removed furniture, Tython leaned toward one of them. "More logs for the fire," he instructed quietly so that Vangelis couldn't hear him. Vangelis would sweat it out in here, making working in the heat unbearable. By the time the child was done working in here one single day, he would hopefully be thinking more on his person rather than obsessing about his training.
While Tython was pleased that Vangelis was taking to his physical studies well, Tython did not want to see him do so at a sacrifice to his own person, his extremities, and the potential loss of feeling or limb because he let the cold seep too far into his bones. It was a subtle lesson, but one Tython thought his young son would appreciate. On the battlefield, one could not be self-destructive or one would die. It was that simple of a concept, and Vangelis needed to learn to balance himself.
The king watched his son as he warmed himself by the first, casually working the sword in his own hand. One-handed, the King let himself flourish the blunt blade in his grip, twisting it around, spinning it, and seeming particularly at ease with it. It was something he did absently in order to fill the quiet and keep himself from thinking of the distracting movements of the servants who were clearing out the last pieces of furniture from the room.
Finally, Vangelis turned back toward his father, and Tython stilled his movements with the blade. Assessing his son quietly to ensure that he was warm and flushed instead of shivering and at risk of losing any of his fingers, Tython finally nodded his approval. Stepping forward, he crouched before Vangelis and offered the child his sword back, using his own hand to brace it just in case Vangelis did not remember how much the blade weighed.
"I want you to show me, slowly, how you are using your blade. Show me each step in turn so that I may asses the minutiae of your movements and help you ease your frustrations," Tython's voice was gentle though commanding and he motioned his son into the center of the room. "From the beginning."
From there, it would be easy to assess what Vangelis needed to improve on. From the back and in the snow, it was not completely easy to tell if Vangelis was simply not holding his blade correctly, or if he needed to distribute the weight of himself and his blade further than he was.
Many people did not get to train in the warmth, and under normal circumstances, Tython would not allow it. However, he had a bias here, one of few, and that meant he would shift his own view. His firstborn son was given the privilege of heat and warmth, but Tython's worry had simply been his son's inability to care for himself and dress properly for the cold weather. If that was how Vangelis would treat himself, then Tython was going to flip the scales.
Heat could be just as dangerous as cold if one was not careful, and as servants removed furniture, Tython leaned toward one of them. "More logs for the fire," he instructed quietly so that Vangelis couldn't hear him. Vangelis would sweat it out in here, making working in the heat unbearable. By the time the child was done working in here one single day, he would hopefully be thinking more on his person rather than obsessing about his training.
While Tython was pleased that Vangelis was taking to his physical studies well, Tython did not want to see him do so at a sacrifice to his own person, his extremities, and the potential loss of feeling or limb because he let the cold seep too far into his bones. It was a subtle lesson, but one Tython thought his young son would appreciate. On the battlefield, one could not be self-destructive or one would die. It was that simple of a concept, and Vangelis needed to learn to balance himself.
The king watched his son as he warmed himself by the first, casually working the sword in his own hand. One-handed, the King let himself flourish the blunt blade in his grip, twisting it around, spinning it, and seeming particularly at ease with it. It was something he did absently in order to fill the quiet and keep himself from thinking of the distracting movements of the servants who were clearing out the last pieces of furniture from the room.
Finally, Vangelis turned back toward his father, and Tython stilled his movements with the blade. Assessing his son quietly to ensure that he was warm and flushed instead of shivering and at risk of losing any of his fingers, Tython finally nodded his approval. Stepping forward, he crouched before Vangelis and offered the child his sword back, using his own hand to brace it just in case Vangelis did not remember how much the blade weighed.
"I want you to show me, slowly, how you are using your blade. Show me each step in turn so that I may asses the minutiae of your movements and help you ease your frustrations," Tython's voice was gentle though commanding and he motioned his son into the center of the room. "From the beginning."
From there, it would be easy to assess what Vangelis needed to improve on. From the back and in the snow, it was not completely easy to tell if Vangelis was simply not holding his blade correctly, or if he needed to distribute the weight of himself and his blade further than he was.
Vangelis did not hear the note of command that Tython made to the servants that would ensure that his working environment became uncomfortable in a new way. Instead, he was focused on the flames before his fingers and willing feeling back into his hands quickly. His father had told him to warm up, to get himself ready for a new lesson at his very hand and Vangelis was determined to sort out his grip, have his skin return to its normal colour and be ready for the king and his instruction as soon as the room had been cleared. His eyes narrowed at the way his fingers curled and unfurled over the heat of the flames, his mind outstretched to encourage the numbness to flee.
When he felt himself back to the norm and was able to turn and face his father, his task completed, Vangelis watched as Tython wielded his blade with such ease. The king's arm muscles bulked and shifted with each pass and his shoulders turned in fluid angles to support the weight of the weapon. It was as if the sword was not an implement or an attachment to his person, but a part of his body entirely; an extension of his own limbs and mind that would move and weave as his thoughts instructed.
Vangelis wanted to be like that. To move his blade with such skill. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own name and his place in the Kotas family. But, at seven years of age, he had yet to recognise that some such things may not be possible until he grew a decade and a handful of feet. In his mind, he could be exactly like his father, like the Commanders in his father's employ... right now. If he worked hard enough and dedicated his efforts to it as often and for as long as possible.
When the king stepped forwards and offered Vangelis the blade back, the young boy took it without thought but much determination, ensuring that the weight did not over power him. His own little muscles, in the upper half of his arm grew taught with the strength needed to support the wooden blade and he held his feet in place. He refused to bend his spine or shift his muscles in order to accommodate the weight, thinking that man was to hold strong against the blade and not let it overpower him. Rather than adjusting his centre of gravity and shifting with the new addition to his frame.
As King Tython ordered that he complete the process of his current exercises slowly and step by step, Vangelis nodded to show his obedience and then moved a few steps back from the king, finding himself in the open centre of the room. To begin, he worked through the regimes and fluid practices of swordplay that he had managed to so far claim mastery over. More or less. They were fluid, they were careful and when he needed them to be, they were powerful. Vangelis had a good balance and was able to make the sweeping strikes of the blade with speed and control. He also had the stubbornness to manipulate the blades angles and heave upon its weight without giving in to it, regardless of how it strained at his arm and back.
He performed each lesson that his sword work tutor had given him a step at a time, pausing between each movement and motion so that his father could witness what he had learnt and how he could improve. He did so all the way through to the particular lesson that was giving him trouble; a loathly acceptance that he was forced to make given that his father had witnessed it for himself only a few moments prior in the frosted courtyard.
The motion of stabbing or completing a full extension of his arm only ever ended two ways. One, his sword was full extended, stabbing a power that might have a chance of running through flesh if not bone (for he was only seven), but then his feet were unable to support the weight; his step would shift, his wrist would bend and he would lose the strength in his aim. Or two, he managed to hold all of these in place, his arm out, his blade extended, his feet firm. But the strike that he had managed and controlled was so weak that it would have glanced off of skin. He never seemed able to complete both power and control in a single recreation.
