Contrary to popular belief, whenever he wasn’t hatching one of his cunning machinations, Damocles was not a difficult person to find, if one cared to follow his trail. At any time he could do like the Lord of the Underworld, Hades himself, and disappear between the shadows, tenebrous and subtlety, creeping away through the lingering darkness while leaving no trace of his hand before. Yet, there was little reason to do so. It wasn’t as if he was doing anything particularly insidious right then, nor did he feel compelled to change course and take a defensive stance at the given moment. Whatever pieces on the board he had placed beforehand would have fallen in place in time, and the foresight that the Gods saw fit to allot him gave him enough reason to find comfort in the thermal baths of Midas, a pleasure he often indulged in whenever he felt rather pleased with himself.

Iconoclastic and controversial as always, Damocles had done away with the regular conventions of the springs and invited not only men, but also women, both free of clothes and garments, unto his bath, bellowing loudly as one of his companions broke out a joke that made the boisterous man laugh heartedly. By his very nature, the silver eyed man was charismatic, and had an ease at attracting crowds wherever he went. Whether it be some shoddy, run-down tavern, or a disengaged army on the verge of losing hope, the charm and forceful presence of the respected Captain of the Damned was enough to rally those he wished to motivate behind him. Just as his foresight, so too was his command of people, often attracting whomever he wanted to himself, like a light did an insect. A kylix filled with expensive, rare Condos wine was gripped on his left hand, and a girl with bright, auburn locks rested close against his broad, muscular, exposed chest, with his right arm hanging loosely over her as he motived towards his drink and sated his thirst, enjoying the reverie of the then. And oh, there was reverie to celebrate.

True, he had parted ways with his recently re-accepted Taengean lover a few days past, but by no means was the fighting tournament in Pieria a loss, even if he did come up short of an absolute triumph. Objectively, it was very much a fact that he was not the consummate winner of that event, but in the grand scheme of things it mattered little, for he had secured a prize greater still than any medal or trophy allotted that day: a clear, public and humiliating defeat in front of the commons and nobles of Colchis aimed right at the Crown Prince himself. The Gods truly were good! Perhaps, he should make worship to @ares and @athena later during the day to show a bit of gratitude in sponsoring his victory, but a part of him also thought that he had done enough himself in this mortal plane to warrant that victory. Vangelis had it coming. That arrogant, reprobate fool had been a thorn on his side far too many times, and dealing him a public embarrassment in front of some of the most important people of the kingdom was an experience that still made him smile widely with self-amusement. The only thing that would have made that day better was if he had been allowed to humiliate the rest of those gratingly obstinate Kotas himself on that very arena. Alas, you can’t always get what you want.

Still, there was much cause to celebrate! Hence why he had lavished his crowd with his gregarious presence in the upper rings of the Hot Springs, busying himself with the presence of militants, wealthy merchants, and what he could guess were the arrant daughters of some halfwit Baron. Given the circumstance of the place, he was covered with the remains of water, whilst his thick, black hair, mostly pushed backwards, but still somewhat wet, and though it was usually the norm that men and women shared the waters separately, amongst the more important patrons of Colchis, certain priviledges were afforded, if one asked kindly.

And yet, though he looked as if he was unconcerned and busied with the hedonistic company he kept, and in spite of the wine he drunk, Damocles was by no means deprived of his senses or intuition. From the corner of his luminous eyes, he felt the presence of another one of those wayward Bears, causing him to grin widely as he hatched a joke to try and make the princeling feel at least a bit flustered. “Your Highness!” he said in that intense, thunderous voice that could make most men stand up straight with anticipated dread. “I would stand and bow, as etiquette dictates, but I am not sure you wish to see me in my most...exposed form.” He joked, causing the room to explore in laughter as the wealthy men and affluent women he kept company with joined him in his jest. “To what do I owe this…unexpected visit?” he smiled, relaxing against the press of the calming water as he leaned back against his pool, snapping his fingers as a slave that carried an amphora filled with his exquisite wine filled another kylix that was offered to the royal at the enormous war hero’s unspoken instruction.

