[ Mydeimos makes no move to get closer to him, with killing intent or otherwise. Instead, he drops his gaze to his gauntlets, beginning to undo the clasps that keep them in place. ]
You're welcome.
[ So the prince turned king does have manners after all. He continues to not pay attention to Phainon as he continues removing his armor and setting it aside, and then shrugging off his cloak, stripping perfunctorily. ]
[ Phainon blinks, and stares, and then it dawns on him. People in this culture bathe together, which surely means that Mydeimos intends for them to share a bath, and the utter irritation he feels is a bitter pill to swallow. He instantly wants to turn around and walk away, to come back later, but at the same time he has no desire to lose some imaginary contest of wills.
He has to play along.
Slowly, he begins to tug off his own things, his own leathers, his coat, hesitating as he folds them and places them aside.
It feels awkward, but he knows it isn't. He's bathed with other warriors before, but it's never been as tense as this, and he can feel it in the air. ]
[ Mydeimos would surely make conversation if this was a bath shared with a comrade in arms. Instead, the silence is stifling and almost oppressive, and he acts as if he doesn't feel it at all. Stripped bare, as if uncaring if Phainon is hiding a blade anywhere, he strides to the bath. (The tattoos, indeed, cover all of his body.)
He leans over to test the heat of the water and then steps in with a faint sigh - as if he's done anything of note to warrant the ache in his muscles, outside of the spar with Phainon. He finally turns his head to follow Phainon's movements with his gaze. ]
[ It feels wrong, and awkward, and entirely out of place. It also speaks to the prince's belief in himself, willing to strip down and be bared in front of someone who absolutely wanted him dead; if Phainon was somehow less honourable, he might try to attack him where he stands. The fact that he is confident enough in his own abilities is irritating, even if Phainon does respect it.
Even if his eyes do trace tattoos.
Skin prickling from the gaze of another man on him, he bites back the urge to protest, shedding his layers. The collar remains in place, resting around his neck, but everything else is placed gently aside before he makes his way over and settles into the warm water, too, eyes closing and a soft sigh stumbling from his lips. ]
[ In truth he expects an attempt on his life at some point. He'd respect it, as much as it wouldn't stick for long. Many people assume the undying moniker is a title and not a fact, after all.
Phainon doesn't, and even joins him in the bath, as reluctant as he obviously is. That pleases Mydeimos; something about this man intrigues him despite himself. Makes him want to prod at him and delight in his reactions, good or bad.
He cows some of that urge as he reaches down to cup water and run it through his hair, reaching up to begin to undo the braid on the side of his head. ]
You won't be able to hide in the room forever.
[ He states it blandly. ]
Should you wish to read up on your enemy, I can show you where the library is tomorrow.
[ Phainon sits, tense, for a long while, not sure of what he ought to do - other than the obvious, and just bathe.
It's infuriating and baffling to see the prince so casual, but he's earned that right. He's earned it through his strength and dedicated to the craft of war, and even if Phainon doesn't respect him, he can respect that. He recognises and understands a good warrior, thinks he can see it in himself sometimes, and so he just... Sits.
Wallowing in his own misery, in the most literal of senses.
[ Despite the taunt in his voice, there's a curl of curiosity despite himself, one he doesn't bother to hide. He keeps an eye on Phainon as he speaks, taking the time to observe his body closer.
That the collar remains almost makes him smirk. He knew Phainon had to be in shape to keep up with him during their duel, but now he can drink in the fruits of that labor - the broadness of his chest and shoulders, the scars he sports that Mydeimos himself lacks. The golden sun and its path swooping across his neck has him pausing.
[ It feels like more of a confession than anything else he's offered so far.
Phainon doesn't want to be more vulnerable with this man, doesn't want to offer any of that softness to someone who was nothing more than a conqueror. He's rational enough to know that sharing a part of himself will ease the tension between them, and they might be able to at least tolerate each other.
... Even if he can feel those eyes on him, his skin prickling. ]
There weren't too many to find at home, but I could read about them.
[ It sound dismissive, like it might be the end of it - and then Mydeimos speaks again as he reaches for a hair oil to work into his. ]
Not everyone has a history that endures like the Kremnoans. It is a respectable effort to learn of those societies who came before us, especially those who have been lost to time or war.
