soldier, poet, king

forge ahead

[mydcimos]

𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖎𝖈𝖊, 𝖓𝖔 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖊

𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒔𝒌 - [ 𝒎𝒚𝒅𝒆𝒊 / 𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒏 ]

[eachdawn]

brows pinch sharply almost on impulse at the mention of burning the abandoned books, but the nagging, angry thought the mental image provokes is quickly and quietly subdued as expression evens out to something neutral once more. phainon bends down to pick one up as mydei continues speaking, looking first at the cover: simple blocks of color portray a woman in a long, billowing skirt with a wide-brimmed hat as she stands against the railing of one of the vehicles he'd seen driving around the city on metal tracks, face angled towards the figure of a man at the side of the vehicle who seems to be watching her in turn. the trolley problem: a love story, the simple title reads: a flip inside the cover starts the tale of a woman named margaret with dusty hair that curls softly and freckles on her cheeks who is posed with a difficult, near-impossible choice from the very first line...

hairs stand up on the back of his neck: phainon lowers the novel in his hand.

ah. mydei is looking at him.

he glances up and holds the eye contact quietly: then, when it seems the other man has finished his thought, he shakes his head and starts to walk over. "well, I'd wager that the person who owns these things likes sad and romantic stories," not that this assertion has anything to do with anything at all. he still doesn't like the idea of burning these, as silly or serious as they may be. then, a slow sigh: he pushes the book to the other man's chest, and nods his head towards a narrow staircase partly concealed by a shadowy hallway beyond this main room. "let's go upstairs and see if there's anything better to work with, maybe some furniture that the homeowner thought was too much a hassle to bring down earlier this week. it should be a little warmer up there, too." he doesn't move on himself just yet, though --- a glance down that traces over red markings wonders about what his final thought left implied and unsaid.

are you cold this time, genuinely? it seems so.

[mydcimos]

Sad, romantic stories? At first, he doesn’t understand the tangent, amber eyes searching Phainon’s expression to determine his dwindling sanity before he catches the book itself. The cover. “Tales of grief are rarely romantic.” He stalls, trying to picture it. To love and feel sadness for it? He doesn’t know why it’s important he point this out, so in the next breath he’s moving to where Phainon wishes to go. “You sound foolish.”

In and out. They’ve already accomplished their objective…but he can concede that it’d be smarter to see what else they can offer dying flames.

It is warmer, if only by a few degrees. Enough for Mydei’s skin to prickle with added awareness. The hallways are cramped and narrow – some flaw of design that allows the buildings to be so closely packed together while still housing full families. “They would have fared better staying in this house.” He says to himself, bypassing a child’s room along the corridor and finding two larger ones. In each, the linens had been stripped from the beds and taken titan’s only know where. The clothes were small, more befitting of one the size of Anaxagoras or Hyacine. “We can break down bed frames. Take these-“ These are thick, heavy curtains. Someone had clearly attempted to take them  down without the proper tools and had given up halfway through.

After a few testing tugs, he rips the steel beam from the wall itself, limbs protesting his call to shift away from the debris. At least it’s nothing like Amphoreus’ falling pillars, he thinks, but it still draws a hiss from behind clenched teeth. Cool air rushes in from the place where the wall has been broken overhead, but the drape of thick fabric in his hands seems worth it. “Don’t just stand there.” He commands, wiping dust from stinging eyes and finding a bit of golden blood from how it collapsed over his head.

It's nothing. “Come…and help me.” Better that Phainon take the curtains, too long and tangled for his aching fingers.

[mydcimos]

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞, 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲...

noncommission thread. mydei/phainon.

[mydcimos]

Of course you don’t understand.

Mydei’s lips curl, a sneer. The reception of his people in Ohkema has been met with opposition from all sides. His Detachment, his people, who alternate between obeying his command and calling for his traitorous golden blood. Phainon’s response validates that the feelings must be mutual.

He still seeks to understand why Aglaea would send this man to stand before him. If the Goldweaver is as all-knowing as rumor suggests, then she must believe that Phainon’s simpering means something to him. Right? “Yes.” It would do no good to explain the traditions of his people to those who stand ready to find flaw. “Understand that you try my patience.”

A celebration is a celebration, after all. “If I wish to send my most loyal warrior to the Sea of Souls to demonstrate reverence to the dead, what will you do?” As he says this, he paces closer – well within reach to strike.

[eachdawn]

pale eyes widen and trace movement as mydei speaks and paces closer --- what would aglaea do? she sent him here to try and mediate, after all: when the other man's words turn more perplexing, a few blinks accompany a bewildered response. "what...? send your most loyal to... you mean to say you'd take a man's life that he's sworn to you, just to satisfy some sort of ritual for those who have passed?" a life taken for souls that could not answer for a heavy sacrifice made... has his own capacity to return after each death clouded mydei's judgement of a life's value? it can't be a lack of loss of those he cares for in the past, of that phainon is sure: the crumbling of the kremnoan kingdom had to come with countless casualties.

phainon shakes his head, and steps closer himself, a hand outstretched to one side to try and emphasize a lack of harmful intent. "that isn't a peaceful way to revere the dead. it's just... loss, for loss's sake," dark smoke spread across fields of gold, a scent of something burning turned foul --- he's losing the objective here, phainon realizes, mediation abandoned in favor of questioning without fully comprehending. "the lives of ordinary people, kremnoan or no... once gone, they're gone. that can't be an acceptable outcome for the detachment in its current state, can it?"

[mydcimos]

Just like that, the veil of understanding crumbles like armor made of glass. Pleasing as it might seem on the surface, it shatters in seconds. 

You led him astray on purpose, a voice in his mind whispers, but Mydeimos shoves it away and attempts not to roll his eyes. The Deliverer is too soft, despite what others say of him.

Too open. Confusion makes his eyes brighter. Anguish and uncertainty etch so perfectly across pale features that Mydei thinks even the most skilled of artists would fail to capture the raw emotion. This must be why they try, if he can mimic determination in the blaze of battle. 

Nevermind that their views of death are startlingly similar. The Crown Prince would never admit it, but the Ohkeman way of mourning feels familiar. “So you say,” he grumbles, still at war over whether or not Phainon’s outstretched hand is an invitation for the fight he’d rather be having. “The state of the Kremnoan Detachment is no business of yours…” Despite meaning every word, pins the warrior with a glare that dares a refusal. “We will have this. You, Deliverer, will attend at my side.” If the Heirs demanded his people have supervision, then he would shoulder the responsibility.

