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The man wholly supported his cousin, wholly believed that this was the right course of action. Not only was it a show of power and action after a tragedy, it was a decisive move that came with calculated risk. The youngest Mikaelidas son didn’t know much of politics, and even though Stephanos wasn’t as trained as Zacharias had been, but he was a military man. And this took military action. So what better way to prove he was a fit king than to strike while the pain was fresh?
The whispers of doubt rarely met his ears, and he wasn’t sure he would have listened to them anyway.
The memory of the crowning was fresh in his mind, the feel of Theo pressed up against him so lovingly had tormented him at night. Their silence wasn’t a surprise, because he had made it known that there was not much they could do about the marriage. But he had hoped that she would continue their relationship once she was married. And they had left things as if they would. He woke early that morning, a request of his father, to prepare. Bathing and shaving were habitual before battle, something he did because it was mindless. As an archer, his armor was far lighter than that of his brother. A thick metal breast plate was abandoned for a thinner, lighter leather one. High leather boots with thin metal bracers on the front were laced to his knee. The sword at his side was just as well maintained as his bow, but not as familiar to him.
His bow and the arrow he preferred were sent ahead to the palati with the chariot he would be using. To be frank, a chariot and an archer were not the best combination for battle. Hiding behind the metal in a crouch did not allow for the full extent of the power and distance with a bow. But as he stood next to his father, lacing up the leather beavers on his hand, he knew he would have to make due. Because of the potential for closer range, he brought both his tradition bow and his recurved half bow.
Both would serve him well.
His eyes took in the crowd, avoiding the glances of the girls who had entertained the pair the night before the coronation. Emilios was quick to take in the King and his wife, along with the Prince of Colchis and the lady Selene. He wondered exactly how that came to be, but didn’t have much chance to think on it as his eyes stopped on Theo and Achilleas.
He tried not to stare at the pair. But he felt the heat of someone’s eyes on him, only to find Theo’s glare on him. The heat in her eyes was a far different burn than she had given him in the past. Instead of the flames of passion, this seemed to be a death stare.
What the hell had transpired between the coronation and today?
There would be no way to pull her aside to question her about it. Instead he had to just watch as her focus shifted to his brother. Was that affection he saw in her eyes? Was she playing up her emotions to save face? Or was she actually starting to care for his brother? He didn’t know what to make of any of this.
Nor could he stop the jealousy that boiled within him as his brother pulled the woman Emilios loved in for a passionate kiss.
That moment should have been his.
He should have been the one kissing her.
The one telling her that he would come back safely.
Turning back to the chariot, he fiddled with the arrows, as if he needed to count their numbers one more time. He knew the exact amount he had, but the menial task was better than watching them. He had to keep it together, had to focus on anything but the rage in the pit of his stomach. And had to remind himself that this was just the beginning. Soon, she would be married to him.
Sharing Achilleas’ bed.
Bearing his children.
And Emilios would have to watch, wordlessly.
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Emilios was anxious for a fight.
The man wholly supported his cousin, wholly believed that this was the right course of action. Not only was it a show of power and action after a tragedy, it was a decisive move that came with calculated risk. The youngest Mikaelidas son didn’t know much of politics, and even though Stephanos wasn’t as trained as Zacharias had been, but he was a military man. And this took military action. So what better way to prove he was a fit king than to strike while the pain was fresh?
The whispers of doubt rarely met his ears, and he wasn’t sure he would have listened to them anyway.
The memory of the crowning was fresh in his mind, the feel of Theo pressed up against him so lovingly had tormented him at night. Their silence wasn’t a surprise, because he had made it known that there was not much they could do about the marriage. But he had hoped that she would continue their relationship once she was married. And they had left things as if they would. He woke early that morning, a request of his father, to prepare. Bathing and shaving were habitual before battle, something he did because it was mindless. As an archer, his armor was far lighter than that of his brother. A thick metal breast plate was abandoned for a thinner, lighter leather one. High leather boots with thin metal bracers on the front were laced to his knee. The sword at his side was just as well maintained as his bow, but not as familiar to him.
His bow and the arrow he preferred were sent ahead to the palati with the chariot he would be using. To be frank, a chariot and an archer were not the best combination for battle. Hiding behind the metal in a crouch did not allow for the full extent of the power and distance with a bow. But as he stood next to his father, lacing up the leather beavers on his hand, he knew he would have to make due. Because of the potential for closer range, he brought both his tradition bow and his recurved half bow.
Both would serve him well.
His eyes took in the crowd, avoiding the glances of the girls who had entertained the pair the night before the coronation. Emilios was quick to take in the King and his wife, along with the Prince of Colchis and the lady Selene. He wondered exactly how that came to be, but didn’t have much chance to think on it as his eyes stopped on Theo and Achilleas.
He tried not to stare at the pair. But he felt the heat of someone’s eyes on him, only to find Theo’s glare on him. The heat in her eyes was a far different burn than she had given him in the past. Instead of the flames of passion, this seemed to be a death stare.
What the hell had transpired between the coronation and today?
There would be no way to pull her aside to question her about it. Instead he had to just watch as her focus shifted to his brother. Was that affection he saw in her eyes? Was she playing up her emotions to save face? Or was she actually starting to care for his brother? He didn’t know what to make of any of this.
Nor could he stop the jealousy that boiled within him as his brother pulled the woman Emilios loved in for a passionate kiss.
That moment should have been his.
He should have been the one kissing her.
The one telling her that he would come back safely.
Turning back to the chariot, he fiddled with the arrows, as if he needed to count their numbers one more time. He knew the exact amount he had, but the menial task was better than watching them. He had to keep it together, had to focus on anything but the rage in the pit of his stomach. And had to remind himself that this was just the beginning. Soon, she would be married to him.
Sharing Achilleas’ bed.
Bearing his children.
And Emilios would have to watch, wordlessly.
Emilios was anxious for a fight.
The man wholly supported his cousin, wholly believed that this was the right course of action. Not only was it a show of power and action after a tragedy, it was a decisive move that came with calculated risk. The youngest Mikaelidas son didn’t know much of politics, and even though Stephanos wasn’t as trained as Zacharias had been, but he was a military man. And this took military action. So what better way to prove he was a fit king than to strike while the pain was fresh?
The whispers of doubt rarely met his ears, and he wasn’t sure he would have listened to them anyway.
The memory of the crowning was fresh in his mind, the feel of Theo pressed up against him so lovingly had tormented him at night. Their silence wasn’t a surprise, because he had made it known that there was not much they could do about the marriage. But he had hoped that she would continue their relationship once she was married. And they had left things as if they would. He woke early that morning, a request of his father, to prepare. Bathing and shaving were habitual before battle, something he did because it was mindless. As an archer, his armor was far lighter than that of his brother. A thick metal breast plate was abandoned for a thinner, lighter leather one. High leather boots with thin metal bracers on the front were laced to his knee. The sword at his side was just as well maintained as his bow, but not as familiar to him.
His bow and the arrow he preferred were sent ahead to the palati with the chariot he would be using. To be frank, a chariot and an archer were not the best combination for battle. Hiding behind the metal in a crouch did not allow for the full extent of the power and distance with a bow. But as he stood next to his father, lacing up the leather beavers on his hand, he knew he would have to make due. Because of the potential for closer range, he brought both his tradition bow and his recurved half bow.
Both would serve him well.
His eyes took in the crowd, avoiding the glances of the girls who had entertained the pair the night before the coronation. Emilios was quick to take in the King and his wife, along with the Prince of Colchis and the lady Selene. He wondered exactly how that came to be, but didn’t have much chance to think on it as his eyes stopped on Theo and Achilleas.
He tried not to stare at the pair. But he felt the heat of someone’s eyes on him, only to find Theo’s glare on him. The heat in her eyes was a far different burn than she had given him in the past. Instead of the flames of passion, this seemed to be a death stare.
What the hell had transpired between the coronation and today?
There would be no way to pull her aside to question her about it. Instead he had to just watch as her focus shifted to his brother. Was that affection he saw in her eyes? Was she playing up her emotions to save face? Or was she actually starting to care for his brother? He didn’t know what to make of any of this.
Nor could he stop the jealousy that boiled within him as his brother pulled the woman Emilios loved in for a passionate kiss.
That moment should have been his.
He should have been the one kissing her.
The one telling her that he would come back safely.
Turning back to the chariot, he fiddled with the arrows, as if he needed to count their numbers one more time. He knew the exact amount he had, but the menial task was better than watching them. He had to keep it together, had to focus on anything but the rage in the pit of his stomach. And had to remind himself that this was just the beginning. Soon, she would be married to him.
Sharing Achilleas’ bed.
Bearing his children.
And Emilios would have to watch, wordlessly.
With his recent injury, he could not wear the bronze armor that befitted a soldier. Which meant that he should not obey the king’s command and ride into battle. It was a predicament as embarrassing as it was ridiculous. He was a little surprised to find that Prince Irakles was going back into the fray when he sons were well able to take the retired general’s place. But if anyone could benefit the king, it was Prince Irakles. His personal dislike for the man aside, no one in all of Taengea would call Prince Irakles anything but a war hero.
Rather than wear the heavy bronze armor, he was wearing hard packed, lighter leather armor. His brother Dorotheos would also be with them. He watched his brother step into one of the chariots and speak to the driver, readying his arrows. Like he wanted to be doing. The injuries were not life threatening but they were such that he would be slower than usual. Nor did he have the ability to aim like he’d need to. No. For the king’s benefit and his own, he must stay towards the back and allow archers far more able to aim first. This would give him time to take proper, careful aim.
The thought rankled him but he wasn’t prideful enough to force the issue. He watched the king embrace his wife. It was wonderful that they were such a happy pair. Perhaps his daughters might be so lucky. No one was ignorant of Stephanos’s ways but the way he’d held his wife and whispered in her ear, that couldn’t be false. No. The royal couple were happy and rumors to the contrary were vicious nonsense.
Dorothea and Alexa were wishing Iason well. His brother, Dorotheos would be here but the man was laid up at home with a terrible cold. Ill luck for the older Dimitrou men all around. At last he spied Irakles and made his way over to him. He grasped the older man by the shoulder, his grip hard and his sharp eyed gaze trained on the man.
“We’re counting on you to watch the king,” he said. “I’ve already offered sacrifices to Ares and Athena on your behalf, as well as his majesty’s. It’s kind of you to come out of retirement for him, but, then I suppose you’d want vengeance as much as he does. King Zenon was a good man. And the prince...cut down in his prime…”
The tragedy was barely three months old and with today’s plan, it was fresh in most people’s minds again. Stephanos was back by that point and he left Irakles to catch the king right before he could jump into his chariot. “Your majesty. The gods will be with you. Good hunting.”
The king looked as though he wanted to say something, but smiled instead and nodding before saying some sort of reassurance. It was time to back away.
He moved out of the midst of the chariots and back over to his horse. His eyes sought his brother’s and across the courtyard they exchanged nods. A farewell, of sorts. While he never wished Dorotheos to go in harm’s way, he would have been disappointed if his brother chose not to do his duty and serve.
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With his recent injury, he could not wear the bronze armor that befitted a soldier. Which meant that he should not obey the king’s command and ride into battle. It was a predicament as embarrassing as it was ridiculous. He was a little surprised to find that Prince Irakles was going back into the fray when he sons were well able to take the retired general’s place. But if anyone could benefit the king, it was Prince Irakles. His personal dislike for the man aside, no one in all of Taengea would call Prince Irakles anything but a war hero.
Rather than wear the heavy bronze armor, he was wearing hard packed, lighter leather armor. His brother Dorotheos would also be with them. He watched his brother step into one of the chariots and speak to the driver, readying his arrows. Like he wanted to be doing. The injuries were not life threatening but they were such that he would be slower than usual. Nor did he have the ability to aim like he’d need to. No. For the king’s benefit and his own, he must stay towards the back and allow archers far more able to aim first. This would give him time to take proper, careful aim.
The thought rankled him but he wasn’t prideful enough to force the issue. He watched the king embrace his wife. It was wonderful that they were such a happy pair. Perhaps his daughters might be so lucky. No one was ignorant of Stephanos’s ways but the way he’d held his wife and whispered in her ear, that couldn’t be false. No. The royal couple were happy and rumors to the contrary were vicious nonsense.
Dorothea and Alexa were wishing Iason well. His brother, Dorotheos would be here but the man was laid up at home with a terrible cold. Ill luck for the older Dimitrou men all around. At last he spied Irakles and made his way over to him. He grasped the older man by the shoulder, his grip hard and his sharp eyed gaze trained on the man.
“We’re counting on you to watch the king,” he said. “I’ve already offered sacrifices to Ares and Athena on your behalf, as well as his majesty’s. It’s kind of you to come out of retirement for him, but, then I suppose you’d want vengeance as much as he does. King Zenon was a good man. And the prince...cut down in his prime…”
The tragedy was barely three months old and with today’s plan, it was fresh in most people’s minds again. Stephanos was back by that point and he left Irakles to catch the king right before he could jump into his chariot. “Your majesty. The gods will be with you. Good hunting.”
The king looked as though he wanted to say something, but smiled instead and nodding before saying some sort of reassurance. It was time to back away.
He moved out of the midst of the chariots and back over to his horse. His eyes sought his brother’s and across the courtyard they exchanged nods. A farewell, of sorts. While he never wished Dorotheos to go in harm’s way, he would have been disappointed if his brother chose not to do his duty and serve.
With his recent injury, he could not wear the bronze armor that befitted a soldier. Which meant that he should not obey the king’s command and ride into battle. It was a predicament as embarrassing as it was ridiculous. He was a little surprised to find that Prince Irakles was going back into the fray when he sons were well able to take the retired general’s place. But if anyone could benefit the king, it was Prince Irakles. His personal dislike for the man aside, no one in all of Taengea would call Prince Irakles anything but a war hero.
Rather than wear the heavy bronze armor, he was wearing hard packed, lighter leather armor. His brother Dorotheos would also be with them. He watched his brother step into one of the chariots and speak to the driver, readying his arrows. Like he wanted to be doing. The injuries were not life threatening but they were such that he would be slower than usual. Nor did he have the ability to aim like he’d need to. No. For the king’s benefit and his own, he must stay towards the back and allow archers far more able to aim first. This would give him time to take proper, careful aim.
The thought rankled him but he wasn’t prideful enough to force the issue. He watched the king embrace his wife. It was wonderful that they were such a happy pair. Perhaps his daughters might be so lucky. No one was ignorant of Stephanos’s ways but the way he’d held his wife and whispered in her ear, that couldn’t be false. No. The royal couple were happy and rumors to the contrary were vicious nonsense.
Dorothea and Alexa were wishing Iason well. His brother, Dorotheos would be here but the man was laid up at home with a terrible cold. Ill luck for the older Dimitrou men all around. At last he spied Irakles and made his way over to him. He grasped the older man by the shoulder, his grip hard and his sharp eyed gaze trained on the man.
“We’re counting on you to watch the king,” he said. “I’ve already offered sacrifices to Ares and Athena on your behalf, as well as his majesty’s. It’s kind of you to come out of retirement for him, but, then I suppose you’d want vengeance as much as he does. King Zenon was a good man. And the prince...cut down in his prime…”
The tragedy was barely three months old and with today’s plan, it was fresh in most people’s minds again. Stephanos was back by that point and he left Irakles to catch the king right before he could jump into his chariot. “Your majesty. The gods will be with you. Good hunting.”
The king looked as though he wanted to say something, but smiled instead and nodding before saying some sort of reassurance. It was time to back away.
He moved out of the midst of the chariots and back over to his horse. His eyes sought his brother’s and across the courtyard they exchanged nods. A farewell, of sorts. While he never wished Dorotheos to go in harm’s way, he would have been disappointed if his brother chose not to do his duty and serve.
"You better have it all well planned, Stephanos. Or you risk the lives of many, and the safety of your home and our Kingdom, by bringing them into a death trap with these chariots." Irakles hissed at him. He stared his uncle in the face but there was no goading smile there to rile the old man. Instead, he cocked his head to one side and considered Irakles for a moment before nodding towards the old man’s chariot. Before he could say anything, his shoulder was grasped by Lord Gavriil.
He wanted to pull out of the lord’s grip. It was strong and he hadn’t been expecting it but the words ‘Good Hunt’ struck him as the perfect thing to say. Because that was precisely what he was doing. And it would have been better to have one of Taengea’s best archers with him, but he’d settle for the brother, since the son was still away.
“The gods are with us, my lord,” he forced out a smile to Gavriil before turning to level his uncle with a look. “It’s time to go,” he said and turned away to step up into his own chariot.
With a nod to a guard standing on the top step of the palati where Olympia still should have been, in his opinion, he put on his helm and grasped the chariot’s edge. Taking the signal, the guard lifted the long salpinx trumpet. Two long notes barrelled over the company, sounding the call to go.
It was time for the women to leave the area and get to points of safety, or risk being run over by the chariots and horses. The dust in the air spun around as men took their places and the women exited. His chariot would lead with Irakles nearly beside him. The rest would follow. A few of them had their orders. The rest of them would receive their orders once they were free of the city and there was little chance of the information being passed along channels it shouldn’t.
People had been calling him paranoid lately. They were right to do so. But he didn’t think this was necessarily a bad thing.
He did not need to look back to see if Achilleas or Emilios were ready, or if Vangelis and Commander Nike were in place. The entire company was made up of seasoned warriors who knew how to keep the newer ones in order. This assembly had been chosen with care. All preparations were made. The only thing left to have done was pray. And sacrifices were burning all across the city.
There was nothing left to do but raise his arm and give the signal to go, which he did. The gates opened and the chariot lurched beneath him. These were war chariots, not the ones in the area. They were pulled by teams of two and were much easier to deal with on a battlefield. This also made the whole thing lighter.
