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Everything on his person was borrowed. The chiton didn’t fit quite how he was used to, the sword belt felt strange just because it belonged to someone else. The bow in his hand was unfamiliar. The sword at his hip was weighted the same as the one hanging in his room back in Taengea but the grip just wasn’t right. Generally a person who liked rigorous exercise, Stephanos also found it difficult to know where to go for a run or to train. Now that he’d been raised to the position of Commander, he’d located the training grounds for the soldiers. The private one the Kotas used was available but Stephanos did not wish to cloister himself away. Not on this kind of morning where the sun rose among luminous golden clouds and the air had a chilly bite that had already given way beneath the sunlight.
Another morning, perhaps, he would practice with the full weight of his borrowed armor. That, likely, would be in the private Kotas training grounds, but for now, he wanted to get the true feel of the bow and the sword. A spear was a spear, truly. He was unconcerned about that particular weapon being borrowed. He’d picked a random one up often enough in battle and flung it that it truly didn’t matter.
Approaching the training area, he stopped, squinting at it. In Taengea, the training fields were open, with roped off quadrants. The Circus with its chariot arena would be just on the far side of where he trained and he would sometimes spend entire mornings, dipping into afternoons, with his elder brother. It had been months since he’d had the time to focus on plain fighting. So much had happened that he felt like an eternity had already come and gone as he stepped over the low rope that formed the archery ring. Adjusting the quiver’s strap on his shoulder, Stephanos looked up at the rocky cliff face that dominated nearly everywhere he looked in Midas. He missed the gently rolling hills of green and the white buildings of Vasiliadon.
Clearing his throat, Stephanos glanced around to make sure he was alone. It was still early. He was mostly unknown to the Midas locals. To the noble families of Colchis, he’d met them before. The clothes and caliber of weapons he had on him would betray a higher rank, but that was all. Though, with his uncle dead, he supposed it didn’t overly matter much if his presence here was known. He trusted Achilleas not to send assassins.
He stood across from a row of dummies all stuffed with hay, took aim, and shot. He made his mark but not exactly where he’d aimed. That was embarrassing. Nocking another arrow, he took his shot, the second better than the first. Stephanos was an able archer, but not an expert one. He was far better with the sword, but he was fairly satisfied with his ability to at least hit the dummy. As soon as that thought occurred, his third arrow went wide and hit the stoney cliff behind the dummies.
Sighing through his nose, Stephanos unleashed the entirety of his quiver but each successive shot went wider and wider as his already shaky confidence dwindled. He was unused to failure and to keep experiencing it...He walked across the intervening space, bending down and swiping up the fallen arrows from where they’d landed.
“Oh,” he muttered as he came back to the dummies only to find one arrow had missed the one he’d been aiming for entirely and had sank into the next dummy. That was...a mixed win? He’d take it.
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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Everything on his person was borrowed. The chiton didn’t fit quite how he was used to, the sword belt felt strange just because it belonged to someone else. The bow in his hand was unfamiliar. The sword at his hip was weighted the same as the one hanging in his room back in Taengea but the grip just wasn’t right. Generally a person who liked rigorous exercise, Stephanos also found it difficult to know where to go for a run or to train. Now that he’d been raised to the position of Commander, he’d located the training grounds for the soldiers. The private one the Kotas used was available but Stephanos did not wish to cloister himself away. Not on this kind of morning where the sun rose among luminous golden clouds and the air had a chilly bite that had already given way beneath the sunlight.
Another morning, perhaps, he would practice with the full weight of his borrowed armor. That, likely, would be in the private Kotas training grounds, but for now, he wanted to get the true feel of the bow and the sword. A spear was a spear, truly. He was unconcerned about that particular weapon being borrowed. He’d picked a random one up often enough in battle and flung it that it truly didn’t matter.
Approaching the training area, he stopped, squinting at it. In Taengea, the training fields were open, with roped off quadrants. The Circus with its chariot arena would be just on the far side of where he trained and he would sometimes spend entire mornings, dipping into afternoons, with his elder brother. It had been months since he’d had the time to focus on plain fighting. So much had happened that he felt like an eternity had already come and gone as he stepped over the low rope that formed the archery ring. Adjusting the quiver’s strap on his shoulder, Stephanos looked up at the rocky cliff face that dominated nearly everywhere he looked in Midas. He missed the gently rolling hills of green and the white buildings of Vasiliadon.
Clearing his throat, Stephanos glanced around to make sure he was alone. It was still early. He was mostly unknown to the Midas locals. To the noble families of Colchis, he’d met them before. The clothes and caliber of weapons he had on him would betray a higher rank, but that was all. Though, with his uncle dead, he supposed it didn’t overly matter much if his presence here was known. He trusted Achilleas not to send assassins.
He stood across from a row of dummies all stuffed with hay, took aim, and shot. He made his mark but not exactly where he’d aimed. That was embarrassing. Nocking another arrow, he took his shot, the second better than the first. Stephanos was an able archer, but not an expert one. He was far better with the sword, but he was fairly satisfied with his ability to at least hit the dummy. As soon as that thought occurred, his third arrow went wide and hit the stoney cliff behind the dummies.
Sighing through his nose, Stephanos unleashed the entirety of his quiver but each successive shot went wider and wider as his already shaky confidence dwindled. He was unused to failure and to keep experiencing it...He walked across the intervening space, bending down and swiping up the fallen arrows from where they’d landed.
“Oh,” he muttered as he came back to the dummies only to find one arrow had missed the one he’d been aiming for entirely and had sank into the next dummy. That was...a mixed win? He’d take it.
Everything on his person was borrowed. The chiton didn’t fit quite how he was used to, the sword belt felt strange just because it belonged to someone else. The bow in his hand was unfamiliar. The sword at his hip was weighted the same as the one hanging in his room back in Taengea but the grip just wasn’t right. Generally a person who liked rigorous exercise, Stephanos also found it difficult to know where to go for a run or to train. Now that he’d been raised to the position of Commander, he’d located the training grounds for the soldiers. The private one the Kotas used was available but Stephanos did not wish to cloister himself away. Not on this kind of morning where the sun rose among luminous golden clouds and the air had a chilly bite that had already given way beneath the sunlight.
Another morning, perhaps, he would practice with the full weight of his borrowed armor. That, likely, would be in the private Kotas training grounds, but for now, he wanted to get the true feel of the bow and the sword. A spear was a spear, truly. He was unconcerned about that particular weapon being borrowed. He’d picked a random one up often enough in battle and flung it that it truly didn’t matter.
Approaching the training area, he stopped, squinting at it. In Taengea, the training fields were open, with roped off quadrants. The Circus with its chariot arena would be just on the far side of where he trained and he would sometimes spend entire mornings, dipping into afternoons, with his elder brother. It had been months since he’d had the time to focus on plain fighting. So much had happened that he felt like an eternity had already come and gone as he stepped over the low rope that formed the archery ring. Adjusting the quiver’s strap on his shoulder, Stephanos looked up at the rocky cliff face that dominated nearly everywhere he looked in Midas. He missed the gently rolling hills of green and the white buildings of Vasiliadon.
Clearing his throat, Stephanos glanced around to make sure he was alone. It was still early. He was mostly unknown to the Midas locals. To the noble families of Colchis, he’d met them before. The clothes and caliber of weapons he had on him would betray a higher rank, but that was all. Though, with his uncle dead, he supposed it didn’t overly matter much if his presence here was known. He trusted Achilleas not to send assassins.
He stood across from a row of dummies all stuffed with hay, took aim, and shot. He made his mark but not exactly where he’d aimed. That was embarrassing. Nocking another arrow, he took his shot, the second better than the first. Stephanos was an able archer, but not an expert one. He was far better with the sword, but he was fairly satisfied with his ability to at least hit the dummy. As soon as that thought occurred, his third arrow went wide and hit the stoney cliff behind the dummies.
Sighing through his nose, Stephanos unleashed the entirety of his quiver but each successive shot went wider and wider as his already shaky confidence dwindled. He was unused to failure and to keep experiencing it...He walked across the intervening space, bending down and swiping up the fallen arrows from where they’d landed.
“Oh,” he muttered as he came back to the dummies only to find one arrow had missed the one he’d been aiming for entirely and had sank into the next dummy. That was...a mixed win? He’d take it.
The stone between her hands was substantial, larger than a man’s head and heavy. Its rough surface was tearing against her skin as she fought with her shaking arms to keep it in place. She had lifted it up and behind her head, her body elongating as it settled into a place of balance. It had been several minutes now, which some would consider a feat for the lithe woman.
Her teeth clenched in concentration as she took careful movements to lift it straight overhead again, blowing out a breath through flared nostrils. She treated the piece of earth as if it were her blade, the weight of it key to her strength training as she drew it to her hip and back up again. She was making a pattern from hip to shoulder to opposing shoulder and back again. Her arms were going to be absolutely dead after this.
When she had done several sets of this and her arms felt as though they had been set to flames, she tossed it down with a grunt. Despite the crispness of the early morning air, she was burning up. She always had liked to train first thing in the morning and had started well before dawn with her stretches, running and strength training. She wondered if Phaedra would join her for target practice, rolling her shoulders as she considered taking a break. If one could consider a walk to the archery side of the grounds, a break.
