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Never being one that cared for the particular opinion of whatever half-baked, shit-forged, ill-crafted idea those inbred nobles conjured up, Damocles had not been particularly inclined to join in the reverie surrounding the Taengean nobility’s desire to be better soldiers. Still, as a newly-minted Lieutenant of Colchis, he had been advised by his mentor, Plaeguis, that a lack of his presence would guarantee poor upwards mobility in the future. Thus, with his reservations pushed to the side, the recently-promoted adolescent did as he was advised and volunteered to provide suitable lessons to these ungraceful, blundersome, pusillanimous fools.
Despite his age, his image still carved an impressive appearance however. After years of fierce training and draconian exercise, the once willowy, long-limbed and gangling boy had turned to form. Now a strapping man of nineteen summers, Damocles had grown into a frighteningly tall, black-bearded, and overwhelmingly handsome youth. He was muscled like a virgin’s fantasies, with stark, alluring grey eyes and a deep, languid voice that carried with it a smoky sensation that made those who listened for too long go weak on their knees with wanton desire. Of course, he had little words to spare today, seeing as he had been instructed by his captain to pay attention to the style and skill of the princelings.
Normally, under typical circumstances, he would have preferred to spend his hours by his brother’s side, poking fun at his sibling for any and all of his shenanigans. If not his brother, then there were his three main friends, Odysseas, Leonidas and Pericles. Those three always made his days far more bearable than the presence of that bloated, sycophantic, moronic pig of a man that dubbed himself captain. He was disgusted by that worm, seeing him squirm and grovel at the feet of these aristocratic knaves. He had settled by a corner of the place, casually observing the mummery that was unfolding in front of him. How disgusting!
In spite of his overall contempt for the whole thing, Damocles had made sure to look the part. He was garbed in his signature, just-forged armor, which he had commissioned from the blacksmith as a token of his ascendancy. It was fit to his measures, with the crowning component being a heavily muscled cuirass that was complete with a set of heavy pauldrons that covered his hardened shoulders. Gauntlets, greaves and bracers further covered his body, all painted black as he had instructed so as to stand out in battle and not be confused by his enemies. From his dark armor, without the need of a sword or a shield, he would make his name legendary.
Others may hide behind flanked lines or flee upon the chance to do so, but this was not true to himself. He was a warrior, a man of battle, not a whimpering royal pretending to actually care about soldiering. Furthermore, it was proven testimony that aside parties and business, the Taengeans were poorly suited to Ares’s dominion. Had it been up to him, he would had kept them at their bay, with their fantasized, romantic view of battle kept intact while the real men fought and bled and died for whatever purpose they rose arms towards.
Much to his amusement, one of his subordinates, the ironic son of his higher-ranked boss, the Baron himself, had struck quite the rivalry with the Taengean lords. In fact, as it were, Stalios, or as the men of the Damned called him, the Savage, lived true to his reputation and lauded his teeth against one of those boys, biting him enough to scare him away back to his apparent father’s side. A smirk was quickly fastened in Damocles’s face, he would not have his own baron’s son be proved wrong, and, although he disapproved of his actions, it had been enough to do right by the place. Upon securing the Colchian nobling, Damocles grinned at him and congratulated his actions. “I’ll testify to your ability, but don’t give me cause to write an unflattering report to your father. Man up and do things properly. Now, go out and show these Taengean whores how Colchians fight.” He encouraged between harsh words. It was true that the boy was the son of his baron, but that had little meaning between military formations. He would rule in the future, if the Gods were cruel, but between them, right now, the silver-eyed youth outranked the lord’s son. Compared to him, he was just another hoplite, while the towering adolescent was a lieutenant in full. With these words, Stalios, who seemed to just shrug away his superior’s warning, engaged at another fight, doing exactly what the Magnemean had told him not to do.
In time, he would bear witness to his baron’s son’s fight. What a shameful display of incompetence! To be humiliated in battle by a Taengean! This was an insult that the Lieutenant of the Damned would not tolerate. His eyes were held in brutal, overpowering stark glares, his brow furrowed deeply in frustration, and his lips tightened to stiffen holds, with his gritted teeth clenching against his jaw, while his crossed arms turned to fists. “Spear!” he frighteningly ordered to one of the overlooking lower-ranked soldiers. Instantly, the black armored man was armed with the weapon he had demanded, scaring the other soldiers around him who could guess what his emotions were at this given point.. He would not tolerate this ignominy. Stalios would suffer his wrath later tonight, but for now, he had to put a certain Taengean shithead to place.
With almost medical precision, Damocles lounged backwards and took stance, impulsing himself forward, whilst adding his own praised strength so as to project the object forward. In an instant, the sharply-pointed weapon struck the ground, just a few paces away from the ill- won Taengean princeling’s feet. Immediately, Damocles turned his wrath at the cheering nobles, making it abundantly clear that he had been the one that threw the deeply stuck spear. “Taengean!” he roared, moving threateningly towards the spear that he intended to pick up as his weapon of choice. “I openly challenge you to a fight at first blood! Either accept or forever be branded a coward before the eyes of Colchis!” denounced the heavily armored youth with his stentorian voice clearly levying his wrath.
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Never being one that cared for the particular opinion of whatever half-baked, shit-forged, ill-crafted idea those inbred nobles conjured up, Damocles had not been particularly inclined to join in the reverie surrounding the Taengean nobility’s desire to be better soldiers. Still, as a newly-minted Lieutenant of Colchis, he had been advised by his mentor, Plaeguis, that a lack of his presence would guarantee poor upwards mobility in the future. Thus, with his reservations pushed to the side, the recently-promoted adolescent did as he was advised and volunteered to provide suitable lessons to these ungraceful, blundersome, pusillanimous fools.
Despite his age, his image still carved an impressive appearance however. After years of fierce training and draconian exercise, the once willowy, long-limbed and gangling boy had turned to form. Now a strapping man of nineteen summers, Damocles had grown into a frighteningly tall, black-bearded, and overwhelmingly handsome youth. He was muscled like a virgin’s fantasies, with stark, alluring grey eyes and a deep, languid voice that carried with it a smoky sensation that made those who listened for too long go weak on their knees with wanton desire. Of course, he had little words to spare today, seeing as he had been instructed by his captain to pay attention to the style and skill of the princelings.
Normally, under typical circumstances, he would have preferred to spend his hours by his brother’s side, poking fun at his sibling for any and all of his shenanigans. If not his brother, then there were his three main friends, Odysseas, Leonidas and Pericles. Those three always made his days far more bearable than the presence of that bloated, sycophantic, moronic pig of a man that dubbed himself captain. He was disgusted by that worm, seeing him squirm and grovel at the feet of these aristocratic knaves. He had settled by a corner of the place, casually observing the mummery that was unfolding in front of him. How disgusting!
In spite of his overall contempt for the whole thing, Damocles had made sure to look the part. He was garbed in his signature, just-forged armor, which he had commissioned from the blacksmith as a token of his ascendancy. It was fit to his measures, with the crowning component being a heavily muscled cuirass that was complete with a set of heavy pauldrons that covered his hardened shoulders. Gauntlets, greaves and bracers further covered his body, all painted black as he had instructed so as to stand out in battle and not be confused by his enemies. From his dark armor, without the need of a sword or a shield, he would make his name legendary.
Others may hide behind flanked lines or flee upon the chance to do so, but this was not true to himself. He was a warrior, a man of battle, not a whimpering royal pretending to actually care about soldiering. Furthermore, it was proven testimony that aside parties and business, the Taengeans were poorly suited to Ares’s dominion. Had it been up to him, he would had kept them at their bay, with their fantasized, romantic view of battle kept intact while the real men fought and bled and died for whatever purpose they rose arms towards.
Much to his amusement, one of his subordinates, the ironic son of his higher-ranked boss, the Baron himself, had struck quite the rivalry with the Taengean lords. In fact, as it were, Stalios, or as the men of the Damned called him, the Savage, lived true to his reputation and lauded his teeth against one of those boys, biting him enough to scare him away back to his apparent father’s side. A smirk was quickly fastened in Damocles’s face, he would not have his own baron’s son be proved wrong, and, although he disapproved of his actions, it had been enough to do right by the place. Upon securing the Colchian nobling, Damocles grinned at him and congratulated his actions. “I’ll testify to your ability, but don’t give me cause to write an unflattering report to your father. Man up and do things properly. Now, go out and show these Taengean whores how Colchians fight.” He encouraged between harsh words. It was true that the boy was the son of his baron, but that had little meaning between military formations. He would rule in the future, if the Gods were cruel, but between them, right now, the silver-eyed youth outranked the lord’s son. Compared to him, he was just another hoplite, while the towering adolescent was a lieutenant in full. With these words, Stalios, who seemed to just shrug away his superior’s warning, engaged at another fight, doing exactly what the Magnemean had told him not to do.
In time, he would bear witness to his baron’s son’s fight. What a shameful display of incompetence! To be humiliated in battle by a Taengean! This was an insult that the Lieutenant of the Damned would not tolerate. His eyes were held in brutal, overpowering stark glares, his brow furrowed deeply in frustration, and his lips tightened to stiffen holds, with his gritted teeth clenching against his jaw, while his crossed arms turned to fists. “Spear!” he frighteningly ordered to one of the overlooking lower-ranked soldiers. Instantly, the black armored man was armed with the weapon he had demanded, scaring the other soldiers around him who could guess what his emotions were at this given point.. He would not tolerate this ignominy. Stalios would suffer his wrath later tonight, but for now, he had to put a certain Taengean shithead to place.
With almost medical precision, Damocles lounged backwards and took stance, impulsing himself forward, whilst adding his own praised strength so as to project the object forward. In an instant, the sharply-pointed weapon struck the ground, just a few paces away from the ill- won Taengean princeling’s feet. Immediately, Damocles turned his wrath at the cheering nobles, making it abundantly clear that he had been the one that threw the deeply stuck spear. “Taengean!” he roared, moving threateningly towards the spear that he intended to pick up as his weapon of choice. “I openly challenge you to a fight at first blood! Either accept or forever be branded a coward before the eyes of Colchis!” denounced the heavily armored youth with his stentorian voice clearly levying his wrath.
Never being one that cared for the particular opinion of whatever half-baked, shit-forged, ill-crafted idea those inbred nobles conjured up, Damocles had not been particularly inclined to join in the reverie surrounding the Taengean nobility’s desire to be better soldiers. Still, as a newly-minted Lieutenant of Colchis, he had been advised by his mentor, Plaeguis, that a lack of his presence would guarantee poor upwards mobility in the future. Thus, with his reservations pushed to the side, the recently-promoted adolescent did as he was advised and volunteered to provide suitable lessons to these ungraceful, blundersome, pusillanimous fools.
Despite his age, his image still carved an impressive appearance however. After years of fierce training and draconian exercise, the once willowy, long-limbed and gangling boy had turned to form. Now a strapping man of nineteen summers, Damocles had grown into a frighteningly tall, black-bearded, and overwhelmingly handsome youth. He was muscled like a virgin’s fantasies, with stark, alluring grey eyes and a deep, languid voice that carried with it a smoky sensation that made those who listened for too long go weak on their knees with wanton desire. Of course, he had little words to spare today, seeing as he had been instructed by his captain to pay attention to the style and skill of the princelings.
Normally, under typical circumstances, he would have preferred to spend his hours by his brother’s side, poking fun at his sibling for any and all of his shenanigans. If not his brother, then there were his three main friends, Odysseas, Leonidas and Pericles. Those three always made his days far more bearable than the presence of that bloated, sycophantic, moronic pig of a man that dubbed himself captain. He was disgusted by that worm, seeing him squirm and grovel at the feet of these aristocratic knaves. He had settled by a corner of the place, casually observing the mummery that was unfolding in front of him. How disgusting!
In spite of his overall contempt for the whole thing, Damocles had made sure to look the part. He was garbed in his signature, just-forged armor, which he had commissioned from the blacksmith as a token of his ascendancy. It was fit to his measures, with the crowning component being a heavily muscled cuirass that was complete with a set of heavy pauldrons that covered his hardened shoulders. Gauntlets, greaves and bracers further covered his body, all painted black as he had instructed so as to stand out in battle and not be confused by his enemies. From his dark armor, without the need of a sword or a shield, he would make his name legendary.
Others may hide behind flanked lines or flee upon the chance to do so, but this was not true to himself. He was a warrior, a man of battle, not a whimpering royal pretending to actually care about soldiering. Furthermore, it was proven testimony that aside parties and business, the Taengeans were poorly suited to Ares’s dominion. Had it been up to him, he would had kept them at their bay, with their fantasized, romantic view of battle kept intact while the real men fought and bled and died for whatever purpose they rose arms towards.
Much to his amusement, one of his subordinates, the ironic son of his higher-ranked boss, the Baron himself, had struck quite the rivalry with the Taengean lords. In fact, as it were, Stalios, or as the men of the Damned called him, the Savage, lived true to his reputation and lauded his teeth against one of those boys, biting him enough to scare him away back to his apparent father’s side. A smirk was quickly fastened in Damocles’s face, he would not have his own baron’s son be proved wrong, and, although he disapproved of his actions, it had been enough to do right by the place. Upon securing the Colchian nobling, Damocles grinned at him and congratulated his actions. “I’ll testify to your ability, but don’t give me cause to write an unflattering report to your father. Man up and do things properly. Now, go out and show these Taengean whores how Colchians fight.” He encouraged between harsh words. It was true that the boy was the son of his baron, but that had little meaning between military formations. He would rule in the future, if the Gods were cruel, but between them, right now, the silver-eyed youth outranked the lord’s son. Compared to him, he was just another hoplite, while the towering adolescent was a lieutenant in full. With these words, Stalios, who seemed to just shrug away his superior’s warning, engaged at another fight, doing exactly what the Magnemean had told him not to do.
In time, he would bear witness to his baron’s son’s fight. What a shameful display of incompetence! To be humiliated in battle by a Taengean! This was an insult that the Lieutenant of the Damned would not tolerate. His eyes were held in brutal, overpowering stark glares, his brow furrowed deeply in frustration, and his lips tightened to stiffen holds, with his gritted teeth clenching against his jaw, while his crossed arms turned to fists. “Spear!” he frighteningly ordered to one of the overlooking lower-ranked soldiers. Instantly, the black armored man was armed with the weapon he had demanded, scaring the other soldiers around him who could guess what his emotions were at this given point.. He would not tolerate this ignominy. Stalios would suffer his wrath later tonight, but for now, he had to put a certain Taengean shithead to place.
With almost medical precision, Damocles lounged backwards and took stance, impulsing himself forward, whilst adding his own praised strength so as to project the object forward. In an instant, the sharply-pointed weapon struck the ground, just a few paces away from the ill- won Taengean princeling’s feet. Immediately, Damocles turned his wrath at the cheering nobles, making it abundantly clear that he had been the one that threw the deeply stuck spear. “Taengean!” he roared, moving threateningly towards the spear that he intended to pick up as his weapon of choice. “I openly challenge you to a fight at first blood! Either accept or forever be branded a coward before the eyes of Colchis!” denounced the heavily armored youth with his stentorian voice clearly levying his wrath.
Stephanos eyed his uncle, holding in the eye roll he wanted to do. Though he outranked Irakles, he had learned that this didn’t matter in the slightest. The man’s age and experience made him more than a match for the teenager and Stephanos obeyed Irakles about as much as he did his own father - though he liked him significantly less. Irakles’s biting comment about Achilleas’s performance of “Messy” did draw a frown of disapproval from the prince.
“He won, didn’t he?” Stephanos demanded before he got the better of his tone.
