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It had been two days since they had landed in Egypt and Phaedra had hated every minute in this gods-forsaken land. She could only hope that the gods had not, in fact, forsaken them here, in this hot, dry land so far from home. She had spent the time preparing for the inevitable battle, she had sent prayers to @ares and @athena in case the gods were actually listening, but she was just as ready to make sure that she was well-prepared on her own if they weren’t.
Phaedra had taken the time to check and recheck her gear and instructed her soldiers to do the same. Her bow was well oiled. She had made sure to have a couple of spare strings prepared in case hers snapped. Her knife had also been sharpened. If everything went well, she wouldn’t have to rely on it, but from her experience, she knew better than to trust that things would go according to plan. She had also made sure that her soldiers were prepared as well. She had run some drills just to keep everyone limber, but she didn’t push them too hard. She wanted everyone to be well-rested before the fighting began.
Of course, just when Phaedra was convinced that she was as prepared as she was going to be, she had been saddled with a new soldier amongst her ranks. Lady Dorothea had managed to sneak onto Maleos’s delayed boat and through someone’s brilliant idea, the woman had ended up under her command. She could only hope that the woman’s courage was as strong as her aim. It was one thing to be good at shooting in a low-pressure situation, and quite another to be shooting when other people are shooting back. Not to mention that shooting at something that appeared to have human emotions.
The morning of the battle, Phaedra had checked over everything one last time before donning her padded leather armor. She slung her quiver over one shoulder and her shield over the other. Her knife was clipped to the belt at her hip. She strung her bow and then went out to inspect her soldiers. As she emerged from her tent, ready for battle, she was met by Zosi, who had already done the job of getting the troops arranged and settled. She had always had a knack for anticipating what she might need to prepare for battle. Phaedra nodded at Zosi’s greeting, her eye scanning the troops, confirming what Zosi had said. “Good,” she replied. Now wasn’t a time for words. It was a time for action.
Phaedra took her place at the head of her troops as Maleos called out orders to march. Her unit and the other archers at his command were then moving towards their position at the flanks. Once they were there, they waited for their command to engage with the enemy. The air was heavy, not just with the oppressive heat that was constant in this hostile foreign land, but with the tension of many people on the brink of war.
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 had been two days since they had landed in Egypt and Phaedra had hated every minute in this gods-forsaken land. She could only hope that the gods had not, in fact, forsaken them here, in this hot, dry land so far from home. She had spent the time preparing for the inevitable battle, she had sent prayers to @ares and @athena in case the gods were actually listening, but she was just as ready to make sure that she was well-prepared on her own if they weren’t.
Phaedra had taken the time to check and recheck her gear and instructed her soldiers to do the same. Her bow was well oiled. She had made sure to have a couple of spare strings prepared in case hers snapped. Her knife had also been sharpened. If everything went well, she wouldn’t have to rely on it, but from her experience, she knew better than to trust that things would go according to plan. She had also made sure that her soldiers were prepared as well. She had run some drills just to keep everyone limber, but she didn’t push them too hard. She wanted everyone to be well-rested before the fighting began.
Of course, just when Phaedra was convinced that she was as prepared as she was going to be, she had been saddled with a new soldier amongst her ranks. Lady Dorothea had managed to sneak onto Maleos’s delayed boat and through someone’s brilliant idea, the woman had ended up under her command. She could only hope that the woman’s courage was as strong as her aim. It was one thing to be good at shooting in a low-pressure situation, and quite another to be shooting when other people are shooting back. Not to mention that shooting at something that appeared to have human emotions.
The morning of the battle, Phaedra had checked over everything one last time before donning her padded leather armor. She slung her quiver over one shoulder and her shield over the other. Her knife was clipped to the belt at her hip. She strung her bow and then went out to inspect her soldiers. As she emerged from her tent, ready for battle, she was met by Zosi, who had already done the job of getting the troops arranged and settled. She had always had a knack for anticipating what she might need to prepare for battle. Phaedra nodded at Zosi’s greeting, her eye scanning the troops, confirming what Zosi had said. “Good,” she replied. Now wasn’t a time for words. It was a time for action.
Phaedra took her place at the head of her troops as Maleos called out orders to march. Her unit and the other archers at his command were then moving towards their position at the flanks. Once they were there, they waited for their command to engage with the enemy. The air was heavy, not just with the oppressive heat that was constant in this hostile foreign land, but with the tension of many people on the brink of war.
It had been two days since they had landed in Egypt and Phaedra had hated every minute in this gods-forsaken land. She could only hope that the gods had not, in fact, forsaken them here, in this hot, dry land so far from home. She had spent the time preparing for the inevitable battle, she had sent prayers to @ares and @athena in case the gods were actually listening, but she was just as ready to make sure that she was well-prepared on her own if they weren’t.
Phaedra had taken the time to check and recheck her gear and instructed her soldiers to do the same. Her bow was well oiled. She had made sure to have a couple of spare strings prepared in case hers snapped. Her knife had also been sharpened. If everything went well, she wouldn’t have to rely on it, but from her experience, she knew better than to trust that things would go according to plan. She had also made sure that her soldiers were prepared as well. She had run some drills just to keep everyone limber, but she didn’t push them too hard. She wanted everyone to be well-rested before the fighting began.
Of course, just when Phaedra was convinced that she was as prepared as she was going to be, she had been saddled with a new soldier amongst her ranks. Lady Dorothea had managed to sneak onto Maleos’s delayed boat and through someone’s brilliant idea, the woman had ended up under her command. She could only hope that the woman’s courage was as strong as her aim. It was one thing to be good at shooting in a low-pressure situation, and quite another to be shooting when other people are shooting back. Not to mention that shooting at something that appeared to have human emotions.
The morning of the battle, Phaedra had checked over everything one last time before donning her padded leather armor. She slung her quiver over one shoulder and her shield over the other. Her knife was clipped to the belt at her hip. She strung her bow and then went out to inspect her soldiers. As she emerged from her tent, ready for battle, she was met by Zosi, who had already done the job of getting the troops arranged and settled. She had always had a knack for anticipating what she might need to prepare for battle. Phaedra nodded at Zosi’s greeting, her eye scanning the troops, confirming what Zosi had said. “Good,” she replied. Now wasn’t a time for words. It was a time for action.
Phaedra took her place at the head of her troops as Maleos called out orders to march. Her unit and the other archers at his command were then moving towards their position at the flanks. Once they were there, they waited for their command to engage with the enemy. The air was heavy, not just with the oppressive heat that was constant in this hostile foreign land, but with the tension of many people on the brink of war.
Curveball Blood And Sand
Anticipation and the sour stench of fear crackled through the ranks of men who gathered under the word of their leaders. Bronze gleamed dully under the hot sun, horses already sweated up snorted and plunged under leather harness. The air was heavy with the promise of the conflict yet to come.
On one front, the Greeks. Disciplined and orderly, rank and file. The Colchians were a finely honed fighting cohort, soldiers born and bred and led by a King who had seen as many battles as any and lived to tell the tale. By his side, his sons and legacy and under their command those sons and daughters of Colchis born to this, born to war.
Across the sands, the Egyptian forces had gathered, men well used to the treacherous grounds they were defending now. With their spirits already buoyed by having defeated the small Taengean contingent, they were ready and eager to face off against these new Greeks that dared to step foot on their lands. Led by King of Kings, the Pharoah himself, it was General @osorsen who fronted up the force that marched out to meet the Greeks.
First came the Egyptian chariots, tearing across the sands, the men within firing arrow after arrow into the ranks of the foreign arms. They were an aggravating, distracting force, drawing focus away from the spear and khopesh wielding men that followed in their wake. Metal slid against metal, cut through flesh and spilt blood as the two armies met.
@osorsen found his army pressed on two fronts as @yiannis and @maleos diverted their forces to attack from the side. The Egyptian General knew his own plans would come to bear as the sun moved across the sky but for now, at least, he had to deal with the coordinated attacks of the Colchians. Finding himself in the thick of it, the renowned General cut through swathes of men with deadly precision. Pulling the blade of his khopesh free from the sagging body of one greek he spun to find the bronze of another levelled at him. A young man, barely more than a boy but with a grit and determination that saw him stand his ground even though there was the slightest tremble in the arm that brandished his blade at the hulking Egyptian. @ionas had his chance now to prove himself, to bring home that glory he so wanted.
@akhem had searched for his first target, and found it in @silanos, the seasoned soldier coming across the young greek man who seemed less at home in these surroundings than those who flanked him.
@tython stood alongside his men, the tall king ever a reassuring presence as he led by example, focused and determined. Though none of the Egyptians who stepped into his immediate vicinity stood against the deadly strike of his sword, it was a frantic yell of “Chariot!” that had the King in a sudden crush of men, one of the Egyptian chariots veering toward them, the charioteer slumped over with an arrow in his neck.
An arrow that had flown from the bow of one of @phaedra’s archers. Flanking the main Egyptian contingent, the archers were tasked with dealing with the threat posed by the fast-moving chariots. But their precision and accuracy was not left to go on unhindered, one of the Egyptian commanders spotting the threat and dispatching a rank of warriors to take on the archers. @maleos ‘ and @yiannis hoplites tasked with defending the archers, though @zosime found herself exposed and forced to take up a blade when the sand rats got too close for comfort. One such Egyptian advanced upon her, the wicked curved blade of his khopesh flashing under the light of the sun.
The conflict continued, men fell and bodies were strewn across the sands, Egyptian and Greek both. It seemed as though the Greeks might be pressing an advantage, the sun’s rays had shifted and now slanted into the faces of their foes, and the Colchian’s drove hard to press their enemies.
But it was the young Thanasi lord Mihail of Thanasi who saw first the strange shifting of the sands behind the ranks of archers and the men led by @maleos and @yiannis. There was a second force of Egyptian soldiers, led by @narmer and the Pharoah himself, chariots racing toward them across the sand, trapping them between this new enemy and those they already fought from the front. He would need to sound the alarm and turned to the nearest ally, @dorothea, a young woman whose aim might be true but how was her nerve holding out on this field, so different from that which she had ever known before?
When the news of the second Egyptian force had rippled through the Grecian units, @damocles had an opportunity to prove himself. Perhaps if he and Commander @veronike could cut through the gorge to their left they could tip the balance in their favour and come upon the Pharoah’s men from a different angle?
JD
Staff Team
JD
Staff Team
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Anticipation and the sour stench of fear crackled through the ranks of men who gathered under the word of their leaders. Bronze gleamed dully under the hot sun, horses already sweated up snorted and plunged under leather harness. The air was heavy with the promise of the conflict yet to come.
On one front, the Greeks. Disciplined and orderly, rank and file. The Colchians were a finely honed fighting cohort, soldiers born and bred and led by a King who had seen as many battles as any and lived to tell the tale. By his side, his sons and legacy and under their command those sons and daughters of Colchis born to this, born to war.
Across the sands, the Egyptian forces had gathered, men well used to the treacherous grounds they were defending now. With their spirits already buoyed by having defeated the small Taengean contingent, they were ready and eager to face off against these new Greeks that dared to step foot on their lands. Led by King of Kings, the Pharoah himself, it was General @osorsen who fronted up the force that marched out to meet the Greeks.
First came the Egyptian chariots, tearing across the sands, the men within firing arrow after arrow into the ranks of the foreign arms. They were an aggravating, distracting force, drawing focus away from the spear and khopesh wielding men that followed in their wake. Metal slid against metal, cut through flesh and spilt blood as the two armies met.
@osorsen found his army pressed on two fronts as @yiannis and @maleos diverted their forces to attack from the side. The Egyptian General knew his own plans would come to bear as the sun moved across the sky but for now, at least, he had to deal with the coordinated attacks of the Colchians. Finding himself in the thick of it, the renowned General cut through swathes of men with deadly precision. Pulling the blade of his khopesh free from the sagging body of one greek he spun to find the bronze of another levelled at him. A young man, barely more than a boy but with a grit and determination that saw him stand his ground even though there was the slightest tremble in the arm that brandished his blade at the hulking Egyptian. @ionas had his chance now to prove himself, to bring home that glory he so wanted.
@akhem had searched for his first target, and found it in @silanos, the seasoned soldier coming across the young greek man who seemed less at home in these surroundings than those who flanked him.
@tython stood alongside his men, the tall king ever a reassuring presence as he led by example, focused and determined. Though none of the Egyptians who stepped into his immediate vicinity stood against the deadly strike of his sword, it was a frantic yell of “Chariot!” that had the King in a sudden crush of men, one of the Egyptian chariots veering toward them, the charioteer slumped over with an arrow in his neck.
An arrow that had flown from the bow of one of @phaedra’s archers. Flanking the main Egyptian contingent, the archers were tasked with dealing with the threat posed by the fast-moving chariots. But their precision and accuracy was not left to go on unhindered, one of the Egyptian commanders spotting the threat and dispatching a rank of warriors to take on the archers. @maleos ‘ and @yiannis hoplites tasked with defending the archers, though @zosime found herself exposed and forced to take up a blade when the sand rats got too close for comfort. One such Egyptian advanced upon her, the wicked curved blade of his khopesh flashing under the light of the sun.
The conflict continued, men fell and bodies were strewn across the sands, Egyptian and Greek both. It seemed as though the Greeks might be pressing an advantage, the sun’s rays had shifted and now slanted into the faces of their foes, and the Colchian’s drove hard to press their enemies.
But it was the young Thanasi lord Mihail of Thanasi who saw first the strange shifting of the sands behind the ranks of archers and the men led by @maleos and @yiannis. There was a second force of Egyptian soldiers, led by @narmer and the Pharoah himself, chariots racing toward them across the sand, trapping them between this new enemy and those they already fought from the front. He would need to sound the alarm and turned to the nearest ally, @dorothea, a young woman whose aim might be true but how was her nerve holding out on this field, so different from that which she had ever known before?
When the news of the second Egyptian force had rippled through the Grecian units, @damocles had an opportunity to prove himself. Perhaps if he and Commander @veronike could cut through the gorge to their left they could tip the balance in their favour and come upon the Pharoah’s men from a different angle?
Curveball Blood And Sand
Anticipation and the sour stench of fear crackled through the ranks of men who gathered under the word of their leaders. Bronze gleamed dully under the hot sun, horses already sweated up snorted and plunged under leather harness. The air was heavy with the promise of the conflict yet to come.
On one front, the Greeks. Disciplined and orderly, rank and file. The Colchians were a finely honed fighting cohort, soldiers born and bred and led by a King who had seen as many battles as any and lived to tell the tale. By his side, his sons and legacy and under their command those sons and daughters of Colchis born to this, born to war.
Across the sands, the Egyptian forces had gathered, men well used to the treacherous grounds they were defending now. With their spirits already buoyed by having defeated the small Taengean contingent, they were ready and eager to face off against these new Greeks that dared to step foot on their lands. Led by King of Kings, the Pharoah himself, it was General @osorsen who fronted up the force that marched out to meet the Greeks.
First came the Egyptian chariots, tearing across the sands, the men within firing arrow after arrow into the ranks of the foreign arms. They were an aggravating, distracting force, drawing focus away from the spear and khopesh wielding men that followed in their wake. Metal slid against metal, cut through flesh and spilt blood as the two armies met.
@osorsen found his army pressed on two fronts as @yiannis and @maleos diverted their forces to attack from the side. The Egyptian General knew his own plans would come to bear as the sun moved across the sky but for now, at least, he had to deal with the coordinated attacks of the Colchians. Finding himself in the thick of it, the renowned General cut through swathes of men with deadly precision. Pulling the blade of his khopesh free from the sagging body of one greek he spun to find the bronze of another levelled at him. A young man, barely more than a boy but with a grit and determination that saw him stand his ground even though there was the slightest tremble in the arm that brandished his blade at the hulking Egyptian. @ionas had his chance now to prove himself, to bring home that glory he so wanted.
@akhem had searched for his first target, and found it in @silanos, the seasoned soldier coming across the young greek man who seemed less at home in these surroundings than those who flanked him.
@tython stood alongside his men, the tall king ever a reassuring presence as he led by example, focused and determined. Though none of the Egyptians who stepped into his immediate vicinity stood against the deadly strike of his sword, it was a frantic yell of “Chariot!” that had the King in a sudden crush of men, one of the Egyptian chariots veering toward them, the charioteer slumped over with an arrow in his neck.
An arrow that had flown from the bow of one of @phaedra’s archers. Flanking the main Egyptian contingent, the archers were tasked with dealing with the threat posed by the fast-moving chariots. But their precision and accuracy was not left to go on unhindered, one of the Egyptian commanders spotting the threat and dispatching a rank of warriors to take on the archers. @maleos ‘ and @yiannis hoplites tasked with defending the archers, though @zosime found herself exposed and forced to take up a blade when the sand rats got too close for comfort. One such Egyptian advanced upon her, the wicked curved blade of his khopesh flashing under the light of the sun.
The conflict continued, men fell and bodies were strewn across the sands, Egyptian and Greek both. It seemed as though the Greeks might be pressing an advantage, the sun’s rays had shifted and now slanted into the faces of their foes, and the Colchian’s drove hard to press their enemies.
But it was the young Thanasi lord Mihail of Thanasi who saw first the strange shifting of the sands behind the ranks of archers and the men led by @maleos and @yiannis. There was a second force of Egyptian soldiers, led by @narmer and the Pharoah himself, chariots racing toward them across the sand, trapping them between this new enemy and those they already fought from the front. He would need to sound the alarm and turned to the nearest ally, @dorothea, a young woman whose aim might be true but how was her nerve holding out on this field, so different from that which she had ever known before?
When the news of the second Egyptian force had rippled through the Grecian units, @damocles had an opportunity to prove himself. Perhaps if he and Commander @veronike could cut through the gorge to their left they could tip the balance in their favour and come upon the Pharoah’s men from a different angle?
All was going according to plan…
Despite the lowness of the tasks he had been foolishly delegated upon arrival, and the weltering mess of swirling voices mixed with the clash of metal that came so typically whence met in the field of battle, everything was proceeding as he had foreseen. While others laughed behind his back over his appointments to camp duty, Damocles had wasted no time in studying the lands of Egypt right down to their most minute detail. His subdued presence around the Colchian camp was due to the forging of his machinations and calculations, all taken with the appropriate foresight needed for such ambitions as grand as his to turn from naïve ideals to realistic outcomes.
The Ends always justified the means…
That had been the single, most important life lesson that he had embraced since he was a boy down in those terrible mines of Magnemea. It mattered not what others thought or considered, for actions spoke louder than words, and words were merely the manifestation of dreams still not manifested. His actions since arriving in Egypt had been aimed towards a single purpose which he fully intended on meeting. While others laughed and played, he had schemed, meticulously so, figuring out which places would be most likely to be those where those sand rats would press on their homefield advantage in the belief that they could outsmart the famed Captain of the Damned. Thus, it did not surprise him at all when he looked up and saw a fortuitous opportunity amidst the heated battle, figuring that, if the Damned and Hounds cut through gorge to the left, he would be responsible for tipping the balance of the struggle to the favor of the Colchians and come down crushingly against the men of the Pharaoh. It was a brilliant plan, if he could say so himself, but it was more than anything, an insidious plan, one that figured perfectly unto the attached strategy that Damocles had figured long before he spotted this singular opening.
