Athenia. Not a place that Captain Valerius of Arcanaes visited often, but the kingdom was not entirely unfamiliar to him. The widower and single father had nearly passed on journeying across the sea to this Grecian kingdom, having been worried about leaving his young children in the care of his aunt and uncle. But, as one of his cousin’s had argued, it would not be the first time, and likely not the last. Those instances, however, had been because Val was doing his duty as a captain – training his men, battling the north, traveling to the Colchian capital for court. This trip to Athenia, though… was for pleasure. A competition. Then even Timaeus had reminded him that he needed to lighten up and have fun once in a while. At last, he’d given in, had rounded up the men of his unit that wished to participate, and had joined his friend and those soldiers from Eubocris and on a ship bound for Athenia. They hadn’t been the only ship sailing out of the docks, however, as many others wished to try their hand at the event or to simply watch the festivities.

The arcus was already teaming with both competitors and spectators from all over Greece. There could be heard the boisterous laughing of men, the chittering of gossiping women, the playful screams of children as they raced through the crowds. It was… a lot. But it wasn’t really that different than a battlefield, sans the blood and gore. Tim and his men had hurried ahead of Val and the soldiers from Arcanaes. He gave them all a short speech about good sportsmanship and the fact that they were representing their province, there kingdom even, by being here. Dismissed, the men ran to join the crowds and get signed up for their chosen events. Valerius, though, meandered his way through the arcus. His keen eyes taking in the sight of the competitors he passed, sizing them up, gauge the competition. He kept mentally reminding himself that he was here for fun, and this was not to be taken as seriously as the battle field – all the same things he’d told his men. It had been too long since Valerius had done anything outside of his duties as captain and father. Having lost his wife in childbirth just a few short years before, and two small children at home that depended on him. let’s just say that these festivities would be… an adjustment, to say the least.

Valerius came upon the men he’d sailed to Athenia with just as Tim was declaring that the whole lot of the men surrounding him and the scribe were cowards. Val smirked, laughing quietly to himself as he watched the subsequent exchange between Tim and Maleos. Valerius edged his way through the gathered men to stand at his friend’s side. Timaeus was one of very few people that the proud captain truly counted as a friend. ”Lord Timaeus has a point,” he said, addressing the soldiers about them, some under Tim’s command and some of them belonging to Val’s Golden Shields. ”And I agree! We came all this way. It wouldn’t be very sporting to only compete in what we are good at!” Val offered a smile and a sly wink Tim and Maelos’ way, then turned to the scribe, the man’s quill at the ready. ”Captain Valerius of Arcanaes. All events.” His tone was confident, his stance strong, his chin lifted and proud; he looked every bit the competent and formidable captain that he was. Yes… it was time he allowed himself to have a bit of fun…

Lesley finished dealing with the idiot currently earning his ire, at least for the day, and blew his breath out, running a hand through his hair as he looked around again. Satisfied that there wasn't any other problems brewing, he grinned and headed over to join Dima.

"Ha!" Lesley smacked his friend on the shoulder hard enough to sting. "Here to show me up, or are you just doing the sprint?" If pressed, Lesley wouldn't actually say Dimo was better than him, other than at pure speed. But he was definitely a challenge, and Les could have a bad day as well as anyone. Today felt like a good day, though, and it was just good-natured banter.

In truth, the younger gladiator was no doubt here to compete in whatever his owner wanted him to, but Lesley was willing to assume he was here of his own will unless the slave wanted to complain about it. He'd always seemed to have a fuzzy idea of the difference, anyway. Whether the boundaries of his life were drawn by owner, gods, fate, or simple misfortune, Lesley had always done whatever he wanted within the space he was given, a paradoxical mix of philosophical acceptance and stubborn defiance. When he wasn't mindlessly loosing his temper over it, of course.

"I'll go a round with you after, eh? An Obol if you can beat me." He grinned broadly. "Found a Colchian eager for a bit of a scrap later, too." Of course he had. As surely as a plumb line could find down, or a wave could find the shore, Lesley would always find the man in any crowd who enjoyed fighting.

As his challenge to the men under his command rung in the ears of all that were close enough to listen, Timaeus was happily surprised to see an old friend step forward to take up the call of the young Valaoritis lord.

Valerius of Arcanaes. The Captain of the Golden Shields.