“Tonight.”

[eachdawn]

small warmth in the snowdrifts.

in which there may or may not eventually be a race to the death with @mydcimos.

[eachdawn]

"tracking bears down in a chilly forest..." quiet falls between them as the offer is considered. it certainly wasn't his first impulse of a challenge to make out of this --- instead, phainon was considering who could tame one best before they found where the cubs belong, or seeing who could come up with the best name. ( he wonders if mydei expects exactly that. then again, who knows what he's thinking, truly?... )

after a few more moments pacing along in the snow, a noise aside from the crunch underfoot comes from below in the form of a soft, small grunt: the bear snuggled into his own arms and against his chest nuzzles a little closer, and yawns slightly before burying its face in the bend of one arm. "sure, I'll even concede your head start of two bear cubs to my little one. if there were only four total, couldn't that result in a tie? or is it two still out there... either way, let's get moving."

several more minutes pass, and the trail of small paw prints in the snow starts to fade into no clear forward path as they run over a large patch of exposed tundra, doubtlessly thawing under cool sunlight overhead. phainon's steps slow as pale eyes strain to look for even the smallest indentation in the damp dirt... but after considering it further, he starts to walk around the perimeter of the bare patch of tundra to look for the cubs' path forward.

as he walks, phainon calls back to the other man --- "so, if you're so sure I have no hunting skills, does that mean you have them yourself, mydei? I do actually know a thing or two about fishing." though, as he thinks on it... there was a trick galba had tried to teach him once that he practiced with small pests in the wheat fields. but he never had the opportunity to learn enough from the village hunters back home, did he?... feet stop in front of where paw prints seem to resume, diverting off to the right towards denser forest: then, phainon turns up to mydei with a smile. "let me guess. you're able to hunt and feed yourself for weeks on wild dromas meat, if need be?"

[mydcimos]

“Hmph.” Given their history, he’d never needed to consider Phainon’s survival skills outside of battle. Whether the other keeps walking, Mydei holds still, but Phainon’s footsteps aren’t inherently different whether it’s here in a field of snow or there stalking towards danger. There is a level of grace that’s required. His boots make little sound, dodging any fallen leaves and twigs that might make startling sounds with what looks to be no effort at all.

In contrast, Mydei’s armor creates a specific sound even crunching soft snow. “We won’t starve, if that’s your concern.” He has hunted before. Bare handed and wading in viciously chilly water for an ambitious fish. On the long stretches of land between cities, though the Kremnoan Detachment was more keen to serve their prince in this way. After a few moments, he treads closer, conceding. One of the bear cubs wobbles on his shoulder, pulling his hair further around his face as it catches itself from falling. “There are others with more practice, but I.” How to word it? He struggles, gazing away from Phainon to find the right sentiment. “I would hunt for what this planet offers for you, if it comes to it.”

He'd do so on Amphoreus as well. At least here he would be spared from his kin taking note of such a great show of devotion.

Abruptly, he realizes that what he’s proposed is an awful idea. “…just forget it.” It’s likely that he won’t, but the cold and the scrambling cubs leave them with little options other than pressing forward. “We should tread closer to the mountainside. If there are rivers that run from it then wildlife might be more willing to make a home there.” And…if they were out in the wilderness for long, it would give them the supplies to survive.

[virtuouslife]

⋆✦₊‧ — HALF LIGHT.

Mydei & Kallen. — Commission : Abundance.

[virtuouslife]

HELPLESSLY, KALLEN'S MIND REACTS BEFORE HER WOUNDED BODY CAN. she screams at herself to dodge, to pull the triggers, to get up, to do anyth — blankness. sudden blankness, silence, pure absence of thought. the back of her head knocks roughly against the wall behind her as the enemy, the man — is he a man? — makes sounds at her. gasping for air, animal-like, she tries to wrench her hands free. every movement she makes is answered by some kind of weak, shuddering noise: a groan, a hiss, a sharp inhale. it takes her a moment to realize she is the source. half-succumbing to the flower of pain blooming in her abdomen's wound, kallen tries to focus — on anything: the man's distant voice, the pressure of his hands on her wrists, even the pain still radiating through her. ... no need to fear ... okhema ... quickly, what is your ... kallen stills.

words, these are words. her enemy — no, not enemy — is speaking to her, or rather, interrogating her. her pistols clatter to the ground. she lifts her gaze; it darts across the man's face in search of something. recognition? no. harmlessness? certainly not. the frantic look in her eyes fizzles out, replaced by a steely resolve — even if the lacerating pain in her body makes it hard to stand her ground.

“you think i — ?!” kallen winces. her expression shifts from indignation and anger to pained. she shakes her head, taking in another shaky breath. briefly, she closes her eyes and exhales, strained. “no, i didn't do this. ... it was the damned honkai,” except that isn't what they call it on this planet, though she can't remember its name amidst the fog of pain. these things were faster than the average honkai beast, though — and far more corrosive. “we thought — at first, we thought we found them, the missing guards, the patrol group, but ... ” it's hard to think. each time, the carnage of battle — in war or not, for justice or not — sears itself into her mind like inevitability. another layer of horror atop the countless layers already there. words fail her; they always do, with each restart, each attempt to pinpoint what went wrong — or to explain why it happened, at all. “i knew something was, i should've, they attacked so quickly — ”

suddenly, with newfound urgency, she abruptly quiets. her gaze searches the man's — mydei's — face. what happened to the two who managed to escape the initial massacre? had he seen them? her mouth opens, closes, then opens again, “tell me, please. did you run into anyone else?”

[mydcimos]

Hesitation on any field of battle could spell a well-deserved defeat. It was how his people earned tales of ruthlessness: kill first and never question the decision afterward. Mercy is only a word used by outsiders.

Hearing her speak is not mercy. Perhaps his Ohkeman companions would even find it cruel, tightening his grip and pressing forward with more of his weight while the woman shivers and bleeds like an injured animal caught in a predator’s jaws. But he listens, gaze narrowed and focused where he looks down at the girl with eyes that burn with an intensity that only few can match.