“Would you partake with me? I’ve been sharing some with all my friends here. We are friends, right, Prince Yiannis?” he asked, commanding the same slave woman to fill his own chalice before he drunk again, showing that indeed, there was no danger to be had at that time. Of course he sort of had an impression on the man before him, and could make an educated guess as to why a member of the Ruling family was right here at this very time. It did not take a genius to figure out that the third son of the Kotas had purposely sought out the man who had bested his elder brother in single combat without either trickery or weaponry. Still while he had expected the Second prince to appear, he had hoped that it would have been the Third one that would grace his presence. After all, little brothers were so easy to read, a sentiment he knew from his own familiar experiences. This should be most interesting…

While it was true that Damocles was quite liberal when it came to social norms and conventions, it was not as if he was breaking the entire list of manners and etiquette of the Greek realm. Yes, it was true he was surrounded by people that he had attracted by myriad means, but his means of entertainment were far less lascivious than some of the rumors he had heard about the Kotas that Yiannis flagrantly belong to with such unscrupulous audacity. Last he had heard on gossiped words whispered in the latest of Court sessions that he bothered to attend, one of his own brothers had shared the bed of a particularly notorious hetairai. And if that wasn’t true, then there was always the existence of places like Megaris or Nethisa, where, for a short promise of coin, one could grab onto just about anything material that they so wished.

Still, despite his desire to make a fool of the princeling and brazenly humiliate him further before a gathered audience, comparatively lower-classed as it was to the royal, Damocles was not going to risk an opportunity where he saw one. There was much profit to be gained by the swayed words of a prince after all. And besides, while he had reserved a particular level of hatred for his eldest brother, the Silver-eyed militant did not harbor any feelings above his usual contempt for Yiannis. He was just another one of those red-blooded Bears, proud in their stolen glories and emboldened by their false rule over the Crown they shallowly wore. His features remained friendly, smiling flatteringly at the shorter man as he nodded at him and analyzed each and every one of his gestures, studying every single part of his language, both verbal and nonverbal with the strict intensity of a predator before his prey, regardless of the charming smile he so freely offered.

First, he affixed his stare on the other’s facial gestures, enjoying the way that his joke had caught the other by what seemed to be either unexpected shock or brashness. Then he noticed that frown, confirming his suspicions that he had already dug his claws unto the younger man’s mind with nothing but a simple jest and a mere flick of his hand. Make no mistake, every single physical interaction was a negotiation of sorts, and whomever allowed their mask to bend, even by the slightest, had failed in the eyes of the Magnemean. Next came the wine, a humorous observation that betrayed the other’s origins as a Kotas. Those forceful stoics were known for their dislike of pleasure, but in that moment he wondered if they truly had no concept over the idea of simple pleasantries? How curious. Very curious… Perhaps, more prodding was needed before he allowed this lonely Bear to show the extent of his roar.

“Do you not partake, Your Highness?” he asked in a frivolous tone, purposely delaying the arrival of the obvious topic that the other man surely had come to broach with him today. He was in hurry to talk about Vangelis at this moment, or rather, any, but he could savor the deliciousness of dragging an uncomfortable confrontation where it was merited. “I can assure you, My Prince, it is an exceptionally scrumptious vintage, fresh of the prized fields of the Dynasteia Condos itself.” He once more mused, entertaining himself with the plethora of emotions that he intuitively perceived were behind that stoic mask. Oh, the Kotas might have prized themselves on their cold, expressionless reputation, but Damocles was quite interested in unraveling the innermost desires and interests of others, especially when it came to the royalty.

“Would you reconsider, Good Prince? I would love it if we could enjoy this fine luxury between us.” he asked a second time, maintaining his friendly demeanor, while noticing how the gathered people by his side all stared at the prince with peaked interest. Let it be known, however, that when it came to wine, Damocles did not mess around. It was one of the very few things he spent his coin on, and, though it was an expensive hobby, he had more than developed a heightened taste for the finer things in life when it came to that alluring drink. Indeed, the vintage he had chosen for that day was particularly aromatic, engulfing the confines of the room with its lavish smell, like the promise of an enthralling lover towards a welcoming bed.

It was a cheap shot, clear as day to anyone who had even the smallest semblance of cunning behind them. Yet, just because it was an obvious attempt at easing the royal and luring him into more favorable condition, did not mean that his dirty tactics weren’t effective. After all, there was a reason why Damocles had turned to wine as a courtly weapon, for it was rare in Colchis. Perhaps, the aristocracy had greater access to the vintage, but that would require coin, effort and time, which he dared to think few would pass on when it was being offered so freely.