"And if that is your standards to be proud, Stephanos, I assure you, we have much to work on." Irakles retorted, after finishing his scathing review of his own son’s performance. Stephanos glanced at his cousin. He didn’t need to read the man’s mind to know that Achilleas was taking on board every single word and attempting to figure out how not to get the same treatment in the future. He could practically hear the practice fighting Achilleas would do once he was out of sight of his father. This wasn’t the time to comfort his cousin, however and Stephanos merely flicked his attention away from Irakles and narrowed his eyes. His jaw clenched and he folded his arms over his bare chest. It was all the armor he needed against his uncle’s words. They just didn’t hit him in the same way they did Achilleas.
At Irakles’s demand that they run twenty laps, Stephanos dropped his arms with a “But-” leaving his mouth, that was interrupted by someone shouting “Spear!”. Stephanos paid the command no attention because it couldn’t possibly mean anything for him, Achilleas, or his uncle, since they weren’t involved with any training exercises involving spears. Then, from the corner of his vision, he saw a long, thin object flying through the air and jumped back, gawking as the spear landed almost right where he had been standing but it was Achilleas who the thing was aimed for.
He jerked his head up, rage blazing in his eyes, looking for the moron who’d thrown the thing. And he found him, blustering at them. “Taengean! I openly challenge you to a fight at first blood! Either accept or forever be branded a coward before the eyes of Colchis!”
Stephanos didn’t wait for his cousin to react. He ripped the still wobbling spear from the dirt and spun it around, the tip facing this oversized twat in full on armor. “You are a prime imbecile!” he snarled. “What are you doing in throwing spears into a grappling ring?”
The prince held up his hand to his cousin to stop whatever argument Achilleas was going to try to make before it started. He didn’t want to be told to calm down and to keep peace. He wanted to skin this stranger alive.
“That’s a big challenge coming from someone too afraid to walk around the training fields dressed down like the rest of us, Colchian. You’re lucky we don’t take this as an act of war.” He slammed the butt of the spear on the ground, knuckles white around it’s shaft, and glowered at Damocles. “My cousin has just fought two more rounds than it looks like you’ve fought all day. Shed that idiot armor and I’ll give you the ass beating you’re clearly seeking, moron.”
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Stephanos eyed his uncle, holding in the eye roll he wanted to do. Though he outranked Irakles, he had learned that this didn’t matter in the slightest. The man’s age and experience made him more than a match for the teenager and Stephanos obeyed Irakles about as much as he did his own father - though he liked him significantly less. Irakles’s biting comment about Achilleas’s performance of “Messy” did draw a frown of disapproval from the prince.
“He won, didn’t he?” Stephanos demanded before he got the better of his tone.
"And if that is your standards to be proud, Stephanos, I assure you, we have much to work on." Irakles retorted, after finishing his scathing review of his own son’s performance. Stephanos glanced at his cousin. He didn’t need to read the man’s mind to know that Achilleas was taking on board every single word and attempting to figure out how not to get the same treatment in the future. He could practically hear the practice fighting Achilleas would do once he was out of sight of his father. This wasn’t the time to comfort his cousin, however and Stephanos merely flicked his attention away from Irakles and narrowed his eyes. His jaw clenched and he folded his arms over his bare chest. It was all the armor he needed against his uncle’s words. They just didn’t hit him in the same way they did Achilleas.
At Irakles’s demand that they run twenty laps, Stephanos dropped his arms with a “But-” leaving his mouth, that was interrupted by someone shouting “Spear!”. Stephanos paid the command no attention because it couldn’t possibly mean anything for him, Achilleas, or his uncle, since they weren’t involved with any training exercises involving spears. Then, from the corner of his vision, he saw a long, thin object flying through the air and jumped back, gawking as the spear landed almost right where he had been standing but it was Achilleas who the thing was aimed for.
He jerked his head up, rage blazing in his eyes, looking for the moron who’d thrown the thing. And he found him, blustering at them. “Taengean! I openly challenge you to a fight at first blood! Either accept or forever be branded a coward before the eyes of Colchis!”
Stephanos didn’t wait for his cousin to react. He ripped the still wobbling spear from the dirt and spun it around, the tip facing this oversized twat in full on armor. “You are a prime imbecile!” he snarled. “What are you doing in throwing spears into a grappling ring?”
The prince held up his hand to his cousin to stop whatever argument Achilleas was going to try to make before it started. He didn’t want to be told to calm down and to keep peace. He wanted to skin this stranger alive.
“That’s a big challenge coming from someone too afraid to walk around the training fields dressed down like the rest of us, Colchian. You’re lucky we don’t take this as an act of war.” He slammed the butt of the spear on the ground, knuckles white around it’s shaft, and glowered at Damocles. “My cousin has just fought two more rounds than it looks like you’ve fought all day. Shed that idiot armor and I’ll give you the ass beating you’re clearly seeking, moron.”
Stephanos eyed his uncle, holding in the eye roll he wanted to do. Though he outranked Irakles, he had learned that this didn’t matter in the slightest. The man’s age and experience made him more than a match for the teenager and Stephanos obeyed Irakles about as much as he did his own father - though he liked him significantly less. Irakles’s biting comment about Achilleas’s performance of “Messy” did draw a frown of disapproval from the prince.
“He won, didn’t he?” Stephanos demanded before he got the better of his tone.
"And if that is your standards to be proud, Stephanos, I assure you, we have much to work on." Irakles retorted, after finishing his scathing review of his own son’s performance. Stephanos glanced at his cousin. He didn’t need to read the man’s mind to know that Achilleas was taking on board every single word and attempting to figure out how not to get the same treatment in the future. He could practically hear the practice fighting Achilleas would do once he was out of sight of his father. This wasn’t the time to comfort his cousin, however and Stephanos merely flicked his attention away from Irakles and narrowed his eyes. His jaw clenched and he folded his arms over his bare chest. It was all the armor he needed against his uncle’s words. They just didn’t hit him in the same way they did Achilleas.
At Irakles’s demand that they run twenty laps, Stephanos dropped his arms with a “But-” leaving his mouth, that was interrupted by someone shouting “Spear!”. Stephanos paid the command no attention because it couldn’t possibly mean anything for him, Achilleas, or his uncle, since they weren’t involved with any training exercises involving spears. Then, from the corner of his vision, he saw a long, thin object flying through the air and jumped back, gawking as the spear landed almost right where he had been standing but it was Achilleas who the thing was aimed for.
He jerked his head up, rage blazing in his eyes, looking for the moron who’d thrown the thing. And he found him, blustering at them. “Taengean! I openly challenge you to a fight at first blood! Either accept or forever be branded a coward before the eyes of Colchis!”
Stephanos didn’t wait for his cousin to react. He ripped the still wobbling spear from the dirt and spun it around, the tip facing this oversized twat in full on armor. “You are a prime imbecile!” he snarled. “What are you doing in throwing spears into a grappling ring?”
The prince held up his hand to his cousin to stop whatever argument Achilleas was going to try to make before it started. He didn’t want to be told to calm down and to keep peace. He wanted to skin this stranger alive.
“That’s a big challenge coming from someone too afraid to walk around the training fields dressed down like the rest of us, Colchian. You’re lucky we don’t take this as an act of war.” He slammed the butt of the spear on the ground, knuckles white around it’s shaft, and glowered at Damocles. “My cousin has just fought two more rounds than it looks like you’ve fought all day. Shed that idiot armor and I’ll give you the ass beating you’re clearly seeking, moron.”
He didn’t know why he did it, why he expected a different outcome from the ones that had gone countless times before, why he set himself up for a fall. Like pulling a loose thread or worrying an old injury. Achilleas held his father’s gaze for but a moment before he turned away, not quite brave enough to defend himself as he wanted to. He was not above seeing his own faults, the fight had been harder won than he would have liked, but Achilleas could not see how he deserved the scorn that his father poured into his appraisal. He gave a small nod to acknowledge he had heard the words, lips pressed together in quiet dismay.
Stephanos’ bitten off words earned him a grateful look, but his encouragement garnered a similar response from the General. Achilleas could be glad that in his cousin he found an ally. Giving the smallest shake of his head when his father turned away, the Mikaelidas lord steeled himself to make the circuits the man ordered, despite the fact that he had barely caught his breath. Pushing a hand through the sweat sodden mess of his hair, he sighed, half turned to fall in with the others who had already begun when the surprise of a spear embedding itself in the earth not far from his feet had him and those around him freeze.
What in all of Hades...
Scowling as he realised quite how close the thing had come to both he and his cousin, Achilleas looked up in the direction it had come from, gaze alighting on the dark-clad figure just as he bellowed his challenge. The Taengean lifted a brow in something approaching disbelief, glanced across at his cousin to be certain he was hearing this too. He was angered by the foolishness, the audacity of the man in throwing the spear. And yet, he was also painfully aware of other eyes that had swivelled their way at the commotion, and the dishonour that the Colchian upstart attempted to do him.
Achilleas did not much want to fight again. His head was aching, he’d just come out of a less than friendly spar and he felt more than a little deflated by his father’s words. But equally, he could not ignore such words, not when the Colchian had made it a matter of honour, had made it about cowardice. He couldn’t do anything other than rise to the challenge, and he took a breath, opened his mouth to reply.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Stephanos got there first. His cousin was mercurial, hot-headed in a way that he was not and Achilleas could only look on as the Prince laid into the soldier, in full armour no less, who was now standing just before them. Still, he moved so he was shoulder to shoulder with his cousin, not an unimposing pair even in the face of this lofty fool. “You should watch who you are speaking to in that way, cur”
With the hurled spear now levelled at the chest of the one who had thrown it and insults being thrown, it seemed to all that things would soon descend into loutish brawling and despite knowing better, Achilleas wasn’t sure he wanted to prevent it. The idiot in front of them deserved a thrashing. His gaze had narrowed on the face of the Colchian, when a harshly spoken “ STAND DOWN!” gave him pause.
The confrontation had not quite descended into the jostling that preceded an all-out fight, but they were young men, and even those with the evenest tempers could be goaded into aggression. This was supposed to be a diplomatic exercise. Arriving on the training field in time to witness his Lieutenant hurl a spear toward visiting Taengean royalty was enough to goad Captain Clyvius into a foul mood, and it was he who had shouted, crossing the field in angry, sharp strides until he shouldered his way between the youths. He was not a large man, but years had carved stern lines into his face, and his eyes were hard and flinty where they settled upon his countryman.
“Lieutenant Damocles you will remove yourself from this field and wait for me. You’ll be running all the way back to Midas for this you malcontent gobdaw. GO!” Like a whip the command was issued, no room left for the grey-eyed youth to argue for if he did it would surely be a case of insubordination, and subject to much harsher recourse.
Quick to turn to the Taengean youths, and more so the General and Prince who stood nearby, the Captain offered a low bow, wanting to smooth this over before the Baron became involved and the ill-thought-out action of an idiot youth escalated even further.
“Forgive me, my lords, General, for such a vulgar display. I will see the man punished for his actions. ``
For Achilleas, still bristling with the implication of cowardice, it was not apology enough, and he could feel his cousin still simmering beside him, almost spoiling for a fight. So before his Father could interject and say anything different, the young baron spoke up.
“Your apology is not necessary, Captain, for it is not you who have wronged us. That man there, however, speaks the words Taengea and cowardice in the same breath, and that cannot be allowed to stand. Let him be held to account for his slight” He said the latter loud enough for the departing man to hear. Tired or not, it was a big ask to let such a public challenge go without an answer.
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He didn’t know why he did it, why he expected a different outcome from the ones that had gone countless times before, why he set himself up for a fall. Like pulling a loose thread or worrying an old injury. Achilleas held his father’s gaze for but a moment before he turned away, not quite brave enough to defend himself as he wanted to. He was not above seeing his own faults, the fight had been harder won than he would have liked, but Achilleas could not see how he deserved the scorn that his father poured into his appraisal. He gave a small nod to acknowledge he had heard the words, lips pressed together in quiet dismay.
Stephanos’ bitten off words earned him a grateful look, but his encouragement garnered a similar response from the General. Achilleas could be glad that in his cousin he found an ally. Giving the smallest shake of his head when his father turned away, the Mikaelidas lord steeled himself to make the circuits the man ordered, despite the fact that he had barely caught his breath. Pushing a hand through the sweat sodden mess of his hair, he sighed, half turned to fall in with the others who had already begun when the surprise of a spear embedding itself in the earth not far from his feet had him and those around him freeze.
What in all of Hades...
Scowling as he realised quite how close the thing had come to both he and his cousin, Achilleas looked up in the direction it had come from, gaze alighting on the dark-clad figure just as he bellowed his challenge. The Taengean lifted a brow in something approaching disbelief, glanced across at his cousin to be certain he was hearing this too. He was angered by the foolishness, the audacity of the man in throwing the spear. And yet, he was also painfully aware of other eyes that had swivelled their way at the commotion, and the dishonour that the Colchian upstart attempted to do him.
Achilleas did not much want to fight again. His head was aching, he’d just come out of a less than friendly spar and he felt more than a little deflated by his father’s words. But equally, he could not ignore such words, not when the Colchian had made it a matter of honour, had made it about cowardice. He couldn’t do anything other than rise to the challenge, and he took a breath, opened his mouth to reply.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Stephanos got there first. His cousin was mercurial, hot-headed in a way that he was not and Achilleas could only look on as the Prince laid into the soldier, in full armour no less, who was now standing just before them. Still, he moved so he was shoulder to shoulder with his cousin, not an unimposing pair even in the face of this lofty fool. “You should watch who you are speaking to in that way, cur”
With the hurled spear now levelled at the chest of the one who had thrown it and insults being thrown, it seemed to all that things would soon descend into loutish brawling and despite knowing better, Achilleas wasn’t sure he wanted to prevent it. The idiot in front of them deserved a thrashing. His gaze had narrowed on the face of the Colchian, when a harshly spoken “ STAND DOWN!” gave him pause.
The confrontation had not quite descended into the jostling that preceded an all-out fight, but they were young men, and even those with the evenest tempers could be goaded into aggression. This was supposed to be a diplomatic exercise. Arriving on the training field in time to witness his Lieutenant hurl a spear toward visiting Taengean royalty was enough to goad Captain Clyvius into a foul mood, and it was he who had shouted, crossing the field in angry, sharp strides until he shouldered his way between the youths. He was not a large man, but years had carved stern lines into his face, and his eyes were hard and flinty where they settled upon his countryman.
“Lieutenant Damocles you will remove yourself from this field and wait for me. You’ll be running all the way back to Midas for this you malcontent gobdaw. GO!” Like a whip the command was issued, no room left for the grey-eyed youth to argue for if he did it would surely be a case of insubordination, and subject to much harsher recourse.
Quick to turn to the Taengean youths, and more so the General and Prince who stood nearby, the Captain offered a low bow, wanting to smooth this over before the Baron became involved and the ill-thought-out action of an idiot youth escalated even further.
“Forgive me, my lords, General, for such a vulgar display. I will see the man punished for his actions. ``
For Achilleas, still bristling with the implication of cowardice, it was not apology enough, and he could feel his cousin still simmering beside him, almost spoiling for a fight. So before his Father could interject and say anything different, the young baron spoke up.
“Your apology is not necessary, Captain, for it is not you who have wronged us. That man there, however, speaks the words Taengea and cowardice in the same breath, and that cannot be allowed to stand. Let him be held to account for his slight” He said the latter loud enough for the departing man to hear. Tired or not, it was a big ask to let such a public challenge go without an answer.
He didn’t know why he did it, why he expected a different outcome from the ones that had gone countless times before, why he set himself up for a fall. Like pulling a loose thread or worrying an old injury. Achilleas held his father’s gaze for but a moment before he turned away, not quite brave enough to defend himself as he wanted to. He was not above seeing his own faults, the fight had been harder won than he would have liked, but Achilleas could not see how he deserved the scorn that his father poured into his appraisal. He gave a small nod to acknowledge he had heard the words, lips pressed together in quiet dismay.
