Chapter 2

  Just outside of Pythion there was a small hill. This particular hill was not particularly special. It was green, covered with once soft, now slightly scratchy, grass. Around it bloomed new and golden fields of wheat. At its precipice there was gnarly old oak. It was one of those stubborn sort of trees. Those who had watched the land long before Prometheus shaped man from clay. Now that crops actually grew, many a farmer would hide from the noon sun under its boughs, fanning themselves with their straw hats. However, if there were any farmers seeking shade on this particular noon, they would find the comfortable nook in the tree's twisty roots already occupied.

  Slumbering under the green boughs was a satyr. He had brown, tanned skin and goat hooves. A coat of darker brown fur grew from his ankles all the way up past his hips, thinning a little bit above them. Around his slightly pointed ears curled grayish rams horns, which were still slightly white at the tips, betraying his youth. He wore naught but a subligar and loincloth. Such modesty was rather uncommon among satyrs. Most just went naked. His hat, a floppy and shapeless thing, rested under his head. At least, a corner of it did. The other three quarters were flitting in a cool westerly breeze, swatting the unconscious semi-divine on the face and scalp.

  Finally awoken by his hat, Eoren (for that was his name) sniffed abruptly. He slowly sat up, smacking his lips. As he sat in the bright noon light blinking his eyes, he clumsily rooted around for his waterskin. Finally grasping the worn leather and horn pouch, he put it to his lips and promptly got three drops of water.

  “Gnah, traitor.” He muttered, tossing it lightly towards the bundle where his other possessions were stored. He stood up slowly and stretched theatrically.

  “Welp Grandfather, it has to be said that your roots just ain’t that comfy.”

  The tree said nothing back and the satyr moved over to his bundle. Said bundle was, to put it bluntly, packed with junk. It was a credit to Eorens strength that he had hauled this square cloth full of rusty iron, mouldering wood and random seeds all the way from his home.

  “I’ve slept under all manner of trees on my wanderings Gramps, in bushes, all the spots a proper Satyr would sleep in.”

  Pressing his hat down on his head, Eoren picked up his walking staff, his Thyrsus. About five feet tall, made from giant fennel wood, wrapped in wine vines and topped with the largest pine cone Eoren could find, it was a far cry from the divine staff it was modeled in reverence of. The vines did not twist dramatically around his haft like snakes, neither did honey drip from the pine cone at the tip. Did have a good heft to it though. Pressing on with the arduous task of getting ready, Eoren began to fasten his bundle to it, making a bindle. After he finished he stretched once more and an audible crack emanated from his back.

  “Aw that's the stuff.” He said contentedly. He turned back to the tree, bindle on his shoulder.

  “Hear that crack, old coot? I’ve slept under pine trees more comfortable than you! Ya hear me? Less cosy than fucking pine trees man.” He said, trailing off into muttering. He turned and began to walk away from his resting spot, but halted abruptly.

  “How the Hestia you pick that up gramps?” He said, looking at one of the larger roots anchoring the tree, which had a gash in it that went all the way to its core. It was a terrible wound, sap oozed from it and pooled on the ground beneath it.

  “Some farmer's little punk put that into you for fun? Or was it some sun fevered farmhand not looking where he was swinging his hoe? He grumbled, lightly touching the wound.

  “Folks should know better than than, tsk tsk tsk.” He said to himself, rummaging around in his bindle for one of the scant few useful items inside.

  “Aha!” He exclaimed, producing a pipe flute from the garbage. He puffed a few experimental notes through it, and evidently satisfied, he tooted out a short little song.

  “Alright old man, I’ll give ya a hand but just know I’m outta practice and never was that good at this shit to start with.” He huffed, gesturing at the trunk of the tree with his pipes. Then he put the reeds to his lips and played a shrill, yet strangely calming song. Like he said, it wasn’t the finest of renditions but the oozing sap began to flow back up into the root and clot before his eyes.

  “There.” He said. “That should stop infection from taking.” He set out again, tooting some random notes. He got all of three steps before he groaned and took three back.

  “Alright, I suppose I owe ya a little for keepin the rain off me. If this drains me too much and I don’t get into the Lyceum, I’m coming back and using you for bark soup.” He snapped, then put the pipes back to his mouth. He played a much longer song, and the root closed itself up, a thick skin of bark covering the scar left by the wound. By the time he was finished a couple beads of sweat had formed on his brow.