Lowering the blade and looking to his father with frustration over this failure, his cheeks burning with colour and his chest rising and falling with the heavy breaths of exertion, Vangelis took a step to the side to avoid the servants who came in with fresh logs for the hearth. He eyes were focused on the king, beseeching his worst and his critique so that he might become better and stronger.
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Vangelis did not hear the note of command that Tython made to the servants that would ensure that his working environment became uncomfortable in a new way. Instead, he was focused on the flames before his fingers and willing feeling back into his hands quickly. His father had told him to warm up, to get himself ready for a new lesson at his very hand and Vangelis was determined to sort out his grip, have his skin return to its normal colour and be ready for the king and his instruction as soon as the room had been cleared. His eyes narrowed at the way his fingers curled and unfurled over the heat of the flames, his mind outstretched to encourage the numbness to flee.
When he felt himself back to the norm and was able to turn and face his father, his task completed, Vangelis watched as Tython wielded his blade with such ease. The king's arm muscles bulked and shifted with each pass and his shoulders turned in fluid angles to support the weight of the weapon. It was as if the sword was not an implement or an attachment to his person, but a part of his body entirely; an extension of his own limbs and mind that would move and weave as his thoughts instructed.
Vangelis wanted to be like that. To move his blade with such skill. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own name and his place in the Kotas family. But, at seven years of age, he had yet to recognise that some such things may not be possible until he grew a decade and a handful of feet. In his mind, he could be exactly like his father, like the Commanders in his father's employ... right now. If he worked hard enough and dedicated his efforts to it as often and for as long as possible.
When the king stepped forwards and offered Vangelis the blade back, the young boy took it without thought but much determination, ensuring that the weight did not over power him. His own little muscles, in the upper half of his arm grew taught with the strength needed to support the wooden blade and he held his feet in place. He refused to bend his spine or shift his muscles in order to accommodate the weight, thinking that man was to hold strong against the blade and not let it overpower him. Rather than adjusting his centre of gravity and shifting with the new addition to his frame.
As King Tython ordered that he complete the process of his current exercises slowly and step by step, Vangelis nodded to show his obedience and then moved a few steps back from the king, finding himself in the open centre of the room. To begin, he worked through the regimes and fluid practices of swordplay that he had managed to so far claim mastery over. More or less. They were fluid, they were careful and when he needed them to be, they were powerful. Vangelis had a good balance and was able to make the sweeping strikes of the blade with speed and control. He also had the stubbornness to manipulate the blades angles and heave upon its weight without giving in to it, regardless of how it strained at his arm and back.
He performed each lesson that his sword work tutor had given him a step at a time, pausing between each movement and motion so that his father could witness what he had learnt and how he could improve. He did so all the way through to the particular lesson that was giving him trouble; a loathly acceptance that he was forced to make given that his father had witnessed it for himself only a few moments prior in the frosted courtyard.
The motion of stabbing or completing a full extension of his arm only ever ended two ways. One, his sword was full extended, stabbing a power that might have a chance of running through flesh if not bone (for he was only seven), but then his feet were unable to support the weight; his step would shift, his wrist would bend and he would lose the strength in his aim. Or two, he managed to hold all of these in place, his arm out, his blade extended, his feet firm. But the strike that he had managed and controlled was so weak that it would have glanced off of skin. He never seemed able to complete both power and control in a single recreation.
Lowering the blade and looking to his father with frustration over this failure, his cheeks burning with colour and his chest rising and falling with the heavy breaths of exertion, Vangelis took a step to the side to avoid the servants who came in with fresh logs for the hearth. He eyes were focused on the king, beseeching his worst and his critique so that he might become better and stronger.
Vangelis did not hear the note of command that Tython made to the servants that would ensure that his working environment became uncomfortable in a new way. Instead, he was focused on the flames before his fingers and willing feeling back into his hands quickly. His father had told him to warm up, to get himself ready for a new lesson at his very hand and Vangelis was determined to sort out his grip, have his skin return to its normal colour and be ready for the king and his instruction as soon as the room had been cleared. His eyes narrowed at the way his fingers curled and unfurled over the heat of the flames, his mind outstretched to encourage the numbness to flee.
When he felt himself back to the norm and was able to turn and face his father, his task completed, Vangelis watched as Tython wielded his blade with such ease. The king's arm muscles bulked and shifted with each pass and his shoulders turned in fluid angles to support the weight of the weapon. It was as if the sword was not an implement or an attachment to his person, but a part of his body entirely; an extension of his own limbs and mind that would move and weave as his thoughts instructed.
Vangelis wanted to be like that. To move his blade with such skill. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own name and his place in the Kotas family. But, at seven years of age, he had yet to recognise that some such things may not be possible until he grew a decade and a handful of feet. In his mind, he could be exactly like his father, like the Commanders in his father's employ... right now. If he worked hard enough and dedicated his efforts to it as often and for as long as possible.
When the king stepped forwards and offered Vangelis the blade back, the young boy took it without thought but much determination, ensuring that the weight did not over power him. His own little muscles, in the upper half of his arm grew taught with the strength needed to support the wooden blade and he held his feet in place. He refused to bend his spine or shift his muscles in order to accommodate the weight, thinking that man was to hold strong against the blade and not let it overpower him. Rather than adjusting his centre of gravity and shifting with the new addition to his frame.
As King Tython ordered that he complete the process of his current exercises slowly and step by step, Vangelis nodded to show his obedience and then moved a few steps back from the king, finding himself in the open centre of the room. To begin, he worked through the regimes and fluid practices of swordplay that he had managed to so far claim mastery over. More or less. They were fluid, they were careful and when he needed them to be, they were powerful. Vangelis had a good balance and was able to make the sweeping strikes of the blade with speed and control. He also had the stubbornness to manipulate the blades angles and heave upon its weight without giving in to it, regardless of how it strained at his arm and back.
He performed each lesson that his sword work tutor had given him a step at a time, pausing between each movement and motion so that his father could witness what he had learnt and how he could improve. He did so all the way through to the particular lesson that was giving him trouble; a loathly acceptance that he was forced to make given that his father had witnessed it for himself only a few moments prior in the frosted courtyard.
The motion of stabbing or completing a full extension of his arm only ever ended two ways. One, his sword was full extended, stabbing a power that might have a chance of running through flesh if not bone (for he was only seven), but then his feet were unable to support the weight; his step would shift, his wrist would bend and he would lose the strength in his aim. Or two, he managed to hold all of these in place, his arm out, his blade extended, his feet firm. But the strike that he had managed and controlled was so weak that it would have glanced off of skin. He never seemed able to complete both power and control in a single recreation.