On the surface, she has done nothing wrong. “No.” Instantly, he realizes that he will need to offer more. “You have walked with arrogance into an area tainted by the Black Tide…and suffered the consequences.” There was a reason that the guards were merely meant to defend cities. Full-scale attacks needed one…maybe two Chrysos Heirs, depending on the two.

Decided, he relents, drawing away slowly to assess the blood dripping from her middle. “I saw no one alive. Only you. The others have already joined the sea of souls.” A pointed glance. Do not look for them. “As will you, should you choose to stay here. This wound of yours will be deadly.” How long did she have? He couldn’t guess, his own sense of fatal wounds warped by his body’s ability to mend itself. To live after death.

“Can you walk?” A demand more than anything, he casts his eyes away long enough to judge the endless night stretching ahead. Ohkema was only hours away at his pace. “I carry no healing supplies.”

[mydcimos]

「 ♆ 」 𝘔𝘰𝘭ṑ𝘯 𝘭𝘢𝘣é

abundance commission [ mydei | boothill ]

[crackshct]

"You folks send your children off to fancy pants schools like this one?" Boothill snorted in turn, taking his hand off the handle of his gun as they drew near. The marble columns rose steadily around the pair's approach, throwing long, impressive shadows down over the courtyard and eliciting a whistle of admiration from the cowboy, who'd never seen a school of this caliber before. No matter how his companion seemed to mock its scars, he couldn't help but marvel at it. No wonder all his kinsmen seemed so in-sync with one another on their march through the city gates; they were getting military training from childhood. In clean, well-maintained institutions like this.

"In my line o' work, you run into all kindsa mean muddlefudgers who ain't afraid of death." He grinned with all his teeth then, a dangerous, predatory sort of look that, for a moment, made him look more machine than human, especially in the slant of shade from one of the pillars where his bionic eye glowed faintly. It wouldn't have taken much for Mydei to guess that he was referring to himself, and that he splayed his metal hands open at his sides in a gesture at the whole of his cybernetic body.

"A good thing about it is that it makes 'em reckless, and one wrong move is all I need--"

He drew his gun from his holster before he'd even finished the word, pivoting on his heel and sighting his target in the next breath. Mydeimos had only barely passed in front of the muzzle when - BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG - the revolver was soon smoking from the six shots it'd just let loose. With it still pressed against his hip and his hand laid over its hammer, Boothill took stock of the six straw effigies gathered in an uneven line on the other side of the courtyard. Each one had a single hole seared through the head or the heart - each a lethal shot had the training dummies been living, breathing humans.

He flashed his companion a proud smirk and empty the chamber with a flick of his wrist. The shells bounced off the marble beneath his feet.

"How's that for quick, partner? Take a close look," he nodded toward the straw figures, "you won't find a single miss."

[mydcimos]

In Castrum Kremnos, the signs and sounds of battle were commonplace. The metal tang of blood ever present even if the walkways were pristine, immaculately kept. In fact, the silence with which they moved was likely more suspicious, more dangerous to his purpose as a byproduct…. but it doesn’t excuse recklessness.

The sudden shots still echoed around his skull. Deafening like few things could be. Like a spearhead splitting thick stone or the full-bodied crackle of a soldier’s spine snapping in half. It brought the heartrate to life, muscle memory forcing him to shift his weight toward a fight. All that sound, and he could still hear the unmistakable march of footfalls flying toward their position. The only consolation were the fatal wounds in unmoving targets. Deadly aim was a useful thing in his own army. Did he have the same talent with a bow?

“…Hks.” Half exasperated, half vicious, Mydeimos had no time for any other expression. It would have to be enough to hope that this man could read intent from action. The action? Mydeimos surged forward with a heavy breath, allowing the spear strapped to his back to slide forward, scrapping marble with a loud screech. There they are. Someone called to others, barely audible over the sound of a metal gauntlet scrapping…metal?

He had wondered already if the whole-bodied armor was as it appeared. It was more, somehow, the strength of his grip finding no flesh to tear into during their brief collision. Shoving the shorter man aside, the sweep of the spear followed even faster, creating distance. Their audience became larger – men and women of all ages and status. Some with food, others with drink, the mob that moved from one streetside battle to the next. “We fight until you can no longer stand,” He said, feeling kind enough to fill the outsider in on matches that weren’t to the death. His countrymen, oblivious to the Prince that stood in their midst, cheer him at this, taking jabs at the foreigner in the same breath.

Mydeimos wouldn’t allow himself to be swept up by the mood, finding anger and irritation to fuel the glare he sent his opponent. You caused this, he wanted to say. “Unless you wish to yield.”

[seenohearnovishnu]

Drakos Canavarı

#GHRevelation2025 ┆ Kosma & Mydei ┆ Cont. Fight Club

[seenohearnovishnu]

The room was as much a piercing shriek as it was silent to him. While his natural form does not give way easily to the fleshy internals so easily—he can be banged, rattled, blunt shocked, and stabbed with considerably more force around his center of mass than most, but he's no sponge as his bones still shake and his organs kick in retaliation as Honkai energy overflows in a dangerous concoctions. Wafts of human scents and some that are not so human catch his tongue and with it pressed down in his mouth, he knew it was only time.

If the world froze at all it was because it had turned topsy-turvy, or wait, maybe that was his vertigo as even in retreat he wasn't fast enough. A full-on grapple was the worst possible conclusion for him right now, distraction and misdirection of limbs that could potentially tear him down if they worked together had been his plan and yet here, here they were again. He tried moving back but he was caught in the grip—

[Defense] Roll 1d20 ┆ Result: `9`

—its golden gauntlets that yanked him forward by simply being planted solid and their uneven weight. His grip was enough to crush and if Kosma let the raising of ringing bells and tinnitus be anything to go by, he just might. A heat flashes in his arm, and it loses response until it starts to kick up a fuss, the energy inside it puppeting it while he's immobilized to no benefit for its release. He can't tell what causes its unresponsiveness, Mydeimos' strength or his own weakness, but it happens as he lets out the first audible pained noise. The decorum and wall he puts up in his image is broken for a sight that—for a brief moment—looks as genuine as possible.

"... n—HGGH!" His silent streak is broken just before he finds himself under Mydeimos' hand.

