Ramses entered the room just as his father had his outburst against his youngest wife, something he didn’t bat an eye at. The woman must have been at fault. He remembered even Ozias had married Jessamy. It had felt a bit strange at the time given that the girl was only a year older than him but not so strange to be extraordinary. This was Coheed after all and Ozias still has plenty left him to have more children while Jessamy was the perfect vessel for said children.

Looking around the room and he came in he also remembered a time when the room had been filled to the brim with activity, every attendee simply honored to have been invited. Now it was but a shadow of those lively occasions, his father a shadow of the force he’d once been.

That didn’t mean that Ramses didn’t still strive and claw for his approval. He was honored to call Ozias his father. He only wish the same was true in reverse.

He looked around for other members of his family though the only he’d actively try to avoid was Triss. “Father,” he greeted the man with a respectful bow as he came in.

Though not related to Ozias by blood, Leander had attended such dinners for so long that his quiet presence no longer earned any questioning looks. The patriarch’s eyes and ears around Gilead, who had wormed his way into the aging warrior’s good graces through cunning rather than strength.

Dark eyes flicked around the room, scanning and identifying those assembled, as their owner stepped in behind Ramses. His wife, Erya, stood to his side and slightly behind him head lowered. She knew where she belonged, and her husband thought that it never hurt to remind Jago of all that he had lost. Not in the presence of Ozias, where Leander himself was untouchable.

After Ramses bowed and greeted his father, the shorter man did the same. “Good evening, Ozias.” A smile accompanied the words, and after his eyes rested for a moment on the old warrior - or were they on the beautiful young woman perched on his lap? - he circled the table to arrive at his usual place, where he took a seat. Eyra lingered behind his chair like a servant waiting to be called upon.

Ozias, groping his wife’s behind, glanced at Ramses Oziason and offered only a grunt of acknowledgment. The boy—boy, not man, in his opinion—was a disappointment still. It had been bad enough when Ramses had gone the way of the witch doctor. Now, the boy wasn’t even that—not even a witch doctor’s apprentice. He was a purposeless nobody with dreams of gods and grandeur that would never be realized. For his own part, Ozias ceased to believe in any realm beyond this one. He’d seen too many powerful men die to believe in the divine. All a man had in this world was honor, strength, and the power to do what he damn well pleased.

It was @leander’s presence that summoned a smile from the aged warrior. “Leander—” Ozias smacked Jessamy’s behind, signaling for her to rise, before striding over to Leander and pulling him into an embrace. His eyes shifted to Eyra who he shamelessly ogled. “It’s about time you took another wife, son. You know—” Ozias slurred, clapping Leander on the shoulder and pulling him in, “They don’t stay ripe forever.” His whisper was hardly enough to keep Eyra from hearing him before he released Leander.

“Come, sit.” He waved vaguely at Ramses Oziason, beckoning for him to do the same. Leander would be offered the chair directly at his side. Ramses could sit where he wished.

Ramses might have been upset by this difference in treatment, especially given that Leander was in no way actually related to him. However, this was not new, not in the slightest. It had been years since his father had seen him as anything other than a disappointment and while he was still determined to prove him wrong, getting upset about it now would do no one any good.

But to anyone who cared, it did sting, every time. He was just skilled at hiding it by this point.

Ramses took a seat leaving one chair between him and Leander though he did offer the man a nod of greeting before turning his attention to one of his younger brothers.

Leander was drawn into a hug which he returned with the same familiarity, unable to stop himself from basking under the attention of a powerful man. For many years now, he had simply received the warrior’s approval rather than having to seek it out himself, and he rather enjoyed that state of affairs. Who was he to stop Ozias from so clearly playing favorites when the warrior’s tendency to do so benefited him?

Still, the increasing frequency with which he found the patriarch more drunk than sober was quietly concerning. Drunkards were fools. Though no one, least of all Leander, would dare call him such, the younger man knew how slick inebriation made any slope, and he did not need any enhanced smell to notice the alcohol on Ozias’ breath tonight.

“No, they don’t,” Leander agreed, stomping out the spark of possessiveness - even without looking, he knew where the warrior’s gaze had fallen, for where else would it go? - before it could blaze into anything further. “I’m sure you’ve noticed how even that has become more difficult, Ozias. Many fathers now allow their daughters to fight instead of marry.” Disdain laced his words as he took his seat beside the other warrior and returned Ramses nod with a shallow one of his own.