Practicing on the Midas’ training grounds was nothing particularly new, but it really only meant one thing. War was coming. Being called out from Molossia and stationed in Midas was never good news unless one liked to fight, which Zosime of Lyncaea could say that she did. Of course, nothing too official had made its way into her ears just yet -- so it was just as likely that they could be sent away. Which might piss her off more, come to think of it.
She wiped a bead of sweat from the tip of her nose, sniffling in the cooler air. Her mother would have had a fit, knowing she was out here -- essentially scantily clad for the sake of training while it was ‘cold’. She was the female equivalent of a man without his shirt, although she was not shy about her body at all. Her thoughts trailed away from her mother as the familiar sounds of her craft reached her ears. She was just on the tail end of things it seemed, the unfamiliar man standing at the ready reaching for the last of his arrows.
Her blue gaze widened when she turned to look down the lane at the targets and found that very few had even made it into the dummies. Her brow furrowed, creating a crease between her eyebrows as he went to collect his attempts -- Zosime found herself right there with him. She picked up an arrow that had been missed, no doubt because it was closer to where she was standing than where he’d been aiming and stalked over.
”That was piss-poor.” She said, never one for concealing the blunt truth of things. Gods, she hoped it wouldn’t be this one at her back if they went to war. ”And with that kind of aim, I’d hate to see it when you take a piss.” But her face was serene, just the tiniest quip of amusement at her eyes, when she held out one of his strays.
”Your form is off. That elbow needs to be dropped a little bit, that will help your balance even if it seems the opposite.” She prattled off rather practical advice all things considered. She shifted her weight from one hip to the other. ”Let me guess...you’re better with the sword?” She said, knowing he would not pick up on her teasing as it came out as any of the rest of it did.
She looked him over, crossing her arms under her chest. ”I’m Zosime of Lyncaea. Molossian Wolves. Friends call me Zosi.” She was expectant, waiting for him to give her his name and unit as well. She didn’t think he could be any more than a soldier, but she had been wrong before and wouldn’t hold her breath.
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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The stone between her hands was substantial, larger than a man’s head and heavy. Its rough surface was tearing against her skin as she fought with her shaking arms to keep it in place. She had lifted it up and behind her head, her body elongating as it settled into a place of balance. It had been several minutes now, which some would consider a feat for the lithe woman.
Her teeth clenched in concentration as she took careful movements to lift it straight overhead again, blowing out a breath through flared nostrils. She treated the piece of earth as if it were her blade, the weight of it key to her strength training as she drew it to her hip and back up again. She was making a pattern from hip to shoulder to opposing shoulder and back again. Her arms were going to be absolutely dead after this.
When she had done several sets of this and her arms felt as though they had been set to flames, she tossed it down with a grunt. Despite the crispness of the early morning air, she was burning up. She always had liked to train first thing in the morning and had started well before dawn with her stretches, running and strength training. She wondered if Phaedra would join her for target practice, rolling her shoulders as she considered taking a break. If one could consider a walk to the archery side of the grounds, a break.
Practicing on the Midas’ training grounds was nothing particularly new, but it really only meant one thing. War was coming. Being called out from Molossia and stationed in Midas was never good news unless one liked to fight, which Zosime of Lyncaea could say that she did. Of course, nothing too official had made its way into her ears just yet -- so it was just as likely that they could be sent away. Which might piss her off more, come to think of it.
She wiped a bead of sweat from the tip of her nose, sniffling in the cooler air. Her mother would have had a fit, knowing she was out here -- essentially scantily clad for the sake of training while it was ‘cold’. She was the female equivalent of a man without his shirt, although she was not shy about her body at all. Her thoughts trailed away from her mother as the familiar sounds of her craft reached her ears. She was just on the tail end of things it seemed, the unfamiliar man standing at the ready reaching for the last of his arrows.
Her blue gaze widened when she turned to look down the lane at the targets and found that very few had even made it into the dummies. Her brow furrowed, creating a crease between her eyebrows as he went to collect his attempts -- Zosime found herself right there with him. She picked up an arrow that had been missed, no doubt because it was closer to where she was standing than where he’d been aiming and stalked over.
”That was piss-poor.” She said, never one for concealing the blunt truth of things. Gods, she hoped it wouldn’t be this one at her back if they went to war. ”And with that kind of aim, I’d hate to see it when you take a piss.” But her face was serene, just the tiniest quip of amusement at her eyes, when she held out one of his strays.
”Your form is off. That elbow needs to be dropped a little bit, that will help your balance even if it seems the opposite.” She prattled off rather practical advice all things considered. She shifted her weight from one hip to the other. ”Let me guess...you’re better with the sword?” She said, knowing he would not pick up on her teasing as it came out as any of the rest of it did.
She looked him over, crossing her arms under her chest. ”I’m Zosime of Lyncaea. Molossian Wolves. Friends call me Zosi.” She was expectant, waiting for him to give her his name and unit as well. She didn’t think he could be any more than a soldier, but she had been wrong before and wouldn’t hold her breath.
The stone between her hands was substantial, larger than a man’s head and heavy. Its rough surface was tearing against her skin as she fought with her shaking arms to keep it in place. She had lifted it up and behind her head, her body elongating as it settled into a place of balance. It had been several minutes now, which some would consider a feat for the lithe woman.
Her teeth clenched in concentration as she took careful movements to lift it straight overhead again, blowing out a breath through flared nostrils. She treated the piece of earth as if it were her blade, the weight of it key to her strength training as she drew it to her hip and back up again. She was making a pattern from hip to shoulder to opposing shoulder and back again. Her arms were going to be absolutely dead after this.
When she had done several sets of this and her arms felt as though they had been set to flames, she tossed it down with a grunt. Despite the crispness of the early morning air, she was burning up. She always had liked to train first thing in the morning and had started well before dawn with her stretches, running and strength training. She wondered if Phaedra would join her for target practice, rolling her shoulders as she considered taking a break. If one could consider a walk to the archery side of the grounds, a break.
Practicing on the Midas’ training grounds was nothing particularly new, but it really only meant one thing. War was coming. Being called out from Molossia and stationed in Midas was never good news unless one liked to fight, which Zosime of Lyncaea could say that she did. Of course, nothing too official had made its way into her ears just yet -- so it was just as likely that they could be sent away. Which might piss her off more, come to think of it.
She wiped a bead of sweat from the tip of her nose, sniffling in the cooler air. Her mother would have had a fit, knowing she was out here -- essentially scantily clad for the sake of training while it was ‘cold’. She was the female equivalent of a man without his shirt, although she was not shy about her body at all. Her thoughts trailed away from her mother as the familiar sounds of her craft reached her ears. She was just on the tail end of things it seemed, the unfamiliar man standing at the ready reaching for the last of his arrows.
Her blue gaze widened when she turned to look down the lane at the targets and found that very few had even made it into the dummies. Her brow furrowed, creating a crease between her eyebrows as he went to collect his attempts -- Zosime found herself right there with him. She picked up an arrow that had been missed, no doubt because it was closer to where she was standing than where he’d been aiming and stalked over.
”That was piss-poor.” She said, never one for concealing the blunt truth of things. Gods, she hoped it wouldn’t be this one at her back if they went to war. ”And with that kind of aim, I’d hate to see it when you take a piss.” But her face was serene, just the tiniest quip of amusement at her eyes, when she held out one of his strays.
”Your form is off. That elbow needs to be dropped a little bit, that will help your balance even if it seems the opposite.” She prattled off rather practical advice all things considered. She shifted her weight from one hip to the other. ”Let me guess...you’re better with the sword?” She said, knowing he would not pick up on her teasing as it came out as any of the rest of it did.
She looked him over, crossing her arms under her chest. ”I’m Zosime of Lyncaea. Molossian Wolves. Friends call me Zosi.” She was expectant, waiting for him to give her his name and unit as well. She didn’t think he could be any more than a soldier, but she had been wrong before and wouldn’t hold her breath.
It was impossible not to hear someone coming, the way sandals slapped against the gritty stone paths, echoing off high cliff walls. Stephanos did not look around, though. Since Irakles’s death, he’d lost his sense of being hunted. His cousin already knew precisely where he was and short of causing an international incident, he was safe. The only good thing about being out of Taengea was that the Creed were not a thing in Colchis. The exiled king found that one point a solace, at least.
What he did not expect, as he bent down to retrieve an arrow, as for a presence to suddenly be next to him. He jerked back, not quite as much at his ease as he’d been fancying earlier. All he’d saw was her shadow and it had been enough to transform into a black shroud, covering a faceless person. A faceless person who meant him and all he loved harm. Except, then she spoke. He turned his head and saw an arrestingly beautiful, sweaty woman. Her skin glistened, her hair stuck out in wet, swirling tendrils, and her eyes. They were moonstones inset into the most perfectly formed features he’d ever seen.
”That was piss-poor.”
He blinked.
”And with that kind of aim, I’d hate to see it when you take a piss.”
