Bodyguard duty wasn't something that Malik minded, so much as some of the other things Valentius had him assigned to in the past. Sure, his surrogate father figure always made sure that he was stationed where he was needed most, a necromancer was an expertise that didn't tend to have much loyalty about them, so one with loyalty? Rare indeed. But the day had him shifted into a black house cat, sitting on the edge of the Archon's chair, bright green eyes looking over every single person coming in for audience with the typical disinterest associated with cats.
He was there as a last body between some outside thread and the Archon -- other Eyes would be sacrificed first, before Malik's skills as both mage and fighter would be required. A precaution, of course, but it made sense to put him in the position, he could wild shape close enough to the Archon's cat Percy, that no one seemed to notice. And no one second guessed a cat being around the Archon, not in this city.
But when the day was done, and Malik had hopped down from where he had spent the day, heading to the floor and changing back to his normal appearance, cracking his neck as he knelt down to one knee momentarily and then stood back up. That one merchant needs a good swift kick to the arse, Sir.
06-17-2024, 11:19 AM
Demetrius Arvina
Age
Years
N/A Posts
Gender
Pronouns
Played by:
Archon Demetrius Arvina leaned back in his chair, his keen eyes observing Malik's transformation from feline to human with a mix of amusement and satisfaction. The day had been long and tiresome, filled with the endless demands and petitions that came with his position. Malik's presence, though often unnoticed by those seeking audience, had provided a silent reassurance.
As Malik cracked his neck and rose from his kneeling position, Demetrius couldn't help but let a small, appreciative smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Malik's loyalty and unique skills were invaluable, and his straightforward demeanor was a breath of fresh air in the often deceitful corridors of power.
Demetrius's gaze shifted to the door where the last petitioner had exited. The merchant in question had indeed been insufferable, with his constant wheedling and barely concealed arrogance.
You have a gift for understatement, Malik, Demetrius remarked dryly. That merchant's arrogance is surpassed only by his greed. A swift kick might be too lenient.
He rose from his chair, stretching slightly as he moved to the window, looking out over the city of Minrathous. The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the city in hues of orange and gold. His mind, however, was already moving past the irritations of the day and onto the challenges of tomorrow.
Still, Demetrius continued, turning back to face Malik, it's better to keep him in check through more... subtle means. Let him believe he has my favor for now. His true worth will be revealed soon enough.
The Archon walked over to a small table, pouring himself a glass of wine. He took a sip, savoring the rich flavor before speaking again. Your presence today was, as always, invaluable. It's a comfort knowing you are watching over me, even if others remain blissfully ignorant of your true nature.
Worth of that nature is beyond me, Sir, I shall differ to your learned opinion in that matter. He folded his hands behind his back as he remained centrally located -- he needed to be able to spring into motion if someone breached the room. A last defensive measure. He kept that in the front of his thoughts as he listened to the older man. In their little "family" Deme would be Malachai's mentor, older brother, father even. It meant that any time Malik needed to be near the older man, that he treated him with respect, difference, reverence almost, but not in the way that others would come and bow and scrape. No.
It was deeper than simply knowing the man could utter one word and have Malik killed. Malik's whole remaining family. It came from the trust that was given, that had gained Deme Malik's loyalty. His own birth father had pushed Malik into a generational war, with it's own trauma involved. Deme had simply asked for him to keep him, and the country safe. That was a much easier expectation when it came right down to it. It was why there was a certain affection for Deme, versus his own dead blood. A pleasure, as always, Sir. I am your comfort as long as you deem it needed, or until fate decides differently.
He watched the older man drink, knowing the bottle probably came from the private stash below the Palace, the animal he had just been leaving the amplified smells lingering in his nose. He'd smelled the vintage once before, on a servant. Interesting. He'd investigate that later. I find it is easier when few know of my true nature, of course. It makes things easier, Sir.