“I think we all know who to blame for allowing us to be crippled in such a way.” Not only did the Cyrilsons make convenient - and truthful - scapegoats in this regard, but Leander suspected that the mention of Nevermerean influence would be enough to distract Ozias from the laundry list Leander’s own shortcomings that made the acquisition of a second wife rather difficult.

Ozias snorted in disgust at the mention of the new warrior women. The Parabolti. How shameful it was that Kaalim had decided to give them a name as if they should be distinguished over the real warriors that had protected Coheed all these years. Ozias gave thanks that Cyril was not alive to see his son’s failure—all of his sons. The shame would have surely struck him dead.

“No wife or daughter of mine will ever take up a sword,” Ozias declared, beckoning Jessamy to him, “I’d sooner see her hands cut off than one of Rian’s Por-bit-ohli.” Ozias knew very well how it was pronounced, but butchered it on purpose with a hearty laugh. “For even without her hands a wife would be more useful at home than able on the field,” Ozias said, hoisting Jessamy onto his lap and pulling her close, “So long as she’s got a cock-trap between her legs and a pretty mouth like yours.” He kissed Jessamy then, softly, as if he’d said something terribly romantic. Even before they parted, Ozias waved his hand for the food to be delivered.

“Rian Cyrilson—” Ozias continued loudly as his wives came forward with the feast, “Is a witch’s bitch and a coward besides. Not a drop of Cyrilson blood in him, and it shows.” Ozias would reach for a grilled piece of bread and tear a bit from it with his teeth.

Ramses bristled at the conversation of the Parabolti. It was one of the things that he had father did actually agree on. While he had no wife of his own to sink his manhood into, he too believed that a woman was better suited for childrearing and keeping up the home than in wielding a woman. "Disgraceful," he muttered half to himself. "Coheed is already shockingly low on numbers in recent years," after all the battles they had been part of it. He had raised his voice from a mutter to actually being mean to be heard. "The women ought to be focusing on repopulating more than on battle readiness. The gods are displeased. There will be repercussions if things do not change to how they ought to be."

This was the power that almost every man in Coheed overlooked. Distracted by physical strength and prowess in combat, they forgot how easily one could further their interests by making the right observation at the right time. Ozias knew, of course, for Leander had spent the last few decades standing by his side, but such recognition did not lead to immunity to it, especially as the aging patriarch sank deeper and deeper into the bottle. The redirection worked. Of course it did.

Leander joined in on the amusement when Ozias butchered the name of the female warrior group, looking first to the father and then to the son as they both shared their opinions on the true value of the weaker sex. Neither were wrong, of course, in declaring that it truly lay between her legs, though… With a glance back at Eyra, he pulled her into his lap by the wrist, one hand finding purchase on her hip while the other reached for her chest. “Don’t forget about these, Ozias.” There was always something to be said about aesthetic appeal.

The topic of conversation, the flesh under his hands, and the weight of her on him admittedly had his thoughts straying. Perhaps tonight would end with the wives doing more than just sitting in their husband’s lap. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Eyra was saved from his wandering hands by the feast that Ozias’ women lay before them. She once again took up her place near Leander’s chair while the man in question nodded again at Ramses’ declaration that the current state of affairs was untenable. “Of course, we know exactly who to look to as an example for how we ought to live,” He agreed, raising his glass briefly in something of a toast as his gaze found Ozias. “When so many have been led astray by the Cyrilsons and their ilk, he has remained steadfast to our ways.”

“The gods...” Ozias scoffed and rolled his eyes as he took another oversized bite, “Please do keep us informed of when your gods see fit to hand out punishments. Seems to me they’re taking their old sweet time…” He barked with laughter and took a deep drink from his goblet—a drink he nearly spat up when his laughter sprang up anew upon seeing Erya’s bouncing bosom.

“My son was a fool to lose that one…” Ozias shook his head with a lascivious grin, “See that your victory does not go to waste. I have half a mind to take her from you.” It was a joke, of course. Ozias would never do a man the insult of toying with his wife. He was ready to tuck in again before Leander raised his glass. A broad grin sprang up on the old warrior’s face. He raised his goblet to meet Leander’s, saying in a booming voice reminiscent of the man he once was:

“To Coheed. And damn the rest." Ozias drank deeply from his cup.