The amount of crassness that spewed from her mouth solved any sort of idea he’d had about her being some kind of goddess. Snapping up straight, Stephanos quirked his brows at her, his gaze dropping and raking her up and down for quite a different reason now than he might have done a second ago. Her clothes weren’t overly fine and no lady of quality would ever speak to him like this. In fact, if he hadn’t heard the higher pitch of her voice and seen her lips forming the words, he’d have sworn this was a man talking, going by the content.
Ever eloquent and ready with a quip, Stephanos said, “Uh…” He was still a little baffled by her presence, who she was, why she had the audacity to point out the very obvious to him. Raised as he was in the society he had been, Stephanos had been shielded a bit by the worst of remarks. That was, until he was forced into the Order of Vasiliadon by his father. Then he’d learned what hard work actually was. From there, rising through the ranks of the military and hearing soldiers’ talk, he was not shocked by lewd, violent, or rude things anymore. Or, so he’d thought. It was just so odd to see a gorgeous woman saying them and he rubbed the back of his neck while he tried to process what he thought about it. But the sunlight kept glinting off her eyes, turning them searing gold and he was prepared to accept that she thought him an idiot. Sort of.
She waggled one of his arrows at him, one of the ones that hadn’t made it to the target and he took a step back to get a better speaking distance. They were too close between these dummies for a proper conversation. Except she didn’t give him proper conversation and instead dressed him down in a way he hadn’t been since he was a captain in his father’s army. ”Your form is off. That elbow needs to be dropped a little bit, that will help your balance even if it seems the opposite.” Well...not quite like the last time. She was actually being helpful. His last encounter, his superior officer had been shouting in his face and with nothing pleasant to be said.
He looked to the dummies, not arguing with her. His form was off. Rubbing the back of his head, his fingers sliding through short, golden hair, he exhaled and then threw her a lazy grin. “I suppose you can do better?” Even as he said it, he knew she could which was why he gave an unkingly snort and an even more unkingly “Yeah,” to her next question of if he was better with a sword, adding, “Better than you, I’ll wager.”
”I’m Zosime of Lyncaea. Molossian Wolves. Friends call me Zosi.”
“Zosime of Lyncaea,” he repeated, and turned his back on her to gather the rest of his arrows, sticking them blindly into the quiver on his back. “I’ll tell you what, Zosime of Lyncaea. I’m of a mood to spar.” He could order her to do so, but he liked games. “I beat you two out of three challenges and call you Zosi and take you to the hot springs for a cool down. What say you?” He stuck out his hand, grinning brilliantly at her. “I’m Stephanos of Mikaelidas, new Colchian Commander.” He still claimed his birth name even though it was not legally true. He didn’t care. Mikaelidas blood still ran through his veins, whatever a paper might say. As to his new rank, she’d have likely heard about the stirring tizzy that promoting an outsider had made. Or perhaps she hadn’t.
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 impossible not to hear someone coming, the way sandals slapped against the gritty stone paths, echoing off high cliff walls. Stephanos did not look around, though. Since Irakles’s death, he’d lost his sense of being hunted. His cousin already knew precisely where he was and short of causing an international incident, he was safe. The only good thing about being out of Taengea was that the Creed were not a thing in Colchis. The exiled king found that one point a solace, at least.
What he did not expect, as he bent down to retrieve an arrow, as for a presence to suddenly be next to him. He jerked back, not quite as much at his ease as he’d been fancying earlier. All he’d saw was her shadow and it had been enough to transform into a black shroud, covering a faceless person. A faceless person who meant him and all he loved harm. Except, then she spoke. He turned his head and saw an arrestingly beautiful, sweaty woman. Her skin glistened, her hair stuck out in wet, swirling tendrils, and her eyes. They were moonstones inset into the most perfectly formed features he’d ever seen.
”That was piss-poor.”
He blinked.
”And with that kind of aim, I’d hate to see it when you take a piss.”
The amount of crassness that spewed from her mouth solved any sort of idea he’d had about her being some kind of goddess. Snapping up straight, Stephanos quirked his brows at her, his gaze dropping and raking her up and down for quite a different reason now than he might have done a second ago. Her clothes weren’t overly fine and no lady of quality would ever speak to him like this. In fact, if he hadn’t heard the higher pitch of her voice and seen her lips forming the words, he’d have sworn this was a man talking, going by the content.
Ever eloquent and ready with a quip, Stephanos said, “Uh…” He was still a little baffled by her presence, who she was, why she had the audacity to point out the very obvious to him. Raised as he was in the society he had been, Stephanos had been shielded a bit by the worst of remarks. That was, until he was forced into the Order of Vasiliadon by his father. Then he’d learned what hard work actually was. From there, rising through the ranks of the military and hearing soldiers’ talk, he was not shocked by lewd, violent, or rude things anymore. Or, so he’d thought. It was just so odd to see a gorgeous woman saying them and he rubbed the back of his neck while he tried to process what he thought about it. But the sunlight kept glinting off her eyes, turning them searing gold and he was prepared to accept that she thought him an idiot. Sort of.
She waggled one of his arrows at him, one of the ones that hadn’t made it to the target and he took a step back to get a better speaking distance. They were too close between these dummies for a proper conversation. Except she didn’t give him proper conversation and instead dressed him down in a way he hadn’t been since he was a captain in his father’s army. ”Your form is off. That elbow needs to be dropped a little bit, that will help your balance even if it seems the opposite.” Well...not quite like the last time. She was actually being helpful. His last encounter, his superior officer had been shouting in his face and with nothing pleasant to be said.
He looked to the dummies, not arguing with her. His form was off. Rubbing the back of his head, his fingers sliding through short, golden hair, he exhaled and then threw her a lazy grin. “I suppose you can do better?” Even as he said it, he knew she could which was why he gave an unkingly snort and an even more unkingly “Yeah,” to her next question of if he was better with a sword, adding, “Better than you, I’ll wager.”
”I’m Zosime of Lyncaea. Molossian Wolves. Friends call me Zosi.”
“Zosime of Lyncaea,” he repeated, and turned his back on her to gather the rest of his arrows, sticking them blindly into the quiver on his back. “I’ll tell you what, Zosime of Lyncaea. I’m of a mood to spar.” He could order her to do so, but he liked games. “I beat you two out of three challenges and call you Zosi and take you to the hot springs for a cool down. What say you?” He stuck out his hand, grinning brilliantly at her. “I’m Stephanos of Mikaelidas, new Colchian Commander.” He still claimed his birth name even though it was not legally true. He didn’t care. Mikaelidas blood still ran through his veins, whatever a paper might say. As to his new rank, she’d have likely heard about the stirring tizzy that promoting an outsider had made. Or perhaps she hadn’t.
It was impossible not to hear someone coming, the way sandals slapped against the gritty stone paths, echoing off high cliff walls. Stephanos did not look around, though. Since Irakles’s death, he’d lost his sense of being hunted. His cousin already knew precisely where he was and short of causing an international incident, he was safe. The only good thing about being out of Taengea was that the Creed were not a thing in Colchis. The exiled king found that one point a solace, at least.
What he did not expect, as he bent down to retrieve an arrow, as for a presence to suddenly be next to him. He jerked back, not quite as much at his ease as he’d been fancying earlier. All he’d saw was her shadow and it had been enough to transform into a black shroud, covering a faceless person. A faceless person who meant him and all he loved harm. Except, then she spoke. He turned his head and saw an arrestingly beautiful, sweaty woman. Her skin glistened, her hair stuck out in wet, swirling tendrils, and her eyes. They were moonstones inset into the most perfectly formed features he’d ever seen.
”That was piss-poor.”
He blinked.
”And with that kind of aim, I’d hate to see it when you take a piss.”
The amount of crassness that spewed from her mouth solved any sort of idea he’d had about her being some kind of goddess. Snapping up straight, Stephanos quirked his brows at her, his gaze dropping and raking her up and down for quite a different reason now than he might have done a second ago. Her clothes weren’t overly fine and no lady of quality would ever speak to him like this. In fact, if he hadn’t heard the higher pitch of her voice and seen her lips forming the words, he’d have sworn this was a man talking, going by the content.
Ever eloquent and ready with a quip, Stephanos said, “Uh…” He was still a little baffled by her presence, who she was, why she had the audacity to point out the very obvious to him. Raised as he was in the society he had been, Stephanos had been shielded a bit by the worst of remarks. That was, until he was forced into the Order of Vasiliadon by his father. Then he’d learned what hard work actually was. From there, rising through the ranks of the military and hearing soldiers’ talk, he was not shocked by lewd, violent, or rude things anymore. Or, so he’d thought. It was just so odd to see a gorgeous woman saying them and he rubbed the back of his neck while he tried to process what he thought about it. But the sunlight kept glinting off her eyes, turning them searing gold and he was prepared to accept that she thought him an idiot. Sort of.
She waggled one of his arrows at him, one of the ones that hadn’t made it to the target and he took a step back to get a better speaking distance. They were too close between these dummies for a proper conversation. Except she didn’t give him proper conversation and instead dressed him down in a way he hadn’t been since he was a captain in his father’s army. ”Your form is off. That elbow needs to be dropped a little bit, that will help your balance even if it seems the opposite.” Well...not quite like the last time. She was actually being helpful. His last encounter, his superior officer had been shouting in his face and with nothing pleasant to be said.
