#gulf of korinth

[kararadaygum]

..

[lomitelj]

Beach cat.

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty - korinthian night

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

POUNDING RAIN AND rough seas delay the Adrestia from arriving before dusk, but when they dock, Barnabas gives the men a night to themselves. Many of the crew are at the porneion for the night and Kassandra returns to the Akrokorinth to have more time with the orphan girl, Phoibe after their awry talk. Lesya spends her last night in Korinth beneath the awning on top of Anthousa’s villa alone, listening to the rain and watching lightning streak against the dark sky. A bright flash illuminates a dark figure pulling itself up onto the roof. “What are you doing here?” Lesya asks. The outline of his physique is unmistakable. 

Deimos nears the lanterns lining the perimeter of the pallet of pillows —he is soaked. Water drips from his matted hair, his dark grey chiton is almost black. His lack of armor is surprising. “I–” he starts, but then shakes his head. “Heard you and my sister were giving the Monger trouble.” They’d sent him across the Gulf of Korinth shortly after the Monger had left Phokis after hearing rumors —insurance Kassandra and their estranged weapon would be dispatched.

“He’s dead,” Leysa informs him, though he likely already knows that. Korinth may be free of the Monger’s terror, but Cult spies still crawl over the streets. Fitting for a city with no morals, to begin with. He’d report back with the news and tell them his sister had already fled. 

“A knife in the dark?” He asks, having seen his sister and Lesya’s handiwork on display in the theater while making his way to the villa. A public execution would not have been as clean, and the streets would likely still be in an uproar. 

Wish I coulda been there to watch Deimos break your neck, he’d told the Eagle Bearer and watch him smite this traitorous whore. Lesya’s expression hardens as she nods. “Kassandra’s choice.” Kass had sided with the Spartan, Brasidas, over Anthousa. “I wanted him strung up in the theatre.” That earns her a dry laugh from Deimos as he shakes the water from his hands. It did not matter if she called herself Leysa now, a streak of cruelty would also lay within.

She and the Monger had never gotten along —not since he threatened to bring her to his andron to teach her a lesson and she’d broken his nose. Deimos almost had the man’s head after he struck her across the face. Lesya shudders, the things he had done to some of the hetaerae still makes her skin crawl. She tosses Deimos a linen blanket and he pats his arms and legs dry ­then tousles it through his ornamented hair. 

He lays the wet linen aside and moves closer to Lesya, eyes blazing with warmth. “I killed Chrysis too,” she says, tone flat, emotionless. The Cult already received word of that too —Deimos had been there when the masked man stormed across the center of the chamber and hurled down a bloody and torn scrap of fabric. Chrysis was found in the woods, the Cultist announced, the wolves ripped most the meat from her bones. They hadn’t been able to say how she died, but Lesya wears a grim smile. “Slit her throat, the bitch deserved it.”

Deimos lips twist into a smile, his eyes tracing the lines of her face —softened by the firelight. “She did, didn’t she?” Chrysis had fed them lies for ages, warped their worldview, and helped forge them both into weapons. There is a scratch on her cheek from the Monger’s warehouse and Deimos cannot stop himself from reaching out and running his thumb over the slim, bumpy line. His thumb drops down, tracing over her lips. 

Lesya’s eyes slip shut —she leans toward him. Months could pass but it never felt that way when they were back together. “Deimos,” she murmurs. Soft and warm breaths dance over her parted lips, his nose brushing against hers. She wants him, but her heart is so tired. Lesya presses her hand against his chest but does not push him away. “We can’t keep playing this game.” Eventually, they will get caught. Either by the Cult or Kassandra, and Lesya dreads losing the small budding friendship between her and the Eagle Bearer. And yet, this is Deimos, he knows her better than anyone in the Hellas. 

“Why not?” He challenges, eyes darting over her face. Lesya does not have a good enough reason and he knows it. The hand on his chest twists into the linen of his chiton and she hauls him forward, lips crashing against his. Deimos shoves the hand resting on her cheek back into her hair —destroying the few coppery strands clinging to the remnants of a sloppy, damp braid.  

Pillows cushion her head when he shoves Lesya back and shifts, pressing his knee between her thighs —lips never parting from hers until she pushes back on his broad shoulders. He looks feral against the backdrop of a stormy night. Deimos gathers both her hands in one of his, pinning them above her head. “I hate you,” she gasps as his mouth moves across her neck and his free hand slips beneath the peplos. His lips kink into a smile as he busies himself with stroking one of her breasts, bringing her nipple to a taut peak. It’s a lie and they know it. 