Stephanos’ bitten off words earned him a grateful look, but his encouragement garnered a similar response from the General. Achilleas could be glad that in his cousin he found an ally. Giving the smallest shake of his head when his father turned away, the Mikaelidas lord steeled himself to make the circuits the man ordered, despite the fact that he had barely caught his breath. Pushing a hand through the sweat sodden mess of his hair, he sighed, half turned to fall in with the others who had already begun when the surprise of a spear embedding itself in the earth not far from his feet had him and those around him freeze.
What in all of Hades...
Scowling as he realised quite how close the thing had come to both he and his cousin, Achilleas looked up in the direction it had come from, gaze alighting on the dark-clad figure just as he bellowed his challenge. The Taengean lifted a brow in something approaching disbelief, glanced across at his cousin to be certain he was hearing this too. He was angered by the foolishness, the audacity of the man in throwing the spear. And yet, he was also painfully aware of other eyes that had swivelled their way at the commotion, and the dishonour that the Colchian upstart attempted to do him.
Achilleas did not much want to fight again. His head was aching, he’d just come out of a less than friendly spar and he felt more than a little deflated by his father’s words. But equally, he could not ignore such words, not when the Colchian had made it a matter of honour, had made it about cowardice. He couldn’t do anything other than rise to the challenge, and he took a breath, opened his mouth to reply.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Stephanos got there first. His cousin was mercurial, hot-headed in a way that he was not and Achilleas could only look on as the Prince laid into the soldier, in full armour no less, who was now standing just before them. Still, he moved so he was shoulder to shoulder with his cousin, not an unimposing pair even in the face of this lofty fool. “You should watch who you are speaking to in that way, cur”
With the hurled spear now levelled at the chest of the one who had thrown it and insults being thrown, it seemed to all that things would soon descend into loutish brawling and despite knowing better, Achilleas wasn’t sure he wanted to prevent it. The idiot in front of them deserved a thrashing. His gaze had narrowed on the face of the Colchian, when a harshly spoken “ STAND DOWN!” gave him pause.
The confrontation had not quite descended into the jostling that preceded an all-out fight, but they were young men, and even those with the evenest tempers could be goaded into aggression. This was supposed to be a diplomatic exercise. Arriving on the training field in time to witness his Lieutenant hurl a spear toward visiting Taengean royalty was enough to goad Captain Clyvius into a foul mood, and it was he who had shouted, crossing the field in angry, sharp strides until he shouldered his way between the youths. He was not a large man, but years had carved stern lines into his face, and his eyes were hard and flinty where they settled upon his countryman.
“Lieutenant Damocles you will remove yourself from this field and wait for me. You’ll be running all the way back to Midas for this you malcontent gobdaw. GO!” Like a whip the command was issued, no room left for the grey-eyed youth to argue for if he did it would surely be a case of insubordination, and subject to much harsher recourse.
Quick to turn to the Taengean youths, and more so the General and Prince who stood nearby, the Captain offered a low bow, wanting to smooth this over before the Baron became involved and the ill-thought-out action of an idiot youth escalated even further.
“Forgive me, my lords, General, for such a vulgar display. I will see the man punished for his actions. ``
For Achilleas, still bristling with the implication of cowardice, it was not apology enough, and he could feel his cousin still simmering beside him, almost spoiling for a fight. So before his Father could interject and say anything different, the young baron spoke up.
“Your apology is not necessary, Captain, for it is not you who have wronged us. That man there, however, speaks the words Taengea and cowardice in the same breath, and that cannot be allowed to stand. Let him be held to account for his slight” He said the latter loud enough for the departing man to hear. Tired or not, it was a big ask to let such a public challenge go without an answer.
A deep, heavy-pressed furrow formed in his brow the minute a single reply came from his actions. He knew that this act was a direct manifestation of defiance and a flagrant disregard for convention, tradition and the expected pleasantries that such an event usually called for. What would have Plaeguis, in his moments of lucidness, come up to suggest in this, his hour of unwelcomed, and manifestly unexpected anger and rage? Would he had opted for his silence, that he quelled his temper and hide his barbed tongue away? Would he had felt the rage that built inside him only to stop the muscles in his arm from taking movement, leaving his hand to an empty hollow so as to save face and avoid repercussions? Those two seemed like the most probable scenarios. The old man was a source of welcomed wisdom and insight for the most part, with his words of counsel being seldom rejected upon the plutonian night’s midnight press into questions about right and wrong. Nevertheless, he was an academic, a scholar first and foremost, not a man of the sword and shield. What would he know of the shame wrought by these second-rate whoremongers and their wayward ways? Mayhaps he had ventured in too shadily into the fray, seeing as this incident might very well cost him dearly, but that certainly didn’t mean he would regret the act right about now.
“Spare me your sanctimony, you ignoble, mud-witted, ill-bred fustilarian! So low is your cunning, so little your worth and so unworthy your presence that not even your foul breath may broach me with words! Away, you spiteful little creature!” he dismissed, momentarily addressing the fair-headed shit that dared to break words with him upon the fold of creased, bandy words. He had no need for the interventions of some wayward princeling meddling into the affairs of honor and standing. “Keep your deprived tongue forked between the legs of the men you minister to at wanton nights, you sodomite!" he once more dismissed, narrowing his silver eyes at the jestered youth that came to his relative’s defense. Subsequently, Damocles turned his attention at the dark-haired boy, feeling the tip of his fingers tighten with unbeknown rage. How dare he, this unsung son of some godforsaken island-kingdom that just so happened to belong to the Aegean, come at the unwarranted invitation of some ignoble noble that simply wished to curry favor with his betters?
It disgusted him, it sickened him. Even if Stalios wasn’t the model of excellence he expected, he was still a man of the Damned and firstborn son of his baron. If he could be defeated in such an easy manner surely Magnemea would be condemned at being some second-class realm that couldn’t even produce proper soldiers, despite the ludicrous wealth generated by that man’s father’s ownership of the province. His fall meant shame, it meant disgrace, and while he cared little for the boy himself, he was still his subordinate. If anything he had to prove, not to anyone else but himself, that he and his men were no laughing matter. Speaking of which, before Damocles could muster his words against the boy that had defeated his baron, that most spectacular of fools, Clyvius, interrupted.
He had a particular dislike for the man that had roared at him to stop. Since joining the military and rising to towards new heights, the man had been a more bothersome thorn at his side. He was a decrepit, basking, toady little man, prone to waves of unbecoming servility and demeaning obsequiousness. In his brief tenure as his lieutenant, the man had proved utterly hapless, a rotten symptom of all that was wrong with the people of his province. Had he has his way, he would have made the grotesquely unfit man turn tail and parish before his eyes, making way for more suitable, stable leadership that actually had the decency and humility of looking past his incompetence. Alas, he was still beholden to this fawning ass-licker.
“But sir!” he began, feeling his fingers tighten to a clenching fist as the feeling of a metaphysical leash that bound against his neck reeled forward. He hated feeling like this, like a hound pulled by his master’s unrelenting grip whence circumstance compelled his only nominal superior to exercise his superficial authority. “These cretins have desecrated our honor, bound us to ignominy and forced us to capitulate surrender in our own home for mere spectacle and leisure! Their insolence must be met with blood and honor!” Championed the iron-blooded youth as he felt the sting of bitter resentment pulsate more and more against the backdrop of his brow. Yet, upon bearing the ire of the once-dismissed princeling’s words, Damocles felt his nose scrounch and his features furrow, grinding any semblance he may have had to dust.
“Villainous Cur!” He exalted, pushing past Clyvius as he immediately made way with his armor, exposing his face for the first time. Far from the apparent savagery that his insults insinuated, Damocles struck a rather striking appearance, looking less like the properborn son of a freedman and more the well-kept spare to a well-done nobleman. He was imposingly strong and powerful, muscled like a maiden’s dream, with broadly-set shoulders and a rough set of hands made hard by the strength they gripped upon the weapons he had long learned. He was black-bearded, grey-eyed and handsomely rugged, yet sported a clean demeanor on his otherwise rage-laden face, a product of the vanity that prevented him from looking anything less than a perfect soldier. “Know your filthy place, you scoundrels and take up my challenge in proper fashion, lest be dubbed cowards before mine eyes, and the eyes of the soldiers of mine homeland!” With that, he set himself apparent, brushing his captain’s grip on his shoulder as he opted for the chance to fell these two insolent fools.
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A deep, heavy-pressed furrow formed in his brow the minute a single reply came from his actions. He knew that this act was a direct manifestation of defiance and a flagrant disregard for convention, tradition and the expected pleasantries that such an event usually called for. What would have Plaeguis, in his moments of lucidness, come up to suggest in this, his hour of unwelcomed, and manifestly unexpected anger and rage? Would he had opted for his silence, that he quelled his temper and hide his barbed tongue away? Would he had felt the rage that built inside him only to stop the muscles in his arm from taking movement, leaving his hand to an empty hollow so as to save face and avoid repercussions? Those two seemed like the most probable scenarios. The old man was a source of welcomed wisdom and insight for the most part, with his words of counsel being seldom rejected upon the plutonian night’s midnight press into questions about right and wrong. Nevertheless, he was an academic, a scholar first and foremost, not a man of the sword and shield. What would he know of the shame wrought by these second-rate whoremongers and their wayward ways? Mayhaps he had ventured in too shadily into the fray, seeing as this incident might very well cost him dearly, but that certainly didn’t mean he would regret the act right about now.
“Spare me your sanctimony, you ignoble, mud-witted, ill-bred fustilarian! So low is your cunning, so little your worth and so unworthy your presence that not even your foul breath may broach me with words! Away, you spiteful little creature!” he dismissed, momentarily addressing the fair-headed shit that dared to break words with him upon the fold of creased, bandy words. He had no need for the interventions of some wayward princeling meddling into the affairs of honor and standing. “Keep your deprived tongue forked between the legs of the men you minister to at wanton nights, you sodomite!" he once more dismissed, narrowing his silver eyes at the jestered youth that came to his relative’s defense. Subsequently, Damocles turned his attention at the dark-haired boy, feeling the tip of his fingers tighten with unbeknown rage. How dare he, this unsung son of some godforsaken island-kingdom that just so happened to belong to the Aegean, come at the unwarranted invitation of some ignoble noble that simply wished to curry favor with his betters?
It disgusted him, it sickened him. Even if Stalios wasn’t the model of excellence he expected, he was still a man of the Damned and firstborn son of his baron. If he could be defeated in such an easy manner surely Magnemea would be condemned at being some second-class realm that couldn’t even produce proper soldiers, despite the ludicrous wealth generated by that man’s father’s ownership of the province. His fall meant shame, it meant disgrace, and while he cared little for the boy himself, he was still his subordinate. If anything he had to prove, not to anyone else but himself, that he and his men were no laughing matter. Speaking of which, before Damocles could muster his words against the boy that had defeated his baron, that most spectacular of fools, Clyvius, interrupted.
He had a particular dislike for the man that had roared at him to stop. Since joining the military and rising to towards new heights, the man had been a more bothersome thorn at his side. He was a decrepit, basking, toady little man, prone to waves of unbecoming servility and demeaning obsequiousness. In his brief tenure as his lieutenant, the man had proved utterly hapless, a rotten symptom of all that was wrong with the people of his province. Had he has his way, he would have made the grotesquely unfit man turn tail and parish before his eyes, making way for more suitable, stable leadership that actually had the decency and humility of looking past his incompetence. Alas, he was still beholden to this fawning ass-licker.
“But sir!” he began, feeling his fingers tighten to a clenching fist as the feeling of a metaphysical leash that bound against his neck reeled forward. He hated feeling like this, like a hound pulled by his master’s unrelenting grip whence circumstance compelled his only nominal superior to exercise his superficial authority. “These cretins have desecrated our honor, bound us to ignominy and forced us to capitulate surrender in our own home for mere spectacle and leisure! Their insolence must be met with blood and honor!” Championed the iron-blooded youth as he felt the sting of bitter resentment pulsate more and more against the backdrop of his brow. Yet, upon bearing the ire of the once-dismissed princeling’s words, Damocles felt his nose scrounch and his features furrow, grinding any semblance he may have had to dust.
“Villainous Cur!” He exalted, pushing past Clyvius as he immediately made way with his armor, exposing his face for the first time. Far from the apparent savagery that his insults insinuated, Damocles struck a rather striking appearance, looking less like the properborn son of a freedman and more the well-kept spare to a well-done nobleman. He was imposingly strong and powerful, muscled like a maiden’s dream, with broadly-set shoulders and a rough set of hands made hard by the strength they gripped upon the weapons he had long learned. He was black-bearded, grey-eyed and handsomely rugged, yet sported a clean demeanor on his otherwise rage-laden face, a product of the vanity that prevented him from looking anything less than a perfect soldier. “Know your filthy place, you scoundrels and take up my challenge in proper fashion, lest be dubbed cowards before mine eyes, and the eyes of the soldiers of mine homeland!” With that, he set himself apparent, brushing his captain’s grip on his shoulder as he opted for the chance to fell these two insolent fools.
A deep, heavy-pressed furrow formed in his brow the minute a single reply came from his actions. He knew that this act was a direct manifestation of defiance and a flagrant disregard for convention, tradition and the expected pleasantries that such an event usually called for. What would have Plaeguis, in his moments of lucidness, come up to suggest in this, his hour of unwelcomed, and manifestly unexpected anger and rage? Would he had opted for his silence, that he quelled his temper and hide his barbed tongue away? Would he had felt the rage that built inside him only to stop the muscles in his arm from taking movement, leaving his hand to an empty hollow so as to save face and avoid repercussions? Those two seemed like the most probable scenarios. The old man was a source of welcomed wisdom and insight for the most part, with his words of counsel being seldom rejected upon the plutonian night’s midnight press into questions about right and wrong. Nevertheless, he was an academic, a scholar first and foremost, not a man of the sword and shield. What would he know of the shame wrought by these second-rate whoremongers and their wayward ways? Mayhaps he had ventured in too shadily into the fray, seeing as this incident might very well cost him dearly, but that certainly didn’t mean he would regret the act right about now.
“Spare me your sanctimony, you ignoble, mud-witted, ill-bred fustilarian! So low is your cunning, so little your worth and so unworthy your presence that not even your foul breath may broach me with words! Away, you spiteful little creature!” he dismissed, momentarily addressing the fair-headed shit that dared to break words with him upon the fold of creased, bandy words. He had no need for the interventions of some wayward princeling meddling into the affairs of honor and standing. “Keep your deprived tongue forked between the legs of the men you minister to at wanton nights, you sodomite!" he once more dismissed, narrowing his silver eyes at the jestered youth that came to his relative’s defense. Subsequently, Damocles turned his attention at the dark-haired boy, feeling the tip of his fingers tighten with unbeknown rage. How dare he, this unsung son of some godforsaken island-kingdom that just so happened to belong to the Aegean, come at the unwarranted invitation of some ignoble noble that simply wished to curry favor with his betters?
It disgusted him, it sickened him. Even if Stalios wasn’t the model of excellence he expected, he was still a man of the Damned and firstborn son of his baron. If he could be defeated in such an easy manner surely Magnemea would be condemned at being some second-class realm that couldn’t even produce proper soldiers, despite the ludicrous wealth generated by that man’s father’s ownership of the province. His fall meant shame, it meant disgrace, and while he cared little for the boy himself, he was still his subordinate. If anything he had to prove, not to anyone else but himself, that he and his men were no laughing matter. Speaking of which, before Damocles could muster his words against the boy that had defeated his baron, that most spectacular of fools, Clyvius, interrupted.
