MP Game - Yarnspinners

[puffyn]

---- Arcoscephale, Turn 20 ----

Military life is hostile to butter. I served under the great Alexander as he cut through the kingdoms of the world. We spent many seasons under the scorching Egyptian desert sun, where my butter turned to soup, and many more in the mountains of Medea, when my butter was rock hard in the bitter mornings. Yet somehow these swamps spoil butter faster than anywhere else in the known world. Every morning I stumble over to my saddle-bags and withdraw the precious day's ration, and every morning it is the consistency of sludge and smells of brackish water—barely worth putting on my moldy bread at all.

It is said that when Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept that there were no more worlds to conquer. This morning, I wept, for spoilt as it may be, I still need my butter every morning. But today it was gone from my bags.

Around the hottest, most insect-filled part of the day, Balachandra arrived at the camp, with a small contingent of horsemen, a few more hoplites, and... My heart beat quickly for a moment when I saw the green robes of Apollo, the chestnut brown locks... but of course it was not my Thymbre. Stories spin false hopes in man. It is hard not to lie awake at night, thinking of Orpheus, the greatest singer this world will ever know, who descended into the Underworld, and would have won the release of his love, Eurydice, had he not looked back at the Last moment. It is foolishness. I have seen many strange things in this land, but the river is deep and cold, and those who pass it will never return.

I later had a chance to talk with this priestess of Apollo. She was called Andromache, and her familiar appearance was no accident, for in fact she was one of the slaves I had rescued from the evil warrior-women some months ago. She had fled the site of her torment, and arrived at Thymbre's temple, there entering into the divine mysteries. We wandered along the edge of the bog, helping pull each other out of the deadly quicksand. It was strange seeing a local woman in the Greek religious garb, but she had learned only enough during her short training at the temple to make her fairly burst with ridiculous questions:

"Is it true that Apollo raced with Hermes at the first Pythian Games at Delphi?"

"No... well, it depends. The stories we tell about the gods are really stories about ourselves. No one has ever actually seen one of the gods, but by believing in their stories, we become more like the gods ourselves."

"Wow, Apollo must have raced really fast if no one saw him!"

How could I explain to this girl that I had competed for the bay-leaf crown in the hoplite race many years ago. The gods were honored at the races, it was true, but they were not there. It was just men, the hot sun, and a will to win. Luckily, the conversation was interrupted by Balachandra, who carried new orders from the village council.

It should come as no great surprise that their missive nonsensically ordered us to turn back around and trudge back to the village of the warrior-women. There, to do... who knows what? Balachandra was certainly no help; all he cared about (I swear by Zeus I am not making this up) was whether my butter ration had disappeared that morning. When I assured him that it had, he face split in a ridiculous grin.

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