He looked to the dummies, not arguing with her. His form was off. Rubbing the back of his head, his fingers sliding through short, golden hair, he exhaled and then threw her a lazy grin. “I suppose you can do better?” Even as he said it, he knew she could which was why he gave an unkingly snort and an even more unkingly “Yeah,” to her next question of if he was better with a sword, adding, “Better than you, I’ll wager.”
”I’m Zosime of Lyncaea. Molossian Wolves. Friends call me Zosi.”
“Zosime of Lyncaea,” he repeated, and turned his back on her to gather the rest of his arrows, sticking them blindly into the quiver on his back. “I’ll tell you what, Zosime of Lyncaea. I’m of a mood to spar.” He could order her to do so, but he liked games. “I beat you two out of three challenges and call you Zosi and take you to the hot springs for a cool down. What say you?” He stuck out his hand, grinning brilliantly at her. “I’m Stephanos of Mikaelidas, new Colchian Commander.” He still claimed his birth name even though it was not legally true. He didn’t care. Mikaelidas blood still ran through his veins, whatever a paper might say. As to his new rank, she’d have likely heard about the stirring tizzy that promoting an outsider had made. Or perhaps she hadn’t.
She laughed, the sound quite girlish much to her chagrin. He was looking her over, his light eyes quite like her own in color. He was not the first, nor would he be the last, to be taken aback by her. She was not much of a lady, and she knew that. She’d known it since she was a girl and running in the streets with her brother and his friends, hiding in her father’s shop instead of taking lessons with her mother, or using anything long and pointy as a sword. She was sensual, but she was not soft like her sisters Glykeria, Vasso or Euphrosyne.
Glykeria was the eldest, and already married. She seemed happy enough with her husband, but there was always something dancing behind her eyes that made Zosime wonder if there was something unsaid. Vasso was flirtatious and thriving, much to their parents’ dismay. She was the life of the party anywhere that she went. Euphrosyne, although younger, was much more prudent in her love life.
Now Antonia? Antonia was a girl that she could understand.
But she had spent too long thinking about her sisters, and now she was not sure if he’d said a word yet. Her attention dropped from his similarly blue gaze and down to his lips, then further down to his chest and well, she’d be a liar to say it didn’t look lower than that before she pulled it back to more socially appropriate places. Besides, she was entirely celibate now -- and content with the security that that brought her. No emotions to get tangled up in, no fears of pregnancy.
“I suppose you can do better?” Her grin was lopsided, and she let her brows raise as he thought that he could be better than her with the sword. ”I’d like to see that. Maybe you could change your first impression.” She set her hands on her hips, widening her stance just a little. Her shoulders were back, her spine straight as the arrows that flew from her bow. She had no doubt that she could hold her own against any man. Even though she might lose, she could give them a run for their money.
”Mikae...lidas?” She said slowly, the name tingling something in the back of her head as she put her hand in his. Mikaelidas. Mikaelidas? She shook his hand firmly, even as realization hit her as to who exactly she was dealing with. A lesser woman might have stuttered, or scraped even to an exiled prince.
”Oh, I’m going to enjoy making you eat sand -- pretty boy.” Her smile was feral now, eyes glittering with excitement. She gave a short, hard tug on his hand to draw him closer to her. ”How do you want it?” She said, matching his grin with one of her own. ”I’d guess it’s not an archery contest.” She turned, intending to leave the archery field for one of the sparring rings.
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She laughed, the sound quite girlish much to her chagrin. He was looking her over, his light eyes quite like her own in color. He was not the first, nor would he be the last, to be taken aback by her. She was not much of a lady, and she knew that. She’d known it since she was a girl and running in the streets with her brother and his friends, hiding in her father’s shop instead of taking lessons with her mother, or using anything long and pointy as a sword. She was sensual, but she was not soft like her sisters Glykeria, Vasso or Euphrosyne.
Glykeria was the eldest, and already married. She seemed happy enough with her husband, but there was always something dancing behind her eyes that made Zosime wonder if there was something unsaid. Vasso was flirtatious and thriving, much to their parents’ dismay. She was the life of the party anywhere that she went. Euphrosyne, although younger, was much more prudent in her love life.
Now Antonia? Antonia was a girl that she could understand.
But she had spent too long thinking about her sisters, and now she was not sure if he’d said a word yet. Her attention dropped from his similarly blue gaze and down to his lips, then further down to his chest and well, she’d be a liar to say it didn’t look lower than that before she pulled it back to more socially appropriate places. Besides, she was entirely celibate now -- and content with the security that that brought her. No emotions to get tangled up in, no fears of pregnancy.
“I suppose you can do better?” Her grin was lopsided, and she let her brows raise as he thought that he could be better than her with the sword. ”I’d like to see that. Maybe you could change your first impression.” She set her hands on her hips, widening her stance just a little. Her shoulders were back, her spine straight as the arrows that flew from her bow. She had no doubt that she could hold her own against any man. Even though she might lose, she could give them a run for their money.
”Mikae...lidas?” She said slowly, the name tingling something in the back of her head as she put her hand in his. Mikaelidas. Mikaelidas? She shook his hand firmly, even as realization hit her as to who exactly she was dealing with. A lesser woman might have stuttered, or scraped even to an exiled prince.
”Oh, I’m going to enjoy making you eat sand -- pretty boy.” Her smile was feral now, eyes glittering with excitement. She gave a short, hard tug on his hand to draw him closer to her. ”How do you want it?” She said, matching his grin with one of her own. ”I’d guess it’s not an archery contest.” She turned, intending to leave the archery field for one of the sparring rings.
She laughed, the sound quite girlish much to her chagrin. He was looking her over, his light eyes quite like her own in color. He was not the first, nor would he be the last, to be taken aback by her. She was not much of a lady, and she knew that. She’d known it since she was a girl and running in the streets with her brother and his friends, hiding in her father’s shop instead of taking lessons with her mother, or using anything long and pointy as a sword. She was sensual, but she was not soft like her sisters Glykeria, Vasso or Euphrosyne.
Glykeria was the eldest, and already married. She seemed happy enough with her husband, but there was always something dancing behind her eyes that made Zosime wonder if there was something unsaid. Vasso was flirtatious and thriving, much to their parents’ dismay. She was the life of the party anywhere that she went. Euphrosyne, although younger, was much more prudent in her love life.
Now Antonia? Antonia was a girl that she could understand.
But she had spent too long thinking about her sisters, and now she was not sure if he’d said a word yet. Her attention dropped from his similarly blue gaze and down to his lips, then further down to his chest and well, she’d be a liar to say it didn’t look lower than that before she pulled it back to more socially appropriate places. Besides, she was entirely celibate now -- and content with the security that that brought her. No emotions to get tangled up in, no fears of pregnancy.
“I suppose you can do better?” Her grin was lopsided, and she let her brows raise as he thought that he could be better than her with the sword. ”I’d like to see that. Maybe you could change your first impression.” She set her hands on her hips, widening her stance just a little. Her shoulders were back, her spine straight as the arrows that flew from her bow. She had no doubt that she could hold her own against any man. Even though she might lose, she could give them a run for their money.
”Mikae...lidas?” She said slowly, the name tingling something in the back of her head as she put her hand in his. Mikaelidas. Mikaelidas? She shook his hand firmly, even as realization hit her as to who exactly she was dealing with. A lesser woman might have stuttered, or scraped even to an exiled prince.
”Oh, I’m going to enjoy making you eat sand -- pretty boy.” Her smile was feral now, eyes glittering with excitement. She gave a short, hard tug on his hand to draw him closer to her. ”How do you want it?” She said, matching his grin with one of her own. ”I’d guess it’s not an archery contest.” She turned, intending to leave the archery field for one of the sparring rings.
This Zosime had sass. Luckily for her, Stephanos liked sass, more often than not. At least in settings like these and when a woman presented herself with a gorgeous face and a sharp tongue? That was definitely his drug of choice. When she said ”I’d like to see that. Maybe you could change your first impression” to his sword comment, he’d merely grinned, confident that he’d turn her head easily enough with that sort of display. She had her specialty, he had his. He didn’t get to be a general in Taengea just because of his pretty face.
She’d reared up at his challenge, though, tossing her head like a charger and widening her stance like a bull, but her face when his name finally sank in was almost priceless. Priceless and yet utterly meaningless, he reflected a little bitterly. The twist to his mouth was there and gone again in a moment as he forced the miserable circumstances he’d found himself in out of his mind. With the surprise fading, though, came what Stephanos would have called a cunning expression to her features.
”Oh, I’m going to enjoy making you eat sand -- pretty boy.”
Stephanos grinned. “I’ll stomach the taste of sand knowing you’ve licked dirt off my sandals first.” His hand was still extended and she finally took it, giving it a hard, unladylike shake. Once their handshake broke apart, he looked at his palm and then at her, wondering if she was trying to break his hand on purpose.
”How do you want it? I’d guess it’s not an archery contest.”
“We’ve already had the archery contest,” he said airily, following her to one of the sparring rings. At the side, he unshouldered his bow and quiver, setting them against a dummy stand. The sword he withdrew and stepped through the ropes and into the wide expanse of the sparring ground. There was a good deal of sand here to cushion the fall for when one or the other of them inevitably caved under the other’s onslaught. He twirled his sword in his hand and then gave a few experimental swishes. This was not the sword he’d won battles with. That one was still, presumably, mounted on his wall in the Mikaelidas Palati, along with his armor and shield. But this new one was weighted just right for him and though the shield might be borrowed, it was by no means defective.