He had a particular dislike for the man that had roared at him to stop. Since joining the military and rising to towards new heights, the man had been a more bothersome thorn at his side. He was a decrepit, basking, toady little man, prone to waves of unbecoming servility and demeaning obsequiousness. In his brief tenure as his lieutenant, the man had proved utterly hapless, a rotten symptom of all that was wrong with the people of his province. Had he has his way, he would have made the grotesquely unfit man turn tail and parish before his eyes, making way for more suitable, stable leadership that actually had the decency and humility of looking past his incompetence. Alas, he was still beholden to this fawning ass-licker.
“But sir!” he began, feeling his fingers tighten to a clenching fist as the feeling of a metaphysical leash that bound against his neck reeled forward. He hated feeling like this, like a hound pulled by his master’s unrelenting grip whence circumstance compelled his only nominal superior to exercise his superficial authority. “These cretins have desecrated our honor, bound us to ignominy and forced us to capitulate surrender in our own home for mere spectacle and leisure! Their insolence must be met with blood and honor!” Championed the iron-blooded youth as he felt the sting of bitter resentment pulsate more and more against the backdrop of his brow. Yet, upon bearing the ire of the once-dismissed princeling’s words, Damocles felt his nose scrounch and his features furrow, grinding any semblance he may have had to dust.
“Villainous Cur!” He exalted, pushing past Clyvius as he immediately made way with his armor, exposing his face for the first time. Far from the apparent savagery that his insults insinuated, Damocles struck a rather striking appearance, looking less like the properborn son of a freedman and more the well-kept spare to a well-done nobleman. He was imposingly strong and powerful, muscled like a maiden’s dream, with broadly-set shoulders and a rough set of hands made hard by the strength they gripped upon the weapons he had long learned. He was black-bearded, grey-eyed and handsomely rugged, yet sported a clean demeanor on his otherwise rage-laden face, a product of the vanity that prevented him from looking anything less than a perfect soldier. “Know your filthy place, you scoundrels and take up my challenge in proper fashion, lest be dubbed cowards before mine eyes, and the eyes of the soldiers of mine homeland!” With that, he set himself apparent, brushing his captain’s grip on his shoulder as he opted for the chance to fell these two insolent fools.
He had called for the runs, and was about to watch over the drill when the sudden loud and obnoxious voice caused the General to pause, and then wrinkle his brows as he looked over at the source of the voice, one Damocles of Magnemea. He seemed oddly confident, a fact that made Irakles cock his head as he studied the man. Well built, muscular, obviously someone who traisn often. Irakles has heard a little, but only a little on the man. The general of the Taengean armies was usually far too busy when it came to handling the military of his own kingdom to bother with a small fry within a Colchian army.
Still, he seemed confident. And confidence was key... to failure, sometimes.
Before the man could react however, Stephanos with his young vitality and power, moved quicker then Irakles could speak, retaliating in a way only a young man with far too much adrenaline and far lesser wisdom could. Not that he didn't have a point, the young prince was right in that weapons did not belong in a grappling ring, but that was besides the point. In his many years of war and combat, Irakles has since learned the value of patience and observation beyond skills and technique. Skills and capability with a weapon could only get one so far, afterall.
It would seem the Colchian's daring challenge had incited anger in a local captain however, for the man was quick to dress the man down. The visit was intended to be a friendly one, and the Colchian had run a very real danger of damaging the friendship between Taengea and Colchis had any of them taken offence. Irakles had ever right to take the Taengean nobility he had escorted to return immediately.... but this was interesting. His eyes flicked to the captain as he bowed and offered his apology. For once, Achilleas said the appropriate words, especially in the face of the loud, obnoxious way in which the young upstart of Colchis seemed to not know his place, judging from the way he pushed past who was supposed to be his Captain, a behaviour unacceptable in one supposed to be a militant.
"My son speaks true. Let him be held accountable." he murmured, as he handed his axe over to Achilleas, ensuring the younger Mikaelidas held it, before he stepped forward pass the Captain, and smiled at the daring youth from Magnemea. "Let me hold him accountable." Irakles was a formidable opponent, for not only has he had many years experience behind him, while his age was far beyond many here, he was still sprightly and muscular from years of wielding an axe heavier then your regular weapon, and many years of training after others had gone to bed. His ambition coupled with his eagerness to work hard meant he had earned his title of General in ever sense of the word.
Approaching the ring, he removed the leather bracers around his wrists, and then waited for Damocles. "Pick a weapon, young man. Any of it."
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Jan 14, 2020 14:11:59 GMT
Posted In One Good Turn on Jan 14, 2020 14:11:59 GMT
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He had called for the runs, and was about to watch over the drill when the sudden loud and obnoxious voice caused the General to pause, and then wrinkle his brows as he looked over at the source of the voice, one Damocles of Magnemea. He seemed oddly confident, a fact that made Irakles cock his head as he studied the man. Well built, muscular, obviously someone who traisn often. Irakles has heard a little, but only a little on the man. The general of the Taengean armies was usually far too busy when it came to handling the military of his own kingdom to bother with a small fry within a Colchian army.
Still, he seemed confident. And confidence was key... to failure, sometimes.
Before the man could react however, Stephanos with his young vitality and power, moved quicker then Irakles could speak, retaliating in a way only a young man with far too much adrenaline and far lesser wisdom could. Not that he didn't have a point, the young prince was right in that weapons did not belong in a grappling ring, but that was besides the point. In his many years of war and combat, Irakles has since learned the value of patience and observation beyond skills and technique. Skills and capability with a weapon could only get one so far, afterall.
It would seem the Colchian's daring challenge had incited anger in a local captain however, for the man was quick to dress the man down. The visit was intended to be a friendly one, and the Colchian had run a very real danger of damaging the friendship between Taengea and Colchis had any of them taken offence. Irakles had ever right to take the Taengean nobility he had escorted to return immediately.... but this was interesting. His eyes flicked to the captain as he bowed and offered his apology. For once, Achilleas said the appropriate words, especially in the face of the loud, obnoxious way in which the young upstart of Colchis seemed to not know his place, judging from the way he pushed past who was supposed to be his Captain, a behaviour unacceptable in one supposed to be a militant.
"My son speaks true. Let him be held accountable." he murmured, as he handed his axe over to Achilleas, ensuring the younger Mikaelidas held it, before he stepped forward pass the Captain, and smiled at the daring youth from Magnemea. "Let me hold him accountable." Irakles was a formidable opponent, for not only has he had many years experience behind him, while his age was far beyond many here, he was still sprightly and muscular from years of wielding an axe heavier then your regular weapon, and many years of training after others had gone to bed. His ambition coupled with his eagerness to work hard meant he had earned his title of General in ever sense of the word.
Approaching the ring, he removed the leather bracers around his wrists, and then waited for Damocles. "Pick a weapon, young man. Any of it."
He had called for the runs, and was about to watch over the drill when the sudden loud and obnoxious voice caused the General to pause, and then wrinkle his brows as he looked over at the source of the voice, one Damocles of Magnemea. He seemed oddly confident, a fact that made Irakles cock his head as he studied the man. Well built, muscular, obviously someone who traisn often. Irakles has heard a little, but only a little on the man. The general of the Taengean armies was usually far too busy when it came to handling the military of his own kingdom to bother with a small fry within a Colchian army.
Still, he seemed confident. And confidence was key... to failure, sometimes.
Before the man could react however, Stephanos with his young vitality and power, moved quicker then Irakles could speak, retaliating in a way only a young man with far too much adrenaline and far lesser wisdom could. Not that he didn't have a point, the young prince was right in that weapons did not belong in a grappling ring, but that was besides the point. In his many years of war and combat, Irakles has since learned the value of patience and observation beyond skills and technique. Skills and capability with a weapon could only get one so far, afterall.
It would seem the Colchian's daring challenge had incited anger in a local captain however, for the man was quick to dress the man down. The visit was intended to be a friendly one, and the Colchian had run a very real danger of damaging the friendship between Taengea and Colchis had any of them taken offence. Irakles had ever right to take the Taengean nobility he had escorted to return immediately.... but this was interesting. His eyes flicked to the captain as he bowed and offered his apology. For once, Achilleas said the appropriate words, especially in the face of the loud, obnoxious way in which the young upstart of Colchis seemed to not know his place, judging from the way he pushed past who was supposed to be his Captain, a behaviour unacceptable in one supposed to be a militant.
"My son speaks true. Let him be held accountable." he murmured, as he handed his axe over to Achilleas, ensuring the younger Mikaelidas held it, before he stepped forward pass the Captain, and smiled at the daring youth from Magnemea. "Let me hold him accountable." Irakles was a formidable opponent, for not only has he had many years experience behind him, while his age was far beyond many here, he was still sprightly and muscular from years of wielding an axe heavier then your regular weapon, and many years of training after others had gone to bed. His ambition coupled with his eagerness to work hard meant he had earned his title of General in ever sense of the word.
Approaching the ring, he removed the leather bracers around his wrists, and then waited for Damocles. "Pick a weapon, young man. Any of it."
“Spare me your sanctimony, you ignoble, mud-witted, ill-bred fustilarian! So low is your cunning, so little your worth and so unworthy your presence that not even your foul breath may broach me with words! Away, you spiteful little creature! Keep your deprived tongue forked between the legs of the men you minister to at wanton nights, you sodomite!"
Stephanos stared. Just stared for a few seconds, trying to process exactly what and why this idiot stranger was saying. He understood each word well enough, but the way they were strung together, as though this backwater bastard had any notion of who he was, or who Achilleas was made them ring blustering and false. Already naked from the waist up, Stephanos had no need to shove off a shirt. He was ready for the fight and already felt the jarring appeal of flesh on bone. His intention was to break this buffoon's face.
The prince didn’t get further than curling his hands into fists before someone shoved through, blathering apologies, ‘stand down’s’, and bowings. Stephanos’s head snapped toward Achilleas, who was now trying to diffuse the situation through words, rather than blood, and while Stephanos would later applaud that attempt, he didn’t want it now. He wanted to jump on top of, take down, and kill the hot headed moron over there, like the lions they were supposed to be.
”But Sir! These cretins have desecrated our honor, bound us to ignominy and forced us to capitulate surrender in our own home for mere spectacle and leisure! Their insolence must be met with blood and honor!” Damcoles was evidently as unhappy about this turn of events as Stephanos.
“What are you talking about, dumbass?” Stephanos bellowed at Damocles. He was so thoroughly confused about what Damocles even meant. Capitulate surrender? Were Taengea and Colchis at war?? And what insolence??? He was shocked, totally shocked that this man blathering about was a lieutenant at all. If Damocles were in his father’s army, he’d have been dismissed right then and there for this sort of ludicrous behavior. Finally Damocles peeled off his helm and Stephanos got a good look at the face of the man who thought to insult them in such a way...and laughed. This wasn’t some older, seasoned veteran. This person could hardly be older than they were. Maiden’s dream Damocles might have been to some, Stephanos was left less than impressed by the man’s fine features. He didn’t care.
“Know your filthy place, you scoundrels and take up my challenge in proper fashion, lest be dubbed cowards before mine eyes, and the eyes of the soldiers of mine homeland!”
“Oh, you mean right here? Where we’re supposed to be?” Stephanos rolled his eyes. “I don’t give a shit if you think we’re cowards. You’ve displayed no right to have an opinion thus far.” Political treaties could be torn asunder. Stephanos knew that Colchis would not make war with Taengea. Not over this fool. They could probably spill this man’s blood here and now and nothing would come of it. He rather hoped it’d come to that.
"My son speaks true. Let him be held accountable." It was his uncle’s voice that made Stephanos stiffen and glare at him, but then he realized what the general had said, and relaxed. "Let me hold him accountable." Stephanos stepped straight out of Irakles’s way. Did he hate his uncle? Yes. Did that mean that he wouldn’t have been completely mollified if Irakles beat this man into next week? Absolutely not. He promised himself that when Irakles won, he wouldn’t complain about his uncle for a solid month. Not at all displeased that Irakles was stepping over him in a quest for vengeance, Stephanos nudged Achilleas.
“Now it’ll be really good,” he murmured, eyes on Damocles.
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Jan 26, 2020 15:11:37 GMT
Posted In One Good Turn on Jan 26, 2020 15:11:37 GMT
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“Spare me your sanctimony, you ignoble, mud-witted, ill-bred fustilarian! So low is your cunning, so little your worth and so unworthy your presence that not even your foul breath may broach me with words! Away, you spiteful little creature! Keep your deprived tongue forked between the legs of the men you minister to at wanton nights, you sodomite!"
Stephanos stared. Just stared for a few seconds, trying to process exactly what and why this idiot stranger was saying. He understood each word well enough, but the way they were strung together, as though this backwater bastard had any notion of who he was, or who Achilleas was made them ring blustering and false. Already naked from the waist up, Stephanos had no need to shove off a shirt. He was ready for the fight and already felt the jarring appeal of flesh on bone. His intention was to break this buffoon's face.
The prince didn’t get further than curling his hands into fists before someone shoved through, blathering apologies, ‘stand down’s’, and bowings. Stephanos’s head snapped toward Achilleas, who was now trying to diffuse the situation through words, rather than blood, and while Stephanos would later applaud that attempt, he didn’t want it now. He wanted to jump on top of, take down, and kill the hot headed moron over there, like the lions they were supposed to be.
”But Sir! These cretins have desecrated our honor, bound us to ignominy and forced us to capitulate surrender in our own home for mere spectacle and leisure! Their insolence must be met with blood and honor!” Damcoles was evidently as unhappy about this turn of events as Stephanos.
“What are you talking about, dumbass?” Stephanos bellowed at Damocles. He was so thoroughly confused about what Damocles even meant. Capitulate surrender? Were Taengea and Colchis at war?? And what insolence??? He was shocked, totally shocked that this man blathering about was a lieutenant at all. If Damocles were in his father’s army, he’d have been dismissed right then and there for this sort of ludicrous behavior. Finally Damocles peeled off his helm and Stephanos got a good look at the face of the man who thought to insult them in such a way...and laughed. This wasn’t some older, seasoned veteran. This person could hardly be older than they were. Maiden’s dream Damocles might have been to some, Stephanos was left less than impressed by the man’s fine features. He didn’t care.
“Know your filthy place, you scoundrels and take up my challenge in proper fashion, lest be dubbed cowards before mine eyes, and the eyes of the soldiers of mine homeland!”
“Oh, you mean right here? Where we’re supposed to be?” Stephanos rolled his eyes. “I don’t give a shit if you think we’re cowards. You’ve displayed no right to have an opinion thus far.” Political treaties could be torn asunder. Stephanos knew that Colchis would not make war with Taengea. Not over this fool. They could probably spill this man’s blood here and now and nothing would come of it. He rather hoped it’d come to that.
"My son speaks true. Let him be held accountable." It was his uncle’s voice that made Stephanos stiffen and glare at him, but then he realized what the general had said, and relaxed. "Let me hold him accountable." Stephanos stepped straight out of Irakles’s way. Did he hate his uncle? Yes. Did that mean that he wouldn’t have been completely mollified if Irakles beat this man into next week? Absolutely not. He promised himself that when Irakles won, he wouldn’t complain about his uncle for a solid month. Not at all displeased that Irakles was stepping over him in a quest for vengeance, Stephanos nudged Achilleas.
“Now it’ll be really good,” he murmured, eyes on Damocles.
“Spare me your sanctimony, you ignoble, mud-witted, ill-bred fustilarian! So low is your cunning, so little your worth and so unworthy your presence that not even your foul breath may broach me with words! Away, you spiteful little creature! Keep your deprived tongue forked between the legs of the men you minister to at wanton nights, you sodomite!"
Stephanos stared. Just stared for a few seconds, trying to process exactly what and why this idiot stranger was saying. He understood each word well enough, but the way they were strung together, as though this backwater bastard had any notion of who he was, or who Achilleas was made them ring blustering and false. Already naked from the waist up, Stephanos had no need to shove off a shirt. He was ready for the fight and already felt the jarring appeal of flesh on bone. His intention was to break this buffoon's face.