Lowering the blade and looking to his father with frustration over this failure, his cheeks burning with colour and his chest rising and falling with the heavy breaths of exertion, Vangelis took a step to the side to avoid the servants who came in with fresh logs for the hearth. He eyes were focused on the king, beseeching his worst and his critique so that he might become better and stronger.
Tython watched every single move that his son made, but he constantly made the same observation. The same thing wrong with his stance or the way that he moved that was wrong with each and every instance of the boy moving. Tython was more than aware that such a failure, especially when the child could not figure out where he was going wrong, was frustrating to Vangelis. And while Tython would usually be inclined to coach his son and tell him how he was moving wrong, the King knew that it would make a much more profound impact if Vangelis were to reason it out with himself.
The only thing that he would say, as the room started to grow almost stifling with the added logs to the fire, was a single hint. A hint that Tython hoped his son would take and agonize over in the same way that he had agonized over his training up until now.
"You're frustrated," Tython pointed out slowly, "because you are constantly making the same motions," he continued in an almost encouraging tone. "What teachers do not tell students is that the basics are just that, basics. Soldiers constantly make adjustments to how they move to find what is more efficient for them. Not every soldiers is tall or extremely strong. Some are short and stocky. Some, like me, are tall and lanky. I move different than a man who has more strength behind his movements. You, Vangelis, you do not have to move like me or even your tutor and you do not have to be exact with every single motion of your body."
Tython let his hands rest at his sides, quietly remembering receiving this lesson from his own father so long ago. Copying movements was one thing, but battles were not performed as a choreography. Battles were wild and different each time. One would never fight different people and have the same battle twice. That was simply not how the world worked. "Battles are not fought as if you have learned a dance with a dance instructor. They do not have the same movements every time. They do not use the same muscles every time."
Backing toward the edge of the room now, Tython leaned against one of the empty walls, watching his young son. "Use your head, Vangelis. Think outside of exact measurements and motions. Think outside of perfectionism." The king's tone was calm and commendable toward his son. Giving an easy motion of his wrist, Tython motioned to Vangelis all over again. "Now go again. Show me."
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Tython watched every single move that his son made, but he constantly made the same observation. The same thing wrong with his stance or the way that he moved that was wrong with each and every instance of the boy moving. Tython was more than aware that such a failure, especially when the child could not figure out where he was going wrong, was frustrating to Vangelis. And while Tython would usually be inclined to coach his son and tell him how he was moving wrong, the King knew that it would make a much more profound impact if Vangelis were to reason it out with himself.
The only thing that he would say, as the room started to grow almost stifling with the added logs to the fire, was a single hint. A hint that Tython hoped his son would take and agonize over in the same way that he had agonized over his training up until now.
"You're frustrated," Tython pointed out slowly, "because you are constantly making the same motions," he continued in an almost encouraging tone. "What teachers do not tell students is that the basics are just that, basics. Soldiers constantly make adjustments to how they move to find what is more efficient for them. Not every soldiers is tall or extremely strong. Some are short and stocky. Some, like me, are tall and lanky. I move different than a man who has more strength behind his movements. You, Vangelis, you do not have to move like me or even your tutor and you do not have to be exact with every single motion of your body."
Tython let his hands rest at his sides, quietly remembering receiving this lesson from his own father so long ago. Copying movements was one thing, but battles were not performed as a choreography. Battles were wild and different each time. One would never fight different people and have the same battle twice. That was simply not how the world worked. "Battles are not fought as if you have learned a dance with a dance instructor. They do not have the same movements every time. They do not use the same muscles every time."
Backing toward the edge of the room now, Tython leaned against one of the empty walls, watching his young son. "Use your head, Vangelis. Think outside of exact measurements and motions. Think outside of perfectionism." The king's tone was calm and commendable toward his son. Giving an easy motion of his wrist, Tython motioned to Vangelis all over again. "Now go again. Show me."
Tython watched every single move that his son made, but he constantly made the same observation. The same thing wrong with his stance or the way that he moved that was wrong with each and every instance of the boy moving. Tython was more than aware that such a failure, especially when the child could not figure out where he was going wrong, was frustrating to Vangelis. And while Tython would usually be inclined to coach his son and tell him how he was moving wrong, the King knew that it would make a much more profound impact if Vangelis were to reason it out with himself.
The only thing that he would say, as the room started to grow almost stifling with the added logs to the fire, was a single hint. A hint that Tython hoped his son would take and agonize over in the same way that he had agonized over his training up until now.
"You're frustrated," Tython pointed out slowly, "because you are constantly making the same motions," he continued in an almost encouraging tone. "What teachers do not tell students is that the basics are just that, basics. Soldiers constantly make adjustments to how they move to find what is more efficient for them. Not every soldiers is tall or extremely strong. Some are short and stocky. Some, like me, are tall and lanky. I move different than a man who has more strength behind his movements. You, Vangelis, you do not have to move like me or even your tutor and you do not have to be exact with every single motion of your body."
Tython let his hands rest at his sides, quietly remembering receiving this lesson from his own father so long ago. Copying movements was one thing, but battles were not performed as a choreography. Battles were wild and different each time. One would never fight different people and have the same battle twice. That was simply not how the world worked. "Battles are not fought as if you have learned a dance with a dance instructor. They do not have the same movements every time. They do not use the same muscles every time."
Backing toward the edge of the room now, Tython leaned against one of the empty walls, watching his young son. "Use your head, Vangelis. Think outside of exact measurements and motions. Think outside of perfectionism." The king's tone was calm and commendable toward his son. Giving an easy motion of his wrist, Tython motioned to Vangelis all over again. "Now go again. Show me."
As he came to the end of his motions, embarrassed in his failure before his father and King, Vangelis felt his cheeks burn with colour. But his skin elsewhere was just as hot. The room was becoming still hotter and Vangelis was aware of how it stifled his breathing and refused to allow his muscles to relax. Even if he wasn't able to deduce the exact course of such things, he could witness the reactions and consider them carefully as he worked. He was stubborn enough to ignore the heated sweltering of his skin and smart enough to turn his breathing deeper, drawing in as much air as possible, despite its high temperature, in order to breathe properly.
As the King spoke of what Vangelis was doing wrong, his son watched with an avid interest. Whilst Vangelis might have become downtrodden or shied away from advice under the cloak of his own humiliation with other people, this was not the case with his father. Vangelis was fully aware of the great legacy that Tython held behind him - the victories and the triumphs of Colchian man power that he had been at the helm of.
He was a not a man whose advice should be shooed away. But an asset that should be listened to with great detail and focus. And that was what Vangelis did.
As Tython spoke, illustrating the issue but not the solution, Vangelis looked down at the hand that wrapped around his blade's hilt, then at his own limbs and features. What kind of soldier was he? He considered his height - tall for a seven-year-old but still just the height of a seven-year-old. He had not yet grown the shoulders and muscles that would come to him in the next decade of his life. Nor had he become a powerhouse of strength in his legs. He was fit and strong for a boy of his age but even princes were limited by the genetics of infancy.