He’d been hoping to meet someone here today, and now here was his chance. “No face shots,” he said. Neither of them had their helms about their person, nor did they have greaves or their arm guards. “I rather need mine. And yours is lovely enough that I’d prefer to keep it intact.” Then he took the defensive position and started circling the ring, sword ready, shield up.
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This Zosime had sass. Luckily for her, Stephanos liked sass, more often than not. At least in settings like these and when a woman presented herself with a gorgeous face and a sharp tongue? That was definitely his drug of choice. When she said ”I’d like to see that. Maybe you could change your first impression” to his sword comment, he’d merely grinned, confident that he’d turn her head easily enough with that sort of display. She had her specialty, he had his. He didn’t get to be a general in Taengea just because of his pretty face.
She’d reared up at his challenge, though, tossing her head like a charger and widening her stance like a bull, but her face when his name finally sank in was almost priceless. Priceless and yet utterly meaningless, he reflected a little bitterly. The twist to his mouth was there and gone again in a moment as he forced the miserable circumstances he’d found himself in out of his mind. With the surprise fading, though, came what Stephanos would have called a cunning expression to her features.
”Oh, I’m going to enjoy making you eat sand -- pretty boy.”
Stephanos grinned. “I’ll stomach the taste of sand knowing you’ve licked dirt off my sandals first.” His hand was still extended and she finally took it, giving it a hard, unladylike shake. Once their handshake broke apart, he looked at his palm and then at her, wondering if she was trying to break his hand on purpose.
”How do you want it? I’d guess it’s not an archery contest.”
“We’ve already had the archery contest,” he said airily, following her to one of the sparring rings. At the side, he unshouldered his bow and quiver, setting them against a dummy stand. The sword he withdrew and stepped through the ropes and into the wide expanse of the sparring ground. There was a good deal of sand here to cushion the fall for when one or the other of them inevitably caved under the other’s onslaught. He twirled his sword in his hand and then gave a few experimental swishes. This was not the sword he’d won battles with. That one was still, presumably, mounted on his wall in the Mikaelidas Palati, along with his armor and shield. But this new one was weighted just right for him and though the shield might be borrowed, it was by no means defective.
He’d been hoping to meet someone here today, and now here was his chance. “No face shots,” he said. Neither of them had their helms about their person, nor did they have greaves or their arm guards. “I rather need mine. And yours is lovely enough that I’d prefer to keep it intact.” Then he took the defensive position and started circling the ring, sword ready, shield up.
This Zosime had sass. Luckily for her, Stephanos liked sass, more often than not. At least in settings like these and when a woman presented herself with a gorgeous face and a sharp tongue? That was definitely his drug of choice. When she said ”I’d like to see that. Maybe you could change your first impression” to his sword comment, he’d merely grinned, confident that he’d turn her head easily enough with that sort of display. She had her specialty, he had his. He didn’t get to be a general in Taengea just because of his pretty face.
She’d reared up at his challenge, though, tossing her head like a charger and widening her stance like a bull, but her face when his name finally sank in was almost priceless. Priceless and yet utterly meaningless, he reflected a little bitterly. The twist to his mouth was there and gone again in a moment as he forced the miserable circumstances he’d found himself in out of his mind. With the surprise fading, though, came what Stephanos would have called a cunning expression to her features.
”Oh, I’m going to enjoy making you eat sand -- pretty boy.”
Stephanos grinned. “I’ll stomach the taste of sand knowing you’ve licked dirt off my sandals first.” His hand was still extended and she finally took it, giving it a hard, unladylike shake. Once their handshake broke apart, he looked at his palm and then at her, wondering if she was trying to break his hand on purpose.
”How do you want it? I’d guess it’s not an archery contest.”
“We’ve already had the archery contest,” he said airily, following her to one of the sparring rings. At the side, he unshouldered his bow and quiver, setting them against a dummy stand. The sword he withdrew and stepped through the ropes and into the wide expanse of the sparring ground. There was a good deal of sand here to cushion the fall for when one or the other of them inevitably caved under the other’s onslaught. He twirled his sword in his hand and then gave a few experimental swishes. This was not the sword he’d won battles with. That one was still, presumably, mounted on his wall in the Mikaelidas Palati, along with his armor and shield. But this new one was weighted just right for him and though the shield might be borrowed, it was by no means defective.
He’d been hoping to meet someone here today, and now here was his chance. “No face shots,” he said. Neither of them had their helms about their person, nor did they have greaves or their arm guards. “I rather need mine. And yours is lovely enough that I’d prefer to keep it intact.” Then he took the defensive position and started circling the ring, sword ready, shield up.
The air between them was companionable as they walked towards the sparing rings. There was a confident swagger to her hips, her fingers twitching anxiously at her side. She hoped he could make good on his promises. She had no problem being beaten, so long as it actually felt like a challenge. Too often, she’d been dismissed early -- seen for her sex and not her talent. She would hold her own, go as hard as she physically could. Zosime was not the type to go easy one someone because of who they’d been born too. When a man stood on the battlefield, he bled just the same as the others. There was no mercy there, no flickers of doubt about who had to die so that others could live.
”Not much of a contest.” She teased. She had not been kidding when she had commented on his less than stellar archery skills. ”I’d be happy to offer you some lessons, Commander.” She waited until he’d picked his own sword, Colchian steel, before she selected her own. She weighed the weapon in her right hand, testing the grip and weight with a few flicks of her wrist. She was ambidextrous but favored her right, finding the left to be weaker and less useful when it came to strength.
Flippos came to mind any time that she took up the sword. He had been military once, entrusted with teaching her brother but open minded enough to give Zosime her fair chance. He hadn’t given her the same education as her brother, splitting her time between the sword and the bow because he had known that there was no path for her to wield the sword on the battlefield as a woman. And she was too proud to parade as a man.
She slipped easily through the ropes strung up around the outside of the sparring ring, her sandals digging into the sand. She had spent days of her life in this ring, grappling with men and women alike. She’d been knocked senseless more times than she could count, even unconscious once, but that was all part of the process.
She had nothing more than what she had started with when she’d approached him on the range, not a scrap of armor or protection. She had not even bothered to pick a shield, knowing the added weight hindered rather than helped when it came to her own fighting style. Her grin was wide, eyes shining with excitement as he called out the rules -- which really was only that they should avoid the face. She raised her sword, blowing him a kiss from just above the blade.
”Yes, I do suppose that pretty face is all that you have going for you these days. Just promise you won’t go easy on me.” She teased, jabbing with her sharp tongue. His fall from grace, his exile, was a whisper on the winds across the country -- perhaps the world, in some circles. He took defense, shield up and sword at the ready. She sunk her posture a little, the smile still on her face as they walked around one another -- sizing each other up.
She went for him, the sand giving under her feet with each step but she had been raised on it -- so she knew exactly how much she could push without losing her footing. She was silent, but internally she roared with a battle cry that might’ve rivaled a lion. That had been the first habit Fillipos had broken her of. The screaming would give her away, even though it bolstered her confidence.
She swung harder than perhaps she should have, the sword clanging off the shield before she danced back.
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The air between them was companionable as they walked towards the sparing rings. There was a confident swagger to her hips, her fingers twitching anxiously at her side. She hoped he could make good on his promises. She had no problem being beaten, so long as it actually felt like a challenge. Too often, she’d been dismissed early -- seen for her sex and not her talent. She would hold her own, go as hard as she physically could. Zosime was not the type to go easy one someone because of who they’d been born too. When a man stood on the battlefield, he bled just the same as the others. There was no mercy there, no flickers of doubt about who had to die so that others could live.
”Not much of a contest.” She teased. She had not been kidding when she had commented on his less than stellar archery skills. ”I’d be happy to offer you some lessons, Commander.” She waited until he’d picked his own sword, Colchian steel, before she selected her own. She weighed the weapon in her right hand, testing the grip and weight with a few flicks of her wrist. She was ambidextrous but favored her right, finding the left to be weaker and less useful when it came to strength.
Flippos came to mind any time that she took up the sword. He had been military once, entrusted with teaching her brother but open minded enough to give Zosime her fair chance. He hadn’t given her the same education as her brother, splitting her time between the sword and the bow because he had known that there was no path for her to wield the sword on the battlefield as a woman. And she was too proud to parade as a man.
She slipped easily through the ropes strung up around the outside of the sparring ring, her sandals digging into the sand. She had spent days of her life in this ring, grappling with men and women alike. She’d been knocked senseless more times than she could count, even unconscious once, but that was all part of the process.
She had nothing more than what she had started with when she’d approached him on the range, not a scrap of armor or protection. She had not even bothered to pick a shield, knowing the added weight hindered rather than helped when it came to her own fighting style. Her grin was wide, eyes shining with excitement as he called out the rules -- which really was only that they should avoid the face. She raised her sword, blowing him a kiss from just above the blade.