[Constitution, Flavor] Roll 1d20 ┆ Result: `8`

The grip strength is far above what he was expecting from a grapple but the head was only a natural option. And his defenses were not up to par, and neither was his body ready for grab. The only saving grace he has in this position is his no need for oxygen to survive, but his spine was still something to consider. The hand that holds him is sure to be able to raise him, even if Kosma's sure of his actual weight being off-putting perhaps with his thinner visage, it comes to reason his legs might be useless eventually.

Either if he's dragged up or pinned to the floor, he reasons his legs would have to do something.

[Attack] Roll 1d20 ┆ Result: `8`

With his hand still spasming, he's also sure kicking at the chest he had just injured would be sufficient. But one of his feet did not kick as high and simply scratched down his side and belt like a pitiful flail. His left foot managed to kick his stomach, missing his target, as Kosma bears his teeth.

"You'll have... to try harder." He pants. He doesn't mean it as a goad but he does not correct himself as he realizes they are in this for perhaps separate reasons...

But Kosma couldn't find himself wishing for anyone else to see him like this. A stranger who has him by the throat, yes, but he doesn't feel particularly in danger—maybe that was the insanity, instability kicking in as he realized the turning of the tides. He couldn't tell if he was sure he'd win, he wasn't a fighter who enjoyed the brawl. But the thought of the hits taking effect and perhaps allowing Kosma energy to expend and finding an actual ferocious gentleman, but still rational in all ways, was far too tempting.

He looked like he was having fun, while Kosma only now felt joy on the cusp. Was that insanity as well?

[mydcimos]

Try harder.

It isn’t like he hasn’t heard the words before. Often, they’re from his own lips. Aimed at a budding warrior or a fool in over his head. In the past, it’d been his mentor. His friends. Those seeking to see him move without restraint. Something befitting of his status and the glory he aimed to achieve.

Now the words smother the worst of the fire in his limbs. Underneath him, there is a boy whose strength doesn’t match his size, who struggles for purchase even when Mydei has him by the throat. The flesh under his hand is warm, which means that crushing his airway would be a simple thing. He can almost imagine it, is practiced enough in it that he can see it. Rage twists his expression. “This fight is over.” Despite his claim, the crowd doesn’t cease. The roar of imminent victory washes over him, encourages the violence. “You’ve proven yourself. I’ll have no more of this.”

Best for the both of them, but Mydei increases the pressure on the other’s windpipe until the words can sink in. Then, he stands, and finally the crowd’s cheer begins to wither. “Come and tend your wounds, Fire Moth.” Already the wounds done to Mydei were fading – courtesy of his own accelerated healing. Could the same be said for his opponent?

[avcnturine]

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗣 𝗗𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗘⠀──⠀⋆˙⛃

comm. ELATION⠀∶⠀belobog continuation.

[avcnturine]

WITH ALL THE CHAOS FINALLY SETTLING DOWN ,　♤　jarilo-vi was back to looking more like its usual abandoned self. it was almost sad, how quickly everyone packed up to board the first ship home as soon as interstellar connections opened up again, and the festival had been all but forgotten, overriden by the weeks of danger, fear, and stress after. people couldn't wait to get out of here, as if afraid that everything would freeze back over again if they risked waiting an extra day or two.

but given their liaison and topaz's situation, the IPC was still hanging around, first to arrive and, it was looking like, one of the last to go: helping with repairs, shipping in aid supplies, and bringing in doctors to treat the wounded. part of it was the ordinary business of lending an ally a hand, but it was also about negotiation and asset management. even now, opal was likely projected on a big screen in qlipoth fort, going on day three of talks with the new supreme guardian.

as for him, once all the belated cleanup for the IPC ★ FINALE was finished, he'd be free to take his own leave and head back to pier point.

"oh? you're still here?"

but walking through the main gate of the nearly-stripped race site, he's surprised to find an unexpected figure standing by the fences today, seemingly watching the groups of workers disassembling, moving, and packing. blond and imposing, and still barely dressed. "mister mydei, was it?" he recalls that the amphorean had been among the names of the competition finalists at the time ; though they hadn't spoken much in their own qualifying race, somehow he hadn't been too surprised. considering the circumstances of any ' home ' he might've had to go back to though, he imagines that leaving for him wasn't as easy as it was for everyone else. "i happen to know a little about what happened with amphoreus. i was actually just wondering what all of your plans were now that things here have gotten back under control."　/　@mydcimos

[mydcimos]

“…you consider this under control?” For all of the derision wrapped in his tone, Mydei’s brow is raised. He angles himself to fully face the other man with an expression that belies a kind of dry amusement.

If he’s honest, Jarilo-VI’s resilience draws him. That a people can be fierce enough to weather such an attack and conquer it in mere days is impressive in ways that most city-states are not. They late his people’s military sense and brutality…but the spirits are similar. The drive. Mydei finds himself offering aid to stunned citizens simply because he wishes it.

The fabric fastened to his shoulder catches the wind as he shrugs, folding his arms across his chest. “You know of Amphoreus.” There’s a surprise all of its own, the gold of his gaze sharpening as he studies Aventurine anew. He’s… Mydeimos has never been skilled at putting people into categories. Has to spend much more time with a person to find their worth than the handful of hours they spent in proximity.

Aventurine is different. His speech flutters forth like any councilman Mydei has ever known except that it doesn’t immediately grate the nerves. A good thing or… dangerous. His feet stay planted to the spot, not yet moved to walk away. Unfortunately, this revelation does not grant the other man the right to know his movements. “Then- why have you approached me? If you work for the event, then you know I have offered my aid until the city no longer needs it. Speak your intent.”