Frowning, Vangelis listened to his father and, when encouraged to offer him something different this time, he immediately felt nervous. Just how different was different? Did he want Vangelis to tweak the lessons he had been given? Make up new patterns and regimes of his own? Just cast the sword aside entirely and charge his enemy with his fists?
Unsure where the hidden line might be, Vangelis was cautious as he analysed his sword, held it up and then turned it to and fro. He stared at it hard - as if it might hold a secret answer to his problems. He tested the weight of it and then looked down at his feet as they rocked a little on his toes and heels.
Alright... Vangelis considered. If this style of fighting was more suited for someone taller, then perhaps he should be taller...
Vangelis went up onto his toes.
But as soon as he did, the weight of the sword threatened to take him over and he had less control than he had before. He quickly shifted back, not daring to look at his father in his clumsy attempts to work out his issues.
As taller had made the problem worse, Vangelis attempted shorter, and bent his knees more generously. He felt himself lose his stability and so spread his legs a little wider. Unknowingly, he dropped his centre of gravity so that he could brace the weight of the sword better.
Slashing out with the blade, Vangelis felt himself wobble again but far less than he had before. The real issue this time, was his wrist. His with body so solid and rooted to the ground now, and the sword so heavy, the joint was pulled in both directions, bent and lost the sword its potent strike.
Vangelis frowned and drew the blade in. He tested the weight of it again, surprised all over again that a wooden sword could weigh so much and then adjusted his grip. He played around with it, his fingers finding different holds - some loose, some firmer. Eventually he had an idea of how to hold his sword and make the same stabbing attack in a way that would keep the blade under control.
Backing up, Vangelis worked through the flow and routine again. This time, he did it with his knees bent further and his weight more evenly distributed. It allowed him to swing and strike with more control, though he did scuff the floor with the tip of his blade at one point. Continuing on, regardless, and hoping that he wasn't about to be in trouble with his mother, Vangelis reached the part of the protocol that had been stumping him and with a swing of his blade altered his grip.
Previously, his hand had wrapped around the handle as if he were shaking its hand, his fingers towards the sky as he struck the blade forward. This time, he reversed the hold, the blade pointed down in his grip, By lifting it this way, his elbow out to the side and his hand coming up towards his chest he was able to jerk the blade forwards in a strong strike that did not require the entire lengthening of his arm. His elbow remained a little bent, his hand closer to his torso where his other might rise to support it, and his base was able to hold the weight of the strike steady.
It would require his enemy to be closer to him. But he also hadn't fallen over or lost the attack altogether.
Sweat rolling down his temples and between the blades of his shoulders, Vangelis looked to his father, seeking approval, a look of optimism on his face.
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As he came to the end of his motions, embarrassed in his failure before his father and King, Vangelis felt his cheeks burn with colour. But his skin elsewhere was just as hot. The room was becoming still hotter and Vangelis was aware of how it stifled his breathing and refused to allow his muscles to relax. Even if he wasn't able to deduce the exact course of such things, he could witness the reactions and consider them carefully as he worked. He was stubborn enough to ignore the heated sweltering of his skin and smart enough to turn his breathing deeper, drawing in as much air as possible, despite its high temperature, in order to breathe properly.
As the King spoke of what Vangelis was doing wrong, his son watched with an avid interest. Whilst Vangelis might have become downtrodden or shied away from advice under the cloak of his own humiliation with other people, this was not the case with his father. Vangelis was fully aware of the great legacy that Tython held behind him - the victories and the triumphs of Colchian man power that he had been at the helm of.
He was a not a man whose advice should be shooed away. But an asset that should be listened to with great detail and focus. And that was what Vangelis did.
As Tython spoke, illustrating the issue but not the solution, Vangelis looked down at the hand that wrapped around his blade's hilt, then at his own limbs and features. What kind of soldier was he? He considered his height - tall for a seven-year-old but still just the height of a seven-year-old. He had not yet grown the shoulders and muscles that would come to him in the next decade of his life. Nor had he become a powerhouse of strength in his legs. He was fit and strong for a boy of his age but even princes were limited by the genetics of infancy.
Frowning, Vangelis listened to his father and, when encouraged to offer him something different this time, he immediately felt nervous. Just how different was different? Did he want Vangelis to tweak the lessons he had been given? Make up new patterns and regimes of his own? Just cast the sword aside entirely and charge his enemy with his fists?
Unsure where the hidden line might be, Vangelis was cautious as he analysed his sword, held it up and then turned it to and fro. He stared at it hard - as if it might hold a secret answer to his problems. He tested the weight of it and then looked down at his feet as they rocked a little on his toes and heels.
Alright... Vangelis considered. If this style of fighting was more suited for someone taller, then perhaps he should be taller...
Vangelis went up onto his toes.
But as soon as he did, the weight of the sword threatened to take him over and he had less control than he had before. He quickly shifted back, not daring to look at his father in his clumsy attempts to work out his issues.
As taller had made the problem worse, Vangelis attempted shorter, and bent his knees more generously. He felt himself lose his stability and so spread his legs a little wider. Unknowingly, he dropped his centre of gravity so that he could brace the weight of the sword better.
Slashing out with the blade, Vangelis felt himself wobble again but far less than he had before. The real issue this time, was his wrist. His with body so solid and rooted to the ground now, and the sword so heavy, the joint was pulled in both directions, bent and lost the sword its potent strike.
Vangelis frowned and drew the blade in. He tested the weight of it again, surprised all over again that a wooden sword could weigh so much and then adjusted his grip. He played around with it, his fingers finding different holds - some loose, some firmer. Eventually he had an idea of how to hold his sword and make the same stabbing attack in a way that would keep the blade under control.
Backing up, Vangelis worked through the flow and routine again. This time, he did it with his knees bent further and his weight more evenly distributed. It allowed him to swing and strike with more control, though he did scuff the floor with the tip of his blade at one point. Continuing on, regardless, and hoping that he wasn't about to be in trouble with his mother, Vangelis reached the part of the protocol that had been stumping him and with a swing of his blade altered his grip.
Previously, his hand had wrapped around the handle as if he were shaking its hand, his fingers towards the sky as he struck the blade forward. This time, he reversed the hold, the blade pointed down in his grip, By lifting it this way, his elbow out to the side and his hand coming up towards his chest he was able to jerk the blade forwards in a strong strike that did not require the entire lengthening of his arm. His elbow remained a little bent, his hand closer to his torso where his other might rise to support it, and his base was able to hold the weight of the strike steady.
It would require his enemy to be closer to him. But he also hadn't fallen over or lost the attack altogether.
Sweat rolling down his temples and between the blades of his shoulders, Vangelis looked to his father, seeking approval, a look of optimism on his face.