By the same side he had observed, was a pathway that just so happened to offer the fastest possible means by which to enact this tactic against the men of the Pharaoh. Normally, said pathway would not be one to raise much concern or caution, but, having dedicated himself to the lay of the land, Damocles had considered that a possible place where he could enact his revenge on one whom had wronged him so very long. With a smirk that curled beneath the cover of his plumed helmet, the towering man raised his head and scanned the field until he saw the face of the one whom he had cursed in private almost as many times as he had cursed Vangelis in the temple of @hades.
“Commander Nike!” he snarled as he made his way to his nominal superior’s side after cutting down every single one of those sand rats that got in his way with a strength that seemed almost inhumane. “If we cut through their left by that gorge we could strike down the forces of the Pharaoh from a superior angle and tip the scales of victory to our favor!” he convincingly argued after chopping off the head of a man that seemed to make as if he was going to strike the much thinner, but still higher-ranked officer from behind. What a foolish vermin. Did he not know that Nike had been his target today? Did this little Egyptian think he could deprive him of his personal victory against those that had sneered at him in the past? What a laughable mistake. Nobody would steal this from him. Nobody…
“If we march onwards through that pathway, we could accelerate this plan tenfold! It is the most direct means by which we could secure victory!” he further convinced, providing an entirely logical and reasonable, but secretly deceitful, argument. Unsurprisingly, it seemed his pragmatic insight had once more proved successful, and the Magnemean was able to sway his titular superior towards his surreptitious machinations.
With his suggestion adopted into strategy, Damocles, alongside the man he fully intended on enacting his cold vengeance against, marched with a contingent of their men with them through the rocky pathway. His mind began to wonder, there were several rocky outcroppings in the pathway, and they would all make for a very convenient means by which he could detach himself from Nike, if the Gods were good and granted them their favor in the form of a most opportune and serendipitous moment to strike.
And yet, just as he began to plan where he could enact his vengeance, the Egyptians sprung on him, a stealth force that appeared right before him and the rest of the forces he had been charged with. Dauntless in his endeavors however, and still fully intent on making the most of the setting, the resolute Magnemean raised his spear and hurled it at the stealthy force, piercing through not one, but two warriors before he unsheathed his sword and fought, beginning the second stage of his own, far more ruthless and insidious scheme.
The fight in that stony pathway had been far more confusing, loud, bloody and hazy, with there being very few ways to tell friend from foe, all of which Damocles had hoped for as he had last sat by his tent and pondered his nefarious plan. Once more, he came by the side of the Commander that had unjustly stolen the rank that the Captain of the Damned wholly believed rightfully belonged to him. As time passed however, the two separated from the rest of the army as the battle rose to its climax. Finally, things were turning up for the better as a particularly large and concealing outcropping gave way for him to carry out his move.
With a swing of his sword, Damocles killed the last of the Egyptians that fought against him and the shorter-man after the two Colchians became separated from the rest by means of the large stony formation that cleaved between them. Perhaps, the Gods had smiled on him then, for that very last adversary that he had slain in the solitary presence of Nike, had been an archer, one that had equipped the blackhearted militant with just the right weapon so as to pin the blame on the Egyptians instead. He had checked at least ten times back and forth to make sure that nobody but the Commander himself were left alone in that rocky outcropping that had separated them from the rest of their forces for but a mere instance. It was the right time to strike. He could not waste even a second, but it was just what he needed. None would witness this, his moment of triumph.
Nike was a thief….he had stolen what was his…
How dared that man just stand there…basking in the glory that was rightfully his…
It sickened him…it disgusted him…
He hated Nike…
Snatching a wayward arrow that had been shot, but failed in its intended trajectory before, Damocles gritted his teeth and poised the metal tip at the very spot he had considered beforehand. His move was thunderous, uncharacteristically speedy and decisive, piercing right through the throat with as much force behind his thrust so as to make it look as if the weapon had been shot from the string of a bow. He made no noise, not even a single grunt. He would not spare words to Nike, for there were none left to speak between them. Perhaps, he could have been cruel and twist the arrow around her trachea, but it would do no good but fan his ego and anger, and quite possible overcomplicate what was, essentially, a very simple thing.
No, there was no flair to this attack, no drama to it at all. Everyone but Damocles and Nike would come to believe that this was but an unfortunate consequence of war enacted by an Egyptian that belonged to a stealth force that ambushed an unsuspecting garrison of the Colchian military. His face was stoic, calmed and heartless, lacking the temper and rage that the smaller man might have thought so synonymous with him. And yet, he was collected, unfazed and quiet, all traits that nobody in Colchis would ever attribute to Damocles and his publicly boisterous ways. He looked at the other’s eyes and unleashed his grip on the arrow, leaving no trace of his hand on the wooden shaft as his fingers slide off.
The stab had been precisely landed in a way where no voice or understandable sounds would come out from the smaller man. This was not the first murder that Damocles had committed, but it was perhaps his most subtle and perfectly executed one to date. There were no emotions in his actions right then. He had learned from his mistakes in the past when it came to assassination, and any rookie mistakes he had once done had been eliminated in that instance. In a nonchalant manner, he had given Nike the mercy of a quick, quiet and, relatively painless death. Any soldier worth his salt knew that a strike to the throat meant a speedy, almost instant end, and though he despised the man, Damocles was not going to let his pride and wrath get in the way of a frigidly calculated murder that, for all intents and purposes, would never go as far as even pointing the cold, Machiavellian Colchian as even a suspect. After all, men died at war all the time, even a child knew that.
Three years ago, Vangelis had stolen his rank in favor of his second-in-command over Damocles.
Now, Damocles stole from Vangelis his second-in-command over that same rank.
It was almost poetic...almost...
The perfect crime. The perfect murder. The perfect revenge.
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.
Badges
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All was going according to plan…
Despite the lowness of the tasks he had been foolishly delegated upon arrival, and the weltering mess of swirling voices mixed with the clash of metal that came so typically whence met in the field of battle, everything was proceeding as he had foreseen. While others laughed behind his back over his appointments to camp duty, Damocles had wasted no time in studying the lands of Egypt right down to their most minute detail. His subdued presence around the Colchian camp was due to the forging of his machinations and calculations, all taken with the appropriate foresight needed for such ambitions as grand as his to turn from naïve ideals to realistic outcomes.
The Ends always justified the means…
That had been the single, most important life lesson that he had embraced since he was a boy down in those terrible mines of Magnemea. It mattered not what others thought or considered, for actions spoke louder than words, and words were merely the manifestation of dreams still not manifested. His actions since arriving in Egypt had been aimed towards a single purpose which he fully intended on meeting. While others laughed and played, he had schemed, meticulously so, figuring out which places would be most likely to be those where those sand rats would press on their homefield advantage in the belief that they could outsmart the famed Captain of the Damned. Thus, it did not surprise him at all when he looked up and saw a fortuitous opportunity amidst the heated battle, figuring that, if the Damned and Hounds cut through gorge to the left, he would be responsible for tipping the balance of the struggle to the favor of the Colchians and come down crushingly against the men of the Pharaoh. It was a brilliant plan, if he could say so himself, but it was more than anything, an insidious plan, one that figured perfectly unto the attached strategy that Damocles had figured long before he spotted this singular opening.
By the same side he had observed, was a pathway that just so happened to offer the fastest possible means by which to enact this tactic against the men of the Pharaoh. Normally, said pathway would not be one to raise much concern or caution, but, having dedicated himself to the lay of the land, Damocles had considered that a possible place where he could enact his revenge on one whom had wronged him so very long. With a smirk that curled beneath the cover of his plumed helmet, the towering man raised his head and scanned the field until he saw the face of the one whom he had cursed in private almost as many times as he had cursed Vangelis in the temple of @hades.
“Commander Nike!” he snarled as he made his way to his nominal superior’s side after cutting down every single one of those sand rats that got in his way with a strength that seemed almost inhumane. “If we cut through their left by that gorge we could strike down the forces of the Pharaoh from a superior angle and tip the scales of victory to our favor!” he convincingly argued after chopping off the head of a man that seemed to make as if he was going to strike the much thinner, but still higher-ranked officer from behind. What a foolish vermin. Did he not know that Nike had been his target today? Did this little Egyptian think he could deprive him of his personal victory against those that had sneered at him in the past? What a laughable mistake. Nobody would steal this from him. Nobody…
“If we march onwards through that pathway, we could accelerate this plan tenfold! It is the most direct means by which we could secure victory!” he further convinced, providing an entirely logical and reasonable, but secretly deceitful, argument. Unsurprisingly, it seemed his pragmatic insight had once more proved successful, and the Magnemean was able to sway his titular superior towards his surreptitious machinations.
With his suggestion adopted into strategy, Damocles, alongside the man he fully intended on enacting his cold vengeance against, marched with a contingent of their men with them through the rocky pathway. His mind began to wonder, there were several rocky outcroppings in the pathway, and they would all make for a very convenient means by which he could detach himself from Nike, if the Gods were good and granted them their favor in the form of a most opportune and serendipitous moment to strike.
And yet, just as he began to plan where he could enact his vengeance, the Egyptians sprung on him, a stealth force that appeared right before him and the rest of the forces he had been charged with. Dauntless in his endeavors however, and still fully intent on making the most of the setting, the resolute Magnemean raised his spear and hurled it at the stealthy force, piercing through not one, but two warriors before he unsheathed his sword and fought, beginning the second stage of his own, far more ruthless and insidious scheme.
The fight in that stony pathway had been far more confusing, loud, bloody and hazy, with there being very few ways to tell friend from foe, all of which Damocles had hoped for as he had last sat by his tent and pondered his nefarious plan. Once more, he came by the side of the Commander that had unjustly stolen the rank that the Captain of the Damned wholly believed rightfully belonged to him. As time passed however, the two separated from the rest of the army as the battle rose to its climax. Finally, things were turning up for the better as a particularly large and concealing outcropping gave way for him to carry out his move.
With a swing of his sword, Damocles killed the last of the Egyptians that fought against him and the shorter-man after the two Colchians became separated from the rest by means of the large stony formation that cleaved between them. Perhaps, the Gods had smiled on him then, for that very last adversary that he had slain in the solitary presence of Nike, had been an archer, one that had equipped the blackhearted militant with just the right weapon so as to pin the blame on the Egyptians instead. He had checked at least ten times back and forth to make sure that nobody but the Commander himself were left alone in that rocky outcropping that had separated them from the rest of their forces for but a mere instance. It was the right time to strike. He could not waste even a second, but it was just what he needed. None would witness this, his moment of triumph.
Nike was a thief….he had stolen what was his…
How dared that man just stand there…basking in the glory that was rightfully his…
It sickened him…it disgusted him…
He hated Nike…
Snatching a wayward arrow that had been shot, but failed in its intended trajectory before, Damocles gritted his teeth and poised the metal tip at the very spot he had considered beforehand. His move was thunderous, uncharacteristically speedy and decisive, piercing right through the throat with as much force behind his thrust so as to make it look as if the weapon had been shot from the string of a bow. He made no noise, not even a single grunt. He would not spare words to Nike, for there were none left to speak between them. Perhaps, he could have been cruel and twist the arrow around her trachea, but it would do no good but fan his ego and anger, and quite possible overcomplicate what was, essentially, a very simple thing.
No, there was no flair to this attack, no drama to it at all. Everyone but Damocles and Nike would come to believe that this was but an unfortunate consequence of war enacted by an Egyptian that belonged to a stealth force that ambushed an unsuspecting garrison of the Colchian military. His face was stoic, calmed and heartless, lacking the temper and rage that the smaller man might have thought so synonymous with him. And yet, he was collected, unfazed and quiet, all traits that nobody in Colchis would ever attribute to Damocles and his publicly boisterous ways. He looked at the other’s eyes and unleashed his grip on the arrow, leaving no trace of his hand on the wooden shaft as his fingers slide off.
The stab had been precisely landed in a way where no voice or understandable sounds would come out from the smaller man. This was not the first murder that Damocles had committed, but it was perhaps his most subtle and perfectly executed one to date. There were no emotions in his actions right then. He had learned from his mistakes in the past when it came to assassination, and any rookie mistakes he had once done had been eliminated in that instance. In a nonchalant manner, he had given Nike the mercy of a quick, quiet and, relatively painless death. Any soldier worth his salt knew that a strike to the throat meant a speedy, almost instant end, and though he despised the man, Damocles was not going to let his pride and wrath get in the way of a frigidly calculated murder that, for all intents and purposes, would never go as far as even pointing the cold, Machiavellian Colchian as even a suspect. After all, men died at war all the time, even a child knew that.
Three years ago, Vangelis had stolen his rank in favor of his second-in-command over Damocles.
Now, Damocles stole from Vangelis his second-in-command over that same rank.
It was almost poetic...almost...
The perfect crime. The perfect murder. The perfect revenge.
All was going according to plan…
Despite the lowness of the tasks he had been foolishly delegated upon arrival, and the weltering mess of swirling voices mixed with the clash of metal that came so typically whence met in the field of battle, everything was proceeding as he had foreseen. While others laughed behind his back over his appointments to camp duty, Damocles had wasted no time in studying the lands of Egypt right down to their most minute detail. His subdued presence around the Colchian camp was due to the forging of his machinations and calculations, all taken with the appropriate foresight needed for such ambitions as grand as his to turn from naïve ideals to realistic outcomes.
The Ends always justified the means…
That had been the single, most important life lesson that he had embraced since he was a boy down in those terrible mines of Magnemea. It mattered not what others thought or considered, for actions spoke louder than words, and words were merely the manifestation of dreams still not manifested. His actions since arriving in Egypt had been aimed towards a single purpose which he fully intended on meeting. While others laughed and played, he had schemed, meticulously so, figuring out which places would be most likely to be those where those sand rats would press on their homefield advantage in the belief that they could outsmart the famed Captain of the Damned. Thus, it did not surprise him at all when he looked up and saw a fortuitous opportunity amidst the heated battle, figuring that, if the Damned and Hounds cut through gorge to the left, he would be responsible for tipping the balance of the struggle to the favor of the Colchians and come down crushingly against the men of the Pharaoh. It was a brilliant plan, if he could say so himself, but it was more than anything, an insidious plan, one that figured perfectly unto the attached strategy that Damocles had figured long before he spotted this singular opening.
By the same side he had observed, was a pathway that just so happened to offer the fastest possible means by which to enact this tactic against the men of the Pharaoh. Normally, said pathway would not be one to raise much concern or caution, but, having dedicated himself to the lay of the land, Damocles had considered that a possible place where he could enact his revenge on one whom had wronged him so very long. With a smirk that curled beneath the cover of his plumed helmet, the towering man raised his head and scanned the field until he saw the face of the one whom he had cursed in private almost as many times as he had cursed Vangelis in the temple of @hades.
“Commander Nike!” he snarled as he made his way to his nominal superior’s side after cutting down every single one of those sand rats that got in his way with a strength that seemed almost inhumane. “If we cut through their left by that gorge we could strike down the forces of the Pharaoh from a superior angle and tip the scales of victory to our favor!” he convincingly argued after chopping off the head of a man that seemed to make as if he was going to strike the much thinner, but still higher-ranked officer from behind. What a foolish vermin. Did he not know that Nike had been his target today? Did this little Egyptian think he could deprive him of his personal victory against those that had sneered at him in the past? What a laughable mistake. Nobody would steal this from him. Nobody…
“If we march onwards through that pathway, we could accelerate this plan tenfold! It is the most direct means by which we could secure victory!” he further convinced, providing an entirely logical and reasonable, but secretly deceitful, argument. Unsurprisingly, it seemed his pragmatic insight had once more proved successful, and the Magnemean was able to sway his titular superior towards his surreptitious machinations.
With his suggestion adopted into strategy, Damocles, alongside the man he fully intended on enacting his cold vengeance against, marched with a contingent of their men with them through the rocky pathway. His mind began to wonder, there were several rocky outcroppings in the pathway, and they would all make for a very convenient means by which he could detach himself from Nike, if the Gods were good and granted them their favor in the form of a most opportune and serendipitous moment to strike.
And yet, just as he began to plan where he could enact his vengeance, the Egyptians sprung on him, a stealth force that appeared right before him and the rest of the forces he had been charged with. Dauntless in his endeavors however, and still fully intent on making the most of the setting, the resolute Magnemean raised his spear and hurled it at the stealthy force, piercing through not one, but two warriors before he unsheathed his sword and fought, beginning the second stage of his own, far more ruthless and insidious scheme.
The fight in that stony pathway had been far more confusing, loud, bloody and hazy, with there being very few ways to tell friend from foe, all of which Damocles had hoped for as he had last sat by his tent and pondered his nefarious plan. Once more, he came by the side of the Commander that had unjustly stolen the rank that the Captain of the Damned wholly believed rightfully belonged to him. As time passed however, the two separated from the rest of the army as the battle rose to its climax. Finally, things were turning up for the better as a particularly large and concealing outcropping gave way for him to carry out his move.
With a swing of his sword, Damocles killed the last of the Egyptians that fought against him and the shorter-man after the two Colchians became separated from the rest by means of the large stony formation that cleaved between them. Perhaps, the Gods had smiled on him then, for that very last adversary that he had slain in the solitary presence of Nike, had been an archer, one that had equipped the blackhearted militant with just the right weapon so as to pin the blame on the Egyptians instead. He had checked at least ten times back and forth to make sure that nobody but the Commander himself were left alone in that rocky outcropping that had separated them from the rest of their forces for but a mere instance. It was the right time to strike. He could not waste even a second, but it was just what he needed. None would witness this, his moment of triumph.
Nike was a thief….he had stolen what was his…
How dared that man just stand there…basking in the glory that was rightfully his…
It sickened him…it disgusted him…
He hated Nike…
Snatching a wayward arrow that had been shot, but failed in its intended trajectory before, Damocles gritted his teeth and poised the metal tip at the very spot he had considered beforehand. His move was thunderous, uncharacteristically speedy and decisive, piercing right through the throat with as much force behind his thrust so as to make it look as if the weapon had been shot from the string of a bow. He made no noise, not even a single grunt. He would not spare words to Nike, for there were none left to speak between them. Perhaps, he could have been cruel and twist the arrow around her trachea, but it would do no good but fan his ego and anger, and quite possible overcomplicate what was, essentially, a very simple thing.
No, there was no flair to this attack, no drama to it at all. Everyone but Damocles and Nike would come to believe that this was but an unfortunate consequence of war enacted by an Egyptian that belonged to a stealth force that ambushed an unsuspecting garrison of the Colchian military. His face was stoic, calmed and heartless, lacking the temper and rage that the smaller man might have thought so synonymous with him. And yet, he was collected, unfazed and quiet, all traits that nobody in Colchis would ever attribute to Damocles and his publicly boisterous ways. He looked at the other’s eyes and unleashed his grip on the arrow, leaving no trace of his hand on the wooden shaft as his fingers slide off.
The stab had been precisely landed in a way where no voice or understandable sounds would come out from the smaller man. This was not the first murder that Damocles had committed, but it was perhaps his most subtle and perfectly executed one to date. There were no emotions in his actions right then. He had learned from his mistakes in the past when it came to assassination, and any rookie mistakes he had once done had been eliminated in that instance. In a nonchalant manner, he had given Nike the mercy of a quick, quiet and, relatively painless death. Any soldier worth his salt knew that a strike to the throat meant a speedy, almost instant end, and though he despised the man, Damocles was not going to let his pride and wrath get in the way of a frigidly calculated murder that, for all intents and purposes, would never go as far as even pointing the cold, Machiavellian Colchian as even a suspect. After all, men died at war all the time, even a child knew that.
