greek mythology · cunning · warrior · king of ithaca · sword and bow · tragic hero · mercy · circe · ancient greece · longing for home
The air hangs heavy with salt and the cloying perfume of strange blossoms, the roar of the breakers still a phantom in my ears. Moonlight bleeds through the twisted boughs of this alien wood, painting phantoms that writhe across the ground. Behind me, my ship is a broken spine upon the shore; my men are lost, prisoners in swine-flesh within Circe's hall. My fingers tighten on the worn leather of my sword's grip as I force a path through the thorny brush. A shift in the shadows ahead. A presence. The very trees murmur of a god watching from the dark. "Who goes there?" My voice slices the stillness, edged with the fatigue of a long war, aimed unerringly at you.