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Vangelis always rose before the dawn. There was no pride in such a choice. No ego that drove him from his sheets into the early rays of the day. He did not seek to beat his peers nor competitors by reaching the grassy dunes of his home sooner than other might their own. It was a decision based solely on necessity. As crown prince, regent baron of Chaossis, General of the Colchian armies and general member of the nobility and royal family, it was near impossible to find the time during daylight hours for his own purposes. Duty overtook his time as responsibility did his space. Left with no alternative, Vangelis had become a fellow of the rising sun. A friend to the glowing, golden orb that seemed to welcome him every dawn.
An additional benefit of the sun playing sole witness to his morning exercises was that Vangelis could dispense with the game of princedom. He could shed his formal chitons, cloaks and formal sandals in favour of heavier leather about his legs and a simple perizoma about his hips. His chest and arms remained bear but for the bracers of brown leather that clad his forearms. They were worn and scuffed. Hardly the silver-worked versions that he might wear at grand ceremonies. Instead, that morning, Vangelis prized efficiency over appearance; effect over visage. As with most mornings, Vangelis wasn't truly a prince since the sun had fully escaped the top-most branches of the hillside trees.
Instead of a sceptre or crown, Vangelis' hands were busy with only the tools of his more menial trade; that of the military. Laced to his ankles were small scabbards that held their brother-daggers. On his hips, a belt from which hung a small quiver of short arrows and a large hunting knife. His chest, otherwise naked, was cut diagonally by a balladeer that held a loop-sheath between his shoulder blades. From it, hung a large battle axe.
Setting himself in the centre of the private meadow to the rear of the Kotas mansion, Vangelis dispensed with most of the weapons in which he was burdened. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the blades to the earth, embedding them three inches into the soil. The hunting knife broke five beneath the grass.
As a prince, Vangelis was expected to wield the spear. It was the weapon of choice for all Grecians. Both throwing and fighting in hand-to-hand with the tipped shaft were required skills for any man worth the salt on his skin. Vangelis had, more personally, taken to the sword. Specifically, fighting with a set of dual blades in tandem. His father had made certain that his firstborn son was near fluent in working both hands when it came to the battlefield.
Heavier weapons, however, had fallen into disuse over the last few years. Vangelis had once trained with axes, halberds and claymores and still possessed the theoretical knowledge for how to utilise them. But his personal favour, the necessity for his finest skills on the front lines and his own limited time had seen the practical revision of them entirely disappear from his working curriculum.
That morning, Vangelis was set to correct this mistake. If nothing else, it would work his muscles harder than the familiar, fluid lines of lighter blades and strengthen him as a whole. Even if it never led to an extravagant career with heavy weaponry.
Freeing the axe from its loop across his back, Vangelis took the shaft in hand with ease. At over six feet tall and broader than most men in the shoulders, he had the size to balance the axe without issue. He slipped the wood along his palms until he felt himself the most in control and then began to move across the grass in slow motion. He shifted the handle with deliberacy, watching the blade with shrewd care. He preferred to keep all ten of his toes.
As his confidence grew, so too did the arc of his swings. Vangelis moved forward and then back, offensive and then defensive. He reversed himself as if parrying an attack from the rear and then spread his feet to absorb the weight of the weapon and lift it over his head. He moved back and forth, repeating motions that felt too hindered or out of step, and practising formations and patterns that would be useful in battle. Sometimes he worked the axe like a balance weight, moving with it as an extension of his body so that he might kick or strike his enemy personally. At others, he let the metal perform its task and sing as it cleaved through the air.
Lost in the exercise, in the way it burned his muscles and cleaned his skin with a flush of fresh sweat, Vangelis became oblivious to the world around him. He heard only the sharp and keening noise of the blade and the whoosh of the grass blades, bending beneath the wind he created with every pass. His ears were filled with the thumping of his own heart, with the panting of his breath. Even his skin spoke to him, slipping and sighing against its own damp state when arm met chest or waist brushed wrist.
Tunnelling his vision, his hearing and his focus to the singular task at hand, he heard nothing of the person coming upon him from behind. He only noticed their presence at the exactly morning that he turned on his heel, axe head swinging high and wide... and directly aimed for their head.
JD
Vangelis
JD
Vangelis
Awards
First Impressions:Towering; Resting stoic bitch face; monstrous height; the terrifying "Blood General".
Address: Your Royal Highness
Vangelis always rose before the dawn. There was no pride in such a choice. No ego that drove him from his sheets into the early rays of the day. He did not seek to beat his peers nor competitors by reaching the grassy dunes of his home sooner than other might their own. It was a decision based solely on necessity. As crown prince, regent baron of Chaossis, General of the Colchian armies and general member of the nobility and royal family, it was near impossible to find the time during daylight hours for his own purposes. Duty overtook his time as responsibility did his space. Left with no alternative, Vangelis had become a fellow of the rising sun. A friend to the glowing, golden orb that seemed to welcome him every dawn.
An additional benefit of the sun playing sole witness to his morning exercises was that Vangelis could dispense with the game of princedom. He could shed his formal chitons, cloaks and formal sandals in favour of heavier leather about his legs and a simple perizoma about his hips. His chest and arms remained bear but for the bracers of brown leather that clad his forearms. They were worn and scuffed. Hardly the silver-worked versions that he might wear at grand ceremonies. Instead, that morning, Vangelis prized efficiency over appearance; effect over visage. As with most mornings, Vangelis wasn't truly a prince since the sun had fully escaped the top-most branches of the hillside trees.
Instead of a sceptre or crown, Vangelis' hands were busy with only the tools of his more menial trade; that of the military. Laced to his ankles were small scabbards that held their brother-daggers. On his hips, a belt from which hung a small quiver of short arrows and a large hunting knife. His chest, otherwise naked, was cut diagonally by a balladeer that held a loop-sheath between his shoulder blades. From it, hung a large battle axe.
Setting himself in the centre of the private meadow to the rear of the Kotas mansion, Vangelis dispensed with most of the weapons in which he was burdened. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the blades to the earth, embedding them three inches into the soil. The hunting knife broke five beneath the grass.
As a prince, Vangelis was expected to wield the spear. It was the weapon of choice for all Grecians. Both throwing and fighting in hand-to-hand with the tipped shaft were required skills for any man worth the salt on his skin. Vangelis had, more personally, taken to the sword. Specifically, fighting with a set of dual blades in tandem. His father had made certain that his firstborn son was near fluent in working both hands when it came to the battlefield.
Heavier weapons, however, had fallen into disuse over the last few years. Vangelis had once trained with axes, halberds and claymores and still possessed the theoretical knowledge for how to utilise them. But his personal favour, the necessity for his finest skills on the front lines and his own limited time had seen the practical revision of them entirely disappear from his working curriculum.
That morning, Vangelis was set to correct this mistake. If nothing else, it would work his muscles harder than the familiar, fluid lines of lighter blades and strengthen him as a whole. Even if it never led to an extravagant career with heavy weaponry.
Freeing the axe from its loop across his back, Vangelis took the shaft in hand with ease. At over six feet tall and broader than most men in the shoulders, he had the size to balance the axe without issue. He slipped the wood along his palms until he felt himself the most in control and then began to move across the grass in slow motion. He shifted the handle with deliberacy, watching the blade with shrewd care. He preferred to keep all ten of his toes.
As his confidence grew, so too did the arc of his swings. Vangelis moved forward and then back, offensive and then defensive. He reversed himself as if parrying an attack from the rear and then spread his feet to absorb the weight of the weapon and lift it over his head. He moved back and forth, repeating motions that felt too hindered or out of step, and practising formations and patterns that would be useful in battle. Sometimes he worked the axe like a balance weight, moving with it as an extension of his body so that he might kick or strike his enemy personally. At others, he let the metal perform its task and sing as it cleaved through the air.
Lost in the exercise, in the way it burned his muscles and cleaned his skin with a flush of fresh sweat, Vangelis became oblivious to the world around him. He heard only the sharp and keening noise of the blade and the whoosh of the grass blades, bending beneath the wind he created with every pass. His ears were filled with the thumping of his own heart, with the panting of his breath. Even his skin spoke to him, slipping and sighing against its own damp state when arm met chest or waist brushed wrist.
Tunnelling his vision, his hearing and his focus to the singular task at hand, he heard nothing of the person coming upon him from behind. He only noticed their presence at the exactly morning that he turned on his heel, axe head swinging high and wide... and directly aimed for their head.
Vangelis always rose before the dawn. There was no pride in such a choice. No ego that drove him from his sheets into the early rays of the day. He did not seek to beat his peers nor competitors by reaching the grassy dunes of his home sooner than other might their own. It was a decision based solely on necessity. As crown prince, regent baron of Chaossis, General of the Colchian armies and general member of the nobility and royal family, it was near impossible to find the time during daylight hours for his own purposes. Duty overtook his time as responsibility did his space. Left with no alternative, Vangelis had become a fellow of the rising sun. A friend to the glowing, golden orb that seemed to welcome him every dawn.
An additional benefit of the sun playing sole witness to his morning exercises was that Vangelis could dispense with the game of princedom. He could shed his formal chitons, cloaks and formal sandals in favour of heavier leather about his legs and a simple perizoma about his hips. His chest and arms remained bear but for the bracers of brown leather that clad his forearms. They were worn and scuffed. Hardly the silver-worked versions that he might wear at grand ceremonies. Instead, that morning, Vangelis prized efficiency over appearance; effect over visage. As with most mornings, Vangelis wasn't truly a prince since the sun had fully escaped the top-most branches of the hillside trees.
Instead of a sceptre or crown, Vangelis' hands were busy with only the tools of his more menial trade; that of the military. Laced to his ankles were small scabbards that held their brother-daggers. On his hips, a belt from which hung a small quiver of short arrows and a large hunting knife. His chest, otherwise naked, was cut diagonally by a balladeer that held a loop-sheath between his shoulder blades. From it, hung a large battle axe.