The prince didn’t get further than curling his hands into fists before someone shoved through, blathering apologies, ‘stand down’s’, and bowings. Stephanos’s head snapped toward Achilleas, who was now trying to diffuse the situation through words, rather than blood, and while Stephanos would later applaud that attempt, he didn’t want it now. He wanted to jump on top of, take down, and kill the hot headed moron over there, like the lions they were supposed to be.
”But Sir! These cretins have desecrated our honor, bound us to ignominy and forced us to capitulate surrender in our own home for mere spectacle and leisure! Their insolence must be met with blood and honor!” Damcoles was evidently as unhappy about this turn of events as Stephanos.
“What are you talking about, dumbass?” Stephanos bellowed at Damocles. He was so thoroughly confused about what Damocles even meant. Capitulate surrender? Were Taengea and Colchis at war?? And what insolence??? He was shocked, totally shocked that this man blathering about was a lieutenant at all. If Damocles were in his father’s army, he’d have been dismissed right then and there for this sort of ludicrous behavior. Finally Damocles peeled off his helm and Stephanos got a good look at the face of the man who thought to insult them in such a way...and laughed. This wasn’t some older, seasoned veteran. This person could hardly be older than they were. Maiden’s dream Damocles might have been to some, Stephanos was left less than impressed by the man’s fine features. He didn’t care.
“Know your filthy place, you scoundrels and take up my challenge in proper fashion, lest be dubbed cowards before mine eyes, and the eyes of the soldiers of mine homeland!”
“Oh, you mean right here? Where we’re supposed to be?” Stephanos rolled his eyes. “I don’t give a shit if you think we’re cowards. You’ve displayed no right to have an opinion thus far.” Political treaties could be torn asunder. Stephanos knew that Colchis would not make war with Taengea. Not over this fool. They could probably spill this man’s blood here and now and nothing would come of it. He rather hoped it’d come to that.
"My son speaks true. Let him be held accountable." It was his uncle’s voice that made Stephanos stiffen and glare at him, but then he realized what the general had said, and relaxed. "Let me hold him accountable." Stephanos stepped straight out of Irakles’s way. Did he hate his uncle? Yes. Did that mean that he wouldn’t have been completely mollified if Irakles beat this man into next week? Absolutely not. He promised himself that when Irakles won, he wouldn’t complain about his uncle for a solid month. Not at all displeased that Irakles was stepping over him in a quest for vengeance, Stephanos nudged Achilleas.
“Now it’ll be really good,” he murmured, eyes on Damocles.
There was a lot of noise spilling out of the dark-clad Colchian, but not a lot of sense from what Achilleas could make out. He could not fathom what he had done to provoke such a tirade - if anything it was the fellow’s own countryman who had lowered the tone of the spar to turn it into a brawl more becoming of street rats than noblemen. He had only responded in kind, and the bout had ended fairly. Why this other man seemed so agitated by it he did not know.
Not that it mattered now anyway. Enough foul words had been slung at them after that spear that even Achilleas was ready to fly at the man and give him the beating he was sorely asking for. Hands curled into fists again at his sides, he took a step forward, glaring daggers at the fool who was dressed for battle upon the training field. But perhaps battle was not so far-reaching a concept, as both the Taengean prince and his cousin squared up to the Colchian, with their fellow countrymen beginning to pay attention to the confrontation.
It looked like it might come to blows before some senior ranking officer got between them all, and Achilleas spent a couple of minutes as the Colchian reproached his idiot subordinate taking deep breaths and trying to find some calm past the pounding in his head. He didn’t know if it were the aftereffects of the fight or his own anger at this point. But to his credit, the baron managed to cool his temper enough to level a more reasonable request for the fool to be held to account for his actions. For he was certainly no officer, but a scruff faced youth who could not be any older than them. How dare he?!
Achilleas could feel his cousin practically fizzing with aggression beside him, had stretched a warning arm in front of him to stop any sudden lunges. Let the ranking officer dictate how this wrong be set right.But the answer did not come from the Cochian he had addressed, instead sounding from behind the Taengeans, reminding Achilleas sharply of his father’s presence. He could not have been more surprised than when the man shouldered between he and Stephanos, pushing his battle axe at his son as he did so. Achilleas’ fingers closed around the heft of it, bruised knuckles protesting slightly as they did, but the Mikaelidas youth paid them no heed. Not only had his father just agreed with something he had done, but now it appeared as if the man himself was going to take on the Colchian with the too-big mouth.
It was not often that Achilleas got to see his father fight, and he was looking on a little wide-eyed when Steph’s elbow caught him, and he turned to his cousin. “That boy is going to die,” he said, not entirely joking, as he took a step back and let the hand holding the axe fall to his side.
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Jan 30, 2020 23:07:19 GMT
Posted In One Good Turn on Jan 30, 2020 23:07:19 GMT
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There was a lot of noise spilling out of the dark-clad Colchian, but not a lot of sense from what Achilleas could make out. He could not fathom what he had done to provoke such a tirade - if anything it was the fellow’s own countryman who had lowered the tone of the spar to turn it into a brawl more becoming of street rats than noblemen. He had only responded in kind, and the bout had ended fairly. Why this other man seemed so agitated by it he did not know.
Not that it mattered now anyway. Enough foul words had been slung at them after that spear that even Achilleas was ready to fly at the man and give him the beating he was sorely asking for. Hands curled into fists again at his sides, he took a step forward, glaring daggers at the fool who was dressed for battle upon the training field. But perhaps battle was not so far-reaching a concept, as both the Taengean prince and his cousin squared up to the Colchian, with their fellow countrymen beginning to pay attention to the confrontation.
It looked like it might come to blows before some senior ranking officer got between them all, and Achilleas spent a couple of minutes as the Colchian reproached his idiot subordinate taking deep breaths and trying to find some calm past the pounding in his head. He didn’t know if it were the aftereffects of the fight or his own anger at this point. But to his credit, the baron managed to cool his temper enough to level a more reasonable request for the fool to be held to account for his actions. For he was certainly no officer, but a scruff faced youth who could not be any older than them. How dare he?!
Achilleas could feel his cousin practically fizzing with aggression beside him, had stretched a warning arm in front of him to stop any sudden lunges. Let the ranking officer dictate how this wrong be set right.But the answer did not come from the Cochian he had addressed, instead sounding from behind the Taengeans, reminding Achilleas sharply of his father’s presence. He could not have been more surprised than when the man shouldered between he and Stephanos, pushing his battle axe at his son as he did so. Achilleas’ fingers closed around the heft of it, bruised knuckles protesting slightly as they did, but the Mikaelidas youth paid them no heed. Not only had his father just agreed with something he had done, but now it appeared as if the man himself was going to take on the Colchian with the too-big mouth.
It was not often that Achilleas got to see his father fight, and he was looking on a little wide-eyed when Steph’s elbow caught him, and he turned to his cousin. “That boy is going to die,” he said, not entirely joking, as he took a step back and let the hand holding the axe fall to his side.
There was a lot of noise spilling out of the dark-clad Colchian, but not a lot of sense from what Achilleas could make out. He could not fathom what he had done to provoke such a tirade - if anything it was the fellow’s own countryman who had lowered the tone of the spar to turn it into a brawl more becoming of street rats than noblemen. He had only responded in kind, and the bout had ended fairly. Why this other man seemed so agitated by it he did not know.
Not that it mattered now anyway. Enough foul words had been slung at them after that spear that even Achilleas was ready to fly at the man and give him the beating he was sorely asking for. Hands curled into fists again at his sides, he took a step forward, glaring daggers at the fool who was dressed for battle upon the training field. But perhaps battle was not so far-reaching a concept, as both the Taengean prince and his cousin squared up to the Colchian, with their fellow countrymen beginning to pay attention to the confrontation.
It looked like it might come to blows before some senior ranking officer got between them all, and Achilleas spent a couple of minutes as the Colchian reproached his idiot subordinate taking deep breaths and trying to find some calm past the pounding in his head. He didn’t know if it were the aftereffects of the fight or his own anger at this point. But to his credit, the baron managed to cool his temper enough to level a more reasonable request for the fool to be held to account for his actions. For he was certainly no officer, but a scruff faced youth who could not be any older than them. How dare he?!
Achilleas could feel his cousin practically fizzing with aggression beside him, had stretched a warning arm in front of him to stop any sudden lunges. Let the ranking officer dictate how this wrong be set right.But the answer did not come from the Cochian he had addressed, instead sounding from behind the Taengeans, reminding Achilleas sharply of his father’s presence. He could not have been more surprised than when the man shouldered between he and Stephanos, pushing his battle axe at his son as he did so. Achilleas’ fingers closed around the heft of it, bruised knuckles protesting slightly as they did, but the Mikaelidas youth paid them no heed. Not only had his father just agreed with something he had done, but now it appeared as if the man himself was going to take on the Colchian with the too-big mouth.
It was not often that Achilleas got to see his father fight, and he was looking on a little wide-eyed when Steph’s elbow caught him, and he turned to his cousin. “That boy is going to die,” he said, not entirely joking, as he took a step back and let the hand holding the axe fall to his side.
Whatever rage and wrath had compelled him to action had suddenly died down. A sense of danger, an indescribable shiver that he often did not feel coursing through his otherwise thick skin, enthralled and captured him. In his eagerness to make clear his aggression and press forward to a wayward cause, Damocles had inadvertently brought upon him a deeply unsettling result, an unwarranted byproduct that did little to prove his point incorrect, at least to him. He knew he had bene bold. He knew he had been abrasive. Those qualities had not been in contention herein. He had been boastful and proud in his demeanor, upholding his clashing air of superiority against those Taengean whoremongers…until he wasn’t. Before he knew it, the topmost military leader and highest ranked general of Taengea, prince Irakles himself, answered his call for bravery and justice. Whatever form of self-assurance he had exuded before had now been counterbalanced, checked and balanced in the most unceremonious and frightening way possible. He felt a cold, unmistakable sweat run down the back of his spine, a rare situation if ever. His steely-eyed look fell downcast and faded, his brow furrowed in shock, his eyebrows pressed upwards and his stare was stark and wide, a reflection of the twinge of fear he held at the deepest precipices of his being. Immediately, he shot the briefest of looks of disbelief to his commanding officer, nonverbally pleading for him to intervene for once and spare him the humiliation that would inevitably result from this affront.
Had the answer to his challenge come in the form of the two other youths, he would had calculated his chances to be evenly split along the middle, a toss-up wherefore there really would be no obvious winner. Yet, with the general announcing that he would personally answer on behalf of his family, Damocles felt his chances slip into the darkest of pits. Even if his pride forbid him from declaring it, he knew that between him and Irakles there stood a vast ocean of differences and strengths. He wasn’t absolutely blind to reality. He was one hundred years too early to even come close to the matured career militant.
And yet, despite his temporary moments of hesitation, Damocles, upon collecting his thoughts back to himself, relaxed and steadied his wayward head. It would be next to impossible to beat this man in one-on-one combat, but at least he could prove a statement that not all those around him and under his command were as weak and fragile as that fool Stalius. He countered Irakles’s pompous smile with a challenging grin, restoring his physical confidence to what it once had been before, even if he himself knew that it was all an act of faux bravery. “How amusing…to think that despite us sharing a common sea our people’s customs according to challenges are so different. It would seem that rather than being true men and answering the call themselves, these Taengeans would rather defer to their own kindred. If this is commonplace practice in your homeland, then I truly question the virility of these foppish aristocrats.” He snarled, glaring bloodthirstily at the laureled General with clear, predatory intent on his otherwise silver-ish stare. “Regardless, whether it be father or son, I care not. If this is your answer to my call, so be it…”
With that, Damocles filtered through the commandingly-build man’s paused invitation and made for a shield and spear, holding both in proper-stance place as if gearing for a vengeful fight. “As a courtesy, I will allow you to make the first move, Lord General. Please proceed however you so wish.” And with that, he braced himself, fiercely quelling his doubts and fears, plentiful and myriad as they were, in favor of calmed steadiness. He knew he would not be able to best this man in a contest of pure experience and skill. Yet, perhaps, if he kept his position tight and closely-figured, with his challenging grey eyes firmly set on his opponent, perchance he could at least prove an eventful match to this apparently superior soldier. “Come old man, make me swallow my pride and show me my place as scoundrel and upstart! Prove to me that your reputation is not all money-paid fables and myths, Prince Irakles of Mikaelidas!”
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Feb 15, 2020 22:05:17 GMT
Posted In One Good Turn on Feb 15, 2020 22:05:17 GMT
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Whatever rage and wrath had compelled him to action had suddenly died down. A sense of danger, an indescribable shiver that he often did not feel coursing through his otherwise thick skin, enthralled and captured him. In his eagerness to make clear his aggression and press forward to a wayward cause, Damocles had inadvertently brought upon him a deeply unsettling result, an unwarranted byproduct that did little to prove his point incorrect, at least to him. He knew he had bene bold. He knew he had been abrasive. Those qualities had not been in contention herein. He had been boastful and proud in his demeanor, upholding his clashing air of superiority against those Taengean whoremongers…until he wasn’t. Before he knew it, the topmost military leader and highest ranked general of Taengea, prince Irakles himself, answered his call for bravery and justice. Whatever form of self-assurance he had exuded before had now been counterbalanced, checked and balanced in the most unceremonious and frightening way possible. He felt a cold, unmistakable sweat run down the back of his spine, a rare situation if ever. His steely-eyed look fell downcast and faded, his brow furrowed in shock, his eyebrows pressed upwards and his stare was stark and wide, a reflection of the twinge of fear he held at the deepest precipices of his being. Immediately, he shot the briefest of looks of disbelief to his commanding officer, nonverbally pleading for him to intervene for once and spare him the humiliation that would inevitably result from this affront.
Had the answer to his challenge come in the form of the two other youths, he would had calculated his chances to be evenly split along the middle, a toss-up wherefore there really would be no obvious winner. Yet, with the general announcing that he would personally answer on behalf of his family, Damocles felt his chances slip into the darkest of pits. Even if his pride forbid him from declaring it, he knew that between him and Irakles there stood a vast ocean of differences and strengths. He wasn’t absolutely blind to reality. He was one hundred years too early to even come close to the matured career militant.
And yet, despite his temporary moments of hesitation, Damocles, upon collecting his thoughts back to himself, relaxed and steadied his wayward head. It would be next to impossible to beat this man in one-on-one combat, but at least he could prove a statement that not all those around him and under his command were as weak and fragile as that fool Stalius. He countered Irakles’s pompous smile with a challenging grin, restoring his physical confidence to what it once had been before, even if he himself knew that it was all an act of faux bravery. “How amusing…to think that despite us sharing a common sea our people’s customs according to challenges are so different. It would seem that rather than being true men and answering the call themselves, these Taengeans would rather defer to their own kindred. If this is commonplace practice in your homeland, then I truly question the virility of these foppish aristocrats.” He snarled, glaring bloodthirstily at the laureled General with clear, predatory intent on his otherwise silver-ish stare. “Regardless, whether it be father or son, I care not. If this is your answer to my call, so be it…”
With that, Damocles filtered through the commandingly-build man’s paused invitation and made for a shield and spear, holding both in proper-stance place as if gearing for a vengeful fight. “As a courtesy, I will allow you to make the first move, Lord General. Please proceed however you so wish.” And with that, he braced himself, fiercely quelling his doubts and fears, plentiful and myriad as they were, in favor of calmed steadiness. He knew he would not be able to best this man in a contest of pure experience and skill. Yet, perhaps, if he kept his position tight and closely-figured, with his challenging grey eyes firmly set on his opponent, perchance he could at least prove an eventful match to this apparently superior soldier. “Come old man, make me swallow my pride and show me my place as scoundrel and upstart! Prove to me that your reputation is not all money-paid fables and myths, Prince Irakles of Mikaelidas!”