  “There.” He muttered. “Now don’t you dare think of mouthing off to me to the other trees. The Poplars already have it out for me, I don’t need Oaks pissed at me as well.

  He hefted his bindle onto his shoulder and tapped it a few times to get a feel for its weight.

  “Now, may the gods grace you and your fine home.” He said in mock politeness, holding his hat on his chest and bowing.

  For the last time he turned and walked away from the tree. He clattered his way through a small path that parted the golden seas. In the distance Mount Olympus loomed, its tip obscured by clouds, which was far from unusual. Much closer however was the city of Pythion. Once just a small town, it had exploded in population overnight, filled far past the brim with supplicants, those who came to beg forgiveness from the gods and those who came to profit off of them. In a way those early petitioners had succeeded, by Eoren’s estimation at least.

  The city looked much like you would expect a rising city state to. Many small and slightly crude dwellings surrounded much nicer houses which were half built. The beginnings of a curtain wall was peaking over the tops of the shorter outbuildings. Even from here it looked incredibly busy. The stand out feature of the city however, was the Lyceum. Sitting on top of and spilling onto the side of one of the larger foothills that surrounded Olympus was a stunning white marble building. It was all graceful columns and flat, perfect walls. One could see into the yard the walls enclosed from this angle, for it was not a fully roof structure. In a half flat and half slanted court, hopeful godlings sparred, worked out and attended lectures. It bore a striking similarity to a rendition of the original ancient Lyceum of Athens Eoren had seen once on a vase.

  Feeling a twinge of nerves in his gut, the satyr fished a clay pipe and some skunky herb out of his bag and began smoking it.

  He was about halfway through his bowl before he came across a farmer and his cart. A pile of bright red apples was held in the small cart, and it had the look of something that would be pulled by manpower, which was supported by the lack of any draft animal. It appeared that a small stream ran through this road, not more than an inch deep at most, but plenty wide enough to make some mud. The farmer was about knee deep in said mud and trying to push his cart out of it. He was sweating up a storm and clearly not making much progress.

  “Need a hand?” Said Eoren. The farmer paused, his hands still splayed on the back of his cart. He looked back at the voice and blinked in surprise.

  “A satyr? You’re going in the wrong direction friend, the vineyards are back the way you came.”

  “Noted, but I’m not in Pythion for its wine.” Replied Eoren.

  “I could use a hand yeah, if you don’t mind.” Sputtered the farmer.

  “I’ll give ya two if I can get one of those.” Said Eoren, pointing at the apples and already setting down his pack.

  The man looked at the cart and back to the satyr.

  “Sure, this is my third cart of the day and my boss can deal with two apples that fell out of the cart.”

  The Satyr hopped into the mud alongside the farmer, who moved his hands to make space for him to push.

  “Generous.” Stated Eoren between heaves.

  “One’s for me, greedy goat.” Replied the farmer.

  The pair had much more success. In no time at all the cart was free and back on the road, no worse for wear. Little dirty though.

  “I’ve heard tales of the followers of Dionysus' strength. Glad to see they were even half true.” Said the farmer, tossing an apple of Eoren and biting into one himself.

  “Yup, got the strength of three men in my arms!” Bragged Eoren, flexing his arms.

  If he did indeed possess such strength, the farmer could not discern it from his form. For a servant of Dionysus he seemed a little skinny and lacking a gut. Not terribly skinny, just too skinny to justify the fact that he hardly had to do any work alongside the satyr.

  “Well, thank you for your help…?” The farmer asked.

  “Eoren.” Stated the satyr, already halfway through his prize.

  “...Eoren.” Finished the farmer, as he sat down on the ground with his back against the cart. The satyr nodded a farewell and went on his way.

  “Ah, if you find yourself short on work, look for Ango’s Cider. We always could use more hands.” The farmer called out over his cart. Eoren hummed and nodded.

  “We could probably pay you in cider, if you like.”

  Eoren nodded and hummed much more vigorously.