Setting himself in the centre of the private meadow to the rear of the Kotas mansion, Vangelis dispensed with most of the weapons in which he was burdened. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the blades to the earth, embedding them three inches into the soil. The hunting knife broke five beneath the grass.
As a prince, Vangelis was expected to wield the spear. It was the weapon of choice for all Grecians. Both throwing and fighting in hand-to-hand with the tipped shaft were required skills for any man worth the salt on his skin. Vangelis had, more personally, taken to the sword. Specifically, fighting with a set of dual blades in tandem. His father had made certain that his firstborn son was near fluent in working both hands when it came to the battlefield.
Heavier weapons, however, had fallen into disuse over the last few years. Vangelis had once trained with axes, halberds and claymores and still possessed the theoretical knowledge for how to utilise them. But his personal favour, the necessity for his finest skills on the front lines and his own limited time had seen the practical revision of them entirely disappear from his working curriculum.
That morning, Vangelis was set to correct this mistake. If nothing else, it would work his muscles harder than the familiar, fluid lines of lighter blades and strengthen him as a whole. Even if it never led to an extravagant career with heavy weaponry.
Freeing the axe from its loop across his back, Vangelis took the shaft in hand with ease. At over six feet tall and broader than most men in the shoulders, he had the size to balance the axe without issue. He slipped the wood along his palms until he felt himself the most in control and then began to move across the grass in slow motion. He shifted the handle with deliberacy, watching the blade with shrewd care. He preferred to keep all ten of his toes.
As his confidence grew, so too did the arc of his swings. Vangelis moved forward and then back, offensive and then defensive. He reversed himself as if parrying an attack from the rear and then spread his feet to absorb the weight of the weapon and lift it over his head. He moved back and forth, repeating motions that felt too hindered or out of step, and practising formations and patterns that would be useful in battle. Sometimes he worked the axe like a balance weight, moving with it as an extension of his body so that he might kick or strike his enemy personally. At others, he let the metal perform its task and sing as it cleaved through the air.
Lost in the exercise, in the way it burned his muscles and cleaned his skin with a flush of fresh sweat, Vangelis became oblivious to the world around him. He heard only the sharp and keening noise of the blade and the whoosh of the grass blades, bending beneath the wind he created with every pass. His ears were filled with the thumping of his own heart, with the panting of his breath. Even his skin spoke to him, slipping and sighing against its own damp state when arm met chest or waist brushed wrist.
Tunnelling his vision, his hearing and his focus to the singular task at hand, he heard nothing of the person coming upon him from behind. He only noticed their presence at the exactly morning that he turned on his heel, axe head swinging high and wide... and directly aimed for their head.
Today was going to be the day. Athanasia had all but avoided her eldest brother since his scolding after the terrible dinner a few weeks prior. It wasn't her fault that she used what she learned, and her brothers were her best teachers when she was little. In her opinion, they all were at fault because she learned from all four of them.
After inquiring where Vangelis was, one of the attendants that assisted in the crown prince's office informed the princess that her eldest brother stated he would be training and that no one was to disturb him. "Were those his exact words?" Athanasia inquired. 'Yes, he stated that he was going to go train and then he would handle any paperwork that needed to be done, he would do later.' Athanasia gave the man a smile before she turned on her heel and left for her room. So he did not say exactly to not be disturbed by anything. Just not by paperwork. Once in her room, she looked over at Aea and smiled, "Let's get ready, make sure you dress for heavy sparring. If anything, you and I can spar if my idea doesn't work as I planned."
Asia had that look about her that anyone could see, she was planning to push some boundaries and cause some mischief. Pulling her hair up into a high ponytail to keep her hair out of her face, Asia donned traditional Colchis leathers. The heavier breastplate fit her snuggly, making her smile. It was something that she had customly made just for her for when she snuck into camps with her brother Silas. Leather bracers on her forearms and shins, she grabbed her bow, arrows, dagger, and her short sword and was ready to go.
Seeing Aea was dressed and ready, Athanasia turned her around and grabbed a leather thong. "Let me braid your hair, my warrior. For today, if I get my way, you will get the spar you wanted." Asia's fingers were quick as she deftly weaved the silky black strands of hair, pulling it away from Aea's face and keeping it snugly in place with the end tied with the leather string. "You ready? This won't be easy, whatever happens next. Especially if he is still mad at me." Asia did make a pained face at that thought, he couldn't still be mad, could he?
They left quickly, Athanasia ignoring any weird looks that she might have gotten, the princess now barely recognizable as she hid in her disguise. Slim frame, hair up in a rough ponytail like a man would do to get it out of his face, dressed in leathers suitable for the sparring field; Athanasia did not look or move like a princess. Now she resembled a smaller version of her brothers, even mimicking their walking styles.
It was not long till the two reached the field, littered with weapons of all styles. Swords and daggers embedded into the ground, and her brother looked almost like he was dancing with his axe while it sang through the air. Looking over at Aea, she wondered what she was thinking as Vangelis stood around half naked while he practiced with a giant axe in his hands. She knew some women seemed to fawn over Vangelis, though sometimes Athanasia could never understand why since he looked at everyone else like he wanted to hit them, according to everyone else she has ever spoken to.
The arc of his swing was impressive, she would never be able to lift an axe that size. As he moved though, Athanasia watched his feet, her own almost miming what she was seeing without actually moving fully with it. Maybe she could do the same moves he was with a sword instead of an axe? It was possible.
She didn't realize that she moved even closer as she moved her arms slightly, her muscles itching to move like she was envisioning in the mock dance of her own in her head, moving like Vangelis was with that axe. Thankfully she was not so out of it that she caught the change in his movements. A shift of muscles different than what he used in the dance, changing direction. Looking up, the large axe was coming down at a speed that would frighten most, but Athanasia's mind was different. Training with the men at Silas's camp taught her differently.
Ducking her head forward, she dodged the axe by mere inches as she turned the duck into a full roll. She used her size to her advantage as she rolled under Vangelis and got behind him. From there, she slapped him across the bare skin of his back. "You could have killed me, you big brute!" Picking up one of the unused swords, it was smaller than the rest as Athanasia tested the weight, though it was bigger than her own that she got from Vangelis. "Oooo.. I like this one. This isn't as heavy as the ones you and Silas use." Taking her turn to test it out, she mimicked the moves that Vangelis was just practicing with. Showing that she was watching and learning, even if she was a little clumsy with her footing. "If you are not still mad at me Vangelis, I have something to ask of you. Please? It is a really big favor, and if you do this.. I promise I will behave more like how a princess should. Mostly. I will do my best too." Spinning the shorter sword around to press against her forearm, she stood there with it, much like she would if it was the dagger in her hand instead. A clear indication that she was used to fighting with a much smaller weapon; she gave her big brother her sweetest smile.
Athene
Athanasia
Athene
Athanasia
Awards
First Impressions:Leggy; Warm, bronze-colored eyes; thick wavy hair & an easy smile.
Address: Your Royal Highness
Today was going to be the day. Athanasia had all but avoided her eldest brother since his scolding after the terrible dinner a few weeks prior. It wasn't her fault that she used what she learned, and her brothers were her best teachers when she was little. In her opinion, they all were at fault because she learned from all four of them.
After inquiring where Vangelis was, one of the attendants that assisted in the crown prince's office informed the princess that her eldest brother stated he would be training and that no one was to disturb him. "Were those his exact words?" Athanasia inquired. 'Yes, he stated that he was going to go train and then he would handle any paperwork that needed to be done, he would do later.' Athanasia gave the man a smile before she turned on her heel and left for her room. So he did not say exactly to not be disturbed by anything. Just not by paperwork. Once in her room, she looked over at Aea and smiled, "Let's get ready, make sure you dress for heavy sparring. If anything, you and I can spar if my idea doesn't work as I planned."
Asia had that look about her that anyone could see, she was planning to push some boundaries and cause some mischief. Pulling her hair up into a high ponytail to keep her hair out of her face, Asia donned traditional Colchis leathers. The heavier breastplate fit her snuggly, making her smile. It was something that she had customly made just for her for when she snuck into camps with her brother Silas. Leather bracers on her forearms and shins, she grabbed her bow, arrows, dagger, and her short sword and was ready to go.
Seeing Aea was dressed and ready, Athanasia turned her around and grabbed a leather thong. "Let me braid your hair, my warrior. For today, if I get my way, you will get the spar you wanted." Asia's fingers were quick as she deftly weaved the silky black strands of hair, pulling it away from Aea's face and keeping it snugly in place with the end tied with the leather string. "You ready? This won't be easy, whatever happens next. Especially if he is still mad at me." Asia did make a pained face at that thought, he couldn't still be mad, could he?
They left quickly, Athanasia ignoring any weird looks that she might have gotten, the princess now barely recognizable as she hid in her disguise. Slim frame, hair up in a rough ponytail like a man would do to get it out of his face, dressed in leathers suitable for the sparring field; Athanasia did not look or move like a princess. Now she resembled a smaller version of her brothers, even mimicking their walking styles.
It was not long till the two reached the field, littered with weapons of all styles. Swords and daggers embedded into the ground, and her brother looked almost like he was dancing with his axe while it sang through the air. Looking over at Aea, she wondered what she was thinking as Vangelis stood around half naked while he practiced with a giant axe in his hands. She knew some women seemed to fawn over Vangelis, though sometimes Athanasia could never understand why since he looked at everyone else like he wanted to hit them, according to everyone else she has ever spoken to.
The arc of his swing was impressive, she would never be able to lift an axe that size. As he moved though, Athanasia watched his feet, her own almost miming what she was seeing without actually moving fully with it. Maybe she could do the same moves he was with a sword instead of an axe? It was possible.