“Try again,” Deimos whispers at her ear before biting down on her shoulder. Lesya yelps, but the cry is muffled by a clap of thunder. She wiggles her wrists, trying to break them free from the cage of his hand —his grip tightens, and his other hand drags up the long lilac hem of her dress. 

“You’re cruel and unfair,” she whispers, but her body’s reaction to his touch betrays her as does the longing in her eyes. She wants this more than words can say, needs this.

Cruel, Deimos will not deny that, but he stalls at the rest of her description and frees her hands. “Unfair?” There’s dark amusement in his voice despite his feigned look of hurt. I’ll show you unfair. He moves over her like a wave, taking over all her senses. The hand trailing up her thigh pauses, expecting to find a barrier of fabric between him and the apex of her supple thighs —there isn’t one. He trails a finger along her slit, collecting the wetness gathered there before delving in. He watches her face contort and listens to her sharp breath. 

Deimos loosens the fibulae at her shoulders and pulls the diaphanous lilac material from her body, two fingers still toying with her. He’s seen Enyo bare before many times —dressing wounds and bathing, that night on the beach— but this feels different somehow. Blood is rushing in his ears, his pulse quickens. Her brows furrow and lips part in a silent cry. He devours the soft moans passing through her lips, slipping his tongue into her mouth. In the back of his mind, he hears Elpenor’s voice —I know you care for her— the merchant had been right, but this goes beyond that. 

She reaches for the hem of his soaked chiton and begins tugging the dark fabric up and over his head —tossing it aside. Deimos does not give her the chance to look him over before he’s kissing her again and planting warm, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach and to the inside of her thighs. “Please.” Her voice is broken. Lesya never begs, but by the fates, she has waited so long to feel this again. 

Smiling, she slides one of her legs over his shoulder. Deimos takes it as an invitation and dips his head forward, scraping the stubble of his jaw against her thigh. A sharp breath escapes Lesya’s parted lips when his mouth descends upon her. Her soft moans and ragged gasps sink into him, seared into his memory like an indelible brand. Between his fingers and mouth, it all becomes too much. He smiles against her heat when her hands slip into his hair —heels pressing into his back.  

She’s so close, but then everything fades to emptiness. Lesya glances down to find his tawny-gold eyes staring up at her —his lips glistening in the lantern light. He looks like a starved man who’d been set down at a banquet. “If I leave you wanting, that’s unfair,” Deimos rasps, leaning in to drag his teeth over the inside of her thigh. She jerks, hips bucking, but he draws back and crawls over her until she can feel the bared head of his hard and heavy cock slipping into her. “But I’m merciful,” he says, pressing his lips against hers again. 

Lesya grips onto his shoulders and twists, breaking the kiss. He lands on his back —grunts with eyes burning like pits of molten gold. “So am I,” she hisses, sinking down on his length until her hips are seated against his. Deimos hisses behind clenched teeth and will give her the satisfaction of control for only a moment more. He watches her hips rock —feels her take him in over-and-over again— and the sway of her breasts, it is almost enough to make him surrender. 

Growling, Deimos grips onto her hips and turns sharply, keeping himself sheathed inside her. Lesya is quick to grip onto his shoulders, drawing her legs up against his sides as he begins thrusting —long, smooth, and deep strokes. He presses his face into her neck, lips and teeth finding purchase there. She clings to him, the muscles in his back contracting beneath her palms, knowing this moment cannot last much longer. “Deimos.” His name rolls off her tongue like a hushed and hallowed prayer. 

His fingertips press harder into her thighs, shifting her hips up as his pace becomes quicker, harder. Deimos pants and groans at her neck as he ruts into her. Lesya threads her fingers into his hair, tugging until he raises his head to look upon her —lips parted, face contorted in bliss. His kiss is rough and sloppy, just like his erratic thrusts. 

With her fingers tangled in his matted hair, Lesya keeps him in place —forehead pressed tightly against her. Deimos moves one of his hands from her lips, slipping it between their connected bodies and rubs the sensitive bud at the apex of her thighs. He swallows the soft moan that escapes her lips, though when her muscles spasm and clench around him, Deimos cannot help but let out a string of curses. A torrent of warmth feels her and after several slow thrusts, Deimos collapses atop her —panting. 

He braces his weight on shaking forearms —sweat beading on his brow. Lesya brushes the matted locks falling before his face aside, the small knot holding up half his hair had been undone. “Deimos,” she breathes and his gaze flits up to her face —flushed and glistening like Aphrodite. “I’ve missed you.” A smile crosses her lips and is reflected in her eyes. 