As he came to the end of his motions, embarrassed in his failure before his father and King, Vangelis felt his cheeks burn with colour. But his skin elsewhere was just as hot. The room was becoming still hotter and Vangelis was aware of how it stifled his breathing and refused to allow his muscles to relax. Even if he wasn't able to deduce the exact course of such things, he could witness the reactions and consider them carefully as he worked. He was stubborn enough to ignore the heated sweltering of his skin and smart enough to turn his breathing deeper, drawing in as much air as possible, despite its high temperature, in order to breathe properly.
As the King spoke of what Vangelis was doing wrong, his son watched with an avid interest. Whilst Vangelis might have become downtrodden or shied away from advice under the cloak of his own humiliation with other people, this was not the case with his father. Vangelis was fully aware of the great legacy that Tython held behind him - the victories and the triumphs of Colchian man power that he had been at the helm of.
He was a not a man whose advice should be shooed away. But an asset that should be listened to with great detail and focus. And that was what Vangelis did.
As Tython spoke, illustrating the issue but not the solution, Vangelis looked down at the hand that wrapped around his blade's hilt, then at his own limbs and features. What kind of soldier was he? He considered his height - tall for a seven-year-old but still just the height of a seven-year-old. He had not yet grown the shoulders and muscles that would come to him in the next decade of his life. Nor had he become a powerhouse of strength in his legs. He was fit and strong for a boy of his age but even princes were limited by the genetics of infancy.
Frowning, Vangelis listened to his father and, when encouraged to offer him something different this time, he immediately felt nervous. Just how different was different? Did he want Vangelis to tweak the lessons he had been given? Make up new patterns and regimes of his own? Just cast the sword aside entirely and charge his enemy with his fists?
Unsure where the hidden line might be, Vangelis was cautious as he analysed his sword, held it up and then turned it to and fro. He stared at it hard - as if it might hold a secret answer to his problems. He tested the weight of it and then looked down at his feet as they rocked a little on his toes and heels.
Alright... Vangelis considered. If this style of fighting was more suited for someone taller, then perhaps he should be taller...
Vangelis went up onto his toes.
But as soon as he did, the weight of the sword threatened to take him over and he had less control than he had before. He quickly shifted back, not daring to look at his father in his clumsy attempts to work out his issues.
As taller had made the problem worse, Vangelis attempted shorter, and bent his knees more generously. He felt himself lose his stability and so spread his legs a little wider. Unknowingly, he dropped his centre of gravity so that he could brace the weight of the sword better.
Slashing out with the blade, Vangelis felt himself wobble again but far less than he had before. The real issue this time, was his wrist. His with body so solid and rooted to the ground now, and the sword so heavy, the joint was pulled in both directions, bent and lost the sword its potent strike.
Vangelis frowned and drew the blade in. He tested the weight of it again, surprised all over again that a wooden sword could weigh so much and then adjusted his grip. He played around with it, his fingers finding different holds - some loose, some firmer. Eventually he had an idea of how to hold his sword and make the same stabbing attack in a way that would keep the blade under control.
Backing up, Vangelis worked through the flow and routine again. This time, he did it with his knees bent further and his weight more evenly distributed. It allowed him to swing and strike with more control, though he did scuff the floor with the tip of his blade at one point. Continuing on, regardless, and hoping that he wasn't about to be in trouble with his mother, Vangelis reached the part of the protocol that had been stumping him and with a swing of his blade altered his grip.
Previously, his hand had wrapped around the handle as if he were shaking its hand, his fingers towards the sky as he struck the blade forward. This time, he reversed the hold, the blade pointed down in his grip, By lifting it this way, his elbow out to the side and his hand coming up towards his chest he was able to jerk the blade forwards in a strong strike that did not require the entire lengthening of his arm. His elbow remained a little bent, his hand closer to his torso where his other might rise to support it, and his base was able to hold the weight of the strike steady.
It would require his enemy to be closer to him. But he also hadn't fallen over or lost the attack altogether.
Sweat rolling down his temples and between the blades of his shoulders, Vangelis looked to his father, seeking approval, a look of optimism on his face.
It was a rare moment when the King of Colchis cracked a smile. He did so for his children, for he believed that showing emotion was not a weakness and that all of his children would need that human feeling and connection. In his younger years, it was the Queen Kaiti that had instilled that silent human connection in him. And then Tythra. Tython was not an unfeeling man. Stoic to the extreme, but he knew and understood when true emotion was vital to ensure that someone did not seem him as as cold and heartless as he often appeared as a man of war. With the combating life experiences of both war and preparation for ruling, it was a balance that the King had had to find in the years since he and Yanni had had their first children.
Vangelis was young, and though he was a prince, he was still a child. And even Tython understood that children did not often respond well to the resigned nature of those older than them. So he took every opportunity to teach and emote with his son, knowing that some day, when he sat upon the throne of Colchis, that he, too, would need to learn the difference between emotion and the fear of showing anything but stoicism and silence. A king who could not feel was not a king that could rule with any semblance of love or devotion from his people. If Prince Vangelis was to be seen as a man who could not level with those that he served as King, then his effectiveness would wash away down one of the mountain rivers and into the tributaries beyond.
It was a balance that even Tython still struggled with. Needing to appear strong but merciful all of the same was just as tiring, if not more, than spending every second of a campaign in one battle or another. His current campaign? Making a point to his young son on multiple fronts, and he seemed to be succeeding.
Vangelis always had been apt to take his father's advice, and watching each motion of his son's body, Tython crossed his arms firmly to his chest and smirked slowly as his progress and tips seemed to land well with the boy. It was only when Vangelis looked to Tython for approval that the King nodded, that rare smile settled on his lips for his son to witness himself. "Good," Tython said lightly, looking around the room. "How about we put the sword down for the moment, young prince," he murmured, turning to grab a few of the queen's favorite smaller pieces of art that adorned the sitting rooms. One object was a perfectly rounded sphere of iron. Simple, but tasteful. The other was the wooden base that the orb sat upon when it was left alone atop one of the side tables.
Approaching his son, he held the wooden base, light and ease to lift out to his son. "I want you to feel the difference in weights of these materials," the king murmured, then handing the boy the metal sphere to hold in his other hand. After a moment, he motioned to the objects in his son's hands, "Now set them together," he said slowly, encouraging Vangelis to stack the sphere atop the base of the sculpture. "What do you deduce from how it feels?" Tython wondered if the young prince would figure out the challenge that the King had given him in a wood sword with a core of iron and how much progress he had made with something far more challenging than the other boys in his lessons had been given.
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It was a rare moment when the King of Colchis cracked a smile. He did so for his children, for he believed that showing emotion was not a weakness and that all of his children would need that human feeling and connection. In his younger years, it was the Queen Kaiti that had instilled that silent human connection in him. And then Tythra. Tython was not an unfeeling man. Stoic to the extreme, but he knew and understood when true emotion was vital to ensure that someone did not seem him as as cold and heartless as he often appeared as a man of war. With the combating life experiences of both war and preparation for ruling, it was a balance that the King had had to find in the years since he and Yanni had had their first children.