She didn't realize that she moved even closer as she moved her arms slightly, her muscles itching to move like she was envisioning in the mock dance of her own in her head, moving like Vangelis was with that axe. Thankfully she was not so out of it that she caught the change in his movements. A shift of muscles different than what he used in the dance, changing direction. Looking up, the large axe was coming down at a speed that would frighten most, but Athanasia's mind was different. Training with the men at Silas's camp taught her differently.
Ducking her head forward, she dodged the axe by mere inches as she turned the duck into a full roll. She used her size to her advantage as she rolled under Vangelis and got behind him. From there, she slapped him across the bare skin of his back. "You could have killed me, you big brute!" Picking up one of the unused swords, it was smaller than the rest as Athanasia tested the weight, though it was bigger than her own that she got from Vangelis. "Oooo.. I like this one. This isn't as heavy as the ones you and Silas use." Taking her turn to test it out, she mimicked the moves that Vangelis was just practicing with. Showing that she was watching and learning, even if she was a little clumsy with her footing. "If you are not still mad at me Vangelis, I have something to ask of you. Please? It is a really big favor, and if you do this.. I promise I will behave more like how a princess should. Mostly. I will do my best too." Spinning the shorter sword around to press against her forearm, she stood there with it, much like she would if it was the dagger in her hand instead. A clear indication that she was used to fighting with a much smaller weapon; she gave her big brother her sweetest smile.
Today was going to be the day. Athanasia had all but avoided her eldest brother since his scolding after the terrible dinner a few weeks prior. It wasn't her fault that she used what she learned, and her brothers were her best teachers when she was little. In her opinion, they all were at fault because she learned from all four of them.
After inquiring where Vangelis was, one of the attendants that assisted in the crown prince's office informed the princess that her eldest brother stated he would be training and that no one was to disturb him. "Were those his exact words?" Athanasia inquired. 'Yes, he stated that he was going to go train and then he would handle any paperwork that needed to be done, he would do later.' Athanasia gave the man a smile before she turned on her heel and left for her room. So he did not say exactly to not be disturbed by anything. Just not by paperwork. Once in her room, she looked over at Aea and smiled, "Let's get ready, make sure you dress for heavy sparring. If anything, you and I can spar if my idea doesn't work as I planned."
Asia had that look about her that anyone could see, she was planning to push some boundaries and cause some mischief. Pulling her hair up into a high ponytail to keep her hair out of her face, Asia donned traditional Colchis leathers. The heavier breastplate fit her snuggly, making her smile. It was something that she had customly made just for her for when she snuck into camps with her brother Silas. Leather bracers on her forearms and shins, she grabbed her bow, arrows, dagger, and her short sword and was ready to go.
Seeing Aea was dressed and ready, Athanasia turned her around and grabbed a leather thong. "Let me braid your hair, my warrior. For today, if I get my way, you will get the spar you wanted." Asia's fingers were quick as she deftly weaved the silky black strands of hair, pulling it away from Aea's face and keeping it snugly in place with the end tied with the leather string. "You ready? This won't be easy, whatever happens next. Especially if he is still mad at me." Asia did make a pained face at that thought, he couldn't still be mad, could he?
They left quickly, Athanasia ignoring any weird looks that she might have gotten, the princess now barely recognizable as she hid in her disguise. Slim frame, hair up in a rough ponytail like a man would do to get it out of his face, dressed in leathers suitable for the sparring field; Athanasia did not look or move like a princess. Now she resembled a smaller version of her brothers, even mimicking their walking styles.
It was not long till the two reached the field, littered with weapons of all styles. Swords and daggers embedded into the ground, and her brother looked almost like he was dancing with his axe while it sang through the air. Looking over at Aea, she wondered what she was thinking as Vangelis stood around half naked while he practiced with a giant axe in his hands. She knew some women seemed to fawn over Vangelis, though sometimes Athanasia could never understand why since he looked at everyone else like he wanted to hit them, according to everyone else she has ever spoken to.
The arc of his swing was impressive, she would never be able to lift an axe that size. As he moved though, Athanasia watched his feet, her own almost miming what she was seeing without actually moving fully with it. Maybe she could do the same moves he was with a sword instead of an axe? It was possible.
She didn't realize that she moved even closer as she moved her arms slightly, her muscles itching to move like she was envisioning in the mock dance of her own in her head, moving like Vangelis was with that axe. Thankfully she was not so out of it that she caught the change in his movements. A shift of muscles different than what he used in the dance, changing direction. Looking up, the large axe was coming down at a speed that would frighten most, but Athanasia's mind was different. Training with the men at Silas's camp taught her differently.
Ducking her head forward, she dodged the axe by mere inches as she turned the duck into a full roll. She used her size to her advantage as she rolled under Vangelis and got behind him. From there, she slapped him across the bare skin of his back. "You could have killed me, you big brute!" Picking up one of the unused swords, it was smaller than the rest as Athanasia tested the weight, though it was bigger than her own that she got from Vangelis. "Oooo.. I like this one. This isn't as heavy as the ones you and Silas use." Taking her turn to test it out, she mimicked the moves that Vangelis was just practicing with. Showing that she was watching and learning, even if she was a little clumsy with her footing. "If you are not still mad at me Vangelis, I have something to ask of you. Please? It is a really big favor, and if you do this.. I promise I will behave more like how a princess should. Mostly. I will do my best too." Spinning the shorter sword around to press against her forearm, she stood there with it, much like she would if it was the dagger in her hand instead. A clear indication that she was used to fighting with a much smaller weapon; she gave her big brother her sweetest smile.
Every night, she slipped into soft white sheets. And every night, she inevitably slid from those warm sheets and darted out of the palace, back to warm woodlands that welcomed her with spread branch and hushed wind. There, she would curl neath her old hide chlamys in the shadows of the white willow and fall into a dreamless sleep, lulled by the beat of her raven’s wing and the soft sighs of the shaking leaves.
And then she would wake before the sun and hurry back to her room, picking up the duties of the day and never once thinking of her home or her family. Not until night descended, for Nyx brought memories and guilt along her deep evenings.
Last night she didn't slumber in the dirt, but slept in a bed. Last night, she didn’t think of an endless sea of colorless faces, once animated by life and robbed by her hand or her bait. She didn’t think of her uncle Cassero and his drunken vulgarities, nor did she remember uncle Dasmo’s disappointed frown. Uncle Agolois’ voice did not surface in her waking dreams, she couldn’t see uncle Gatheron’s puckered smile, and she did not feel her father’s phantom palm clapping her shoulder.
She remembered Asia’s voice, spoken in quiet promise, she saw yellow fields of high grass and could almost feel the reeds tangling about her feet and the dirt sliding against her toes. Last night, she did not think of the past or even the present, but of the future, dreamed into life as she wanted it to be.
When she rose in the grey morning before the sun, she could not remember a time she’d felt so rested. As she stretched, her muscles softened beneath the strain. No ill-gotten bruises, no tension, no apprehension if this was to be the day such a grandiose illusion fell away to reveal her miserable fate. She was here, she was alive, she was free, and most importantly, she was needed. And she knew this because she had to know it. Last night, she slept because last night she made a choice.
The sun had just broken the horizon when Asia told her to dress. Aea shed her retainer's cloth and dressed herself just as meticulously as she might in finery. As Kaia would say, Aea was 'particular about her particulars.' Be she in rags or silks, Aea made sure they were clean, neat, and in an arrangement she liked.
This morning she wrapped herself in a clean tawny-colored tunic knotted at the shoulder by leather straps and cinched at the waist with a thin leather belt. Comfortable in its tasteful simplicity. Pretty enough for her to pick it to begin with, cheap enough to easily replace. She'd never needed greaves or cuirass or shield before and did not know if she would in the future. The only weapons she knew were dagger and bow, one she wielded and practiced with an almost familial devotion and the other she wielded when she wanted more food. No use for a shield if she was using both hands, no need for armor when she had to move quickly. At least for the time being.
The peplos tunic she once wore did not suit the palace and if observation proved correct, it really didn’t suit anywhere. She kept it stored in her trunk with other relics of her past life, unable to stomach them and yet unable to part with them. She did not, however, depart from her chlamys. Heavy and hide, worn smooth from use, it was the same one she wore since she was no more than seven. Then, it brushed her ankles. Now, it fluttered shapelessly to the tops of her thighs, as much a tool of deception as a tool of warmth. It was not pretty nor ugly, but simply was. Something for people to grab onto, something for her to release and subsequently escape.
As she began arranging her weapons, she spoke in a muffled, distracted voice devoid of worry. It was there, though, underneath the almost desperate imaginingings of a positive outcome. "Are you entirely certain it would be a good idea to raise a blade at you while he's around? Wouldn't that be opposing the job description?"
Mostly armed, Aea's ill-gotten sword was half sheathed when she stilled at the sudden contact of hands about her arms. Her muscles relaxed almost instantly and she let herself be turned. The sword pommel clapped against its snug resting place and Aea's hands dropped to her side.
"Let me braid your hair, my warrior. For today, if I get my way, you will get the spar you wanted."
Aea's breath huffed sharply through her nose and though it sounded like a noise of doubt, if Asia were able to glance her expression then she would see the sudden pinch of Aea's eyebrows and purse of her lips. Being called 'my' anything was, as it turned out, overwhelming. It was brief, fleeting, but it hit Aea like a hammer. Only Asia would call her such things, and for that tiny moment in time the sensation of being not only needed, but wanted spun her on a dizzying axis of warmth.
But then the emotion was wiped from her face and she stood perfectly still while Asia brushed her hair back. It was small things like this, subtle shows of affection as simple as braiding her hair, that made Aea never want to leave. It also made Aea dangerously protective of what she had. The idea of someone trying to take this away—trying to take Asia away—was intolerable.
This was home now. With Asia and Kaia. Royals and commoners couldn't truly be friends, and any love between them only stayed as long as their company. That's what the other servants said of it, anyway. It was foolish to grow attached. But Aea did it anyway because she was a fool and Asia made it so very difficult to stay impartial.