The sound of wooden chariot wheels crunching over stone and the scraping of armor and the clopping of horse hooves was deafening. But inside his helm, he was smiling. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was actually setting into motion something that mattered. Whether or not he failed, no one could say that he did not at least attempt.
The route they would take moved the whole company through the city and into the outer flatlands of Vasiliadon. The gorge was not far but it was far enough that they would stop just outside the city limits for last instructions. It almost seemed overkill for the hooded demons but one lord had already been overwhelmed by their number. He was not going to make the same mistake.
People looked down on them from their houses. Some praised them. Some looked stricken. Most people were just glad that a real attempt was being made to destroy the enemy that had burned parts of the city. But he didn’t have long to consider any of the eyes staring down. Vasiliadon’s borders gave way and they were at last running on flat, beautiful grassland. A couple of loose horses stared at them before dipping their noses back in the grass to continue eating.
Once the entire company had stopped, the plan was thus laid out: The story of the gorge was that it was once the back of a giant, cursed into stone by Zeus, who then sent his mighty lightning bolt to strike the rock, splitting it in two. The gorge did look a little like what could have been a huge torso, split straight down the middle with bulging hills that could be arms on either side. From here, the chariots could race straight into the gorge but there was only room for two, side by side.
They'd bottleneck and be easy targets then. Around the back of the gorge was even narrower but men could file out of it on foot. And it could be held for a long time, if need be. The Creed fighting inside could withstand an onslaught for a few days if need be by switching out soldiers. The easiest way to kill them would be to do it outside of the gorge. And that was the plan.
Some would go around to the back of the gorge, cutting off escape that way while he and the rest of the chariots would wait here for the first of the Creed to come spilling out. When asked what could possibly drive men to certain doom, he pointed to the vats of liquid that they'd brought with them.
"Those are to be taken to the top and dumped down into the Creed's midst. Flaming arrows will ignite an unquenchable fire. They can burn in the gorge or die by our swords. It's their choice."
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"You better have it all well planned, Stephanos. Or you risk the lives of many, and the safety of your home and our Kingdom, by bringing them into a death trap with these chariots." Irakles hissed at him. He stared his uncle in the face but there was no goading smile there to rile the old man. Instead, he cocked his head to one side and considered Irakles for a moment before nodding towards the old man’s chariot. Before he could say anything, his shoulder was grasped by Lord Gavriil.
He wanted to pull out of the lord’s grip. It was strong and he hadn’t been expecting it but the words ‘Good Hunt’ struck him as the perfect thing to say. Because that was precisely what he was doing. And it would have been better to have one of Taengea’s best archers with him, but he’d settle for the brother, since the son was still away.
“The gods are with us, my lord,” he forced out a smile to Gavriil before turning to level his uncle with a look. “It’s time to go,” he said and turned away to step up into his own chariot.
With a nod to a guard standing on the top step of the palati where Olympia still should have been, in his opinion, he put on his helm and grasped the chariot’s edge. Taking the signal, the guard lifted the long salpinx trumpet. Two long notes barrelled over the company, sounding the call to go.
It was time for the women to leave the area and get to points of safety, or risk being run over by the chariots and horses. The dust in the air spun around as men took their places and the women exited. His chariot would lead with Irakles nearly beside him. The rest would follow. A few of them had their orders. The rest of them would receive their orders once they were free of the city and there was little chance of the information being passed along channels it shouldn’t.
People had been calling him paranoid lately. They were right to do so. But he didn’t think this was necessarily a bad thing.
He did not need to look back to see if Achilleas or Emilios were ready, or if Vangelis and Commander Nike were in place. The entire company was made up of seasoned warriors who knew how to keep the newer ones in order. This assembly had been chosen with care. All preparations were made. The only thing left to have done was pray. And sacrifices were burning all across the city.
There was nothing left to do but raise his arm and give the signal to go, which he did. The gates opened and the chariot lurched beneath him. These were war chariots, not the ones in the area. They were pulled by teams of two and were much easier to deal with on a battlefield. This also made the whole thing lighter.
The sound of wooden chariot wheels crunching over stone and the scraping of armor and the clopping of horse hooves was deafening. But inside his helm, he was smiling. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was actually setting into motion something that mattered. Whether or not he failed, no one could say that he did not at least attempt.
The route they would take moved the whole company through the city and into the outer flatlands of Vasiliadon. The gorge was not far but it was far enough that they would stop just outside the city limits for last instructions. It almost seemed overkill for the hooded demons but one lord had already been overwhelmed by their number. He was not going to make the same mistake.
People looked down on them from their houses. Some praised them. Some looked stricken. Most people were just glad that a real attempt was being made to destroy the enemy that had burned parts of the city. But he didn’t have long to consider any of the eyes staring down. Vasiliadon’s borders gave way and they were at last running on flat, beautiful grassland. A couple of loose horses stared at them before dipping their noses back in the grass to continue eating.
Once the entire company had stopped, the plan was thus laid out: The story of the gorge was that it was once the back of a giant, cursed into stone by Zeus, who then sent his mighty lightning bolt to strike the rock, splitting it in two. The gorge did look a little like what could have been a huge torso, split straight down the middle with bulging hills that could be arms on either side. From here, the chariots could race straight into the gorge but there was only room for two, side by side.
They'd bottleneck and be easy targets then. Around the back of the gorge was even narrower but men could file out of it on foot. And it could be held for a long time, if need be. The Creed fighting inside could withstand an onslaught for a few days if need be by switching out soldiers. The easiest way to kill them would be to do it outside of the gorge. And that was the plan.
Some would go around to the back of the gorge, cutting off escape that way while he and the rest of the chariots would wait here for the first of the Creed to come spilling out. When asked what could possibly drive men to certain doom, he pointed to the vats of liquid that they'd brought with them.
"Those are to be taken to the top and dumped down into the Creed's midst. Flaming arrows will ignite an unquenchable fire. They can burn in the gorge or die by our swords. It's their choice."
"You better have it all well planned, Stephanos. Or you risk the lives of many, and the safety of your home and our Kingdom, by bringing them into a death trap with these chariots." Irakles hissed at him. He stared his uncle in the face but there was no goading smile there to rile the old man. Instead, he cocked his head to one side and considered Irakles for a moment before nodding towards the old man’s chariot. Before he could say anything, his shoulder was grasped by Lord Gavriil.
He wanted to pull out of the lord’s grip. It was strong and he hadn’t been expecting it but the words ‘Good Hunt’ struck him as the perfect thing to say. Because that was precisely what he was doing. And it would have been better to have one of Taengea’s best archers with him, but he’d settle for the brother, since the son was still away.
“The gods are with us, my lord,” he forced out a smile to Gavriil before turning to level his uncle with a look. “It’s time to go,” he said and turned away to step up into his own chariot.
With a nod to a guard standing on the top step of the palati where Olympia still should have been, in his opinion, he put on his helm and grasped the chariot’s edge. Taking the signal, the guard lifted the long salpinx trumpet. Two long notes barrelled over the company, sounding the call to go.
It was time for the women to leave the area and get to points of safety, or risk being run over by the chariots and horses. The dust in the air spun around as men took their places and the women exited. His chariot would lead with Irakles nearly beside him. The rest would follow. A few of them had their orders. The rest of them would receive their orders once they were free of the city and there was little chance of the information being passed along channels it shouldn’t.
People had been calling him paranoid lately. They were right to do so. But he didn’t think this was necessarily a bad thing.
He did not need to look back to see if Achilleas or Emilios were ready, or if Vangelis and Commander Nike were in place. The entire company was made up of seasoned warriors who knew how to keep the newer ones in order. This assembly had been chosen with care. All preparations were made. The only thing left to have done was pray. And sacrifices were burning all across the city.
There was nothing left to do but raise his arm and give the signal to go, which he did. The gates opened and the chariot lurched beneath him. These were war chariots, not the ones in the area. They were pulled by teams of two and were much easier to deal with on a battlefield. This also made the whole thing lighter.
The sound of wooden chariot wheels crunching over stone and the scraping of armor and the clopping of horse hooves was deafening. But inside his helm, he was smiling. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was actually setting into motion something that mattered. Whether or not he failed, no one could say that he did not at least attempt.
The route they would take moved the whole company through the city and into the outer flatlands of Vasiliadon. The gorge was not far but it was far enough that they would stop just outside the city limits for last instructions. It almost seemed overkill for the hooded demons but one lord had already been overwhelmed by their number. He was not going to make the same mistake.
People looked down on them from their houses. Some praised them. Some looked stricken. Most people were just glad that a real attempt was being made to destroy the enemy that had burned parts of the city. But he didn’t have long to consider any of the eyes staring down. Vasiliadon’s borders gave way and they were at last running on flat, beautiful grassland. A couple of loose horses stared at them before dipping their noses back in the grass to continue eating.
Once the entire company had stopped, the plan was thus laid out: The story of the gorge was that it was once the back of a giant, cursed into stone by Zeus, who then sent his mighty lightning bolt to strike the rock, splitting it in two. The gorge did look a little like what could have been a huge torso, split straight down the middle with bulging hills that could be arms on either side. From here, the chariots could race straight into the gorge but there was only room for two, side by side.
They'd bottleneck and be easy targets then. Around the back of the gorge was even narrower but men could file out of it on foot. And it could be held for a long time, if need be. The Creed fighting inside could withstand an onslaught for a few days if need be by switching out soldiers. The easiest way to kill them would be to do it outside of the gorge. And that was the plan.
Some would go around to the back of the gorge, cutting off escape that way while he and the rest of the chariots would wait here for the first of the Creed to come spilling out. When asked what could possibly drive men to certain doom, he pointed to the vats of liquid that they'd brought with them.
"Those are to be taken to the top and dumped down into the Creed's midst. Flaming arrows will ignite an unquenchable fire. They can burn in the gorge or die by our swords. It's their choice."
A stoic stance was done the best that she could. Eyes looking from one chariot to another and watching the horses as they stomped feet impatiently. It was the best she could do to focus on other things besides the exchange between Olympia and Stephanos. She knew that it was important. It was the King and Queen of her own kingdom, but there was still this growing tinge as it was placed right in front of her. She slowly began to learn to hold her expressions when she needed to. And right now it was imperative there was nothing telling in the way she looked out at him. So, she looked elsewhere. One by one the men claimed by other ladies of the realm.
When the queen turned with the help of the dowager. They split between the other ladies and herself moving to go back within the safety of the palati for the duration of this purge. The Creed was hopefully trembling and they would hopefully be successful. But, there were never guarantees. Aikaterine knew that all too well. Some of the men might not return. It was obvious in the eyes and touches of the women as they blessed them all. The gods had better be on their side.
She paused a little longer. Aikaterine wanted to watch as Stephanos commanded all those around him. His words she could read on his lips though he was far away. There was very little to stand and just act dumb. The lady turned and took quick steps to catch up to the retinue without looking ridiculous. Feet shuffled until she had caught up to Olympia, Elise, and the others. Maybe they were waiting for the sisters of the queen or maybe she had forgot something. Aikaterine was unsure, but she focused forward. A very stern voice in her head reminded her not to look over her shoulder and instead on the task ahead. She would stay near Olympia and wait for whatever came next.
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A stoic stance was done the best that she could. Eyes looking from one chariot to another and watching the horses as they stomped feet impatiently. It was the best she could do to focus on other things besides the exchange between Olympia and Stephanos. She knew that it was important. It was the King and Queen of her own kingdom, but there was still this growing tinge as it was placed right in front of her. She slowly began to learn to hold her expressions when she needed to. And right now it was imperative there was nothing telling in the way she looked out at him. So, she looked elsewhere. One by one the men claimed by other ladies of the realm.
When the queen turned with the help of the dowager. They split between the other ladies and herself moving to go back within the safety of the palati for the duration of this purge. The Creed was hopefully trembling and they would hopefully be successful. But, there were never guarantees. Aikaterine knew that all too well. Some of the men might not return. It was obvious in the eyes and touches of the women as they blessed them all. The gods had better be on their side.
She paused a little longer. Aikaterine wanted to watch as Stephanos commanded all those around him. His words she could read on his lips though he was far away. There was very little to stand and just act dumb. The lady turned and took quick steps to catch up to the retinue without looking ridiculous. Feet shuffled until she had caught up to Olympia, Elise, and the others. Maybe they were waiting for the sisters of the queen or maybe she had forgot something. Aikaterine was unsure, but she focused forward. A very stern voice in her head reminded her not to look over her shoulder and instead on the task ahead. She would stay near Olympia and wait for whatever came next.
A stoic stance was done the best that she could. Eyes looking from one chariot to another and watching the horses as they stomped feet impatiently. It was the best she could do to focus on other things besides the exchange between Olympia and Stephanos. She knew that it was important. It was the King and Queen of her own kingdom, but there was still this growing tinge as it was placed right in front of her. She slowly began to learn to hold her expressions when she needed to. And right now it was imperative there was nothing telling in the way she looked out at him. So, she looked elsewhere. One by one the men claimed by other ladies of the realm.
When the queen turned with the help of the dowager. They split between the other ladies and herself moving to go back within the safety of the palati for the duration of this purge. The Creed was hopefully trembling and they would hopefully be successful. But, there were never guarantees. Aikaterine knew that all too well. Some of the men might not return. It was obvious in the eyes and touches of the women as they blessed them all. The gods had better be on their side.
She paused a little longer. Aikaterine wanted to watch as Stephanos commanded all those around him. His words she could read on his lips though he was far away. There was very little to stand and just act dumb. The lady turned and took quick steps to catch up to the retinue without looking ridiculous. Feet shuffled until she had caught up to Olympia, Elise, and the others. Maybe they were waiting for the sisters of the queen or maybe she had forgot something. Aikaterine was unsure, but she focused forward. A very stern voice in her head reminded her not to look over her shoulder and instead on the task ahead. She would stay near Olympia and wait for whatever came next.
It was a battle of wills at this point.Irakles could almost see the way his nephew's muscles ticked under is skin with each dig the elder male did at him, yet it was a lie that the prince himself was not affected. As Gavriil drew Stephanos away, Irakles himself turned, his eyes sliding to the arrival of both his sons. It pleased him to see Achilleas with Theodora, and that his second son was at a healthy distance away. Fotios had informed him of the exchange between himself and Emilios, and Irakles had wholeheartedly agreed with his friend's advice for his son. Why would he not? He had married Myrto out of responsibility for the crown, and kept Meena by his side along with his two daughters. He did not see why it was not a possible thing.
Was Irakles worried for his son? Not the slightest. So long as they kept their focus, the man was not doubtful at all that they would be successful. He had spent hours ensuring the training of both sons, Achilleas especially, was groomed to be a decorated general, for no son of his would be any beneath him in skills or prowess. Emilios was of no exception, but of course being the younger, he had lesser experience then that of his older brother.
But as he watched the younger of his offspring fiddling with his arrows, Irakles narrowed his eyes. With a whispered word at the hoplite to get ready, he directed his heavy boots across a few chariots, stopping just in earshot of Emilios, before he spoke.
"Do not be distracted. You cannot afford it here." for a brief moment, his eyes wandered over to Theodora and Achilleas exchanging goodbyes, before he returned his eyes to Emilios. Not explicitly spoken, but by now it was clear Irakles knew whats transpired between the two. "I do not think any woman is worth your life, or at least that is what I've taught you. Do not disappoint me, boy."
Without waiting for a response, Irakles turned just as Stephanos signalled for the guard to sound the salpinx trumpet.
With the gait of a man well worn to such situations, a clear sign that Irakles was just as at home in the midst of war chariots and trained war horses, as he was in his sitting room back at the Mikaelidas manor, the prince made his way back to the chariots, getting on just as the women left the area. Settling in, his hands gripped the sides as he driver moved the chariot to be situated next to Stephanos. Did he know where he was going? No, and that was what made Irakles antsy. After many years of heading into battles where he was the one who planned and strategized, it went against his every nature to be going into one with no prior knowledge. But Irakles refused to give Stephanos the satisfaction, and instead gritted his teeth as the chariots rolled out with the entire company of seasoned warriors through the gates of the Taengean capital.
Kicking up dust and stone as they lurched along the pathway, through the cities and lower levels. Feeling the eyes on them, Irakles forced an easy smile on his face as he greeted the commoners who shouted, waving at them, some even wishing them well wishes. It was who Irakles was as a Prince - charismatic, charming, a nature that easily won the hearts of many, on top of his many accolades as a general of the Taengean army back in his day. But as the city gave way to flat grassy lands, and they neared the gorge, his face turned serious, more hardened as Stephanos stopped the company and laid out the plan.
As he listened, his lips thinned, his eyes rolled an uneasy storm. He knew the gorge had two entrances - one on either side. Stephanos's plan to block them off on both sides proved sound, for that would trap the Creed like rats in a bottleneck, leaving them with no escape as their cavalry rode in. Yet when he brought up the vats of hot liquid, the elder male's face scrunched up. As the people ran in - the vats of liquid would almost assuredly harm some of their own people. It wasn't as if one could aim where the liquid went.
Foolish. he thought. Yet outwardly, Irakles said nothing. In the company and audience of others, instead the Prince merely nodded. "The aim is to annihilate them? Understood." he murmured. Annihilate some of our own people as well, it seems. Irakles thought to himself, even as he turned his chariots to head to wherever Stephanos would. In an audience, Irakles was the picture of a helpful uncle, ad the King had asked for him to stay with him - so stay with him he would. Whatever problems that would arise out of his plan... well that, Irakles would let him deal with that himself.