”Yes, I do suppose that pretty face is all that you have going for you these days. Just promise you won’t go easy on me.” She teased, jabbing with her sharp tongue. His fall from grace, his exile, was a whisper on the winds across the country -- perhaps the world, in some circles. He took defense, shield up and sword at the ready. She sunk her posture a little, the smile still on her face as they walked around one another -- sizing each other up.
She went for him, the sand giving under her feet with each step but she had been raised on it -- so she knew exactly how much she could push without losing her footing. She was silent, but internally she roared with a battle cry that might’ve rivaled a lion. That had been the first habit Fillipos had broken her of. The screaming would give her away, even though it bolstered her confidence.
She swung harder than perhaps she should have, the sword clanging off the shield before she danced back.
The air between them was companionable as they walked towards the sparing rings. There was a confident swagger to her hips, her fingers twitching anxiously at her side. She hoped he could make good on his promises. She had no problem being beaten, so long as it actually felt like a challenge. Too often, she’d been dismissed early -- seen for her sex and not her talent. She would hold her own, go as hard as she physically could. Zosime was not the type to go easy one someone because of who they’d been born too. When a man stood on the battlefield, he bled just the same as the others. There was no mercy there, no flickers of doubt about who had to die so that others could live.
”Not much of a contest.” She teased. She had not been kidding when she had commented on his less than stellar archery skills. ”I’d be happy to offer you some lessons, Commander.” She waited until he’d picked his own sword, Colchian steel, before she selected her own. She weighed the weapon in her right hand, testing the grip and weight with a few flicks of her wrist. She was ambidextrous but favored her right, finding the left to be weaker and less useful when it came to strength.
Flippos came to mind any time that she took up the sword. He had been military once, entrusted with teaching her brother but open minded enough to give Zosime her fair chance. He hadn’t given her the same education as her brother, splitting her time between the sword and the bow because he had known that there was no path for her to wield the sword on the battlefield as a woman. And she was too proud to parade as a man.
She slipped easily through the ropes strung up around the outside of the sparring ring, her sandals digging into the sand. She had spent days of her life in this ring, grappling with men and women alike. She’d been knocked senseless more times than she could count, even unconscious once, but that was all part of the process.
She had nothing more than what she had started with when she’d approached him on the range, not a scrap of armor or protection. She had not even bothered to pick a shield, knowing the added weight hindered rather than helped when it came to her own fighting style. Her grin was wide, eyes shining with excitement as he called out the rules -- which really was only that they should avoid the face. She raised her sword, blowing him a kiss from just above the blade.
”Yes, I do suppose that pretty face is all that you have going for you these days. Just promise you won’t go easy on me.” She teased, jabbing with her sharp tongue. His fall from grace, his exile, was a whisper on the winds across the country -- perhaps the world, in some circles. He took defense, shield up and sword at the ready. She sunk her posture a little, the smile still on her face as they walked around one another -- sizing each other up.
She went for him, the sand giving under her feet with each step but she had been raised on it -- so she knew exactly how much she could push without losing her footing. She was silent, but internally she roared with a battle cry that might’ve rivaled a lion. That had been the first habit Fillipos had broken her of. The screaming would give her away, even though it bolstered her confidence.
She swung harder than perhaps she should have, the sword clanging off the shield before she danced back.
Stephanos stood at the ready, his features grim, the smile having faded into a line along his lips. When Zosime blew him the kiss, though, the corners of his mouth turned unwillingly up, the following smile tight as he fought it. He shook his head at her. This one was coy. He’d seen the hip swaying and had chosen to ignore it. A great lover of women Stephanos might be, but he knew their tricks, too. He wasn’t so inexperienced that he could be lured with the batting of pretty eyelashes. If she was serious? He’d take her up on it. But the false promises were uninviting.
”Yes, I do suppose that pretty face is all that you have going for you these days. Just promise you won’t go easy on me.”
“Yes ma’am,” he winked. Definitely not with goading like that.
They circled each other, his eyes flicking from her feet to her knees, to her face, and back again in an ever roving guess as to where and when she might strike. As the sand was no hindrance to her, it wasn’t to him either. Taengean sparring rings were identical to the ones in Colchis. There were only so many ways to design practice fields and despite his personal reputation, Stephanos had been both prince and General in his time before ever being king. Because his elder brother had been destined for the throne, Stephanos had thought his future lay on the battlefield. Because of that, he trained nearly every day, then raced chariots in the circus. What he did with his nights bore no reflection on his dedication to the craft of war. His personal life did have people consistently underestimate him, though, which appeared to be what this woman was doing. Unlike her, though, Stephanos was happy to let people think what they wanted. It let him hit harder when the time came to strike.
Zosime broke first, striking wide. Stephanos braced for the impact, hefting the shield up and using it to throw her backwards away from him. She was light on her feet but he didn’t let her get her bearings. He charged forward, shield out, sword ready, using the shield to keep her away from him as he lashed out with the blade. She didn’t have a shield to protect her and he didn’t go easy on her. Just like she’d asked. His aim was to keep her on the defensive.
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Stephanos stood at the ready, his features grim, the smile having faded into a line along his lips. When Zosime blew him the kiss, though, the corners of his mouth turned unwillingly up, the following smile tight as he fought it. He shook his head at her. This one was coy. He’d seen the hip swaying and had chosen to ignore it. A great lover of women Stephanos might be, but he knew their tricks, too. He wasn’t so inexperienced that he could be lured with the batting of pretty eyelashes. If she was serious? He’d take her up on it. But the false promises were uninviting.
”Yes, I do suppose that pretty face is all that you have going for you these days. Just promise you won’t go easy on me.”
“Yes ma’am,” he winked. Definitely not with goading like that.
They circled each other, his eyes flicking from her feet to her knees, to her face, and back again in an ever roving guess as to where and when she might strike. As the sand was no hindrance to her, it wasn’t to him either. Taengean sparring rings were identical to the ones in Colchis. There were only so many ways to design practice fields and despite his personal reputation, Stephanos had been both prince and General in his time before ever being king. Because his elder brother had been destined for the throne, Stephanos had thought his future lay on the battlefield. Because of that, he trained nearly every day, then raced chariots in the circus. What he did with his nights bore no reflection on his dedication to the craft of war. His personal life did have people consistently underestimate him, though, which appeared to be what this woman was doing. Unlike her, though, Stephanos was happy to let people think what they wanted. It let him hit harder when the time came to strike.
Zosime broke first, striking wide. Stephanos braced for the impact, hefting the shield up and using it to throw her backwards away from him. She was light on her feet but he didn’t let her get her bearings. He charged forward, shield out, sword ready, using the shield to keep her away from him as he lashed out with the blade. She didn’t have a shield to protect her and he didn’t go easy on her. Just like she’d asked. His aim was to keep her on the defensive.
Stephanos stood at the ready, his features grim, the smile having faded into a line along his lips. When Zosime blew him the kiss, though, the corners of his mouth turned unwillingly up, the following smile tight as he fought it. He shook his head at her. This one was coy. He’d seen the hip swaying and had chosen to ignore it. A great lover of women Stephanos might be, but he knew their tricks, too. He wasn’t so inexperienced that he could be lured with the batting of pretty eyelashes. If she was serious? He’d take her up on it. But the false promises were uninviting.
”Yes, I do suppose that pretty face is all that you have going for you these days. Just promise you won’t go easy on me.”
“Yes ma’am,” he winked. Definitely not with goading like that.
They circled each other, his eyes flicking from her feet to her knees, to her face, and back again in an ever roving guess as to where and when she might strike. As the sand was no hindrance to her, it wasn’t to him either. Taengean sparring rings were identical to the ones in Colchis. There were only so many ways to design practice fields and despite his personal reputation, Stephanos had been both prince and General in his time before ever being king. Because his elder brother had been destined for the throne, Stephanos had thought his future lay on the battlefield. Because of that, he trained nearly every day, then raced chariots in the circus. What he did with his nights bore no reflection on his dedication to the craft of war. His personal life did have people consistently underestimate him, though, which appeared to be what this woman was doing. Unlike her, though, Stephanos was happy to let people think what they wanted. It let him hit harder when the time came to strike.
Zosime broke first, striking wide. Stephanos braced for the impact, hefting the shield up and using it to throw her backwards away from him. She was light on her feet but he didn’t let her get her bearings. He charged forward, shield out, sword ready, using the shield to keep her away from him as he lashed out with the blade. She didn’t have a shield to protect her and he didn’t go easy on her. Just like she’d asked. His aim was to keep her on the defensive.
He came after her, trying not to give her a chance to keep her feet. Sand gave way under her feet, spraying in a cloud of dust as she kept on her defensive now. She angled her body to stay close to his shield, using it to defend herself as much as it would defend him. He swung and she dodged, raising her own sword in answer. Fighting made her blood sing, made her skin tingle with the feeling of being alive. She lived for this, and one day -- she was sure to die for this. May that day be far, far away.
It was a familiar enough dance, even if she was a tad out of practice. They went back and forth, swinging and feigning, offensive and defensive, giving and taking scrapes. ”This is fun.” She said, starting to breathe a little harder with the effort. She pulled back and circled the edge of the ring to give herself a little bit of breathing room and tossed her head to fling back sweaty strings of curls that had fallen from the style she’d used to keep it out of her way. It had been a long time since she’d had someone willing to meet her in the training ring.