Three years ago, Vangelis had stolen his rank in favor of his second-in-command over Damocles.
Now, Damocles stole from Vangelis his second-in-command over that same rank.
It was almost poetic...almost...
The perfect crime. The perfect murder. The perfect revenge.
In the heat of the battle, perhaps Nike was foolish to trust, but having been raised in the regiment all her life, the woman was nothing if not trusting of her comrades in warfare. Afterall, while they may have their squabbles outside of the battlefield, here while they all wielded their own weapons, they fought for one team, do they not? Or that was what Nike believe. She has had no reason to mistrust someone, even if that someone was the person who had many years ago, been obviously unhappy due to Nike earning the position of Commander. While the Commander was no fan of Damocles, he was no foe. She was not someone who held grudges, and liked to think the same of her comrades.
Or so she believed.
As she had watched the men of the Egyptian forces swell in ranks, Nike knew they needed a good plan, one which would turn the tides in their favor. Her arms burned with wielding her claymore, but it was a burn Nike relished in, knowing it was necessary, as she slashed down at the men who got in her way. While Damocles' voice was faint, she picked it up when she got a breather after slicing two men down, and took a quick look in the direction he gestured at. She saw no fault in it, and based on her view, they did need to come upon the men in a different angle - they had no numbers to match the Egyptian forces.
Nodding, she waved an arm, her men quickly catching on to her meaning as she followed what Damocles' had said. While he was but a Captain, Nike was not someone who took rank into great consideration. Instead, as a devout follower of Athena, Nike praised wit over strength, and saw possibility in his plans. It was the sole reason why the woman had led her own troops along the pathway Damocles' had pointed out, but as luck would have it, they were ambushed by the Egyptians halfway through.
It was normal, even expected to be separated by one's troops in fight, and it was why Nike did not worry when that same exact thing happened. Somehow, the Commander and Captain were pushed away from their ranks, as they took upon a bulk of the Egyptian's attacking them as leaders were wont to do. Despite being tired, Nike barely looked winded as she fought with her claymore, occasionally whipping out her throwing knives when the opportunity presented itself to her. Her hands still gripped the knives as the last of the Egyptians were felled, but just as Nike turned around to check on Damocles before returning to her own men, it was as if she had forgotten she had a foe in her midst.
She felt it before she saw him, the liquid gurgling up in her throat, almost like throwing up, except she didn't feel nauseous at all. It felt nothing like pressure at the beginning, but as the burst of light from her eyes faded for Nike to recognize who it was, a sudden burst of anger bubbled, anger which could not be voiced from his choice of attack. Instead, with a last burst of strength a mixture of adrenaline and pure fury, Nike reached up and dug her throwing knife in the one place she could reach, the corner of his lips, and dragged it across his cheek in a deep, ugly jagged pattern down to where his ears were. It was there, where Nike's last burst of strength gave out, her eyes shuttering as her hands fell. It was gravity that pulled the deeply embedded throwing knife down the side of his throat, in a scar that not only would never leave, but be a reminder that Damocles was naught but as ugly as the scar on his face, inside and out.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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In the heat of the battle, perhaps Nike was foolish to trust, but having been raised in the regiment all her life, the woman was nothing if not trusting of her comrades in warfare. Afterall, while they may have their squabbles outside of the battlefield, here while they all wielded their own weapons, they fought for one team, do they not? Or that was what Nike believe. She has had no reason to mistrust someone, even if that someone was the person who had many years ago, been obviously unhappy due to Nike earning the position of Commander. While the Commander was no fan of Damocles, he was no foe. She was not someone who held grudges, and liked to think the same of her comrades.
Or so she believed.
As she had watched the men of the Egyptian forces swell in ranks, Nike knew they needed a good plan, one which would turn the tides in their favor. Her arms burned with wielding her claymore, but it was a burn Nike relished in, knowing it was necessary, as she slashed down at the men who got in her way. While Damocles' voice was faint, she picked it up when she got a breather after slicing two men down, and took a quick look in the direction he gestured at. She saw no fault in it, and based on her view, they did need to come upon the men in a different angle - they had no numbers to match the Egyptian forces.
Nodding, she waved an arm, her men quickly catching on to her meaning as she followed what Damocles' had said. While he was but a Captain, Nike was not someone who took rank into great consideration. Instead, as a devout follower of Athena, Nike praised wit over strength, and saw possibility in his plans. It was the sole reason why the woman had led her own troops along the pathway Damocles' had pointed out, but as luck would have it, they were ambushed by the Egyptians halfway through.
It was normal, even expected to be separated by one's troops in fight, and it was why Nike did not worry when that same exact thing happened. Somehow, the Commander and Captain were pushed away from their ranks, as they took upon a bulk of the Egyptian's attacking them as leaders were wont to do. Despite being tired, Nike barely looked winded as she fought with her claymore, occasionally whipping out her throwing knives when the opportunity presented itself to her. Her hands still gripped the knives as the last of the Egyptians were felled, but just as Nike turned around to check on Damocles before returning to her own men, it was as if she had forgotten she had a foe in her midst.
She felt it before she saw him, the liquid gurgling up in her throat, almost like throwing up, except she didn't feel nauseous at all. It felt nothing like pressure at the beginning, but as the burst of light from her eyes faded for Nike to recognize who it was, a sudden burst of anger bubbled, anger which could not be voiced from his choice of attack. Instead, with a last burst of strength a mixture of adrenaline and pure fury, Nike reached up and dug her throwing knife in the one place she could reach, the corner of his lips, and dragged it across his cheek in a deep, ugly jagged pattern down to where his ears were. It was there, where Nike's last burst of strength gave out, her eyes shuttering as her hands fell. It was gravity that pulled the deeply embedded throwing knife down the side of his throat, in a scar that not only would never leave, but be a reminder that Damocles was naught but as ugly as the scar on his face, inside and out.
In the heat of the battle, perhaps Nike was foolish to trust, but having been raised in the regiment all her life, the woman was nothing if not trusting of her comrades in warfare. Afterall, while they may have their squabbles outside of the battlefield, here while they all wielded their own weapons, they fought for one team, do they not? Or that was what Nike believe. She has had no reason to mistrust someone, even if that someone was the person who had many years ago, been obviously unhappy due to Nike earning the position of Commander. While the Commander was no fan of Damocles, he was no foe. She was not someone who held grudges, and liked to think the same of her comrades.
Or so she believed.
As she had watched the men of the Egyptian forces swell in ranks, Nike knew they needed a good plan, one which would turn the tides in their favor. Her arms burned with wielding her claymore, but it was a burn Nike relished in, knowing it was necessary, as she slashed down at the men who got in her way. While Damocles' voice was faint, she picked it up when she got a breather after slicing two men down, and took a quick look in the direction he gestured at. She saw no fault in it, and based on her view, they did need to come upon the men in a different angle - they had no numbers to match the Egyptian forces.
Nodding, she waved an arm, her men quickly catching on to her meaning as she followed what Damocles' had said. While he was but a Captain, Nike was not someone who took rank into great consideration. Instead, as a devout follower of Athena, Nike praised wit over strength, and saw possibility in his plans. It was the sole reason why the woman had led her own troops along the pathway Damocles' had pointed out, but as luck would have it, they were ambushed by the Egyptians halfway through.
It was normal, even expected to be separated by one's troops in fight, and it was why Nike did not worry when that same exact thing happened. Somehow, the Commander and Captain were pushed away from their ranks, as they took upon a bulk of the Egyptian's attacking them as leaders were wont to do. Despite being tired, Nike barely looked winded as she fought with her claymore, occasionally whipping out her throwing knives when the opportunity presented itself to her. Her hands still gripped the knives as the last of the Egyptians were felled, but just as Nike turned around to check on Damocles before returning to her own men, it was as if she had forgotten she had a foe in her midst.
She felt it before she saw him, the liquid gurgling up in her throat, almost like throwing up, except she didn't feel nauseous at all. It felt nothing like pressure at the beginning, but as the burst of light from her eyes faded for Nike to recognize who it was, a sudden burst of anger bubbled, anger which could not be voiced from his choice of attack. Instead, with a last burst of strength a mixture of adrenaline and pure fury, Nike reached up and dug her throwing knife in the one place she could reach, the corner of his lips, and dragged it across his cheek in a deep, ugly jagged pattern down to where his ears were. It was there, where Nike's last burst of strength gave out, her eyes shuttering as her hands fell. It was gravity that pulled the deeply embedded throwing knife down the side of his throat, in a scar that not only would never leave, but be a reminder that Damocles was naught but as ugly as the scar on his face, inside and out.
Having assured himself that Kissan’s mind was in the right place and that his nephew had not lost all of his sense to the excitement and adrenaline of war, Narmer had reluctantly bid him farewell. Kissan was serving under the Pharoah himself, so it was not for the General to question. He would just have to hope that some of his teachings lingered even when the boy was out of sight.
Narmer pursed his lips and shook his head slightly before turning to deal with his own men. They had their orders; they were to make their way down and around the eastern gorge, to come upon the Greeks as a second wave. The plan had some merit, and he knew that Oso would press the foreigners hard whilst he and Iahotep’s men got themselves into position.
He was not going to leave anything to chance, though. Narmer left some of his men to guard the gorge and prevent any counter-attack from the Greeks, even as he and the rest circled around to join the fray.
The sun was hot and high now, and from what he could see, Narmer thought that Oso’s men looked to be struggling a little as they dealt with attack from two fronts. Well, they would soon put paid to that. Waiting for the Pharoah’s order, Narmer readied his bow and planted his feet, laying a hand on the shoulder of Kamose.
“Well, here we again, my friend. Sekhmet’s favour with us both”
The charioteer nodded, his fingers flexing on the reins, and the moment the signal came from down the lines, they were off, the horses moving from a trot to a canter, kicking up sand and dust, the clouds of which would shout their presence if the greek pigs had not already noticed them.
With one hand clutching the chariot to steady himself, Narmer waited until they had drawn near enough that he could just make out the features and faces of their enemies beneath their stupid plumed helms. He launched a spear, leaning with the chariot as it turned, the murmurs of his friend warning him as to such manoeuvres so he could react accordingly.
Another spear flew, and then Narmer had switched to his bow. Draw, aim, release. Draw, aim release.
Something calming about its rhythm, he tried to concentrate on that and not wonder if the yells he heard came from his kin. Kissan was no child, it was true, and maybe he had been wrong to want to protect him from this.
Draw, aim, release.
The arrow sunk into the eye of a Grecian footsoldier, and Narmer felt a twinge of something that he would not call regret. Surely Osiris would not welcome their heretic souls? What would become of them?
There was little time to spare for such worldly thoughts though, for the chariot had wheeled about again, and now their run was less smooth, bodies and men fighting making it harder to navigate. Narmer selected a spear again and readied to let it fly.
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Check out their information page here.
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Having assured himself that Kissan’s mind was in the right place and that his nephew had not lost all of his sense to the excitement and adrenaline of war, Narmer had reluctantly bid him farewell. Kissan was serving under the Pharoah himself, so it was not for the General to question. He would just have to hope that some of his teachings lingered even when the boy was out of sight.
Narmer pursed his lips and shook his head slightly before turning to deal with his own men. They had their orders; they were to make their way down and around the eastern gorge, to come upon the Greeks as a second wave. The plan had some merit, and he knew that Oso would press the foreigners hard whilst he and Iahotep’s men got themselves into position.
He was not going to leave anything to chance, though. Narmer left some of his men to guard the gorge and prevent any counter-attack from the Greeks, even as he and the rest circled around to join the fray.
The sun was hot and high now, and from what he could see, Narmer thought that Oso’s men looked to be struggling a little as they dealt with attack from two fronts. Well, they would soon put paid to that. Waiting for the Pharoah’s order, Narmer readied his bow and planted his feet, laying a hand on the shoulder of Kamose.
“Well, here we again, my friend. Sekhmet’s favour with us both”
The charioteer nodded, his fingers flexing on the reins, and the moment the signal came from down the lines, they were off, the horses moving from a trot to a canter, kicking up sand and dust, the clouds of which would shout their presence if the greek pigs had not already noticed them.
With one hand clutching the chariot to steady himself, Narmer waited until they had drawn near enough that he could just make out the features and faces of their enemies beneath their stupid plumed helms. He launched a spear, leaning with the chariot as it turned, the murmurs of his friend warning him as to such manoeuvres so he could react accordingly.
Another spear flew, and then Narmer had switched to his bow. Draw, aim, release. Draw, aim release.
Something calming about its rhythm, he tried to concentrate on that and not wonder if the yells he heard came from his kin. Kissan was no child, it was true, and maybe he had been wrong to want to protect him from this.
Draw, aim, release.
The arrow sunk into the eye of a Grecian footsoldier, and Narmer felt a twinge of something that he would not call regret. Surely Osiris would not welcome their heretic souls? What would become of them?
There was little time to spare for such worldly thoughts though, for the chariot had wheeled about again, and now their run was less smooth, bodies and men fighting making it harder to navigate. Narmer selected a spear again and readied to let it fly.
Having assured himself that Kissan’s mind was in the right place and that his nephew had not lost all of his sense to the excitement and adrenaline of war, Narmer had reluctantly bid him farewell. Kissan was serving under the Pharoah himself, so it was not for the General to question. He would just have to hope that some of his teachings lingered even when the boy was out of sight.
Narmer pursed his lips and shook his head slightly before turning to deal with his own men. They had their orders; they were to make their way down and around the eastern gorge, to come upon the Greeks as a second wave. The plan had some merit, and he knew that Oso would press the foreigners hard whilst he and Iahotep’s men got themselves into position.
He was not going to leave anything to chance, though. Narmer left some of his men to guard the gorge and prevent any counter-attack from the Greeks, even as he and the rest circled around to join the fray.
The sun was hot and high now, and from what he could see, Narmer thought that Oso’s men looked to be struggling a little as they dealt with attack from two fronts. Well, they would soon put paid to that. Waiting for the Pharoah’s order, Narmer readied his bow and planted his feet, laying a hand on the shoulder of Kamose.
“Well, here we again, my friend. Sekhmet’s favour with us both”
The charioteer nodded, his fingers flexing on the reins, and the moment the signal came from down the lines, they were off, the horses moving from a trot to a canter, kicking up sand and dust, the clouds of which would shout their presence if the greek pigs had not already noticed them.
With one hand clutching the chariot to steady himself, Narmer waited until they had drawn near enough that he could just make out the features and faces of their enemies beneath their stupid plumed helms. He launched a spear, leaning with the chariot as it turned, the murmurs of his friend warning him as to such manoeuvres so he could react accordingly.
Another spear flew, and then Narmer had switched to his bow. Draw, aim, release. Draw, aim release.
Something calming about its rhythm, he tried to concentrate on that and not wonder if the yells he heard came from his kin. Kissan was no child, it was true, and maybe he had been wrong to want to protect him from this.
Draw, aim, release.
The arrow sunk into the eye of a Grecian footsoldier, and Narmer felt a twinge of something that he would not call regret. Surely Osiris would not welcome their heretic souls? What would become of them?
There was little time to spare for such worldly thoughts though, for the chariot had wheeled about again, and now their run was less smooth, bodies and men fighting making it harder to navigate. Narmer selected a spear again and readied to let it fly.
She kept the line until it was no longer possible to do so. A rank of Egyptians had descended upon them, and every able-bodied man near them was doing their best to defend the archers -- both male and female. Zosime thought of @dorothea, wondering if the girl had heeded her advice even as she surged forward -- putting herself in the path of an Egyptian wielding one of those wickedly curved blades.
Zosime pulled her sword free -- a weapon that she was technically forbidden. She smiled at no one in particular, the thing rueful as if she fully expected it to be the last and then she lunged -- cutting down the man after a few maneuvered steps and continuing into the fray without looking back. She hoped that there would be an opportunity for @phaedra to yell at her once the fighting was done, praying to the gods that she would be so fortunate.
The fight was thicker than it had appeared, and she quickly found herself in a handful of skirmishes. Blades whistled through the air, the cries of battle rising around her like a tide that threatened to overwhelm her. Her face screwed into a mask of rage and determination, but she oddly felt little fear. It was there, fluttering like a bird but it was caged somehow and that allowed her to keep pressing forward. She delivered death blows, and dodged others while taking hits, every step driving her further into the skirmishes and face-offs. She was bleeding, but still standing.
Amidst the sounds of pain and death, Zosime bared her teeth. Her feet slid in the sand just as another Egyptian appeared, swinging his khopesh wildly. He was joined by a second, and then a third. One of them appeared slighter than the rest, the way he held his weapon more dignified and in the manner of an officer. He would perhaps be the easiest to take, if he were a coddled soldier.
This is bad. She thought, trying her best to avoid them all -- and remember her training, informal as it had been. She was slowed by the damage that she had already taken, snarling in pain as she killed one of her attackers. She had gotten too far from the others, lured out of a zone where she might’ve been able to count on one of her fellow Colchians to step in. One of the remaining men took a swing, and her defense against his attack left her vulnerable.
Pain sliced through her as the khopesh cut into her dominant shoulder, her hand dropping the sword just as the other blade went clean through her right side. Surprisingly it was the man whom she had dismissed that dealt the killing blow, the one who had not seemed the bigger of the threats. Weren’t the smallest vipers the most venomous? The irony of it had not escaped her. A strangled cry of rage left her lips as she went down, another deep cut finding its way to her right shoulder. The world dimmed as she fell to the sand, the heat of it pressing into her as she started to go cold. Death was like ice, it’s fingers curling around her.
She waited in agony, feeling her life slip away like the sand between her fingers but there was no final blow. It seemed there were other things for the two men to take care of. Her stubborn heart beat sluggishly, her hands heavy as they moved to the worst of the two wounds -- the one that was leeching away her blood. Up. A voice called, firm and hard. It sounded like her old sword master, the one who had taught her and Zosimos so much. Zosimos, She thought dimly. Would she finally know of his fate once she passed into the fade? The woman lifted her head, finding it heavier than she remembered. Sand clung to her face, and she grunted as she tried to pull herself together. Up. Another voice, this time Phaedra’s. Gods, Phaedra would kill her if she died like this, like a dog cut down on the sand. Her free hand scraped through the sand, but she could not move herself. She was too heavy. And she was cold.
The world dimmed, the last of her strength fading as her head crashed into the sand. Certainly...this was the end for her.
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She kept the line until it was no longer possible to do so. A rank of Egyptians had descended upon them, and every able-bodied man near them was doing their best to defend the archers -- both male and female. Zosime thought of @dorothea, wondering if the girl had heeded her advice even as she surged forward -- putting herself in the path of an Egyptian wielding one of those wickedly curved blades.
Zosime pulled her sword free -- a weapon that she was technically forbidden. She smiled at no one in particular, the thing rueful as if she fully expected it to be the last and then she lunged -- cutting down the man after a few maneuvered steps and continuing into the fray without looking back. She hoped that there would be an opportunity for @phaedra to yell at her once the fighting was done, praying to the gods that she would be so fortunate.