"Our reasons are valid and the argument is sound." Aea said, "I don’t think it will be so difficult that failure is more likely.”
Gradually, her head tipped back and her eyes fluttered closed, her body surrendering to the gentle tug of Asia’s twisting fingers. It would be wiser to cut it, but she liked her hair long. She liked being a woman, hadn’t realized she was a woman until one of the servants conversed with her about the woes of being one. It was always ‘girl,’ ‘child,’ or ‘brat,’ but she wasn’t. She was an adult woman and the thought of pretending to be anything else just to carry a blade left acid in her mouth.
The Northern warchief, Gunhild, was a warmaiden. By the time Aea’s family arrived to join their campaign as hired arms, she was fifty-and-two, and so she'd retired the battlefield as all men do. Aea saw her walking from the council tent, and she was so beautiful. Even aged as she was, she wrapped herself in furs and cotton the color of mist. She had a scar across her cheek that cut through her bottom lip, and in her eyes were legions of dead men who thought to take her lands. What struck Aea most, and what she has never forgotten, was that Gunnhild never had to pretend to be a man in order to be a warrior, and she did not have to hide her scars in order to be a woman. If Gunhild did not have to cut her hair, then neither did Aea or any woman for that matter.
Aea did not need to pretend to be a man in order to ply in warfare because it was not a domain exclusive to men. Despite their insistence upon it, she knew better. So she would keep her hair as she liked it, she would wear pretty things as she liked, and she would continue on.
Once her hair was completed, neither she nor Asia wasted any time dawdling. Fully geared, Aea's daggers lined her leather cinch, her ill-gotten sword of plain steel tucked between them at her hip with her utility pouch next to it. A quiver of arrows made by Kaia's hand hung from her opposing hip, her bow slung across her shoulder. She didn't know what, exactly, 'heavy sparring' might entail, but she would come prepared. Tucked beneath her free arm was a large rounded instrument wrapped in heavy canvas, smaller than a harp and larger than a lyre, she took it everywhere with her and today would be no different. When they were done with their morning, Aea would continue to work on her project.
She grasped her epiblema, as much a part of her as her own name, and for a moment she did not move, but stared at the thing. It would be easier to slip unnoticed underneath a wrap. And yet it sat forgotten on the bed as its mistress followed the princess from the room.
Aea's gait was long, languid, measured, and easily able to keep pace with the princess as Asia’s delicate gait fell into a confident stride. Drawn brows and confused glances breezed in the princess’ wake and the corner of Aea's mouth twitched. What a pair they must seem, the ferocious little bear thundering down the halls and her quiet retainer gliding nonchalantly behind her.
Once outside, Aea slid her fingers past her lips and she let loose a sharp whistle. It was only when they were well on their way to their destination that Agogos arrived, his presence announced only by the heavy clap of his wings. He found his usual morning treat from her utility pouch and with a greedy snap of his beak, the dried meat vanished from her fingers and the raven loosed into the sky to stream far ahead.
Aea watched him go and like every parting, she sent a silent prayer on his wing for Apollo to let him come home to her. It was only when his black form was nothing more than a dot in the sky that she cast her focus to the land. The Kotas holdings spanned farther than she knew any staked land could span. It was almost easy to forget it was claimed at all, the surrounding woodlands and pasture free of debris and man’s touch.
At least for the most part. Across the field, there was one lone figure moving among the unspoiled nature. He held no company or witness save the sky above and the earth below, and he did not seem to notice when two new creatures entered his sunlit solitude as they got closer.
He moved with grace and precision, and despite how much she told herself it would go to plan, Aea's heart still thundered. He would not recognize her if he hadn't before, there was no need for such apprehension. Despite telling herself as much, excitement, nervousness, anticipation, all of it swirled in her belly like a churning vortex and though a rare smile fueled by nerves pulled at her cheeks, she sucked it back until she held no expression at all. Professional, nondescript, unintrusive.
They drew closer, close enough to see the thin sheet of sweat coating the prince in his labor. Aea felt more than saw Asia’s glance and turned her head to flash a small, benign smile—there and gone then replaced by a soft line of neutrality. It would be fine.
Still they drew closer. Unnecessarily so. Aea's eyebrows ticked down and she glanced at the princess, but the girl's stride didn't slow. Trust, she reminded herself. Trust that the princess would stop walking at some point and wait for him to notice his company. And yet closer they walked.
"Your highness," Aea whispered, her eyes heeding the prince as she spoke. Instinct told her to grab Asia, conscious thought told her to trust that a sister knew how her brother moved. Asia surely noticed that her brother's mind was far away from here. Surely. They got closer. Closer.
"Asia?"
Within reach of his massive axe now. Too close. Aea had to trust this and not overreact. Trust that the prince would turn around and become aware of the small girl approaching him, that Asia wouldn't…
Aea’s foot caught on something and she hopped onto her other sandal to keep from falling. The handle of a knife. She frowned and looked from the ground to the prince.
And then she moved.
It happened quickly, as all attacks happened. A blur of sweat-slicked flesh, flexing muscle, and sharpened steel flashed neath the sun and whipped Asia with a heavy shadow. Aea grasped her canvas-wrapped project in both hands without thought and lunged diagonally. She pushed the whole of her weight into the canvas and swung up to knock the blade from its course.
The death-rattle of two dozen tuned strings moaned through her ears and rattled her teeth. Wood exploded between her hands, parchment sliced like butter, and her work spewed on the ground like a rain of leaves. As for Aea, if she retained any injury, she did not notice it, her heart pounded far too quickly for her focus to be anywhere save for the girl who was safe on the other side of the prince.
Asia might have been fine without Aea smashing into the axe’s temple. The princess might do this all of the time, Aea did not know. She did not even know how Asia got behind her brother, everything happened so quickly. As Asia's cheerful voice softened the air, Aea’s eyes darted from the axe, to the man wielding it, to the girl hidden behind the man’s bulk, to the destruction littering the ground.
She bought that lyre the week before with all of her savings. Custom design, the biggest one she’d ever beheld, its build a bafflement to both the craftsman and the man who was teaching her to read. It had twenty-four strings, each one joined to the body at the pivot of a painted letter. For each letter upon the parchment stretched and pinned above the strings, she plucked the string possessing the matching figure and could recall the sound of the letter in an instant. Just to assure her memory kept it, she wrote the letter down on the small parchment next to the original charcoal trace. She was into the sixth page of her transcription on a treatise on urban warfare. It had taken her four hours a day, every day, for seven days.
And now it was gone.
Aea released her breath, the rise and fall of her chest slowing under her gradually calming heart. As Asia’s voice rang in conversation, Aea said not a word. Instead, she unlaced her chlamys and spread it on the ground. Her expression remained unreadable as she executed her duties with the grace of a woman who’d picked up many a weapon-shattered thing. Strings, wood slivers, and leafs of parchment joined together and once the carcass of her work lay in a pile, she knotted it into a sack of worn hide and left it sitting by her feet.
There was not an instance where she would be a passive observer, it was simply not how she was forged and conditioned. Snap decisions, immediate reactions, muscle memory guided her to protect and preserve rather than run. If Asia jumped off a cliff, Aea would dive after her without thought and be angry later when conscious consideration came back to her. It was probably how she would die.
Her arms swung down to her sides and she kept her eyes forward, no expression save for placid nothing. As still as she stood, though, her mind was abuzz with muttered irritation.
She could imagine a world where one did not freely walk under the head of a swinging axe, or where one was aware of their surroundings whilst working a blade. Clearly, the Kotas couldn’t. Aea could also imagine a world where she might work with a princess who did not roll under axes, but she clearly had little to no survival instincts.
If Aea were particularly religious, she might have read her broken lyre and shredded work as a sign of bad things to come. But she was only selectively pious and on this particular day, she was more of the mind that the Gods were probably not real, and that her shattered lyre should be evidence of the fact.
"If you are not still mad at me Vangelis, I have something to ask of you. Please? It is a really big favor, and if you do this... I promise I will behave more like how a princess should. Mostly. I will do my best too," Asia said.
That would make Aea's job considerably easier. Perhaps if Athenasia acted more like a ‘princess,’ she would not be directly in the line of danger every single time Aea turned her head. Her eyes flicked briefly to the prince, then his massive axe, then forward once more. Tying a bell round Asia's neck was not a bad idea either.
Arra
Aea
Arra
Aea
Awards
First Impressions:Hourglass; Glossy black hair that falls to her hips, piercing blue eyes, a voluptuous figure, and a serious, concentrated expression.
Address: Your
First Impressions:Hourglass; Glossy black hair that falls to her hips, piercing blue eyes, a voluptuous figure, and a serious, concentrated expression.
Address: Your
Every night, she slipped into soft white sheets. And every night, she inevitably slid from those warm sheets and darted out of the palace, back to warm woodlands that welcomed her with spread branch and hushed wind. There, she would curl neath her old hide chlamys in the shadows of the white willow and fall into a dreamless sleep, lulled by the beat of her raven’s wing and the soft sighs of the shaking leaves.
And then she would wake before the sun and hurry back to her room, picking up the duties of the day and never once thinking of her home or her family. Not until night descended, for Nyx brought memories and guilt along her deep evenings.
Last night she didn't slumber in the dirt, but slept in a bed. Last night, she didn’t think of an endless sea of colorless faces, once animated by life and robbed by her hand or her bait. She didn’t think of her uncle Cassero and his drunken vulgarities, nor did she remember uncle Dasmo’s disappointed frown. Uncle Agolois’ voice did not surface in her waking dreams, she couldn’t see uncle Gatheron’s puckered smile, and she did not feel her father’s phantom palm clapping her shoulder.
She remembered Asia’s voice, spoken in quiet promise, she saw yellow fields of high grass and could almost feel the reeds tangling about her feet and the dirt sliding against her toes. Last night, she did not think of the past or even the present, but of the future, dreamed into life as she wanted it to be.
