It had been a glorious battle, a magnificent display of industry and dedication! Well, that wasn’t exactly particularly accurate, seeing as, in all truth, it had been a simulated scenario that had been met to emulate an actual encounter battle. In all truth, though some men had been praised and even minorly injured, none had suffered anything terrible that could realistically be compared to the horrors of war. Alas it was still glorious! The heat of the fighting, the thrill of the sport, the clash of swords and the intensity of soldier against soldier, all things that made the Silver-eyed militant brim with pride and confidence. It had been a simulacrum, a war game fought between the fierce Wolves from Molossia and the mighty Damned from Magnemea, a simple joint-exercise amongst the two Drakos units to best test their mettle and skill. This was not an occasion to brag about victory or glory, for there truly was none to be earned. It was a simple arrangement between fellow Colchians, nothing more, nothing less.



As a matter of fairness, both sides had agreed to engage in the verdurous fields of the Northernmost province, where either of them could fight without fear of having a particular advantage over the other. Magnemea had been a poor land to fight after all, a rocky, uneven island filled with mines and stone queries that made for poor sportsmanship and little evenness. Had the game been hosted there, Damocles’s men would have had a reclaimable advantage that could have easily been used to justify success, and that had not been an outcome he had desired regardless of the conclusion of the war game. Thus, he had travelled along with most of his men, carrying his trusted shield with him so as to make the simulacrum as realistic as possible, though he still held a small reserve force under the command of one of his lieutenants back home so as to prevent anyone from getting any ideas in his short absence.



Even though there had been no glory to be won, there was much to be said about the fight itself. True to their reputation, the archers of Molossia were an impressive bunch, showing superior skill with the bow and arrow. Moreover, they had been ferocious and strong, matching the name they had boasted as a unit and more than proved their skills and competency as a cohesive whole. Nevertheless, Damocles had made up his mind early on, and his competitive side would not have allowed him to slack off and loosen his authoritarian grip on his men. The Molossian might have been wolves, but the Magnemean had been the Damned, and their Captain went by nothing less than Damocles the Terrible, a moniker that had been more than fitting, given the fearsome image of his men.



A skilled commander in his own right, the Captain of the Damned had rarely issued many commands in the war game, for his lieutenants and minor officers already knew what was expected of them. He had remained unusually calmed and unmoved, standing in his suit of plutonian dark armor that had been made to his measure, complete with his muscled cuirass and his plumed Corinthian helmet, the badges of office of his captaincy. This had not been the first time he had visited the jungled barony, and he was aware that in a battle like this, his signature, defensive tactics and well-coordinate, large phalanx formations would be most suitable. Of course, he too had fought, with his trusty Aegis equipped on his right hand and a spear firmly gripped on his left. And with both, he encroached on the Wolves and executed his strategies personally, never losing his steely resolve as he led his hoplites to victory.



Still, though, though the Captain of the Damned could claim victory over the Captain of the Wolves, he would not be distasteful in his affairs and would rather make this a bonding opportunity and a possible experience to make the two units get closer together as fellow Drakos forces. To that end, he proposed that the two units enjoy some rest together and had a small feast to celebrate their camaraderie. The fastest amongst his soldiers had been given money and instructions on what sort of meat and drink to buy for the rest of the militants to enjoy, and special provisions were made for those whom Damocles thought were more deserving of a reward between the ranks of his men.



Of course he was aware that such an expense had been a bit more than he would often provide, but there was little point in being stern tonight. Moreover, their was profit to be earned in such a spend. Would that his ties with the Wolves tightened and his reputation as a Captain spread positive amongst them, then the calculating Damocles would have been more than pleased to call this an investment instead of an expense. His pockets would feel the weight of the cost, but though he would not have his name be tarnished as that of a poor comrade and fellow veteran of war. He had no need for honor or anything remotely similar to that, but if the men and women that had been gathered were pleased, and his predictions come to fruition, than he would call this small stunt a secondary victory that would prove more advantageous than the one earned through blood swear and tears today.



Once the runners returned, Damocles was quick to distribute the gifts of food and drink that he had covered by his own hand. His typical overbearing attitude might have earned him a reputation for being draconian, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t fair. Those that had fought hardest and toughest were given first pickings amongst the Damned, though the Herculean man simply gave the Molossians their own share so they did as they wished. He neither cared what they did or how they managed their internal affairs. These were of little relevance for now. So, once he was finished, the towering officer poured himself a serving and enjoyed his wine, manifesting a warm, cordial smile on his bearded visage that hid the more cunning undertones of his machinations.