Their friendship was a rather strange one, to say the least. Valerius was the sort of man that most people chose not to associate with if they had a choice in the matter. He was ambitious and unafraid to do whatever it took to reach his lofty goals in life. In the simplest terms, Val was a snake. Timaeus was not unaware of this trait of the Captain of the Golden Shields. In fact, he had seen this part of his close friend on display plenty of times in the brief few years that they had known each other -- but for some reason, Timaeus never heeded the advice that this was the sort of men that he should run from. Though this wasn’t from any sort of stupidity or blind naivety on his part. Timaeus just didn’t feel the need to do such a thing.

There could be a great variety of reasons for this -- some that his comrades would understand and others that they would not. On the surface, there was the working relationship that was required between the two men both within and outside the military barracks. After all, Timaeus’s family were the guardians of the Peisistratos family -- the ones who held the Barony in the province Valerius hailed from. Granted, the Valaoritis had very little influence in the day to day matters as their concern extended merely to the family they shared their bloodlines with --- but Valerius was the sort that would schmooze up to them anyway just in case it somehow worked to his favor. That alone should have Timaeus running for the hills, but that discounted the other events that had brought these two unlikely friends together. A bear hunt in Lyncaea, a murder in Eubocris -- Both of these combined had encouraged Valerius to take young Timaeus under his wing and that’s where the younger man had been ever since.

Valerius could be a right royal prick to some of the best people in the country, but for some reason, he would never do that sort of thing to Timaeus. Not that Tim hadn’t given him the chance too either. Timaeus was a rather young, inexperienced Captain. He had earned his right to the military title, but he was still no older than the men he worked with -- meaning that there was still a lot for him to learn about this sort of thing and Valerius was definitely the sort of man who would take advantage of that. Yet, he never did. He was a friend through and through for some odd reason. Truly, Timaeus could never understate the mere fact that Valerius was the sort of man who did not have friends. He was not the sort that wanted to be a mentor. All he really cared about was his own skin and how he could make sure that skin would end the day in a plusher bed than the one he started in. But for some fucking reason Timaeus was the exception to all of that.

It didn’t make any sense, but Timaeus had learned long ago to not question it and risk ruining the good thing that was between them. That was why Timaeus welcomed Valerius into the small circle of Colchian men with open arms, especially as he seemed to be on board with the Valaoritis’s philosophy of coming to this event to have a good time. “That’s more like it. At least someone here has the balls to admit they’re gonna fuck up today.” Timaeus teased with a playful grin on his face. Even though his words were not meant to be taken seriously as he knew that some of his men would be too prideful to put their name down for categories they had no chance of succeeding in, Timaeus did not let the volume in his statement grow too high and mighty. After all, the younger man might be here for the fun of the game, using it as a chance to relive his older memories of when he had traveled throughout Athenia; there were other Colchians here who thought that this was a serious business. The last thing Timaeus needed was some sort of rumor wildfire surrounding this event.

However, there was another reason why Timaeus was personally glad that his friend had elected to follow his path. Valerius really needed to learn how to unwind and have fun again. It was something that the two of them never talked about as it was one of those forbidden subjects, but Timaeus knew that there was a fair amount of misery in Val’s past. His friend’s history was one intertwined with death and responsibility that he had to solely rely upon himself to bear. Valerius was more than certainly up to the challenge and his children were a testament to that -- but still, the younger man who had spent recent years in lackadaisical joy was worried about him. All that stress was not good for him. Especially if he thought that learning how to relax was a dirty thing that was not supposed to be touched. So, seeing him decide on his own that today was more about the fun rather than the strict competition was a big thing for Timaeus -- but not big enough for him to publicly address. Instead, he merely gave his friend a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. Valerius would understand the action, but none of the men surrounding them would take notice.


Following the Captain’s lead, Timaeus watched as some of the Golden Shield men decided to follow in their footsteps by putting their names down for every event. Seven Hades, even some of Tim’s own men did the same when they thought that their leader wasn’t looking -- for some reason not having the courage to look the young Captain in the eye and admit that they had a problem with Tim calling them cowards. Ah, whatever. They could still join those who would be knocked out of the second round early for a drink as they watched the others try their luck at being crowned the champion of the night. A bit of glory could be fun, after all, but what was that to a good stiff drink?

Either way, it was clear that Timaeus was ready and excited for the festivities to begin. His eyes followed the scribes, waiting to see when they would all meet up and create the full roster for that day’s events. The anticipation was clearly written on his face, lurking in that boyish grin he was sporting as he glanced over at Valerius to mutter a playful challenge at the man. “You ready to get your ass beat?"