Whatever rage and wrath had compelled him to action had suddenly died down. A sense of danger, an indescribable shiver that he often did not feel coursing through his otherwise thick skin, enthralled and captured him. In his eagerness to make clear his aggression and press forward to a wayward cause, Damocles had inadvertently brought upon him a deeply unsettling result, an unwarranted byproduct that did little to prove his point incorrect, at least to him. He knew he had bene bold. He knew he had been abrasive. Those qualities had not been in contention herein. He had been boastful and proud in his demeanor, upholding his clashing air of superiority against those Taengean whoremongers…until he wasn’t. Before he knew it, the topmost military leader and highest ranked general of Taengea, prince Irakles himself, answered his call for bravery and justice. Whatever form of self-assurance he had exuded before had now been counterbalanced, checked and balanced in the most unceremonious and frightening way possible. He felt a cold, unmistakable sweat run down the back of his spine, a rare situation if ever. His steely-eyed look fell downcast and faded, his brow furrowed in shock, his eyebrows pressed upwards and his stare was stark and wide, a reflection of the twinge of fear he held at the deepest precipices of his being. Immediately, he shot the briefest of looks of disbelief to his commanding officer, nonverbally pleading for him to intervene for once and spare him the humiliation that would inevitably result from this affront.
Had the answer to his challenge come in the form of the two other youths, he would had calculated his chances to be evenly split along the middle, a toss-up wherefore there really would be no obvious winner. Yet, with the general announcing that he would personally answer on behalf of his family, Damocles felt his chances slip into the darkest of pits. Even if his pride forbid him from declaring it, he knew that between him and Irakles there stood a vast ocean of differences and strengths. He wasn’t absolutely blind to reality. He was one hundred years too early to even come close to the matured career militant.
And yet, despite his temporary moments of hesitation, Damocles, upon collecting his thoughts back to himself, relaxed and steadied his wayward head. It would be next to impossible to beat this man in one-on-one combat, but at least he could prove a statement that not all those around him and under his command were as weak and fragile as that fool Stalius. He countered Irakles’s pompous smile with a challenging grin, restoring his physical confidence to what it once had been before, even if he himself knew that it was all an act of faux bravery. “How amusing…to think that despite us sharing a common sea our people’s customs according to challenges are so different. It would seem that rather than being true men and answering the call themselves, these Taengeans would rather defer to their own kindred. If this is commonplace practice in your homeland, then I truly question the virility of these foppish aristocrats.” He snarled, glaring bloodthirstily at the laureled General with clear, predatory intent on his otherwise silver-ish stare. “Regardless, whether it be father or son, I care not. If this is your answer to my call, so be it…”
With that, Damocles filtered through the commandingly-build man’s paused invitation and made for a shield and spear, holding both in proper-stance place as if gearing for a vengeful fight. “As a courtesy, I will allow you to make the first move, Lord General. Please proceed however you so wish.” And with that, he braced himself, fiercely quelling his doubts and fears, plentiful and myriad as they were, in favor of calmed steadiness. He knew he would not be able to best this man in a contest of pure experience and skill. Yet, perhaps, if he kept his position tight and closely-figured, with his challenging grey eyes firmly set on his opponent, perchance he could at least prove an eventful match to this apparently superior soldier. “Come old man, make me swallow my pride and show me my place as scoundrel and upstart! Prove to me that your reputation is not all money-paid fables and myths, Prince Irakles of Mikaelidas!”
Pride was always a person's downfall in the battlefield. Irakles had lost count of how many times he had seen an opponent or even someone on his own side think they had it all under their control, only to come out horribly battered on the other side. It was why the haughty tone and ridiculous behavior of this Colchian had caught his attention, especially with his loud and obvious cry against Taengean military. Even despite the apology from his superior, Irakles's impossible loyalty to his home kingdom spurred the necessity to teach the young pup a lesson.
Seemingly needing people to listen to him blabber, Irakles couldn't help but wonder if it was simply because if he didn't swagger the way he did, no one would listen to him otherwise. It really wouldn't surprise him, for it would seem not many enjoyed his company, from the way comrades of his own kingdom whispered and glanced at him disapprovingly from behind him. That he was still in the military at all surprised Irakles, for someone this unruly would've been removed from his own unit far before it got to this level. The general would accept no less then obedience in his unit, and had no patience for unruliness.
He may be older, but he had experience.
Steady and grounded as he turned to face the upstart young pup, raising a wry brow at his obvious attempt at riling tempers. "If you find the need to hide behind words, young man, then perhaps we may be here all day." the general replied soundly, not even batting an eyelash nor resorting to his levels. He merely wanted to get this over with, for the man had many duties to see to. The man watched as he wandered over to take the shield and spear, and then rested on his haunches as he stood his ground, yelling and for all Irakles knew, wasting his energy. In return, he merely gave a small nod.
"Do not regret your choice."
With a speed that came surprising of the stocky man, while other's may draw the assumption that he would aim for a punch first, instead by the time Irakles got to within punching distance of the man, his foot and hand both reached out at the same time, one swiping beneath aiming to trip the Colchian, whilst the hand reached for the spear, pressing it against the shield and aiming the tip of the spear right where the other's chin would be, simultaneously attempting to prevent his usage of both weapon and defense whilst causing harm to his body and making him lose his balance at the same time. His body remained prime for any retaliation Damocles would do, as he kept his other hand free to catch anything thrown back in return.
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Feb 20, 2020 11:12:33 GMT
Posted In One Good Turn on Feb 20, 2020 11:12:33 GMT
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Pride was always a person's downfall in the battlefield. Irakles had lost count of how many times he had seen an opponent or even someone on his own side think they had it all under their control, only to come out horribly battered on the other side. It was why the haughty tone and ridiculous behavior of this Colchian had caught his attention, especially with his loud and obvious cry against Taengean military. Even despite the apology from his superior, Irakles's impossible loyalty to his home kingdom spurred the necessity to teach the young pup a lesson.
Seemingly needing people to listen to him blabber, Irakles couldn't help but wonder if it was simply because if he didn't swagger the way he did, no one would listen to him otherwise. It really wouldn't surprise him, for it would seem not many enjoyed his company, from the way comrades of his own kingdom whispered and glanced at him disapprovingly from behind him. That he was still in the military at all surprised Irakles, for someone this unruly would've been removed from his own unit far before it got to this level. The general would accept no less then obedience in his unit, and had no patience for unruliness.
He may be older, but he had experience.
Steady and grounded as he turned to face the upstart young pup, raising a wry brow at his obvious attempt at riling tempers. "If you find the need to hide behind words, young man, then perhaps we may be here all day." the general replied soundly, not even batting an eyelash nor resorting to his levels. He merely wanted to get this over with, for the man had many duties to see to. The man watched as he wandered over to take the shield and spear, and then rested on his haunches as he stood his ground, yelling and for all Irakles knew, wasting his energy. In return, he merely gave a small nod.
"Do not regret your choice."
With a speed that came surprising of the stocky man, while other's may draw the assumption that he would aim for a punch first, instead by the time Irakles got to within punching distance of the man, his foot and hand both reached out at the same time, one swiping beneath aiming to trip the Colchian, whilst the hand reached for the spear, pressing it against the shield and aiming the tip of the spear right where the other's chin would be, simultaneously attempting to prevent his usage of both weapon and defense whilst causing harm to his body and making him lose his balance at the same time. His body remained prime for any retaliation Damocles would do, as he kept his other hand free to catch anything thrown back in return.
Pride was always a person's downfall in the battlefield. Irakles had lost count of how many times he had seen an opponent or even someone on his own side think they had it all under their control, only to come out horribly battered on the other side. It was why the haughty tone and ridiculous behavior of this Colchian had caught his attention, especially with his loud and obvious cry against Taengean military. Even despite the apology from his superior, Irakles's impossible loyalty to his home kingdom spurred the necessity to teach the young pup a lesson.
Seemingly needing people to listen to him blabber, Irakles couldn't help but wonder if it was simply because if he didn't swagger the way he did, no one would listen to him otherwise. It really wouldn't surprise him, for it would seem not many enjoyed his company, from the way comrades of his own kingdom whispered and glanced at him disapprovingly from behind him. That he was still in the military at all surprised Irakles, for someone this unruly would've been removed from his own unit far before it got to this level. The general would accept no less then obedience in his unit, and had no patience for unruliness.
He may be older, but he had experience.
Steady and grounded as he turned to face the upstart young pup, raising a wry brow at his obvious attempt at riling tempers. "If you find the need to hide behind words, young man, then perhaps we may be here all day." the general replied soundly, not even batting an eyelash nor resorting to his levels. He merely wanted to get this over with, for the man had many duties to see to. The man watched as he wandered over to take the shield and spear, and then rested on his haunches as he stood his ground, yelling and for all Irakles knew, wasting his energy. In return, he merely gave a small nod.
"Do not regret your choice."
With a speed that came surprising of the stocky man, while other's may draw the assumption that he would aim for a punch first, instead by the time Irakles got to within punching distance of the man, his foot and hand both reached out at the same time, one swiping beneath aiming to trip the Colchian, whilst the hand reached for the spear, pressing it against the shield and aiming the tip of the spear right where the other's chin would be, simultaneously attempting to prevent his usage of both weapon and defense whilst causing harm to his body and making him lose his balance at the same time. His body remained prime for any retaliation Damocles would do, as he kept his other hand free to catch anything thrown back in return.
There was little sense in him trying to deduce how to best counter the season militant before him. He could have thought of using his shield and spear to the best of his abilities, relying on his economy of moments and unshakable footwork to make for a fortified, grounded defense, but such foresight was rather unnecessary or otherwise conducive to proper form. He had no idea what exactly would be the general's first draw, though, judging from his large, heavy appearance, he guessed that the Taengean veteran had a relatively similar style of fighting to his own, focusing on sheer physical might and overbearing strength to wear down his enemy without much consideration for speed or dexterity. He was clearly a power-type fighter, and so the Colchian recognized that any actual struggle between them would be drastic, intense and quick. This was fine by the silver-eyed youth's standards. He would rather tend to other affairs as soon as possible, lest he would have to bare the existence of this doddering old man and his intolerable family.
Unexpectedly, the man who apparently was past his prime moved with ferocious speed and agility, catching the Colchian by surprise as he made for his foot and weapons. Well, under most circumstances he would have held strong to his tools, but seeing as this general thought he would stubbornly cling to mere weapons as his means to keep ground, Damocles decided to also surprise the man by showing some of his own cunning. It was clear that the general had intended to use his own tools against him, a smart, sound tactic if ever. And yet, if it came to a contest of pure muscular strenght, the silver-eyed youth still thought he had a slight edge in that regard. Thus, before the Taengean could make a mockery of his spear and shield, he cast them aside, discarding the two before noticing how the general lunged at him as if ready to pounce. At the same time, he noticed the way he raised a leg, most likely all in an attempt to cause him to trip and fall. And yet none of this would come to pass.
His speed might not have been his most famous of attributes, but that didn't mean his reflexes were terrible. As he noticed that kick, Damocles caught sight of his opponents' movements and turned his body sideways, making way for the lunging man to pass aside while he dodged his grappling movements. And in that moment, Damocles noticed how the Taengean legend exposed himself in his most vulnerable region, causing the underhanded youth to go for a move that most men would shudder to consider. With his fingers closed into a tight, crackling fist, Damocles riposted by aiming the middle of the legendary General Irakles of Mikaelidas's crotch. This should not have been unexpected, for if the man truly was a master of his craft he should have known that all bets were off and that, as the old saying went, all was fair in love and war
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There was little sense in him trying to deduce how to best counter the season militant before him. He could have thought of using his shield and spear to the best of his abilities, relying on his economy of moments and unshakable footwork to make for a fortified, grounded defense, but such foresight was rather unnecessary or otherwise conducive to proper form. He had no idea what exactly would be the general's first draw, though, judging from his large, heavy appearance, he guessed that the Taengean veteran had a relatively similar style of fighting to his own, focusing on sheer physical might and overbearing strength to wear down his enemy without much consideration for speed or dexterity. He was clearly a power-type fighter, and so the Colchian recognized that any actual struggle between them would be drastic, intense and quick. This was fine by the silver-eyed youth's standards. He would rather tend to other affairs as soon as possible, lest he would have to bare the existence of this doddering old man and his intolerable family.
Unexpectedly, the man who apparently was past his prime moved with ferocious speed and agility, catching the Colchian by surprise as he made for his foot and weapons. Well, under most circumstances he would have held strong to his tools, but seeing as this general thought he would stubbornly cling to mere weapons as his means to keep ground, Damocles decided to also surprise the man by showing some of his own cunning. It was clear that the general had intended to use his own tools against him, a smart, sound tactic if ever. And yet, if it came to a contest of pure muscular strenght, the silver-eyed youth still thought he had a slight edge in that regard. Thus, before the Taengean could make a mockery of his spear and shield, he cast them aside, discarding the two before noticing how the general lunged at him as if ready to pounce. At the same time, he noticed the way he raised a leg, most likely all in an attempt to cause him to trip and fall. And yet none of this would come to pass.
His speed might not have been his most famous of attributes, but that didn't mean his reflexes were terrible. As he noticed that kick, Damocles caught sight of his opponents' movements and turned his body sideways, making way for the lunging man to pass aside while he dodged his grappling movements. And in that moment, Damocles noticed how the Taengean legend exposed himself in his most vulnerable region, causing the underhanded youth to go for a move that most men would shudder to consider. With his fingers closed into a tight, crackling fist, Damocles riposted by aiming the middle of the legendary General Irakles of Mikaelidas's crotch. This should not have been unexpected, for if the man truly was a master of his craft he should have known that all bets were off and that, as the old saying went, all was fair in love and war
There was little sense in him trying to deduce how to best counter the season militant before him. He could have thought of using his shield and spear to the best of his abilities, relying on his economy of moments and unshakable footwork to make for a fortified, grounded defense, but such foresight was rather unnecessary or otherwise conducive to proper form. He had no idea what exactly would be the general's first draw, though, judging from his large, heavy appearance, he guessed that the Taengean veteran had a relatively similar style of fighting to his own, focusing on sheer physical might and overbearing strength to wear down his enemy without much consideration for speed or dexterity. He was clearly a power-type fighter, and so the Colchian recognized that any actual struggle between them would be drastic, intense and quick. This was fine by the silver-eyed youth's standards. He would rather tend to other affairs as soon as possible, lest he would have to bare the existence of this doddering old man and his intolerable family.
Unexpectedly, the man who apparently was past his prime moved with ferocious speed and agility, catching the Colchian by surprise as he made for his foot and weapons. Well, under most circumstances he would have held strong to his tools, but seeing as this general thought he would stubbornly cling to mere weapons as his means to keep ground, Damocles decided to also surprise the man by showing some of his own cunning. It was clear that the general had intended to use his own tools against him, a smart, sound tactic if ever. And yet, if it came to a contest of pure muscular strenght, the silver-eyed youth still thought he had a slight edge in that regard. Thus, before the Taengean could make a mockery of his spear and shield, he cast them aside, discarding the two before noticing how the general lunged at him as if ready to pounce. At the same time, he noticed the way he raised a leg, most likely all in an attempt to cause him to trip and fall. And yet none of this would come to pass.