Women were given the opportunity to fight with the archery units, but it was still very improper for them to be sword trained -- or atleast to the point of being useful. It was an unfortunately stupid rule in her opinion, and luckily Phaedra agreed to a degree. The Wolves were all proficient enough with the sword to hold their own in a pinch, but Zosime had been trained with it since she was ten -- right alongside her brother. It was different from the life that her mother had wanted for her, different from the life that she thought that she would have. Gods, was she thankful for that.
She grunted as she slammed into the shield, swinging her sword high as her other hand went low. She gripped the bottom of the shield with her fingers, wrenching it to try and offset his balance. She was pretty sure that she couldn’t get it off him, but maybe she could make him back up. She grunted as she tried, her feet digging into the sand with the effort. It shifted and gave way, but that just made her dig in all the harder.
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He came after her, trying not to give her a chance to keep her feet. Sand gave way under her feet, spraying in a cloud of dust as she kept on her defensive now. She angled her body to stay close to his shield, using it to defend herself as much as it would defend him. He swung and she dodged, raising her own sword in answer. Fighting made her blood sing, made her skin tingle with the feeling of being alive. She lived for this, and one day -- she was sure to die for this. May that day be far, far away.
It was a familiar enough dance, even if she was a tad out of practice. They went back and forth, swinging and feigning, offensive and defensive, giving and taking scrapes. ”This is fun.” She said, starting to breathe a little harder with the effort. She pulled back and circled the edge of the ring to give herself a little bit of breathing room and tossed her head to fling back sweaty strings of curls that had fallen from the style she’d used to keep it out of her way. It had been a long time since she’d had someone willing to meet her in the training ring.
Women were given the opportunity to fight with the archery units, but it was still very improper for them to be sword trained -- or atleast to the point of being useful. It was an unfortunately stupid rule in her opinion, and luckily Phaedra agreed to a degree. The Wolves were all proficient enough with the sword to hold their own in a pinch, but Zosime had been trained with it since she was ten -- right alongside her brother. It was different from the life that her mother had wanted for her, different from the life that she thought that she would have. Gods, was she thankful for that.
She grunted as she slammed into the shield, swinging her sword high as her other hand went low. She gripped the bottom of the shield with her fingers, wrenching it to try and offset his balance. She was pretty sure that she couldn’t get it off him, but maybe she could make him back up. She grunted as she tried, her feet digging into the sand with the effort. It shifted and gave way, but that just made her dig in all the harder.
He came after her, trying not to give her a chance to keep her feet. Sand gave way under her feet, spraying in a cloud of dust as she kept on her defensive now. She angled her body to stay close to his shield, using it to defend herself as much as it would defend him. He swung and she dodged, raising her own sword in answer. Fighting made her blood sing, made her skin tingle with the feeling of being alive. She lived for this, and one day -- she was sure to die for this. May that day be far, far away.
It was a familiar enough dance, even if she was a tad out of practice. They went back and forth, swinging and feigning, offensive and defensive, giving and taking scrapes. ”This is fun.” She said, starting to breathe a little harder with the effort. She pulled back and circled the edge of the ring to give herself a little bit of breathing room and tossed her head to fling back sweaty strings of curls that had fallen from the style she’d used to keep it out of her way. It had been a long time since she’d had someone willing to meet her in the training ring.
Women were given the opportunity to fight with the archery units, but it was still very improper for them to be sword trained -- or atleast to the point of being useful. It was an unfortunately stupid rule in her opinion, and luckily Phaedra agreed to a degree. The Wolves were all proficient enough with the sword to hold their own in a pinch, but Zosime had been trained with it since she was ten -- right alongside her brother. It was different from the life that her mother had wanted for her, different from the life that she thought that she would have. Gods, was she thankful for that.
She grunted as she slammed into the shield, swinging her sword high as her other hand went low. She gripped the bottom of the shield with her fingers, wrenching it to try and offset his balance. She was pretty sure that she couldn’t get it off him, but maybe she could make him back up. She grunted as she tried, her feet digging into the sand with the effort. It shifted and gave way, but that just made her dig in all the harder.
With the shield strapped to his arm, there was no way she was going to pry it off his body. Unless, of course, she removed his arm. He resisted her attempts to force his shield upwards only enough to get her fully invested in the move. While she was busy with one hand doing that, and her sword arm swinging, Stephanos parried the swipe, deflecting it away from his person. Once her sword swung away, he let her thrust his shield up but that was where his allowance of anything stopped.
Once the shield was high enough, he dropped his entire body weight forward and down to trap her under the shield’s base. Their bodies collided and his legs tangled with hers and down they both went. Stephanos immediately slammed his wrist down on hers, attempting to trap her sword hand to the ground. Where she was lying, her back was pressed to his shield, so his left arm was sort of pinned beneath her, blocked by her from getting up, and blocking her from getting up in return.
He smirked tightly at her. “Hmm...This doesn’t usually happen.”
And by usually, he meant never. In all his time at war, men didn’t reach down to grab shields. Firstly, they usually had their own. It was rare and frankly dangerous for a soldier not to go onto the battlefield without one. Archers were obviously excluded from that. But secondly, once the shields were clashing together, and the swords were swinging and men were dying, if you fell, that was usually it. Between the sandy grit in the air and the tang of blood in the back of one’s throat, and yes, the surge of excitement in the belly, there wasn’t time to lay there and stare at one another. If you fell in battle, you were stepped on or already gravely injured, or, even more likely, someone would simply stab their sword into your side to finish you off in a casual move as they went on.
Their current predicament was a lot less dire but would be difficult to explain. The training grounds were completely deserted and as of yet, there was no one to need or demand an explanation. Stephanos wasn’t terribly sorry they’d ended up this way, in any case. When she’d first walked up, he’d thought her beautiful but he hadn’t seen her eyes up quite this close. If not for the expression of her eyes, he might have described their color as a dreamy blue or crystalline green, rimmed in a soft gray. Flecks of gold and brown made him wonder if her eyes simply couldn’t decide what hue they wanted and so chose all of them. He tilted his head, observing each eye in turn, intrigued.
“Where are you from?” he asked softly. The gold of her skin didn’t lend itself to Greece, but she was serving in the Colchian forces...she had a story and he was suddenly very interested in hearing it.
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With the shield strapped to his arm, there was no way she was going to pry it off his body. Unless, of course, she removed his arm. He resisted her attempts to force his shield upwards only enough to get her fully invested in the move. While she was busy with one hand doing that, and her sword arm swinging, Stephanos parried the swipe, deflecting it away from his person. Once her sword swung away, he let her thrust his shield up but that was where his allowance of anything stopped.
Once the shield was high enough, he dropped his entire body weight forward and down to trap her under the shield’s base. Their bodies collided and his legs tangled with hers and down they both went. Stephanos immediately slammed his wrist down on hers, attempting to trap her sword hand to the ground. Where she was lying, her back was pressed to his shield, so his left arm was sort of pinned beneath her, blocked by her from getting up, and blocking her from getting up in return.
He smirked tightly at her. “Hmm...This doesn’t usually happen.”
And by usually, he meant never. In all his time at war, men didn’t reach down to grab shields. Firstly, they usually had their own. It was rare and frankly dangerous for a soldier not to go onto the battlefield without one. Archers were obviously excluded from that. But secondly, once the shields were clashing together, and the swords were swinging and men were dying, if you fell, that was usually it. Between the sandy grit in the air and the tang of blood in the back of one’s throat, and yes, the surge of excitement in the belly, there wasn’t time to lay there and stare at one another. If you fell in battle, you were stepped on or already gravely injured, or, even more likely, someone would simply stab their sword into your side to finish you off in a casual move as they went on.
Their current predicament was a lot less dire but would be difficult to explain. The training grounds were completely deserted and as of yet, there was no one to need or demand an explanation. Stephanos wasn’t terribly sorry they’d ended up this way, in any case. When she’d first walked up, he’d thought her beautiful but he hadn’t seen her eyes up quite this close. If not for the expression of her eyes, he might have described their color as a dreamy blue or crystalline green, rimmed in a soft gray. Flecks of gold and brown made him wonder if her eyes simply couldn’t decide what hue they wanted and so chose all of them. He tilted his head, observing each eye in turn, intrigued.
“Where are you from?” he asked softly. The gold of her skin didn’t lend itself to Greece, but she was serving in the Colchian forces...she had a story and he was suddenly very interested in hearing it.
With the shield strapped to his arm, there was no way she was going to pry it off his body. Unless, of course, she removed his arm. He resisted her attempts to force his shield upwards only enough to get her fully invested in the move. While she was busy with one hand doing that, and her sword arm swinging, Stephanos parried the swipe, deflecting it away from his person. Once her sword swung away, he let her thrust his shield up but that was where his allowance of anything stopped.
Once the shield was high enough, he dropped his entire body weight forward and down to trap her under the shield’s base. Their bodies collided and his legs tangled with hers and down they both went. Stephanos immediately slammed his wrist down on hers, attempting to trap her sword hand to the ground. Where she was lying, her back was pressed to his shield, so his left arm was sort of pinned beneath her, blocked by her from getting up, and blocking her from getting up in return.