With the day’s events starting at long last, Yiannis eagerly fell into line. He had already run into Mihail of Thanasi, a contender for his ire today. Every competition required some element of rage or hatred; not true hatred, the kind reserved for murderers, thieves, and enemy combatants, but the cool, tepid hatred of rivalry. Envy, resentment, and disdain, swirling around in a toxic mixture. Their conversation, such as it was, had lasted only a few minutes, but the sneering prince-at-heart had reminded the true prince why such arrogant self-importance should not be tolerated. The Thanasi sought to acrrue unearned power, and Mihail made not pretensions otherwise. He claimed power with every step, every look, suggesting that all should gaze upon him and revel in the pleasure of his grace. Yiannis was no fool. He understood Mihail’s game. He wanted to be seen as unparalleled in his charisma and beauty; not a bad way for a man to squander his potential when he lacked traditional virtues, Yiannis supposed.

For an archer, Mihail seemed to enjoy playing social games a surprising amount. Most archers spoke the way they fired an arrow; to the point. However, Mihail took even the simplest matter and over-complicated it. Yiannis enjoyed refusing to engage with his antics, and had found himself enjoying the conversation with Lesley. Speaking with Lesley had inspired some curiosity about how the Thanasi conducted his personal life, but not enough for Yiannis to wonder about it now. No, now he wondered about Lesley’s training with the javelin. As the only competition the two would share, it was a matter of some speculation to the Kotas scion. Yiannis anticipated winning the javelin competition, or at least coming close. His other events, he had less confidence in.

A part of Yiannis wished that he had more assurance in his skill with the bow, so that he could gloat about his victory over Mihail, to the right quarters. An immature instinct that he should outgrew, he realized, although like most of his relics of his prank-filled past, this desire to boast about his superiority had been slow to fade.
Although plenty of the men that had arrived had placed their name down for all of the events, Yiannis did not regret his choice. Better for a prince to maintain a strong public image than to fail embarrassingly in front of a crowd. He needed to cultivate a reputation for unflappability and infallibility, if he wanted to wield his authority one day as his parents or Vang did now. Even Zanon, with his stoic demeanor, could pretend to have their skill at managing his image. Only Yiannis, thus far, had shown an inability to think of how others perceived him when it counted. He did not intend to spend the rest of his life disappointing his family and sullying the Kotas name.

Spotting Timaeus, Yiannis grinned at him. Although they had never been close, Yiannis quite liked to see the Valaoritis man at such events. He had the true kind of Colchian spirit, which Yiannis so admired. Due to their age difference, Yiannis had never quite seen Timaeus as a peer; he remembered the halcyon days of childhood, when such minor differences mattered as though they represented an impassable gulf. A smile, a wave, and Yiannis took his appropriate place within the arena, prepared to prove his mettle to those watching.

Perhaps Mihail should begin to consider a new life path as a seer, for no sooner had he made his complaint to Yiannis (ignored, he might add, given that manners did not appear to concern the Kotas prince), than the sound of a horn bellowed through the air, followed by those long-awaited instructions. At last. He offered Yiannis the sort of smile which heavily implied that he did not care for the man in the slightest, tilting his head to one side in an almost mocking display of friendliness, and then moved to join the rest of the competitors as they stood in line. What purpose this served, he did not know, but he was not the organiser of such events and, therefore, the intricacies of how they were run did not matter to the young Thanasi lord. He was here to win his archery competition and little else.

As they all stood in formation and all the pomp and circumstance of such an event carried out around them, Mihail took a moment to set his bow down, confident that this was a moment when everybody was too distracted for any harm to befall it, and stretched his arms behind him until they felt loose and he felt prepared. Had he been permitted to bring his own arrows — he tended to loathe default equipment when he knew his own was perfectly tailored to his abilities — he would have taken the time to examine them, ensuring the condition of the wood and the chance that they had not splintered during his conversation. Instead, he was forced to imagine the details of what they might provide, attempting to image the level of quality. He did not want his mind to be tainted with distractions caused by the unnecessary celebrations to mark the start of the sporting events, and kept it neatly focussed on his archery, centring himself in his upcoming moment of success.

"If we could begin," he muttered in some irritation, the whispered words barely intelligible if not for the frown that had crossed his features as he waited, gaze darting impatiently across the arcus. Nethis had once commented that he did not do very well with waiting, having developed an expectation to be indulged in those few whims he developed quickly enough, and it was made manifest in the petulant manner his red-painted fingertips drummed on his hip, and his lower lip jutted out. Mihail could easily entertain himself for hours, but he did not care for waiting for his wants.

Once all the drama had ended, and they were finally released, he quickly detached himself from the group, directing himself immediately towards the area laid out for archery. The course did not appear all that complex: it consisted of shooting from a distance of one hundred yards, which was similar enough to his traditional lay-out in his daily practice that he did not think it would be of great difficulty. The arrows they were provided were not of the finest quality, and certainly were nothing like the slender redwood ones he used at home, but they would serve him well enough. It would be no proof of his skill to falter at the use of foreign arrows.