His speed might not have been his most famous of attributes, but that didn't mean his reflexes were terrible. As he noticed that kick, Damocles caught sight of his opponents' movements and turned his body sideways, making way for the lunging man to pass aside while he dodged his grappling movements. And in that moment, Damocles noticed how the Taengean legend exposed himself in his most vulnerable region, causing the underhanded youth to go for a move that most men would shudder to consider. With his fingers closed into a tight, crackling fist, Damocles riposted by aiming the middle of the legendary General Irakles of Mikaelidas's crotch. This should not have been unexpected, for if the man truly was a master of his craft he should have known that all bets were off and that, as the old saying went, all was fair in love and war
See, the thing about him being a more seasoned and experienced fighter was that no amount of brawn was going to help when Irakles naturally had more years as compared to Damocles to strengthen his muscular frame. Whatever years Damocles had, Irakles had double of it in the time he's spent training, for despite his status and position, the prince of Taengea had never taken his duties and training lightly, and trained just as hard as any of his men. On top of that, as a prince and a general and once-upon-a-time Master of War, that meant he was also a prime target for many of his enemies, which meant Irakles had to be twice as wily to ensure he did not face a death on the battlefield.
Whereas when the Colchian was so eager to win, that would be where one would mess up. Unlike what the man though, Irakles fought with both brawn, strength, but also wisdom and much thought, and each of his moves was calculated.
When the man threw his tools down, Irakles's eyes was quick to identify the movement, but he did not follow the fall of the weapons,but instead zero-ed his eyes upon his assailant's fist. Quickly seeing what he intended to do before the action had been fully followed through, so similar, Irakles changed his own course of action.
Instead of his feet finding ground upon the Colchian's chest as he had intended, Irakles cut short his trajectory and let the bottom of his feet land on the wrist of the exact hand that aimed for his crotch. Irakles allowed his whole weight to land on the Colchian's wrist, aiming to at least hear a crack by grounding it further into the ground before following the fall of his weight and rolled away from Damocles.
Quickly picking himself off the ground, Irakles wasted no time in focusing his gaze directly on his opponent again, narrowing his eyes. "Are all Colchians dirty fighters like you?" he asked, gaze briefly flickering to the commander of the young man's unit who clearly looked displeased at the tactics he had chosen to employ."Perhaps we should reconsider our friendly visit." If Damocles wasn't careful, he would end up marring the good relations between the kingdoms, and that was a problem he may get in far deeper trouble for.
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See, the thing about him being a more seasoned and experienced fighter was that no amount of brawn was going to help when Irakles naturally had more years as compared to Damocles to strengthen his muscular frame. Whatever years Damocles had, Irakles had double of it in the time he's spent training, for despite his status and position, the prince of Taengea had never taken his duties and training lightly, and trained just as hard as any of his men. On top of that, as a prince and a general and once-upon-a-time Master of War, that meant he was also a prime target for many of his enemies, which meant Irakles had to be twice as wily to ensure he did not face a death on the battlefield.
Whereas when the Colchian was so eager to win, that would be where one would mess up. Unlike what the man though, Irakles fought with both brawn, strength, but also wisdom and much thought, and each of his moves was calculated.
When the man threw his tools down, Irakles's eyes was quick to identify the movement, but he did not follow the fall of the weapons,but instead zero-ed his eyes upon his assailant's fist. Quickly seeing what he intended to do before the action had been fully followed through, so similar, Irakles changed his own course of action.
Instead of his feet finding ground upon the Colchian's chest as he had intended, Irakles cut short his trajectory and let the bottom of his feet land on the wrist of the exact hand that aimed for his crotch. Irakles allowed his whole weight to land on the Colchian's wrist, aiming to at least hear a crack by grounding it further into the ground before following the fall of his weight and rolled away from Damocles.
Quickly picking himself off the ground, Irakles wasted no time in focusing his gaze directly on his opponent again, narrowing his eyes. "Are all Colchians dirty fighters like you?" he asked, gaze briefly flickering to the commander of the young man's unit who clearly looked displeased at the tactics he had chosen to employ."Perhaps we should reconsider our friendly visit." If Damocles wasn't careful, he would end up marring the good relations between the kingdoms, and that was a problem he may get in far deeper trouble for.
See, the thing about him being a more seasoned and experienced fighter was that no amount of brawn was going to help when Irakles naturally had more years as compared to Damocles to strengthen his muscular frame. Whatever years Damocles had, Irakles had double of it in the time he's spent training, for despite his status and position, the prince of Taengea had never taken his duties and training lightly, and trained just as hard as any of his men. On top of that, as a prince and a general and once-upon-a-time Master of War, that meant he was also a prime target for many of his enemies, which meant Irakles had to be twice as wily to ensure he did not face a death on the battlefield.
Whereas when the Colchian was so eager to win, that would be where one would mess up. Unlike what the man though, Irakles fought with both brawn, strength, but also wisdom and much thought, and each of his moves was calculated.
When the man threw his tools down, Irakles's eyes was quick to identify the movement, but he did not follow the fall of the weapons,but instead zero-ed his eyes upon his assailant's fist. Quickly seeing what he intended to do before the action had been fully followed through, so similar, Irakles changed his own course of action.
Instead of his feet finding ground upon the Colchian's chest as he had intended, Irakles cut short his trajectory and let the bottom of his feet land on the wrist of the exact hand that aimed for his crotch. Irakles allowed his whole weight to land on the Colchian's wrist, aiming to at least hear a crack by grounding it further into the ground before following the fall of his weight and rolled away from Damocles.
Quickly picking himself off the ground, Irakles wasted no time in focusing his gaze directly on his opponent again, narrowing his eyes. "Are all Colchians dirty fighters like you?" he asked, gaze briefly flickering to the commander of the young man's unit who clearly looked displeased at the tactics he had chosen to employ."Perhaps we should reconsider our friendly visit." If Damocles wasn't careful, he would end up marring the good relations between the kingdoms, and that was a problem he may get in far deeper trouble for.
It had all happened so fast.
Before his mind could process it all, Damocles had been overwhelmed by that old goat of a man, causing his movements to fail in course and action. In an instant, Irakles of Mikaelidas had done what he had thought was impossible and defeated the eager-blooded youth. His wrist was caught, struck and attacked, calculatingly aimed for by the older soldier before Damocles was grounded against the floor. The man's foot had landed on that section, pushing with enough, precise force to fracture that collection of joints, as evident by the snapping sound that came off the injury. A sudden jolt of unexpected pain rushed through the youthful Magnemean, causing him to wince and grunt in response. Granted, it wasn't the worst injury he had ever sustained, but it had been precise enough for the Colchian to now that, from a logical standpoint, he would not be able to put up much of a proper fight following such assault.
His brow furrowed with rage and frustration. It had been two to zero now, an absolute disgrace for Magnemea and her people. How dared these foreigners make such a mockery of him in his precious homeland of all places. His teeth grit together, grinding against one-another as he beheld the circumstances of his veritable loss today. He had brought dishonor to the Damned, his unit. What a mess! What a horrible, awful fate. No. It couldn't end like this. He would not allow some out-of-shape geezer make a fool of him in such a blatant manner. Even though he knew his hand was in no shape to fight, Damocles pushed through and snarled like an animal, rising up with a burning fire in his silver eyes that nobody could misunderstand for nothing short of a killer instinct. "Shut up!" He roared, standing up with a challenging smirk on his face and an unwavering air of commitment to his gaze. "I'm not done with you yet, geezer. Come on! Face me one more time, you senile, old man! Face me with all you got!" demanded the arrogant youth between ragged breaths.
In that instinct however, a third presence stepped inside, standing ashamedly before the firebrand lieutenant. It was his captain, Clyvius, an equally decrepit bastard that was long-past his best days. What in the name of the Gods was he doing? Damocles had no idea what that haggard man was conteplating right now. And yet, before he knew it, the man turned his brown eyes to his subordinate with nothing but contempt. He was livid and embarrassed for what had transpired right now. "That's enough out of you, Damocles!" he shouted, channeling a fierce voice that the youth had never before witnessed. His grey eyes stood in stark, wide stares and his mouth gaped a little as he beheld his superior's actions. "One more word out of you and I will personally make sure your military career ends today! Now, shut your tongue and keep your silence, or else."threatened the comparatively smaller-framed man before he turned his attention to the General and bent the knee in disgrace.
"Lord Irakles, please forgive the actions of my foolish subordinate. He is a howling, youthful beast, full of sound and fury, but is not a bad lad. I beg you, take my most sincere apologies for all the troubles he has caused you, and your family. I will personally make sure this behavior is dealt with at home with the highest severity possible." interfered the grey-haired militant as he bowed his head before the man and the boys he had insulted. "By your will, I shall order all of my men to leave the province immediately so that we might move past this terrible insult. Let this shameful display of stupidity not strain the friendship shared between the two kingdoms which we both love." And thus, the man kept his face low, enraging Damocles even further and further. Alas, his commander had issued the strictest order he had seen in his life. With a click of his tongue, he too folded under pressure and bent the knee, grumbling quietly to himself as he mimicked the old fool's actions.
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It had all happened so fast.
Before his mind could process it all, Damocles had been overwhelmed by that old goat of a man, causing his movements to fail in course and action. In an instant, Irakles of Mikaelidas had done what he had thought was impossible and defeated the eager-blooded youth. His wrist was caught, struck and attacked, calculatingly aimed for by the older soldier before Damocles was grounded against the floor. The man's foot had landed on that section, pushing with enough, precise force to fracture that collection of joints, as evident by the snapping sound that came off the injury. A sudden jolt of unexpected pain rushed through the youthful Magnemean, causing him to wince and grunt in response. Granted, it wasn't the worst injury he had ever sustained, but it had been precise enough for the Colchian to now that, from a logical standpoint, he would not be able to put up much of a proper fight following such assault.
His brow furrowed with rage and frustration. It had been two to zero now, an absolute disgrace for Magnemea and her people. How dared these foreigners make such a mockery of him in his precious homeland of all places. His teeth grit together, grinding against one-another as he beheld the circumstances of his veritable loss today. He had brought dishonor to the Damned, his unit. What a mess! What a horrible, awful fate. No. It couldn't end like this. He would not allow some out-of-shape geezer make a fool of him in such a blatant manner. Even though he knew his hand was in no shape to fight, Damocles pushed through and snarled like an animal, rising up with a burning fire in his silver eyes that nobody could misunderstand for nothing short of a killer instinct. "Shut up!" He roared, standing up with a challenging smirk on his face and an unwavering air of commitment to his gaze. "I'm not done with you yet, geezer. Come on! Face me one more time, you senile, old man! Face me with all you got!" demanded the arrogant youth between ragged breaths.
In that instinct however, a third presence stepped inside, standing ashamedly before the firebrand lieutenant. It was his captain, Clyvius, an equally decrepit bastard that was long-past his best days. What in the name of the Gods was he doing? Damocles had no idea what that haggard man was conteplating right now. And yet, before he knew it, the man turned his brown eyes to his subordinate with nothing but contempt. He was livid and embarrassed for what had transpired right now. "That's enough out of you, Damocles!" he shouted, channeling a fierce voice that the youth had never before witnessed. His grey eyes stood in stark, wide stares and his mouth gaped a little as he beheld his superior's actions. "One more word out of you and I will personally make sure your military career ends today! Now, shut your tongue and keep your silence, or else."threatened the comparatively smaller-framed man before he turned his attention to the General and bent the knee in disgrace.
"Lord Irakles, please forgive the actions of my foolish subordinate. He is a howling, youthful beast, full of sound and fury, but is not a bad lad. I beg you, take my most sincere apologies for all the troubles he has caused you, and your family. I will personally make sure this behavior is dealt with at home with the highest severity possible." interfered the grey-haired militant as he bowed his head before the man and the boys he had insulted. "By your will, I shall order all of my men to leave the province immediately so that we might move past this terrible insult. Let this shameful display of stupidity not strain the friendship shared between the two kingdoms which we both love." And thus, the man kept his face low, enraging Damocles even further and further. Alas, his commander had issued the strictest order he had seen in his life. With a click of his tongue, he too folded under pressure and bent the knee, grumbling quietly to himself as he mimicked the old fool's actions.
It had all happened so fast.
Before his mind could process it all, Damocles had been overwhelmed by that old goat of a man, causing his movements to fail in course and action. In an instant, Irakles of Mikaelidas had done what he had thought was impossible and defeated the eager-blooded youth. His wrist was caught, struck and attacked, calculatingly aimed for by the older soldier before Damocles was grounded against the floor. The man's foot had landed on that section, pushing with enough, precise force to fracture that collection of joints, as evident by the snapping sound that came off the injury. A sudden jolt of unexpected pain rushed through the youthful Magnemean, causing him to wince and grunt in response. Granted, it wasn't the worst injury he had ever sustained, but it had been precise enough for the Colchian to now that, from a logical standpoint, he would not be able to put up much of a proper fight following such assault.
His brow furrowed with rage and frustration. It had been two to zero now, an absolute disgrace for Magnemea and her people. How dared these foreigners make such a mockery of him in his precious homeland of all places. His teeth grit together, grinding against one-another as he beheld the circumstances of his veritable loss today. He had brought dishonor to the Damned, his unit. What a mess! What a horrible, awful fate. No. It couldn't end like this. He would not allow some out-of-shape geezer make a fool of him in such a blatant manner. Even though he knew his hand was in no shape to fight, Damocles pushed through and snarled like an animal, rising up with a burning fire in his silver eyes that nobody could misunderstand for nothing short of a killer instinct. "Shut up!" He roared, standing up with a challenging smirk on his face and an unwavering air of commitment to his gaze. "I'm not done with you yet, geezer. Come on! Face me one more time, you senile, old man! Face me with all you got!" demanded the arrogant youth between ragged breaths.
In that instinct however, a third presence stepped inside, standing ashamedly before the firebrand lieutenant. It was his captain, Clyvius, an equally decrepit bastard that was long-past his best days. What in the name of the Gods was he doing? Damocles had no idea what that haggard man was conteplating right now. And yet, before he knew it, the man turned his brown eyes to his subordinate with nothing but contempt. He was livid and embarrassed for what had transpired right now. "That's enough out of you, Damocles!" he shouted, channeling a fierce voice that the youth had never before witnessed. His grey eyes stood in stark, wide stares and his mouth gaped a little as he beheld his superior's actions. "One more word out of you and I will personally make sure your military career ends today! Now, shut your tongue and keep your silence, or else."threatened the comparatively smaller-framed man before he turned his attention to the General and bent the knee in disgrace.
"Lord Irakles, please forgive the actions of my foolish subordinate. He is a howling, youthful beast, full of sound and fury, but is not a bad lad. I beg you, take my most sincere apologies for all the troubles he has caused you, and your family. I will personally make sure this behavior is dealt with at home with the highest severity possible." interfered the grey-haired militant as he bowed his head before the man and the boys he had insulted. "By your will, I shall order all of my men to leave the province immediately so that we might move past this terrible insult. Let this shameful display of stupidity not strain the friendship shared between the two kingdoms which we both love." And thus, the man kept his face low, enraging Damocles even further and further. Alas, his commander had issued the strictest order he had seen in his life. With a click of his tongue, he too folded under pressure and bent the knee, grumbling quietly to himself as he mimicked the old fool's actions.
The fight was over much before it had begun. The Colchian was practiced with words and insults - insults that Achilleas gape at him, did he not know he addressed a Prince?!- but the younger man fell woefully short in technique. It was no surprise that his father ended the bout quickly when the youth began his attack with an attempt at a cheap shot, and Achilleas grimaced at the sight of the General grinding his boot on the younger man’s wrist. He could not hear the crack of bone but he imagined it nonetheless and let a low whistle out through his teeth.
“I bet that hurt” he observed to Stephanos, but it appeared even that was not enough to knock the swagger out of the Colchian, who got to his feet and began hollering at Achilleas’ father, the General and Prince. “Gods this boy is more stupid than I had given credit for. We will end up at war before this day is over at this rate”
He almost felt anxious about it, his gaze darting to his father to see how the man would bear such insult, but before the man could make an answer the Officer who had interceded before seemed finally to decide to rein in his impetuous charge. There was a quiet satisfaction in seeing the youth who had run his mouth now offer his obeisance to his father, and by extension, Taengea. Achilleas could not imagine the boy’s military career lasting long with such a lack of discipline. Nor could imagine ever addressing his father in such a manner, and there was almost grudging awe that someone else would dare to, not matter how improper it was.