Deimos rolls to the side, taking her with him. “So have I,” he admits, fingertips grazing over Lesya’s scarred back —following the length of her spine. It feels strange to say it aloud, but he had missed her, more than words could say. She was his equal, his other half, and his strength, and his only weakness. “But we’re together again.” Even if were only for a night —that was all they had ever been guaranteed in this life anyway.

With his face illuminated by the warm glow of dying lanterns, Lesya can see the dark shadows around his eyes and just how tired he is. “You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” Deimos does not reply, but his silence is as good as any answer. She follows the scar on his cheek with a finger and moves closer —his arms slip around her waist and tighten. “Sleep,” Lesya whispers, softly kissing him, “I’ll protect you.” 

BY MORNING, THE rain has ceased, but dark clouds linger over Korinth. Lesya rolls over and collides with something warm. An arm tightens around her waist. “Stop moving,” comes a rough voice, muffled by pillows. She shifts again, brushing matted locks from his face. Deimos turns onto his side and stares at her —she’s a glorious sight to behold. Copper hair tangled, nipples red and peaked, his seed dried on her thighs. There are two purple marks at the base of her neck she won’t be able to hide. 

He runs the back of his hand over her cheek, sighing. It’d been so long since he woke up next to her, so long since they’d both had a night’s sleep uninterrupted by memories of the past. She scoots closer and Deimos wraps his arms around her, rolling so that she lay atop him. Leaning forward, she kisses him —her hands splayed over the flat planes of his chest marred with scars. This is yet another moment she could live in forever, but the breeze calls her name. “I have to go,” Lesya mumbles. The Adrestia is scheduled to depart at dawn, but her heart will stay with him. 

Sunlight breaks through the dissipating storm clouds. The sea is calm with a gentle breeze filling the sails. They sail for Keos now. Kassandra leans against the helm of the ship, arms crossed —she can tell there’s something wrong with her friend. Truthfully, she had been surprised to see Lesya on deck with Barnabas, straightening out knots in a spare rope. “What is it?” The Eagle Bearer asks, eyeing the deep purple marks at the base of Lesya’s neck.

Lesya looks away and swallows the lump in her throat —there was no sense in lying. “Deimos came to me last night,” she answers in a shaky voice. Her cheeks turn a soft shade a pink. Kass has never seen the disgraced champion flushed or at a loss of words. 

“Did he say anything?” Part of her hopes there will be another clue, another letter to lead them closer to her mother or another Cultist. Judging by Lesya’s odd behavior, she imagines not much was spoken between them. Kass shakes her head, ridding the thoughts from her mind —she does not care about what transpires between her brother and friend in the dark of night, only finding her mother. 

Lesya shakes her head. “Nothing that aids in our search,” she answers. There is something else reflecting in her laurel eyes —melancholy and longing. It is a look Kassandra has seen before when wives send their husbands to war, fearing they will never see their beloved again. 

She did not wish to leave him, Kass realizes. “You love him,” she notes quietly so others would not hear. Lesya turns to the misthios —her expression hollow like she does not know what Kass is talking about. Love is weakness Chrysis said, indoctrinating the belief through pain to all her children. Love will make you weak. 

Tears prick at the corner of her eyes and slip down her cheeks. Lesya steps to the side of the Adrestia and watches Korinthia fade into the horizon. Splinters dig into her palms when she grips onto the railing, hoping the fleeting pain will be enough to distract her from the sinking feeling in her chest that Kassandra is right. “I don’t know that I’m capable of love,” Lesya breathes, but deep down she knows there is no other way to describe her feelings for Deimos. I love him. 

@jaegers-and-kaijus @wallsarecrumbling @novastale

[spartan-officer-brasidas]

Tracing Theseus’ Steps

The Theseus’ journey to Athens starts in a city called Troezen. Upon learning that he was (probably) the son of Aegeus, king of Athens at the time, Theseus was faced with the task of getting there and he had two options: the first being go the easy route, by sea. Being the possible son of Poseidon, he’d have protection, and Attika and Argolis are maybe a day or two of sailing away from each other in that time. The second was walk all the way around the Saronic Gulf to Athens and encounter malicious bandits along the way. Now, Theseus is simultaneously that boy we all knew in high school who accepted the dumbest dares not because he wanted the reward, but because he wanted to prove he would do it (for clout, if you will), and he’s also the 7 year old boy who would kill an ant with a magnifying glass simply because the poor ant existed in his vicinity. So naturally, being those two types of immature, the choice was clear and Theseus set out to haul ass all the way around the Saronic Gulf.

Starting point: Troezen.