When she rose in the grey morning before the sun, she could not remember a time she’d felt so rested. As she stretched, her muscles softened beneath the strain. No ill-gotten bruises, no tension, no apprehension if this was to be the day such a grandiose illusion fell away to reveal her miserable fate. She was here, she was alive, she was free, and most importantly, she was needed. And she knew this because she had to know it. Last night, she slept because last night she made a choice.
The sun had just broken the horizon when Asia told her to dress. Aea shed her retainer's cloth and dressed herself just as meticulously as she might in finery. As Kaia would say, Aea was 'particular about her particulars.' Be she in rags or silks, Aea made sure they were clean, neat, and in an arrangement she liked.
This morning she wrapped herself in a clean tawny-colored tunic knotted at the shoulder by leather straps and cinched at the waist with a thin leather belt. Comfortable in its tasteful simplicity. Pretty enough for her to pick it to begin with, cheap enough to easily replace. She'd never needed greaves or cuirass or shield before and did not know if she would in the future. The only weapons she knew were dagger and bow, one she wielded and practiced with an almost familial devotion and the other she wielded when she wanted more food. No use for a shield if she was using both hands, no need for armor when she had to move quickly. At least for the time being.
The peplos tunic she once wore did not suit the palace and if observation proved correct, it really didn’t suit anywhere. She kept it stored in her trunk with other relics of her past life, unable to stomach them and yet unable to part with them. She did not, however, depart from her chlamys. Heavy and hide, worn smooth from use, it was the same one she wore since she was no more than seven. Then, it brushed her ankles. Now, it fluttered shapelessly to the tops of her thighs, as much a tool of deception as a tool of warmth. It was not pretty nor ugly, but simply was. Something for people to grab onto, something for her to release and subsequently escape.
As she began arranging her weapons, she spoke in a muffled, distracted voice devoid of worry. It was there, though, underneath the almost desperate imaginingings of a positive outcome. "Are you entirely certain it would be a good idea to raise a blade at you while he's around? Wouldn't that be opposing the job description?"
Mostly armed, Aea's ill-gotten sword was half sheathed when she stilled at the sudden contact of hands about her arms. Her muscles relaxed almost instantly and she let herself be turned. The sword pommel clapped against its snug resting place and Aea's hands dropped to her side.
"Let me braid your hair, my warrior. For today, if I get my way, you will get the spar you wanted."
Aea's breath huffed sharply through her nose and though it sounded like a noise of doubt, if Asia were able to glance her expression then she would see the sudden pinch of Aea's eyebrows and purse of her lips. Being called 'my' anything was, as it turned out, overwhelming. It was brief, fleeting, but it hit Aea like a hammer. Only Asia would call her such things, and for that tiny moment in time the sensation of being not only needed, but wanted spun her on a dizzying axis of warmth.
But then the emotion was wiped from her face and she stood perfectly still while Asia brushed her hair back. It was small things like this, subtle shows of affection as simple as braiding her hair, that made Aea never want to leave. It also made Aea dangerously protective of what she had. The idea of someone trying to take this away—trying to take Asia away—was intolerable.
This was home now. With Asia and Kaia. Royals and commoners couldn't truly be friends, and any love between them only stayed as long as their company. That's what the other servants said of it, anyway. It was foolish to grow attached. But Aea did it anyway because she was a fool and Asia made it so very difficult to stay impartial.
"Our reasons are valid and the argument is sound." Aea said, "I don’t think it will be so difficult that failure is more likely.”
Gradually, her head tipped back and her eyes fluttered closed, her body surrendering to the gentle tug of Asia’s twisting fingers. It would be wiser to cut it, but she liked her hair long. She liked being a woman, hadn’t realized she was a woman until one of the servants conversed with her about the woes of being one. It was always ‘girl,’ ‘child,’ or ‘brat,’ but she wasn’t. She was an adult woman and the thought of pretending to be anything else just to carry a blade left acid in her mouth.
The Northern warchief, Gunhild, was a warmaiden. By the time Aea’s family arrived to join their campaign as hired arms, she was fifty-and-two, and so she'd retired the battlefield as all men do. Aea saw her walking from the council tent, and she was so beautiful. Even aged as she was, she wrapped herself in furs and cotton the color of mist. She had a scar across her cheek that cut through her bottom lip, and in her eyes were legions of dead men who thought to take her lands. What struck Aea most, and what she has never forgotten, was that Gunnhild never had to pretend to be a man in order to be a warrior, and she did not have to hide her scars in order to be a woman. If Gunhild did not have to cut her hair, then neither did Aea or any woman for that matter.
Aea did not need to pretend to be a man in order to ply in warfare because it was not a domain exclusive to men. Despite their insistence upon it, she knew better. So she would keep her hair as she liked it, she would wear pretty things as she liked, and she would continue on.
Once her hair was completed, neither she nor Asia wasted any time dawdling. Fully geared, Aea's daggers lined her leather cinch, her ill-gotten sword of plain steel tucked between them at her hip with her utility pouch next to it. A quiver of arrows made by Kaia's hand hung from her opposing hip, her bow slung across her shoulder. She didn't know what, exactly, 'heavy sparring' might entail, but she would come prepared. Tucked beneath her free arm was a large rounded instrument wrapped in heavy canvas, smaller than a harp and larger than a lyre, she took it everywhere with her and today would be no different. When they were done with their morning, Aea would continue to work on her project.
She grasped her epiblema, as much a part of her as her own name, and for a moment she did not move, but stared at the thing. It would be easier to slip unnoticed underneath a wrap. And yet it sat forgotten on the bed as its mistress followed the princess from the room.
Aea's gait was long, languid, measured, and easily able to keep pace with the princess as Asia’s delicate gait fell into a confident stride. Drawn brows and confused glances breezed in the princess’ wake and the corner of Aea's mouth twitched. What a pair they must seem, the ferocious little bear thundering down the halls and her quiet retainer gliding nonchalantly behind her.
Once outside, Aea slid her fingers past her lips and she let loose a sharp whistle. It was only when they were well on their way to their destination that Agogos arrived, his presence announced only by the heavy clap of his wings. He found his usual morning treat from her utility pouch and with a greedy snap of his beak, the dried meat vanished from her fingers and the raven loosed into the sky to stream far ahead.
Aea watched him go and like every parting, she sent a silent prayer on his wing for Apollo to let him come home to her. It was only when his black form was nothing more than a dot in the sky that she cast her focus to the land. The Kotas holdings spanned farther than she knew any staked land could span. It was almost easy to forget it was claimed at all, the surrounding woodlands and pasture free of debris and man’s touch.
At least for the most part. Across the field, there was one lone figure moving among the unspoiled nature. He held no company or witness save the sky above and the earth below, and he did not seem to notice when two new creatures entered his sunlit solitude as they got closer.
He moved with grace and precision, and despite how much she told herself it would go to plan, Aea's heart still thundered. He would not recognize her if he hadn't before, there was no need for such apprehension. Despite telling herself as much, excitement, nervousness, anticipation, all of it swirled in her belly like a churning vortex and though a rare smile fueled by nerves pulled at her cheeks, she sucked it back until she held no expression at all. Professional, nondescript, unintrusive.
They drew closer, close enough to see the thin sheet of sweat coating the prince in his labor. Aea felt more than saw Asia’s glance and turned her head to flash a small, benign smile—there and gone then replaced by a soft line of neutrality. It would be fine.
Still they drew closer. Unnecessarily so. Aea's eyebrows ticked down and she glanced at the princess, but the girl's stride didn't slow. Trust, she reminded herself. Trust that the princess would stop walking at some point and wait for him to notice his company. And yet closer they walked.
"Your highness," Aea whispered, her eyes heeding the prince as she spoke. Instinct told her to grab Asia, conscious thought told her to trust that a sister knew how her brother moved. Asia surely noticed that her brother's mind was far away from here. Surely. They got closer. Closer.
"Asia?"
Within reach of his massive axe now. Too close. Aea had to trust this and not overreact. Trust that the prince would turn around and become aware of the small girl approaching him, that Asia wouldn't…
Aea’s foot caught on something and she hopped onto her other sandal to keep from falling. The handle of a knife. She frowned and looked from the ground to the prince.
And then she moved.
It happened quickly, as all attacks happened. A blur of sweat-slicked flesh, flexing muscle, and sharpened steel flashed neath the sun and whipped Asia with a heavy shadow. Aea grasped her canvas-wrapped project in both hands without thought and lunged diagonally. She pushed the whole of her weight into the canvas and swung up to knock the blade from its course.
The death-rattle of two dozen tuned strings moaned through her ears and rattled her teeth. Wood exploded between her hands, parchment sliced like butter, and her work spewed on the ground like a rain of leaves. As for Aea, if she retained any injury, she did not notice it, her heart pounded far too quickly for her focus to be anywhere save for the girl who was safe on the other side of the prince.
Asia might have been fine without Aea smashing into the axe’s temple. The princess might do this all of the time, Aea did not know. She did not even know how Asia got behind her brother, everything happened so quickly. As Asia's cheerful voice softened the air, Aea’s eyes darted from the axe, to the man wielding it, to the girl hidden behind the man’s bulk, to the destruction littering the ground.
She bought that lyre the week before with all of her savings. Custom design, the biggest one she’d ever beheld, its build a bafflement to both the craftsman and the man who was teaching her to read. It had twenty-four strings, each one joined to the body at the pivot of a painted letter. For each letter upon the parchment stretched and pinned above the strings, she plucked the string possessing the matching figure and could recall the sound of the letter in an instant. Just to assure her memory kept it, she wrote the letter down on the small parchment next to the original charcoal trace. She was into the sixth page of her transcription on a treatise on urban warfare. It had taken her four hours a day, every day, for seven days.