  So the satyr walked on through a forest of gold. It was a clear sort of day, with few clouds in the sky, though it wasn’t terribly hot. A cool wind blew over the fields, making the stalks hiss. Perfect weather to end a long journey on. His pipe empty, the satyr walked in a light haze all the way to what passed for the gates of Pythion. It didn’t look like much up close. Twin piles of stones and dirt flanked an iron gateway. A whole arch of iron was a great and showy expense, sure but its lack of a true gate made it an unimpressive welcome to Eoren. Farmers and townsfolk filtered in and out under the watchful eye of two guardsmen. Eoren watched as the leftermost guard stopped someone who had the look of a traveler and questioned him.

  Standard across most of the city-states, vetting of strangers wasn’t really to keep a tab on who was going into the city (few city states had the manpower anymore for that sort of thing) it was more just a formality to make sure bandits and wanted criminals had a harder time getting into the town. Some of the more draconian cities only let respectable looking folks inside however. Something along the lines of “keeping the city pure and safe.” Eoren found it unlikely that Pythion would be the latter, as there was no true wall to stop anyone who really wanted into the city. It made Eoren’s skin crawl just thinking about how boring living in such a stuffy place would be.

  A guard began shouting at the wanderer and pointing back down the road. The ragged man huffed and slung his pack over his shoulders, throwing up rude gestures at the guard as he walked away from the city. Excellent, Eoren thought glumly. If he turned away a healthy but bedraggled man, an equally filthy satyr had little chance of getting through that gate. Stopping by another stream, perhaps a tributary of that last one, the satyr squatted beside it and washed the dust off of himself. Staring at his reflection, he pondered.

  Wise satyr, burdened with the lore of nature? Thought Eoren. No, if he had clashed previously with one, he would be unlikely to believe it unless I looked the part. Merry and mellow then? No, he’d probably think I’m drunk or something. The truth? Hm, might get laughed at, but let’s not discount it. Wait, that cider place! Argo’s cider? Arko’s? Engo’s? Ango’s! It was Ango’s cider.

  Eoren could have easily snuck into the city. He was half goat after all, he could scale a wall twice as high and not spill a drop from a full cup of wine. But that wasn't really the issue here. Sure he could get into the city, but he wanted to stay in the city for as long as possible. Few things made guards more twitchy than a satyr sneaking around. Sitting fat and drunk on the steps of a shrine of Dionysus, perfectly fine, but every red blooded Graek had been weaned on a steady diet of tales involving the mischief of the Horned men. Not to mention it seemed a little foolish to duck a city's right to just ask a couple damn questions right before taking advantage of said cities golden opportunity.

  Wiping the last of the water off his slightly animalistic features, Eoren stood and walked a easy, but purposed clip to the gate. The guard wore a bronze helmet with a brilliant red plume and a well sculpted leather cuirass. The satyr couldn’t help but notice it wasn't exactly the best gear. The cuirass was frayed around the edges and bleached a little and there was a miscolored patch on his helmet. Looked like a slightly sloppy fix job to Eoren’s eyes. Regardless, the man fixed a hard gaze on the satyr.

  “Satyr eh? We’ve no need for more vagrants.”

  “Lots of those types want into the city?” Said the satyr, straightening and leaning on his staff.

  “Loads. Pythion is lucky to be host to two kinds; the regular trash and all those fools trying to get into the Lyceum. What’s your business here goat-man?”

  Ah, Tarturus, he doesn’t like the students, gotta lie.

  “Welp, I can assure you I’m no vagrant- or rabble rouser, like to keep my head down ya see- I’m here to work.”

  “Where?”

  “Ango’s Cider. They need someone to turn the screw press, ya know to crush the apples into juice.”

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  The guard's eyes narrowed and Eoren knew he had made some mistake.

  “Don’t they have a mule for that already?”

  Shit, shit. Thought Eoren. Explain or make a joke? I could tell him a sob story about how the mule died or got sick. Or I could deflect the question a little. Can’t be too much. Gotta go with joking, he clearly knows the shop, could expose myself more if I made up a story and got a detail wrong.

  The satyr gave a cool shrug.

  “Guess they wanted another one.” He said, adding a note of laughter to his voice.

  The guard's expression didn’t change. Eorens mind kicked it up a gear, and he began to grasp for anything concrete to spin a yarn around.

  Let’s see. The satyr narrowed his own eyes, very slightly. Older armour, but not very. Cudgel sheath angled forward, easier to draw quickly. Great. Suspicious of me obviously, but is it just satyrs or all outsiders, probably all outsiders as he turned away that other guy.

  A blink.