Vangelis was young, and though he was a prince, he was still a child. And even Tython understood that children did not often respond well to the resigned nature of those older than them. So he took every opportunity to teach and emote with his son, knowing that some day, when he sat upon the throne of Colchis, that he, too, would need to learn the difference between emotion and the fear of showing anything but stoicism and silence. A king who could not feel was not a king that could rule with any semblance of love or devotion from his people. If Prince Vangelis was to be seen as a man who could not level with those that he served as King, then his effectiveness would wash away down one of the mountain rivers and into the tributaries beyond.
It was a balance that even Tython still struggled with. Needing to appear strong but merciful all of the same was just as tiring, if not more, than spending every second of a campaign in one battle or another. His current campaign? Making a point to his young son on multiple fronts, and he seemed to be succeeding.
Vangelis always had been apt to take his father's advice, and watching each motion of his son's body, Tython crossed his arms firmly to his chest and smirked slowly as his progress and tips seemed to land well with the boy. It was only when Vangelis looked to Tython for approval that the King nodded, that rare smile settled on his lips for his son to witness himself. "Good," Tython said lightly, looking around the room. "How about we put the sword down for the moment, young prince," he murmured, turning to grab a few of the queen's favorite smaller pieces of art that adorned the sitting rooms. One object was a perfectly rounded sphere of iron. Simple, but tasteful. The other was the wooden base that the orb sat upon when it was left alone atop one of the side tables.
Approaching his son, he held the wooden base, light and ease to lift out to his son. "I want you to feel the difference in weights of these materials," the king murmured, then handing the boy the metal sphere to hold in his other hand. After a moment, he motioned to the objects in his son's hands, "Now set them together," he said slowly, encouraging Vangelis to stack the sphere atop the base of the sculpture. "What do you deduce from how it feels?" Tython wondered if the young prince would figure out the challenge that the King had given him in a wood sword with a core of iron and how much progress he had made with something far more challenging than the other boys in his lessons had been given.
It was a rare moment when the King of Colchis cracked a smile. He did so for his children, for he believed that showing emotion was not a weakness and that all of his children would need that human feeling and connection. In his younger years, it was the Queen Kaiti that had instilled that silent human connection in him. And then Tythra. Tython was not an unfeeling man. Stoic to the extreme, but he knew and understood when true emotion was vital to ensure that someone did not seem him as as cold and heartless as he often appeared as a man of war. With the combating life experiences of both war and preparation for ruling, it was a balance that the King had had to find in the years since he and Yanni had had their first children.
Vangelis was young, and though he was a prince, he was still a child. And even Tython understood that children did not often respond well to the resigned nature of those older than them. So he took every opportunity to teach and emote with his son, knowing that some day, when he sat upon the throne of Colchis, that he, too, would need to learn the difference between emotion and the fear of showing anything but stoicism and silence. A king who could not feel was not a king that could rule with any semblance of love or devotion from his people. If Prince Vangelis was to be seen as a man who could not level with those that he served as King, then his effectiveness would wash away down one of the mountain rivers and into the tributaries beyond.
It was a balance that even Tython still struggled with. Needing to appear strong but merciful all of the same was just as tiring, if not more, than spending every second of a campaign in one battle or another. His current campaign? Making a point to his young son on multiple fronts, and he seemed to be succeeding.
Vangelis always had been apt to take his father's advice, and watching each motion of his son's body, Tython crossed his arms firmly to his chest and smirked slowly as his progress and tips seemed to land well with the boy. It was only when Vangelis looked to Tython for approval that the King nodded, that rare smile settled on his lips for his son to witness himself. "Good," Tython said lightly, looking around the room. "How about we put the sword down for the moment, young prince," he murmured, turning to grab a few of the queen's favorite smaller pieces of art that adorned the sitting rooms. One object was a perfectly rounded sphere of iron. Simple, but tasteful. The other was the wooden base that the orb sat upon when it was left alone atop one of the side tables.
Approaching his son, he held the wooden base, light and ease to lift out to his son. "I want you to feel the difference in weights of these materials," the king murmured, then handing the boy the metal sphere to hold in his other hand. After a moment, he motioned to the objects in his son's hands, "Now set them together," he said slowly, encouraging Vangelis to stack the sphere atop the base of the sculpture. "What do you deduce from how it feels?" Tython wondered if the young prince would figure out the challenge that the King had given him in a wood sword with a core of iron and how much progress he had made with something far more challenging than the other boys in his lessons had been given.
'Good.'
Just a single word and Vangelis' lips parted into a beam across his face. Whilst he was taking on lessons at a great rate of pace that soldiers, princes and kings should mask their feelings and keep all signs of weakness or indecisions behind closed doors, Vangelis was still only seven. And when a seven-year-old boy achieved the assurance and congratulation of a man that he had idolised since birth, it was not an emotion that was able to be hidden. Instead, Vangelis grinned like a fool, lighting up from the inside over so simple a word. From his father, who held a natural stoicism in his easy nature, it was high praise.
When the man turned away, moving towards a side bureau that supported trinkets and decorations, Vangelis felt his cheeks ache a little with the smile and immediately dropped it. He worked his jaw a little to relax his cheeks and his little brows dropped down into a frown at himself. As if his features were reminding him to be series. This was an important and rare lesson from the king himself. He couldn't afford to get caught up in his own silliness.
As he was instructed, Vangelis turned his attention to his sword and was careful to set it aside onto a chair to his right. He positioned it carefully so that the weight of the hilt and the wooden blade kept it balanced across the seat and would not see it shift and tumble to the floorboards. He had made enough marks of the floor as it was and his mother was likely to be unimpressed.
Looking up when his father addressed him again, Vangelis glanced at the king's hands. Within each was an item of weight but for a moment he didn't recognise what they were. As the man drew closer, the firelight caught the smooth surface of the sphere and the edges of its wooden base and recognised the pieces as one of his mother's decorations of the room. His head tilted to one side, in consideration.
When his father said about weighing the two objects, Vangelis instantly held out his hands, eager to take on the lesson being presented to him. The heavy ball of metal was cold to his touch but the wooden base had absorbed some of the heat in the room and was the temperature of his own flesh when it was set into his palm.
Vangelis shook his head for a moment to clear his vision of the strands of sweaty hair that had plastered to his face but, when the locks persisted to hold onto his skin, he used the back of his wrist to push them out of his eyes. It was easy enough to do with the hand that held the little decoration's base because it was light. Vangelis then measured the downward pull of the sphere upon his hand. The metal ball was certainly heavier than the cradle it would normally sit in, but Vangelis wasn't sure why this was supposed to be surprising to him. Everyone knew that metal weighed more than wood.