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It was a battle of wills at this point.Irakles could almost see the way his nephew's muscles ticked under is skin with each dig the elder male did at him, yet it was a lie that the prince himself was not affected. As Gavriil drew Stephanos away, Irakles himself turned, his eyes sliding to the arrival of both his sons. It pleased him to see Achilleas with Theodora, and that his second son was at a healthy distance away. Fotios had informed him of the exchange between himself and Emilios, and Irakles had wholeheartedly agreed with his friend's advice for his son. Why would he not? He had married Myrto out of responsibility for the crown, and kept Meena by his side along with his two daughters. He did not see why it was not a possible thing.
Was Irakles worried for his son? Not the slightest. So long as they kept their focus, the man was not doubtful at all that they would be successful. He had spent hours ensuring the training of both sons, Achilleas especially, was groomed to be a decorated general, for no son of his would be any beneath him in skills or prowess. Emilios was of no exception, but of course being the younger, he had lesser experience then that of his older brother.
But as he watched the younger of his offspring fiddling with his arrows, Irakles narrowed his eyes. With a whispered word at the hoplite to get ready, he directed his heavy boots across a few chariots, stopping just in earshot of Emilios, before he spoke.
"Do not be distracted. You cannot afford it here." for a brief moment, his eyes wandered over to Theodora and Achilleas exchanging goodbyes, before he returned his eyes to Emilios. Not explicitly spoken, but by now it was clear Irakles knew whats transpired between the two. "I do not think any woman is worth your life, or at least that is what I've taught you. Do not disappoint me, boy."
Without waiting for a response, Irakles turned just as Stephanos signalled for the guard to sound the salpinx trumpet.
With the gait of a man well worn to such situations, a clear sign that Irakles was just as at home in the midst of war chariots and trained war horses, as he was in his sitting room back at the Mikaelidas manor, the prince made his way back to the chariots, getting on just as the women left the area. Settling in, his hands gripped the sides as he driver moved the chariot to be situated next to Stephanos. Did he know where he was going? No, and that was what made Irakles antsy. After many years of heading into battles where he was the one who planned and strategized, it went against his every nature to be going into one with no prior knowledge. But Irakles refused to give Stephanos the satisfaction, and instead gritted his teeth as the chariots rolled out with the entire company of seasoned warriors through the gates of the Taengean capital.
Kicking up dust and stone as they lurched along the pathway, through the cities and lower levels. Feeling the eyes on them, Irakles forced an easy smile on his face as he greeted the commoners who shouted, waving at them, some even wishing them well wishes. It was who Irakles was as a Prince - charismatic, charming, a nature that easily won the hearts of many, on top of his many accolades as a general of the Taengean army back in his day. But as the city gave way to flat grassy lands, and they neared the gorge, his face turned serious, more hardened as Stephanos stopped the company and laid out the plan.
As he listened, his lips thinned, his eyes rolled an uneasy storm. He knew the gorge had two entrances - one on either side. Stephanos's plan to block them off on both sides proved sound, for that would trap the Creed like rats in a bottleneck, leaving them with no escape as their cavalry rode in. Yet when he brought up the vats of hot liquid, the elder male's face scrunched up. As the people ran in - the vats of liquid would almost assuredly harm some of their own people. It wasn't as if one could aim where the liquid went.
Foolish. he thought. Yet outwardly, Irakles said nothing. In the company and audience of others, instead the Prince merely nodded. "The aim is to annihilate them? Understood." he murmured. Annihilate some of our own people as well, it seems. Irakles thought to himself, even as he turned his chariots to head to wherever Stephanos would. In an audience, Irakles was the picture of a helpful uncle, ad the King had asked for him to stay with him - so stay with him he would. Whatever problems that would arise out of his plan... well that, Irakles would let him deal with that himself.
It was a battle of wills at this point.Irakles could almost see the way his nephew's muscles ticked under is skin with each dig the elder male did at him, yet it was a lie that the prince himself was not affected. As Gavriil drew Stephanos away, Irakles himself turned, his eyes sliding to the arrival of both his sons. It pleased him to see Achilleas with Theodora, and that his second son was at a healthy distance away. Fotios had informed him of the exchange between himself and Emilios, and Irakles had wholeheartedly agreed with his friend's advice for his son. Why would he not? He had married Myrto out of responsibility for the crown, and kept Meena by his side along with his two daughters. He did not see why it was not a possible thing.
Was Irakles worried for his son? Not the slightest. So long as they kept their focus, the man was not doubtful at all that they would be successful. He had spent hours ensuring the training of both sons, Achilleas especially, was groomed to be a decorated general, for no son of his would be any beneath him in skills or prowess. Emilios was of no exception, but of course being the younger, he had lesser experience then that of his older brother.
But as he watched the younger of his offspring fiddling with his arrows, Irakles narrowed his eyes. With a whispered word at the hoplite to get ready, he directed his heavy boots across a few chariots, stopping just in earshot of Emilios, before he spoke.
"Do not be distracted. You cannot afford it here." for a brief moment, his eyes wandered over to Theodora and Achilleas exchanging goodbyes, before he returned his eyes to Emilios. Not explicitly spoken, but by now it was clear Irakles knew whats transpired between the two. "I do not think any woman is worth your life, or at least that is what I've taught you. Do not disappoint me, boy."
Without waiting for a response, Irakles turned just as Stephanos signalled for the guard to sound the salpinx trumpet.
With the gait of a man well worn to such situations, a clear sign that Irakles was just as at home in the midst of war chariots and trained war horses, as he was in his sitting room back at the Mikaelidas manor, the prince made his way back to the chariots, getting on just as the women left the area. Settling in, his hands gripped the sides as he driver moved the chariot to be situated next to Stephanos. Did he know where he was going? No, and that was what made Irakles antsy. After many years of heading into battles where he was the one who planned and strategized, it went against his every nature to be going into one with no prior knowledge. But Irakles refused to give Stephanos the satisfaction, and instead gritted his teeth as the chariots rolled out with the entire company of seasoned warriors through the gates of the Taengean capital.
Kicking up dust and stone as they lurched along the pathway, through the cities and lower levels. Feeling the eyes on them, Irakles forced an easy smile on his face as he greeted the commoners who shouted, waving at them, some even wishing them well wishes. It was who Irakles was as a Prince - charismatic, charming, a nature that easily won the hearts of many, on top of his many accolades as a general of the Taengean army back in his day. But as the city gave way to flat grassy lands, and they neared the gorge, his face turned serious, more hardened as Stephanos stopped the company and laid out the plan.
As he listened, his lips thinned, his eyes rolled an uneasy storm. He knew the gorge had two entrances - one on either side. Stephanos's plan to block them off on both sides proved sound, for that would trap the Creed like rats in a bottleneck, leaving them with no escape as their cavalry rode in. Yet when he brought up the vats of hot liquid, the elder male's face scrunched up. As the people ran in - the vats of liquid would almost assuredly harm some of their own people. It wasn't as if one could aim where the liquid went.
Foolish. he thought. Yet outwardly, Irakles said nothing. In the company and audience of others, instead the Prince merely nodded. "The aim is to annihilate them? Understood." he murmured. Annihilate some of our own people as well, it seems. Irakles thought to himself, even as he turned his chariots to head to wherever Stephanos would. In an audience, Irakles was the picture of a helpful uncle, ad the King had asked for him to stay with him - so stay with him he would. Whatever problems that would arise out of his plan... well that, Irakles would let him deal with that himself.
Vangelis smirked at the Lady Selene's comments of the Gods finding humour. As far as he was concerned the Gods found whatever they wished in whatever was done by mortal man. If they were in the mood to feel slighted, there was little a man might to assuage their wrath. If they were in the mood to be entertained, then humour was always appreciated. At this time, Ares was about to reap that which he loved most: War. As such, Vangelis felt safe in his comments. The God of War would, he believed, appreciate his confidence and candid attitude towards his own safety. He would take that support with him upon leaving the capitol and smiting his enemies in the name of the great God of Warfare.
Offering only a nod to Selene's final words - for Vangelis was not a man to lie or promise that which he was not confident of fulfilling; anything could happen at the edge of a blade - Vangelis simply turned away from the lady to select one of the oil rags being offered by a serving girl.
Finding the creases and joins of his armour was no difficult task as Vangelis was familiar with the craftsmanship he wore and, within seconds, he was moving easily and without restraint. The rag, he dropped to the floor and then rinsed his hands once more. As he prepared his defensive layer, Vangelis had been watching the men around him. Some were nervous, others determined. Some wore their armour with a clunky sense of discomfort. Others, like him, wore it with a feeling of familiarity and ease. One such man was a handsome Lord who bore the lion of Mikaelidas. His resemblance to Achilleas - a man Vangelis had met upon his last visit to Taengea at that fateful chariot race - was so complete, that the Lord in question could only be Emilios, his younger brother.
Too far away to hear the words of the older man beside him - clearly his father, Prince Irakles - Vangelis was, however, able to read the tone and body language between the two. He felt for the man.
A military legacy came with both its benefits... and its pressures.
Catching the man's eye for a moment after Prince Irakles had moved away, Vangelis offered a nod of camaraderie before stepping up onto the back of his chariot. Nike read his actions fast enough and boarded up onto the cart behind him. By rights and protocol, Vangelis was of higher rank and should have therefore been driven by his Commander but the crown prince of Colchis had never been one to submit the reins to another; literally or figuratively. As such, he drove his own chariot and, instead, offered the role of his protector to Nike.
Initially, however, there would be nothing to defend against. The first leg of their journey was through the city, carried out at a slow and meandering pace so that all of the soldiers and their vehicles might pass between civilian and home successfully and without issue. The size of the streets forced them to journey single file, the highest ranking among the force leading their chariots while everyone else remained on foot.
Once outside of the city, however, the force bloomed and blossomed into a solid unit, rows and rows of chariots for the other men already in place. Each would support two men - for no chariot could manage more; the driver and the attacker. Defence was limited upon the back of a chariot, but then the idea of such a driving force was that there was little need for one. That the accumulative effect of a charioteer unit knocked down opponents at a height and speed that rendered other attacks useless. The only kinds of course that Vangelis had seen successfully overcome a chariot unit was cavalry. A force that involved soldiers actually upon the backs of their steeds and riding them into battle. It was a new technique he had only seen successfully managed once or twice. And according to the information Stephanos had shared with him at their last meeting, the Creed were infantry, if they were military at all. No horses had been seen or reported to be stored at the Enclave.
There was a pause outside the walls of Vasiliadon as the soldiers who had marched through the streets were matched to their chariots and everyone was organised into a single unit; a composed fighting force.
King Stephanos led from the front, having glanced at all the leaders of men before him, before turning frontwards to face the on-going threat to his kingdom.
There was no need for further communication than he had already given. As any good military leader worth his weight in steel, Stephanos had spoken with each commander personally, intent on ensuring that they each knew the appropriate step of the plan.
Vangelis, as a General of experience but without his own military unit could have been given one of Stephanos' forces. They would have followed. Of that, Vangelis was certain. But the alternative option was of greater support and intelligence. Vangelis and Nike were to take their own men - the small group of a dozen or so fighters they had brought with them from Colchis and attend to the top of the gorge. Arrows, oils, flames... that was to be their domain. Entrusted with a significant piece of the plan that tailored to their own abilities. Climbing mountains, after all, was what Colchians were known for... Vangelis thought with a quirk of his lips.
Moving himself into position before the half dozen chariots that the Colchians had borrowed from his Majesty - else they would have been a little late to the party, Vangelis whipped the reins around both his wrists, intent and ready to set forward whenever ordered.
It was strange to be subject to someone else's command on the battlefield. For that had not been the way of his life for many a year - if not decade. But this was Stephanos' fight and his kingdom. It would be down to him if their plan of attack today brought victory or defeat. Which meant it was he who would have to make the pertinent choices.
When the men were told to move forward and the horn for progress sounded, Vangelis snapped the leather in his hands, encouraging the two beasts before his cart into a quick trot that was immediately matched by his soldiers around him. Colchians might not have had the land or inclination to become fine charioteers that could grace the likes of arenas and circuses... but they at least knew how to handle one into battle, should it be required.
They travelled with the main group for a while, as they moved away from the capitol and towards their intended enemies, but as soon as the Gorge became a clearer outline - not just a jagged silhouette against the sun - Vangelis steered his cart towards the East, away from the main troupe, his own men following him beyond any other leader.
With a fist raised in salute to the King, Vangelis escorted his men behind a line of forestry and thicket, approaching closer to the mountainous side of the Gorge, hidden from view. They rode as close as they could in the space they had before finally abandoning the chariots and heading further on foot.
To ensure they weren't behind the plan, timewise, Vangelis hefted his weapons and all that would be required, before setting a gruelling, jogging pace through the woodland and to the edge of the cliffside.
The Gorge itself was large but not steep and was easy enough to climb. It would just take the men time to reach the opening far out above them. Time that Vangelis was very aware of and so continued to bark instructions at the men, leading the way and insisting they follow in his footsteps to ensure no slips or falls. They needed to reach the top in time to aid in the plan orchestrated by the king.
Breathing heavily and a little sweaty, Vangelis reached the top and then darted across the rocky terrain to look out and down across the plains, noting with relief that the chariots were still on their way, having had to take a longer route around the Taengean forestry, to mask their presence from the Creed until the last moment.
Sending a scout to the other end, Vangelis watched as his man dropped to his belly and slithered the last few feet so that the Creed below might not notice him. He was looking to ensure that the Mikaelidas brothers were in place at the back end of the Gorge.
The timing of this would be important. No sense scaring out the Creed if they were only to run in the wrong direction.
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Vangelis smirked at the Lady Selene's comments of the Gods finding humour. As far as he was concerned the Gods found whatever they wished in whatever was done by mortal man. If they were in the mood to feel slighted, there was little a man might to assuage their wrath. If they were in the mood to be entertained, then humour was always appreciated. At this time, Ares was about to reap that which he loved most: War. As such, Vangelis felt safe in his comments. The God of War would, he believed, appreciate his confidence and candid attitude towards his own safety. He would take that support with him upon leaving the capitol and smiting his enemies in the name of the great God of Warfare.
Offering only a nod to Selene's final words - for Vangelis was not a man to lie or promise that which he was not confident of fulfilling; anything could happen at the edge of a blade - Vangelis simply turned away from the lady to select one of the oil rags being offered by a serving girl.
Finding the creases and joins of his armour was no difficult task as Vangelis was familiar with the craftsmanship he wore and, within seconds, he was moving easily and without restraint. The rag, he dropped to the floor and then rinsed his hands once more. As he prepared his defensive layer, Vangelis had been watching the men around him. Some were nervous, others determined. Some wore their armour with a clunky sense of discomfort. Others, like him, wore it with a feeling of familiarity and ease. One such man was a handsome Lord who bore the lion of Mikaelidas. His resemblance to Achilleas - a man Vangelis had met upon his last visit to Taengea at that fateful chariot race - was so complete, that the Lord in question could only be Emilios, his younger brother.
Too far away to hear the words of the older man beside him - clearly his father, Prince Irakles - Vangelis was, however, able to read the tone and body language between the two. He felt for the man.
A military legacy came with both its benefits... and its pressures.
Catching the man's eye for a moment after Prince Irakles had moved away, Vangelis offered a nod of camaraderie before stepping up onto the back of his chariot. Nike read his actions fast enough and boarded up onto the cart behind him. By rights and protocol, Vangelis was of higher rank and should have therefore been driven by his Commander but the crown prince of Colchis had never been one to submit the reins to another; literally or figuratively. As such, he drove his own chariot and, instead, offered the role of his protector to Nike.
Initially, however, there would be nothing to defend against. The first leg of their journey was through the city, carried out at a slow and meandering pace so that all of the soldiers and their vehicles might pass between civilian and home successfully and without issue. The size of the streets forced them to journey single file, the highest ranking among the force leading their chariots while everyone else remained on foot.
Once outside of the city, however, the force bloomed and blossomed into a solid unit, rows and rows of chariots for the other men already in place. Each would support two men - for no chariot could manage more; the driver and the attacker. Defence was limited upon the back of a chariot, but then the idea of such a driving force was that there was little need for one. That the accumulative effect of a charioteer unit knocked down opponents at a height and speed that rendered other attacks useless. The only kinds of course that Vangelis had seen successfully overcome a chariot unit was cavalry. A force that involved soldiers actually upon the backs of their steeds and riding them into battle. It was a new technique he had only seen successfully managed once or twice. And according to the information Stephanos had shared with him at their last meeting, the Creed were infantry, if they were military at all. No horses had been seen or reported to be stored at the Enclave.
There was a pause outside the walls of Vasiliadon as the soldiers who had marched through the streets were matched to their chariots and everyone was organised into a single unit; a composed fighting force.
King Stephanos led from the front, having glanced at all the leaders of men before him, before turning frontwards to face the on-going threat to his kingdom.
There was no need for further communication than he had already given. As any good military leader worth his weight in steel, Stephanos had spoken with each commander personally, intent on ensuring that they each knew the appropriate step of the plan.
Vangelis, as a General of experience but without his own military unit could have been given one of Stephanos' forces. They would have followed. Of that, Vangelis was certain. But the alternative option was of greater support and intelligence. Vangelis and Nike were to take their own men - the small group of a dozen or so fighters they had brought with them from Colchis and attend to the top of the gorge. Arrows, oils, flames... that was to be their domain. Entrusted with a significant piece of the plan that tailored to their own abilities. Climbing mountains, after all, was what Colchians were known for... Vangelis thought with a quirk of his lips.
Moving himself into position before the half dozen chariots that the Colchians had borrowed from his Majesty - else they would have been a little late to the party, Vangelis whipped the reins around both his wrists, intent and ready to set forward whenever ordered.
It was strange to be subject to someone else's command on the battlefield. For that had not been the way of his life for many a year - if not decade. But this was Stephanos' fight and his kingdom. It would be down to him if their plan of attack today brought victory or defeat. Which meant it was he who would have to make the pertinent choices.