The fight was thicker than it had appeared, and she quickly found herself in a handful of skirmishes. Blades whistled through the air, the cries of battle rising around her like a tide that threatened to overwhelm her. Her face screwed into a mask of rage and determination, but she oddly felt little fear. It was there, fluttering like a bird but it was caged somehow and that allowed her to keep pressing forward. She delivered death blows, and dodged others while taking hits, every step driving her further into the skirmishes and face-offs. She was bleeding, but still standing.
Amidst the sounds of pain and death, Zosime bared her teeth. Her feet slid in the sand just as another Egyptian appeared, swinging his khopesh wildly. He was joined by a second, and then a third. One of them appeared slighter than the rest, the way he held his weapon more dignified and in the manner of an officer. He would perhaps be the easiest to take, if he were a coddled soldier.
This is bad. She thought, trying her best to avoid them all -- and remember her training, informal as it had been. She was slowed by the damage that she had already taken, snarling in pain as she killed one of her attackers. She had gotten too far from the others, lured out of a zone where she might’ve been able to count on one of her fellow Colchians to step in. One of the remaining men took a swing, and her defense against his attack left her vulnerable.
Pain sliced through her as the khopesh cut into her dominant shoulder, her hand dropping the sword just as the other blade went clean through her right side. Surprisingly it was the man whom she had dismissed that dealt the killing blow, the one who had not seemed the bigger of the threats. Weren’t the smallest vipers the most venomous? The irony of it had not escaped her. A strangled cry of rage left her lips as she went down, another deep cut finding its way to her right shoulder. The world dimmed as she fell to the sand, the heat of it pressing into her as she started to go cold. Death was like ice, it’s fingers curling around her.
She waited in agony, feeling her life slip away like the sand between her fingers but there was no final blow. It seemed there were other things for the two men to take care of. Her stubborn heart beat sluggishly, her hands heavy as they moved to the worst of the two wounds -- the one that was leeching away her blood. Up. A voice called, firm and hard. It sounded like her old sword master, the one who had taught her and Zosimos so much. Zosimos, She thought dimly. Would she finally know of his fate once she passed into the fade? The woman lifted her head, finding it heavier than she remembered. Sand clung to her face, and she grunted as she tried to pull herself together. Up. Another voice, this time Phaedra’s. Gods, Phaedra would kill her if she died like this, like a dog cut down on the sand. Her free hand scraped through the sand, but she could not move herself. She was too heavy. And she was cold.
The world dimmed, the last of her strength fading as her head crashed into the sand. Certainly...this was the end for her.
She kept the line until it was no longer possible to do so. A rank of Egyptians had descended upon them, and every able-bodied man near them was doing their best to defend the archers -- both male and female. Zosime thought of @dorothea, wondering if the girl had heeded her advice even as she surged forward -- putting herself in the path of an Egyptian wielding one of those wickedly curved blades.
Zosime pulled her sword free -- a weapon that she was technically forbidden. She smiled at no one in particular, the thing rueful as if she fully expected it to be the last and then she lunged -- cutting down the man after a few maneuvered steps and continuing into the fray without looking back. She hoped that there would be an opportunity for @phaedra to yell at her once the fighting was done, praying to the gods that she would be so fortunate.
The fight was thicker than it had appeared, and she quickly found herself in a handful of skirmishes. Blades whistled through the air, the cries of battle rising around her like a tide that threatened to overwhelm her. Her face screwed into a mask of rage and determination, but she oddly felt little fear. It was there, fluttering like a bird but it was caged somehow and that allowed her to keep pressing forward. She delivered death blows, and dodged others while taking hits, every step driving her further into the skirmishes and face-offs. She was bleeding, but still standing.
Amidst the sounds of pain and death, Zosime bared her teeth. Her feet slid in the sand just as another Egyptian appeared, swinging his khopesh wildly. He was joined by a second, and then a third. One of them appeared slighter than the rest, the way he held his weapon more dignified and in the manner of an officer. He would perhaps be the easiest to take, if he were a coddled soldier.
This is bad. She thought, trying her best to avoid them all -- and remember her training, informal as it had been. She was slowed by the damage that she had already taken, snarling in pain as she killed one of her attackers. She had gotten too far from the others, lured out of a zone where she might’ve been able to count on one of her fellow Colchians to step in. One of the remaining men took a swing, and her defense against his attack left her vulnerable.
Pain sliced through her as the khopesh cut into her dominant shoulder, her hand dropping the sword just as the other blade went clean through her right side. Surprisingly it was the man whom she had dismissed that dealt the killing blow, the one who had not seemed the bigger of the threats. Weren’t the smallest vipers the most venomous? The irony of it had not escaped her. A strangled cry of rage left her lips as she went down, another deep cut finding its way to her right shoulder. The world dimmed as she fell to the sand, the heat of it pressing into her as she started to go cold. Death was like ice, it’s fingers curling around her.
She waited in agony, feeling her life slip away like the sand between her fingers but there was no final blow. It seemed there were other things for the two men to take care of. Her stubborn heart beat sluggishly, her hands heavy as they moved to the worst of the two wounds -- the one that was leeching away her blood. Up. A voice called, firm and hard. It sounded like her old sword master, the one who had taught her and Zosimos so much. Zosimos, She thought dimly. Would she finally know of his fate once she passed into the fade? The woman lifted her head, finding it heavier than she remembered. Sand clung to her face, and she grunted as she tried to pull herself together. Up. Another voice, this time Phaedra’s. Gods, Phaedra would kill her if she died like this, like a dog cut down on the sand. Her free hand scraped through the sand, but she could not move herself. She was too heavy. And she was cold.
The world dimmed, the last of her strength fading as her head crashed into the sand. Certainly...this was the end for her.
For a moment as the chariot surged forward beneath him he felt as if he was ten years younger, fighting another war against the same people as if in a neverending loop. In that battle he'd followed his grandfather, the last great Moghadam general, obeying his commands and finding glory on the plain. This time he was the Moghadam, the one the armies followed into headlong battle against the Greeks, and he could feel the spirit of his grandfather now making itself known once again. The older man might be safe in Luxor away from the battles, but part of his soul seemed to fly to his grandson with the aid of Sekhmet as the battle began.
Atop his chariot he swung his khopesh and drew his first blood of the battle, adrenaline racing through him as he gave a battle cry like a lion's roar. They were soon flanked on two sides but never once did he worry, knowing full well what would come at the Greeks in just moments. Or would it. If Iahotep wanted him dead, this plan was the best day to rid himself of Oso and Sutekh in one, but Narmer would never let that happen. The men would never leave their brothers to slaughter, and any fears he had were relieved when he saw the other half of the army approaching with fierce cries of their own.
A familiar face made him grit his teeth in a snarl through the blood and grime that had splashed over him, and Osorsen leapt from the chariot with a khopesh in each hand. His gaze was focused on Vangelis of Kotas, the general that had been his rival during the last battles on the sands, and the rival now for a woman's hand. A Greek who could not have been more than a boy stood facing him, and for a moment Oso almost considered knocking him aside and letting him go, but the crush of soldiers in battle around them had his weapons moving like a flash. Cutting into leather and muscle, one khopesh lodged in another soldier and he had to duck to avoid another blow, running the second sword into the gut of the one who'd forced him down.
Ionas was a casualty he could not afford to give any consideration to, no matter how young he was. He had men just as young on his side, and he was charged with protecting them. Yanking his khopesh free of both Greek corpses it had been stuck into, Ionas had the misfortune of being in his way still. The burning sting of metal in his skin had him roaring with rage, and he could not rightly tell where his weapons landed as he fought off those who dared to think they could defeat him. A slash crossed the boy's throat, as merciful an end as could have been expected on the field of battle, and Osorsen leapt the corpse to face the others who'd turned on him.
Somewhere in the fray he'd lost sight of his enemy, and with blood now trickling down his back he knew he needed to return to his chariot to lift himself above this mess. As he turned to make his way back he saw a woman fall, one that nearly made his veins turn to ice. She was Egyptian, somehow she must have snuck her way into their ranks, perhaps with the Pharaoh or Narmer's branch for he didn't recognize her face. But she was falling, and she looked so young, and for a moment it was as if Hatshepsut's features had been transposed on her own.
Oso didn't think, giving his orders and calling for his men to keep pressing the advantage even as he made his way to where she'd landed. Without a thought one blade was tucked into his belt, the other still in hand as he lifted the unconscious girl, still breathing he thanked the gods, and made his way back through the Egyptian lines to where his driver waited. An Egyptian rider of his unit saw him and what he carried in shock, taking her body carefully before wheeling his horse about. "Take her back to my tent. Until we know who she is I don't want her mixed in with the men, even for healing."
Returning to his own chariot with a grimace of pain, he withdrew his spear and sword once more as they prepared to charge back into the sea of blood and sweat and men fighting for their lives. He would get to the bottom of her identity later, but for now he had a duty, even if there was a burning line down his back.
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Check out their information page here.
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For a moment as the chariot surged forward beneath him he felt as if he was ten years younger, fighting another war against the same people as if in a neverending loop. In that battle he'd followed his grandfather, the last great Moghadam general, obeying his commands and finding glory on the plain. This time he was the Moghadam, the one the armies followed into headlong battle against the Greeks, and he could feel the spirit of his grandfather now making itself known once again. The older man might be safe in Luxor away from the battles, but part of his soul seemed to fly to his grandson with the aid of Sekhmet as the battle began.
Atop his chariot he swung his khopesh and drew his first blood of the battle, adrenaline racing through him as he gave a battle cry like a lion's roar. They were soon flanked on two sides but never once did he worry, knowing full well what would come at the Greeks in just moments. Or would it. If Iahotep wanted him dead, this plan was the best day to rid himself of Oso and Sutekh in one, but Narmer would never let that happen. The men would never leave their brothers to slaughter, and any fears he had were relieved when he saw the other half of the army approaching with fierce cries of their own.
A familiar face made him grit his teeth in a snarl through the blood and grime that had splashed over him, and Osorsen leapt from the chariot with a khopesh in each hand. His gaze was focused on Vangelis of Kotas, the general that had been his rival during the last battles on the sands, and the rival now for a woman's hand. A Greek who could not have been more than a boy stood facing him, and for a moment Oso almost considered knocking him aside and letting him go, but the crush of soldiers in battle around them had his weapons moving like a flash. Cutting into leather and muscle, one khopesh lodged in another soldier and he had to duck to avoid another blow, running the second sword into the gut of the one who'd forced him down.
Ionas was a casualty he could not afford to give any consideration to, no matter how young he was. He had men just as young on his side, and he was charged with protecting them. Yanking his khopesh free of both Greek corpses it had been stuck into, Ionas had the misfortune of being in his way still. The burning sting of metal in his skin had him roaring with rage, and he could not rightly tell where his weapons landed as he fought off those who dared to think they could defeat him. A slash crossed the boy's throat, as merciful an end as could have been expected on the field of battle, and Osorsen leapt the corpse to face the others who'd turned on him.
Somewhere in the fray he'd lost sight of his enemy, and with blood now trickling down his back he knew he needed to return to his chariot to lift himself above this mess. As he turned to make his way back he saw a woman fall, one that nearly made his veins turn to ice. She was Egyptian, somehow she must have snuck her way into their ranks, perhaps with the Pharaoh or Narmer's branch for he didn't recognize her face. But she was falling, and she looked so young, and for a moment it was as if Hatshepsut's features had been transposed on her own.
Oso didn't think, giving his orders and calling for his men to keep pressing the advantage even as he made his way to where she'd landed. Without a thought one blade was tucked into his belt, the other still in hand as he lifted the unconscious girl, still breathing he thanked the gods, and made his way back through the Egyptian lines to where his driver waited. An Egyptian rider of his unit saw him and what he carried in shock, taking her body carefully before wheeling his horse about. "Take her back to my tent. Until we know who she is I don't want her mixed in with the men, even for healing."
Returning to his own chariot with a grimace of pain, he withdrew his spear and sword once more as they prepared to charge back into the sea of blood and sweat and men fighting for their lives. He would get to the bottom of her identity later, but for now he had a duty, even if there was a burning line down his back.
For a moment as the chariot surged forward beneath him he felt as if he was ten years younger, fighting another war against the same people as if in a neverending loop. In that battle he'd followed his grandfather, the last great Moghadam general, obeying his commands and finding glory on the plain. This time he was the Moghadam, the one the armies followed into headlong battle against the Greeks, and he could feel the spirit of his grandfather now making itself known once again. The older man might be safe in Luxor away from the battles, but part of his soul seemed to fly to his grandson with the aid of Sekhmet as the battle began.
Atop his chariot he swung his khopesh and drew his first blood of the battle, adrenaline racing through him as he gave a battle cry like a lion's roar. They were soon flanked on two sides but never once did he worry, knowing full well what would come at the Greeks in just moments. Or would it. If Iahotep wanted him dead, this plan was the best day to rid himself of Oso and Sutekh in one, but Narmer would never let that happen. The men would never leave their brothers to slaughter, and any fears he had were relieved when he saw the other half of the army approaching with fierce cries of their own.
A familiar face made him grit his teeth in a snarl through the blood and grime that had splashed over him, and Osorsen leapt from the chariot with a khopesh in each hand. His gaze was focused on Vangelis of Kotas, the general that had been his rival during the last battles on the sands, and the rival now for a woman's hand. A Greek who could not have been more than a boy stood facing him, and for a moment Oso almost considered knocking him aside and letting him go, but the crush of soldiers in battle around them had his weapons moving like a flash. Cutting into leather and muscle, one khopesh lodged in another soldier and he had to duck to avoid another blow, running the second sword into the gut of the one who'd forced him down.
Ionas was a casualty he could not afford to give any consideration to, no matter how young he was. He had men just as young on his side, and he was charged with protecting them. Yanking his khopesh free of both Greek corpses it had been stuck into, Ionas had the misfortune of being in his way still. The burning sting of metal in his skin had him roaring with rage, and he could not rightly tell where his weapons landed as he fought off those who dared to think they could defeat him. A slash crossed the boy's throat, as merciful an end as could have been expected on the field of battle, and Osorsen leapt the corpse to face the others who'd turned on him.
Somewhere in the fray he'd lost sight of his enemy, and with blood now trickling down his back he knew he needed to return to his chariot to lift himself above this mess. As he turned to make his way back he saw a woman fall, one that nearly made his veins turn to ice. She was Egyptian, somehow she must have snuck her way into their ranks, perhaps with the Pharaoh or Narmer's branch for he didn't recognize her face. But she was falling, and she looked so young, and for a moment it was as if Hatshepsut's features had been transposed on her own.
Oso didn't think, giving his orders and calling for his men to keep pressing the advantage even as he made his way to where she'd landed. Without a thought one blade was tucked into his belt, the other still in hand as he lifted the unconscious girl, still breathing he thanked the gods, and made his way back through the Egyptian lines to where his driver waited. An Egyptian rider of his unit saw him and what he carried in shock, taking her body carefully before wheeling his horse about. "Take her back to my tent. Until we know who she is I don't want her mixed in with the men, even for healing."
Returning to his own chariot with a grimace of pain, he withdrew his spear and sword once more as they prepared to charge back into the sea of blood and sweat and men fighting for their lives. He would get to the bottom of her identity later, but for now he had a duty, even if there was a burning line down his back.
The day wore on, and the press of battle was thick, Ionas losing himself among the shouts and repetitive thrusts of his blade. How many men did he fell, in this battle and the last? Would Ares account for his bravery, for those he took down on the battlefield? Would Hades praise him for the souls sent his way? Did Egyptian souls even go to Hades? Or did they return to their own heathen gods?
There was no time to consider such things, though, not as shouts rang up and blood spilled around him. The blade of his xiphos was a sanguine red, and yet still it could not be quenched. Not until it dropped from his fingers. Or he did.
Maybe the gods heard his little aside, for it was then he found himself caught in a sudden lull of the bodies around him, face-to-face with a massive Egyptian warrior. The man carried himself with a certain importance, barbaric features set with a determination that he would cut his way through all those that stood in his path.
No. Ionas would not allow that to happen.
The man was larger than him, yes, and likely more experienced. But Ionas was fast, and he was clever, and he’d managed to survive this long, hadn’t he? He was sure he had surprised many of those who tasted their last breath at the tip of his xiphos, and he would do it again. He was sure of it.
But was he? There was a tremble in his arm as he stared the Egyptian man down, xiphos held out in front of him. This was it. This was his moment, his time to prove that he was not just a carpenter’s boy lucky enough to accompany the king. Ionas was a warrior. He was a man. And he would not quail with fear.
Raising his blade to make his attack, it was then that the other man moved—too quick for Ionas to dodge and with too much accuracy for him to do little but stare down in disbelief at the khopesh lodged itself in his stomach. He couldn’t feel it yet—at least that was a blessing—but blood gurgled from his lips as he opened his mouth to express his shock.
Pure reflex drove him to a defensive counter-attack, striking back at his attacker with little finesse, but enough to know he landed a blow. Where it landed, he wasn’t sure; his vision was quickly going dark in spite of the searing sunlight around them. But maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to ensure he didn’t fall alone.
The khopesh pulled out of his flesh like a hot knife through butter, and Ionas stumbled back a couple steps—his own blade slipping from numb fingers as he brought up both hands to ineffectually cover the gaping wound. He looked up one last time to meet the gaze of his killer before the same blade that punctured his stomach kissed its way across his throat.
He blinked a couple times as he crumbled to his knees, one bloody hand reaching to uselessly stymy the river flowing from his throat. Coughing, he fell the rest of the way to the ground, staring up at the blazing sun as crimson stained the sand around him. The battle still raged, and yet it was curiously silent, Ionas oblivious to all but the slowly fading light above him.
I tried, he thought as his hands slowly fell away from his body, his breath slowing even as a macabre sort of smile softened a youthful face. Though I wish they’d told me glory would be like this.
At least he knew he’d served a purpose; perhaps his warning would be enough to carry the Colchians to victory. Perhaps it would not have all been in vain.
It was enough.
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The day wore on, and the press of battle was thick, Ionas losing himself among the shouts and repetitive thrusts of his blade. How many men did he fell, in this battle and the last? Would Ares account for his bravery, for those he took down on the battlefield? Would Hades praise him for the souls sent his way? Did Egyptian souls even go to Hades? Or did they return to their own heathen gods?
There was no time to consider such things, though, not as shouts rang up and blood spilled around him. The blade of his xiphos was a sanguine red, and yet still it could not be quenched. Not until it dropped from his fingers. Or he did.
Maybe the gods heard his little aside, for it was then he found himself caught in a sudden lull of the bodies around him, face-to-face with a massive Egyptian warrior. The man carried himself with a certain importance, barbaric features set with a determination that he would cut his way through all those that stood in his path.
No. Ionas would not allow that to happen.
The man was larger than him, yes, and likely more experienced. But Ionas was fast, and he was clever, and he’d managed to survive this long, hadn’t he? He was sure he had surprised many of those who tasted their last breath at the tip of his xiphos, and he would do it again. He was sure of it.
But was he? There was a tremble in his arm as he stared the Egyptian man down, xiphos held out in front of him. This was it. This was his moment, his time to prove that he was not just a carpenter’s boy lucky enough to accompany the king. Ionas was a warrior. He was a man. And he would not quail with fear.