  I already know all that, what else? Callused hands, a working man but what kind? A full time guard is unlikely unless he’s new and hasn’t had time to let his hands smooth. A clean, flat scar just below his neck, too clean for anything but a man made weapon. A warrior at some point then? Speaking of scars, there is a rather large one curling from just below his kneecap to some point behind his calf. A highly unusual scar for a warrior to have, as the most likely perpetrator of said scar is an agricultural scythe. I knew a farmer who had fallen on his scythe and gotten a near identical scar, though it was on his torso rather than his leg.

  Okay, so he has a scar that only makes sense for a farmer to get, he could certainly be one, but what other evidence for that conclusion is there? He has a silver ring on his left hand and a bracelet of clay beads on the same wrist. Plain ring, but is there some kind of design on the beads? Yeah looks like there is. Black on red…. shield? The Sun? Damn, can’t get close enough to examine them without looking suspicious. Hm, his feet are heavily calloused as well, despite the fact he’s wearing battle sandals. Ah hah! City dwellers don’t tend to go barefoot.

  “Something on my feet?” Said the guard, looking Eoren in his eyes.

  “Oh no, sorry sir, just ain’t been around guards much.” Said Eoren, and this was the truth.

  “You live out in the country?”

  “Yeah, on a farm below Mount Chasia, a mountain not that far from here.” Which was a lie.

  “Hm, what you grow?”

  Is now the time to lean into the satyr thing? Could come off as endearing or he could lump me in with satyrs like Owen. He’s heard me out, maybe it could work.

  Eoren put on a light smile.

  “Grapes, what else is there worth growing?”

  The guard made something between a scoff and a laugh.

  “Alright then Mr Chasia, how would you go about making a wine sweeter? I worked at a vineyard ages ago and saw the process all the time.”

  “Oh that's easy-” Started Eoren.

  Hold on. That's a really easy question. Suspiciously easy. You can just add something sweet to it when you drink it. Does he not think a satyr would know that sort of thing? Semi-divines famous for being perpetually intoxicated? No he isn’t trying to ascertain if I actually worked at a grape farm. He's checking something else.

  “Well I mean, you could just add something sweet, honey maybe.” Said the satyr, stretching his words a little.

  What is it? What is he looking for? He said he worked at a vineyard. And, aha! He said process as well. There are only a couple processes that could be done at a vineyard and not a brewery to make a wine sweeter.

  “But you said process I suppose. At my vineyard we always used to just boil the grapes.”

  The guard had parted his lips as Eoren first spoke, hopefully to not tell Eoren to scram, but closed it as he added the last part.

  “Hm, glad to see you ain’t another one of those meathead satyrs trying to be the next god of wine without knowing a single damn thing about it.”

  “Yeah, imagine you get a lot of those types. Don’t see much point in trying that sort of thing, what with already so many givin it a go.” Which was a more substantial lie.

  “Go on.” said the guard, gesturing into the city.

  The satyr paused for a moment and clopped into the city. And after such a display of trickery he absolutely meant to trip over the supporting beam for the gate. Just to really sell the whole harmless thing. Definitely not because he was still dazed from the effort of lying to a guard while slightly high.

  And so he was in! Narrow streets branched off of a main thoroughfare. Hordes of people went to and fro. There was little idling, polite conversation. Some of the more narrow streets were so small as to only permit a single man walking through them at a time. This didn’t appear to stop citizens from trying. Luckily the main street was plenty wide. That and the orderly pattern of cobblestone which abruptly unravels a foot off the path, gave the impression of a well built city plan which was simply overwhelmed. The fact that there was so much construction that cranes were swinging wildly over top of the crowd also lent to this impression.

  This slightly haphazard city spoke to Eoren somehow. He had just gone through the threshold and yet it already seemed a good place to call home. Easy to get anywhere important, but plenty of nooks and crannies for all the good sorts of fun to collect. Dice and gambling, prostitutes and food. Ah, it simply smacked of the very best kind of city. Perhaps he had been a little hasty in judging it at the gate.

  Maybe a little sampling of the streets is in order? His stomach grumbled at this thought. It was deeply tempting to put aside his task for an hour or two. It’s only a little after noon, surely there was some time to spare?

  “Nggh, nah…” Moaned the satyr. There would be time later, time to celebrate or commiserate.