This is where Theseus’ walk to Athens begins, but Troezen doesn’t actually exist in Odyssey (that I have found). There is, however, a military camp in the area under the name of Troezen, so I started there. There’s not much to say on this because most of it is his origin story which we are not here for, so let’s move on.

First stop: Epidauros.

Theseus’ first foe was a bandit named Periphetes, who was particularly fond of beating unsuspecting people over the head with his bronze club. Theseus managed to remove the club from Periphetes, and he used it to kill the bandit in the same manner he did to the innocent people. Theseus then carried around the club, which became a symbol of himself over time, and this was the first of several ironic deaths that befell the bandits Theseus faced.

Historical location: Bronze Club of Periphetes

“This bandit from Epidauros attacked unsuspecting travelers with his bronze club. Luckily for them, Theseus killed him while on his return voyage to Attika.”

Second stop: Isthmus of Korinth.

The next bandit who crossed Theseus was a man by the name of Sinis. Sinis was very cruel in that he would take travelers, bend two trees down, and tie each arm and leg to one tree. The travelers were ripped apart by letting go of the trees, and thus, killed. Theseus, being the man of honor he is at this point, bests Sinis and does to him was he did to his victims, ties him to the trees and releases them, ripping Sinis apart. A lovely end, if you ask me.

Historical location: Sinis Torture Grounds

“This ruthless bandit was in the habit of bending trees to tie people to them. When the trees were released, they pulled the unfortunate victims apart. Theseus killed him as punishment.”

Third stop: Krommyon.

This is another location that doesn’t appear to be in Odyssey, which is unfortunate because it would’ve made for a fantastic legendary animal location. Regardless, located somewhere between Korinth and Megara (near these two hills in the pictures), an old witch named Phaia and her pig (sometimes called a boar), the Krommyonian sow, lived in this little village called Krommyon. This is where things get a little confusing because some say that Theseus killed both the woman and her pig, but others say it was just the pig, and yet others say the woman herself was the “sow” because she was a ruthless robber. Ultimately, we’ll never know, but Theseus killed something that was terrorizing Krommyon and that’s that.

Fourth stop: Megara.

Yet another seemingly not in the game is the location of Sciron, which probably would have been situated somewhere around the cliffs in the picture I took. It’s possible they left this one out because of the fact that the map isn’t 100% perfect so the area is a bit adjusted, but regardless, Theseus still came by here so as will I. Sciron was a bandit known for finding his victims traveling on the winding road up the cliff side, and he would end up tricking them into cleaning his feet and then pushing them into the water, where they would be eaten by human eating turtles or other ferocious sea monsters. Upon seeing Theseus coming down the path, Sciron tried his normal scheme, but failed when Theseus, being Theseus, realized the situation and threw Sciron into the water to be eaten by those phenomenal man eating turtles. Such was the end of Sciron, but the passage was named for him—the Scironian rocks.

Fifth stop: Eleusis.

This stop is often attributed to the “birth” of wrestling, because it is here that Theseus bested and killed Kerkyon, sometimes called the King of Eleusis and also sometimes called a bandit who simply operated outside of Eleusis. Regardless, Kerkyon was incredibly strong and he would challenge any passerbys to a match in which the winner could have Eleusis. Theseus accepted the challenge, and using skill over brute strength, beat and killed Kerkyon, eventually handing over Eleusis to Kerkyon’s unwanted grandson, which is a different myth. I absolutely love the historical location for this stop because the statue is more than likely modeled off a real statue and I just like looking at it. They did a good job here.

Historical location: Kerkyon Wrestling Ground

“It was on the road from Eleusis to Megara that Kerkyon forced travelers to wrestle, killing those he defeated. In consequence, he was violently put to death by Theseus.”

Sixth stop: Outside of Athens.

This one also (tragically) does not have any marker or anything, but I still took a picture of the general area in which I believe it’d be. The final bandit who met his fate at the hands of mighty Theseus was Procrustes, perhaps the best known and to many, the most interesting and cruel. Located just outside of Athens, Procrustes, a nasty little man, operated a sort of hotel like business, where he offered a bed to travelers, and took them in. Unfortunately for his victims, Procrustes had two (2) beds*, one long and one short, and he would kill his guests by making them fit whichever bed they didn’t, i.e. stretching them to death or cutting off excess limbs. *In some versions he had only one bed that was really long, so all of his victims got stretched, and in some her had one longish bed, so some got stretched and some got amputated* Theseus took matters into his own hands and dealt with Procrustes by stretching him to fit his own long bed. Fun stuff!

Final Destination: Athens.