[mydcimos]

𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖎𝖈𝖊, 𝖓𝖔 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖊

𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒔𝒌 - [ 𝒎𝒚𝒅𝒆𝒊 / 𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒏 ]

[eachdawn]

little more than an exasperated huff answers mydei's assertion as they start to walk away from the camp: if they burned these clothes and no new ones came before the fire went out... what then, mydeimos?... the thought makes pale blue shoot a glare back at the suggestion that he could fear the cold --- but mydei's next words draw attention to something else. they're coming up on a row of dark homes, abandoned by families seeking warmer shelter elsewhere with their community. a sigh follows, which turns to a fog of chilled vapor the moment it leaves lips: "... you mean to suggest we steal clothes to burn that aren't currently being worn and used?..."

but, he thinks back to the local armored man he'd met days before, and helped carry donated furniture to communal bonfires... maybe it wasn't that outrageous of an idea to check the closets. "breaking the windows will subject the interiors of these homes to even colder conditions and potentially damage their interior. let's... at least check the doors first." phainon walks over to the first door, and tries the handle with a few firm jiggles and a push --- surprisingly, it gives, with wood scraping against the frigid stone threshold below.

a blink of mild surprise, but phainon glances back to mydei --- "come on, let's head inside." from a first glance as he turns back and steps in... looks like the place had already been ransacked and picked over of anything obviously useful, but several books and rugs are strewn about. probably why the door was left unlocked in the first place...

[mydcimos]

Finally, an agreement.

His limbs are slow to release tension, called by there Phainon’s assertation. As if Mydeimos were a common, petty criminal. That these measures he would consider to keep Phainon himself and the rest of the mortal natives of this planet from a permanent, frozen death is a weakness.

( …he understands. would his people not chant that those lacking the strength to survive were irrelevant? not worthy of a ruler’s attention, regardless. )

When the other looks back at him, he cast his gaze elsewhere – looking into the darkness of the home. Wisely, he keeps the offense to himself, the metal of his greaves echo his footsteps as he follows. The inside of the house is as unimpressive as the city itself, going cold and stale with abandonment. “The books will be good kindling,” What’s one more personal library that burns? He gives Phainon as much space as he can, picking his way through the trash-riddled floor. “But we will need more if this winter is to last.” A beat passes, where he finds the unintended slight still needles his sides more than he likes.

If they were home, they could head to the sparring grounds. He could express his displeasure in full. Now, his hand falters where he tugs at an exposed wooden beam. The entire house creaks back in warning. With a huff, he catches Phainon’s gaze. “If the person who owns these things is by that fire, they would gladly make these offerings for warmth. Dying in the cold…” He struggles to find the words, keenly aware that he has to offer something, now that’s he’s begun. His pitch dips. “I do not want to watch any suffer it.”

It's good enough, he thinks, that even the dense Deliverer will catch his meaning. The unceasing shivering that rattles his system is a telltale sign of its own, but Phainon seems to fare better.

[mydcimos]

𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖎𝖈𝖊, 𝖓𝖔 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖊

𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒔𝒌 - [ 𝒎𝒚𝒅𝒆𝒊 / 𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒏 ]

[mydcimos]

For seconds, his eyes are liquid gold with disbelief as he stares at the waning flames. His crimson robe still pools in his hands, the material thick and resilient in the face of countless battles. The flame it would provide the people huddled around would burn for much, much longer than the flimsy soles of Phainon’s boots.

Was it a willful rejection, or did the other simply fail to grasp the situation?

Did Mydei have a handle on it? Of course he did, even if numb fingers attach the robe to its place once more, following Phainon’s suggestion. “Your clothes are replaceable,” He seethes, trailing as they step away from the camp. Even this far from the fire, the temperature drops considerably. His fists clench reflexively, drawing whatever warmth he can. “Never thought you’d be afraid of ice and snow.”

It’s a taunt. It’s disdain. It’s something distorted heavily by the weight of their situation. Mydei himself doesn’t know, would rather have an enemy to defeat over this crippling freeze. “Break the windows. The homes may offer something of value.” That he sounds like a regular thief is not lost on him.

@eachdawn

[spicehill]

peach lace, drowned in indigo.

an unexpected encounter with @mydcimos.

[spicehill]

"eh...?" in all the sudden commotion and chaos that comes, it's the first sound that answers the demand of the man who's been kind enough to escort him this far --- a cacophony of strange and unsettling sounds screech and groan in sensitive ears. who was he talking about? this couldn't be... could it?... no, she wouldn't fire down on them, not when he was separated from her somewhere along the way. she would be looking for him, on the ground, surrounded by squadrons who knew that he wouldn't be able to navigate this strange land alone for long.

but they already discussed the logic behind the likelihood that he'd been abandoned here, hadn't they.

jiaoqiu frowns --- and tries to make sense of the strain that seems to be coming from mr. mydei. "these can't be my people. we wouldn't want to bring war here to your home. I... such a reckless attack..." and even if it was them, if he wanted to try and stop it... his jade abacus is not working, and there's no way to reach the fleet. right now, the more important thing seems to be... how do they get out of here? a deep breath, and jiaoqiu starts to blindly move back the way he remembers coming from, until hands find a shaking wall --- then, he follows it further along until he finds the wall's end, and an archway's beginning. "mr. mydei. I should be safe over here --- please, come get out of harm's way. could this be some sort of domestic threat causing this... the monsters from before, perhaps?"

[mydcimos]

Domestic threat?

Despite the many allegations against the intelligence of his people, he understands the words themselves. It’s the oddity of hearing them paired together, as if the whole of Amphoreus was composed of anything else. “Perhaps.” He answers, shaking his head to relieve the amount of dirt and debris layering into his hair. It’s on his skin, too, somehow more offensive than the blood and sweat of battle.

Jiaoqiu’s answer pacifies the instinct that demands the foreigner is the root of new evil. “Stay still, before your blundering shifts the pillars overhead.” Even if he’d spent most of his life wandering the eternal night, there was a difference between what that was and…this. Pure darkness, a collapsed wall completely obscuring the outside skies that had given some adjustable light. Blind, he strides forward until the toe of his greaves crunches into solid stone, one arm stretched overhead to field off anything that might bludgeon him while the other reaches for the area where Jiaoqiu’s voice echoes softly in the enclosed space. “We’ve been buried.” He informs the other, using the last of his generosity to explain the situation. “Whatever threat this is, we will not wait to be found.”

Because Jiaoqiu is shorter than most, his outstretched arm brushes fur. Ears, he remembers, adjusting to wrap around his waist instead. “Do not struggle.” Strife is warm, he’s been told. Boiling. Mydei has never cared to ask for further definition, but he feels fire warming his skin as it erupts from him, launching them into the air like any lance soars over a battlefield. The Palace’s several floors crumble, scratching his skin but ultimately giving way – he checks his hold on Jiaoqiu as he looks for a place to touch down.