[ Archeology is not much of a pasttime in Kremnos, when you can find slates and paper dating back to the first Gorgo. That is not the case with other nations, and Mydeimos knows Castrum Kremnos has had a hand in those lost societies. ]
[ There's an easy jab to be made there - that few places have the history the Kremnoans have because they have been invaded or conquered - but Phainon bites his tongue. He doesn't want to start another fight, especially not here, where they are both so unguarded.
Instead, his eyes dark to one side, away from the naked slope of the prince. ]
That is what I enjoy most. Seeing what people, what societies were left in the past.
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no subject
You're welcome.
[ So the prince turned king does have manners after all. He continues to not pay attention to Phainon as he continues removing his armor and setting it aside, and then shrugging off his cloak, stripping perfunctorily. ]
no subject
He has to play along.
Slowly, he begins to tug off his own things, his own leathers, his coat, hesitating as he folds them and places them aside.
It feels awkward, but he knows it isn't. He's bathed with other warriors before, but it's never been as tense as this, and he can feel it in the air. ]
no subject
He leans over to test the heat of the water and then steps in with a faint sigh - as if he's done anything of note to warrant the ache in his muscles, outside of the spar with Phainon. He finally turns his head to follow Phainon's movements with his gaze. ]
no subject
Even if his eyes do trace tattoos.
Skin prickling from the gaze of another man on him, he bites back the urge to protest, shedding his layers. The collar remains in place, resting around his neck, but everything else is placed gently aside before he makes his way over and settles into the warm water, too, eyes closing and a soft sigh stumbling from his lips. ]
no subject
Phainon doesn't, and even joins him in the bath, as reluctant as he obviously is. That pleases Mydeimos; something about this man intrigues him despite himself. Makes him want to prod at him and delight in his reactions, good or bad.
He cows some of that urge as he reaches down to cup water and run it through his hair, reaching up to begin to undo the braid on the side of his head. ]
You won't be able to hide in the room forever.
[ He states it blandly. ]
Should you wish to read up on your enemy, I can show you where the library is tomorrow.
no subject
It's infuriating and baffling to see the prince so casual, but he's earned that right. He's earned it through his strength and dedicated to the craft of war, and even if Phainon doesn't respect him, he can respect that. He recognises and understands a good warrior, thinks he can see it in himself sometimes, and so he just... Sits.
Wallowing in his own misery, in the most literal of senses.
Jumping a little as Mydeimos blinks, he frowns. ]
I'd rather read the histories.
[ He's not going to cheat to win. ]
no subject
[ Despite the taunt in his voice, there's a curl of curiosity despite himself, one he doesn't bother to hide. He keeps an eye on Phainon as he speaks, taking the time to observe his body closer.
That the collar remains almost makes him smirk. He knew Phainon had to be in shape to keep up with him during their duel, but now he can drink in the fruits of that labor - the broadness of his chest and shoulders, the scars he sports that Mydeimos himself lacks. The golden sun and its path swooping across his neck has him pausing.
Tattoo, birthmark, or blessing? ]
no subject
[ It feels like more of a confession than anything else he's offered so far.
Phainon doesn't want to be more vulnerable with this man, doesn't want to offer any of that softness to someone who was nothing more than a conqueror. He's rational enough to know that sharing a part of himself will ease the tension between them, and they might be able to at least tolerate each other.
... Even if he can feel those eyes on him, his skin prickling. ]
There weren't too many to find at home, but I could read about them.
no subject
[ It sound dismissive, like it might be the end of it - and then Mydeimos speaks again as he reaches for a hair oil to work into his. ]
Not everyone has a history that endures like the Kremnoans. It is a respectable effort to learn of those societies who came before us, especially those who have been lost to time or war.
[ Archeology is not much of a pasttime in Kremnos, when you can find slates and paper dating back to the first Gorgo. That is not the case with other nations, and Mydeimos knows Castrum Kremnos has had a hand in those lost societies. ]
no subject
Instead, his eyes dark to one side, away from the naked slope of the prince. ]
That is what I enjoy most. Seeing what people, what societies were left in the past.
[ He almost smiles. ]
Their stories, their beliefs, their worlds.