The last stop was Athens where Theseus’ story truly began, but to be honest, his journey there was probably the only heroic thing he did in his life. After dispatching those bandits, Theseus sort of stopped being heroic in a sense, but alas, this is not a post where I intend on spewing my opinions of the man. Maybe one day I’ll do it, but not today. I could make another post about the rest of his life and the associated locations I suppose... anyway, obviously I wish they had included all of his stops, but they can only do so much, especially with the shape of the map so I’ll commend what they did do. They made it pretty easy to follow his whole life, which I’m eager to do if I like how this turns out enough, and for that, my mythology-loving classics heart is very grateful. Theseus is far from my favorite hero--I probably give him more shit than he deserves--but I really enjoy his story, and doing this was a lot of fun!

[writeforself]

Hearts of Wolves [1/4]

Brasidas x Reader

A/N: This one is going to be slow, development and writing process both. 

Standing by the Adrestia, at a small harbour in Korinthia, you usher Phoibe onto the ship. You are appointed with the grand task by your step sister, Kassandra, to escort Phoibe safely back to Athens, despite the protest of Phoibe’s, as well as your unfamiliarity with this city you once fought against.

Across the gulf, there stands the legendary Salamis, and beyond lies the great city of Athens. Not long ago you visited Athens for the first time, along with your newly acquainted step sister. It was a troubled time for both of you, so you weren’t in the mood to savour the grandeur of the city. You actually spent the whole time at the Piraeus, gazing at the great wall, and a glimpse of acropolis, from the ship far away.

“I wonder where pater is now.”

After the confrontation between Kassandra and your step-pater, Nikolaos the Wolf of Sparta, he disappeared. As the special guard of his, you witnessed the whole event and asked to travel with Kassandra. Hated to face your step brother Stentor alone, you left Megaris as well, with Kassandra, without a trace. It had been a while since then, sometimes you muse about the reaction Stentor might have. Never were the two of you close, yet after all he had done a decent job being a brother, before pater appointed you.

The roaring waves of the sea, hitting the dock perpetually with a hypnotising rhythm; you ponder on the decisions you had made. Leaving Sparta behind was easy for you; if the story they told were true, you probably weren’t even a Spartan. Nevertheless, there is something you think about when you are on the sea, or in the land afar. A person actually; an acquaintance to be more precise.

“ [Y/N] can I take the helm?” A voice breaks your thought, it is Phoibe. “Sure, why don’t you ask Barnabas to help you get to know Adrestia more first?”

With a squeak of excitement, she runs off like a wind and boards the ship. From a distance, you could see Barnabas standing at the far end of the ship, holding a bowl of wine as always, and being frightened by the sudden energy that Phoibe pours onto him. Yet they soon recognise each other as kindred spirits.

“By the gods.” You hear a familiar voice coming from behind, but out of cautious, you keep your hand closely by the dagger which was hidden carefully around your waist. You have heard he is stationed in Korinth, but you didn’t expect to meet him. You didn’t even anticipate him to remember you. Turning around, you meet with his amber eyes, bright as the chariot of Helios. “It is you!”

“Captain Brasidas,” As soon as you meet his eyes, you shift your gaze to the ground, as if you are bowing out of courteous. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Although you have only met in a brief occasion, his voice left a profound imprint in your mind. He looks much the same as if he is walking out of your memory. Enchanted by his presence you can barely maintain your poise. His hair and beard stand firmly despite the warm sea wind, but the short braid dangling behind evokes a gentle smile on your face. Yet you do not understand the reason behind your delight.

“The ghost child of the wolf.” He quickly draws close to you and gives you a pat on the back, which soon turns into a cordial embrace.The strength he possess transforms into friendliness and livens up your spirits. “Great to meet you again.”

The ghost child, the name that people gave you back in Sparta. They never said that in front of you, only whisper into the winds. Perhaps it was because you were never really around; moving across the fields and hills like a phantom, appearing out of nowhere. They barely approved you existence because of your background and the eccentric bow you carried around. Perhaps it was the reason Nikolaos assigned you as his special guard, to protect him out of conspirators’ sight. He’s gone now, no one left to protect.

Meeting his gaze once more brings nostalgia. The day you met him was a sunny one like today.

***

Before you were appointed as the special guard, you spent your time wandering around the forests and mountains of Lakonia, running across the field like Atlanta. Although each excursion only exchanged scolding from Nikolaos, and scoffing from Stentor, you would always set out for another exploration.

From time to time you had been told of your background again and again--found in the forest outside of Lakonia with the bow by another Spartan general, and was taken under Nikolaos wing after that general died on battlefield. Nikolaos was a great pater; you were fortunate enough to be adopted in a fretful time like that. As for Sparta, they took you in but never as one of their own.

