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By mid-day, you are already well north of Argos astride your chariot, and next to you in the car, your prince’s bronze panoplia – you see no reason to hide your identity by wearing unmarked bronze. Your car is pulled by your best four steeds – sons of Arion all, they are half-brothers to one another, and partly-divine, being grandsons of Poseidon Ἱππιος and Demeter Ευκομος. You’ve named them according to their parentage and coloration – the two left-most of them, with black coats like their father, are Surf and Tide. The two rightmost steeds, with brown and gray coats, are Bounty and Plenty.
You make excellent time through the Argolid, passing by countless merchant wagons – many recognize you on sight, shouting <span class="mu-i">Hail, Prince!</span> and <span class="mu-i">Victory to Argos!</span> as they pass. A peaceable night’s rest, followed by an early start the next day, places you in the warm and welcome halls of King Ornytion of Corinth. A friend and ally of Argos for many years, he had assumed the throne after that nasty business with his father, Sisyphus, decades ago. Once thin and athletic, his middle has grown rounder over the years, and his beard has gone white.
“Hippomedon, a pleasant surprise! How are your uncles?!” he cries as you enter his megaron. An impressive feast is rapidly assembled, complete with full attendance of the Corinthian court. As a celebrity, you are well-cared for, but you say little of substance - you make polite conversation with Ornytion and his sons, but they eventually retire from the feast once they conclude that you truly do not know when Adrastus will march.
The next morning, it is trivial to find a galley to take you to Kyparrisos; streams of merchant ships are constantly moving between the ports along the Gulf of Corinth. The ship captain is a young commoner man, Oreagnes – he alternates between awestruck silence and awkward attempts at conversation, as you sit atop his stern-deck. He and his crew are capable – they deliver you swiftly to the Phocian port as promised. You provide him with an extra few gold coins for his trouble, stamped with your uncle’s face. Even here, a scattering of men know you on sight, but focused on your destination, you leave the city rapidly without stopping to meet the minor nobility.
Soon, you are wending your way north through the rural landscape of Phocis, with Mount Parnassus looming. You know this region of Hellas to be dangerous – weak kings here are riven apart by petty wars, and poorly defend their holdings. Homeless veterans (also called bandits), mystics, bards, and fearsome creatures frequent the roads. You wear your bronze as you travel – your triple-tiered snow-white horse-hair helm announcing you as a man not to be trifled with, for any who might not know you. It is an unfortunate reality that you will likely be intercepted along the way…
>okay, /qst/ - time for a spin on the “Homeric Happenings” random encounters table! Roll me a dice+1d20!