And yet, after he finished ruminating over the other’s actions, Damocles heard more and more words that, oddly made him feel a glimmer of attention. “Congratulations? Your Highness?” he asked with a tilt of his head and a firmed look on his face that could be considered genuine confusion. “Forgive me, but it almost sounds as if you were pleased that Crown Prince Vangelis was defeated by my hand.” He lead on, using the other’s words against him so as to once more disarm Yiannis through simple oratory. “Oh, I think I can manage an empty room here and there, Prince Yiannis.” He lightly retorted, maintaining his demeanor as he prompty read the time and dismissed everyone else that he had gathered before him on that moment, deciding that, perhaps, it was best to play nice with this Bear, rather than to be crude with him.

Once the hall was left bare, save for themselves, the Magnemean stood from his spring and covered himself with a dry, comfortable robe, assuming a less…provocative appearance. Now in the privacy of the chamber, Damocles once more drunk from his wine, this time pouring his own serving as he held the dark-colored beverage to his side. “I can assure you, Prince Yiannis, that in your brother’s defeat, I took no great pleasure.” His tone was calmed, soothing and melodious, betraying none of the confidence and collectiveness that the Captain of the Damned was known to show as a martial leader. "Nor am I worthy of the praise you seem to be offering so freely. It was but a match, nothing more. Nothing less."

Once left alone in the room, save of course with the Kotas prince, Damocles stood up from the pool and revealed himself entirely, saving not one inch of his body as he walked about unashamedly, flaunting his very considerable proof of his gender brazenly and openly. It was an underhanded tactic, one meant to disturb the other man’s train of thought so as to get an advantage over him in what was otherwise a silent duel of minds and wills. Likewise, he circumvented protocol and conventions and walked towards the prince, each menacing step echoing through the room a constant reminder of the Magnemean’s legendary strength and might.

Once he finally made his way by the prince, the enormous man exercised the natural intimidation that came with his super height and build. Both knew that it would have been all too easy for the silver-eyed man to seize Yiannis by the neck and crush his throat with only his hands, and there was an obvious air of danger about the man that the Magnemean quite easily channeled without uttering a single word. Just as the other man’s weapon today had been his royalty, in that moment, Damocles’s weapon had been the pressure that his mere persona demanded in that moment. And, for a moment, it seemed as though he would strike the other man. His hand reached outwards, stretching forward towards the other man in a general direction that seemed to indicate he was about to harm the third Kotas prince…

and yet…he didn’t…

“Wine is good for praising Dionysius…” He apparently randomly said, immediately pulling back the direction of the conversation back to a previous topic they had engaged in before. Instead of harming the other man, Damocles invaded his personal space by putting his hand on the other’s shoulder, appearing almost friendly in his demeanor as he went on to say something as innocuous as alcohol. And yet, there was a cold calculation to the madness, an almost cruel torture that the Magnemean had levied in that one moment as he raised a surgically precise attack on the other’s mental defenses. Damocles knew that Yiannis was nervous, out of his depth and putting on a show of strength in that moment, and the worse part was that the silver-eyed man felt that the other was entirely aware that the Kotas prince was all too self-aware at that moment as well. It was a painful strategy, an almost forbidden calculation that both of them were aware, was far more brilliant than either were willing to admit to. He had not intended to find a chink in the man’s armor, he had intended to destroy the whole layer in one single blow. “If you want, we could worship the Wine God together, another day perhaps.”

Once his power-move was over and done, Damocles let go of the other’s shoulder and turned around, garbing his nether regions with a cloth of sorts so as to allow the other man some semblance of decency at that moment. And yet, despite having appeared to now abide by the rules of fairness, the hulking man pressed on his figure, one more invading the other’s personal space by closing the distance between them in an effort to make the other man feel as uncomfortable and under-prepared as possible. He knew that the minute the other man showed his emotions, he would have lost their little encounter, and no matter who had the best argument or logic, all further points would be for nothing.

“We could trade barbs over ideology all we want, but, given that neither of us are politicians by trade, nor, this is the senate, I find any and all retorts aimed against or in favor of our beliefs to be futile.” Deflected Damocles, not giving an inch into his innermost stances concerning success and its acquisition. “Though, if you please, might you stop praising me. I rather you don’t continue insulting my intelligence with false flattery and courtly trickery that, quite frankly, are beneath both you and me.” He requested, boredom awash in his face as he raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes in disbelief of what Damocles supposed the prince thought would be a rather cleaver strategy.

