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In the midst of the darkened hours of the plutonian night, Damocles signed off the last few documents and official orders he had to issue to the soldiers of his province. As always, his words were non-negotiable, and his decrees, though written in ink sealed and the personalized emblem of the phoenix that had been carved unto his signet ring, were crafted in iron and blood. His lieutenants were given very precise commands, and he would not waste time with any of their foolishness or ineptitude.
He had trained the toughest soldiers in Colchis, forged in the hellish pits of Magnemea in accordance to his image and semblance, an army in all but name that he was proud to call his own. Oh sure, his baron might have provided the money needed for the commission of such a force, but it was his blood, sweat and tears that had chiseled and hammered away at the faults, moulding boys into men and men into titans. These were times of war, and he was not going to let any failures ruin his ambitions, no matter how big or small they might be.
The prospects of fighting abroad once more and possibly carve out glory from the pieces of battle was a notion that very much delighted Damocles, and he really had little to worry about when it came to fighting those sand-assed Egyptians. This would not be the first time his blade would be met with the flesh of one of those pyramid-head shits, nor did he expect that it would be the last. Alas, what could one expect from such an uncivilized and barbarous people, if they could be called people at all that is. They were savages, brutal beasts that had no right to co-exist with the good men and virtuous women of Greece. Alas, there was only so much he could do...for now.
For years he had built up the capacities of his unit, harnessing their might and skill into his desired force, collecting their skills and weaknesses so as to sieve out the chaff and keep only the good parts. And even though he could not oversee the execution of his orders himself, for business still recalled him to the Capital, he had done everything in his power to train his soldiers into obedience and absolute fealty. He was not going to let his absence be interpreted as a loosening of his grip, not when the fields of Ares beckoned to action soon. If there was any comfort, he knew that Lysandros could be counted to be a trusted guarantor to his will. The man had been useful in the past, and if pressed into confession, Damocles would admit that he could be considered somewhat of a true friend.
Still, as he slumped on his chair and finished tending to the business of whipping soldiers, quartermasters, lieutenants and officers into shape, Damocles felt an old taste upon his lips. It had been long since he had satisfied his more salacious inclinations, and the times had deprived him of the long hours he occasionally wished to partake. He had enough coin on his person to procure a hetairoi, one of those ungodly expensive courtesans he had relished in the not-so-distance moments of gone nights. And he too assumed that for the price of one of those he could charge about three or four of the brothel-based pornai for a bit of a lesser time. Either option would amuse him for the time being, but there was one particular issue with one or the other: he wasn't in any particular mood to spend money over matters of the flesh. It was then that a name peaked through his mind.
Thyra...
Granted, he was well-aware that the girl wasn't a prostitute by any measure of the word, but he still remembered how positively predisposed she had been to him in the past. She would do for now. Yes, she would do nicely. Especially since he wouldn't have to waste a single coin on a brief rekindling of an old flame, or rather, what he would pretend would be a rekindling of an old flame. He didn't have any particular inclinations towards the woman, though he wasn't going to deny the possibility of sating his itch without parting from his coins. He only needed to make her appear before him and all would be good and done.
Leaning forward unto his desk, the militant unfurled a sheet of papyrus and seized one of his pens, scratching the quill’s nib against the surface so as to give shape to the letters he wrote. It was a summoning, one that had all the official traits and proofs that certified it as one of legitimacy. Afterwards, once he finished applying his dramatic signature with his trademark paraphs, Damocles fetch his pounce pot and sprinkled the fine powder on the surface of the paper so as to dry the ink and smoothen the surface of the papyrus, finally folding it once blown and done before sealing the letter with a press of his signet ring. Once he finished officiating his summon, he fetched for one of his soldiers and gave the convocation to the man, expressing very firm words to him. He already knew the address where the men were to barge in unannounced, and it all resembled another one of his warrants. Before the eyes of the world it would have seemed as a perfectly defendable situation.
“This woman is to be brought over to me immediately. No questions are to be answered and no explanations given. Am I understood? Good. Now go!”
Once dispatched, the towering man stood from his desk and stretched his legs a bit. Afterwards, he ordered one of his vintages to be brought over so he could enjoy a cup or two before the woman was dragged before him. He peered inquisitorially against the window, watching how the small squad of men that had been haphazardly organized rushed to follow through with his commands. He would already have enough to make this all go away, and if any questions were raised, well he knew what to say and what not to say whenever situations like this were levied.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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In the midst of the darkened hours of the plutonian night, Damocles signed off the last few documents and official orders he had to issue to the soldiers of his province. As always, his words were non-negotiable, and his decrees, though written in ink sealed and the personalized emblem of the phoenix that had been carved unto his signet ring, were crafted in iron and blood. His lieutenants were given very precise commands, and he would not waste time with any of their foolishness or ineptitude.