When the men were told to move forward and the horn for progress sounded, Vangelis snapped the leather in his hands, encouraging the two beasts before his cart into a quick trot that was immediately matched by his soldiers around him. Colchians might not have had the land or inclination to become fine charioteers that could grace the likes of arenas and circuses... but they at least knew how to handle one into battle, should it be required.
They travelled with the main group for a while, as they moved away from the capitol and towards their intended enemies, but as soon as the Gorge became a clearer outline - not just a jagged silhouette against the sun - Vangelis steered his cart towards the East, away from the main troupe, his own men following him beyond any other leader.
With a fist raised in salute to the King, Vangelis escorted his men behind a line of forestry and thicket, approaching closer to the mountainous side of the Gorge, hidden from view. They rode as close as they could in the space they had before finally abandoning the chariots and heading further on foot.
To ensure they weren't behind the plan, timewise, Vangelis hefted his weapons and all that would be required, before setting a gruelling, jogging pace through the woodland and to the edge of the cliffside.
The Gorge itself was large but not steep and was easy enough to climb. It would just take the men time to reach the opening far out above them. Time that Vangelis was very aware of and so continued to bark instructions at the men, leading the way and insisting they follow in his footsteps to ensure no slips or falls. They needed to reach the top in time to aid in the plan orchestrated by the king.
Breathing heavily and a little sweaty, Vangelis reached the top and then darted across the rocky terrain to look out and down across the plains, noting with relief that the chariots were still on their way, having had to take a longer route around the Taengean forestry, to mask their presence from the Creed until the last moment.
Sending a scout to the other end, Vangelis watched as his man dropped to his belly and slithered the last few feet so that the Creed below might not notice him. He was looking to ensure that the Mikaelidas brothers were in place at the back end of the Gorge.
The timing of this would be important. No sense scaring out the Creed if they were only to run in the wrong direction.
Vangelis smirked at the Lady Selene's comments of the Gods finding humour. As far as he was concerned the Gods found whatever they wished in whatever was done by mortal man. If they were in the mood to feel slighted, there was little a man might to assuage their wrath. If they were in the mood to be entertained, then humour was always appreciated. At this time, Ares was about to reap that which he loved most: War. As such, Vangelis felt safe in his comments. The God of War would, he believed, appreciate his confidence and candid attitude towards his own safety. He would take that support with him upon leaving the capitol and smiting his enemies in the name of the great God of Warfare.
Offering only a nod to Selene's final words - for Vangelis was not a man to lie or promise that which he was not confident of fulfilling; anything could happen at the edge of a blade - Vangelis simply turned away from the lady to select one of the oil rags being offered by a serving girl.
Finding the creases and joins of his armour was no difficult task as Vangelis was familiar with the craftsmanship he wore and, within seconds, he was moving easily and without restraint. The rag, he dropped to the floor and then rinsed his hands once more. As he prepared his defensive layer, Vangelis had been watching the men around him. Some were nervous, others determined. Some wore their armour with a clunky sense of discomfort. Others, like him, wore it with a feeling of familiarity and ease. One such man was a handsome Lord who bore the lion of Mikaelidas. His resemblance to Achilleas - a man Vangelis had met upon his last visit to Taengea at that fateful chariot race - was so complete, that the Lord in question could only be Emilios, his younger brother.
Too far away to hear the words of the older man beside him - clearly his father, Prince Irakles - Vangelis was, however, able to read the tone and body language between the two. He felt for the man.
A military legacy came with both its benefits... and its pressures.
Catching the man's eye for a moment after Prince Irakles had moved away, Vangelis offered a nod of camaraderie before stepping up onto the back of his chariot. Nike read his actions fast enough and boarded up onto the cart behind him. By rights and protocol, Vangelis was of higher rank and should have therefore been driven by his Commander but the crown prince of Colchis had never been one to submit the reins to another; literally or figuratively. As such, he drove his own chariot and, instead, offered the role of his protector to Nike.
Initially, however, there would be nothing to defend against. The first leg of their journey was through the city, carried out at a slow and meandering pace so that all of the soldiers and their vehicles might pass between civilian and home successfully and without issue. The size of the streets forced them to journey single file, the highest ranking among the force leading their chariots while everyone else remained on foot.
Once outside of the city, however, the force bloomed and blossomed into a solid unit, rows and rows of chariots for the other men already in place. Each would support two men - for no chariot could manage more; the driver and the attacker. Defence was limited upon the back of a chariot, but then the idea of such a driving force was that there was little need for one. That the accumulative effect of a charioteer unit knocked down opponents at a height and speed that rendered other attacks useless. The only kinds of course that Vangelis had seen successfully overcome a chariot unit was cavalry. A force that involved soldiers actually upon the backs of their steeds and riding them into battle. It was a new technique he had only seen successfully managed once or twice. And according to the information Stephanos had shared with him at their last meeting, the Creed were infantry, if they were military at all. No horses had been seen or reported to be stored at the Enclave.
There was a pause outside the walls of Vasiliadon as the soldiers who had marched through the streets were matched to their chariots and everyone was organised into a single unit; a composed fighting force.
King Stephanos led from the front, having glanced at all the leaders of men before him, before turning frontwards to face the on-going threat to his kingdom.
There was no need for further communication than he had already given. As any good military leader worth his weight in steel, Stephanos had spoken with each commander personally, intent on ensuring that they each knew the appropriate step of the plan.
Vangelis, as a General of experience but without his own military unit could have been given one of Stephanos' forces. They would have followed. Of that, Vangelis was certain. But the alternative option was of greater support and intelligence. Vangelis and Nike were to take their own men - the small group of a dozen or so fighters they had brought with them from Colchis and attend to the top of the gorge. Arrows, oils, flames... that was to be their domain. Entrusted with a significant piece of the plan that tailored to their own abilities. Climbing mountains, after all, was what Colchians were known for... Vangelis thought with a quirk of his lips.
Moving himself into position before the half dozen chariots that the Colchians had borrowed from his Majesty - else they would have been a little late to the party, Vangelis whipped the reins around both his wrists, intent and ready to set forward whenever ordered.
It was strange to be subject to someone else's command on the battlefield. For that had not been the way of his life for many a year - if not decade. But this was Stephanos' fight and his kingdom. It would be down to him if their plan of attack today brought victory or defeat. Which meant it was he who would have to make the pertinent choices.
When the men were told to move forward and the horn for progress sounded, Vangelis snapped the leather in his hands, encouraging the two beasts before his cart into a quick trot that was immediately matched by his soldiers around him. Colchians might not have had the land or inclination to become fine charioteers that could grace the likes of arenas and circuses... but they at least knew how to handle one into battle, should it be required.
They travelled with the main group for a while, as they moved away from the capitol and towards their intended enemies, but as soon as the Gorge became a clearer outline - not just a jagged silhouette against the sun - Vangelis steered his cart towards the East, away from the main troupe, his own men following him beyond any other leader.
With a fist raised in salute to the King, Vangelis escorted his men behind a line of forestry and thicket, approaching closer to the mountainous side of the Gorge, hidden from view. They rode as close as they could in the space they had before finally abandoning the chariots and heading further on foot.
To ensure they weren't behind the plan, timewise, Vangelis hefted his weapons and all that would be required, before setting a gruelling, jogging pace through the woodland and to the edge of the cliffside.
The Gorge itself was large but not steep and was easy enough to climb. It would just take the men time to reach the opening far out above them. Time that Vangelis was very aware of and so continued to bark instructions at the men, leading the way and insisting they follow in his footsteps to ensure no slips or falls. They needed to reach the top in time to aid in the plan orchestrated by the king.
Breathing heavily and a little sweaty, Vangelis reached the top and then darted across the rocky terrain to look out and down across the plains, noting with relief that the chariots were still on their way, having had to take a longer route around the Taengean forestry, to mask their presence from the Creed until the last moment.
Sending a scout to the other end, Vangelis watched as his man dropped to his belly and slithered the last few feet so that the Creed below might not notice him. He was looking to ensure that the Mikaelidas brothers were in place at the back end of the Gorge.
The timing of this would be important. No sense scaring out the Creed if they were only to run in the wrong direction.
Emilios was trying to figure out exactly what had happened and changed when he heard heavy footfall, footfall he recognized without even needing to look up. His father had a very heavy, but very sure, way of walking. There was no hesitation in his step, no doubt in his destination. He wasn’t sure why his father felt the need to come to him now, but he quickly turned his head so that his point of attention wasn’t as obvious to those around him.
But it seemed that his father not only knew where he was focused but why he was looking at her.
His father knew. How the hell did his father have any idea? But it only took him a moment to realize that of course, he knew. Fotios would have made sure that his father was in the loop, and he could have been a potential disruption in whatever they wished to do. And there was no way the head of the Leventi house would blackmail a son of a prince without letting him know that he was doing it. There was no surprise that he wasn’t in defense of his son, which was exactly what he had expected.
He had chosen not to tell his father about their relationship because he knew his father wouldn’t care about his feelings. He bit his tongue instead of asking him what he was distracted from. There really was no point, not when he had made it so obvious who he was looking at. ”I am aware.” He said, stopping his actions to meet his father’s gaze, instead of looking back at the couple. ”I won’t.” His answer was simple, trying to ignore Vangelis, who had glance his way. This was no time for him to be distracted. He could focus on why Theo seemed far more content with his brother than he’d ever seen her later.
His military training needed to kick in, and with a deep breath and no focus on the direction Theo seemed to go, he was quick to follow Stephanos’ orders to load up into the chariot. He didn’t recognize the man who stepped into the chariot to drive, and he was happy to not have to converse about it. Emilios didn’t focus on the crowds as they moved through the city. He felt too somber to enjoy the calls in his direction. He used to the journey to quiet his mind, to focus on anything and nothing, all at the same time. It wasn’t unusual for him to clear his head before a battle, to focus on something besides what they were on their way to do, it usually did it with banter about anything other than the situation.
But he didn’t want to talk, or banter. Or think.
Right now, he just wanted to empty his brain.
As they came close to the gorge, he knew he could no longer just stare off into space. Instead, he focused in on what he knew best-- the art of the battle. As an archer, he was always looking for high ground. His ability was second to none of the field, and he was able to rapidly take down any enemy he came across, as long as he had a bit of distance on his side. Preferring the bow had its downside-- if he was close enough to see their lashes, he was in danger of being killed.
He knew where he was supposed to be, providing cover on the backside of the Gorge. But more still, he wanted the advantage of cover. And as they moved into place, the rest of the archers looked to him for guidance as to where to fo. He kept low, choosing dense and thick treelines to provide coverage. It was easy to see the enemy as his fingers itched to let the arrow in notched in his bow fly. But he’d wait for the sign.
No need to get everyone killed around them to show off his ability with a bow.
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Emilios was trying to figure out exactly what had happened and changed when he heard heavy footfall, footfall he recognized without even needing to look up. His father had a very heavy, but very sure, way of walking. There was no hesitation in his step, no doubt in his destination. He wasn’t sure why his father felt the need to come to him now, but he quickly turned his head so that his point of attention wasn’t as obvious to those around him.
But it seemed that his father not only knew where he was focused but why he was looking at her.
His father knew. How the hell did his father have any idea? But it only took him a moment to realize that of course, he knew. Fotios would have made sure that his father was in the loop, and he could have been a potential disruption in whatever they wished to do. And there was no way the head of the Leventi house would blackmail a son of a prince without letting him know that he was doing it. There was no surprise that he wasn’t in defense of his son, which was exactly what he had expected.
He had chosen not to tell his father about their relationship because he knew his father wouldn’t care about his feelings. He bit his tongue instead of asking him what he was distracted from. There really was no point, not when he had made it so obvious who he was looking at. ”I am aware.” He said, stopping his actions to meet his father’s gaze, instead of looking back at the couple. ”I won’t.” His answer was simple, trying to ignore Vangelis, who had glance his way. This was no time for him to be distracted. He could focus on why Theo seemed far more content with his brother than he’d ever seen her later.
His military training needed to kick in, and with a deep breath and no focus on the direction Theo seemed to go, he was quick to follow Stephanos’ orders to load up into the chariot. He didn’t recognize the man who stepped into the chariot to drive, and he was happy to not have to converse about it. Emilios didn’t focus on the crowds as they moved through the city. He felt too somber to enjoy the calls in his direction. He used to the journey to quiet his mind, to focus on anything and nothing, all at the same time. It wasn’t unusual for him to clear his head before a battle, to focus on something besides what they were on their way to do, it usually did it with banter about anything other than the situation.
But he didn’t want to talk, or banter. Or think.
Right now, he just wanted to empty his brain.
As they came close to the gorge, he knew he could no longer just stare off into space. Instead, he focused in on what he knew best-- the art of the battle. As an archer, he was always looking for high ground. His ability was second to none of the field, and he was able to rapidly take down any enemy he came across, as long as he had a bit of distance on his side. Preferring the bow had its downside-- if he was close enough to see their lashes, he was in danger of being killed.
He knew where he was supposed to be, providing cover on the backside of the Gorge. But more still, he wanted the advantage of cover. And as they moved into place, the rest of the archers looked to him for guidance as to where to fo. He kept low, choosing dense and thick treelines to provide coverage. It was easy to see the enemy as his fingers itched to let the arrow in notched in his bow fly. But he’d wait for the sign.
No need to get everyone killed around them to show off his ability with a bow.
Emilios was trying to figure out exactly what had happened and changed when he heard heavy footfall, footfall he recognized without even needing to look up. His father had a very heavy, but very sure, way of walking. There was no hesitation in his step, no doubt in his destination. He wasn’t sure why his father felt the need to come to him now, but he quickly turned his head so that his point of attention wasn’t as obvious to those around him.
But it seemed that his father not only knew where he was focused but why he was looking at her.
His father knew. How the hell did his father have any idea? But it only took him a moment to realize that of course, he knew. Fotios would have made sure that his father was in the loop, and he could have been a potential disruption in whatever they wished to do. And there was no way the head of the Leventi house would blackmail a son of a prince without letting him know that he was doing it. There was no surprise that he wasn’t in defense of his son, which was exactly what he had expected.
He had chosen not to tell his father about their relationship because he knew his father wouldn’t care about his feelings. He bit his tongue instead of asking him what he was distracted from. There really was no point, not when he had made it so obvious who he was looking at. ”I am aware.” He said, stopping his actions to meet his father’s gaze, instead of looking back at the couple. ”I won’t.” His answer was simple, trying to ignore Vangelis, who had glance his way. This was no time for him to be distracted. He could focus on why Theo seemed far more content with his brother than he’d ever seen her later.
His military training needed to kick in, and with a deep breath and no focus on the direction Theo seemed to go, he was quick to follow Stephanos’ orders to load up into the chariot. He didn’t recognize the man who stepped into the chariot to drive, and he was happy to not have to converse about it. Emilios didn’t focus on the crowds as they moved through the city. He felt too somber to enjoy the calls in his direction. He used to the journey to quiet his mind, to focus on anything and nothing, all at the same time. It wasn’t unusual for him to clear his head before a battle, to focus on something besides what they were on their way to do, it usually did it with banter about anything other than the situation.
But he didn’t want to talk, or banter. Or think.
Right now, he just wanted to empty his brain.
As they came close to the gorge, he knew he could no longer just stare off into space. Instead, he focused in on what he knew best-- the art of the battle. As an archer, he was always looking for high ground. His ability was second to none of the field, and he was able to rapidly take down any enemy he came across, as long as he had a bit of distance on his side. Preferring the bow had its downside-- if he was close enough to see their lashes, he was in danger of being killed.
He knew where he was supposed to be, providing cover on the backside of the Gorge. But more still, he wanted the advantage of cover. And as they moved into place, the rest of the archers looked to him for guidance as to where to fo. He kept low, choosing dense and thick treelines to provide coverage. It was easy to see the enemy as his fingers itched to let the arrow in notched in his bow fly. But he’d wait for the sign.
No need to get everyone killed around them to show off his ability with a bow.
The feel of Theo's lips on his still burned his mouth, like the feeling of accidentally biting into a pepper corn. He did all he could to resist looking back for her, to steal one last look before his cousin and King gave the order. He was thankful he didn't have to wait long. He glanced over at his father and brother, seemingly tense, the both of them, but he only assumed that was circumstantial to their current situation. At the King's signal, he placed secured his helmet on his head, got into his chariot and signaled for his men to move and fall in line with the King's.
The journey wasn't long in distance, but it took longer than Achilleas had anticipated. Out of the city and into the surrounding country side, people looking upon their party at all points, some out of curiosity, some with disapproval, some with encouragement. Achilleas kept his head high, focused. He needed to center himself before they arrived, not after, and while the journey was bumpy, it allowed him the time to do so.
Eventually, the King signaled the army to a halt. At that point, everyone was gathered and the plan laid out before them. They were to trap the Creed within their own midst, to turn their perceived advantage into a grave disadvantage on their part. Men were to climb the sides of the gorge with vats of flammable oil, and spill it onto the unsuspecting Creed, where it would then be lit on fire with flaming arrows. At that point, the Creed would be forced to flee through the other side, where the rest of the men would be waiting to cut them down.
Achilleas' eyes darted to his father, and his face was a painting of silent and extreme disapproval, as was to be expected. Achilleas could see why it was this way. The act of dropping flaming oil into the gorge would most significantly disadvantage the Creed, but there was also the risk it would kill their own men in the chaos. If anyone, his father included, disagreed with the King's plan, no-one spoke up, and so it was settled.
The company dispersed to their relative duties. Achilleas and his men were to meet the Creed as they fled the burning gorge, but first they had to wait to be sure the men with the oil were in place at the top of the gorge. Once the signal was given, then the order to lit the oil would follow, and so the archers would be poised to strike the first to flee, at which point Achilleas and his men along with the King's and others would charge to take care of the rest of them. His men were stationed at the other side of the gorge, the King's men and his father's men on the other side.
