Rolled 1, 1 + 1 = 3 (2d4 + 1)
>>5732130Good timing, anon - just as I'm about to dip into TWQ proper!
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A kylix of (very lightly mixed) wine appears in your hand, brought to you by none other than Thrinakos himself! He must have stolen into the stands to observe your play once his business in the kitchens had concluded. He congratulates you over the din of the applause and you thank him earnestly for his support – nearly having to yell yourself!
He waves you and your troupe over the noble’s table and just as quickly, you are being bathed in the praise of a radiant Charima – her words a bit mushy, she wobbles a bit as she stands –
“Pylia – Pylia – what a triumph! You are a generational talent; you belong in Phthia! Zeus on high, think of the audiences you’ll draw in Mycenae once we build your reputation!” Her energy is infectious, and you can’t help but remember your irrational hostility towards the petite blonde earlier – it has been instantly transmuted in overwhelming good feeling between you. Damachides, at a level height with you, places a solid hand on his wife’s shoulder –
“Dearest, please – give the woman a chance to celebrate! Give her the night to enjoy herself and in the morning, we can discuss funding, travel expenses…We’ll need horses, yes, but also some well-trained spears as well…” Gray-bearded Damachides is generally warm and pleasant to you, betraying no sign of inebriation, but his warm grim does not quite extend his pale eyes – <span class="mu-i">he has the look of a King, ‘Nira – a man in control. It’s not too late to turn aside from this foolishness!</span> Νίκων whispers in your ear.
Damachides reaches out his arm to grasp your shoulder, and his hand is iron – he opens his mouth to speak further, meeting your gaze directly, but his eyes widen in surprise – he has recognized your eyes for what they are.
“Lord Damachides – is something wrong?” you ask innocently – and the moment passes. He murmurs some excuses about preparing the fields for the discus toss, and makes himself scarce. A few minutes pass, as you make light conversation with Charima and her attendants, inventing plausible stories about your recent travels through this portion of Thessaly. Gerasimos and the troupe, having been previously advised discretion by yourself, follow suit – fortunately, your hosts have had their wits dulled thoroughly at this point in this time, and are scarcely capable of sustained interrogation.
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You join a huge crowd of people, flowing back up to the Palace Gates, and then down again to the opposite hillside - to your surprise, a large team of slaves has assembled a field of torches, spaced at regular intervals - the combined and ruddy light of these is enough to dimly illuminate the hillside. Looking more closely, you see that this is actually an athletic grounds - vaguely circular, with regular markings on the earth. There's even a discus station - a round mat upon which the throwers may spin.