“I defeated your brother in front of both high and low born, and yet here you stand, praising me? Come Yiannis, you can do better than that.” He said, making it abundantly clear that the Magnemean understood the very nature of the games that the younger man was playing at. “You are probably asking yourself why I said I derived no distinct pleasure from beating Vangelis. It is quite simple. I gained no particular pleasure from defeating him because there was no particular reason to treat your brother in any special light at all.” Revealed the renowned Captain as if the very words he said were not shocking. It went without saying that most people would simper and vow before a noble, let alone the Crown Prince of the realm himself, but deep down, such titles meant little to the Silver-eyed man. Every man, no matter his heritage and birth ultimately died, and if the Gods had not intended men to truly be treated in such a way, they would not have condemned all mortals to such a similar fate.

Some men felt the need to hide away from fear, and turn from it a deflection that they might perhaps think safer than the alternative, which was to accept and embrace said feelings in whatever way they came. Damocles was not like this. No, he embraced his passions, he turned his ambitions and desires into weapons and garbed the typical fear that struck at the heart of men like a robe, dancing with intimidation, danger and terror as one would do a partner beneath the starry, pale light of a crescent moon. He was fundamentally aware that Colchians were a race of stoics who thought emotions and their expression a weakness, but, as his silver gaze fell upon Yiannis, Damocles was reminded once again that feelings were not a weaknesses, but a strength, a weapon that, if tamed and mastered as he had the sword or the spear or the shield in his days as a soldier, could pierce even the most stoical armor in this land of fire and ire.



This had been the truth of his powerful charisma, one that could both inspire and terrify. It was why he had been able to see through the stiffness of the prince’s posture, which perhaps to another, less aggressive man, would have gone unnoticed, but not Damocles. He saw the myriad of complexities that awash in the other’s features, and relished the incredibly subtle transactions that happened at a moment’s flash. As his hand stayed on the other’s shoulder, the massive man grinned, pleased at the overthinking mind he had just pierced through, silently laughing at the cruelty of his ruthless calculation. There must have been tens of thousands of thoughts running through the smaller man’s brain, an idea that made the colossal Magnemean quietly savor his fundamentally simple, but not easy-to-pull-off move.



In truth, he had merely meant to sway attention away from their previous topic to one which Damocles could manipulate. He had no intentions of going through with the seductive undertones of his deviation, even though he understood the salaciousness of such implications. Perhaps, if Yiannis had not come in such an aggressive manner that day he might’ve been compelled to do so, but for the time being, he had other, more long-term machinations to tend to. Yes, he might have tested his mettle with the Crown Prince, and perhaps soured their relationship further still…but there was profit to be had in weaving a quiet web of shadows around another one of those Kotas and pull said bear unto his den of opportunities. It might be beneficial, lucrative even, to engross one of those princelings. And though Vangelis had been a thorn on his side for the longest time, mayhaps his brother, less virtuous and honor-bound (as the Magnemean believed) could prove to be a very interesting investment.



“Then the answer lies plain before us, come to Magnemea.” Exchanged Damocles, now garbed but still just as commanding as he had been before. It was an invitation of the darkest kind, one that, if accepted, would bring the third son of Kotas right at the heart of the Silver-eyed militant’s empire of darkness, one where neither royal titles or noble blood would spare in its harrowing and suffering, all the likes of which one as pampered and well-groomed as Yiannis could not even begin to imagine. “If you wish to begin your study into my affairs, I invite you to see for yourself just why my soldiers are called the Damned, and why I myself was branded Damocles the Terrible in the first place.” His tone indicated at a certain excitement of sorts, as if the Captain of that northern land had truly orchestrated every single event that had transpired in that day. "I must warn you, that only those that abandon all hope may truly enter Magnemea.” He said, recalling the tenebrous reputation of what was widely understood to be Colchis’s single most horrible province, one where the very air was oppressive, where the light of Helios barely pierced through those thick, black clouds, and where dying was just as frequent as breathing.



His hand once more outstretched, this time tapping beneath the other’s chin as the Magnemean raised Yiannis’s head upwards so his empty, almost soulless silver eyes met the regal blue from the other’s orbs. His lips curled into a twisted smile, and his touch became frigid and Stygian, a striking contrast to the warmth and brightness he had channeled before whence surrounded by his army of sycophants and yes-men, reflecting the abysmal lands that Damocles had called home for the longest time, before he settled his unforgiving gaze on the royal.



“Tell me, Prince Yiannis, are you prepared to abandon all hope?”