Indeed, Malik. Your loyalty and discretion are valued more than you know." Deme glanced around the room, his eyes taking in every detail. In a world filled with shifting alliances and hidden agendas, it is rare to find someone who can be trusted so implicitly. Your ability to remain unseen, to blend into the background while remaining ever watchful, is a testament to your skills and dedication.
He paused, folding his hands behind his back, feeling the weight of the responsibility that hung between them. Trust was a rare commodity, and in Malik, he had found someone who understood the delicate balance of their work.
You are correct, Deme continued, his tone thoughtful. Secrecy is a powerful tool. The fewer who know your true nature, the more effective you can be in your role. He walked over to the window, looking out at the city below, the people moving about their lives, unaware of the forces at play to keep them safe.
Continue to stay vigilant and discreet, and know that your efforts do not go unnoticed. He turned back to Malik, meeting his eyes with a rare intensity. We all play our parts in ensuring the safety and stability of our realm, and your role is a crucial one.
Deme allowed a small, almost imperceptible nod, a gesture of mutual understanding. The room fell into a comfortable silence, both men aware of the unspoken bond that held them together in their shared purpose.
Deme swirled his glass of wine, savoring the aroma for a moment. Then, in a gesture of politeness, he began to pour another glass for Malik. Would you care for some? he offered, but then paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Ah, but you are on duty. He set the glass aside, but after a moment's thought, he added with a wink, Well, I won't tell if you won't.
It is the least I can do after Yourself and the Chancellor took me in after my family's fall from grace. Anything I can do to further the Realm's sustained prosperity is not only my duty, but my pleasure. After all, Deme and Malachai had been more parental figures to him than his own father had. But that was something he would take with him a little while longer. Until Seraphine knew at least, it would be something only the three men knew. How he had to kill his own father that night -- a kinslayer. But he had done it to save a child. And now he regretted not ending that child himself. He would have never forgave himself, but at least he might retain a small shred of sanity.
As the glass was handed to him, he couldn't help the small smile, Only if you insist. I am technically on duty unless you decide I am not. His tolerance would allow him a glass or two and still be sharp enough to defend the leader of the realm. And there were contingency plans if he ever felt like the was losing control in the presence of the Archon. He would turn himself into a fly and stay still until he was crushed. It would be the last conscious effort on his part, but it was something that he had beaten into his brain for years, he was honestly more scared of one of the cats getting him before he would be able to be squished. After all, cats were vicious with their prey.
Thank you, sir. It's been a long while since I had a cup of anything this delicious. And it was, the small sip he had allowed himself once Deme had indicated it was fine enough to let him know that this was the vintage that he had last sampled on his 25th name day. He wasn't sure why that bottle had made it into the celebration, but it had, and he had a wonderful night that night. And this was, after all, the final week of his personal detail, until the next time he would be on personal detail. Even with his closeness to the man who lead the country, and the man who he called father -- he wasn't given special treatment when it came to guard duty schedules. Neither he nor Novella took preferential treatment in that regard. This is my last evening with you until a month from now, sir, so it's a nice way to cap out another successful round.
Your loyalty and dedication have always been exemplary, and your commitment to the Realm’s prosperity is deeply appreciated. Your words of gratitude mean more than you know. Malachai and I have always seen great potential in you, and you’ve never disappointed us. Deme took a moment to let his words sink in, his gaze steady and reassuring. He knew the weight that rested on the young man’s shoulders, the burden of secrets kept and actions taken for the greater good.
It is a rare and difficult path you walk, bearing the scars of your past while striving to protect the future. But know this: your strength and resolve do not go unnoticed. You’ve made sacrifices that few can understand, and you carry that burden with honor. Deme handed him the glass, a symbol of trust and camaraderie.
As for your duty, consider this an order to relax for a moment. One glass, shared among friends, will not dull your senses. It’s a small reward for your unwavering service. And besides, the realm will be safer for it – a guard at ease is sharper than one wound too tight. He paused, a gentle smile playing on his lips. Besides, I insist because I know you need it, even if you won’t admit it to yourself. And I trust your judgment – a single glass won’t compromise your abilities. Deme raised his own glass in a toast, his eyes meeting the younger man’s.