They were to shoot two sets of three arrows each, for a total of six. It was a comfortable number, and one which Mihail supposed had been elected to allow them enough time to complete that event and others if they were registered for multiple. The dark-haired man chose a suitable set of arrows, taking the time to select ones from the hefty supply that he thought were of higher quality, running fingers along their length in thought. He turned towards those running the particular event, smiling at them entirely out of confidence, introducing himself once more in case they were not certain which of their archers he was, though he thought it obvious. "Lord Mihail of Thanasi."

Loading the first of the six arrows into his bow, Mihail turned to the target slowly, raising the weapon carefully to position himself as was ideal. The organisers of the event had been lucky, for there was barely any wind that day (a benefit of the summer months' dry heat), and though he still factored it into his shooting calculations, it was not to be a concern. After a moment of consideration, tongue running briefly over his upper lip as he thought, then let loose the first arrow, so that it whistled dramatically through the air to bury itself neatly in the centre of the target with a satisfying shsh-thunk.

Shsh-thunk. Shsh-thunk.

He let loose the second arrow with a slow breath, biding his time as he had with the first, following its straight trajectory across the hundred-yard distance, and nestling itself barely an inch beside the previous shot. The third matched both its predecessors, and made itself comfortable between and the barest distance beneath both of them, so that the pale feathers of the three bristled together from his distant viewpoint, making them appear to be a single, thick arrow pressed into the centre of the target.

Mihail did not traditionally lean towards great displays of emotion, often considering them an overt show of weakness as his eldest sister had always taught him (and she was one of the few to which he was willing to act so sentimentally anyhow). Still, he was more than slightly pleased with his shots thus far, and the left corner of his lips quirked upwards as if to display his great satisfaction, dark eyes glancing across at the other competitors in the event as if to determine whether they had done as well as he. It did not matter. Success so far only served to increase his confidence as he moved to the second target he had been provided for the test of skill.

Though he considered it arguably impossible to do better in this second round that he had on his first, it did not dampen his desire to improve. He held the bow carefully, glad he had been given the opportunity to grow accustomed to his surroundings during the first set. Once again, Mihail positioned his bow to aim for the target's centre, confirmed his aim and drew back his left arm, inhaling deeply. He released it in time with the arrow, did not move from his well-practised stance until it had travelled the aerial path between himself and the target, and landed in the centre ring in a pretty mirror image of the target beside it — a perfect shot.

Shsh-thunk.

His second shot of the set almost equalled the first, though its position irritated him as it made its home a little too far to the right for his liking, although it had not exited the centre section of the target. Shsh-thunk. It was not his best, but it was still better than most, and made evident the daily hours he had dedicated to the sport over fifteen years. But it was not enough, and if he desired to be crowned champion (as he so often fantasised he should be), then he would have to prove that worth with his final shot of the day, and make it truly one of the finest in his lifetime as an archer.

Mihail lined up the bow, nocking the last of his arrows as he moved into his favoured stance. He narrowed his eyes to focus his gaze on his goal, aiming for the same central spot the first arrow from the set still occupied, once more taking his slow breaths. He waited until his mind dampened the roar of all those in the arcus, spectators and contestants alike, and there was nothing there but sheer concentration, shifted his mouth back into that half-amused and almost drunken smile which so often graced his features, pulled back his arm and then let it fly so that the air was filled with a resounding shsh-crack.

The bolt curved straight in its journey, as it was designed to do, and then burrowed its sharp point into the protruding tip of the first, splitting the wood of the shaft neatly down its length. It buried itself as far as it could into both the previous arrow and the middle of the target, finally stopping once its momentum gave out, settling itself in a position stuck almost awkwardly inside the other one, so that they were both quite clearly centred. The smirk widened into something more genuine as he lowered his bow and dropped his left hand back to his hip to dedicate a moment of admiration to his own talent. Mihail knew himself to be a fine archer, but he did not think he had ever been so pleased with a shot in a competition before, and was rather convinced that, combined with all his other successes that day, this was to net him a win (even if he was made to pay for the damage caused to their arrows).

Now, where were those refreshments being served?