Using his hands like a back and forth gesture of scales, to show that he was doing as he was told, Vangelis frowned down at the items in his palms ferociously. Just what was he supposed to be learning here?
"The ball is heavier." He told the king, before putting the two pieces together as he was instructed. "They are heavier still when together...?"
Vangelis was not an unintelligent boy but he was loyal. His mind did not make the connection of the lesson to the sword firstly because his father had told him to set aside the weapon in question as if they were now done with the weapon and secondly because he had been presented with that sword as a wooden blade. By his father. Why would so loyal and devoted a son doubt these promises and gifts?
"Do... you want me the throw the ball?" Vangelis asked, wondering if this was some new weapon developed from the olympic games in Athenia where one of the contests was to throw such a thing as far as you could. "Or... I can throw the base further, because it is lighter?" He suggested, attempting to find what his father wanted from him and worried that he was appearing a failure before the king's eyes...
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'Good.'
Just a single word and Vangelis' lips parted into a beam across his face. Whilst he was taking on lessons at a great rate of pace that soldiers, princes and kings should mask their feelings and keep all signs of weakness or indecisions behind closed doors, Vangelis was still only seven. And when a seven-year-old boy achieved the assurance and congratulation of a man that he had idolised since birth, it was not an emotion that was able to be hidden. Instead, Vangelis grinned like a fool, lighting up from the inside over so simple a word. From his father, who held a natural stoicism in his easy nature, it was high praise.
When the man turned away, moving towards a side bureau that supported trinkets and decorations, Vangelis felt his cheeks ache a little with the smile and immediately dropped it. He worked his jaw a little to relax his cheeks and his little brows dropped down into a frown at himself. As if his features were reminding him to be series. This was an important and rare lesson from the king himself. He couldn't afford to get caught up in his own silliness.
As he was instructed, Vangelis turned his attention to his sword and was careful to set it aside onto a chair to his right. He positioned it carefully so that the weight of the hilt and the wooden blade kept it balanced across the seat and would not see it shift and tumble to the floorboards. He had made enough marks of the floor as it was and his mother was likely to be unimpressed.
Looking up when his father addressed him again, Vangelis glanced at the king's hands. Within each was an item of weight but for a moment he didn't recognise what they were. As the man drew closer, the firelight caught the smooth surface of the sphere and the edges of its wooden base and recognised the pieces as one of his mother's decorations of the room. His head tilted to one side, in consideration.
When his father said about weighing the two objects, Vangelis instantly held out his hands, eager to take on the lesson being presented to him. The heavy ball of metal was cold to his touch but the wooden base had absorbed some of the heat in the room and was the temperature of his own flesh when it was set into his palm.
Vangelis shook his head for a moment to clear his vision of the strands of sweaty hair that had plastered to his face but, when the locks persisted to hold onto his skin, he used the back of his wrist to push them out of his eyes. It was easy enough to do with the hand that held the little decoration's base because it was light. Vangelis then measured the downward pull of the sphere upon his hand. The metal ball was certainly heavier than the cradle it would normally sit in, but Vangelis wasn't sure why this was supposed to be surprising to him. Everyone knew that metal weighed more than wood.
Using his hands like a back and forth gesture of scales, to show that he was doing as he was told, Vangelis frowned down at the items in his palms ferociously. Just what was he supposed to be learning here?
"The ball is heavier." He told the king, before putting the two pieces together as he was instructed. "They are heavier still when together...?"
Vangelis was not an unintelligent boy but he was loyal. His mind did not make the connection of the lesson to the sword firstly because his father had told him to set aside the weapon in question as if they were now done with the weapon and secondly because he had been presented with that sword as a wooden blade. By his father. Why would so loyal and devoted a son doubt these promises and gifts?
"Do... you want me the throw the ball?" Vangelis asked, wondering if this was some new weapon developed from the olympic games in Athenia where one of the contests was to throw such a thing as far as you could. "Or... I can throw the base further, because it is lighter?" He suggested, attempting to find what his father wanted from him and worried that he was appearing a failure before the king's eyes...
'Good.'
Just a single word and Vangelis' lips parted into a beam across his face. Whilst he was taking on lessons at a great rate of pace that soldiers, princes and kings should mask their feelings and keep all signs of weakness or indecisions behind closed doors, Vangelis was still only seven. And when a seven-year-old boy achieved the assurance and congratulation of a man that he had idolised since birth, it was not an emotion that was able to be hidden. Instead, Vangelis grinned like a fool, lighting up from the inside over so simple a word. From his father, who held a natural stoicism in his easy nature, it was high praise.
When the man turned away, moving towards a side bureau that supported trinkets and decorations, Vangelis felt his cheeks ache a little with the smile and immediately dropped it. He worked his jaw a little to relax his cheeks and his little brows dropped down into a frown at himself. As if his features were reminding him to be series. This was an important and rare lesson from the king himself. He couldn't afford to get caught up in his own silliness.
As he was instructed, Vangelis turned his attention to his sword and was careful to set it aside onto a chair to his right. He positioned it carefully so that the weight of the hilt and the wooden blade kept it balanced across the seat and would not see it shift and tumble to the floorboards. He had made enough marks of the floor as it was and his mother was likely to be unimpressed.
Looking up when his father addressed him again, Vangelis glanced at the king's hands. Within each was an item of weight but for a moment he didn't recognise what they were. As the man drew closer, the firelight caught the smooth surface of the sphere and the edges of its wooden base and recognised the pieces as one of his mother's decorations of the room. His head tilted to one side, in consideration.
When his father said about weighing the two objects, Vangelis instantly held out his hands, eager to take on the lesson being presented to him. The heavy ball of metal was cold to his touch but the wooden base had absorbed some of the heat in the room and was the temperature of his own flesh when it was set into his palm.
Vangelis shook his head for a moment to clear his vision of the strands of sweaty hair that had plastered to his face but, when the locks persisted to hold onto his skin, he used the back of his wrist to push them out of his eyes. It was easy enough to do with the hand that held the little decoration's base because it was light. Vangelis then measured the downward pull of the sphere upon his hand. The metal ball was certainly heavier than the cradle it would normally sit in, but Vangelis wasn't sure why this was supposed to be surprising to him. Everyone knew that metal weighed more than wood.
Using his hands like a back and forth gesture of scales, to show that he was doing as he was told, Vangelis frowned down at the items in his palms ferociously. Just what was he supposed to be learning here?
"The ball is heavier." He told the king, before putting the two pieces together as he was instructed. "They are heavier still when together...?"
Vangelis was not an unintelligent boy but he was loyal. His mind did not make the connection of the lesson to the sword firstly because his father had told him to set aside the weapon in question as if they were now done with the weapon and secondly because he had been presented with that sword as a wooden blade. By his father. Why would so loyal and devoted a son doubt these promises and gifts?