And so they waited.
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Staff Team
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The feel of Theo's lips on his still burned his mouth, like the feeling of accidentally biting into a pepper corn. He did all he could to resist looking back for her, to steal one last look before his cousin and King gave the order. He was thankful he didn't have to wait long. He glanced over at his father and brother, seemingly tense, the both of them, but he only assumed that was circumstantial to their current situation. At the King's signal, he placed secured his helmet on his head, got into his chariot and signaled for his men to move and fall in line with the King's.
The journey wasn't long in distance, but it took longer than Achilleas had anticipated. Out of the city and into the surrounding country side, people looking upon their party at all points, some out of curiosity, some with disapproval, some with encouragement. Achilleas kept his head high, focused. He needed to center himself before they arrived, not after, and while the journey was bumpy, it allowed him the time to do so.
Eventually, the King signaled the army to a halt. At that point, everyone was gathered and the plan laid out before them. They were to trap the Creed within their own midst, to turn their perceived advantage into a grave disadvantage on their part. Men were to climb the sides of the gorge with vats of flammable oil, and spill it onto the unsuspecting Creed, where it would then be lit on fire with flaming arrows. At that point, the Creed would be forced to flee through the other side, where the rest of the men would be waiting to cut them down.
Achilleas' eyes darted to his father, and his face was a painting of silent and extreme disapproval, as was to be expected. Achilleas could see why it was this way. The act of dropping flaming oil into the gorge would most significantly disadvantage the Creed, but there was also the risk it would kill their own men in the chaos. If anyone, his father included, disagreed with the King's plan, no-one spoke up, and so it was settled.
The company dispersed to their relative duties. Achilleas and his men were to meet the Creed as they fled the burning gorge, but first they had to wait to be sure the men with the oil were in place at the top of the gorge. Once the signal was given, then the order to lit the oil would follow, and so the archers would be poised to strike the first to flee, at which point Achilleas and his men along with the King's and others would charge to take care of the rest of them. His men were stationed at the other side of the gorge, the King's men and his father's men on the other side.
And so they waited.
The feel of Theo's lips on his still burned his mouth, like the feeling of accidentally biting into a pepper corn. He did all he could to resist looking back for her, to steal one last look before his cousin and King gave the order. He was thankful he didn't have to wait long. He glanced over at his father and brother, seemingly tense, the both of them, but he only assumed that was circumstantial to their current situation. At the King's signal, he placed secured his helmet on his head, got into his chariot and signaled for his men to move and fall in line with the King's.
The journey wasn't long in distance, but it took longer than Achilleas had anticipated. Out of the city and into the surrounding country side, people looking upon their party at all points, some out of curiosity, some with disapproval, some with encouragement. Achilleas kept his head high, focused. He needed to center himself before they arrived, not after, and while the journey was bumpy, it allowed him the time to do so.
Eventually, the King signaled the army to a halt. At that point, everyone was gathered and the plan laid out before them. They were to trap the Creed within their own midst, to turn their perceived advantage into a grave disadvantage on their part. Men were to climb the sides of the gorge with vats of flammable oil, and spill it onto the unsuspecting Creed, where it would then be lit on fire with flaming arrows. At that point, the Creed would be forced to flee through the other side, where the rest of the men would be waiting to cut them down.
Achilleas' eyes darted to his father, and his face was a painting of silent and extreme disapproval, as was to be expected. Achilleas could see why it was this way. The act of dropping flaming oil into the gorge would most significantly disadvantage the Creed, but there was also the risk it would kill their own men in the chaos. If anyone, his father included, disagreed with the King's plan, no-one spoke up, and so it was settled.
The company dispersed to their relative duties. Achilleas and his men were to meet the Creed as they fled the burning gorge, but first they had to wait to be sure the men with the oil were in place at the top of the gorge. Once the signal was given, then the order to lit the oil would follow, and so the archers would be poised to strike the first to flee, at which point Achilleas and his men along with the King's and others would charge to take care of the rest of them. His men were stationed at the other side of the gorge, the King's men and his father's men on the other side.
And so they waited.
If Stephanos could have read his uncle's thoughts, he would have laughed at Irakles's concerns. From where the oil would spill, none of their own soldiers would be anywhere near it. The flaming arrows would light the oil on fire and the only ones who would be negatively affected were the Creed in the center of the gorge. What the fire would also do was separate the Creed forces, literally cutting them in half. They wouldn't be able to rally each other together or all funnel one way or another. They'd be forced into chaos and running for their lives. Because the liquid fire would torch everything they held dear.
A taste of their own medicine. Since they set Vasiliadon on fire, he saw no reason not to do the same to their home. They deserved to burn.
Stephanos drummed his fingers on the chariot's rim as he watched the various parts of the army break off toward their appointed places. He wasn't sure that the Creed wouldn't at least have lookouts. They were stupid if they didn't.
But whatever the Creed were doing in the gorge, panicking, plotting, or blithely unaware of the reign of fire about to pour into their midst, they were not out on the field now. With the tree cover, it was impossible to see what Vangelis was doing or if Achilleas and Emilios, with their men, were ready. All he could do was wait with the rest of the archers and the chariots in front of the gorge.
He waited until the sands in the hour glasses ran out; the agreed upon timeframe. He then raised his arm up and the man with the trumpet blew out a sharp warning blast. This was the signal for Vangelis to pour the oil and for the archers with him to light it up. Within seconds of that happening, they would hear screaming and shouting. The flames should lick up the sides of the gorge and give it a heartwarming glow. And the first of the Creed should be fleeing the gorge.
Looking over to Irakles, Stephanos said, "Make sure to smile during the victory celebration, Uncle. That sour twist to your lips makes you look..." he considered all the imperfections of Prince Irakles. "Old."
It was petty but he wanted to make the prince angry. Angry people made mistakes. And if Irakles fell in battle...well that was two birds with one stone.
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Check out their information page here.
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If Stephanos could have read his uncle's thoughts, he would have laughed at Irakles's concerns. From where the oil would spill, none of their own soldiers would be anywhere near it. The flaming arrows would light the oil on fire and the only ones who would be negatively affected were the Creed in the center of the gorge. What the fire would also do was separate the Creed forces, literally cutting them in half. They wouldn't be able to rally each other together or all funnel one way or another. They'd be forced into chaos and running for their lives. Because the liquid fire would torch everything they held dear.
A taste of their own medicine. Since they set Vasiliadon on fire, he saw no reason not to do the same to their home. They deserved to burn.
Stephanos drummed his fingers on the chariot's rim as he watched the various parts of the army break off toward their appointed places. He wasn't sure that the Creed wouldn't at least have lookouts. They were stupid if they didn't.
But whatever the Creed were doing in the gorge, panicking, plotting, or blithely unaware of the reign of fire about to pour into their midst, they were not out on the field now. With the tree cover, it was impossible to see what Vangelis was doing or if Achilleas and Emilios, with their men, were ready. All he could do was wait with the rest of the archers and the chariots in front of the gorge.
He waited until the sands in the hour glasses ran out; the agreed upon timeframe. He then raised his arm up and the man with the trumpet blew out a sharp warning blast. This was the signal for Vangelis to pour the oil and for the archers with him to light it up. Within seconds of that happening, they would hear screaming and shouting. The flames should lick up the sides of the gorge and give it a heartwarming glow. And the first of the Creed should be fleeing the gorge.
Looking over to Irakles, Stephanos said, "Make sure to smile during the victory celebration, Uncle. That sour twist to your lips makes you look..." he considered all the imperfections of Prince Irakles. "Old."
It was petty but he wanted to make the prince angry. Angry people made mistakes. And if Irakles fell in battle...well that was two birds with one stone.
If Stephanos could have read his uncle's thoughts, he would have laughed at Irakles's concerns. From where the oil would spill, none of their own soldiers would be anywhere near it. The flaming arrows would light the oil on fire and the only ones who would be negatively affected were the Creed in the center of the gorge. What the fire would also do was separate the Creed forces, literally cutting them in half. They wouldn't be able to rally each other together or all funnel one way or another. They'd be forced into chaos and running for their lives. Because the liquid fire would torch everything they held dear.
A taste of their own medicine. Since they set Vasiliadon on fire, he saw no reason not to do the same to their home. They deserved to burn.
Stephanos drummed his fingers on the chariot's rim as he watched the various parts of the army break off toward their appointed places. He wasn't sure that the Creed wouldn't at least have lookouts. They were stupid if they didn't.
But whatever the Creed were doing in the gorge, panicking, plotting, or blithely unaware of the reign of fire about to pour into their midst, they were not out on the field now. With the tree cover, it was impossible to see what Vangelis was doing or if Achilleas and Emilios, with their men, were ready. All he could do was wait with the rest of the archers and the chariots in front of the gorge.
He waited until the sands in the hour glasses ran out; the agreed upon timeframe. He then raised his arm up and the man with the trumpet blew out a sharp warning blast. This was the signal for Vangelis to pour the oil and for the archers with him to light it up. Within seconds of that happening, they would hear screaming and shouting. The flames should lick up the sides of the gorge and give it a heartwarming glow. And the first of the Creed should be fleeing the gorge.
Looking over to Irakles, Stephanos said, "Make sure to smile during the victory celebration, Uncle. That sour twist to your lips makes you look..." he considered all the imperfections of Prince Irakles. "Old."
It was petty but he wanted to make the prince angry. Angry people made mistakes. And if Irakles fell in battle...well that was two birds with one stone.
Coming closer to the gorge, Irakles shut off his focus on his sons and others, and instead, his hands tightened around the edges of the chariot he was driven in. Unlike usual fathers who concerned themselves too much over the safety of their offspring, Irakles was decidedly different. A sharpened sense for battle and the need to stay alive, he had honed his capability to block out anyone else around him, for he knew the consequences of being distracted. And he knew that he had to survive, at the very least. If anything happened to him, all that he worked for would be for naught, and at that point, it mattered not if either of his sons survived - the name and glory of his Kingdom would not be restored. Not in the hands of his peace-loving eldest, nor his distracted second born, and most definitely nothing would be done in the hands of his good-for-nothing nephew.
No, if Irakles wanted something done, he was going to have to do it himself.
The silence was thick, almost palpable as everyone got into position. He knew and felt, more then watch, as Emilios headed off to the rear end of the gorge, along with the archers to ensure the Creed did not manage to escape. Achilleas went as well, both sons poised to ensure that the faction's people did not go lose. And they would do well. They better do well. Irakles was a father of high ambition and high expectations, and he would not tolerate failure. It had been how he had brought them up, and how he expected them to live the rest of their lives. He would stand for nothing but the best in all aspects of his life.
For himself, the prince remained just a fraction of an inch behind the young King. His grayed face was disapproving, but he would allow people to chalk that off to just him being worried. The retired general did not allow his visage to falter, even as his eyes roamed to check below the Gorge. Surely the Creed would have lookouts? He assumed Stephanos has accounted for that, for he would be stupid not to have.
The blast of the trumpet was a familiar one to Irakles. He himself had signalled for many a trumpet to blare, to signify the beginning of a war, and for his men to jump to action. To him, it was like a call for home, and his adrenaline spiked at the sound. Oil was poured down, and the flames lit up the flammable liquid, the heat licked up and down the sides of the gorge, a sight that would be almost beautiful had it not been so dangerous. The amber flames made a beautiful dance, as if enticing others to join in its dangerous deception, and within moments, the sounds of screeches started as the Creed started to be flushed out from all directions, clearly having been in hiding before.
His visage tightened, his frown deepened, and his hands gripped the sides harder. It made Irakles ansty, frustrated to be staying within the chariots as others put their lives on the line. The Creed was now running in every which direction, looking for any way to get a way out. While Irakles had no love lost for them, for the agreement between himself and the Creed was clearly a business one - they had both wanted the same thing, which was to oust the nobility currently in power for a new dawn - but Irakles had done none of the negotiations himself, and neither had he left a paper trail. They were hired merceneries, and nothing else.
Stephanos' voice caused him to flick his gaze over, and despite how much his nephew's words rankled at him, Irakles merely gritted his teeth, but forced a scornful smile at his nephew, a young King barely green around his ears, but trying to cheat the Kingdom that he would actually be successful as a King. "Celebrating too early, nephew? You seem to make a habit of counting your chickens before they hatch, do you not. Careful, lest you forget that you may have a few bad eggs." he murmured in reply. "Besides, with age comes experience. Something you sorely lack."
With that last jibe, he turned back to watch the proceedings below. He knew there had been whispers questioning Stephanos's capability, considering he had never actually undergone the training to be King as is elder brother had. Irakles will let that sit and simmer for now. For now, the war hardened general had a fight to watch, and from the way he was poised, he was ready to go down at any given moment, should a need arise, if only to be useful and appear more capable then Stephanos in the eyes of spectators.
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Coming closer to the gorge, Irakles shut off his focus on his sons and others, and instead, his hands tightened around the edges of the chariot he was driven in. Unlike usual fathers who concerned themselves too much over the safety of their offspring, Irakles was decidedly different. A sharpened sense for battle and the need to stay alive, he had honed his capability to block out anyone else around him, for he knew the consequences of being distracted. And he knew that he had to survive, at the very least. If anything happened to him, all that he worked for would be for naught, and at that point, it mattered not if either of his sons survived - the name and glory of his Kingdom would not be restored. Not in the hands of his peace-loving eldest, nor his distracted second born, and most definitely nothing would be done in the hands of his good-for-nothing nephew.
No, if Irakles wanted something done, he was going to have to do it himself.
The silence was thick, almost palpable as everyone got into position. He knew and felt, more then watch, as Emilios headed off to the rear end of the gorge, along with the archers to ensure the Creed did not manage to escape. Achilleas went as well, both sons poised to ensure that the faction's people did not go lose. And they would do well. They better do well. Irakles was a father of high ambition and high expectations, and he would not tolerate failure. It had been how he had brought them up, and how he expected them to live the rest of their lives. He would stand for nothing but the best in all aspects of his life.
For himself, the prince remained just a fraction of an inch behind the young King. His grayed face was disapproving, but he would allow people to chalk that off to just him being worried. The retired general did not allow his visage to falter, even as his eyes roamed to check below the Gorge. Surely the Creed would have lookouts? He assumed Stephanos has accounted for that, for he would be stupid not to have.
The blast of the trumpet was a familiar one to Irakles. He himself had signalled for many a trumpet to blare, to signify the beginning of a war, and for his men to jump to action. To him, it was like a call for home, and his adrenaline spiked at the sound. Oil was poured down, and the flames lit up the flammable liquid, the heat licked up and down the sides of the gorge, a sight that would be almost beautiful had it not been so dangerous. The amber flames made a beautiful dance, as if enticing others to join in its dangerous deception, and within moments, the sounds of screeches started as the Creed started to be flushed out from all directions, clearly having been in hiding before.
His visage tightened, his frown deepened, and his hands gripped the sides harder. It made Irakles ansty, frustrated to be staying within the chariots as others put their lives on the line. The Creed was now running in every which direction, looking for any way to get a way out. While Irakles had no love lost for them, for the agreement between himself and the Creed was clearly a business one - they had both wanted the same thing, which was to oust the nobility currently in power for a new dawn - but Irakles had done none of the negotiations himself, and neither had he left a paper trail. They were hired merceneries, and nothing else.
Stephanos' voice caused him to flick his gaze over, and despite how much his nephew's words rankled at him, Irakles merely gritted his teeth, but forced a scornful smile at his nephew, a young King barely green around his ears, but trying to cheat the Kingdom that he would actually be successful as a King. "Celebrating too early, nephew? You seem to make a habit of counting your chickens before they hatch, do you not. Careful, lest you forget that you may have a few bad eggs." he murmured in reply. "Besides, with age comes experience. Something you sorely lack."
With that last jibe, he turned back to watch the proceedings below. He knew there had been whispers questioning Stephanos's capability, considering he had never actually undergone the training to be King as is elder brother had. Irakles will let that sit and simmer for now. For now, the war hardened general had a fight to watch, and from the way he was poised, he was ready to go down at any given moment, should a need arise, if only to be useful and appear more capable then Stephanos in the eyes of spectators.
Coming closer to the gorge, Irakles shut off his focus on his sons and others, and instead, his hands tightened around the edges of the chariot he was driven in. Unlike usual fathers who concerned themselves too much over the safety of their offspring, Irakles was decidedly different. A sharpened sense for battle and the need to stay alive, he had honed his capability to block out anyone else around him, for he knew the consequences of being distracted. And he knew that he had to survive, at the very least. If anything happened to him, all that he worked for would be for naught, and at that point, it mattered not if either of his sons survived - the name and glory of his Kingdom would not be restored. Not in the hands of his peace-loving eldest, nor his distracted second born, and most definitely nothing would be done in the hands of his good-for-nothing nephew.
No, if Irakles wanted something done, he was going to have to do it himself.
The silence was thick, almost palpable as everyone got into position. He knew and felt, more then watch, as Emilios headed off to the rear end of the gorge, along with the archers to ensure the Creed did not manage to escape. Achilleas went as well, both sons poised to ensure that the faction's people did not go lose. And they would do well. They better do well. Irakles was a father of high ambition and high expectations, and he would not tolerate failure. It had been how he had brought them up, and how he expected them to live the rest of their lives. He would stand for nothing but the best in all aspects of his life.
For himself, the prince remained just a fraction of an inch behind the young King. His grayed face was disapproving, but he would allow people to chalk that off to just him being worried. The retired general did not allow his visage to falter, even as his eyes roamed to check below the Gorge. Surely the Creed would have lookouts? He assumed Stephanos has accounted for that, for he would be stupid not to have.