When Yiannis met his eyes, Lesley gave him a wry smile. He assumed the Colchian had decided to do his worst event first; Lesley might have too, if his worst event didn't carry a risk of injury. Even just a twisted ankle would trash his chances of winning the climbing. It would trash his chances this afternoon, too, but if that happened, he at least wanted to be able to soothe his ego by being laurelled for something. It certainly wouldn't be for discus. Like with javelin, he was just aiming for 'respectable', but he didn't like this way of scoring. Of course, he'd given a consistent performance in the traditionally-scored event, and they'd decided to count the average in the damn discus. Ah, not quite; one of the foreigners ahead of him was reassured by the judge for clarification as he stepped over the line. They would only count the best throw with each hand, which meant a couple fouls still would let you complete the event. Technically, you could foul four times and still win, but if someone was simultaneously that bad and that good, Lesley would be forced to blame divine intervention.

"Should have gone with the right hand first, you messed up your concentration," he commented, when Yiannis seemed to be lingering. Then he made a face, realizing how easily unsolicited advice could be taken as unsolicited criticism. "Sorry. I've gotten too used to teaching, I guess." He pushed his hair out of his face and offered up the soft, slightly self depreciating smile that surprisingly often got him labelled as quiet and harmless, despite his scars and muscles. The lack of haircut only contributed to that impression, and he'd kept a young man's clean-shaven jaw despite approaching forty. Lesley had no intention of letting age catch up with him.

He lifted one hand behind his neck and reached for his elbow with the other, stretching gently to make sure he stayed limber between events. "Javelin's completely traditional at least." He glanced over at the climbing course and switched arms. That sort of competition was always a bit creative, and he was looking forward to it.

Yiannis bit his tongue before he could say something he would regret about his concentration. If the man didn’t understand his affect on Yiannis, it was best for everyone to keep it that way. Lesley certainly did not need to know the kinds of thoughts Yiannis had when he smiled and spoke of teaching. Yiannis had never had a tutor who didn’t like him, and oh how he wished he had liked some of them as much as he did this stranger. They would need to extend their acquaintance; he was not quite ready to abandon fantasy just yet.

“A shame that my concentration failed me. I would have liked to leave a stronger impression. I hope you’ll watch my performance with the javelin, and allow me to redeem myself in your eyes. I have much to prove after that paltry showing. Best of luck with the discus.”

With that, Yiannis offered an impish smile and jogged towards the next event. He did not intend to let this Lesley forget him, even if it took the rest of the day’s competition to ensure he left his mark. He arrived at the archery field next. The critical skill in archery came from the focus on the target and the draw strength. The untrained brute forgot the former, and the sheltered nobles lacked the latter. Compared to his brothers, and in fact even to the average warrior, Yiannis was weak, and so he had made up for it where he could with taking to his training quite seriously. Today, he would find out how much that mattered.

Brow furrowed, Yiannis surveyed the course. He had six arrows in total. With the first, he would aim high, giving himself a sense of the strength needed. The remaining five would require him to perfect the amount of strength needed, pushing his limits. He had hit targets at this distance before. Not consistently, but he had done it. His advantage in combat had always been his quick thinking and his desperate gambles, not his archery skills.

Yiannis selected some arrows without much care for the details, and fell into place behind Mihail, who had begun the event. Yiannis watched the Thanasi examine the terrain. The other man seemed to exude confidence. In the dry summer air, little wind blew. Even if there had, it might not have made any difference. The first arrow struck the center of their target; a perfect shot. The second and third joined it shortly after. At this distance, Yiannis could not detect any error, any difference. Each shot, as perfect as the last. Had he ever doubted that the Thanasi were capable individuals, despite their selfish nature, that doubt would have been erased by Mihail’s success today.

The second round eerily resembled the first. Success after success. The target bore Mihail’s ire admirably, until the final arrow struck, cracking and splitting the arrow that it struck. Regardless of how any other man performed on this test, Yiannis was certain that Mihail would claim victory. HE wondered again how exactly the Thanasi had acquired their enchanting abilities; he wondered if it was something any man could take a piece of. He glanced briefly at Lesley to see if he had watched Mihail’s triumph, but returned his attention to the task.

“Well done, Lord Mihail,” Yiannis said, a genuine compliment, as the man passed him on his way out. He had no intention of ignoring a job well done, if giving the compliment did not cost him. By comparison to Mihail’s show-stopping number, Yiannis could only offer meager entertainment. His first shot sailed above the target, designed to over-shoot. The second shot undershot by twenty yards. The third shot hit the target, landing well below the center. Yiannis sighed. Again: his first shot hit the top of the target, his second fell short, and his final arrow embedded itself slightly closer to the center- but still near the bottom edge. Shoulders aching slightly, Yiannis cursed his poor decision-making. Still. Javelin had always been his strong suit. After a poor showing in both discus and archery, he rather thought he deserved a redemption round.