  Slightly reluctantly, Eoren pushed his way through the crowd, all the way to the central Agora, that most elemental of any good Graek city. It did indeed take a little bit of pushing to get there. When he did manage to clamber through the crowd, he was not disappointed. The original planners must have anticipated the city growing very large and built for the next fifty years. The whole square had that solid cobble pattern that the road did. Low stone benches dotted the Agora. People were haggling, laughing, crying and gossiping on and over them. Hades, he even saw some people patting a victorious pugilist on the back, all while he picked up his teeth from the top of one. Most of the real market dealing took place on the southern side of the Agora, to Eorens' right. There stalls of all shapes and colours were set up. Eoren saw all manner of things sold there at first glance, but decided if he looked any closer he would probably have to go look, which wasn't in the cards right now. Straight ahead he saw the city continue and that perfect cobble road stretch all the way up the slopes of Olympus. While most of it was fairly mundane, if excellent craftsmanship, some of the steps seemed to be massive stone plinths jammed into the side of the mountain.

  Figures, perfect roads like these don’t appear over twenty scant years without a little divine intervention.

  To his left is what the satyr had come all this way for. The Lyceum. It was even more magnificent up close. The white marble walls still seemed to shimmer like they were freshly quarried. The plain columns seemed just so regal in their simplicity. An elaborate frieze lay between the supporting columns and the sloped roof. Contrasted by the rest of the white building, it was a riot of colour. It depicted the Olympians. And did it in such a way unlike every other temple that Eoren had seen. Every Olympian was rendered gorgeously, on their own each a piece that would be out of place anywhere but the very centre of the main altar. Even from halfway across the Agora the satyr could easily tell each of the gods apart. These were not the flawless, perfect renditions that Eoren, or any Graek really, had known the gods from. Hephaestus was not merely a muscular bearded man, he also had twisted legs. Not, bent nor crooked, truly twisted. And was that a tangle in his beard? Eoren had seen a couple busts of Hephaestus and not a single one of them gave him anything less than a perfect beard. Aphrodite was stunningly beautiful of course, but her slight smile was marred by a corner of her mouth twisting sadistically.

  Even Dyonysus, Eorens patron god, was not spared. In his eyes above the merrily ruddy cheeks and delirious smile, flickered the threat of madness. All the gods depicted were flawed thusly. Even though he, along with every other person here, had survived their cruelty, some part of Eoren’s brains itched at the sight of the gods depicted so…. evil. He quashed the itch and looked away from the frieze. Then he strode towards the Lyceum.

  In front of the grand structure's solid wooden door was a line of twenty or thirty people. Some had the look of warriors, grizzled and carrying weapons. Others were armed only with canny looks in their eyes. Most however, looked far from what Eoren would think potential gods should look like. He even saw a child, no older than 10 standing proudly in the line.

  He took his spot at the end of the line, and sensing this would be a bit of a wait, took out his clay pipe again and packed in the last of his herbs. Eoren wasn't really that nervous, unlike some in the line, but there wasn’t much else to do. A few moments of dull boredom passed. As busy as the market was, people watching quickly lost its charm. As his eyes drifted towards the frieze again, a weight surprised him by lightly pressing against his stomach. He looked down and there was a solid, if a bit worn shield leaning against him. Without touching it, he looked at the man in front of him. He was armored and clearly not paying attention.

  “Hey. This yours?”

  “Hm? Oh shit sorry.” Replied the man, taking his shield back.

  He didn’t look that old for a warrior and he was a little short. Next to the statuesque and bronze clad soldiers waiting in line, his dull iron armour and drooping shoulders didn’t inspire quite the same. And he clearly was panicking a little.

  “You alright?” Said the satyr, looking for a way to pass the time.

  “F-fine.” Said the shaking man.

  The doors to the Lyceum flung open and a shouting man was thrown out by a pair of massive arms studded in eyes.

  “You’re the only one shaking here man.” Said Eoren after a pause to watch the man walk off in a huff.

  “Really? Shit.” He tried to stop the shaking, but the light tapping of metal on metal remained. Eoren said nothing but offered his pipe to the man.

  “Oh! I uh, thanks but I don’t smoke.”

  “Suit yourself, looks like you need something else to think about though.”

  “Y-yeah you could say that.” Said the warrior, with a weak, dry laugh.

  “Whatchu hoping to get in to be?”