The blast of the trumpet was a familiar one to Irakles. He himself had signalled for many a trumpet to blare, to signify the beginning of a war, and for his men to jump to action. To him, it was like a call for home, and his adrenaline spiked at the sound. Oil was poured down, and the flames lit up the flammable liquid, the heat licked up and down the sides of the gorge, a sight that would be almost beautiful had it not been so dangerous. The amber flames made a beautiful dance, as if enticing others to join in its dangerous deception, and within moments, the sounds of screeches started as the Creed started to be flushed out from all directions, clearly having been in hiding before.
His visage tightened, his frown deepened, and his hands gripped the sides harder. It made Irakles ansty, frustrated to be staying within the chariots as others put their lives on the line. The Creed was now running in every which direction, looking for any way to get a way out. While Irakles had no love lost for them, for the agreement between himself and the Creed was clearly a business one - they had both wanted the same thing, which was to oust the nobility currently in power for a new dawn - but Irakles had done none of the negotiations himself, and neither had he left a paper trail. They were hired merceneries, and nothing else.
Stephanos' voice caused him to flick his gaze over, and despite how much his nephew's words rankled at him, Irakles merely gritted his teeth, but forced a scornful smile at his nephew, a young King barely green around his ears, but trying to cheat the Kingdom that he would actually be successful as a King. "Celebrating too early, nephew? You seem to make a habit of counting your chickens before they hatch, do you not. Careful, lest you forget that you may have a few bad eggs." he murmured in reply. "Besides, with age comes experience. Something you sorely lack."
With that last jibe, he turned back to watch the proceedings below. He knew there had been whispers questioning Stephanos's capability, considering he had never actually undergone the training to be King as is elder brother had. Irakles will let that sit and simmer for now. For now, the war hardened general had a fight to watch, and from the way he was poised, he was ready to go down at any given moment, should a need arise, if only to be useful and appear more capable then Stephanos in the eyes of spectators.
It was not as long a wait as Achilleas had been expecting for Vangelis' men to reach the top of the gorge. He wasn't sure if that was because during that time, he had been envisioning the battle ahead, firing himself, and his men, up for the fight before them.
His men, initially, were relatively quiet, save for periodic sound of metal on metal as shields and swords clanged against their neighbors as they moved. Achilleas left his men to their own thoughts and prayers for maybe the first twenty minutes, knowing that they, too, had their own pre-battle rituals. They must tend to themselves first before he brought them together before the battle.
For his own pre-battle ritual, Achilleas closed his eyes. While tensing every muscle and releasing them, over and over again, he tried to isolate every muscle in his body from his toes, to his eyelids, tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing. Feeling calm and grounded, he then sent up a prayer to Ares.
"Ares guide me. Ares protect me. Guide my blade as if it were your own. Grant me the strength to carry on where my men can't, for it is they I wish to bring home alive. Help me claim the lives of the Creed, so that they may not claim the lives of ours. Give me the courage to make the hard decisions during battle, and lend me your reflexes so that I may be ever present on the battlefield. I ask for your blessing, Ares, God of War. Embody yourself in me."
Allowing a few moments of quiet silence following his prayer, at last, he opened his eyes. He was ready.
Achilleas turned to face his men. He needn't have said anything; as he looked around him, the faces that stared back were full of clarity, anticipation and solitude. They were as ready as he was. He smiled proudly at his men, nodding resolutely. No, he needn't say anything. They knew what was at stake. They knew what lay ahead of them. Achilleas didn't need to remind them.
"Shouldn't be long now, Lads!"
Achilleas turned back to look toward the gorge, awaiting their signal.
Before long, the horn could be heard from atop the gorge. Achilleas heart rate immediately began to pick up as adrenaline began to pump rapidly through his veins. He pulled his sword, gripping it and his shield hard, at the ready. Barely a minute following the horn blast, the gorge began to glow orange, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of screams. Like ants escaping an anthill, the Creed began spilling out of the gorge, but they would find no safety.
A smile tugging the side of his mouth, Achilleas raised his sword. "Archers! On my signal-" The sound of dozens and dozens of arrows being knocked, followed by the protesting sound of bow strings pulled taught, he knew they were ready. Achilleas watched and waited for the right moment, the optimum release point, and then- "Now!!" He brought his sword down ahead of him as he yelled, and perfectly on cue, the dozens and dozens of arrows soared into the air in a beautiful arch, before falling like rain on the unsuspecting Creed runners. Some missed, but most found a target.
After repeating the act, guiding his archers, two more times, the numbers of the Creed members were now growing rapidly as they ran for their lives. Arrows would no longer suffice. It was time to enter the battle themselves - face on.
"For the King! For Taengea!!" Achilleas screamed it with all the pride and volume he possessed, and began to run full pelt toward the gorge, head on into battle, his men close behind him.
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It was not as long a wait as Achilleas had been expecting for Vangelis' men to reach the top of the gorge. He wasn't sure if that was because during that time, he had been envisioning the battle ahead, firing himself, and his men, up for the fight before them.
His men, initially, were relatively quiet, save for periodic sound of metal on metal as shields and swords clanged against their neighbors as they moved. Achilleas left his men to their own thoughts and prayers for maybe the first twenty minutes, knowing that they, too, had their own pre-battle rituals. They must tend to themselves first before he brought them together before the battle.
For his own pre-battle ritual, Achilleas closed his eyes. While tensing every muscle and releasing them, over and over again, he tried to isolate every muscle in his body from his toes, to his eyelids, tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing. Feeling calm and grounded, he then sent up a prayer to Ares.
"Ares guide me. Ares protect me. Guide my blade as if it were your own. Grant me the strength to carry on where my men can't, for it is they I wish to bring home alive. Help me claim the lives of the Creed, so that they may not claim the lives of ours. Give me the courage to make the hard decisions during battle, and lend me your reflexes so that I may be ever present on the battlefield. I ask for your blessing, Ares, God of War. Embody yourself in me."
Allowing a few moments of quiet silence following his prayer, at last, he opened his eyes. He was ready.
Achilleas turned to face his men. He needn't have said anything; as he looked around him, the faces that stared back were full of clarity, anticipation and solitude. They were as ready as he was. He smiled proudly at his men, nodding resolutely. No, he needn't say anything. They knew what was at stake. They knew what lay ahead of them. Achilleas didn't need to remind them.
"Shouldn't be long now, Lads!"
Achilleas turned back to look toward the gorge, awaiting their signal.
Before long, the horn could be heard from atop the gorge. Achilleas heart rate immediately began to pick up as adrenaline began to pump rapidly through his veins. He pulled his sword, gripping it and his shield hard, at the ready. Barely a minute following the horn blast, the gorge began to glow orange, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of screams. Like ants escaping an anthill, the Creed began spilling out of the gorge, but they would find no safety.
A smile tugging the side of his mouth, Achilleas raised his sword. "Archers! On my signal-" The sound of dozens and dozens of arrows being knocked, followed by the protesting sound of bow strings pulled taught, he knew they were ready. Achilleas watched and waited for the right moment, the optimum release point, and then- "Now!!" He brought his sword down ahead of him as he yelled, and perfectly on cue, the dozens and dozens of arrows soared into the air in a beautiful arch, before falling like rain on the unsuspecting Creed runners. Some missed, but most found a target.
After repeating the act, guiding his archers, two more times, the numbers of the Creed members were now growing rapidly as they ran for their lives. Arrows would no longer suffice. It was time to enter the battle themselves - face on.
"For the King! For Taengea!!" Achilleas screamed it with all the pride and volume he possessed, and began to run full pelt toward the gorge, head on into battle, his men close behind him.
It was not as long a wait as Achilleas had been expecting for Vangelis' men to reach the top of the gorge. He wasn't sure if that was because during that time, he had been envisioning the battle ahead, firing himself, and his men, up for the fight before them.
His men, initially, were relatively quiet, save for periodic sound of metal on metal as shields and swords clanged against their neighbors as they moved. Achilleas left his men to their own thoughts and prayers for maybe the first twenty minutes, knowing that they, too, had their own pre-battle rituals. They must tend to themselves first before he brought them together before the battle.
For his own pre-battle ritual, Achilleas closed his eyes. While tensing every muscle and releasing them, over and over again, he tried to isolate every muscle in his body from his toes, to his eyelids, tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing. Feeling calm and grounded, he then sent up a prayer to Ares.
"Ares guide me. Ares protect me. Guide my blade as if it were your own. Grant me the strength to carry on where my men can't, for it is they I wish to bring home alive. Help me claim the lives of the Creed, so that they may not claim the lives of ours. Give me the courage to make the hard decisions during battle, and lend me your reflexes so that I may be ever present on the battlefield. I ask for your blessing, Ares, God of War. Embody yourself in me."
Allowing a few moments of quiet silence following his prayer, at last, he opened his eyes. He was ready.
Achilleas turned to face his men. He needn't have said anything; as he looked around him, the faces that stared back were full of clarity, anticipation and solitude. They were as ready as he was. He smiled proudly at his men, nodding resolutely. No, he needn't say anything. They knew what was at stake. They knew what lay ahead of them. Achilleas didn't need to remind them.
"Shouldn't be long now, Lads!"
Achilleas turned back to look toward the gorge, awaiting their signal.
Before long, the horn could be heard from atop the gorge. Achilleas heart rate immediately began to pick up as adrenaline began to pump rapidly through his veins. He pulled his sword, gripping it and his shield hard, at the ready. Barely a minute following the horn blast, the gorge began to glow orange, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of screams. Like ants escaping an anthill, the Creed began spilling out of the gorge, but they would find no safety.
A smile tugging the side of his mouth, Achilleas raised his sword. "Archers! On my signal-" The sound of dozens and dozens of arrows being knocked, followed by the protesting sound of bow strings pulled taught, he knew they were ready. Achilleas watched and waited for the right moment, the optimum release point, and then- "Now!!" He brought his sword down ahead of him as he yelled, and perfectly on cue, the dozens and dozens of arrows soared into the air in a beautiful arch, before falling like rain on the unsuspecting Creed runners. Some missed, but most found a target.
After repeating the act, guiding his archers, two more times, the numbers of the Creed members were now growing rapidly as they ran for their lives. Arrows would no longer suffice. It was time to enter the battle themselves - face on.
"For the King! For Taengea!!" Achilleas screamed it with all the pride and volume he possessed, and began to run full pelt toward the gorge, head on into battle, his men close behind him.
Vangelis watched the men fork and split across either side of the gorge, their forces deployed in unison to complete the entrapment manoeuvre. The Colchian prince had been selected for this particular part of the mission because, not only did it require someone the king could trust to command it, but it didn't need as many men to carry it out. Not to mention the fact that of all the potential assignments in this operation, is was probably the least dangerous. Which was appropriate for a member of a foreign royal family. After all, any aid he gave to this mission was a bonus but having a foreign heir to the throne killed on your soil? A diplomatic catastrophe waiting to happen.
Vangelis was quick to instruct his small band of guards in placing the oil containers that they had levied up the side of the mountain in the right position.
"We need them close to the eastern edge. Close to the Taengean forces but not within their sphere of impact."
They needed the fire to send the majority of the cultist fighters below out of the western facing opening, allowing them to run directly into the path of King Stephanos' chariots. The Lords Mikaelidas were in place to ensure that no-one ran out the opposing side which meant they were a small force of attack; powerful but not equipped that handle all of the infiltrators below. They needed to ensure as many as possible went in the opposite direction, allowing the rear defence to handle as few as possible with more precision; allowing a defensive net that caught a hundred percent of its pray.
With the barrels in position and their lips removed, Vangelis personally saw to lighting the starter flames for the archers, determined to have something to do in the few moments before they were ready to launch attack. Positioning the starters in the cracks between the rocky terrain in easy reach of his men, several of them came forward to light the tips of their arrows ready.
"Keep them away from the edge." He told them.
It was daylight so the chances of being spotted through the light of their arrowheads was unlikely but still plausible. Especially if any of the Creed below decided to look up at an inappropriate moment.
Heading back to the edge of the chasm, Vangelis was careful where he placed himself so as not to let his shadow fall down over the inner chambers and, instead, focused out towards the West, spotting Stephanos' chariot and awaiting the arranged signal.
As soon as Vangelis spied the kings arm raised in order and the sound of a war horn was blown, Vangelis made a cutting gesture through the air. He gave no command by sound in case it surprised the cultists with enough time to jump out of the way; he simply, silently ordered the oil to be poured.
Potentially deadly enough - the oil would coat those it fell upon, making them unable to hold weapons, move with any dexterity in their wet clothes and likely make it hard to stay on their feet if the oil got to their soles. But deadly enough was not entirely fatal. They needed to scare the creed out of their haven, not given them all a fatty bath.
"Fire." Vangelis stated, his command quiet and clear. And as the oil fell down hundreds of feet into the enclave below, the archers on either side - two assigned to each of the four barrels, in case one missed, fired their flaming weapons into each stream of liquid.
Vangelis held his breath to check the timing - for the flames would work up as well as down the stream and if there were too much oil in the barrels when it reached the top, he and his friends would be saying hello to Charon far sooner than any of them hoped. But he had counted, from the second the oil left the containers, he had counted the seconds and watched the pouring rate. He had no idea if he was mathematically accurate but he was accurate enough that, by the time the flames reached upwards to engulf the wooden barrels, the containers were almost empty and his men could kick them down into the ravine, adding a second dangerous attack on the masked men below.
"Arm!" Was Vangelis' next instruction, taking up his own bow and knocking an arrow ready.
Below, the bustle of movements and the ringing, clanging of a gong could be heard but there no screams. Frowning, concerned they had gotten their aim wrong, he leaned down over the edge and had to quickly draw his head back away from a crossbow bolt that was sent straight up at him.
In the split second he had been able to see, he had noted several figures running around in flames lighting everything they touched. But none of them were yelling.
Vangelis knew the Creed liked to keep their mouths shut but not even crying out in pain was just eerie.
"Fire at will!" Vangelis called to his men. "Do not approach the edge!"
It would damage visibility but there was little concern for that when they just had to fire downwards. It didn't even really matter if they hit anything - though to take out a few of the Creed would be a bonus. What they needed to do was simply make the enclave too dangerous to stay within and send all the cultists hurrying out of the gorge in one particular direction.
"Move!" Vangelis called again.
This time, as rehearsed and practised, his men moved as one, slowly moving towards the western end of the gorge. The idea being that the cultists would flee the storm of arrows, being pushed further along as their attacked pursued them and the Mikaelidas Lords came in behind, cutting off their only other escape.
It wasn't long before, in his peripheral, Vangelis spotted black figured, wrapped in their dark garments spilling out like ants from their safe haven, out onto the open plain to the west...
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Vangelis watched the men fork and split across either side of the gorge, their forces deployed in unison to complete the entrapment manoeuvre. The Colchian prince had been selected for this particular part of the mission because, not only did it require someone the king could trust to command it, but it didn't need as many men to carry it out. Not to mention the fact that of all the potential assignments in this operation, is was probably the least dangerous. Which was appropriate for a member of a foreign royal family. After all, any aid he gave to this mission was a bonus but having a foreign heir to the throne killed on your soil? A diplomatic catastrophe waiting to happen.
Vangelis was quick to instruct his small band of guards in placing the oil containers that they had levied up the side of the mountain in the right position.
"We need them close to the eastern edge. Close to the Taengean forces but not within their sphere of impact."
They needed the fire to send the majority of the cultist fighters below out of the western facing opening, allowing them to run directly into the path of King Stephanos' chariots. The Lords Mikaelidas were in place to ensure that no-one ran out the opposing side which meant they were a small force of attack; powerful but not equipped that handle all of the infiltrators below. They needed to ensure as many as possible went in the opposite direction, allowing the rear defence to handle as few as possible with more precision; allowing a defensive net that caught a hundred percent of its pray.
With the barrels in position and their lips removed, Vangelis personally saw to lighting the starter flames for the archers, determined to have something to do in the few moments before they were ready to launch attack. Positioning the starters in the cracks between the rocky terrain in easy reach of his men, several of them came forward to light the tips of their arrows ready.
"Keep them away from the edge." He told them.
It was daylight so the chances of being spotted through the light of their arrowheads was unlikely but still plausible. Especially if any of the Creed below decided to look up at an inappropriate moment.
Heading back to the edge of the chasm, Vangelis was careful where he placed himself so as not to let his shadow fall down over the inner chambers and, instead, focused out towards the West, spotting Stephanos' chariot and awaiting the arranged signal.
As soon as Vangelis spied the kings arm raised in order and the sound of a war horn was blown, Vangelis made a cutting gesture through the air. He gave no command by sound in case it surprised the cultists with enough time to jump out of the way; he simply, silently ordered the oil to be poured.
Potentially deadly enough - the oil would coat those it fell upon, making them unable to hold weapons, move with any dexterity in their wet clothes and likely make it hard to stay on their feet if the oil got to their soles. But deadly enough was not entirely fatal. They needed to scare the creed out of their haven, not given them all a fatty bath.
"Fire." Vangelis stated, his command quiet and clear. And as the oil fell down hundreds of feet into the enclave below, the archers on either side - two assigned to each of the four barrels, in case one missed, fired their flaming weapons into each stream of liquid.
Vangelis held his breath to check the timing - for the flames would work up as well as down the stream and if there were too much oil in the barrels when it reached the top, he and his friends would be saying hello to Charon far sooner than any of them hoped. But he had counted, from the second the oil left the containers, he had counted the seconds and watched the pouring rate. He had no idea if he was mathematically accurate but he was accurate enough that, by the time the flames reached upwards to engulf the wooden barrels, the containers were almost empty and his men could kick them down into the ravine, adding a second dangerous attack on the masked men below.