And now it was gone.
Aea released her breath, the rise and fall of her chest slowing under her gradually calming heart. As Asia’s voice rang in conversation, Aea said not a word. Instead, she unlaced her chlamys and spread it on the ground. Her expression remained unreadable as she executed her duties with the grace of a woman who’d picked up many a weapon-shattered thing. Strings, wood slivers, and leafs of parchment joined together and once the carcass of her work lay in a pile, she knotted it into a sack of worn hide and left it sitting by her feet.
There was not an instance where she would be a passive observer, it was simply not how she was forged and conditioned. Snap decisions, immediate reactions, muscle memory guided her to protect and preserve rather than run. If Asia jumped off a cliff, Aea would dive after her without thought and be angry later when conscious consideration came back to her. It was probably how she would die.
Her arms swung down to her sides and she kept her eyes forward, no expression save for placid nothing. As still as she stood, though, her mind was abuzz with muttered irritation.
She could imagine a world where one did not freely walk under the head of a swinging axe, or where one was aware of their surroundings whilst working a blade. Clearly, the Kotas couldn’t. Aea could also imagine a world where she might work with a princess who did not roll under axes, but she clearly had little to no survival instincts.
If Aea were particularly religious, she might have read her broken lyre and shredded work as a sign of bad things to come. But she was only selectively pious and on this particular day, she was more of the mind that the Gods were probably not real, and that her shattered lyre should be evidence of the fact.
"If you are not still mad at me Vangelis, I have something to ask of you. Please? It is a really big favor, and if you do this... I promise I will behave more like how a princess should. Mostly. I will do my best too," Asia said.
That would make Aea's job considerably easier. Perhaps if Athenasia acted more like a ‘princess,’ she would not be directly in the line of danger every single time Aea turned her head. Her eyes flicked briefly to the prince, then his massive axe, then forward once more. Tying a bell round Asia's neck was not a bad idea either.
Every night, she slipped into soft white sheets. And every night, she inevitably slid from those warm sheets and darted out of the palace, back to warm woodlands that welcomed her with spread branch and hushed wind. There, she would curl neath her old hide chlamys in the shadows of the white willow and fall into a dreamless sleep, lulled by the beat of her raven’s wing and the soft sighs of the shaking leaves.
And then she would wake before the sun and hurry back to her room, picking up the duties of the day and never once thinking of her home or her family. Not until night descended, for Nyx brought memories and guilt along her deep evenings.
Last night she didn't slumber in the dirt, but slept in a bed. Last night, she didn’t think of an endless sea of colorless faces, once animated by life and robbed by her hand or her bait. She didn’t think of her uncle Cassero and his drunken vulgarities, nor did she remember uncle Dasmo’s disappointed frown. Uncle Agolois’ voice did not surface in her waking dreams, she couldn’t see uncle Gatheron’s puckered smile, and she did not feel her father’s phantom palm clapping her shoulder.
She remembered Asia’s voice, spoken in quiet promise, she saw yellow fields of high grass and could almost feel the reeds tangling about her feet and the dirt sliding against her toes. Last night, she did not think of the past or even the present, but of the future, dreamed into life as she wanted it to be.
When she rose in the grey morning before the sun, she could not remember a time she’d felt so rested. As she stretched, her muscles softened beneath the strain. No ill-gotten bruises, no tension, no apprehension if this was to be the day such a grandiose illusion fell away to reveal her miserable fate. She was here, she was alive, she was free, and most importantly, she was needed. And she knew this because she had to know it. Last night, she slept because last night she made a choice.
The sun had just broken the horizon when Asia told her to dress. Aea shed her retainer's cloth and dressed herself just as meticulously as she might in finery. As Kaia would say, Aea was 'particular about her particulars.' Be she in rags or silks, Aea made sure they were clean, neat, and in an arrangement she liked.
This morning she wrapped herself in a clean tawny-colored tunic knotted at the shoulder by leather straps and cinched at the waist with a thin leather belt. Comfortable in its tasteful simplicity. Pretty enough for her to pick it to begin with, cheap enough to easily replace. She'd never needed greaves or cuirass or shield before and did not know if she would in the future. The only weapons she knew were dagger and bow, one she wielded and practiced with an almost familial devotion and the other she wielded when she wanted more food. No use for a shield if she was using both hands, no need for armor when she had to move quickly. At least for the time being.
The peplos tunic she once wore did not suit the palace and if observation proved correct, it really didn’t suit anywhere. She kept it stored in her trunk with other relics of her past life, unable to stomach them and yet unable to part with them. She did not, however, depart from her chlamys. Heavy and hide, worn smooth from use, it was the same one she wore since she was no more than seven. Then, it brushed her ankles. Now, it fluttered shapelessly to the tops of her thighs, as much a tool of deception as a tool of warmth. It was not pretty nor ugly, but simply was. Something for people to grab onto, something for her to release and subsequently escape.
As she began arranging her weapons, she spoke in a muffled, distracted voice devoid of worry. It was there, though, underneath the almost desperate imaginingings of a positive outcome. "Are you entirely certain it would be a good idea to raise a blade at you while he's around? Wouldn't that be opposing the job description?"
Mostly armed, Aea's ill-gotten sword was half sheathed when she stilled at the sudden contact of hands about her arms. Her muscles relaxed almost instantly and she let herself be turned. The sword pommel clapped against its snug resting place and Aea's hands dropped to her side.
"Let me braid your hair, my warrior. For today, if I get my way, you will get the spar you wanted."
Aea's breath huffed sharply through her nose and though it sounded like a noise of doubt, if Asia were able to glance her expression then she would see the sudden pinch of Aea's eyebrows and purse of her lips. Being called 'my' anything was, as it turned out, overwhelming. It was brief, fleeting, but it hit Aea like a hammer. Only Asia would call her such things, and for that tiny moment in time the sensation of being not only needed, but wanted spun her on a dizzying axis of warmth.
But then the emotion was wiped from her face and she stood perfectly still while Asia brushed her hair back. It was small things like this, subtle shows of affection as simple as braiding her hair, that made Aea never want to leave. It also made Aea dangerously protective of what she had. The idea of someone trying to take this away—trying to take Asia away—was intolerable.
This was home now. With Asia and Kaia. Royals and commoners couldn't truly be friends, and any love between them only stayed as long as their company. That's what the other servants said of it, anyway. It was foolish to grow attached. But Aea did it anyway because she was a fool and Asia made it so very difficult to stay impartial.
"Our reasons are valid and the argument is sound." Aea said, "I don’t think it will be so difficult that failure is more likely.”
Gradually, her head tipped back and her eyes fluttered closed, her body surrendering to the gentle tug of Asia’s twisting fingers. It would be wiser to cut it, but she liked her hair long. She liked being a woman, hadn’t realized she was a woman until one of the servants conversed with her about the woes of being one. It was always ‘girl,’ ‘child,’ or ‘brat,’ but she wasn’t. She was an adult woman and the thought of pretending to be anything else just to carry a blade left acid in her mouth.
The Northern warchief, Gunhild, was a warmaiden. By the time Aea’s family arrived to join their campaign as hired arms, she was fifty-and-two, and so she'd retired the battlefield as all men do. Aea saw her walking from the council tent, and she was so beautiful. Even aged as she was, she wrapped herself in furs and cotton the color of mist. She had a scar across her cheek that cut through her bottom lip, and in her eyes were legions of dead men who thought to take her lands. What struck Aea most, and what she has never forgotten, was that Gunnhild never had to pretend to be a man in order to be a warrior, and she did not have to hide her scars in order to be a woman. If Gunhild did not have to cut her hair, then neither did Aea or any woman for that matter.
Aea did not need to pretend to be a man in order to ply in warfare because it was not a domain exclusive to men. Despite their insistence upon it, she knew better. So she would keep her hair as she liked it, she would wear pretty things as she liked, and she would continue on.
Once her hair was completed, neither she nor Asia wasted any time dawdling. Fully geared, Aea's daggers lined her leather cinch, her ill-gotten sword of plain steel tucked between them at her hip with her utility pouch next to it. A quiver of arrows made by Kaia's hand hung from her opposing hip, her bow slung across her shoulder. She didn't know what, exactly, 'heavy sparring' might entail, but she would come prepared. Tucked beneath her free arm was a large rounded instrument wrapped in heavy canvas, smaller than a harp and larger than a lyre, she took it everywhere with her and today would be no different. When they were done with their morning, Aea would continue to work on her project.
She grasped her epiblema, as much a part of her as her own name, and for a moment she did not move, but stared at the thing. It would be easier to slip unnoticed underneath a wrap. And yet it sat forgotten on the bed as its mistress followed the princess from the room.
Aea's gait was long, languid, measured, and easily able to keep pace with the princess as Asia’s delicate gait fell into a confident stride. Drawn brows and confused glances breezed in the princess’ wake and the corner of Aea's mouth twitched. What a pair they must seem, the ferocious little bear thundering down the halls and her quiet retainer gliding nonchalantly behind her.
Once outside, Aea slid her fingers past her lips and she let loose a sharp whistle. It was only when they were well on their way to their destination that Agogos arrived, his presence announced only by the heavy clap of his wings. He found his usual morning treat from her utility pouch and with a greedy snap of his beak, the dried meat vanished from her fingers and the raven loosed into the sky to stream far ahead.
Aea watched him go and like every parting, she sent a silent prayer on his wing for Apollo to let him come home to her. It was only when his black form was nothing more than a dot in the sky that she cast her focus to the land. The Kotas holdings spanned farther than she knew any staked land could span. It was almost easy to forget it was claimed at all, the surrounding woodlands and pasture free of debris and man’s touch.
At least for the most part. Across the field, there was one lone figure moving among the unspoiled nature. He held no company or witness save the sky above and the earth below, and he did not seem to notice when two new creatures entered his sunlit solitude as they got closer.