So there you were. Concealed yourself from the eyes of people, yet eager to appreciate this land you were supposed to call home. Across the meadows, down the creeks, along the hills, up to the peaks, all over Lakonia. Stilly, you would crouch in the bushes, watching others undertook the relentless trainings, seeing some of them being torn apart by the ruthless wolves, which always made you run back home and fall into silence for days. Yet if there’s one thing you realized growing up in Sparta, that is it’s better to be torn apart by wolves, than by men.

Sometimes you dwelled on the stories you overheard, about the family Nikolaos once had. A family torn apart with his own hands. You never bothered to ask, because you could see the torment resting deep in his eyes. Like a wolf, too proud to expose his agony, he concealed it deep inside. Sometimes you two would sit beside the bonfire, watching the logs cracked and dismantled; like two injured wolves seeking consolation. He used to say he took you in because he saw himself in you, which you could never grasp with such idea.

One time you reached the border of the city, resting upon the hills near the statues of Castor and Pollux, looking at the vast forest lying far away, which extended beyond horizon. To the east across the glittering sea, along the rocky coastline nestled another colossal forest. Sometimes you muse about the location you were found; Was it on the land of golden crops? Or was it on the land of healing?

You tread further down the hill. The breeze soared up along the elevation; for a moment you felt like an eagle gliding high along the peaks, through the land and across the sea, traversing aimlessly in this boundless world.

“The ghost child of the wolf.” Pulled back from the reverie, you raised your bow to the source of the voice promptly. Despite being taught to act without hesitation, you were grateful you haven’t always been an obedient type. “It’s an honour.”

Not the word you expected to hear from a man being pointed by an arrow. He approached eagerly; after a gracious nod he reached out for a handshake, which did not receive an immediate response. Instead, you withdrew the arrow and took a step back.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.” He gave up on the handshake, and placed behind him with grace. Beside Nikolaos, you’ve never seen a man acts in such solemnity. “Plus, I don’t think we’re acquainted.”

Unlike the aggression you usually encountered, his reaction was refreshing, which ignited your curiosity. An unfamiliar sentiment rose inside your bosom, when you saw he bursted into a soft laughter.

“My apology.” He laughed, still sustaining the elegance he possessed. “My name is Brasidas. I have heard a lot about you.” “I’m sure you do.”

You lowered your guard when he introduced himself because you had heard about his outstanding performance during training. But decided to ignore him, you threw the bow back on your back, then made your way further down the slope, and found a perfect spot near the cliff, to luxuriate in the sensational view of the bay and the Aegean Sea. Islands scattered across the azure serenity.  Usually you were alone to relish this tranquility.

“Nikolaos said great things about you.” He chose to join in. You were astounded by how peaceful you felt about his presence, a stimulating contentment, without alienation.

“He does?” Before you could protest, he had already settled comfortably next to you. Peeking at this expression with the corner of your eye, you waited for his answer.

“Yes, a cub with great potential he said.” Not like others’, treating you like an exotic beast, his stare is gentle and genuine. He looked straight ahead, at the coastline, at the cliffs, or at the immeasurable blue, before turning back to you. “What are you doing here?” “Pondering,” Picking up a tiny stone, you threw it off the cliff. “Alone.”

“I’m sorry if you feel bothered.” You saw him turned away, his gaze shifting on the ground. “I just happen to see you here. And want to meet you in person after hearing so much from Nikolaos.”

“Don’t worry.” A subtle smile naturally came upon your lips, which was uncommon for you in the face of a stranger. “It’s an unusual path for a hike though, predators are common in this part.” “It is. But I see you are already familiar with this part.” He replied. “Yes, I come here a lot. I’ve been to every corner in Lakonia, but I like here the best.”

The snowy mountain peaks, the furthest south of Peloponnese, the streams running across the land then into the sea, nothing can compare with the hills that leads to another strange yet familiar landscape.

“The view is quite extraordinary.” He said, stretching his legs in front of him, glancing at the sky. “Yet I feel like you didn’t come here for the view.” “Nikolaos is not lying, your intuition is impressive.” He chuckled. “Why are you here then?” Your tone remained flat. “Guess I will need a hand. Come.”

He jumped up from his seat in such agility as if the wind just lifted him up like a bird ascending. Without a second utterance he walked toward north, down the slope, en route to the forest where Lakonia meets with Arkadia.

And you follow behind, with indecision in mind.

tbc...