It was almost entertaining how Yiannis tried to keep up his defenses and pursue a more belligerent attitude in what was essentially a mere invitation, well, at least at face value. But there was far more to the words that the towering man whispered, an almost painful venomous trail behind his utterances that seemed to convey the cruel darkness and unsubtle maliciousness that was so common of the place that the third son of Kota had been encouraged to visit. As he stared at those strong, superficially defiant blue eyes, Damocles could not help think that his machinations had worked, that, like the ruthless spider that he was, he had lured Yiannis into his web, tending to the quiet threads that, if plucked and pulled at the right time, would yield the results he wanted.

It was widely understood that Magnemea was a place one stayed away from, a dangerous, unforgiving place that by mere mention alone would elicit a cold, sweatless chill from even the most rugged of soldiers. It was a land of cruelty and intensity, one that demanded one to use all of their abilities just to survive. Yet, Damocles had not just survived, under Magnemea’s ominous nature, he had thrived, mastering its tenebrous terrain and making its abundantly oppressively atmosphere move in accordance to his will, freely and at his beck and call, like a well-trained hound did upon its master. Damocles firmly believed that there was not a single person alive who understood that most pitiless pit more than himself, including the Baron who only nominally oversaw its affairs as a consequence of his years of careful manipulations, and the Drakos, who owned the land in-name alone and far-removed behind the comfort of their gilded halls and grand estates. Colchis might belong to the Kotas, but Magnemea belonged to Damocles, in more ways than one.

His rough touch returned to its former heat, quelled from it’s the unspoken threat that was hidden behind his long, calloused fingers. Yet, as he did so, he once more sensed the stiffness in the other man’s form, one that both amused and intrigued Damocles as he peered into that azure stare and tried to see through the other’s mind. Was Yiannis afraid? Was he apprehensive? Maybe he was confused, or perhaps even intimidated. Regardless, it mattered little. For a moment he recognized the intensity of those eyes, cold in their character for sure, but still nowhere strong enough to challenge Damocles’s fiery forcefulness the way Vangelis had done in the past. It was a good look, one that, perhaps, in a few years, could grow to be just as powerful as the one manifested by Yiannis’s elder brother, but he was still not there. No, right now, Yiannis was playing with fire, and, if he kept at it for far too long, not even the Captain of the Damned could spare that Kotas heir from being burned.

All of his thesis had been proven the moment he stepped back, away from his reach on to a safe ground that perhaps would give the other man some semblance of comfort in what was otherwise a purposely uncomfortable situation. A wise move, but a predictable one. The Kotas did always seem to prefer to keep themselves away from heat, rather than close to it, and it showed right now as Yiannis backtracked from Damocles. Still, then came a moment that caused him to laugh one of his familiar, but still infectious guffaws, albeit this time, sounding somewhat less inviting and far more insidious and calculating in origin. In that one instance, the Kotas prince had changed strategy, abandoning the stoic coldness that such family seemed to so erroneously think a strength in favor of a smile that the Magnemean know all too well was a forced one. If he thought that fighting fire with fire would yield any results for him, then Yiannis had another thing coming. That being said, it greatly amused him, that switch in strategy. The other man might have been smaller than his eldest brother, and did not have the same frigidness in his stare, but he was still a cleaver one, perhaps, even more so than Vangelis, and he had to remember that. He was still dealing with a Kotas after all, and those obstinate bears rarely gave up without a fight.

“Of course not! We are friends after all, right Yiannis? I shall consider it an honor for my province to host one of the Kotas, one who, perhaps, is more fascinating than his big brother.” His words had been carefully chosen, teetering between an offhanded flirtation and a recall to their first words spoken to each other that day, ones that Damocles had maneuvered once more, almost as if he was trying to make the other man swallow the poison that was acknowledging his brother's victor as a comrade. "You shall be be my most honored guest!" His steps moved forward once more, effortlessly, if not arrogantly, returning the other to Damocles's familiar body language, one that patted the other man in a disarmingly gregarious way that hinted at his ability to turn enemies into allies.  

“I will inform my baron so he can prepare his archontiko’s quarters for you to stay at.” There was much to unpack in that sentence, but perhaps the most direct of his was the quiet jabs aimed at Yiannis were posed as an attack directed at the other’s pampered background, one that suggested that the prince was not tough enough to live amongst the commoners of Magnemea as the militant did. Yet, at the same time, his sentence seemed friendly and polite enough, masking its intention with the trademark charm and charisma that that silver-eyed man had so freely employed as his weapon of choice. “When might we be expecting your presence, Your Highness?”