He moved with grace and precision, and despite how much she told herself it would go to plan, Aea's heart still thundered. He would not recognize her if he hadn't before, there was no need for such apprehension. Despite telling herself as much, excitement, nervousness, anticipation, all of it swirled in her belly like a churning vortex and though a rare smile fueled by nerves pulled at her cheeks, she sucked it back until she held no expression at all. Professional, nondescript, unintrusive.
They drew closer, close enough to see the thin sheet of sweat coating the prince in his labor. Aea felt more than saw Asia’s glance and turned her head to flash a small, benign smile—there and gone then replaced by a soft line of neutrality. It would be fine.
Still they drew closer. Unnecessarily so. Aea's eyebrows ticked down and she glanced at the princess, but the girl's stride didn't slow. Trust, she reminded herself. Trust that the princess would stop walking at some point and wait for him to notice his company. And yet closer they walked.
"Your highness," Aea whispered, her eyes heeding the prince as she spoke. Instinct told her to grab Asia, conscious thought told her to trust that a sister knew how her brother moved. Asia surely noticed that her brother's mind was far away from here. Surely. They got closer. Closer.
"Asia?"
Within reach of his massive axe now. Too close. Aea had to trust this and not overreact. Trust that the prince would turn around and become aware of the small girl approaching him, that Asia wouldn't…
Aea’s foot caught on something and she hopped onto her other sandal to keep from falling. The handle of a knife. She frowned and looked from the ground to the prince.
And then she moved.
It happened quickly, as all attacks happened. A blur of sweat-slicked flesh, flexing muscle, and sharpened steel flashed neath the sun and whipped Asia with a heavy shadow. Aea grasped her canvas-wrapped project in both hands without thought and lunged diagonally. She pushed the whole of her weight into the canvas and swung up to knock the blade from its course.
The death-rattle of two dozen tuned strings moaned through her ears and rattled her teeth. Wood exploded between her hands, parchment sliced like butter, and her work spewed on the ground like a rain of leaves. As for Aea, if she retained any injury, she did not notice it, her heart pounded far too quickly for her focus to be anywhere save for the girl who was safe on the other side of the prince.
Asia might have been fine without Aea smashing into the axe’s temple. The princess might do this all of the time, Aea did not know. She did not even know how Asia got behind her brother, everything happened so quickly. As Asia's cheerful voice softened the air, Aea’s eyes darted from the axe, to the man wielding it, to the girl hidden behind the man’s bulk, to the destruction littering the ground.
She bought that lyre the week before with all of her savings. Custom design, the biggest one she’d ever beheld, its build a bafflement to both the craftsman and the man who was teaching her to read. It had twenty-four strings, each one joined to the body at the pivot of a painted letter. For each letter upon the parchment stretched and pinned above the strings, she plucked the string possessing the matching figure and could recall the sound of the letter in an instant. Just to assure her memory kept it, she wrote the letter down on the small parchment next to the original charcoal trace. She was into the sixth page of her transcription on a treatise on urban warfare. It had taken her four hours a day, every day, for seven days.
And now it was gone.
Aea released her breath, the rise and fall of her chest slowing under her gradually calming heart. As Asia’s voice rang in conversation, Aea said not a word. Instead, she unlaced her chlamys and spread it on the ground. Her expression remained unreadable as she executed her duties with the grace of a woman who’d picked up many a weapon-shattered thing. Strings, wood slivers, and leafs of parchment joined together and once the carcass of her work lay in a pile, she knotted it into a sack of worn hide and left it sitting by her feet.
There was not an instance where she would be a passive observer, it was simply not how she was forged and conditioned. Snap decisions, immediate reactions, muscle memory guided her to protect and preserve rather than run. If Asia jumped off a cliff, Aea would dive after her without thought and be angry later when conscious consideration came back to her. It was probably how she would die.
Her arms swung down to her sides and she kept her eyes forward, no expression save for placid nothing. As still as she stood, though, her mind was abuzz with muttered irritation.
She could imagine a world where one did not freely walk under the head of a swinging axe, or where one was aware of their surroundings whilst working a blade. Clearly, the Kotas couldn’t. Aea could also imagine a world where she might work with a princess who did not roll under axes, but she clearly had little to no survival instincts.
If Aea were particularly religious, she might have read her broken lyre and shredded work as a sign of bad things to come. But she was only selectively pious and on this particular day, she was more of the mind that the Gods were probably not real, and that her shattered lyre should be evidence of the fact.
"If you are not still mad at me Vangelis, I have something to ask of you. Please? It is a really big favor, and if you do this... I promise I will behave more like how a princess should. Mostly. I will do my best too," Asia said.
That would make Aea's job considerably easier. Perhaps if Athenasia acted more like a ‘princess,’ she would not be directly in the line of danger every single time Aea turned her head. Her eyes flicked briefly to the prince, then his massive axe, then forward once more. Tying a bell round Asia's neck was not a bad idea either.
Everything happened in a blur of chaos. Too many people, too many plans, too large an ax.
The moment he turned to continue his work with the blade, Vangelis realized his mistake. Athanasia's face was bright, smiling, and far too close for safety. As the blade was sent swinging with heavy momentum right where the top of her head was, Vangelis had to switch his grip and bear down on the end of the ax's shaft as hard as he could to slow its descent and change its angle. At the same time, Asia slipped low and darted beneath him, whilst a large construct papyrus was suddenly flung into her place, guarding her retreat. Vangelis had been quick enough to manage steering the ax so that, at worse, he would have given Asia an unflattering haircut but once his grip had been altered he no longer had the leverage to adjust his trajectory for a second time, on the fly. The blade struck the strange shield with a fair amount of force, shattering it into a dozen pieces. Luckily, his shifting of the blade's angle meant that he didn't take off one of the arms holding the shield or risk the face of whoever was behind it. Instead, he just destroyed the object itself. Well and truly.
The collision brought the force of the weapon down to a manageable level and with a soft loop and swing, Vangelis had it back in hand and still at his side. A young woman with dark hair was bending to retrieve the pieces of whatever it was he had broken and Asia was hovering behind him with a note of excitement in her voice. As if nothing unusual or potentially dangerous has just occurred.
Vangelis felt a sharp vibration in his teeth as his jaws clamped together. Hard. He was forced to take a deep inhale before he turned to confront his sister, his face its usual mask of stoic disapproval. He didn't even blink at the slap to his back or her challenging words about him killing her. He'd had the situation under control (for the most part) but even if he hadn't, she would have done well not to approach a man wielding a sharp and heavy instrument!
'Oooo.. I like this one. This isn't as heavy as the ones you and Silas use.'
Again, Vangelis said nothing as his baby sister took up his weapons and started playing about with them. Apparently, she was unaware of just how possessive men could get over their tools of violence. Given Vangelis had a personal armory of them, he supposed himself a little less covetous of his own blades but still... his instinct was to slap the stupid thing out of her hands. The blade she was holding, she wielded like a dagger, which was dangerous because she risked impaling herself in the thigh with its unfamiliar length. It was lighter because it was based on a scimitar and could be used as a counter weapon, in the non-dominant hand whilst a more powerful blade held its place in the other. But this wasn't a lesson in weaponry.
Instead, it was apparently an exercise in negotiation...
'If you are not still mad at me Vangelis, I have something to ask of you. Please?'
Vangelis was tempted to ask which part he was supposed to be mad at. Her putting herself in danger at the dinner a few nights gone or nearly allowing her head to be taken off a few seconds past? Not a fantastic way to start an asking of favors, sister-mine... he thought. 'I promise I will behave more like how a princess should. Mostly. I will do my best too.' Another empty promise of sorts, Vangelis thought, given that she was supposed to behave that way anyway, regardless of favors rendered.
Instead of speaking his mind, however, Vangelis simply returned the ax to his back, planted his feet, and crossed his arms over his chest. A figure with all the docility of a mountain. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Asia's retainer collecting together the pieces of what had once been... a musical instrument? It sort of looked like a lyre. Or like it might have once been one...
The woman who owned it, he gave little attention to besides assuring himself that she wasn't injured. She was one of Asia's new retainers but beyond that Vangelis gave her little consideration. His mother the Queen was in charge of internal staffing and it became a necessary habit for the nobility to pretend their servants or entourage were non-existent. To allow your eyes to skim over them in passing. It wasn't an act of rudeness or arrogance. Merely a means of mental survival. No one was comfortable being watched every hour of every day. So one had to practice the art of ignoring the watchers.
Speaking of which...
Raising one hand above his head, Vangelis noticed the flicker of a white tunic as a servant came running out from the palace and toward the meadow. Vangelis liked to practice in solitude, but he had long ago arranged for a slave or servant to be on watch whenever he worked. Occasionally it fell upon him that he needed a drink, required a note to be sent to someone, or the familiar physical exertion simply brought an idea to the forefront of his mind and he required someone to write it down so he wouldn't forget it by the time he got inside. A simple hand in the air had become a visible signal for the servant in question to attend to him.
'Yes, Your Highness?' The boy, possibly little more than sixteen, asked as he came hurrying over. He had a jug of what in his hand in case Vangelis' request was for refreshment.
Vangelis gave a brief jerk of his chin to the hide sack now sitting at the retainer's feet.
"Take that," he commanded without emotion or emphasis. "See to it that it's replaced." As was his upbringing and training as a prince, Vangelis then turned away from the boy and ignored his existence as the servant hurried to follow the orders given to him. He made no other comment upon the strange and broken object.
Instead, Vangelis' gaze fell squarely on his sister, her prelude to begging now laid in full. He recrossed his arms, his head tilted only slightly to show he was in a considering mood.
"Spit it out, sister mine."
Perhaps if he could see whatever fancy she had in mind quickly taken care of he could return to his brief moment of morning solitude...
JD
Vangelis
JD
Vangelis
Awards
First Impressions:Towering; Resting stoic bitch face; monstrous height; the terrifying "Blood General".