Raising his blade to make his attack, it was then that the other man moved—too quick for Ionas to dodge and with too much accuracy for him to do little but stare down in disbelief at the khopesh lodged itself in his stomach. He couldn’t feel it yet—at least that was a blessing—but blood gurgled from his lips as he opened his mouth to express his shock.
Pure reflex drove him to a defensive counter-attack, striking back at his attacker with little finesse, but enough to know he landed a blow. Where it landed, he wasn’t sure; his vision was quickly going dark in spite of the searing sunlight around them. But maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to ensure he didn’t fall alone.
The khopesh pulled out of his flesh like a hot knife through butter, and Ionas stumbled back a couple steps—his own blade slipping from numb fingers as he brought up both hands to ineffectually cover the gaping wound. He looked up one last time to meet the gaze of his killer before the same blade that punctured his stomach kissed its way across his throat.
He blinked a couple times as he crumbled to his knees, one bloody hand reaching to uselessly stymy the river flowing from his throat. Coughing, he fell the rest of the way to the ground, staring up at the blazing sun as crimson stained the sand around him. The battle still raged, and yet it was curiously silent, Ionas oblivious to all but the slowly fading light above him.
I tried, he thought as his hands slowly fell away from his body, his breath slowing even as a macabre sort of smile softened a youthful face. Though I wish they’d told me glory would be like this.
At least he knew he’d served a purpose; perhaps his warning would be enough to carry the Colchians to victory. Perhaps it would not have all been in vain.
It was enough.
The day wore on, and the press of battle was thick, Ionas losing himself among the shouts and repetitive thrusts of his blade. How many men did he fell, in this battle and the last? Would Ares account for his bravery, for those he took down on the battlefield? Would Hades praise him for the souls sent his way? Did Egyptian souls even go to Hades? Or did they return to their own heathen gods?
There was no time to consider such things, though, not as shouts rang up and blood spilled around him. The blade of his xiphos was a sanguine red, and yet still it could not be quenched. Not until it dropped from his fingers. Or he did.
Maybe the gods heard his little aside, for it was then he found himself caught in a sudden lull of the bodies around him, face-to-face with a massive Egyptian warrior. The man carried himself with a certain importance, barbaric features set with a determination that he would cut his way through all those that stood in his path.
No. Ionas would not allow that to happen.
The man was larger than him, yes, and likely more experienced. But Ionas was fast, and he was clever, and he’d managed to survive this long, hadn’t he? He was sure he had surprised many of those who tasted their last breath at the tip of his xiphos, and he would do it again. He was sure of it.
But was he? There was a tremble in his arm as he stared the Egyptian man down, xiphos held out in front of him. This was it. This was his moment, his time to prove that he was not just a carpenter’s boy lucky enough to accompany the king. Ionas was a warrior. He was a man. And he would not quail with fear.
Raising his blade to make his attack, it was then that the other man moved—too quick for Ionas to dodge and with too much accuracy for him to do little but stare down in disbelief at the khopesh lodged itself in his stomach. He couldn’t feel it yet—at least that was a blessing—but blood gurgled from his lips as he opened his mouth to express his shock.
Pure reflex drove him to a defensive counter-attack, striking back at his attacker with little finesse, but enough to know he landed a blow. Where it landed, he wasn’t sure; his vision was quickly going dark in spite of the searing sunlight around them. But maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to ensure he didn’t fall alone.
The khopesh pulled out of his flesh like a hot knife through butter, and Ionas stumbled back a couple steps—his own blade slipping from numb fingers as he brought up both hands to ineffectually cover the gaping wound. He looked up one last time to meet the gaze of his killer before the same blade that punctured his stomach kissed its way across his throat.
He blinked a couple times as he crumbled to his knees, one bloody hand reaching to uselessly stymy the river flowing from his throat. Coughing, he fell the rest of the way to the ground, staring up at the blazing sun as crimson stained the sand around him. The battle still raged, and yet it was curiously silent, Ionas oblivious to all but the slowly fading light above him.
I tried, he thought as his hands slowly fell away from his body, his breath slowing even as a macabre sort of smile softened a youthful face. Though I wish they’d told me glory would be like this.
At least he knew he’d served a purpose; perhaps his warning would be enough to carry the Colchians to victory. Perhaps it would not have all been in vain.
It was enough.
Finally...It had been done.
After years of anger and rage he had finally done it.
And yet, for as pleased as he felt for the slightest of moments, Damocles could only feel the utter wave of joy that fast gripped him fade into one of alarmed, searing pain. With the last of his strength, Nike committed one final insult upon the Silver-eyed man, slashing across the spread of his cheek after piercing his thick, almost armor-like skin with the tip of her knife, cutting across the side of his face in a low-aiming trajectory that would be the last mark the felled thief would leave upon this earth.
A snarl escaped him as he felt the metal dig against his cheek. Yet, perhaps contrary to what most would assume, his reaction was not born out of just pain, of which their certainly was. No, in his final living moment, Nike had permanently scarred him, dealing a wound that went far deeper than the slash across his side. How dare he resist! How dared Nike deal an attack of his own against his own flesh! This was an insult, one that Damocles felt progressively more and more enraged by as the blood tricked down and landed on the sands, shifting away its content as the winds of Egypt blew at the direction of Greece, almost as if they were carrying the felled soldier to the Underworld itself.
His eyes widened with anger, and his breath hitched in that moment, knowing that, despite the objectively superficial nature of the attack, it was carried out nonetheless. Even as Thanatos closed upon Nike, he still challenged Damocles, and, in his pride, the Magnemean could not separate his reaction from the damage he felt was dealt to his own pride. Cursed be Nike of Acaris, cursed may he be, and may the Lord of the Underworld judge him worthy of the darkest, deepest pit in Tartarus!
His wounded cheek and ego aside, upon jerking his face from the knife so as to minimize the damage as much as he could, Damocles was quick to grab the dagger and discarded it to the side, knowing that it would be best if a weapon meant to be throw was left in a state that did not betray its very nature. Afterwards, he held Nike in his hands, suppressing his anger and personal hatred as best he could as he clung to the body of the man he had slayed as if he had been a man impacted by the death of a comrade, and not of an enemy most severe. "Help!" he yelled, keeping up appearances as men they had been separated from came fast approaching, reacting with shocked faces as they thought they witnessed before their eyes the last stand of the famed Nike of Acaris, forever written into the annals of history as a patriot that had died in the field of battle, and not, by the hands of a man who had enacted the perfect murder, well, almost perfect, save for his recently gathered facial scar.
As he finished yelling however, Damocles realized that right then, speech hurt, and he would have to minimize his words so as to cause himself further pain. He clenched his fist, knowing that, despite the flawless execution of his murderous actions, he would have to keep quiet for now and rely on his lieutenants and officers to carry out his vision for the battle while time tendered to his just-received wound and restored back to him his ability to speak freely once more.
Standing up, after the men witnessed the passing of their Commander, Damocles gently and in a manner most courteous, laid the body of the slain militant on the ground and scanned the space around him, searching for the other's weapon so as to continue to behave as honor-bound as was expected of a man of his rank and station. "S-sword!" He snarled with clear agony across his face as he once more recalled just how painful it was to talk. Still, the victorious Colchians did as they were told ad rushed to give the Captain of the Damned the prized claymore that had once been the signature of the former Captain of the Red Knights, which he placed by the side of the corpse as a sign that he was honoring his supposed superior. Despite the pain he felt and the anger that was pungently aimed, Damocles gave Nike the most immediate honors he could at the moment, fully-aware that, as the most senior Colchian militant of the Eastern Regiment, all eyes would fall on him.
The manner of Nike's death was immediately understood just as Damocles had envisioned: a military casualty orchestrated by the hands of a barbarian archer from Egypt who dared to end the life of one of the honorable senior officers of Colchis. It could not have resulted in a better outcome, as Damocles's dark deception and monstrous scheme erupted in full-swing, obviously making sure that the whole thing would be written off as a lamentable outcome of the day's battle.
It was of course a most awkward situation to be sure, to be in a position of immediate authority as his men looked upon him in this, their hour of need. Alas, despite the might of his speech-craft, the circumstances of the then prevented him from utilizing his most powerful weapon at this given moment. Yet, at the same time, Damocles knew that in moments like these actions spoke louder than words. He had earned the support of the soldiers for his makeshift tribute to Nike right there, and his seniority meant that he would be the most equipped to take over command of the Eastern Army for the time being. Channeling as much non-verbal conviction as he could, Damocles grabbed his own sword and raised it, thrusting it at the direction of end of the pathway, as if signaling that, despite their losses, their plans remained unchanged.
It was in that moment that the typically stone-faced and stoic faced soldiers of Colchis appeared to be once more shocked, though this time not out of tragedy or anger, but sheer surprise at the willpower and determination that Damocles had shown. There he was, bloody, wounded and exhausted from battle, with his words failing to come forward due to the slash on his side in a degree of pain that most would recognized as downright agonizing. And yet, he stood undeterred from his commitment to the war, as if ordering the Hounds and Damned to carry on the fight no matter the cost. With his will of iron impressed upon all around him, one of his subordinates dared to ask a simple question.
"Do we continue?"
Of course they would continue! They had lost too much and sacrificed all too many lives, both great and small to just give up when things looked bad. He did not think it twice, though perhaps his men were not as resolute as he was, but it mattered not. His face was bloody and red, but his eyes were just as forceful as they had always been. He did not need words to express his reply to the soldier's question, but, despite his less-than-ideal present state, the Captain of the Damned presented himself in a heroic light that almost defied reason. The Colchians would not lose today, at least not on his watch. Thus, mustering as much of himself as he could, but keenly aware of how much it would cost him to use his words, the towering Magnemean gave a single categorical nod, answering the question in a way that left no doubt what would the Eastern Army's course of action would be.
With emotions aimed high and that most manipulable combination of sorrow, anger and indignity impressed upon the regiment, Damocles gave his soldiers a direction for which to channel their disgust and wrath: the Egyptians. Almost immediately as his nod was given, his lieutenants and officers knew what to do, giving our orders and instructions that they could interpret as best they could, before Damocles raised his sword once more and slashed the air around him, signaling to his men that their strategy would continue on as planned. And in that moment, despite his pain-induced quietness, the untamable determination of the newly christened leader of the Eastern front spurred the soldiers of the Hounds and the Dammed to action. Shields were raised, ranks were re-organized, and arms were taken as the thunderous sound of impassioned soldiers that truly began to show why the sons and daughters of Colchis were known as the fiercest in all of Greece, marching with a ferocity and strength of will that would intimidate even the most seasoned of warriors.
With blood on his face still that only further proved the narrative that Damocles had conspired, the towering militant moved onwards, pursuit the same strategy that Nike had approved of as if to carry out the last will of the felled soldier. The conviction of the Magnemean had once more ignited fires of the the legendary war machine of the Kirakles Isles, burning with an even greater intensity than before as the Eastern Regiment pressed on their strategic plan, cutting down each and every sand snake that stood in its way as the Hounds and Damned started to cut through the gorge, shocking their Egyptian enemies to their core as they began to tip the balance of the battle and sneaked their way in hard against the army of the Pharaoh with terrifying results for the men of the land of the Nile, but glorious results for the Greeks.
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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Finally...It had been done.
After years of anger and rage he had finally done it.
And yet, for as pleased as he felt for the slightest of moments, Damocles could only feel the utter wave of joy that fast gripped him fade into one of alarmed, searing pain. With the last of his strength, Nike committed one final insult upon the Silver-eyed man, slashing across the spread of his cheek after piercing his thick, almost armor-like skin with the tip of her knife, cutting across the side of his face in a low-aiming trajectory that would be the last mark the felled thief would leave upon this earth.
A snarl escaped him as he felt the metal dig against his cheek. Yet, perhaps contrary to what most would assume, his reaction was not born out of just pain, of which their certainly was. No, in his final living moment, Nike had permanently scarred him, dealing a wound that went far deeper than the slash across his side. How dare he resist! How dared Nike deal an attack of his own against his own flesh! This was an insult, one that Damocles felt progressively more and more enraged by as the blood tricked down and landed on the sands, shifting away its content as the winds of Egypt blew at the direction of Greece, almost as if they were carrying the felled soldier to the Underworld itself.
His eyes widened with anger, and his breath hitched in that moment, knowing that, despite the objectively superficial nature of the attack, it was carried out nonetheless. Even as Thanatos closed upon Nike, he still challenged Damocles, and, in his pride, the Magnemean could not separate his reaction from the damage he felt was dealt to his own pride. Cursed be Nike of Acaris, cursed may he be, and may the Lord of the Underworld judge him worthy of the darkest, deepest pit in Tartarus!
His wounded cheek and ego aside, upon jerking his face from the knife so as to minimize the damage as much as he could, Damocles was quick to grab the dagger and discarded it to the side, knowing that it would be best if a weapon meant to be throw was left in a state that did not betray its very nature. Afterwards, he held Nike in his hands, suppressing his anger and personal hatred as best he could as he clung to the body of the man he had slayed as if he had been a man impacted by the death of a comrade, and not of an enemy most severe. "Help!" he yelled, keeping up appearances as men they had been separated from came fast approaching, reacting with shocked faces as they thought they witnessed before their eyes the last stand of the famed Nike of Acaris, forever written into the annals of history as a patriot that had died in the field of battle, and not, by the hands of a man who had enacted the perfect murder, well, almost perfect, save for his recently gathered facial scar.
As he finished yelling however, Damocles realized that right then, speech hurt, and he would have to minimize his words so as to cause himself further pain. He clenched his fist, knowing that, despite the flawless execution of his murderous actions, he would have to keep quiet for now and rely on his lieutenants and officers to carry out his vision for the battle while time tendered to his just-received wound and restored back to him his ability to speak freely once more.
Standing up, after the men witnessed the passing of their Commander, Damocles gently and in a manner most courteous, laid the body of the slain militant on the ground and scanned the space around him, searching for the other's weapon so as to continue to behave as honor-bound as was expected of a man of his rank and station. "S-sword!" He snarled with clear agony across his face as he once more recalled just how painful it was to talk. Still, the victorious Colchians did as they were told ad rushed to give the Captain of the Damned the prized claymore that had once been the signature of the former Captain of the Red Knights, which he placed by the side of the corpse as a sign that he was honoring his supposed superior. Despite the pain he felt and the anger that was pungently aimed, Damocles gave Nike the most immediate honors he could at the moment, fully-aware that, as the most senior Colchian militant of the Eastern Regiment, all eyes would fall on him.
The manner of Nike's death was immediately understood just as Damocles had envisioned: a military casualty orchestrated by the hands of a barbarian archer from Egypt who dared to end the life of one of the honorable senior officers of Colchis. It could not have resulted in a better outcome, as Damocles's dark deception and monstrous scheme erupted in full-swing, obviously making sure that the whole thing would be written off as a lamentable outcome of the day's battle.
It was of course a most awkward situation to be sure, to be in a position of immediate authority as his men looked upon him in this, their hour of need. Alas, despite the might of his speech-craft, the circumstances of the then prevented him from utilizing his most powerful weapon at this given moment. Yet, at the same time, Damocles knew that in moments like these actions spoke louder than words. He had earned the support of the soldiers for his makeshift tribute to Nike right there, and his seniority meant that he would be the most equipped to take over command of the Eastern Army for the time being. Channeling as much non-verbal conviction as he could, Damocles grabbed his own sword and raised it, thrusting it at the direction of end of the pathway, as if signaling that, despite their losses, their plans remained unchanged.
It was in that moment that the typically stone-faced and stoic faced soldiers of Colchis appeared to be once more shocked, though this time not out of tragedy or anger, but sheer surprise at the willpower and determination that Damocles had shown. There he was, bloody, wounded and exhausted from battle, with his words failing to come forward due to the slash on his side in a degree of pain that most would recognized as downright agonizing. And yet, he stood undeterred from his commitment to the war, as if ordering the Hounds and Damned to carry on the fight no matter the cost. With his will of iron impressed upon all around him, one of his subordinates dared to ask a simple question.
"Do we continue?"
Of course they would continue! They had lost too much and sacrificed all too many lives, both great and small to just give up when things looked bad. He did not think it twice, though perhaps his men were not as resolute as he was, but it mattered not. His face was bloody and red, but his eyes were just as forceful as they had always been. He did not need words to express his reply to the soldier's question, but, despite his less-than-ideal present state, the Captain of the Damned presented himself in a heroic light that almost defied reason. The Colchians would not lose today, at least not on his watch. Thus, mustering as much of himself as he could, but keenly aware of how much it would cost him to use his words, the towering Magnemean gave a single categorical nod, answering the question in a way that left no doubt what would the Eastern Army's course of action would be.
With emotions aimed high and that most manipulable combination of sorrow, anger and indignity impressed upon the regiment, Damocles gave his soldiers a direction for which to channel their disgust and wrath: the Egyptians. Almost immediately as his nod was given, his lieutenants and officers knew what to do, giving our orders and instructions that they could interpret as best they could, before Damocles raised his sword once more and slashed the air around him, signaling to his men that their strategy would continue on as planned. And in that moment, despite his pain-induced quietness, the untamable determination of the newly christened leader of the Eastern front spurred the soldiers of the Hounds and the Dammed to action. Shields were raised, ranks were re-organized, and arms were taken as the thunderous sound of impassioned soldiers that truly began to show why the sons and daughters of Colchis were known as the fiercest in all of Greece, marching with a ferocity and strength of will that would intimidate even the most seasoned of warriors.
With blood on his face still that only further proved the narrative that Damocles had conspired, the towering militant moved onwards, pursuit the same strategy that Nike had approved of as if to carry out the last will of the felled soldier. The conviction of the Magnemean had once more ignited fires of the the legendary war machine of the Kirakles Isles, burning with an even greater intensity than before as the Eastern Regiment pressed on their strategic plan, cutting down each and every sand snake that stood in its way as the Hounds and Damned started to cut through the gorge, shocking their Egyptian enemies to their core as they began to tip the balance of the battle and sneaked their way in hard against the army of the Pharaoh with terrifying results for the men of the land of the Nile, but glorious results for the Greeks.
Finally...It had been done.
After years of anger and rage he had finally done it.
And yet, for as pleased as he felt for the slightest of moments, Damocles could only feel the utter wave of joy that fast gripped him fade into one of alarmed, searing pain. With the last of his strength, Nike committed one final insult upon the Silver-eyed man, slashing across the spread of his cheek after piercing his thick, almost armor-like skin with the tip of her knife, cutting across the side of his face in a low-aiming trajectory that would be the last mark the felled thief would leave upon this earth.
A snarl escaped him as he felt the metal dig against his cheek. Yet, perhaps contrary to what most would assume, his reaction was not born out of just pain, of which their certainly was. No, in his final living moment, Nike had permanently scarred him, dealing a wound that went far deeper than the slash across his side. How dare he resist! How dared Nike deal an attack of his own against his own flesh! This was an insult, one that Damocles felt progressively more and more enraged by as the blood tricked down and landed on the sands, shifting away its content as the winds of Egypt blew at the direction of Greece, almost as if they were carrying the felled soldier to the Underworld itself.
His eyes widened with anger, and his breath hitched in that moment, knowing that, despite the objectively superficial nature of the attack, it was carried out nonetheless. Even as Thanatos closed upon Nike, he still challenged Damocles, and, in his pride, the Magnemean could not separate his reaction from the damage he felt was dealt to his own pride. Cursed be Nike of Acaris, cursed may he be, and may the Lord of the Underworld judge him worthy of the darkest, deepest pit in Tartarus!