To you, and to the continued prosperity of the Realm. May your strength guide us, and may your heart find some peace, if only for a moment. He took a sip, savoring the vintage, and then spoke again, his tone softer, more personal.
You’ve earned this, and more. Enjoy the moment, for it is moments like these that remind us of what we fight for. And know that you will always have a place here, with us, whenever you need it. Deme's expression grew more reflective. As far as the last evening, I may need to have a chat about the schedule. I have something coming up before your next scheduled here that you would be preferrable for.
Confirmation, from the older man, that he hadn't done anything yet to gain his benefactor's ire, took some of the weight off his shoulders. There had been his slipping control recently, that had made him wonder if he was going to wake up one night to find Malachai standing over him, a bleeding finger, telling him that he was beyond all hope any more. It was a nightmare that he had frequently as his 30th birthday had come upon him. He had precious little time for anything else than trying to hold back the curse from destroying everyone around him.
I'm not afraid of that burden, of that responsibility. My shoulders are uniquely strong enough to balance it and my duty to the Realm for a while longer still. He took the glass that was handed to him, raising it up to take in the bouquet of the deep red hued liquid. There was the distinct impression that this bottle had been among the cuvee of the vineyard it had come from -- the best of the best -- simply by aroma alone. There was no sharp edge, and the well aged red hadn't been left to air for too long like a younger wine needed, no, this was a straight pour, To the Realm and your continued leadership, and as he took his first taste, it was just as it smelled, velvety, herbaceous, and downright easy to drink. A dangerous proposition for ones that were unaccustomed to drinking -- there was no alcoholic taste, the wine had been fermented from the best grapes, and cared for like a newborn it's entire life.
But Deme was right, a single glass of this would not dull his abilities, nor his senses -- this was crafted to be an all day, every day wine for a palate that could tell the differences in the different herbs that had been grown along the edge of the trellis, rosemary and mint, pink peppercorns for a mild spice finish to the herbals. It was a wine he would want to serve to Seraphine, he realized, quite late that his mind had turned to her, when he placed the taste to a tea he sometimes drank, the same qualities that made the tea so refreshing, made the wine so delicious -- it covered the curse's demand for rarer meat, blood pudding, and various other means to try and sate it. If we need to make sure that my schedule puts me firmly here at your disposal, then I am certain that those arrangements can be made, He was better at talking about his work, with Deme, than about personal things, at least, while still in this chamber. There was the constant reminder that he sat at the Archon's pleasure in this place -- in a library, or a sitting room, he could be candid -- here? The walls had eyes.
Deme's laugh bubbled up like a cork popping from a well-shaken bottle of champagne, his eyes wide with a mischievous glint. He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing around the grand chamber as if he were calling for the next act in a particularly whimsical performance. His mood suddenly taking a bit of a turn towards the whimsical, something that was becoming all too commonplace.
Oh, Malik, my dear, dependable Malik! Deme exclaimed, his voice laced with a peculiar mix of fondness and eccentricity. He twirled on the spot, his robes flaring out around him like the petals of an extravagant flower. You speak of burdens and responsibilities with such solemnity, but don't you see? It's all a dance, a game of ever-shifting pieces on this grand chessboard we call the Realm!
Deme paused, his head tilting to the side as if he were listening to some unseen orchestra playing a particularly jaunty tune. His eyes, normally sharp and calculating, sparkled with an almost childlike glee.
He strode across the room with a spring in his step, reaching out to clasp Malik's shoulder with surprising warmth. You worry too much, my dear boy. The Realm's prosperity, the safety of its people—all those grand notions! Of course, they are important, but let us not forget to enjoy the ride! He waggled a finger at Malik, as if scolding a child for taking life too seriously. After all, what is the point of power if we don't have a little fun with it?