He had trained the toughest soldiers in Colchis, forged in the hellish pits of Magnemea in accordance to his image and semblance, an army in all but name that he was proud to call his own. Oh sure, his baron might have provided the money needed for the commission of such a force, but it was his blood, sweat and tears that had chiseled and hammered away at the faults, moulding boys into men and men into titans. These were times of war, and he was not going to let any failures ruin his ambitions, no matter how big or small they might be.
The prospects of fighting abroad once more and possibly carve out glory from the pieces of battle was a notion that very much delighted Damocles, and he really had little to worry about when it came to fighting those sand-assed Egyptians. This would not be the first time his blade would be met with the flesh of one of those pyramid-head shits, nor did he expect that it would be the last. Alas, what could one expect from such an uncivilized and barbarous people, if they could be called people at all that is. They were savages, brutal beasts that had no right to co-exist with the good men and virtuous women of Greece. Alas, there was only so much he could do...for now.
For years he had built up the capacities of his unit, harnessing their might and skill into his desired force, collecting their skills and weaknesses so as to sieve out the chaff and keep only the good parts. And even though he could not oversee the execution of his orders himself, for business still recalled him to the Capital, he had done everything in his power to train his soldiers into obedience and absolute fealty. He was not going to let his absence be interpreted as a loosening of his grip, not when the fields of Ares beckoned to action soon. If there was any comfort, he knew that Lysandros could be counted to be a trusted guarantor to his will. The man had been useful in the past, and if pressed into confession, Damocles would admit that he could be considered somewhat of a true friend.
Still, as he slumped on his chair and finished tending to the business of whipping soldiers, quartermasters, lieutenants and officers into shape, Damocles felt an old taste upon his lips. It had been long since he had satisfied his more salacious inclinations, and the times had deprived him of the long hours he occasionally wished to partake. He had enough coin on his person to procure a hetairoi, one of those ungodly expensive courtesans he had relished in the not-so-distance moments of gone nights. And he too assumed that for the price of one of those he could charge about three or four of the brothel-based pornai for a bit of a lesser time. Either option would amuse him for the time being, but there was one particular issue with one or the other: he wasn't in any particular mood to spend money over matters of the flesh. It was then that a name peaked through his mind.
Thyra...
Granted, he was well-aware that the girl wasn't a prostitute by any measure of the word, but he still remembered how positively predisposed she had been to him in the past. She would do for now. Yes, she would do nicely. Especially since he wouldn't have to waste a single coin on a brief rekindling of an old flame, or rather, what he would pretend would be a rekindling of an old flame. He didn't have any particular inclinations towards the woman, though he wasn't going to deny the possibility of sating his itch without parting from his coins. He only needed to make her appear before him and all would be good and done.
Leaning forward unto his desk, the militant unfurled a sheet of papyrus and seized one of his pens, scratching the quill’s nib against the surface so as to give shape to the letters he wrote. It was a summoning, one that had all the official traits and proofs that certified it as one of legitimacy. Afterwards, once he finished applying his dramatic signature with his trademark paraphs, Damocles fetch his pounce pot and sprinkled the fine powder on the surface of the paper so as to dry the ink and smoothen the surface of the papyrus, finally folding it once blown and done before sealing the letter with a press of his signet ring. Once he finished officiating his summon, he fetched for one of his soldiers and gave the convocation to the man, expressing very firm words to him. He already knew the address where the men were to barge in unannounced, and it all resembled another one of his warrants. Before the eyes of the world it would have seemed as a perfectly defendable situation.
“This woman is to be brought over to me immediately. No questions are to be answered and no explanations given. Am I understood? Good. Now go!”
Once dispatched, the towering man stood from his desk and stretched his legs a bit. Afterwards, he ordered one of his vintages to be brought over so he could enjoy a cup or two before the woman was dragged before him. He peered inquisitorially against the window, watching how the small squad of men that had been haphazardly organized rushed to follow through with his commands. He would already have enough to make this all go away, and if any questions were raised, well he knew what to say and what not to say whenever situations like this were levied.