His wounded cheek and ego aside, upon jerking his face from the knife so as to minimize the damage as much as he could, Damocles was quick to grab the dagger and discarded it to the side, knowing that it would be best if a weapon meant to be throw was left in a state that did not betray its very nature. Afterwards, he held Nike in his hands, suppressing his anger and personal hatred as best he could as he clung to the body of the man he had slayed as if he had been a man impacted by the death of a comrade, and not of an enemy most severe. "Help!" he yelled, keeping up appearances as men they had been separated from came fast approaching, reacting with shocked faces as they thought they witnessed before their eyes the last stand of the famed Nike of Acaris, forever written into the annals of history as a patriot that had died in the field of battle, and not, by the hands of a man who had enacted the perfect murder, well, almost perfect, save for his recently gathered facial scar.
As he finished yelling however, Damocles realized that right then, speech hurt, and he would have to minimize his words so as to cause himself further pain. He clenched his fist, knowing that, despite the flawless execution of his murderous actions, he would have to keep quiet for now and rely on his lieutenants and officers to carry out his vision for the battle while time tendered to his just-received wound and restored back to him his ability to speak freely once more.
Standing up, after the men witnessed the passing of their Commander, Damocles gently and in a manner most courteous, laid the body of the slain militant on the ground and scanned the space around him, searching for the other's weapon so as to continue to behave as honor-bound as was expected of a man of his rank and station. "S-sword!" He snarled with clear agony across his face as he once more recalled just how painful it was to talk. Still, the victorious Colchians did as they were told ad rushed to give the Captain of the Damned the prized claymore that had once been the signature of the former Captain of the Red Knights, which he placed by the side of the corpse as a sign that he was honoring his supposed superior. Despite the pain he felt and the anger that was pungently aimed, Damocles gave Nike the most immediate honors he could at the moment, fully-aware that, as the most senior Colchian militant of the Eastern Regiment, all eyes would fall on him.
The manner of Nike's death was immediately understood just as Damocles had envisioned: a military casualty orchestrated by the hands of a barbarian archer from Egypt who dared to end the life of one of the honorable senior officers of Colchis. It could not have resulted in a better outcome, as Damocles's dark deception and monstrous scheme erupted in full-swing, obviously making sure that the whole thing would be written off as a lamentable outcome of the day's battle.
It was of course a most awkward situation to be sure, to be in a position of immediate authority as his men looked upon him in this, their hour of need. Alas, despite the might of his speech-craft, the circumstances of the then prevented him from utilizing his most powerful weapon at this given moment. Yet, at the same time, Damocles knew that in moments like these actions spoke louder than words. He had earned the support of the soldiers for his makeshift tribute to Nike right there, and his seniority meant that he would be the most equipped to take over command of the Eastern Army for the time being. Channeling as much non-verbal conviction as he could, Damocles grabbed his own sword and raised it, thrusting it at the direction of end of the pathway, as if signaling that, despite their losses, their plans remained unchanged.
It was in that moment that the typically stone-faced and stoic faced soldiers of Colchis appeared to be once more shocked, though this time not out of tragedy or anger, but sheer surprise at the willpower and determination that Damocles had shown. There he was, bloody, wounded and exhausted from battle, with his words failing to come forward due to the slash on his side in a degree of pain that most would recognized as downright agonizing. And yet, he stood undeterred from his commitment to the war, as if ordering the Hounds and Damned to carry on the fight no matter the cost. With his will of iron impressed upon all around him, one of his subordinates dared to ask a simple question.
"Do we continue?"
Of course they would continue! They had lost too much and sacrificed all too many lives, both great and small to just give up when things looked bad. He did not think it twice, though perhaps his men were not as resolute as he was, but it mattered not. His face was bloody and red, but his eyes were just as forceful as they had always been. He did not need words to express his reply to the soldier's question, but, despite his less-than-ideal present state, the Captain of the Damned presented himself in a heroic light that almost defied reason. The Colchians would not lose today, at least not on his watch. Thus, mustering as much of himself as he could, but keenly aware of how much it would cost him to use his words, the towering Magnemean gave a single categorical nod, answering the question in a way that left no doubt what would the Eastern Army's course of action would be.
With emotions aimed high and that most manipulable combination of sorrow, anger and indignity impressed upon the regiment, Damocles gave his soldiers a direction for which to channel their disgust and wrath: the Egyptians. Almost immediately as his nod was given, his lieutenants and officers knew what to do, giving our orders and instructions that they could interpret as best they could, before Damocles raised his sword once more and slashed the air around him, signaling to his men that their strategy would continue on as planned. And in that moment, despite his pain-induced quietness, the untamable determination of the newly christened leader of the Eastern front spurred the soldiers of the Hounds and the Dammed to action. Shields were raised, ranks were re-organized, and arms were taken as the thunderous sound of impassioned soldiers that truly began to show why the sons and daughters of Colchis were known as the fiercest in all of Greece, marching with a ferocity and strength of will that would intimidate even the most seasoned of warriors.
With blood on his face still that only further proved the narrative that Damocles had conspired, the towering militant moved onwards, pursuit the same strategy that Nike had approved of as if to carry out the last will of the felled soldier. The conviction of the Magnemean had once more ignited fires of the the legendary war machine of the Kirakles Isles, burning with an even greater intensity than before as the Eastern Regiment pressed on their strategic plan, cutting down each and every sand snake that stood in its way as the Hounds and Damned started to cut through the gorge, shocking their Egyptian enemies to their core as they began to tip the balance of the battle and sneaked their way in hard against the army of the Pharaoh with terrifying results for the men of the land of the Nile, but glorious results for the Greeks.
Akhem did not waste any time. He rushed across the field, telegraphing his every move to every archer and fighter on the way to his quarry. None of that mattered to him. They could strike him down, but not before he had secured Egypt a victory: more Greek bodies on the ground. Akhem had been called to serve his lands, and he would not allow these men to declare his home their soil. The pharaoh needed able-bodied soldiers to defend him, so Akhem did exactly that. He was Egypt’s rage and ferocity given physical form, and he was not alone.
He struck Greek soldiers while their backs were turned, or while they fought in battle with another opponent. Too occupied with real enemies, they ignored the little man, flitting about. He was not here to hold onto to antiquated notions of honor like they held some promise of reward for him; he would do what little damage he could to these cockroaches as he passed them by. Akhem had a singular focus on the Greek he had seen before. He knew that this was the man he was destined to defeat.
Finally, Akhem reached his target. A young Greek man, perhaps the youngest soldier Akhem had seen today, with a handsome face and the scent of fear swirling in a miasma around him. Akhem did not exchange any pleasantries, or pretend that he cares what anyone might think of his tactics. He kicked up sand to obscure the boy’s vision, and struck. A simple attack, first, to test the boy’s skill. Akhem doubted he had ever seen battle before today, and he intended to make his final memories of life bitterly difficulty. He hoped they would both taste blood before the bout was done.
"Taste blood, you Greek cur!"
His shout may have meant nothing to his opponent, but Akhem needed to hear himself spit venom at a Greek to fuel the fire of his violent anger. He turned the cruel thought into a cruel strike as it sharpened in his mind, and pushed him forward, ever forward, as he worked to soften up the Greek forces.
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.
Badges
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Akhem did not waste any time. He rushed across the field, telegraphing his every move to every archer and fighter on the way to his quarry. None of that mattered to him. They could strike him down, but not before he had secured Egypt a victory: more Greek bodies on the ground. Akhem had been called to serve his lands, and he would not allow these men to declare his home their soil. The pharaoh needed able-bodied soldiers to defend him, so Akhem did exactly that. He was Egypt’s rage and ferocity given physical form, and he was not alone.
He struck Greek soldiers while their backs were turned, or while they fought in battle with another opponent. Too occupied with real enemies, they ignored the little man, flitting about. He was not here to hold onto to antiquated notions of honor like they held some promise of reward for him; he would do what little damage he could to these cockroaches as he passed them by. Akhem had a singular focus on the Greek he had seen before. He knew that this was the man he was destined to defeat.
Finally, Akhem reached his target. A young Greek man, perhaps the youngest soldier Akhem had seen today, with a handsome face and the scent of fear swirling in a miasma around him. Akhem did not exchange any pleasantries, or pretend that he cares what anyone might think of his tactics. He kicked up sand to obscure the boy’s vision, and struck. A simple attack, first, to test the boy’s skill. Akhem doubted he had ever seen battle before today, and he intended to make his final memories of life bitterly difficulty. He hoped they would both taste blood before the bout was done.
"Taste blood, you Greek cur!"
His shout may have meant nothing to his opponent, but Akhem needed to hear himself spit venom at a Greek to fuel the fire of his violent anger. He turned the cruel thought into a cruel strike as it sharpened in his mind, and pushed him forward, ever forward, as he worked to soften up the Greek forces.
Akhem did not waste any time. He rushed across the field, telegraphing his every move to every archer and fighter on the way to his quarry. None of that mattered to him. They could strike him down, but not before he had secured Egypt a victory: more Greek bodies on the ground. Akhem had been called to serve his lands, and he would not allow these men to declare his home their soil. The pharaoh needed able-bodied soldiers to defend him, so Akhem did exactly that. He was Egypt’s rage and ferocity given physical form, and he was not alone.
He struck Greek soldiers while their backs were turned, or while they fought in battle with another opponent. Too occupied with real enemies, they ignored the little man, flitting about. He was not here to hold onto to antiquated notions of honor like they held some promise of reward for him; he would do what little damage he could to these cockroaches as he passed them by. Akhem had a singular focus on the Greek he had seen before. He knew that this was the man he was destined to defeat.
Finally, Akhem reached his target. A young Greek man, perhaps the youngest soldier Akhem had seen today, with a handsome face and the scent of fear swirling in a miasma around him. Akhem did not exchange any pleasantries, or pretend that he cares what anyone might think of his tactics. He kicked up sand to obscure the boy’s vision, and struck. A simple attack, first, to test the boy’s skill. Akhem doubted he had ever seen battle before today, and he intended to make his final memories of life bitterly difficulty. He hoped they would both taste blood before the bout was done.
"Taste blood, you Greek cur!"
His shout may have meant nothing to his opponent, but Akhem needed to hear himself spit venom at a Greek to fuel the fire of his violent anger. He turned the cruel thought into a cruel strike as it sharpened in his mind, and pushed him forward, ever forward, as he worked to soften up the Greek forces.
The battle was chaotic, blood soaking into the sand, the screams and battle cries of men as death was reaped all around them, Greeks and Egyptians alike falling there on the sands, their last moments were terror and pain.
And this was where Maleos was at home. The tactical advantage they held was rendered moot by a second Egyptian force, and at this point there was no more flanking, no more battle plans. This was just killing. Blade verse blade. Man verse man. Military leaders still shouted commands, attempting to wrest control of their troops and control of the fighting, but in it’s essence, no one had true command but the Gods.
And Maleos would make @ares proud of him that day. He would make the Egyptians fear him and the blade he wielded.
He cut through any Egyptians that dared try and face him, his skill with the sword unmatched by any as he took life after life after life. Young and old alike, any Egyptian who stood to face Maleos would find themselves sent to what ever underworld they believed in.
Here was where Maleos felt most comfortable. There was no talking, no deception and double meanings behind friendly tones. It was much simpler. It was kill or be killed, and he knew how to do that. He didn’t know how to deceive in courts, he didn’t know how to sweet talk, but he knew how to take a life and he knew how to keep his own life.
He had been slicing through Egyptians, covered in spatters of blood, anyone who hadn’t seen the Captain on the battlefield before might be terrified of the wild look in his eyes. His thirst for blood was well hidden, until he was given the chance to unleash himself upon the enemy, and then it was clear that the man was made for this. He had been created by the Gods to bring glory to Greece and glory to Ares.
As he struck down yet another man with his sword, he heard a shout that caught his attention. He didn’t know why, out of all the cries upon the battlefield, this particular one caught his attention, but he spun to face the direction it had come from and he saw a young soldier going after Silanos.
His promise to Tim had long since been forgotten in the blood soaked throes of the war, but Silanos was a Greek one way or another, and despite his hatred for the man, he would not see him fall on the battlefield if it could be helped.
Without a second though, Maleos rushed forward toward the two, and just as the Egyptian went to throw another strike at Silanos with his weapon, it caught Maleos’ own weapon and he made to shove the Egyptian back. The fire in his eyes, the wild look on his face and the blood that covered him made him look like some sort of creature from a children’s story.
Without a second of hesitation, his sword was moving back into position and it was swung at the young soldier with full intent of finding the killing blow, a blow that many of this man’s countrymen had fell victim to. They had put up a fight, but as if blessed by the Gods themselves, Maleos’ sword always found it’s target and took life without a single drop of remorse from the man who held it. If this young man stood and fought the Captain, he too would find death quickly.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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The battle was chaotic, blood soaking into the sand, the screams and battle cries of men as death was reaped all around them, Greeks and Egyptians alike falling there on the sands, their last moments were terror and pain.
And this was where Maleos was at home. The tactical advantage they held was rendered moot by a second Egyptian force, and at this point there was no more flanking, no more battle plans. This was just killing. Blade verse blade. Man verse man. Military leaders still shouted commands, attempting to wrest control of their troops and control of the fighting, but in it’s essence, no one had true command but the Gods.
And Maleos would make @ares proud of him that day. He would make the Egyptians fear him and the blade he wielded.
He cut through any Egyptians that dared try and face him, his skill with the sword unmatched by any as he took life after life after life. Young and old alike, any Egyptian who stood to face Maleos would find themselves sent to what ever underworld they believed in.
Here was where Maleos felt most comfortable. There was no talking, no deception and double meanings behind friendly tones. It was much simpler. It was kill or be killed, and he knew how to do that. He didn’t know how to deceive in courts, he didn’t know how to sweet talk, but he knew how to take a life and he knew how to keep his own life.
He had been slicing through Egyptians, covered in spatters of blood, anyone who hadn’t seen the Captain on the battlefield before might be terrified of the wild look in his eyes. His thirst for blood was well hidden, until he was given the chance to unleash himself upon the enemy, and then it was clear that the man was made for this. He had been created by the Gods to bring glory to Greece and glory to Ares.
As he struck down yet another man with his sword, he heard a shout that caught his attention. He didn’t know why, out of all the cries upon the battlefield, this particular one caught his attention, but he spun to face the direction it had come from and he saw a young soldier going after Silanos.
His promise to Tim had long since been forgotten in the blood soaked throes of the war, but Silanos was a Greek one way or another, and despite his hatred for the man, he would not see him fall on the battlefield if it could be helped.
Without a second though, Maleos rushed forward toward the two, and just as the Egyptian went to throw another strike at Silanos with his weapon, it caught Maleos’ own weapon and he made to shove the Egyptian back. The fire in his eyes, the wild look on his face and the blood that covered him made him look like some sort of creature from a children’s story.
Without a second of hesitation, his sword was moving back into position and it was swung at the young soldier with full intent of finding the killing blow, a blow that many of this man’s countrymen had fell victim to. They had put up a fight, but as if blessed by the Gods themselves, Maleos’ sword always found it’s target and took life without a single drop of remorse from the man who held it. If this young man stood and fought the Captain, he too would find death quickly.
The battle was chaotic, blood soaking into the sand, the screams and battle cries of men as death was reaped all around them, Greeks and Egyptians alike falling there on the sands, their last moments were terror and pain.
And this was where Maleos was at home. The tactical advantage they held was rendered moot by a second Egyptian force, and at this point there was no more flanking, no more battle plans. This was just killing. Blade verse blade. Man verse man. Military leaders still shouted commands, attempting to wrest control of their troops and control of the fighting, but in it’s essence, no one had true command but the Gods.
And Maleos would make @ares proud of him that day. He would make the Egyptians fear him and the blade he wielded.
He cut through any Egyptians that dared try and face him, his skill with the sword unmatched by any as he took life after life after life. Young and old alike, any Egyptian who stood to face Maleos would find themselves sent to what ever underworld they believed in.
Here was where Maleos felt most comfortable. There was no talking, no deception and double meanings behind friendly tones. It was much simpler. It was kill or be killed, and he knew how to do that. He didn’t know how to deceive in courts, he didn’t know how to sweet talk, but he knew how to take a life and he knew how to keep his own life.
He had been slicing through Egyptians, covered in spatters of blood, anyone who hadn’t seen the Captain on the battlefield before might be terrified of the wild look in his eyes. His thirst for blood was well hidden, until he was given the chance to unleash himself upon the enemy, and then it was clear that the man was made for this. He had been created by the Gods to bring glory to Greece and glory to Ares.
As he struck down yet another man with his sword, he heard a shout that caught his attention. He didn’t know why, out of all the cries upon the battlefield, this particular one caught his attention, but he spun to face the direction it had come from and he saw a young soldier going after Silanos.
His promise to Tim had long since been forgotten in the blood soaked throes of the war, but Silanos was a Greek one way or another, and despite his hatred for the man, he would not see him fall on the battlefield if it could be helped.
Without a second though, Maleos rushed forward toward the two, and just as the Egyptian went to throw another strike at Silanos with his weapon, it caught Maleos’ own weapon and he made to shove the Egyptian back. The fire in his eyes, the wild look on his face and the blood that covered him made him look like some sort of creature from a children’s story.
Without a second of hesitation, his sword was moving back into position and it was swung at the young soldier with full intent of finding the killing blow, a blow that many of this man’s countrymen had fell victim to. They had put up a fight, but as if blessed by the Gods themselves, Maleos’ sword always found it’s target and took life without a single drop of remorse from the man who held it. If this young man stood and fought the Captain, he too would find death quickly.
Silanos thought he was pretty well acquainted with the different responses of his body. He’d smoked enough, taken enough stimulants to have experienced what he thought was the full range. Hot sweats, cold sweats, shaking, aching, fizzing with so much energy he thought he might jump right out of his skin. But this...this was something else.
A cold, liquid feeling of dread sloshed around in his belly. Every muscle seemed pulled tight, his fingers clasped around the sword in his hand, the other around the leather grip of the shield on his other arm. He could make out faces now, of the Egyptians. They were that close.
Following the lead of the men who flanked him, he held the line as long as he was able, heart thudding like a hammer against his ribs as the shield deflected the first blow that came his way, and then it was just a blur of movement, of sound and he didn’t know what he was doing.
The solidness of his fellow greeks at his shoulders was reassuring, and for the first, while Silanos thought he held his own ok, all things considered. He mostly used the shield at first, but eventually grew more confident with the blade, remembering what he’d been taught about the curved khopesh that the Egyptians wielded. Once, he stumbled, and the wicked edge of one slid across the bracer at his wrist, he felt the burn as it bit his skin, and he was angry. With a furious cry, he knocked the khopesh away with his shield and then kicked out with his foot at the man who held it, only for him to be skewered on the end of a spear before Silanos could do anything else. He looked around for who to thank, but it was chaos, and before he knew it, there was a cry and another Egyptian had filled his space.
There was a shower of sand kicked up into his face, and Sil instinctively turned his head to the side, shoving blindly with the shield as he blinked frantically. Fuck. Shaking his head a little, he swung wildly with his sword arm, cursing the Egyptian in words he wouldn’t understand, but why did that matter.