Deme spun away again, this time heading toward a table covered in maps and scrolls, all meticulously arranged in a way that only made sense to him. He hovered over them like a mad scientist pondering his latest invention, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the tabletop. Now, about that schedule, he said, his tone suddenly shifting to one of intense focus. There is something coming up that requires your... unique talents. A little... something that needs a touch of subtlety, a dash of discretion, and perhaps, just a hint of chaos.
He looked up, meeting Malik's gaze with a grin that was equal parts cunning and madness. Oh yes, my dear Malik, you will be *most* essential for this. But worry not, we'll make sure you're well-prepared. After all, what good is a game if the pieces aren't ready to play?
Deme grabbed the glass of wine he had poured for Malik earlier, thrusting it into his hand with a flourish. Drink up, my boy! To the Realm, to our grand dance, and to the next thrilling chapter in our delightful little story! He raised his own glass, his eyes gleaming with the excitement of a man who saw the world as one giant, never-ending adventure.
And remember, Malik, Deme added with a wink, in this game, we're not just playing to win. We're playing to have the most *fun* along the way!
Malik paid close attention to the shift in mood, and checked outside to see the sun setting below the horizon, making note of the time and when and how the shift had happened, all things that he was tasked with gathering, data, as it were, to deliver to Malachai later, even if it pained him to see the Archon, the man who had also been as much a father figure to him as Malachai had over the years, slip a little towards madness, I would worry about the butterfly trying to escape it's cocoon if I was allowed to, it is in my nature to worry, but I will make a point of having more fun, as ordered, Malik kept his tone light, playful, but not overly familiar. He didn't want the mood to sour into a hostile one by saying something overly wrong.
Chaos is something I excel at, especially in the battle field. I look forward to whatever mission you set me about, sir. He took the wine glass and drank, after air toasting Deme, knowing better than to not agree with what was given to him, unless it was absolutely going to kill him. He could feel the wine work though him, unaccustomed to something so rich, and smooth to the taste, not even his own stash was this rich, and he took the time to savor the vintage, If we're unable to have fun along the way then it's not worth playing? It was an important question after all, one had to know for sure what to do with power, once one had it.
Then again, Malik wasn't too much longer for this world, a couple years at most, so, maybe he should be listening to Deme, and spending more time on the fun things of life, and be a little less serious. He had spent too long already keeping himself, his beast, in check, surely enjoying what time was left to him a little more would be acceptable? Should I have the stewards pull back out the chess board, to resume our weekly game? It had been a while since they had a match, but he would leave the offer there.
Deme paused, the gleam in his eye dimming just slightly as he considered Malik’s question. For a moment, he seemed almost grounded, his fingers drumming thoughtfully on the arm of his chair. Fun? he echoed, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Ah, Malik, that’s the trick of it, isn’t it? If we can’t find joy in the madness, if we don’t allow ourselves the smallest of indulgences, then what’s the point? What are we even fighting for?
He rose from his chair with a sudden burst of energy, pacing the room as if the answer were hidden in the very air around them. But make no mistake, he continued, his voice lowering to a more serious tone, fun doesn’t mean carelessness. It’s not about letting go of our duty or responsibility. It’s about savoring the moments between battles—the fleeting pleasures that remind us we’re still alive in this dangerous game we play.
Deme stopped, his eyes locking with Malik’s, a flicker of something sharper in his gaze. Because if all we do is survive, if we fight and toil with no joy, no spark of madness to keep us going… then what separates us from the stone-faced statues that line these halls? He chuckled softly, a hint of melancholy creeping into his otherwise animated tone.
He spun back toward the chessboard, now fully set up and waiting. So yes, Malik. It’s worth playing. As long as we remember that sometimes, even in the darkest of times, we’re allowed to laugh. To dance. To enjoy the game. Because that’s what makes victory taste so much sweeter when it finally comes.