Address: Your Royal Highness
Everything happened in a blur of chaos. Too many people, too many plans, too large an ax.
The moment he turned to continue his work with the blade, Vangelis realized his mistake. Athanasia's face was bright, smiling, and far too close for safety. As the blade was sent swinging with heavy momentum right where the top of her head was, Vangelis had to switch his grip and bear down on the end of the ax's shaft as hard as he could to slow its descent and change its angle. At the same time, Asia slipped low and darted beneath him, whilst a large construct papyrus was suddenly flung into her place, guarding her retreat. Vangelis had been quick enough to manage steering the ax so that, at worse, he would have given Asia an unflattering haircut but once his grip had been altered he no longer had the leverage to adjust his trajectory for a second time, on the fly. The blade struck the strange shield with a fair amount of force, shattering it into a dozen pieces. Luckily, his shifting of the blade's angle meant that he didn't take off one of the arms holding the shield or risk the face of whoever was behind it. Instead, he just destroyed the object itself. Well and truly.
The collision brought the force of the weapon down to a manageable level and with a soft loop and swing, Vangelis had it back in hand and still at his side. A young woman with dark hair was bending to retrieve the pieces of whatever it was he had broken and Asia was hovering behind him with a note of excitement in her voice. As if nothing unusual or potentially dangerous has just occurred.
Vangelis felt a sharp vibration in his teeth as his jaws clamped together. Hard. He was forced to take a deep inhale before he turned to confront his sister, his face its usual mask of stoic disapproval. He didn't even blink at the slap to his back or her challenging words about him killing her. He'd had the situation under control (for the most part) but even if he hadn't, she would have done well not to approach a man wielding a sharp and heavy instrument!
'Oooo.. I like this one. This isn't as heavy as the ones you and Silas use.'
Again, Vangelis said nothing as his baby sister took up his weapons and started playing about with them. Apparently, she was unaware of just how possessive men could get over their tools of violence. Given Vangelis had a personal armory of them, he supposed himself a little less covetous of his own blades but still... his instinct was to slap the stupid thing out of her hands. The blade she was holding, she wielded like a dagger, which was dangerous because she risked impaling herself in the thigh with its unfamiliar length. It was lighter because it was based on a scimitar and could be used as a counter weapon, in the non-dominant hand whilst a more powerful blade held its place in the other. But this wasn't a lesson in weaponry.
Instead, it was apparently an exercise in negotiation...
'If you are not still mad at me Vangelis, I have something to ask of you. Please?'
Vangelis was tempted to ask which part he was supposed to be mad at. Her putting herself in danger at the dinner a few nights gone or nearly allowing her head to be taken off a few seconds past? Not a fantastic way to start an asking of favors, sister-mine... he thought. 'I promise I will behave more like how a princess should. Mostly. I will do my best too.' Another empty promise of sorts, Vangelis thought, given that she was supposed to behave that way anyway, regardless of favors rendered.
Instead of speaking his mind, however, Vangelis simply returned the ax to his back, planted his feet, and crossed his arms over his chest. A figure with all the docility of a mountain. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Asia's retainer collecting together the pieces of what had once been... a musical instrument? It sort of looked like a lyre. Or like it might have once been one...
The woman who owned it, he gave little attention to besides assuring himself that she wasn't injured. She was one of Asia's new retainers but beyond that Vangelis gave her little consideration. His mother the Queen was in charge of internal staffing and it became a necessary habit for the nobility to pretend their servants or entourage were non-existent. To allow your eyes to skim over them in passing. It wasn't an act of rudeness or arrogance. Merely a means of mental survival. No one was comfortable being watched every hour of every day. So one had to practice the art of ignoring the watchers.
Speaking of which...
Raising one hand above his head, Vangelis noticed the flicker of a white tunic as a servant came running out from the palace and toward the meadow. Vangelis liked to practice in solitude, but he had long ago arranged for a slave or servant to be on watch whenever he worked. Occasionally it fell upon him that he needed a drink, required a note to be sent to someone, or the familiar physical exertion simply brought an idea to the forefront of his mind and he required someone to write it down so he wouldn't forget it by the time he got inside. A simple hand in the air had become a visible signal for the servant in question to attend to him.
'Yes, Your Highness?' The boy, possibly little more than sixteen, asked as he came hurrying over. He had a jug of what in his hand in case Vangelis' request was for refreshment.
Vangelis gave a brief jerk of his chin to the hide sack now sitting at the retainer's feet.
"Take that," he commanded without emotion or emphasis. "See to it that it's replaced." As was his upbringing and training as a prince, Vangelis then turned away from the boy and ignored his existence as the servant hurried to follow the orders given to him. He made no other comment upon the strange and broken object.
Instead, Vangelis' gaze fell squarely on his sister, her prelude to begging now laid in full. He recrossed his arms, his head tilted only slightly to show he was in a considering mood.
"Spit it out, sister mine."
Perhaps if he could see whatever fancy she had in mind quickly taken care of he could return to his brief moment of morning solitude...
Everything happened in a blur of chaos. Too many people, too many plans, too large an ax.
The moment he turned to continue his work with the blade, Vangelis realized his mistake. Athanasia's face was bright, smiling, and far too close for safety. As the blade was sent swinging with heavy momentum right where the top of her head was, Vangelis had to switch his grip and bear down on the end of the ax's shaft as hard as he could to slow its descent and change its angle. At the same time, Asia slipped low and darted beneath him, whilst a large construct papyrus was suddenly flung into her place, guarding her retreat. Vangelis had been quick enough to manage steering the ax so that, at worse, he would have given Asia an unflattering haircut but once his grip had been altered he no longer had the leverage to adjust his trajectory for a second time, on the fly. The blade struck the strange shield with a fair amount of force, shattering it into a dozen pieces. Luckily, his shifting of the blade's angle meant that he didn't take off one of the arms holding the shield or risk the face of whoever was behind it. Instead, he just destroyed the object itself. Well and truly.
The collision brought the force of the weapon down to a manageable level and with a soft loop and swing, Vangelis had it back in hand and still at his side. A young woman with dark hair was bending to retrieve the pieces of whatever it was he had broken and Asia was hovering behind him with a note of excitement in her voice. As if nothing unusual or potentially dangerous has just occurred.
Vangelis felt a sharp vibration in his teeth as his jaws clamped together. Hard. He was forced to take a deep inhale before he turned to confront his sister, his face its usual mask of stoic disapproval. He didn't even blink at the slap to his back or her challenging words about him killing her. He'd had the situation under control (for the most part) but even if he hadn't, she would have done well not to approach a man wielding a sharp and heavy instrument!
'Oooo.. I like this one. This isn't as heavy as the ones you and Silas use.'
Again, Vangelis said nothing as his baby sister took up his weapons and started playing about with them. Apparently, she was unaware of just how possessive men could get over their tools of violence. Given Vangelis had a personal armory of them, he supposed himself a little less covetous of his own blades but still... his instinct was to slap the stupid thing out of her hands. The blade she was holding, she wielded like a dagger, which was dangerous because she risked impaling herself in the thigh with its unfamiliar length. It was lighter because it was based on a scimitar and could be used as a counter weapon, in the non-dominant hand whilst a more powerful blade held its place in the other. But this wasn't a lesson in weaponry.
Instead, it was apparently an exercise in negotiation...
'If you are not still mad at me Vangelis, I have something to ask of you. Please?'
Vangelis was tempted to ask which part he was supposed to be mad at. Her putting herself in danger at the dinner a few nights gone or nearly allowing her head to be taken off a few seconds past? Not a fantastic way to start an asking of favors, sister-mine... he thought. 'I promise I will behave more like how a princess should. Mostly. I will do my best too.' Another empty promise of sorts, Vangelis thought, given that she was supposed to behave that way anyway, regardless of favors rendered.
Instead of speaking his mind, however, Vangelis simply returned the ax to his back, planted his feet, and crossed his arms over his chest. A figure with all the docility of a mountain. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Asia's retainer collecting together the pieces of what had once been... a musical instrument? It sort of looked like a lyre. Or like it might have once been one...
The woman who owned it, he gave little attention to besides assuring himself that she wasn't injured. She was one of Asia's new retainers but beyond that Vangelis gave her little consideration. His mother the Queen was in charge of internal staffing and it became a necessary habit for the nobility to pretend their servants or entourage were non-existent. To allow your eyes to skim over them in passing. It wasn't an act of rudeness or arrogance. Merely a means of mental survival. No one was comfortable being watched every hour of every day. So one had to practice the art of ignoring the watchers.
Speaking of which...
Raising one hand above his head, Vangelis noticed the flicker of a white tunic as a servant came running out from the palace and toward the meadow. Vangelis liked to practice in solitude, but he had long ago arranged for a slave or servant to be on watch whenever he worked. Occasionally it fell upon him that he needed a drink, required a note to be sent to someone, or the familiar physical exertion simply brought an idea to the forefront of his mind and he required someone to write it down so he wouldn't forget it by the time he got inside. A simple hand in the air had become a visible signal for the servant in question to attend to him.
'Yes, Your Highness?' The boy, possibly little more than sixteen, asked as he came hurrying over. He had a jug of what in his hand in case Vangelis' request was for refreshment.
Vangelis gave a brief jerk of his chin to the hide sack now sitting at the retainer's feet.
"Take that," he commanded without emotion or emphasis. "See to it that it's replaced." As was his upbringing and training as a prince, Vangelis then turned away from the boy and ignored his existence as the servant hurried to follow the orders given to him. He made no other comment upon the strange and broken object.
Instead, Vangelis' gaze fell squarely on his sister, her prelude to begging now laid in full. He recrossed his arms, his head tilted only slightly to show he was in a considering mood.
"Spit it out, sister mine."
Perhaps if he could see whatever fancy she had in mind quickly taken care of he could return to his brief moment of morning solitude...