[mdctravel]

Canal of Corinth

History

Corinth Canal

The Corinth Canal (Greek: Διώρυγα της Κορίνθου, romanized: Dhioryga tis Korinthou) connects the Gulf of Corinth in the Ionian Sea with the Saronic Gulf in the Aegean Sea. It cuts through the narrow Isthmus of Corinth and separates the Peloponnese from the Greek mainland, arguably making the peninsula an island. The canal was dug through the isthmus at sea level and…

[lomitelj]

Alone but proud!

[lomitelj]

Itea beachfront in the evening

[lomitelj]

Lazy in... Itea...

[lomitelj]

Good morning sunshine!

[lomitelj]

Night falls over the Gulf of Korinth. Kalinychta.

[lomitelj]

Far, very far away is Rion-Antirion Bridge

[lomitelj]

Glyfada, Greece

[lomitelj]

New church, old restaurant

[lomitelj]

Spilia, Greece. Easy...

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

three - a night raid

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

    Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

    They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

WHEN THE FINAL competition commences, there is no doubt Deimos will emerge victorious among his opponents. His is the blood of gods and with it, he can harness the power of the Pyramid and Damoklean sword. No one would stand a chance against him. The name given to him was chosen with apt foresight ���he was the personification of dread. Soon all of the Greek world will come to fear the mention of his name alone.

If he is to be dread, then his counterpart will be destruction. With them, the Cult will control everything. Some of the gathered Cultists place bets on Elena to best Lesya, while others are quick to realize should Lesya fail, reining in Deimos would be impossible. It's not much of a competition between Enyo and Elena either, in truth.

The match had only just begun, but it already looks as though it's coming to a close. Enyo lifts her sword, parrying the blow aimed at her calf. She flicks the blade up —slicing Elena's cheek. Elena stumbles and Enyo spins, slashing a clean line up the girl's spine. She cries out, slipping to her knees.

Enyo levels her blade at Elena's neck. Their eyes meet and there's a moment's pause. A moment where the Cultists fear Enyo will not carry through. Killing soldiers is nothing compared to killing someone who'd been raised alongside you. Any doubt is chased away when Enyo pulls the sword back and swings. It's not just a slash to the throat —the strength and speed behind the blade takes the girl's head clean off.

She turns, glancing around at those gathered to watch and finds Deimos among them. He goes to her wearing a grim smile —face painted with the blood of Polyas and Kyberniskos— and presses his forehead against hers.

Chrysis and the Ghost of Kosmos watch the pair from afar, both their identities concealed from one another behind terrible masks weeping tears of red. "What have we done?" The Ghost whispers, betraying the feminine voice she'd kept concealed for years. The Ghost had never believed children could be turned into weapons. This display of carnage proves her wrong.

The old priestess grins behind her mask, pride filling her as she looks at her children. Deimos and Enyo. Dread and Destruction. All of Hellas would learn to fear them. "We have built machines," she proclaims.

IT'S ONLY SIMPLE tasks at first. Disposing captains, sinking ships, killing soldiers in the night —building strife between Athens and Sparta. War is inevitable, and the Cult will profit from the chaos. All it will take is a push for the two city-states to collide. Whispers begin spreading around Hellas of two demigods garbed in white-and-gold —fighting with the strength of twenty men— and one of them is a woman. No one can match their prowess. Deimos and Enyo spill blood for the thrill of it.

Tonight is no different. In the distance, moonlight glints off the still waters of the Gulf of Korinth and the lanterns and braziers pocking the city give the horizon a soft golden glow. Rising from the land is a massive monolith, the Temple of Aphrodite sitting proudly atop it with the Akrokorinth fort in the background. The Spartan-controlled fort will be filled with only corpses by the time the birds sing.

"You have the letter?" Deimos asks. Enyo nods, patting the scroll of papyrus tucked into her belt. It bore the seal of the Athenian general, Perikles, and held forged commands to conduct a raid on the fort —more fuel for the fire.

Deimos approaches the fort's entrance alone —out of the corner of his eye, he can see her, scaling the uneven stone wall with ease. "That's close en-" the sentry's statement is cut short by a knife plunging into his neck —he hadn't heard Enyo drop down behind him. She pulls the blade free with a spray of blood and lets the body fall limp at her feet with a flourish. This is too easy she thinks, smirking at her counterpart.

Together, they heave the great wooden doors shut and barricade them —trapping the sleeping Spartans. Deimos smashes several jars of oil and then kicks over a lit brazier, he craves the thrill of combat, not a silent slaughter. Flames jump into the night and above the roar of the fire is shouting —calls for the sleeping men to wake. A small group flows out of the barracks with spears and shields at the ready. Deimos draws his sword and Enyo spins her twin short-blades.