[aarnivalkie]

Drenched in Crimson

Flins & Mydei - Eerie Atmosphere | 💤 Dreaming of scraping nails against the window glass, and waking to still hear it

[aarnivalkie]

Blood splashed against the window. Rolling down in great red globs, its cascade thinning like a film.

Rain spattered the window. The wind howling outside threw more and more against it, until the capillaries that carried it from top to bottom were as thick as veins.

The sky burned a devil’s red beyond the window. Cloudless, moonless, sunless, starless.

Thunder crashed over the howling wind, and lightning zigzagged purple through the dark stormclouds. It was a storm of uncommon strength, but not an entirely unusual one. This portside tavern had seen worse, certainly, and its patrons nestled together at the bar or in their rooms.

Marching through burning streets, men and women entranced by the ghastly light staggered blindly toward the horizon. Massive black ravens laughed overhead as more blood rained from the sky. The people went on like ants, oblivious to how they were picked off one by one for a few seconds of empty entertainment.

Tap tap. A claw at the window.

Tap tap. A tree against the window.

Tap.

Tap.

In the flash of lightning, the sky erupted in a blaze of red, throwing blocks of firelight through the windows and across the floors of each room of the inn. Doors slammed. Creaked open. Slammed again. No one screamed. No one spoke. Outside the rain had taken on the color of blood, thrown again and again against the window.

You remain.

This room was immune to the chaos, caught in limbo between the blurring of dream and reality, uncertain of which direction the line went.

Then there came a knock at the door, measured and steady.

”Is someone in there?” A human voice, a single grounding tether to something real.

@mydcimos

[mydcimos]

It’s the taste of blood that wakes him. Familiar, warm, electric as he swipes his tongue over his lips to chase it. Mydei drowns in it, and even this is familiar. Air pulls into his chest and scalds as if it is a foreign thing. Wrong.

That feeling urges him to close his eyes. To stall his breathing. To open the window and dissolve in a shower of blood.

All are appealing.

With a grimace, Mydei finds his footing. A fight, both mental and physical. It’s been too long since death has felt this raw, the sting of sharp claws scrapping metal lances through his skull. His eyes close, rage foaming just underneath the surface. The code is flawed, he thinks nonsensically, because the sea of souls has never looked like this. Dark and despairing? Certainly. It had to be after all, housing so many wandering dead.

But silent? Foreboding, save the voice that coaxes from beyond the closed door.

Mydeimos is careful with his answer. He has traveled this river for enough lifetimes to debunk common superstition. How Kremnoan warriors believed that those unlucky enough to land here rather than beyond were unworthy. Damned. Specters destined to wander in search of glory.

What he does know, is that there are any number of demons in this abyss – and that lying to them is unwise. “Yes.” His voice is dark and watery. The taste of blood intensifies. “…and no.” When silence meets him, wrenches the door open with one hand ready to strike or defend.

Gold meets gold. Or…yellow. Sickeningly pale, and Mydei’s aches and pains fall away as tendrils of blue lamplight slither over his skin. Demon, he decides, clarity rushing in all at once, as if the air inside his room had been clouding his mind. Testing his surroundings, Mydei takes in his surroundings. Bloody footprints leading in every direction, running up the walls… “You have,” He coughs, wet, like his lungs are still impossibly flooded with blood. He must have been stabbed through the throat. “No business with me. Begone, shade, before I decide to end your meddling.”

[vierfacheweisheiten]

Chasing Flames is Carved Into Creed

Commission | Take a look, it's in a book

[vierfacheweisheiten]

“Rest assured Mydeimos, I know what I’m doing,” No more so than any other scholar of the Grove would, but he was the one who had fought to his last dying breath to protect that great tree and the life nurtured under it; wasn’t he? If he could hold his own against that Flame Reaver, then surely a mere human being in a simple duel where one was not after the coreflame that had rested within his chest would be child’s play. And yet, the frail scholar flinches slightly at the hand upon his shoulder, heavy with the weight of the Crown Prince’s gauntlet. For a moment he thinks about how easily it would be for him to be crushed to death by those hands. Mydeimos the Undying had enough strength to fight against armies on his lonesome, Anaxagoras the Foolish’s frail body would not stand a chance.

Nor would he stand a chance were he to fight hand to hand with the stalwart monarch. Lucky for him, Anaxagoras had plenty of cheap tricks up his sleeve. Or rather, in this case, up the little alchemical tool within his hands. All he had to do was pull the trigger, and there would be no running from his magic trick.

The monarch himself steps forward, a towering giant of a man who dwarves Anaxagoras. But the scholar is not scared. The Flame Reaver had towered over him too; hadn’t he? He could hold his own against any opponent if he was nimble and swift enough with his weapon.

“Prepare yourself,” is the only warning he gives before firing the shot in the chamber of his gun without a second thought. Its explosive power echoes as it collides with his opponent’s body erupting with a loud BOOM, the sheer force sending even the scholar sliding backwards.

He turns to his companion with a manic smile, shouting “How’s that for a plan, Mydeimos?!”

[mydcimos]

The battle begins and ends quickly, as many do. Mydei can admit that his limbs were already tensed, ready to intervene for the sake of the scholar. Chrysos Heir or not, every fiber of his being screams in defiance, some sort of internal blasphemy over allowing anyone (but especially this one) to fight a battle alone while in his presence.

Anaxagoras is a Chrysos Heir. Not helpless.

Not that Mydei expected to watch the unsuspecting opponent combust in a shower of blood and body parts. His own surprise is eclipsed by the reaction of those around them, the scholar’s giddy exhilaration settling into his skin even before he rushes forward in defense. “What plan?” He hisses, coming short of wrapping a hand around his wrist to keep them from being separated. “They said you were intelligent.”

Dozens of arrows whistle through the air, swords drawn to shimmer next to firelight. It matters little to Mydei, contentment seeping into his bones as his clawed hand slashes the throat of their closest attacker. Lips part for blood as an arrow lodges in the muscle of his shoulder, shatters his ribs – bloodlust ratcheting higher as he leaps into battle even as the room seems to unravel at the seams. Like a book with a torn page, he notes, delirious when his fist flies through a fading opponent, when the scene shifts like it had before.

Even the arrows are gone as he takes a knee, the fresh flow of golden blood left behind is the only indication that they’d been mid-battle at all. “What.” He grits, unable to twist to view the scholar. “Did you do?”