  “God of war.”

  “Hm.”

  “You?

  “Wine, partying, anything cool like that, you know?”

  “Ah satyr and all that, should have assumed so.”

  “Thanks for not.”

  A woman in a beautiful chiton angrily opened the door and slammed it behind, fuming off into the crowd. A silence fell between the pair and the line moved up as more and more people left, some defeated, others trying to pretend they weren’t.

  “Maron must be in a bad mood today, so few are getting in.” Said the warrior, mostly to himself.

  “How do you figure he’s in a bad mood?”

  “Oh, I uh, um, I’ve gotten into line yesterday and the day before.”

  “Oh they let you come back and try again?”

  “Well, they let you get back in line as many times as you want, but I don’t know if they let you talk to Maron more than twice. I…” He paused.

  “Chickened out before you got to the doors?” Finished Eoren. The other man glumly nodded. A very square man stoically strode out the doors.

  “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “If it's just a little bit of courage you need, I can help you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well I mean I’m a satyr, nature spirit and master of the wilds. I happen to be carrying some herbs that can kindle a fire in your belly.”

  “Really? You don’t have to smoke them like whatever skunky stuff you’re smoking now right?”

  “Oh no, these you just chew.”

  Eoren watched the young man mull it over. They were less than five people from the door now, and Eoren could pick up snippets of conversation beyond the door. Some deep, powerful voice spoke whenever a new hopeful went inside.

  “Oh-okay, I’ll try them.”

  “Trust me mate, you won’t regret it.” Said Eoren as he dug around in his pack. He put a cluster of dried brown grass in the armoured man's hand.

  “T-thanks.”

  “Not a problem.”

  The young man tilted his head back and started chewing on the grasses.

  “And hey, I’ll need some allies if I’m going to get anywhere as a god.” Added Eoren, mostly as an afterthought.

  “Is a god of wine supposed to really “do” anything?” Questioned the other man, through a mouthful of stringy plants.

  “Eh I’m not sure, I’ll see when I get there. Speaking of, I think you’re up, man.”

  “I’m huh?” Said the warrior, turning to look at the doors looming above him. Indeed, there was no one else in front of him.

  “Go on mate, the herbs should be kicking in real soon.”

  He gingerly put his hand on the door.

  “Those herbs are used by the Spartans when they go into battle, man, you got nothing to worry about!” Urged the satyr.

  The armoured man took a deep breath and opened it.

  “There ya go man! Hard parts over!”

  He slipped in.

  “Good man.” Said the satyr, to the closed door. It was quiet for a moment, then that same muffled voice broke the silence. It hurt Eorens nosy little soul, but he couldn’t make out more than single words. He looked around to kill the rest of the time before his test, however long this was going to take. Hm, only three hopefuls were behind him. If people knew to not line up this late in the day, were they going to stop taking hopefuls today?

  The silence stretched on. Eoren watched some of the market stalls pack up and others take their place. It was kinda hard to see exactly what kind of merchants left and what took their place, but it seemed to tend towards shadier types. Makes sense.

  Feeling a little nervous now, Eoren cast his mind to what he would do if he got in and what he would do if he didn’t. It would do little for his mood if he slunk off to some hole and moped after not getting in. He didn’t have much money but that mattered only so much. He smiled to himself at all the tawdry mischief he would raise. On the other hand, if he did get in he had no idea what would happen. Would he instantly become a god? Would wine flow from his fingertips and evil men go mad from gazing into his eyes?

  He had heard tales of people getting into the Lyceum and walking out in an hour, a full divine. He had also heard tales about any who failed the trial at the door would burst into flames, so he took this with a grain of salt. He dimly noted that the armored man was taking quite a long time. Eoren really hoped that those random tufts of grass he gave the man would help him keep his head. He seemed like a nice guy, if a little poorly suited to being a god of war. Regardless, he seemed like the sheltered type and that would make him a fun companion for a night on the town. Yes, either way, win or lose, Pythion would remember this night as the one Eoren and what's-his-name came to town. Or at least Eoren. He figured the townsfolk wouldn’t really remember when exactly the armored man came into town.

  The door creaked open and a helmeted head popped out.

  “Uh-he told me to tell you that he’s only going to see one more aspirant.” Murmured the sweaty and shaking man.

  And so the satyr tapped the ashes out of his pipe and went to his trial.