When his vision had cleared enough to see, there was only enough time to try and parry another strike, and the force of it juddered up his arm and shook his teeth in his head. He tried to remember what Vangelis had shown him, what he’d practised over and over on the ship and pulled back before the other could push back and bend his wrist back on itself. Go low, he’d been told, so Silanos did, but the Egyptian was fast, and he found himself forced just to try and block the increasingly rapid blows aimed at him, outmatched. Silanos swung his sword desperately then, fierce but wild, trying to hold his own but struggling and this time when a blow headed for him was blocked, he had time to turn and see who had interceded. He couldn’t have been more shocked to recognise Maleos beneath the blood that spattered him.
Still, even with that unexpected aid, there was no time to stop and wonder. Silanos found himself fighting side by side with the Eubocrisian for a few moments, though in his periphery he saw Maleos dispatch men like a ..fury. Or a god.
If he’d had more time, he might have been impressed, but the young man instead was faced by one lucky strike cleaving deep into the unarmoured flesh of an Egyptian. Blood fountained and showered him, and he staggered back, face paling, wiping the back of his arm across his face. The Egyptian man was clasping at the injured limb, and Sil knew he had an opening, and something in him curled its lip in a fury and drove him forwards, buried his sword in the man’s chest before pulling it back. The resistance he felt, the wet and bloody clinging of the body to the blade shocked him again, and he swallowed back bile. He couldn’t stop though, and so pressed his foot against the man’s body and yanked. It was not a sensation he would forget.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Silanos thought he was pretty well acquainted with the different responses of his body. He’d smoked enough, taken enough stimulants to have experienced what he thought was the full range. Hot sweats, cold sweats, shaking, aching, fizzing with so much energy he thought he might jump right out of his skin. But this...this was something else.
A cold, liquid feeling of dread sloshed around in his belly. Every muscle seemed pulled tight, his fingers clasped around the sword in his hand, the other around the leather grip of the shield on his other arm. He could make out faces now, of the Egyptians. They were that close.
Following the lead of the men who flanked him, he held the line as long as he was able, heart thudding like a hammer against his ribs as the shield deflected the first blow that came his way, and then it was just a blur of movement, of sound and he didn’t know what he was doing.
The solidness of his fellow greeks at his shoulders was reassuring, and for the first, while Silanos thought he held his own ok, all things considered. He mostly used the shield at first, but eventually grew more confident with the blade, remembering what he’d been taught about the curved khopesh that the Egyptians wielded. Once, he stumbled, and the wicked edge of one slid across the bracer at his wrist, he felt the burn as it bit his skin, and he was angry. With a furious cry, he knocked the khopesh away with his shield and then kicked out with his foot at the man who held it, only for him to be skewered on the end of a spear before Silanos could do anything else. He looked around for who to thank, but it was chaos, and before he knew it, there was a cry and another Egyptian had filled his space.
There was a shower of sand kicked up into his face, and Sil instinctively turned his head to the side, shoving blindly with the shield as he blinked frantically. Fuck. Shaking his head a little, he swung wildly with his sword arm, cursing the Egyptian in words he wouldn’t understand, but why did that matter.
When his vision had cleared enough to see, there was only enough time to try and parry another strike, and the force of it juddered up his arm and shook his teeth in his head. He tried to remember what Vangelis had shown him, what he’d practised over and over on the ship and pulled back before the other could push back and bend his wrist back on itself. Go low, he’d been told, so Silanos did, but the Egyptian was fast, and he found himself forced just to try and block the increasingly rapid blows aimed at him, outmatched. Silanos swung his sword desperately then, fierce but wild, trying to hold his own but struggling and this time when a blow headed for him was blocked, he had time to turn and see who had interceded. He couldn’t have been more shocked to recognise Maleos beneath the blood that spattered him.
Still, even with that unexpected aid, there was no time to stop and wonder. Silanos found himself fighting side by side with the Eubocrisian for a few moments, though in his periphery he saw Maleos dispatch men like a ..fury. Or a god.
If he’d had more time, he might have been impressed, but the young man instead was faced by one lucky strike cleaving deep into the unarmoured flesh of an Egyptian. Blood fountained and showered him, and he staggered back, face paling, wiping the back of his arm across his face. The Egyptian man was clasping at the injured limb, and Sil knew he had an opening, and something in him curled its lip in a fury and drove him forwards, buried his sword in the man’s chest before pulling it back. The resistance he felt, the wet and bloody clinging of the body to the blade shocked him again, and he swallowed back bile. He couldn’t stop though, and so pressed his foot against the man’s body and yanked. It was not a sensation he would forget.
Silanos thought he was pretty well acquainted with the different responses of his body. He’d smoked enough, taken enough stimulants to have experienced what he thought was the full range. Hot sweats, cold sweats, shaking, aching, fizzing with so much energy he thought he might jump right out of his skin. But this...this was something else.
A cold, liquid feeling of dread sloshed around in his belly. Every muscle seemed pulled tight, his fingers clasped around the sword in his hand, the other around the leather grip of the shield on his other arm. He could make out faces now, of the Egyptians. They were that close.
Following the lead of the men who flanked him, he held the line as long as he was able, heart thudding like a hammer against his ribs as the shield deflected the first blow that came his way, and then it was just a blur of movement, of sound and he didn’t know what he was doing.
The solidness of his fellow greeks at his shoulders was reassuring, and for the first, while Silanos thought he held his own ok, all things considered. He mostly used the shield at first, but eventually grew more confident with the blade, remembering what he’d been taught about the curved khopesh that the Egyptians wielded. Once, he stumbled, and the wicked edge of one slid across the bracer at his wrist, he felt the burn as it bit his skin, and he was angry. With a furious cry, he knocked the khopesh away with his shield and then kicked out with his foot at the man who held it, only for him to be skewered on the end of a spear before Silanos could do anything else. He looked around for who to thank, but it was chaos, and before he knew it, there was a cry and another Egyptian had filled his space.
There was a shower of sand kicked up into his face, and Sil instinctively turned his head to the side, shoving blindly with the shield as he blinked frantically. Fuck. Shaking his head a little, he swung wildly with his sword arm, cursing the Egyptian in words he wouldn’t understand, but why did that matter.
When his vision had cleared enough to see, there was only enough time to try and parry another strike, and the force of it juddered up his arm and shook his teeth in his head. He tried to remember what Vangelis had shown him, what he’d practised over and over on the ship and pulled back before the other could push back and bend his wrist back on itself. Go low, he’d been told, so Silanos did, but the Egyptian was fast, and he found himself forced just to try and block the increasingly rapid blows aimed at him, outmatched. Silanos swung his sword desperately then, fierce but wild, trying to hold his own but struggling and this time when a blow headed for him was blocked, he had time to turn and see who had interceded. He couldn’t have been more shocked to recognise Maleos beneath the blood that spattered him.
Still, even with that unexpected aid, there was no time to stop and wonder. Silanos found himself fighting side by side with the Eubocrisian for a few moments, though in his periphery he saw Maleos dispatch men like a ..fury. Or a god.
If he’d had more time, he might have been impressed, but the young man instead was faced by one lucky strike cleaving deep into the unarmoured flesh of an Egyptian. Blood fountained and showered him, and he staggered back, face paling, wiping the back of his arm across his face. The Egyptian man was clasping at the injured limb, and Sil knew he had an opening, and something in him curled its lip in a fury and drove him forwards, buried his sword in the man’s chest before pulling it back. The resistance he felt, the wet and bloody clinging of the body to the blade shocked him again, and he swallowed back bile. He couldn’t stop though, and so pressed his foot against the man’s body and yanked. It was not a sensation he would forget.
Around him, the battle raged. Soldiers fought as the two sides collided under the hot, desert sun. Despite their attempt to flank the Egyptian forces, the battle descended into chaos. His father’s force blended in the distance with the Egyptians, no longer possible to distinguish as they threw themselves into the fray. He looked for his father, but from this vantage point, could not make him out. He prayed that Apollo’s arrow of ill fortune would strike the Egyptians, and that his generosity would fall upon Tython. Unable to see his father, Yiannis prayed that they would meet again on the other side of the war. No matter how much Yiannis respected his brother, he respected and loved King Tython more. He was not ready to serve his brother.
Yiannis looked to Maleos, clashing with Egyptians who fell to his blade. The commander cut through the Egyptians like they were portions of the victory feast, rather than bodies of flesh and blood. He could see the passionate bloodlust of Ares in him indeed. Yiannis did not disdain such rage, but he found that he could not stomach it. He looked away, back to the soldiers clashing with his own. The other Colchian forces continued to wear down the Egyptian forces, so Yiannis would do the same. They would win this war by morning light, Yiannis told himself, thinking of Apollo’s fickle favor, and hoped that they would find it today.
In the meantime, he engaged in damage control. Rather than confront too many men directly, Yiannis led his troops. He shouted orders to his troops to direct their movements. For all that his role as commander felt worthless in the heat of battle, Yiannis knew that it was essential. A commander rallied the troops around him, and without him, their morale would plummet until it landed them at the bottom of a mass grave. Some of these soldiers had trained under him when he was their captain, and their ability to operate as an elite fighting unit was unparalleled on this crowded battlefield. They fought valiantly in service of Colchis.
Weaving between opposing soldiers, Yiannis dodged enemy strikes rather than fight back. When he did face a target one-on-one, Yiannis played dirty. He worked to destabilize and confuse his opponents to avoid relying on pure strength. He would always lose against a trained soldier operating at his highest capacity, so Yiannis never allowed the competition to become more about strength than dexterity. He struck at the knees and feet whenever he saw an opportunity. No matter what disadvantage another combatant imposed on him, Yiannis recovered, and he turned the situation against them. Yiannis faced a talented swordsman, and so resorted to biting, punching, and yanking the hair of his opponent. The combination of viciousness and opportunism made him difficult to challenge by a foe who did not know his fighting style well. Zanon or Vang could beat him handily, but these Egyptians did not stand a chance.
Many good Grecian soldiers would die here today. Yiannis began to number the dead. He thought of their dreams, their fears, their hopes, and he glared at the Egyptians as he reduced their numbers in turn. Yiannis counted the casualties, few though he caused at the tip of his own sword. The Greeks would claim Egypt’s land one day. They would span the continents, spreading until none could dare oppose them. Not because they wanted to, or needed to, but because someone had tried to stop them. The Egyptians had brought the fight to them, and the Colchians would return it as violently as possible.
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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Around him, the battle raged. Soldiers fought as the two sides collided under the hot, desert sun. Despite their attempt to flank the Egyptian forces, the battle descended into chaos. His father’s force blended in the distance with the Egyptians, no longer possible to distinguish as they threw themselves into the fray. He looked for his father, but from this vantage point, could not make him out. He prayed that Apollo’s arrow of ill fortune would strike the Egyptians, and that his generosity would fall upon Tython. Unable to see his father, Yiannis prayed that they would meet again on the other side of the war. No matter how much Yiannis respected his brother, he respected and loved King Tython more. He was not ready to serve his brother.
Yiannis looked to Maleos, clashing with Egyptians who fell to his blade. The commander cut through the Egyptians like they were portions of the victory feast, rather than bodies of flesh and blood. He could see the passionate bloodlust of Ares in him indeed. Yiannis did not disdain such rage, but he found that he could not stomach it. He looked away, back to the soldiers clashing with his own. The other Colchian forces continued to wear down the Egyptian forces, so Yiannis would do the same. They would win this war by morning light, Yiannis told himself, thinking of Apollo’s fickle favor, and hoped that they would find it today.
In the meantime, he engaged in damage control. Rather than confront too many men directly, Yiannis led his troops. He shouted orders to his troops to direct their movements. For all that his role as commander felt worthless in the heat of battle, Yiannis knew that it was essential. A commander rallied the troops around him, and without him, their morale would plummet until it landed them at the bottom of a mass grave. Some of these soldiers had trained under him when he was their captain, and their ability to operate as an elite fighting unit was unparalleled on this crowded battlefield. They fought valiantly in service of Colchis.
Weaving between opposing soldiers, Yiannis dodged enemy strikes rather than fight back. When he did face a target one-on-one, Yiannis played dirty. He worked to destabilize and confuse his opponents to avoid relying on pure strength. He would always lose against a trained soldier operating at his highest capacity, so Yiannis never allowed the competition to become more about strength than dexterity. He struck at the knees and feet whenever he saw an opportunity. No matter what disadvantage another combatant imposed on him, Yiannis recovered, and he turned the situation against them. Yiannis faced a talented swordsman, and so resorted to biting, punching, and yanking the hair of his opponent. The combination of viciousness and opportunism made him difficult to challenge by a foe who did not know his fighting style well. Zanon or Vang could beat him handily, but these Egyptians did not stand a chance.
Many good Grecian soldiers would die here today. Yiannis began to number the dead. He thought of their dreams, their fears, their hopes, and he glared at the Egyptians as he reduced their numbers in turn. Yiannis counted the casualties, few though he caused at the tip of his own sword. The Greeks would claim Egypt’s land one day. They would span the continents, spreading until none could dare oppose them. Not because they wanted to, or needed to, but because someone had tried to stop them. The Egyptians had brought the fight to them, and the Colchians would return it as violently as possible.
Around him, the battle raged. Soldiers fought as the two sides collided under the hot, desert sun. Despite their attempt to flank the Egyptian forces, the battle descended into chaos. His father’s force blended in the distance with the Egyptians, no longer possible to distinguish as they threw themselves into the fray. He looked for his father, but from this vantage point, could not make him out. He prayed that Apollo’s arrow of ill fortune would strike the Egyptians, and that his generosity would fall upon Tython. Unable to see his father, Yiannis prayed that they would meet again on the other side of the war. No matter how much Yiannis respected his brother, he respected and loved King Tython more. He was not ready to serve his brother.
Yiannis looked to Maleos, clashing with Egyptians who fell to his blade. The commander cut through the Egyptians like they were portions of the victory feast, rather than bodies of flesh and blood. He could see the passionate bloodlust of Ares in him indeed. Yiannis did not disdain such rage, but he found that he could not stomach it. He looked away, back to the soldiers clashing with his own. The other Colchian forces continued to wear down the Egyptian forces, so Yiannis would do the same. They would win this war by morning light, Yiannis told himself, thinking of Apollo’s fickle favor, and hoped that they would find it today.
In the meantime, he engaged in damage control. Rather than confront too many men directly, Yiannis led his troops. He shouted orders to his troops to direct their movements. For all that his role as commander felt worthless in the heat of battle, Yiannis knew that it was essential. A commander rallied the troops around him, and without him, their morale would plummet until it landed them at the bottom of a mass grave. Some of these soldiers had trained under him when he was their captain, and their ability to operate as an elite fighting unit was unparalleled on this crowded battlefield. They fought valiantly in service of Colchis.
Weaving between opposing soldiers, Yiannis dodged enemy strikes rather than fight back. When he did face a target one-on-one, Yiannis played dirty. He worked to destabilize and confuse his opponents to avoid relying on pure strength. He would always lose against a trained soldier operating at his highest capacity, so Yiannis never allowed the competition to become more about strength than dexterity. He struck at the knees and feet whenever he saw an opportunity. No matter what disadvantage another combatant imposed on him, Yiannis recovered, and he turned the situation against them. Yiannis faced a talented swordsman, and so resorted to biting, punching, and yanking the hair of his opponent. The combination of viciousness and opportunism made him difficult to challenge by a foe who did not know his fighting style well. Zanon or Vang could beat him handily, but these Egyptians did not stand a chance.
Many good Grecian soldiers would die here today. Yiannis began to number the dead. He thought of their dreams, their fears, their hopes, and he glared at the Egyptians as he reduced their numbers in turn. Yiannis counted the casualties, few though he caused at the tip of his own sword. The Greeks would claim Egypt’s land one day. They would span the continents, spreading until none could dare oppose them. Not because they wanted to, or needed to, but because someone had tried to stop them. The Egyptians had brought the fight to them, and the Colchians would return it as violently as possible.
She knew that many of the others would not trust in her abilities, but Dorothea could also not blame them for not caring either. The Dimitrou was an upstart, someone who had joined their ranks at the last minute basically without permission. She was well aware that opinions of her would not be high. Yet, there was nothing she could do about it now other than to fight. At least no one was outwardly hostile to her. They seemed content enough to let her prove herself or die. And Dorothea greatly hoped that it wasn’t the latter.
A familiar figure stopped by, giving advice. Dorothea smiled at Zosi, glad to see that this woman didn’t seem to hate her too much either. She gave a nod, accepting the warrior’s words, remembering them in case things got tough. “Thank you,” she replied, sending up a prayer in return for the woman’s safety. “Artemis give you speed and protection.” She didn’t know if that would be enough, but Artemis had always guided her before and she hoped the goddess would turn a favorable eye upon them now.
There was more and more activity and Dorothea could feel the tension building in the air. In many ways, it was not unlike a hunt, though in this case there would be far more butchery. And perhaps little point, as she had once argued with her cousin. He was so convinced that war was the way of things, but Dorothea saw differently. What would this battle solve but to wound both sides? Of course, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t play her part, if only to defend her fellow countrymen and women. If she could use her skills to keep them safe, Dorothea would feel honorable about her actions. At least, that was what she hoped. She had truly never been in this situation before, but hundreds of hunts had prepared her body to react calmly, with focus. Taking a deep breath, she could feel that focus wash over her now.
Then, suddenly, it was happening. All at once there was a rush of noise, far from anything like a hunt. In a hunt it was in their best interest to stay silent, to not provoke their prey. But in this case, the prey was obvious. And it seemed both sides needed to rile themselves up in some way. And the battle itself was far from quiet. Dorothea found herself surprised, but years of training spurred her into action. She followed the other archers and then began to shoot. She forced herself to block out the sounds as best she could and just send one arrow after another flying into targets. She never missed.
As her eyes roamed over the sands, she was drawn to a chariot that was heading right for the Colchian king. Her uncle. She could not let this man strike. Without a second thought, Dorothea drew an arrow and took aim, swiftly firing. Moving targets could be tough, but she was well practiced with them. The arrow lodged in the charioteer’s throat and Dorothea felt a sick satisfaction. She had saved her uncle’s life, for now. Yet, she had cruelly taken another’s. Dorothea offered up a silent prayer for the man’s peaceful passing before returning her eyes to the rest of the field.
It was then that she noticed they were being rushed by the enemy. She was on the far side of the action, though this was one moment she was not especially prepared for. Close combat was not meant for archers. Or at least, she had never had any practice with it. All Dorothea could do was hope that she would be protected and continue to keep her distance and fire as much as she could. Otherwise, she might be lost.
She glanced down, checking that she still had the shortsword that had been given to her, though what use it would be, she didn’t know. Her bow was the only weapon she had ever known. It was then that a Greek solider approached her, someone she didn’t know, and shouted that another force was coming. It was then that Dorothea began to feel true fear set in. What had she been thinking? What good was her skill here? She took another breath, finding her focus, pushing other wants and fears to the side. They were only distractions.