[mydcimos]

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞, 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲...

noncommission thread. mydei/phainon.

[eachdawn]

the initial instinct that settles somewhere low in his throat is that no kremnoan word for loss shouldn't be possible. it's an emotion: an emptiness, a sense that something or someone that you once had is no longer yours... what of lost pets who may or may not return, the loss of a prospective harvest ruined by famine, a precious heirloom of value that has gone missing? what even of friends who fade away from distance, or something you needed to bring with you, but that important object was forgotten...

it takes a hard swallow to stop before sharing incredulity. instead, right fist balls at his side, and phainon shakes his head. "mydei... I don't think I fully understand this custom of your people, but I do want to try and make sure I can know what to expect going forward, so the okheman guard can be made aware: we still have the rest of the month ahead of us. if this is truly how your people grieve their dead, then... they should still be able to do so in peace."

what else could be done, truly? if there was something else that could be done now, to address the offense that had already been committed... he wasn't quite sure what that would look like. but something preventative for future misunderstandings would help, wouldn't it? "would it be too much to ask that of you --- to help me understand what the rest of this month will look like for kremnoans?"

maybe if he learned more, he could understand the traditions better, too.

[mydcimos]

Of course you don’t understand.

Mydei’s lips curl, a sneer. The reception of his people in Ohkema has been met with opposition from all sides. His Detachment, his people, who alternate between obeying his command and calling for his traitorous golden blood. Phainon’s response validates that the feelings must be mutual.

He still seeks to understand why Aglaea would send this man to stand before him. If the Goldweaver is as all-knowing as rumor suggests, then she must believe that Phainon’s simpering means something to him. Right? “Yes.” It would do no good to explain the traditions of his people to those who stand ready to find flaw. “Understand that you try my patience.”

A celebration is a celebration, after all. “If I wish to send my most loyal warrior to the Sea of Souls to demonstrate reverence to the dead, what will you do?” As he says this, he paces closer – well within reach to strike.

[mydcimos]

[AFTER THE RACES] | [PLAZA]

Bronya was wandering through the streets of Belobog in contemplation. She hadn’t won the Trotter races, coming in second instead. There was something to be considered there, whether or not her competitive spirit led her to such stark disappointment or not. 

But there was another part of her that understood that she achieved true victory in the semi-finals. In her other hand, she materialized a notebook, ready to take down every last milligram of salt worth of recipe. In the semi-finals, she was promised a recipe for honeycakes, and the Herrscher of Truth, ever the sweet tooth, would absolutely do everything to gain that recipe.

Or, well, not everything. Bronya had her limits. However the memory of the delightful taste those honeycakes left definitely tested them. 

She spots a familiar head of blonde hair, and Bronya’s eyes almost sparkle in response. She could not move any quicker through the crowd of people gathering in the plaza, before she found herself poking at the calm lion. “Excuse me, Mydei?” Bronya’s voice was quiet, but focused and direct. She had a goal, and this man was her barrier of entry. 

“I don’t mean to be a bother, but you promised me your honeycakes recipe after the races. I have come to cash in.”

“As you wish.” He says and changes his route with little pause. Her pen and paper aside, the only way to honor his promise is to teach the right method. Mere words are rarely enough.

Golden honeycakes were not just a staple of Amphoreus. They’re a delicacy. An artform of many adaptations. “Do not alter the recipe.” He tells her, brows pinched for seriousness. All across Amphoreus, others strove to reinvent a dessert that had been favored in every noble court since the beginning of Era Bellica. All had failed.

Belobog has already proven to have all the ingredients he needs. It must make sense, from one barren and desolate planet to the next. Focused, Mydei doesn’t speak again until everything is laid in front of them on the counter, the restaurant eagerly making space for them after Mydei had shared the first batch a few days ago. “Step one…” He allows little time to write as they go, dusted with a thin coat of flour even before the end of the beginning.

He's unperturbed, towel in hand to wipe the worst of it from her face. He’s taught children this recipe before, he knows what to expect.

[mydcimos]

[ HUDDLE ]　/　carrying the bedroll under one arm, he gently pushes aside the fur-lined flap of the entrance and steps into the shelter of the large tent. it was an enormous space on the inside, almost the size of the docks on the luofu, lit by a long circle of lamps all the way around the perimeter that doubled as weights to hold down the tarps. the interior was packed with a few tables and seats——but much more than those, tight clusters of people of all ages and their own bedrolls and meager belongings. ordinances had been set on how much a person was allowed to bring with them to the shelter, and how many square meters of space a family was allowed to use for themselves. being a single, young, and able-bodied individual without any medical conditions or dependents, he fell naturally on the lowest priority and had to make do finding any sliver of space he could, even if it meant uncomfortably close quarters with strangers.

his arrival as someone late to the festival was met with agitation from some of the residents, he knew ; tired, wordless eyes red with the beginnings of sleeplessness and a stony uncertainty of the future landed on him one by one as he passed——men, women, down to small children kept hushed by their parents. he was very noticeably an outsider coming to take up more space in an already-crowded tent when resources were stretched thin. at least, he was grateful that no one was starting a fight——maybe still in the interest of being welcoming, remembering even in the face of new and sudden anxiety that this was supposed to have been a time of open doors, exchange, and celebration.

finally, he finds a place. it's not much, and it's clear why it's unpopular, far away from any lights and close to a slit in the furs where the biting cold can bristle through——even then, he's not even sure someone small like him would be able to stretch out at all——but he doesn't want to spend long minutes walking around the whole place as if he was picky about where he spent the nights.

"excuse me," he addresses the blond man just beside, assuming by his build and dress that he was some manner of warrior from a distant star cluster, "this space next to you ; is it being used? if not, can i join you? i don't need a lot of room for myself."

Somewhere, another person complains of the cold, of the space, and of the small children that seem to cry without pause. His eyes are closed. A defense mechanism that works in favor of every useless citizen that acts as if minor hardships are monumental.

Let them face Amphoreus’ winters. Hiking miles through treacherous, barren land in eternal darkness. Only then would he hear complaints.

Another whines, high-pitched and reedy despite being a man of several decades. No, Mydei decides, the sound calling fresh rage just underneath the surface. He is seconds from letting his fist find the wall he leans against. If he shatters it, perhaps the rush of much colder air will chastise those who dare take the shelter for granted.