He doubted that his father would see the whole unit dismissed, but Achilleas held his tongue on the matter anyway, rubbed absently at a bruise that was forming on his jaw. It had certainly been a more eventful day than he had anticipated.
“I had heard Colchian fighters were intense but this is above and beyond” the young baron muttered in a low tone to his cousin “If this fool is a fair example”
He would be taking some stories home with him, no doubt.
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The fight was over much before it had begun. The Colchian was practiced with words and insults - insults that Achilleas gape at him, did he not know he addressed a Prince?!- but the younger man fell woefully short in technique. It was no surprise that his father ended the bout quickly when the youth began his attack with an attempt at a cheap shot, and Achilleas grimaced at the sight of the General grinding his boot on the younger man’s wrist. He could not hear the crack of bone but he imagined it nonetheless and let a low whistle out through his teeth.
“I bet that hurt” he observed to Stephanos, but it appeared even that was not enough to knock the swagger out of the Colchian, who got to his feet and began hollering at Achilleas’ father, the General and Prince. “Gods this boy is more stupid than I had given credit for. We will end up at war before this day is over at this rate”
He almost felt anxious about it, his gaze darting to his father to see how the man would bear such insult, but before the man could make an answer the Officer who had interceded before seemed finally to decide to rein in his impetuous charge. There was a quiet satisfaction in seeing the youth who had run his mouth now offer his obeisance to his father, and by extension, Taengea. Achilleas could not imagine the boy’s military career lasting long with such a lack of discipline. Nor could imagine ever addressing his father in such a manner, and there was almost grudging awe that someone else would dare to, not matter how improper it was.
He doubted that his father would see the whole unit dismissed, but Achilleas held his tongue on the matter anyway, rubbed absently at a bruise that was forming on his jaw. It had certainly been a more eventful day than he had anticipated.
“I had heard Colchian fighters were intense but this is above and beyond” the young baron muttered in a low tone to his cousin “If this fool is a fair example”
He would be taking some stories home with him, no doubt.
The fight was over much before it had begun. The Colchian was practiced with words and insults - insults that Achilleas gape at him, did he not know he addressed a Prince?!- but the younger man fell woefully short in technique. It was no surprise that his father ended the bout quickly when the youth began his attack with an attempt at a cheap shot, and Achilleas grimaced at the sight of the General grinding his boot on the younger man’s wrist. He could not hear the crack of bone but he imagined it nonetheless and let a low whistle out through his teeth.
“I bet that hurt” he observed to Stephanos, but it appeared even that was not enough to knock the swagger out of the Colchian, who got to his feet and began hollering at Achilleas’ father, the General and Prince. “Gods this boy is more stupid than I had given credit for. We will end up at war before this day is over at this rate”
He almost felt anxious about it, his gaze darting to his father to see how the man would bear such insult, but before the man could make an answer the Officer who had interceded before seemed finally to decide to rein in his impetuous charge. There was a quiet satisfaction in seeing the youth who had run his mouth now offer his obeisance to his father, and by extension, Taengea. Achilleas could not imagine the boy’s military career lasting long with such a lack of discipline. Nor could imagine ever addressing his father in such a manner, and there was almost grudging awe that someone else would dare to, not matter how improper it was.
He doubted that his father would see the whole unit dismissed, but Achilleas held his tongue on the matter anyway, rubbed absently at a bruise that was forming on his jaw. It had certainly been a more eventful day than he had anticipated.
“I had heard Colchian fighters were intense but this is above and beyond” the young baron muttered in a low tone to his cousin “If this fool is a fair example”
He would be taking some stories home with him, no doubt.
Stephanos had watched this ‘fight’ in utter bemusement, contempt, and confusion. What he’d wanted was for the Colchian soldier to have his backside handed to him. It was soothing, in a way, to have his uncle angry at someone else, for once. However, instead of a lot of blood and severe wounded pride from Damocles, there was a lot of yelling, only a few bits of fighting, and a lot of Stephanos standing with his arms folded, shifting from one foot to the other. With his mouth screwed up into a near permanent line of disappointment, Stephanos watched Damocles being shouted at with as much enjoyment as he could muster...which wasn’t a whole lot. Without Damocles passed out on the ground, this whole exercise felt rather pointless.
Not that there hadn’t been a little bit of a scuffle...but not enough to satisfy Stephanos’s notion of revenge. Achilleas had leaned over to him, musing aloud that Damocles had to be hurting from the boot thump to his wrist but Stephanos merely growled under his breath and gave a noncommittal shrug.
"Gods this boy is more stupid than I had given credit for. We will end up at war before this day is over at this rate"
“I doubt we’ll be at war,” Stephanos disagreed unhappily. “But I wish he’d end up in an ox yoke or something for his idiocy.”
"I had heard Colchian fighters were intense but this is above and beyond. If this fool is a fair example"
It wasn’t like they hadn’t met any other men from Colchis. Or women, for that matter. And while Stephanos could see how the two kingdoms were severely opposite, there were many good people here that he did like. No kingdom was without its share of freaks. It was just that situations like these tended to draw the more bombastic ones. Like Damocles. Stephanos rubbed his chin where a harrowing patch of stubble was making itself known. He’d never be able to grow a full beard but he was pretty proud of what he could manage.
“Let’s agree that if we see him without supervision, we’ll jump him and leave him naked in a public square to be found by his superiors,” Stephanos grinned. The rest of their time in Colchis was spent much more agreeably than this afternoon had been, but the incident was burned forever in Prince Stephanos’s mind. He’d never, ever, forget, and wasn’t likely to forgive it quickly, either.
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Stephanos had watched this ‘fight’ in utter bemusement, contempt, and confusion. What he’d wanted was for the Colchian soldier to have his backside handed to him. It was soothing, in a way, to have his uncle angry at someone else, for once. However, instead of a lot of blood and severe wounded pride from Damocles, there was a lot of yelling, only a few bits of fighting, and a lot of Stephanos standing with his arms folded, shifting from one foot to the other. With his mouth screwed up into a near permanent line of disappointment, Stephanos watched Damocles being shouted at with as much enjoyment as he could muster...which wasn’t a whole lot. Without Damocles passed out on the ground, this whole exercise felt rather pointless.
Not that there hadn’t been a little bit of a scuffle...but not enough to satisfy Stephanos’s notion of revenge. Achilleas had leaned over to him, musing aloud that Damocles had to be hurting from the boot thump to his wrist but Stephanos merely growled under his breath and gave a noncommittal shrug.
"Gods this boy is more stupid than I had given credit for. We will end up at war before this day is over at this rate"
“I doubt we’ll be at war,” Stephanos disagreed unhappily. “But I wish he’d end up in an ox yoke or something for his idiocy.”
"I had heard Colchian fighters were intense but this is above and beyond. If this fool is a fair example"
It wasn’t like they hadn’t met any other men from Colchis. Or women, for that matter. And while Stephanos could see how the two kingdoms were severely opposite, there were many good people here that he did like. No kingdom was without its share of freaks. It was just that situations like these tended to draw the more bombastic ones. Like Damocles. Stephanos rubbed his chin where a harrowing patch of stubble was making itself known. He’d never be able to grow a full beard but he was pretty proud of what he could manage.
“Let’s agree that if we see him without supervision, we’ll jump him and leave him naked in a public square to be found by his superiors,” Stephanos grinned. The rest of their time in Colchis was spent much more agreeably than this afternoon had been, but the incident was burned forever in Prince Stephanos’s mind. He’d never, ever, forget, and wasn’t likely to forgive it quickly, either.
Stephanos had watched this ‘fight’ in utter bemusement, contempt, and confusion. What he’d wanted was for the Colchian soldier to have his backside handed to him. It was soothing, in a way, to have his uncle angry at someone else, for once. However, instead of a lot of blood and severe wounded pride from Damocles, there was a lot of yelling, only a few bits of fighting, and a lot of Stephanos standing with his arms folded, shifting from one foot to the other. With his mouth screwed up into a near permanent line of disappointment, Stephanos watched Damocles being shouted at with as much enjoyment as he could muster...which wasn’t a whole lot. Without Damocles passed out on the ground, this whole exercise felt rather pointless.
Not that there hadn’t been a little bit of a scuffle...but not enough to satisfy Stephanos’s notion of revenge. Achilleas had leaned over to him, musing aloud that Damocles had to be hurting from the boot thump to his wrist but Stephanos merely growled under his breath and gave a noncommittal shrug.
"Gods this boy is more stupid than I had given credit for. We will end up at war before this day is over at this rate"
“I doubt we’ll be at war,” Stephanos disagreed unhappily. “But I wish he’d end up in an ox yoke or something for his idiocy.”
"I had heard Colchian fighters were intense but this is above and beyond. If this fool is a fair example"
It wasn’t like they hadn’t met any other men from Colchis. Or women, for that matter. And while Stephanos could see how the two kingdoms were severely opposite, there were many good people here that he did like. No kingdom was without its share of freaks. It was just that situations like these tended to draw the more bombastic ones. Like Damocles. Stephanos rubbed his chin where a harrowing patch of stubble was making itself known. He’d never be able to grow a full beard but he was pretty proud of what he could manage.
“Let’s agree that if we see him without supervision, we’ll jump him and leave him naked in a public square to be found by his superiors,” Stephanos grinned. The rest of their time in Colchis was spent much more agreeably than this afternoon had been, but the incident was burned forever in Prince Stephanos’s mind. He’d never, ever, forget, and wasn’t likely to forgive it quickly, either.
Irakles, despite his machinations and grand dreams, rarely played dirty on a level sparring field. In a battlefield, it was no holds barred, and he would do whatever it took to ensure he was the one who walked off alive. But in a sparring field, he took it as a time to train technique, and used it to honestly hone his skills - yet, he was unafraid to stoop down to his opponents level.
The crack had been satisfying to say the least, and with a wrist out of comission, the Taengean general was all but guaranteed a victory, smirking at the arrogant youth's loud shouts of hot air. All bark and no bite huh? Well, Irakles wasn't afraid to show him what a little skill and experience could do over years of brawn and muscles. He may be older, but one fought with brains as well as muscle.
He had rolled his shoulders back, cracking his knuckles ready to go yet another round with Damocles, when the surprising appearance of the captain paused his motions. Irakles's bone to pick was with the loud-mouthed youth, and didn't wish to harm anyone as collateral, at least not in front of watching Colchians. He had a reputation to uphold. Watching as the captain whipped the young firebrand into shape, the general eventually relaxed his stance when he realized what he was doing, and a wry smile drew his lips upwards.
"I trust in you, Captain Clyvius, please, do not bow on his affront. He should learn from his mistakes, so I trust in your ability to deal with his behavior." He responded to the grey-haired militant, excusing the captain from apologizing for a behaviour that wasn't his to begin with. Shifting his gaze to the youth however, the glint in his eyes hardened, and Irakles bent to pick up the gauntlet he had heeled away from Damocles himself, and threw it in the younger man's face, even as he bent at his knee to follow his mentor. "Fights can be won by brawn, but even more are won by brain. Perhaps you might need to see into training the latter, in order to succeed." he curtly said, and with another respectful bow to the captain, he turned to the young boys of Taengea who had come with him.
"Boys, we'll return to the Eubocris keep for now. You all need to clean up lest we dirty their halls, understood?" he instructed in a tone clear and commanding, the kind of aura which had earned him the title of general of the Taengean armies, coming from years of royal training.
Without another look back, Irakles made sure all the boys under his charge filed back, before he too went along with them.
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Check out their information page here.
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Irakles, despite his machinations and grand dreams, rarely played dirty on a level sparring field. In a battlefield, it was no holds barred, and he would do whatever it took to ensure he was the one who walked off alive. But in a sparring field, he took it as a time to train technique, and used it to honestly hone his skills - yet, he was unafraid to stoop down to his opponents level.
The crack had been satisfying to say the least, and with a wrist out of comission, the Taengean general was all but guaranteed a victory, smirking at the arrogant youth's loud shouts of hot air. All bark and no bite huh? Well, Irakles wasn't afraid to show him what a little skill and experience could do over years of brawn and muscles. He may be older, but one fought with brains as well as muscle.
He had rolled his shoulders back, cracking his knuckles ready to go yet another round with Damocles, when the surprising appearance of the captain paused his motions. Irakles's bone to pick was with the loud-mouthed youth, and didn't wish to harm anyone as collateral, at least not in front of watching Colchians. He had a reputation to uphold. Watching as the captain whipped the young firebrand into shape, the general eventually relaxed his stance when he realized what he was doing, and a wry smile drew his lips upwards.
"I trust in you, Captain Clyvius, please, do not bow on his affront. He should learn from his mistakes, so I trust in your ability to deal with his behavior." He responded to the grey-haired militant, excusing the captain from apologizing for a behaviour that wasn't his to begin with. Shifting his gaze to the youth however, the glint in his eyes hardened, and Irakles bent to pick up the gauntlet he had heeled away from Damocles himself, and threw it in the younger man's face, even as he bent at his knee to follow his mentor. "Fights can be won by brawn, but even more are won by brain. Perhaps you might need to see into training the latter, in order to succeed." he curtly said, and with another respectful bow to the captain, he turned to the young boys of Taengea who had come with him.
"Boys, we'll return to the Eubocris keep for now. You all need to clean up lest we dirty their halls, understood?" he instructed in a tone clear and commanding, the kind of aura which had earned him the title of general of the Taengean armies, coming from years of royal training.
Without another look back, Irakles made sure all the boys under his charge filed back, before he too went along with them.
Irakles, despite his machinations and grand dreams, rarely played dirty on a level sparring field. In a battlefield, it was no holds barred, and he would do whatever it took to ensure he was the one who walked off alive. But in a sparring field, he took it as a time to train technique, and used it to honestly hone his skills - yet, he was unafraid to stoop down to his opponents level.
The crack had been satisfying to say the least, and with a wrist out of comission, the Taengean general was all but guaranteed a victory, smirking at the arrogant youth's loud shouts of hot air. All bark and no bite huh? Well, Irakles wasn't afraid to show him what a little skill and experience could do over years of brawn and muscles. He may be older, but one fought with brains as well as muscle.
He had rolled his shoulders back, cracking his knuckles ready to go yet another round with Damocles, when the surprising appearance of the captain paused his motions. Irakles's bone to pick was with the loud-mouthed youth, and didn't wish to harm anyone as collateral, at least not in front of watching Colchians. He had a reputation to uphold. Watching as the captain whipped the young firebrand into shape, the general eventually relaxed his stance when he realized what he was doing, and a wry smile drew his lips upwards.
"I trust in you, Captain Clyvius, please, do not bow on his affront. He should learn from his mistakes, so I trust in your ability to deal with his behavior." He responded to the grey-haired militant, excusing the captain from apologizing for a behaviour that wasn't his to begin with. Shifting his gaze to the youth however, the glint in his eyes hardened, and Irakles bent to pick up the gauntlet he had heeled away from Damocles himself, and threw it in the younger man's face, even as he bent at his knee to follow his mentor. "Fights can be won by brawn, but even more are won by brain. Perhaps you might need to see into training the latter, in order to succeed." he curtly said, and with another respectful bow to the captain, he turned to the young boys of Taengea who had come with him.
"Boys, we'll return to the Eubocris keep for now. You all need to clean up lest we dirty their halls, understood?" he instructed in a tone clear and commanding, the kind of aura which had earned him the title of general of the Taengean armies, coming from years of royal training.
Without another look back, Irakles made sure all the boys under his charge filed back, before he too went along with them.