In the midst of the darkened hours of the plutonian night, Damocles signed off the last few documents and official orders he had to issue to the soldiers of his province. As always, his words were non-negotiable, and his decrees, though written in ink sealed and the personalized emblem of the phoenix that had been carved unto his signet ring, were crafted in iron and blood. His lieutenants were given very precise commands, and he would not waste time with any of their foolishness or ineptitude.
He had trained the toughest soldiers in Colchis, forged in the hellish pits of Magnemea in accordance to his image and semblance, an army in all but name that he was proud to call his own. Oh sure, his baron might have provided the money needed for the commission of such a force, but it was his blood, sweat and tears that had chiseled and hammered away at the faults, moulding boys into men and men into titans. These were times of war, and he was not going to let any failures ruin his ambitions, no matter how big or small they might be.
The prospects of fighting abroad once more and possibly carve out glory from the pieces of battle was a notion that very much delighted Damocles, and he really had little to worry about when it came to fighting those sand-assed Egyptians. This would not be the first time his blade would be met with the flesh of one of those pyramid-head shits, nor did he expect that it would be the last. Alas, what could one expect from such an uncivilized and barbarous people, if they could be called people at all that is. They were savages, brutal beasts that had no right to co-exist with the good men and virtuous women of Greece. Alas, there was only so much he could do...for now.
For years he had built up the capacities of his unit, harnessing their might and skill into his desired force, collecting their skills and weaknesses so as to sieve out the chaff and keep only the good parts. And even though he could not oversee the execution of his orders himself, for business still recalled him to the Capital, he had done everything in his power to train his soldiers into obedience and absolute fealty. He was not going to let his absence be interpreted as a loosening of his grip, not when the fields of Ares beckoned to action soon. If there was any comfort, he knew that Lysandros could be counted to be a trusted guarantor to his will. The man had been useful in the past, and if pressed into confession, Damocles would admit that he could be considered somewhat of a true friend.
Still, as he slumped on his chair and finished tending to the business of whipping soldiers, quartermasters, lieutenants and officers into shape, Damocles felt an old taste upon his lips. It had been long since he had satisfied his more salacious inclinations, and the times had deprived him of the long hours he occasionally wished to partake. He had enough coin on his person to procure a hetairoi, one of those ungodly expensive courtesans he had relished in the not-so-distance moments of gone nights. And he too assumed that for the price of one of those he could charge about three or four of the brothel-based pornai for a bit of a lesser time. Either option would amuse him for the time being, but there was one particular issue with one or the other: he wasn't in any particular mood to spend money over matters of the flesh. It was then that a name peaked through his mind.
Thyra...
Granted, he was well-aware that the girl wasn't a prostitute by any measure of the word, but he still remembered how positively predisposed she had been to him in the past. She would do for now. Yes, she would do nicely. Especially since he wouldn't have to waste a single coin on a brief rekindling of an old flame, or rather, what he would pretend would be a rekindling of an old flame. He didn't have any particular inclinations towards the woman, though he wasn't going to deny the possibility of sating his itch without parting from his coins. He only needed to make her appear before him and all would be good and done.
Leaning forward unto his desk, the militant unfurled a sheet of papyrus and seized one of his pens, scratching the quill’s nib against the surface so as to give shape to the letters he wrote. It was a summoning, one that had all the official traits and proofs that certified it as one of legitimacy. Afterwards, once he finished applying his dramatic signature with his trademark paraphs, Damocles fetch his pounce pot and sprinkled the fine powder on the surface of the paper so as to dry the ink and smoothen the surface of the papyrus, finally folding it once blown and done before sealing the letter with a press of his signet ring. Once he finished officiating his summon, he fetched for one of his soldiers and gave the convocation to the man, expressing very firm words to him. He already knew the address where the men were to barge in unannounced, and it all resembled another one of his warrants. Before the eyes of the world it would have seemed as a perfectly defendable situation.
“This woman is to be brought over to me immediately. No questions are to be answered and no explanations given. Am I understood? Good. Now go!”
Once dispatched, the towering man stood from his desk and stretched his legs a bit. Afterwards, he ordered one of his vintages to be brought over so he could enjoy a cup or two before the woman was dragged before him. He peered inquisitorially against the window, watching how the small squad of men that had been haphazardly organized rushed to follow through with his commands. He would already have enough to make this all go away, and if any questions were raised, well he knew what to say and what not to say whenever situations like this were levied.