With a cry, she leaps through the flames bearing down on one of the Spartans. He lifts his shield in time to block the blow but misses the second blade. It prods the man's shoulder and drives him to his knees. Enyo shoves aside his shield and slashes both blades across his neck. In a trice, she is surrounded by hoplites and their spears. She sheathes both her blades —dodging and leaping over spear thrusts. Over her shoulder, Deimos is picking off the brutes one-by-one.

The point of a spear catches on the opening of her cuirass. Bringing her arms down on the lance, it breaks into and gives an opportune opening. Enyo charges the weaponless hoplite, driving both of the broken lance ends into the man's belly. She catches the spear of another hoplite —rips it from his grasp then runs him through with the dull point affixed to the end. With a deft flick of the same spear, she takes another's head, then spins, ramming the spear hard into the belly of a third, then tosses one of her blades at a fourth —the edge plows into the hoplite's skull.

Kicking up a discarded spear, Enyo squares off with an ekdromos. She taunts the man with feints —smile grim and face black with blood. He lunges forward, enraged, but she steps aside and swings the spear. The blade's edge cuts deep into his thigh. The ekdromos stumbles, managing his balance. A flash of silver fills her version when she bends backward, dodging the blow. Enyo leans farther back, planting her hands on the ground, and flips back upright.

The ekdromos nears her again, swinging his sword wildly —she parries each blow with the wooden shaft of the spear. Grasping onto his sword arm, she stills his advances and drives the spear point through his foot. She catches the sword as it slips from his grasp and the howl of pain is cut short when she impales his neck with the blade. With a quick twist of the hilt, his head falls from the Spartan's shoulders to the ground.

Scores of men are preparing to stream from the barracks —fully armored. Enyo darts toward the entrance, plucking two heavy battleaxes from the ground. She slams the door closed and braces it with the axes. Pulling two torches from a brazier, she tosses them through the slim stone windows and peers in to see the fire take on the straw bedding. The pounding on the door grows louder —more frantic— as smoke starts to stream from the windows. Bracing the door with the second axe, Enyo steps back —she can feel the heat coming through the stone. Soon after, the screaming begins.

Deimos faces down two strategoi and a hypapist. He swings the Damoklean sword, nearly cleaving the hypapist in two at the waist. Intestines and large pulses of blood fall from the Spartan's midsection before he collapses. Enyo darts forward and slides past one of the strategoi on her knees —slicing the back of his knee before popping up next to Deimos. "How many?" Enyo asks.

"Maybe fourteen," Deimos replies, stepping out of the spear's reach. "I lost count," he adds, panting. He parries the strategos' blow, moving closer, and shoves his sword through the gap between the Spartan's helm and breastplate. Blood runs down the blade and he rips it free in time to see Enyo bring down the second strategos with a swift cut to the throat.

The barracks are burning with Spartans trapped in the flames and everyone around them lies dead in pools of blood. Rustling in one of the bushes draws Enyo's attention —she nudges Deimos and points to the cowering phalangite —a poor excuse for a Spartan. The soldier makes a dash toward one of the walls in disrepair on the cliffside.

Deimos flips the spear in his hand and lazily throws it at a fleeing soldier. The point punches through the thin armor and into the center of his back —he takes another step and then falls face forward, unmoving. None are left alive and the Cult's champions claim another victory.

FAILURE IS ALL but a stranger to her and Deimos, together or apart. They kill as commanded, and rumors of two demigods strengthen and spread over Hellas. Another test comes with individual assignments. Deimos and Enyo had proven themselves capable of completing tasks together, but to be true champions they had to be successful on their own. Her first assignment is assassinating the leader of Melos —and it goes splendidly. It's not just her dual blades that are deadly, but her womanly charms. Men fall easily enough for a pretty face.

Nisos summons her to the Sanctuary. He's a poor replacement for the old Spartiate, Alketor —a wild boar gored Alektor during a hunt, and the tactician and trainer wasn't able to shake the gut wound.

The Cult had tasked Deimos with purging Kythera of its politicians and indoctrinating their replacements with the values and goals of Kosmos. He'd set sail the morn before last and only the gods know when he will return. Though now Nisos waits for her at the head of five masked cultists before the golden pyramid —his face pinched, lips taut as he delivers the scroll with the orders. "An Athenian Polemarch has been causing issues for our scouts in Megaris," one of the masked figures explains —voice too low to belong to a woman, "see he does not interfere again."

Enyo nods, tucking the scroll into her belt, and turns on her heel. She will depart for the Megarid at once. Before midday, she sits tall and proud astride a black mare named Nyx, riding southeast to pluck another thorn from the Cult's side. A smirk pulls at her lips upon hearing thunder rolling in the distance.