“We have to warn the others!” she shouted back at the Greek soldier. But how would they do that? She hoped that he might have an answer.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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She knew that many of the others would not trust in her abilities, but Dorothea could also not blame them for not caring either. The Dimitrou was an upstart, someone who had joined their ranks at the last minute basically without permission. She was well aware that opinions of her would not be high. Yet, there was nothing she could do about it now other than to fight. At least no one was outwardly hostile to her. They seemed content enough to let her prove herself or die. And Dorothea greatly hoped that it wasn’t the latter.
A familiar figure stopped by, giving advice. Dorothea smiled at Zosi, glad to see that this woman didn’t seem to hate her too much either. She gave a nod, accepting the warrior’s words, remembering them in case things got tough. “Thank you,” she replied, sending up a prayer in return for the woman’s safety. “Artemis give you speed and protection.” She didn’t know if that would be enough, but Artemis had always guided her before and she hoped the goddess would turn a favorable eye upon them now.
There was more and more activity and Dorothea could feel the tension building in the air. In many ways, it was not unlike a hunt, though in this case there would be far more butchery. And perhaps little point, as she had once argued with her cousin. He was so convinced that war was the way of things, but Dorothea saw differently. What would this battle solve but to wound both sides? Of course, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t play her part, if only to defend her fellow countrymen and women. If she could use her skills to keep them safe, Dorothea would feel honorable about her actions. At least, that was what she hoped. She had truly never been in this situation before, but hundreds of hunts had prepared her body to react calmly, with focus. Taking a deep breath, she could feel that focus wash over her now.
Then, suddenly, it was happening. All at once there was a rush of noise, far from anything like a hunt. In a hunt it was in their best interest to stay silent, to not provoke their prey. But in this case, the prey was obvious. And it seemed both sides needed to rile themselves up in some way. And the battle itself was far from quiet. Dorothea found herself surprised, but years of training spurred her into action. She followed the other archers and then began to shoot. She forced herself to block out the sounds as best she could and just send one arrow after another flying into targets. She never missed.
As her eyes roamed over the sands, she was drawn to a chariot that was heading right for the Colchian king. Her uncle. She could not let this man strike. Without a second thought, Dorothea drew an arrow and took aim, swiftly firing. Moving targets could be tough, but she was well practiced with them. The arrow lodged in the charioteer’s throat and Dorothea felt a sick satisfaction. She had saved her uncle’s life, for now. Yet, she had cruelly taken another’s. Dorothea offered up a silent prayer for the man’s peaceful passing before returning her eyes to the rest of the field.
It was then that she noticed they were being rushed by the enemy. She was on the far side of the action, though this was one moment she was not especially prepared for. Close combat was not meant for archers. Or at least, she had never had any practice with it. All Dorothea could do was hope that she would be protected and continue to keep her distance and fire as much as she could. Otherwise, she might be lost.
She glanced down, checking that she still had the shortsword that had been given to her, though what use it would be, she didn’t know. Her bow was the only weapon she had ever known. It was then that a Greek solider approached her, someone she didn’t know, and shouted that another force was coming. It was then that Dorothea began to feel true fear set in. What had she been thinking? What good was her skill here? She took another breath, finding her focus, pushing other wants and fears to the side. They were only distractions.
“We have to warn the others!” she shouted back at the Greek soldier. But how would they do that? She hoped that he might have an answer.
She knew that many of the others would not trust in her abilities, but Dorothea could also not blame them for not caring either. The Dimitrou was an upstart, someone who had joined their ranks at the last minute basically without permission. She was well aware that opinions of her would not be high. Yet, there was nothing she could do about it now other than to fight. At least no one was outwardly hostile to her. They seemed content enough to let her prove herself or die. And Dorothea greatly hoped that it wasn’t the latter.
A familiar figure stopped by, giving advice. Dorothea smiled at Zosi, glad to see that this woman didn’t seem to hate her too much either. She gave a nod, accepting the warrior’s words, remembering them in case things got tough. “Thank you,” she replied, sending up a prayer in return for the woman’s safety. “Artemis give you speed and protection.” She didn’t know if that would be enough, but Artemis had always guided her before and she hoped the goddess would turn a favorable eye upon them now.
There was more and more activity and Dorothea could feel the tension building in the air. In many ways, it was not unlike a hunt, though in this case there would be far more butchery. And perhaps little point, as she had once argued with her cousin. He was so convinced that war was the way of things, but Dorothea saw differently. What would this battle solve but to wound both sides? Of course, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t play her part, if only to defend her fellow countrymen and women. If she could use her skills to keep them safe, Dorothea would feel honorable about her actions. At least, that was what she hoped. She had truly never been in this situation before, but hundreds of hunts had prepared her body to react calmly, with focus. Taking a deep breath, she could feel that focus wash over her now.
Then, suddenly, it was happening. All at once there was a rush of noise, far from anything like a hunt. In a hunt it was in their best interest to stay silent, to not provoke their prey. But in this case, the prey was obvious. And it seemed both sides needed to rile themselves up in some way. And the battle itself was far from quiet. Dorothea found herself surprised, but years of training spurred her into action. She followed the other archers and then began to shoot. She forced herself to block out the sounds as best she could and just send one arrow after another flying into targets. She never missed.
As her eyes roamed over the sands, she was drawn to a chariot that was heading right for the Colchian king. Her uncle. She could not let this man strike. Without a second thought, Dorothea drew an arrow and took aim, swiftly firing. Moving targets could be tough, but she was well practiced with them. The arrow lodged in the charioteer’s throat and Dorothea felt a sick satisfaction. She had saved her uncle’s life, for now. Yet, she had cruelly taken another’s. Dorothea offered up a silent prayer for the man’s peaceful passing before returning her eyes to the rest of the field.
It was then that she noticed they were being rushed by the enemy. She was on the far side of the action, though this was one moment she was not especially prepared for. Close combat was not meant for archers. Or at least, she had never had any practice with it. All Dorothea could do was hope that she would be protected and continue to keep her distance and fire as much as she could. Otherwise, she might be lost.
She glanced down, checking that she still had the shortsword that had been given to her, though what use it would be, she didn’t know. Her bow was the only weapon she had ever known. It was then that a Greek solider approached her, someone she didn’t know, and shouted that another force was coming. It was then that Dorothea began to feel true fear set in. What had she been thinking? What good was her skill here? She took another breath, finding her focus, pushing other wants and fears to the side. They were only distractions.
“We have to warn the others!” she shouted back at the Greek soldier. But how would they do that? She hoped that he might have an answer.
Mihail was terrified and, for once in his life, it appeared that his fear was serving him well. His gaze had been fixed primarily on Maleos, waiting for any instruction — this was not a setting in which he was comfortable, and he did not know what he was doing — and yet he had been unable to stop darting his eyes from side to side, trying to watch everything that was happening in case there was trouble afoot. More importantly, if he found himself in such direct danger that he would have to run (he was not afraid of being viewed as a coward when stuck in a situation where he thought the response to be perfectly reasonable).
But thanks to that fearful, darting gaze, his dark eyes settled on the now-shifting sand beyond the rank of archers, and they widened in panic at the sight. The dread that settled through him was justified when he saw the first glimpse of a chariot appear over the crest of the dunes, and he knew not what to do but turn to find the face of the closest Greek. He did not care much for @dorothea — the frequent comments about her skills tended to irritate him when he saw little praise shown to his own which he thought were significantly superior — but a part of his intense desire for recognition had acknowledged that helping was more likely to gain him such.
Mihail stumbled in her direction, his feet almost unable to find purchase in the sand out of his rush. "Egyptians," he breathed out in clear distress, the words barely loud enough to hear over the cacophony of the battles around them. "Behind us!" This was louder than the first word, shouted as loudly as he could muster, one hand pointing out towards the moving grains where the new forces were starting to appear. "We need to move." Move or fight or whatever the appropriate word was, not that Mihail was in any way certain. He didn't especially want to fight, but he suspected it was likely the correct response here.
She shouted back something about warning the others, which did not seem like a valuable use of their time. Still, he did not care to argue, and shouted in the direction of the rest of their regiment in a similarly useless manner. "Turn around! We need to cover both sides." He was yelling at whoever would listen, whichever soldiers from their regiments would pay him any attention. If there were any two things at which Mihail excelled though one would not think otherwise, it was moving fast and screaming loudly, and he made use of both those talents now as he attempted to alert them all. "Now! We need to move!"
A ripple was starting to spread through the rest of the men, words clearly starting to be heeded as the others began to realise the severity of the situation and turned to face their new and oncoming herd of attackers as well. There was a battle raging all around him, and there were no excuses now for anything but Mihail's best.
It was far from the man's first time with moving targets, although they did not tend to be mounted in chariots and speeding towards him at a horrific speed. They were either deer or another frightened beast caught in his clutches in a forest hunt, or the few servants who fell victim to his wrath after some failed task caught him in the middle of practise. They were slower, and not actively attempting to murder him. But, at the end of the day, they were still only targets, and hitting targets was precisely what the Thanasi excelled at.
It was easy to drop the surrounding sights and smells from his mind (and there were plenty of those around which appalled his senses in a manner he did not think he had experienced in the past), focussing on the moving men coming for them. He raised his bow instantly, not giving himself the same time he often did to focus, knowing full well that this was not just a simple practice nor competition but his reality and fate wrapped into one awful package, aiming it at the chariot drivers that seemed to fly towards them, intent on felling them fast enough to halt the approach. It was the quickest the man had ever shot.
Shsh-thunk. Shsh-thunk. Shsh-thunk.
Three shots flew out as fast as he could manage, speeding through the air to settle themselves in one of the charioteers' flesh, finding kinks in the soldier's armour to have him falter somewhat, causing his chariot to stumble in its approach and throw its second rider from his position on the back. Another shot — shsh-thunk — raced towards a different soldier, this one as perfect as he desired, planting itself in the man's throat, which had always been Mihail's favourite spot for an attack, and allowing a dramatic sputter of blood to pour out onto the cold white contrast of the sand. He fell from his ride, only to be promptly crushed by one of his countrymen's own vehicles, which only appeared to secure the man's status as a goner. Oh, if only he had been closer and could see the results of the attack in true detail, for he knew already that they would be delightful.
One more. Shsh-thunk. The fifth mimicked the journey of the others, but found a home wedged into one of the wheels of a chariot, where it was promptly crushed. A failure compared to his more effective and arguably deadlier previous shots, but given that the quintet had been shot in the space of under a minute, he thought them excellent enough. Now, he had only to continue shooting, moving as fast as he could manage while still attempting to remain as accurate as possible, hunting down as many of the approaching attackers as he could before they came too close. And if they did, then he had no choice but to run, for the only close weapon the man knew how to use was his pretty knife, and that would not work in the frenzied environment in which he now found himself.
He would shoot, or he would run and hope it would keep him safe. But he could not die this day. He had promised his sisters as much.
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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Mihail was terrified and, for once in his life, it appeared that his fear was serving him well. His gaze had been fixed primarily on Maleos, waiting for any instruction — this was not a setting in which he was comfortable, and he did not know what he was doing — and yet he had been unable to stop darting his eyes from side to side, trying to watch everything that was happening in case there was trouble afoot. More importantly, if he found himself in such direct danger that he would have to run (he was not afraid of being viewed as a coward when stuck in a situation where he thought the response to be perfectly reasonable).
But thanks to that fearful, darting gaze, his dark eyes settled on the now-shifting sand beyond the rank of archers, and they widened in panic at the sight. The dread that settled through him was justified when he saw the first glimpse of a chariot appear over the crest of the dunes, and he knew not what to do but turn to find the face of the closest Greek. He did not care much for @dorothea — the frequent comments about her skills tended to irritate him when he saw little praise shown to his own which he thought were significantly superior — but a part of his intense desire for recognition had acknowledged that helping was more likely to gain him such.
Mihail stumbled in her direction, his feet almost unable to find purchase in the sand out of his rush. "Egyptians," he breathed out in clear distress, the words barely loud enough to hear over the cacophony of the battles around them. "Behind us!" This was louder than the first word, shouted as loudly as he could muster, one hand pointing out towards the moving grains where the new forces were starting to appear. "We need to move." Move or fight or whatever the appropriate word was, not that Mihail was in any way certain. He didn't especially want to fight, but he suspected it was likely the correct response here.
She shouted back something about warning the others, which did not seem like a valuable use of their time. Still, he did not care to argue, and shouted in the direction of the rest of their regiment in a similarly useless manner. "Turn around! We need to cover both sides." He was yelling at whoever would listen, whichever soldiers from their regiments would pay him any attention. If there were any two things at which Mihail excelled though one would not think otherwise, it was moving fast and screaming loudly, and he made use of both those talents now as he attempted to alert them all. "Now! We need to move!"
A ripple was starting to spread through the rest of the men, words clearly starting to be heeded as the others began to realise the severity of the situation and turned to face their new and oncoming herd of attackers as well. There was a battle raging all around him, and there were no excuses now for anything but Mihail's best.
It was far from the man's first time with moving targets, although they did not tend to be mounted in chariots and speeding towards him at a horrific speed. They were either deer or another frightened beast caught in his clutches in a forest hunt, or the few servants who fell victim to his wrath after some failed task caught him in the middle of practise. They were slower, and not actively attempting to murder him. But, at the end of the day, they were still only targets, and hitting targets was precisely what the Thanasi excelled at.
It was easy to drop the surrounding sights and smells from his mind (and there were plenty of those around which appalled his senses in a manner he did not think he had experienced in the past), focussing on the moving men coming for them. He raised his bow instantly, not giving himself the same time he often did to focus, knowing full well that this was not just a simple practice nor competition but his reality and fate wrapped into one awful package, aiming it at the chariot drivers that seemed to fly towards them, intent on felling them fast enough to halt the approach. It was the quickest the man had ever shot.
Shsh-thunk. Shsh-thunk. Shsh-thunk.
Three shots flew out as fast as he could manage, speeding through the air to settle themselves in one of the charioteers' flesh, finding kinks in the soldier's armour to have him falter somewhat, causing his chariot to stumble in its approach and throw its second rider from his position on the back. Another shot — shsh-thunk — raced towards a different soldier, this one as perfect as he desired, planting itself in the man's throat, which had always been Mihail's favourite spot for an attack, and allowing a dramatic sputter of blood to pour out onto the cold white contrast of the sand. He fell from his ride, only to be promptly crushed by one of his countrymen's own vehicles, which only appeared to secure the man's status as a goner. Oh, if only he had been closer and could see the results of the attack in true detail, for he knew already that they would be delightful.
One more. Shsh-thunk. The fifth mimicked the journey of the others, but found a home wedged into one of the wheels of a chariot, where it was promptly crushed. A failure compared to his more effective and arguably deadlier previous shots, but given that the quintet had been shot in the space of under a minute, he thought them excellent enough. Now, he had only to continue shooting, moving as fast as he could manage while still attempting to remain as accurate as possible, hunting down as many of the approaching attackers as he could before they came too close. And if they did, then he had no choice but to run, for the only close weapon the man knew how to use was his pretty knife, and that would not work in the frenzied environment in which he now found himself.
He would shoot, or he would run and hope it would keep him safe. But he could not die this day. He had promised his sisters as much.
Mihail was terrified and, for once in his life, it appeared that his fear was serving him well. His gaze had been fixed primarily on Maleos, waiting for any instruction — this was not a setting in which he was comfortable, and he did not know what he was doing — and yet he had been unable to stop darting his eyes from side to side, trying to watch everything that was happening in case there was trouble afoot. More importantly, if he found himself in such direct danger that he would have to run (he was not afraid of being viewed as a coward when stuck in a situation where he thought the response to be perfectly reasonable).
But thanks to that fearful, darting gaze, his dark eyes settled on the now-shifting sand beyond the rank of archers, and they widened in panic at the sight. The dread that settled through him was justified when he saw the first glimpse of a chariot appear over the crest of the dunes, and he knew not what to do but turn to find the face of the closest Greek. He did not care much for @dorothea — the frequent comments about her skills tended to irritate him when he saw little praise shown to his own which he thought were significantly superior — but a part of his intense desire for recognition had acknowledged that helping was more likely to gain him such.
Mihail stumbled in her direction, his feet almost unable to find purchase in the sand out of his rush. "Egyptians," he breathed out in clear distress, the words barely loud enough to hear over the cacophony of the battles around them. "Behind us!" This was louder than the first word, shouted as loudly as he could muster, one hand pointing out towards the moving grains where the new forces were starting to appear. "We need to move." Move or fight or whatever the appropriate word was, not that Mihail was in any way certain. He didn't especially want to fight, but he suspected it was likely the correct response here.
She shouted back something about warning the others, which did not seem like a valuable use of their time. Still, he did not care to argue, and shouted in the direction of the rest of their regiment in a similarly useless manner. "Turn around! We need to cover both sides." He was yelling at whoever would listen, whichever soldiers from their regiments would pay him any attention. If there were any two things at which Mihail excelled though one would not think otherwise, it was moving fast and screaming loudly, and he made use of both those talents now as he attempted to alert them all. "Now! We need to move!"
A ripple was starting to spread through the rest of the men, words clearly starting to be heeded as the others began to realise the severity of the situation and turned to face their new and oncoming herd of attackers as well. There was a battle raging all around him, and there were no excuses now for anything but Mihail's best.
It was far from the man's first time with moving targets, although they did not tend to be mounted in chariots and speeding towards him at a horrific speed. They were either deer or another frightened beast caught in his clutches in a forest hunt, or the few servants who fell victim to his wrath after some failed task caught him in the middle of practise. They were slower, and not actively attempting to murder him. But, at the end of the day, they were still only targets, and hitting targets was precisely what the Thanasi excelled at.
It was easy to drop the surrounding sights and smells from his mind (and there were plenty of those around which appalled his senses in a manner he did not think he had experienced in the past), focussing on the moving men coming for them. He raised his bow instantly, not giving himself the same time he often did to focus, knowing full well that this was not just a simple practice nor competition but his reality and fate wrapped into one awful package, aiming it at the chariot drivers that seemed to fly towards them, intent on felling them fast enough to halt the approach. It was the quickest the man had ever shot.
Shsh-thunk. Shsh-thunk. Shsh-thunk.
Three shots flew out as fast as he could manage, speeding through the air to settle themselves in one of the charioteers' flesh, finding kinks in the soldier's armour to have him falter somewhat, causing his chariot to stumble in its approach and throw its second rider from his position on the back. Another shot — shsh-thunk — raced towards a different soldier, this one as perfect as he desired, planting itself in the man's throat, which had always been Mihail's favourite spot for an attack, and allowing a dramatic sputter of blood to pour out onto the cold white contrast of the sand. He fell from his ride, only to be promptly crushed by one of his countrymen's own vehicles, which only appeared to secure the man's status as a goner. Oh, if only he had been closer and could see the results of the attack in true detail, for he knew already that they would be delightful.
One more. Shsh-thunk. The fifth mimicked the journey of the others, but found a home wedged into one of the wheels of a chariot, where it was promptly crushed. A failure compared to his more effective and arguably deadlier previous shots, but given that the quintet had been shot in the space of under a minute, he thought them excellent enough. Now, he had only to continue shooting, moving as fast as he could manage while still attempting to remain as accurate as possible, hunting down as many of the approaching attackers as he could before they came too close. And if they did, then he had no choice but to run, for the only close weapon the man knew how to use was his pretty knife, and that would not work in the frenzied environment in which he now found himself.
He would shoot, or he would run and hope it would keep him safe. But he could not die this day. He had promised his sisters as much.