He smirked tightly at her. “Hmm...This doesn’t usually happen.”
And by usually, he meant never. In all his time at war, men didn’t reach down to grab shields. Firstly, they usually had their own. It was rare and frankly dangerous for a soldier not to go onto the battlefield without one. Archers were obviously excluded from that. But secondly, once the shields were clashing together, and the swords were swinging and men were dying, if you fell, that was usually it. Between the sandy grit in the air and the tang of blood in the back of one’s throat, and yes, the surge of excitement in the belly, there wasn’t time to lay there and stare at one another. If you fell in battle, you were stepped on or already gravely injured, or, even more likely, someone would simply stab their sword into your side to finish you off in a casual move as they went on.
Their current predicament was a lot less dire but would be difficult to explain. The training grounds were completely deserted and as of yet, there was no one to need or demand an explanation. Stephanos wasn’t terribly sorry they’d ended up this way, in any case. When she’d first walked up, he’d thought her beautiful but he hadn’t seen her eyes up quite this close. If not for the expression of her eyes, he might have described their color as a dreamy blue or crystalline green, rimmed in a soft gray. Flecks of gold and brown made him wonder if her eyes simply couldn’t decide what hue they wanted and so chose all of them. He tilted his head, observing each eye in turn, intrigued.
“Where are you from?” he asked softly. The gold of her skin didn’t lend itself to Greece, but she was serving in the Colchian forces...she had a story and he was suddenly very interested in hearing it.
It had been an unorthodox move to grab his shield, the type of thing that certainly had no place on the battlefield but was an interesting attempt for a training session or spar. Which this was. So perhaps she was being a little more reckless than she would be on an actual battlefield, one -- supposedly -- they were due to be setting out for before long. So it came as no surprise when the maneuver in question backfired, sending them both sprawling into the sand. The shield, and his arm, took most of the force and sandwiched the Colchian soldier between it and the body of the exiled Taengean prince.
Most surprisingly, however, was the sound of her laughter as it happened. She grunted, then tried to wiggle her way out but he stopped her sword hand with a crushing blow to her wrist which made her release the weapon entirely. Annoyance simmered in her gaze, but she had to give it to him for not taking it easy on her and following through with his promises of a fight. She grinned, tilting her head up to expose her neck as she surveyed what she could see from here. No one had stumbled across them yet.
When she looked back, Stephanos was staring at her. She was breathing hard from the effort, quite acutely aware of the way she was pinned under him but they were both locked in place. She had his arm under her back, and he was on top of her unless he wanted to flop off like a dead fish. There would be no graceful exit from this. She laughed again, turning to bury her nose under her free arm to hide the sound. There was no good way to get a punch in from this angle, not one that would matter anyway so he had effectively won unless she wanted to press that this was merely a stalemate. In another place she would have had a dagger to press between his ribs. They both would have been dead, a battle of equals come to a tragic but fitting end.
Zosime waited for him to move, to let go of her wrist and pull away but he did not, which left her wondering why. Instead he searched her face, her eyes, for something. She took the time to look him over too, watching him tilt his head as if she were something to study. Her expression became skeptical when he spoke again, softly asking her where she was from of all things. She blew out a breath, shifting her hips as his arm continued to dig into her back. It wasn’t exactly an uncommon question, one that she and her siblings had been subjected to for their entire lives.
”Lyncaea.” She answered with a little frown, knowing that’s not what he’d meant at all. ”But if you’re asking what I think you are, I’m second generation Greek on my mother’s side.” She reached around with her free hand, pinching him on the ass. ”Not that it’s really any of your business. You should know something about seeking refuge in a different country.” The words were sharper than she intended. She’d been questioned over her loyalties for years, and somehow even though he hadn’t said that at all...it was the way she thought this conversation was going.
’And here I thought you were going to kiss me with all that staring you were doing, princeling.” She said shifting her hips again. She allowed her head to loll back, grumbling something about stupid men. She reminded herself briefly that she was celibate, had been quite celibate since her last terrible run in with some pirates. She didn’t actually want him to kiss her, did she?
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It had been an unorthodox move to grab his shield, the type of thing that certainly had no place on the battlefield but was an interesting attempt for a training session or spar. Which this was. So perhaps she was being a little more reckless than she would be on an actual battlefield, one -- supposedly -- they were due to be setting out for before long. So it came as no surprise when the maneuver in question backfired, sending them both sprawling into the sand. The shield, and his arm, took most of the force and sandwiched the Colchian soldier between it and the body of the exiled Taengean prince.
Most surprisingly, however, was the sound of her laughter as it happened. She grunted, then tried to wiggle her way out but he stopped her sword hand with a crushing blow to her wrist which made her release the weapon entirely. Annoyance simmered in her gaze, but she had to give it to him for not taking it easy on her and following through with his promises of a fight. She grinned, tilting her head up to expose her neck as she surveyed what she could see from here. No one had stumbled across them yet.
When she looked back, Stephanos was staring at her. She was breathing hard from the effort, quite acutely aware of the way she was pinned under him but they were both locked in place. She had his arm under her back, and he was on top of her unless he wanted to flop off like a dead fish. There would be no graceful exit from this. She laughed again, turning to bury her nose under her free arm to hide the sound. There was no good way to get a punch in from this angle, not one that would matter anyway so he had effectively won unless she wanted to press that this was merely a stalemate. In another place she would have had a dagger to press between his ribs. They both would have been dead, a battle of equals come to a tragic but fitting end.
Zosime waited for him to move, to let go of her wrist and pull away but he did not, which left her wondering why. Instead he searched her face, her eyes, for something. She took the time to look him over too, watching him tilt his head as if she were something to study. Her expression became skeptical when he spoke again, softly asking her where she was from of all things. She blew out a breath, shifting her hips as his arm continued to dig into her back. It wasn’t exactly an uncommon question, one that she and her siblings had been subjected to for their entire lives.
”Lyncaea.” She answered with a little frown, knowing that’s not what he’d meant at all. ”But if you’re asking what I think you are, I’m second generation Greek on my mother’s side.” She reached around with her free hand, pinching him on the ass. ”Not that it’s really any of your business. You should know something about seeking refuge in a different country.” The words were sharper than she intended. She’d been questioned over her loyalties for years, and somehow even though he hadn’t said that at all...it was the way she thought this conversation was going.
’And here I thought you were going to kiss me with all that staring you were doing, princeling.” She said shifting her hips again. She allowed her head to loll back, grumbling something about stupid men. She reminded herself briefly that she was celibate, had been quite celibate since her last terrible run in with some pirates. She didn’t actually want him to kiss her, did she?
It had been an unorthodox move to grab his shield, the type of thing that certainly had no place on the battlefield but was an interesting attempt for a training session or spar. Which this was. So perhaps she was being a little more reckless than she would be on an actual battlefield, one -- supposedly -- they were due to be setting out for before long. So it came as no surprise when the maneuver in question backfired, sending them both sprawling into the sand. The shield, and his arm, took most of the force and sandwiched the Colchian soldier between it and the body of the exiled Taengean prince.
Most surprisingly, however, was the sound of her laughter as it happened. She grunted, then tried to wiggle her way out but he stopped her sword hand with a crushing blow to her wrist which made her release the weapon entirely. Annoyance simmered in her gaze, but she had to give it to him for not taking it easy on her and following through with his promises of a fight. She grinned, tilting her head up to expose her neck as she surveyed what she could see from here. No one had stumbled across them yet.
When she looked back, Stephanos was staring at her. She was breathing hard from the effort, quite acutely aware of the way she was pinned under him but they were both locked in place. She had his arm under her back, and he was on top of her unless he wanted to flop off like a dead fish. There would be no graceful exit from this. She laughed again, turning to bury her nose under her free arm to hide the sound. There was no good way to get a punch in from this angle, not one that would matter anyway so he had effectively won unless she wanted to press that this was merely a stalemate. In another place she would have had a dagger to press between his ribs. They both would have been dead, a battle of equals come to a tragic but fitting end.
Zosime waited for him to move, to let go of her wrist and pull away but he did not, which left her wondering why. Instead he searched her face, her eyes, for something. She took the time to look him over too, watching him tilt his head as if she were something to study. Her expression became skeptical when he spoke again, softly asking her where she was from of all things. She blew out a breath, shifting her hips as his arm continued to dig into her back. It wasn’t exactly an uncommon question, one that she and her siblings had been subjected to for their entire lives.
”Lyncaea.” She answered with a little frown, knowing that’s not what he’d meant at all. ”But if you’re asking what I think you are, I’m second generation Greek on my mother’s side.” She reached around with her free hand, pinching him on the ass. ”Not that it’s really any of your business. You should know something about seeking refuge in a different country.” The words were sharper than she intended. She’d been questioned over her loyalties for years, and somehow even though he hadn’t said that at all...it was the way she thought this conversation was going.
’And here I thought you were going to kiss me with all that staring you were doing, princeling.” She said shifting her hips again. She allowed her head to loll back, grumbling something about stupid men. She reminded herself briefly that she was celibate, had been quite celibate since her last terrible run in with some pirates. She didn’t actually want him to kiss her, did she?