"Arm!" Was Vangelis' next instruction, taking up his own bow and knocking an arrow ready.
Below, the bustle of movements and the ringing, clanging of a gong could be heard but there no screams. Frowning, concerned they had gotten their aim wrong, he leaned down over the edge and had to quickly draw his head back away from a crossbow bolt that was sent straight up at him.
In the split second he had been able to see, he had noted several figures running around in flames lighting everything they touched. But none of them were yelling.
Vangelis knew the Creed liked to keep their mouths shut but not even crying out in pain was just eerie.
"Fire at will!" Vangelis called to his men. "Do not approach the edge!"
It would damage visibility but there was little concern for that when they just had to fire downwards. It didn't even really matter if they hit anything - though to take out a few of the Creed would be a bonus. What they needed to do was simply make the enclave too dangerous to stay within and send all the cultists hurrying out of the gorge in one particular direction.
"Move!" Vangelis called again.
This time, as rehearsed and practised, his men moved as one, slowly moving towards the western end of the gorge. The idea being that the cultists would flee the storm of arrows, being pushed further along as their attacked pursued them and the Mikaelidas Lords came in behind, cutting off their only other escape.
It wasn't long before, in his peripheral, Vangelis spotted black figured, wrapped in their dark garments spilling out like ants from their safe haven, out onto the open plain to the west...
Vangelis watched the men fork and split across either side of the gorge, their forces deployed in unison to complete the entrapment manoeuvre. The Colchian prince had been selected for this particular part of the mission because, not only did it require someone the king could trust to command it, but it didn't need as many men to carry it out. Not to mention the fact that of all the potential assignments in this operation, is was probably the least dangerous. Which was appropriate for a member of a foreign royal family. After all, any aid he gave to this mission was a bonus but having a foreign heir to the throne killed on your soil? A diplomatic catastrophe waiting to happen.
Vangelis was quick to instruct his small band of guards in placing the oil containers that they had levied up the side of the mountain in the right position.
"We need them close to the eastern edge. Close to the Taengean forces but not within their sphere of impact."
They needed the fire to send the majority of the cultist fighters below out of the western facing opening, allowing them to run directly into the path of King Stephanos' chariots. The Lords Mikaelidas were in place to ensure that no-one ran out the opposing side which meant they were a small force of attack; powerful but not equipped that handle all of the infiltrators below. They needed to ensure as many as possible went in the opposite direction, allowing the rear defence to handle as few as possible with more precision; allowing a defensive net that caught a hundred percent of its pray.
With the barrels in position and their lips removed, Vangelis personally saw to lighting the starter flames for the archers, determined to have something to do in the few moments before they were ready to launch attack. Positioning the starters in the cracks between the rocky terrain in easy reach of his men, several of them came forward to light the tips of their arrows ready.
"Keep them away from the edge." He told them.
It was daylight so the chances of being spotted through the light of their arrowheads was unlikely but still plausible. Especially if any of the Creed below decided to look up at an inappropriate moment.
Heading back to the edge of the chasm, Vangelis was careful where he placed himself so as not to let his shadow fall down over the inner chambers and, instead, focused out towards the West, spotting Stephanos' chariot and awaiting the arranged signal.
As soon as Vangelis spied the kings arm raised in order and the sound of a war horn was blown, Vangelis made a cutting gesture through the air. He gave no command by sound in case it surprised the cultists with enough time to jump out of the way; he simply, silently ordered the oil to be poured.
Potentially deadly enough - the oil would coat those it fell upon, making them unable to hold weapons, move with any dexterity in their wet clothes and likely make it hard to stay on their feet if the oil got to their soles. But deadly enough was not entirely fatal. They needed to scare the creed out of their haven, not given them all a fatty bath.
"Fire." Vangelis stated, his command quiet and clear. And as the oil fell down hundreds of feet into the enclave below, the archers on either side - two assigned to each of the four barrels, in case one missed, fired their flaming weapons into each stream of liquid.
Vangelis held his breath to check the timing - for the flames would work up as well as down the stream and if there were too much oil in the barrels when it reached the top, he and his friends would be saying hello to Charon far sooner than any of them hoped. But he had counted, from the second the oil left the containers, he had counted the seconds and watched the pouring rate. He had no idea if he was mathematically accurate but he was accurate enough that, by the time the flames reached upwards to engulf the wooden barrels, the containers were almost empty and his men could kick them down into the ravine, adding a second dangerous attack on the masked men below.
"Arm!" Was Vangelis' next instruction, taking up his own bow and knocking an arrow ready.
Below, the bustle of movements and the ringing, clanging of a gong could be heard but there no screams. Frowning, concerned they had gotten their aim wrong, he leaned down over the edge and had to quickly draw his head back away from a crossbow bolt that was sent straight up at him.
In the split second he had been able to see, he had noted several figures running around in flames lighting everything they touched. But none of them were yelling.
Vangelis knew the Creed liked to keep their mouths shut but not even crying out in pain was just eerie.
"Fire at will!" Vangelis called to his men. "Do not approach the edge!"
It would damage visibility but there was little concern for that when they just had to fire downwards. It didn't even really matter if they hit anything - though to take out a few of the Creed would be a bonus. What they needed to do was simply make the enclave too dangerous to stay within and send all the cultists hurrying out of the gorge in one particular direction.
"Move!" Vangelis called again.
This time, as rehearsed and practised, his men moved as one, slowly moving towards the western end of the gorge. The idea being that the cultists would flee the storm of arrows, being pushed further along as their attacked pursued them and the Mikaelidas Lords came in behind, cutting off their only other escape.
It wasn't long before, in his peripheral, Vangelis spotted black figured, wrapped in their dark garments spilling out like ants from their safe haven, out onto the open plain to the west...
He was no asset to anyone in a chariot. With a bow, on horseback or off, was where he belonged. With the sword slapping against his hip, he followed Lord Achilleas and Lord Emilios, along with the rest of the archers toward the back of the gorge. The trek across the open field was a stressful one. They trailed Prince Vangelis’s forces and the lot of them had their bows constantly at the ready. The danger was apparent; the Creed could feasibly have archers of their own, raining down holy terror upon them all.
But they made it to the relative safety of the trees. It was among the forest that he felt most at ease. Traipsing across the uneven ground was not foreign to him. The deer hide boots he wore allowed his feet to make very little noise. They were being led by Achilleas and he expected an order to come down from the man that they all keep intensely quiet. The mission, this part of it at least, demanded that they arrive in utter stealth around the back of the gorge.
The men were tense. His own muscles were taught and each crashing footfall from a younger man beside or in front or behind him had him glaring them into a more careful gait. But at last, they all made it to the gorge’s end. It was narrow enough that a wagon could not wheel its way through. Even some horses might bulk at the sides of rock rising up on either side, imposing and jagged.
There had been a single watchman at the gorge’s end but a loosed arrow to the man’s neck silenced any cry the man might raise. There was nothing to do now but await the signal. The archers assembled into position. His gaze was on Achilleas for orders. Though he was older than the king’s cousin, he was outranked by not only the man’s title, but also the man’s military experience.
Gavriil was a hunter, not a soldier; though, for a battle, this was one he’d be ok to fight.
Once Achilleas shouted the signal, Gavriil, along with the rest, let their arrows fly into the oncoming hoard of black clad Creed. Most were not on fire. They were running from the savage glow whirling around the gorge’s interior. He shot arrow after arrow until they were spent. Most all found at least a mark but nearly none were lethal. This was not like riding on the back of his hunter and being able to take careful aim.
This was meant to wound and slow down their enemies.
Once the arrows were gone and some Creed had fallen down under the hissing rain of death, he freed its sword from its sheath and ran with the rest at Achilleas’s command. He did not know if he would survive this onslaught. His prayers had been offered up to both Ares and to Athena. It was his wish that Ares, the god of the spirit of war, would aid them and give them strength to overpower their enemies. But Ares was a fickle god and might just side with the Creed who probably prayed to him as well. But Athena was just and true. She would side with them, and through her own skill and cool reason, would give their swords sure aim to kill their opponents. And he’d prayed to Artemis, his patron goddess, who had seen fit to allow his aim to be better than it should have been when he’s shot the arrows.
Even now his shoulder didn’t hurt the way it should have. In fact, he felt invigorated and nearly youthful as he plunged after the rest, jabbing his sword into a gut here, slashing across a chest there. It was mayhem. There was no time to think. Only to act, and to rely on his fellows to do the same.
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He was no asset to anyone in a chariot. With a bow, on horseback or off, was where he belonged. With the sword slapping against his hip, he followed Lord Achilleas and Lord Emilios, along with the rest of the archers toward the back of the gorge. The trek across the open field was a stressful one. They trailed Prince Vangelis’s forces and the lot of them had their bows constantly at the ready. The danger was apparent; the Creed could feasibly have archers of their own, raining down holy terror upon them all.
But they made it to the relative safety of the trees. It was among the forest that he felt most at ease. Traipsing across the uneven ground was not foreign to him. The deer hide boots he wore allowed his feet to make very little noise. They were being led by Achilleas and he expected an order to come down from the man that they all keep intensely quiet. The mission, this part of it at least, demanded that they arrive in utter stealth around the back of the gorge.
The men were tense. His own muscles were taught and each crashing footfall from a younger man beside or in front or behind him had him glaring them into a more careful gait. But at last, they all made it to the gorge’s end. It was narrow enough that a wagon could not wheel its way through. Even some horses might bulk at the sides of rock rising up on either side, imposing and jagged.
There had been a single watchman at the gorge’s end but a loosed arrow to the man’s neck silenced any cry the man might raise. There was nothing to do now but await the signal. The archers assembled into position. His gaze was on Achilleas for orders. Though he was older than the king’s cousin, he was outranked by not only the man’s title, but also the man’s military experience.
Gavriil was a hunter, not a soldier; though, for a battle, this was one he’d be ok to fight.
Once Achilleas shouted the signal, Gavriil, along with the rest, let their arrows fly into the oncoming hoard of black clad Creed. Most were not on fire. They were running from the savage glow whirling around the gorge’s interior. He shot arrow after arrow until they were spent. Most all found at least a mark but nearly none were lethal. This was not like riding on the back of his hunter and being able to take careful aim.
This was meant to wound and slow down their enemies.
Once the arrows were gone and some Creed had fallen down under the hissing rain of death, he freed its sword from its sheath and ran with the rest at Achilleas’s command. He did not know if he would survive this onslaught. His prayers had been offered up to both Ares and to Athena. It was his wish that Ares, the god of the spirit of war, would aid them and give them strength to overpower their enemies. But Ares was a fickle god and might just side with the Creed who probably prayed to him as well. But Athena was just and true. She would side with them, and through her own skill and cool reason, would give their swords sure aim to kill their opponents. And he’d prayed to Artemis, his patron goddess, who had seen fit to allow his aim to be better than it should have been when he’s shot the arrows.
Even now his shoulder didn’t hurt the way it should have. In fact, he felt invigorated and nearly youthful as he plunged after the rest, jabbing his sword into a gut here, slashing across a chest there. It was mayhem. There was no time to think. Only to act, and to rely on his fellows to do the same.
He was no asset to anyone in a chariot. With a bow, on horseback or off, was where he belonged. With the sword slapping against his hip, he followed Lord Achilleas and Lord Emilios, along with the rest of the archers toward the back of the gorge. The trek across the open field was a stressful one. They trailed Prince Vangelis’s forces and the lot of them had their bows constantly at the ready. The danger was apparent; the Creed could feasibly have archers of their own, raining down holy terror upon them all.
But they made it to the relative safety of the trees. It was among the forest that he felt most at ease. Traipsing across the uneven ground was not foreign to him. The deer hide boots he wore allowed his feet to make very little noise. They were being led by Achilleas and he expected an order to come down from the man that they all keep intensely quiet. The mission, this part of it at least, demanded that they arrive in utter stealth around the back of the gorge.
The men were tense. His own muscles were taught and each crashing footfall from a younger man beside or in front or behind him had him glaring them into a more careful gait. But at last, they all made it to the gorge’s end. It was narrow enough that a wagon could not wheel its way through. Even some horses might bulk at the sides of rock rising up on either side, imposing and jagged.
There had been a single watchman at the gorge’s end but a loosed arrow to the man’s neck silenced any cry the man might raise. There was nothing to do now but await the signal. The archers assembled into position. His gaze was on Achilleas for orders. Though he was older than the king’s cousin, he was outranked by not only the man’s title, but also the man’s military experience.
Gavriil was a hunter, not a soldier; though, for a battle, this was one he’d be ok to fight.
Once Achilleas shouted the signal, Gavriil, along with the rest, let their arrows fly into the oncoming hoard of black clad Creed. Most were not on fire. They were running from the savage glow whirling around the gorge’s interior. He shot arrow after arrow until they were spent. Most all found at least a mark but nearly none were lethal. This was not like riding on the back of his hunter and being able to take careful aim.
This was meant to wound and slow down their enemies.
Once the arrows were gone and some Creed had fallen down under the hissing rain of death, he freed its sword from its sheath and ran with the rest at Achilleas’s command. He did not know if he would survive this onslaught. His prayers had been offered up to both Ares and to Athena. It was his wish that Ares, the god of the spirit of war, would aid them and give them strength to overpower their enemies. But Ares was a fickle god and might just side with the Creed who probably prayed to him as well. But Athena was just and true. She would side with them, and through her own skill and cool reason, would give their swords sure aim to kill their opponents. And he’d prayed to Artemis, his patron goddess, who had seen fit to allow his aim to be better than it should have been when he’s shot the arrows.
Even now his shoulder didn’t hurt the way it should have. In fact, he felt invigorated and nearly youthful as he plunged after the rest, jabbing his sword into a gut here, slashing across a chest there. It was mayhem. There was no time to think. Only to act, and to rely on his fellows to do the same.
With King Stephanos's command, Nike had hopped on to the chariot right behind her general, an action as smooth to her as breathing by now. Her sword was by her waist, twin daggers tucked into her boots, but for the time being as they rode through the streets of Vasiliadon, the woman did not bother drawing either weapon. Allowing the prince to drive (a habit only he had, and she had to contend with odd looks thrown to her by Commanders of the Taengean cavalry, for they usually drove), instead, the woman's eyes took in the Taengean sights. While some may wonder, with her Taengean origins, if she felt any pluck of nostalgia or memories at the sights, in truth, Nike had none. Most of her childhood memories of being in this Kingdom was tied to her family home and parents, and with neither in sight, the kingdom was just as good as strange to her - and she's never felt more at home then in Colchis.
Only when they got to the borders of the capitol limits, did her stance tense, and her eyes turn watchful. Hair that needed cutting was tossed by the light breeze, and the seemingly peaceful countryside that they drove past with the rumbling chariots belied the chaos that Stephanos was soon to wrought with the plan Nike had been informed of much earlier whilst by Vangelis's side preparing for the day.
Chariots were an odd sensation for the Commander - she had trained on land, with cavalry, on rocky mountains, but very rarely on chariots. Manage she will however, as Vangelis led their small group of men away from the main group, through the thicket to the mountainous side of the Gorge they were supposed to take sentry and attack from. Her inner peace sighed a sense of relief when the Crown prince signalled for them to abandon the chariots (finally!), and the Commander glaldy followed on foot, jogging with weapons in tow.
Following instructions and knowing the plan herself, the Commander swiftly assisted and ensured each equipment was in place, the heavy cast iron pots filled to brim with the oil in containers they had brought up the side of the mountain. As Vangelis saw to the lighting of the starter flames, Nike supervised the filling of the vats done by the younger soldiers, and once that was done, simply waited for her General's signal.
On the signal, Nike nodded to the soldiers further down the edge, and as one entity, the cast iron pots were tipped, and the oil started down the sides of the Gorge. On itself, it was harmless, if a little messy, but it was suprising how one little change could amend the deadliness of a seemingly harmless concoction.
The fire picked up quickly upon contact with the oil, the flaming arrow lighting up all that the oil touched upon. They licked up and down the gorge sides, and as soon as the containers were empty, Nike was quick to bark the order to let the containers roll and retreat from the age so as to not be in the flame's way, not at all eager to meet Charon and gain passage from him just yet.
The next set of instructions, Nike did not follow - for trained and skilled as she was, she was not as well versed in the art of the bow and arrow. Instead, she had pulled out one of the dozen throwing knives she had strapped around her belt. These were the only ranged weapons she owned, for a bow and arrow was wasted on her. Much of her salary was spent crafting new ones to replace the ones she lost, but Nike often retrieved them as much as she could.
These dozen however, she knew she would lose - but for a good cause. Biting her lip and gritting her teeth, Nike crouched lower to stay out of the archer's way, and let her throwing knives fly with a flick of her wrist, aiming for the eyes and head as best as she could.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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With King Stephanos's command, Nike had hopped on to the chariot right behind her general, an action as smooth to her as breathing by now. Her sword was by her waist, twin daggers tucked into her boots, but for the time being as they rode through the streets of Vasiliadon, the woman did not bother drawing either weapon. Allowing the prince to drive (a habit only he had, and she had to contend with odd looks thrown to her by Commanders of the Taengean cavalry, for they usually drove), instead, the woman's eyes took in the Taengean sights. While some may wonder, with her Taengean origins, if she felt any pluck of nostalgia or memories at the sights, in truth, Nike had none. Most of her childhood memories of being in this Kingdom was tied to her family home and parents, and with neither in sight, the kingdom was just as good as strange to her - and she's never felt more at home then in Colchis.
Only when they got to the borders of the capitol limits, did her stance tense, and her eyes turn watchful. Hair that needed cutting was tossed by the light breeze, and the seemingly peaceful countryside that they drove past with the rumbling chariots belied the chaos that Stephanos was soon to wrought with the plan Nike had been informed of much earlier whilst by Vangelis's side preparing for the day.
