"Here." A book is pushed across the table, keeping the respectful distance offered to the one who embodies death. They are but a pitiful joke the two of them, the undying and the gentle killer. Truly if someone should be able to hang around Castorice it would be Mydei, yet he still respects the touch of Thanatos. Even after having felt it's cruelty countless times, after experiencing it's pain a thousandfold, Mydei cannot find in himself wishing for it's gentler side.
"I think you'll enjoy this." The book is but a compilation of old maids tales, legends of the titans and their mishaps, of their loves, wars and friendships. Mydei cannot fandom what it is truly like to become a demigod, he figures it must be much like his current condition. Undying, stagnant, only pushed by the threads of fate. It's a cruel existence, a dull one.
In a sense, he can understand why Castorice enjoys these past myths. Even if what they spout is but erroneous facts, they paint an existence worth living. They paint a comforting fate for the titans and the demi gods, one where they can still act human.
"Have you finished the last one?"
In spite of his nature, he is not used to the blood. Not truly. So much of what he does is but to offer merciful outings. An honorable warrior knows that death is but the last option, even if it dances freely in the battlefield amongst the strife. He feels somewhat conscious, to have spilled blood in front of the golden weaver.
They had been but barely made acquaintances, word bound still fresh in their interactions as the Kremonian Detachment still makes itself known to Ohkema. Yet his sword was pulled to defend her nonetheless. He's sure she had foretold this, in her eternal weaving of scenarios, she must have predicted this attack. And yet, she chose to let Mydei handle it. She chose for him to draw blood in front of the demigod and wound the assailant.
She chose to see him as the spear that Nikador is meant to be. And he does not like that.
"Did you hope I would dispose of them?" The assailant has long fled, a trail left behind for the guards should they chose to follow it.
"Do you think of me as a dog to order as you do with the kin of Thanatos?"
It was rare for Mydei to frequent taverns. He wasn't much of a drinker,
"What are you waiting for?"
When he had first met Phainon he'd thought of him as lacking. The golden weaver had foretold of him being the Deliverer, the one who would ascend and change the world. But when they were finally presented to each other, the expectation did not meet reality. Phainon is the perfect heir, but he is still human. His aloof demeanor cannot hide what haunts him, much less his doubt.
It barely took a few clash of swords for Mydei to discover this. Phainon is strong, strong enough to withstand the onslaught of strikes Mydei sends his way. But his poise lacks commitment, there's a tremble to his hold, a doubt in his gaze played as mere lackadaisical nature. As if he's but playing a sparring game. It's downright insulting.
He allows Phainon to over power him, if only to see what he'd do. He knows of his condition, he knows he cannot die and yet. The man faltered, panicked move to prevent from truly committing to the blow. Mydei is furious.
"Do you pity Deliverer?" Taking a hold of Phainon's wrist, he keeps the sword right where it is to prevent the man from trying to flee.
"The gods won't be still for you." With a swift kick, he knocks the man off his feet letting him fall unceremoniously in front of him. Taking a hold of the sword that was once in Phainon's possession.
"Next time." The sword is aimed, perfect angle to impale through the chest.
"Commit to the kill." Phainon is still mortal. The swords end meets the ground instead, it's edges barely kissing Phainon's cheek. But the intention was there.