Even with his eyes closed, he knows when he’s being addressed. “There isn’t much space.” He answers, lifting his gaze to study the thin child standing in front of him. The odd manner of dress means as little as the boy’s probable age. The weapons… he shifts to one side, edged further onto the cold corner in an effort to give a more comfortable space.

It’s a worthless endeavor. He is already curled into himself, legs crossed underneath him because otherwise he’d be kicking a few people in the head. Had it been anyone other than a child, he would have declined them. “Go ahead.” As the boy gets settled, Mydei studies the blades on his back. True to Mydei’s assessment, there isn’t much room for him, wedged into Mydei’s side even further when the person next to him rolls in their sleep.

This close, he can guess that there isn’t enough muscle to him. Whatever advantage this swordsman wins in battle isn’t brute strength, if anything. “Those blades are well cared for.” Conversation, because now they share air – and if any are worthy of his attention, it’s a potential warrior. He hadn’t thought that any other civilizations would teach warfare so young. Truly, it was a staple for Castrum Kremnos…other city-states notoriously failed to share this thought process. “A weapon is as strong as the one who wields it. In this case…” A small grin appears, the show of his amusement even if his tone stays perfectly flat. “You'll survive the night.”

Others wouldn’t, but they would.

[mydcimos]

[ GUARD ] - it is late, late enough to feel like the shadows move and quake on the fringes of the flickering light of a fire that she stokes every so often with blackened hands used to flames. across the blaze sits a young man who could easily blend into it, if he were to choose to do so --- though they have sat in an oddly comfortable quiet here for some time, she wonders if they could do more to ensure they both stay awake while keeping watch. "so... I don't believe I caught your name earlier when we were told to watch this post," a polite smile doesn't reach marked eyes as head tilts: blackened flame runs quietly down a stick that she pokes into the blaze every so often, intensifying its heat. "my own is arlecchino. while this sort of cold is familiar enough, I believe it will be easier to stay awake until dawn if we do something to pass the time. do you know any particularly good ghost stories? or perhaps something else terrifying, if ghosts are not a phenomenon where you come from."

... and if they are not found where he's from, perhaps the ones that follow her wherever she goes could accentuate her own tale later. "of course, I would be happy to share my own --- and can start us off, if my request imposes too much."

Mydeimos! Listen to this, my new ballad! – None could match Peucesta’s skill, who must have crafted his lyrics during the battle itself to bring melodies to the campfire the same day.

The fire sparks at Arlechino’s prodding. It sounds like laughter in his ears, sharp and scathing to the tune he hasn’t heard in ages. What are these words? It’s Ptolemy, always picking into the pacing of those stories. The accuracy. The air is much too cold and crisp to imagine the meats Perdikkas would roast for them on the heels of a successful battle even if the smoke does rise the same way. Leonnius was always the last to join them – if at all. Running messages from person to person, returning to Mydei’s side when all was said and done. The best for last, Mydeimos.

Mydei lowers his head to listen to them, though he is not lost enough to miss Arlecchino’s introduction. She tends the fire as Hephaestion liked to do, taking control from Mydei with a stern sweep of his hand. Mydeimos…You keep it too warm.

Silence stretches because he wishes it, settled in and determined to listen to the end of this memory. “My name is Mydeimos.” The fire crackles again, a last hum of approval before it settles in true silence. ”The stories my people tell, few will be what you seek.”

Few, not none, and while he is not in danger of falling asleep here, cannot sleep when he is to be the shield of those around him… “I will hear your story.”To match expectations. What horrors of the outside civilizations could match Amphoreus’ endless cycles?

[mydcimos]

[ SCAM ] 

Now, this was clearly suspicious. First of all, if you knew where the Eternal Frost came from, why would you go out of your way to contact foreigners about it- especially now when it’s caused so much chaos? Naturally, there will always be those who would try to turn misfortune into a means of profit, but surely they would understand if tourists were not the best target, no?

Or maybe they didn’t care, simply whispering this to every passerby. Dahlia nods thoughtfully, as if intrigued by this information- and he was interested, of course, not by the information, but in the brave soul who extended the offer. 

“Okay, let’s see what you’ve got!” The stranger slips away, and as Dahlia tosses a glance back towards the group, huddled together for warmth, he meets the eye of another stranger. Struck with a piercing gaze and- if he guesses correctly, perhaps a little disapproval of such chaos, his smile grows mischievous. The deacon winks, pressing a finger to his lips, before giving an inviting gesture.

‘Come on,’ He mouths, ‘It’ll be fun!’

Mydei does not catch what the other says in his direction. Not because he isn’t paying attention, but because he does not care to know. The situation with the storm has become a problem meant to be fought head on, that much is clear. The longer they wait, the more their defenses are chipped away. He can see the fortitude of the citizens waning, leaderless and stumbling in the dark.

Which is exactly when someone had come offering hope.

Heaving a sigh, Mydei stands, weighing his options. He could believe the stranger, except that the person they chose is but a boy, looking no more fit to withstand the harsh conditions than any other – a terrible choice on their part, especially with Mydei present. Or, this was perhaps a move emulated in at least have a dozen war treatise…playing to the sense of desperation and locking sights on one who might be the most wide-eyed and gullible.

Despicable tactics. Cowardly – he had to reign in the urge to spit at the retreating figure, coming to a halt next to the blonde that seemed impossibly smaller that his first estimation. “Do what you will,” He starts, arms crossing as the wind chill brings more discomfort. His gaze does nothing to hide contempt. “If you are strong enough to support reckless decisions…do not look to me when your life is in danger.”

Despite what he says, he follows. Inactivity is not his nature…and hadn’t a challenge been issued? He wasn’t afraid, not even when the solid ice underfoot began to rumble under the weight of an advancing creature. Mechanism? The storm made it too hard to tell. Anticipating the spear of ice hurled their way, strife absorbs the impact before shattering into a rain of red overhead.

Living among the Chrysos Heirs inevitably taught the Prince not to hastily judge the worth of a companion based on size. Maybe the other could be useful. As he leapt away from another strike – and answered it just as viciously – he gripped the boy’s arm with a gauntleted hand and took him along. “Was this the fun you were hoping for?”