Deme’s eyes lit up at Malik’s question about the chessboard, his expression shifting from playful exuberance to the sharp focus of a strategist on the edge of battle.
Ah, chess! Now you’re speaking my language, Malik! he declared, clapping his hands together as though the mere mention of the game had flipped a switch in his mind. The rapid shifts between his moods were jarring, but Malik should be well-accustomed to Deme’s particular brand of unpredictability. It was as if his mind operated in two distinct gears: one for the serious, calculating leader, and the other for the whimsical visionary who saw life as a grand game.
Malik thought about the Archon's words, truly gave them thought, but as he was starting to form some sort of opinion about the question of what they were fighting for -- what he thought they were fighting for at least -- their.. little family, for different things that couldn't quite be put into words just yet, but mainly, their family -- he was rattled from the thought by the sudden movement. He could revisit that thought at a later time. Today? Today Malik fought to keep the Archon safe, to keep the realm safe. He brought death to those that deserved it, and they did, and slept soundly that his blood lust was at least partially sated by a job that needed to be filled, by being his de-facto father's blade in the night. I am rather fond of living, now that you mention it.
He smiled, wryly at the older man, a man that he saw as a mentor in more than one way. Deme was less sarcastic than Malachai, more open with advice learned from age and experience -- he didn't have to pry with Deme, it was offered with no string attached, or at least, Malik thought so. And there was the mood change again, nothing that Malik was too terribly unaccustomed to at this point, so he nodded, as he bowed slightly at the waist, a hand moved towards the chess board. You'll have to reacquaint me with the opening gambit you so love to employ in our games. I've been trying to remember it when other's challenge me to the game. Not everyone has the luxury of a fantastically brilliant teacher.
That was truth at least -- Deme taught him chess, and well. Something he had employed at the club and against his own sister in law before -- the woman did like the game, seemed to think herself a good player to boot. He would learn Deme's opening gambit well enough to use against Kaczor to shut her up eventually. You have time for a game now? I think your schedule is done for the day, and it's a rare chance for us to both indulge. At least in this current mood, he didn't have to always be as formal, as stuffy and rigid to protocol and pomp. The visionary, after all, was Malik's favorite mode of Deme's madness -- unpredictable, but never cruel or lead by malice. He learned far more from Deme in those moments, than he did any other time.
Deme's grin spread wide, lighting up his face like the first rays of dawn breaking over a tumultuous sea. He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through the chamber like a crack of lightning.
Ah, Malik, my ever-dutiful protege! How splendid it is to see you so eager to spar on the battlefield of intellect! he exclaimed, already moving toward the chessboard with a kind of theatrical exuberance that somehow managed to feel entirely genuine. His robes swirled behind him like the trailing banners of an advancing army.
He gestured grandly to the ornate board, the pieces arranged in perfect readiness, gleaming under the flickering light of the chandelier above. The opening gambit, you say? Ah, yes, the ‘Inscrutable Fan Dance of the Overconfident Pawn’—a masterpiece of strategy, if I do say so myself. Subtle, deceptive, and just the right amount of flair to keep one’s opponent deliciously off balance.
Deme settled into his seat, his fingers steepling as he leaned forward, his gaze sharpening like the tip of a blade. For all his flamboyance, there was no mistaking the keen intelligence behind his golden eyes.
Now then, he said, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, I find myself delightfully unburdened by obligations at this very moment, which means you, my dear Malik, have the rare opportunity to pit your wits against mine without interruption. And yes, indulge we shall! For what is life without its indulgences, hmm? A dreary march of duty and drudgery, and we are far too clever for that.
Deme’s fingers danced over the white pieces, and he carefully picked up the king’s pawn, placing it forward two spaces with the flourish of a magician unveiling his first trick. He leaned back, his expression one of mock-seriousness, though his eyes gleamed with uncontained mirth.
There! The first move. Bold, confident, and utterly unshakable—just like yours truly. Your turn, Malik. Show me what you’ve learned.