Chariots were an odd sensation for the Commander - she had trained on land, with cavalry, on rocky mountains, but very rarely on chariots. Manage she will however, as Vangelis led their small group of men away from the main group, through the thicket to the mountainous side of the Gorge they were supposed to take sentry and attack from. Her inner peace sighed a sense of relief when the Crown prince signalled for them to abandon the chariots (finally!), and the Commander glaldy followed on foot, jogging with weapons in tow.
Following instructions and knowing the plan herself, the Commander swiftly assisted and ensured each equipment was in place, the heavy cast iron pots filled to brim with the oil in containers they had brought up the side of the mountain. As Vangelis saw to the lighting of the starter flames, Nike supervised the filling of the vats done by the younger soldiers, and once that was done, simply waited for her General's signal.
On the signal, Nike nodded to the soldiers further down the edge, and as one entity, the cast iron pots were tipped, and the oil started down the sides of the Gorge. On itself, it was harmless, if a little messy, but it was suprising how one little change could amend the deadliness of a seemingly harmless concoction.
The fire picked up quickly upon contact with the oil, the flaming arrow lighting up all that the oil touched upon. They licked up and down the gorge sides, and as soon as the containers were empty, Nike was quick to bark the order to let the containers roll and retreat from the age so as to not be in the flame's way, not at all eager to meet Charon and gain passage from him just yet.
The next set of instructions, Nike did not follow - for trained and skilled as she was, she was not as well versed in the art of the bow and arrow. Instead, she had pulled out one of the dozen throwing knives she had strapped around her belt. These were the only ranged weapons she owned, for a bow and arrow was wasted on her. Much of her salary was spent crafting new ones to replace the ones she lost, but Nike often retrieved them as much as she could.
These dozen however, she knew she would lose - but for a good cause. Biting her lip and gritting her teeth, Nike crouched lower to stay out of the archer's way, and let her throwing knives fly with a flick of her wrist, aiming for the eyes and head as best as she could.
With King Stephanos's command, Nike had hopped on to the chariot right behind her general, an action as smooth to her as breathing by now. Her sword was by her waist, twin daggers tucked into her boots, but for the time being as they rode through the streets of Vasiliadon, the woman did not bother drawing either weapon. Allowing the prince to drive (a habit only he had, and she had to contend with odd looks thrown to her by Commanders of the Taengean cavalry, for they usually drove), instead, the woman's eyes took in the Taengean sights. While some may wonder, with her Taengean origins, if she felt any pluck of nostalgia or memories at the sights, in truth, Nike had none. Most of her childhood memories of being in this Kingdom was tied to her family home and parents, and with neither in sight, the kingdom was just as good as strange to her - and she's never felt more at home then in Colchis.
Only when they got to the borders of the capitol limits, did her stance tense, and her eyes turn watchful. Hair that needed cutting was tossed by the light breeze, and the seemingly peaceful countryside that they drove past with the rumbling chariots belied the chaos that Stephanos was soon to wrought with the plan Nike had been informed of much earlier whilst by Vangelis's side preparing for the day.
Chariots were an odd sensation for the Commander - she had trained on land, with cavalry, on rocky mountains, but very rarely on chariots. Manage she will however, as Vangelis led their small group of men away from the main group, through the thicket to the mountainous side of the Gorge they were supposed to take sentry and attack from. Her inner peace sighed a sense of relief when the Crown prince signalled for them to abandon the chariots (finally!), and the Commander glaldy followed on foot, jogging with weapons in tow.
Following instructions and knowing the plan herself, the Commander swiftly assisted and ensured each equipment was in place, the heavy cast iron pots filled to brim with the oil in containers they had brought up the side of the mountain. As Vangelis saw to the lighting of the starter flames, Nike supervised the filling of the vats done by the younger soldiers, and once that was done, simply waited for her General's signal.
On the signal, Nike nodded to the soldiers further down the edge, and as one entity, the cast iron pots were tipped, and the oil started down the sides of the Gorge. On itself, it was harmless, if a little messy, but it was suprising how one little change could amend the deadliness of a seemingly harmless concoction.
The fire picked up quickly upon contact with the oil, the flaming arrow lighting up all that the oil touched upon. They licked up and down the gorge sides, and as soon as the containers were empty, Nike was quick to bark the order to let the containers roll and retreat from the age so as to not be in the flame's way, not at all eager to meet Charon and gain passage from him just yet.
The next set of instructions, Nike did not follow - for trained and skilled as she was, she was not as well versed in the art of the bow and arrow. Instead, she had pulled out one of the dozen throwing knives she had strapped around her belt. These were the only ranged weapons she owned, for a bow and arrow was wasted on her. Much of her salary was spent crafting new ones to replace the ones she lost, but Nike often retrieved them as much as she could.
These dozen however, she knew she would lose - but for a good cause. Biting her lip and gritting her teeth, Nike crouched lower to stay out of the archer's way, and let her throwing knives fly with a flick of her wrist, aiming for the eyes and head as best as she could.
The Gorge was neither home or sanctuary. Not personal, nor secure. It was simply a place to rest one's head whilst their mission was completed within Taengea. So far, their demands had not been met. They had made their determinations and their intent clear. Stephanos of Mikaelidas - now the king of Taengea in no way but blood - needed to be handed over to their leader. Surrendered to their cause. Or men would continue to be killed. Villages continued to be attacked. It was so simply an entreaty - one life for many. And the longer the king refused to cave, the more his people would slowly turn against him, recognising his choice as a selfish act of personal preservation over the best choice as ruler of his people. Either he would turn himself over to the Creed, or he would be forced to do so by his own people.
What the drowned had not perceived - or perhaps had planned for and not cared regarding - was the idea of the king leading a battle against their hideout. The enclave was a large tear in the mountainside that had two exits; front and back, and was easy to defend. There were overhangs to hide beneath, caverns to lay back into if defence was necessary. The last attack on the part of a misguided battalion had resulted in the Taengean's ultimate demise. Many a head had been slain from its moorings and many a soul had been sent down to be carried across by Charon.
When a scout reported on-coming chariot forces, the Creeders within the enclave snorted with arrogance. No chariots would find their way down the gorge - it was too thin to be carried out as a thoroughfare for more than a single chariot abreast.
What they drowned had not counted on was an attack from the top of the mountainside. Looking up, the enclave was a bright light slash across the sky, the cragged black lines of the sides of the gorge causing an angry crevice around them. Such a skyline was suddenly interrupted by the bumps of human forms on the bank and this particular Creeder immediately pressed himself to the walls of the enclave in order to avoid whatever attack fell down upon his brethren. His orders forbade him from speaking to warn the others but then if the Shade had not given them the benefit of observation then it was not his place to correct them.
Fate made its own mockery of the other shadow walkers as burning, flaming oil descended upon them. Silent his brothers were as they accepted the heat, the destruction and the pain of the attack without exclamation. Even more so the shower of arrows that descended upon them.
Looking out from the darkness of the overhang, the drowned one looked for his leader - a creature swathed in dark cloth as much as they but was visible in his distinction because of his behaviour. Bravery than the others and standing in the open, the leader of their unit shook out his arm, stifling the flames that licked at his shoulder and threw out an instructive arm. His dagger in hand slapped the rock and created a clanging shrill around the gorge that had his brothers looking his way. Throwing out a hand to indicate the back exit of the gorge, the Creeders ran for the exit only to converge and come up short. A counter attack was already prepared at the rear and their unit, fast and efficient they were as individual fighters were unable to fight against an open arrow attack from an organised unit.
Most of the shadows were as fast as he, dropping to the floor on their stomach - arrows sailing over their heads - and then jumping back to their feet, throwing out knives, stars and weaponry. Many a Taengean soldier - some of regal dress were struck. Several suffered fatal blows to their necks while others were struck in the chest and shoulders. This drowned one was skilled, his aim true, and his target died bloody, choking on his own life's liquid as he dropped to the ground a small throwing star embedded in his throat.
The Creed were taking out many of the rear guard but a shrill twang from their leader's knife told him that they were not destroying enough. That, in a battle of attrition they would eventually lose, no matter how many souls they took with them. Not to mention the attacks from above continuing to shower them with the potential of death at every moment. And the mission was far too important for them all to die here.
The instruction that followed the sound of the knife was to turn around. To reverse the direction of attack and head to the opposing gorge exit, out towards the chariots. Perhaps their leader suspected there to be fewer fighters than had been originally reported. For some hard to be up top and others to the rear. That left fewer men to fight in the open space of the opposing gorge exit.
As one, the drowned turned in unison, a black wave of motion, as they hurried to the other head of their enclave. The particular shadow walker leapt gently from rock, to crevice, to outcropping. He hovered on a raised level as his brothers ran out into the open sunlight of the afternoon, knives and stars at the ready, death already in hand. From his perch, the drowned one threw out his blades with pinpoint precision, aiming for the necks of drivers and the legs of horses as the chariots that had been reported made themselves known. They had hoped in vain that the forces of the king had been diminished. For there were many a chariot and cart to meet them on the open plains. His eyes narrowed as he spotted the king at the vanguard. There was no need to battle against an entire battalion. All that was necessary was to slay Stephanos of Mikaelidas. A man who had foolishly brought himself into the jaws of death itself...
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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The Gorge was neither home or sanctuary. Not personal, nor secure. It was simply a place to rest one's head whilst their mission was completed within Taengea. So far, their demands had not been met. They had made their determinations and their intent clear. Stephanos of Mikaelidas - now the king of Taengea in no way but blood - needed to be handed over to their leader. Surrendered to their cause. Or men would continue to be killed. Villages continued to be attacked. It was so simply an entreaty - one life for many. And the longer the king refused to cave, the more his people would slowly turn against him, recognising his choice as a selfish act of personal preservation over the best choice as ruler of his people. Either he would turn himself over to the Creed, or he would be forced to do so by his own people.
What the drowned had not perceived - or perhaps had planned for and not cared regarding - was the idea of the king leading a battle against their hideout. The enclave was a large tear in the mountainside that had two exits; front and back, and was easy to defend. There were overhangs to hide beneath, caverns to lay back into if defence was necessary. The last attack on the part of a misguided battalion had resulted in the Taengean's ultimate demise. Many a head had been slain from its moorings and many a soul had been sent down to be carried across by Charon.
When a scout reported on-coming chariot forces, the Creeders within the enclave snorted with arrogance. No chariots would find their way down the gorge - it was too thin to be carried out as a thoroughfare for more than a single chariot abreast.
What they drowned had not counted on was an attack from the top of the mountainside. Looking up, the enclave was a bright light slash across the sky, the cragged black lines of the sides of the gorge causing an angry crevice around them. Such a skyline was suddenly interrupted by the bumps of human forms on the bank and this particular Creeder immediately pressed himself to the walls of the enclave in order to avoid whatever attack fell down upon his brethren. His orders forbade him from speaking to warn the others but then if the Shade had not given them the benefit of observation then it was not his place to correct them.
Fate made its own mockery of the other shadow walkers as burning, flaming oil descended upon them. Silent his brothers were as they accepted the heat, the destruction and the pain of the attack without exclamation. Even more so the shower of arrows that descended upon them.
Looking out from the darkness of the overhang, the drowned one looked for his leader - a creature swathed in dark cloth as much as they but was visible in his distinction because of his behaviour. Bravery than the others and standing in the open, the leader of their unit shook out his arm, stifling the flames that licked at his shoulder and threw out an instructive arm. His dagger in hand slapped the rock and created a clanging shrill around the gorge that had his brothers looking his way. Throwing out a hand to indicate the back exit of the gorge, the Creeders ran for the exit only to converge and come up short. A counter attack was already prepared at the rear and their unit, fast and efficient they were as individual fighters were unable to fight against an open arrow attack from an organised unit.
Most of the shadows were as fast as he, dropping to the floor on their stomach - arrows sailing over their heads - and then jumping back to their feet, throwing out knives, stars and weaponry. Many a Taengean soldier - some of regal dress were struck. Several suffered fatal blows to their necks while others were struck in the chest and shoulders. This drowned one was skilled, his aim true, and his target died bloody, choking on his own life's liquid as he dropped to the ground a small throwing star embedded in his throat.
The Creed were taking out many of the rear guard but a shrill twang from their leader's knife told him that they were not destroying enough. That, in a battle of attrition they would eventually lose, no matter how many souls they took with them. Not to mention the attacks from above continuing to shower them with the potential of death at every moment. And the mission was far too important for them all to die here.
The instruction that followed the sound of the knife was to turn around. To reverse the direction of attack and head to the opposing gorge exit, out towards the chariots. Perhaps their leader suspected there to be fewer fighters than had been originally reported. For some hard to be up top and others to the rear. That left fewer men to fight in the open space of the opposing gorge exit.
As one, the drowned turned in unison, a black wave of motion, as they hurried to the other head of their enclave. The particular shadow walker leapt gently from rock, to crevice, to outcropping. He hovered on a raised level as his brothers ran out into the open sunlight of the afternoon, knives and stars at the ready, death already in hand. From his perch, the drowned one threw out his blades with pinpoint precision, aiming for the necks of drivers and the legs of horses as the chariots that had been reported made themselves known. They had hoped in vain that the forces of the king had been diminished. For there were many a chariot and cart to meet them on the open plains. His eyes narrowed as he spotted the king at the vanguard. There was no need to battle against an entire battalion. All that was necessary was to slay Stephanos of Mikaelidas. A man who had foolishly brought himself into the jaws of death itself...
The Gorge was neither home or sanctuary. Not personal, nor secure. It was simply a place to rest one's head whilst their mission was completed within Taengea. So far, their demands had not been met. They had made their determinations and their intent clear. Stephanos of Mikaelidas - now the king of Taengea in no way but blood - needed to be handed over to their leader. Surrendered to their cause. Or men would continue to be killed. Villages continued to be attacked. It was so simply an entreaty - one life for many. And the longer the king refused to cave, the more his people would slowly turn against him, recognising his choice as a selfish act of personal preservation over the best choice as ruler of his people. Either he would turn himself over to the Creed, or he would be forced to do so by his own people.
What the drowned had not perceived - or perhaps had planned for and not cared regarding - was the idea of the king leading a battle against their hideout. The enclave was a large tear in the mountainside that had two exits; front and back, and was easy to defend. There were overhangs to hide beneath, caverns to lay back into if defence was necessary. The last attack on the part of a misguided battalion had resulted in the Taengean's ultimate demise. Many a head had been slain from its moorings and many a soul had been sent down to be carried across by Charon.
When a scout reported on-coming chariot forces, the Creeders within the enclave snorted with arrogance. No chariots would find their way down the gorge - it was too thin to be carried out as a thoroughfare for more than a single chariot abreast.
What they drowned had not counted on was an attack from the top of the mountainside. Looking up, the enclave was a bright light slash across the sky, the cragged black lines of the sides of the gorge causing an angry crevice around them. Such a skyline was suddenly interrupted by the bumps of human forms on the bank and this particular Creeder immediately pressed himself to the walls of the enclave in order to avoid whatever attack fell down upon his brethren. His orders forbade him from speaking to warn the others but then if the Shade had not given them the benefit of observation then it was not his place to correct them.
Fate made its own mockery of the other shadow walkers as burning, flaming oil descended upon them. Silent his brothers were as they accepted the heat, the destruction and the pain of the attack without exclamation. Even more so the shower of arrows that descended upon them.
Looking out from the darkness of the overhang, the drowned one looked for his leader - a creature swathed in dark cloth as much as they but was visible in his distinction because of his behaviour. Bravery than the others and standing in the open, the leader of their unit shook out his arm, stifling the flames that licked at his shoulder and threw out an instructive arm. His dagger in hand slapped the rock and created a clanging shrill around the gorge that had his brothers looking his way. Throwing out a hand to indicate the back exit of the gorge, the Creeders ran for the exit only to converge and come up short. A counter attack was already prepared at the rear and their unit, fast and efficient they were as individual fighters were unable to fight against an open arrow attack from an organised unit.
Most of the shadows were as fast as he, dropping to the floor on their stomach - arrows sailing over their heads - and then jumping back to their feet, throwing out knives, stars and weaponry. Many a Taengean soldier - some of regal dress were struck. Several suffered fatal blows to their necks while others were struck in the chest and shoulders. This drowned one was skilled, his aim true, and his target died bloody, choking on his own life's liquid as he dropped to the ground a small throwing star embedded in his throat.
The Creed were taking out many of the rear guard but a shrill twang from their leader's knife told him that they were not destroying enough. That, in a battle of attrition they would eventually lose, no matter how many souls they took with them. Not to mention the attacks from above continuing to shower them with the potential of death at every moment. And the mission was far too important for them all to die here.
The instruction that followed the sound of the knife was to turn around. To reverse the direction of attack and head to the opposing gorge exit, out towards the chariots. Perhaps their leader suspected there to be fewer fighters than had been originally reported. For some hard to be up top and others to the rear. That left fewer men to fight in the open space of the opposing gorge exit.
As one, the drowned turned in unison, a black wave of motion, as they hurried to the other head of their enclave. The particular shadow walker leapt gently from rock, to crevice, to outcropping. He hovered on a raised level as his brothers ran out into the open sunlight of the afternoon, knives and stars at the ready, death already in hand. From his perch, the drowned one threw out his blades with pinpoint precision, aiming for the necks of drivers and the legs of horses as the chariots that had been reported made themselves known. They had hoped in vain that the forces of the king had been diminished. For there were many a chariot and cart to meet them on the open plains. His eyes narrowed as he spotted the king at the vanguard. There was no need to battle against an entire battalion. All that was necessary was to slay Stephanos of Mikaelidas. A man who had foolishly brought himself into the jaws of death itself...