"Do... you want me the throw the ball?" Vangelis asked, wondering if this was some new weapon developed from the olympic games in Athenia where one of the contests was to throw such a thing as far as you could. "Or... I can throw the base further, because it is lighter?" He suggested, attempting to find what his father wanted from him and worried that he was appearing a failure before the king's eyes...
Tython was smiling to himself, nodding as the boy before him weighed both objects in his hands. But the King did not expect Vangelis to catch on right away. He wanted to see his son's thought process. The moments where he was thinking deeply about the objects themselves, but not what the objects were made of. With his arms crossed against his chest, Tython watched his young son carefully, keeping his stare level and encouraging. His gaze trailed to the blade that he had taken from his son, and his hand carefully moved to pick it back up.
"No," Tython noted when Vangelis asked if he should be throwing either the ball or the base. "I don't think your mother would be very pleased to see one of her statues broken," he commented, glancing back toward the doorway just in case the queen had suddenly materialized out of thin air. Not an odd thing to think about, really, knowing his wife.
For all of Vangelis' worry, Tython was not. He could see it in his son's eye, but he did not appear disappointed nor upset by the questions that Vangelis asked. "No, we won't be throwing them. I want you to observe the materials that they are made of," he said slowly, "Feel how heavy they are together, rather than apart." There was a bit of a long pause as if he were waiting for his son to do as he had said for a second time. Lifting his own hands, he brought the wooden blade up to lay prone across his palms.
"This was a blade that my own father, King Silas, gifted me when I was your age and just starting to learn to fight," he said slowly, "And now I want you to put the statue down and hold the blade again. What do you feel, Vangelis?" Tython hummed slowly, his gaze fixed on his son now that they were so close to the answer. "Does it feel familiar?"
The core of the blade was filled with the same metal as the sphere, wrapped in wood and weighted just as a real sword would be. The purpose had been to train Vangelis with a wooden blade, to watch the way that he struggled to lift the weapon and then witness him eventually succeed in running his drills without the blade dropping. That was just it, the blade was heavier than even a real sword, and his son had felt himself to be failing while his fellow students seemed to flourish with their own wooden blades.
But soon enough, Vangelis would experience the opposite. He would exceed expectations with an iron blade and his peers would struggle, unused to the weight of metal over the weight of wood. It was here that Tython hoped Vangelis realized the trick that his father had played upon him, though he did not necessarily need to understand why the man had done it until much later. If all turned out well, Tython hoped that Vangelis would pass this lesson down to his own children one day, having witnessed the effectiveness himself.
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Check out their information page here.
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Check out their information page here.
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Tython was smiling to himself, nodding as the boy before him weighed both objects in his hands. But the King did not expect Vangelis to catch on right away. He wanted to see his son's thought process. The moments where he was thinking deeply about the objects themselves, but not what the objects were made of. With his arms crossed against his chest, Tython watched his young son carefully, keeping his stare level and encouraging. His gaze trailed to the blade that he had taken from his son, and his hand carefully moved to pick it back up.
"No," Tython noted when Vangelis asked if he should be throwing either the ball or the base. "I don't think your mother would be very pleased to see one of her statues broken," he commented, glancing back toward the doorway just in case the queen had suddenly materialized out of thin air. Not an odd thing to think about, really, knowing his wife.
For all of Vangelis' worry, Tython was not. He could see it in his son's eye, but he did not appear disappointed nor upset by the questions that Vangelis asked. "No, we won't be throwing them. I want you to observe the materials that they are made of," he said slowly, "Feel how heavy they are together, rather than apart." There was a bit of a long pause as if he were waiting for his son to do as he had said for a second time. Lifting his own hands, he brought the wooden blade up to lay prone across his palms.
"This was a blade that my own father, King Silas, gifted me when I was your age and just starting to learn to fight," he said slowly, "And now I want you to put the statue down and hold the blade again. What do you feel, Vangelis?" Tython hummed slowly, his gaze fixed on his son now that they were so close to the answer. "Does it feel familiar?"
The core of the blade was filled with the same metal as the sphere, wrapped in wood and weighted just as a real sword would be. The purpose had been to train Vangelis with a wooden blade, to watch the way that he struggled to lift the weapon and then witness him eventually succeed in running his drills without the blade dropping. That was just it, the blade was heavier than even a real sword, and his son had felt himself to be failing while his fellow students seemed to flourish with their own wooden blades.
But soon enough, Vangelis would experience the opposite. He would exceed expectations with an iron blade and his peers would struggle, unused to the weight of metal over the weight of wood. It was here that Tython hoped Vangelis realized the trick that his father had played upon him, though he did not necessarily need to understand why the man had done it until much later. If all turned out well, Tython hoped that Vangelis would pass this lesson down to his own children one day, having witnessed the effectiveness himself.
Tython was smiling to himself, nodding as the boy before him weighed both objects in his hands. But the King did not expect Vangelis to catch on right away. He wanted to see his son's thought process. The moments where he was thinking deeply about the objects themselves, but not what the objects were made of. With his arms crossed against his chest, Tython watched his young son carefully, keeping his stare level and encouraging. His gaze trailed to the blade that he had taken from his son, and his hand carefully moved to pick it back up.
"No," Tython noted when Vangelis asked if he should be throwing either the ball or the base. "I don't think your mother would be very pleased to see one of her statues broken," he commented, glancing back toward the doorway just in case the queen had suddenly materialized out of thin air. Not an odd thing to think about, really, knowing his wife.
For all of Vangelis' worry, Tython was not. He could see it in his son's eye, but he did not appear disappointed nor upset by the questions that Vangelis asked. "No, we won't be throwing them. I want you to observe the materials that they are made of," he said slowly, "Feel how heavy they are together, rather than apart." There was a bit of a long pause as if he were waiting for his son to do as he had said for a second time. Lifting his own hands, he brought the wooden blade up to lay prone across his palms.
"This was a blade that my own father, King Silas, gifted me when I was your age and just starting to learn to fight," he said slowly, "And now I want you to put the statue down and hold the blade again. What do you feel, Vangelis?" Tython hummed slowly, his gaze fixed on his son now that they were so close to the answer. "Does it feel familiar?"
The core of the blade was filled with the same metal as the sphere, wrapped in wood and weighted just as a real sword would be. The purpose had been to train Vangelis with a wooden blade, to watch the way that he struggled to lift the weapon and then witness him eventually succeed in running his drills without the blade dropping. That was just it, the blade was heavier than even a real sword, and his son had felt himself to be failing while his fellow students seemed to flourish with their own wooden blades.
But soon enough, Vangelis would experience the opposite. He would exceed expectations with an iron blade and his peers would struggle, unused to the weight of metal over the weight of wood. It was here that Tython hoped Vangelis realized the trick that his father had played upon him, though he did not necessarily need to understand why the man had done it until much later. If all turned out well, Tython hoped that Vangelis would pass this lesson down to his own children one day, having witnessed the effectiveness himself.