I can check with your personal secretary about not scheduling so many audiences at a time, it felt quite a bit booked today. Malik suggested as he finished setting up his side of the board to his liking. There was one pawn he liked the most on the board, one that had a small chip at it's base, he liked how it had been worn smooth by countless fingers wearing over the marred stone, making it a nice indentation for a finger. He always opened with that pawn, and as such, he moved it into the position that he would take first. He set his glass of wine next to his dominant hand, in reach, and able to be savored as they gamed. This was a favorite pastime of his, and he worked hard to find ways to challenge his mentor in the game. After all, the game was a way to test military strategy and as such he had spent countless hours trying to learn each and every opening.
Now, I wouldn't presume to use your Fan Dance against you, but I believe, I may have recently thought of a way to counter it. I'd like to test that. And the game was off, Malik moving his pawn into position. The idea was to get his Queen side pawn across the board fastest, and then when the opponent Queen was sent to guard the King, the Rook could move into position to strike. It was a game of attrition -- Malik would have to sacrifice many pawns and a Bishop and Knight along the way, but those were acceptable losses when securing victory. At least on the game board, in life, Malik could never stomach such a loss of life.
I'll never be able to predict your strategies, I believe you do that on purpose, though, to keep your opponent unbalanced, unable to make a prediction, and your opening Gambit leaves too many defenses to try and use, it's a perfect accomplice to your play style, if I may say so, Sir.
Deme let out a delighted laugh, leaning back in his chair and clapping his hands as if Malik’s words were the finest compliment he’d ever received. His grin spread wide, a curious mix of paternal pride and the manic energy that often overtook him.
Oh, Malik, how you flatter me so! Unpredictability, my boy, is the greatest weapon in one’s arsenal! he declared, his voice rising theatrically before dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. But you are not wrong. The dance is not only to disarm but to charm, to bewilder, to lull the opponent into a false sense of security until—snap!—the jaws close around them. He made a snapping motion with his hands, his eyes gleaming like a cat toying with its prey.
Deme’s fingers hovered over the board, gliding from one piece to another as though considering the destiny of each. He picked up a knight and advanced it, the movement deliberate, precise, and oddly reverent.
A counter to my Fan Dance, you say? My, my, how ambitious! he mused, his gaze sharpening like a falcon’s as he studied the board. But that is good, Malik. A student who does not seek to outmatch his teacher is no student at all. Though do not think I will go easy on you, just because I find you endearing.
He sat back, his hands folding neatly in his lap, and his expression turned contemplative, almost serene. The mood shift was as abrupt as ever, but now it carried a weight of gravitas.
You are learning well, Malik. Strategy, adaptability, the balance of sacrifice and gain… they are not merely tools of war or governance. They are principles of life. Every move we make, every step we take, carries a cost and a consequence. The question is: do we see far enough ahead to know when the trade is worth it? His gaze softened, the madness dimmed for a fleeting moment.
Then, with a sudden clap of his hands, Deme’s whimsical grin returned, and he leaned forward eagerly. But enough philosophizing! Let us see this grand counter-strategy of yours in action. Come, my boy, show me what you’ve got! He gestured dramatically toward the board, his eyes alight with the thrill of competition.
As the game progressed, Deme played with an almost chaotic elegance—seemingly impulsive yet always three steps ahead. It was as if the chessboard itself bent to the whims of his mercurial mind. Yet even amid the playful banter and sudden shifts of mood, there was an unmistakable undertone of mentorship, a desire to see Malik rise to the challenge and prove himself.
Ah, the Queen’s gambit! A bold move, indeed, he remarked, his tone carrying both admiration and a hint of mockery. But beware, Malik. The Queen is a powerful piece, yes, but even she cannot stand alone for long. Protect your King, my boy, for the throne is always the ultimate prize!
Deme’s eyes sparkled as he leaned forward, his expression both playful and deadly serious. Your move.
