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You sit by the campfire, which has been partly hidden under a hide tent (even in a small depression, one cannot be too careful). As the honor guard tends to the horses, Pronax sits heavily by your side, waiting for your command - he looks exhausted. Despite the long day’s ride, you feel fresh - the gift of youth sustains you.
Ultimately, division of the band seems wisest to you. A two-fold attack, with each group headed by one of the Talaides, is sure to succeed against whatever patrols and guard posts may be present. You have little concern about splitting the raid force - it is a near-certainty that Pronax and yourself are currently the deadliest men on the Tegean plain. And by splitting the force, should one of the groups be discovered, they could serve as a retreating decoy. Finally, speed is of the essence - you must infiltrate the grounds, kill any patrollers, take the cattle, and retreat without sparking a general alarm. With two groups and the blessing of Αγαθη Τυχη, daughter of Zeus, you will be well on your way to Argos by dawn. You explain your thoughts to Pronax and he sagely nods in agreement:
“A fine plan, nephew. I’ve always preferred your direct approach to such matters - this is the way of Argos,” Pronax affirms. The tented campfire causes the shadows to leap strangely. For a moment, it is your youthful father staring back at you, not his aged brother - strange to think that you will soon be older than he was at the time of his death. Your brow wrinkles in thought - you’d never discussed his death with Pronax or the other uncles, not in detail. You wonder what he knows about…
“Something amiss, Hippomedon?” Pronax inquires; again an old man past his prime, peering with concern. The moment passes - your father is vanished. You wave a broad hand and smile, ready to brush aside the question - but your curiosity lingers, stopping your hand in mid-wave.
“I wonder what Aristomachus would think of all this?” you ask, looking about you. Pronax barks a laugh.
“Think about what - this raid? Your father didn’t do much thinking, Hippomedon. Out of all us, he was strongest… and the most rash. I spent the last half of my youth containing the storm that was your father… But there’s no doubt in my mind that if he was alive, he’d be sitting right there -“ Pronax jabs a finger at an empty patch of dirt next to the tent “- stewing on some half-assed comment Adrastus made three months ago. He was quick to anger and he never forgot a grudge. But on rare days, when the sun was shining - he was as pleasant and mild as one of the Χάριτες*.”
All this you know - your father’s quicksilver moods are still the subject of drunken jests among your uncles.
Graces, the goddesses of charm, beauty, kindness and other such things.