There is no honor in defeat.

But is his banishment truly a blow? His family has never seen his potential, not even when he is at his best. The slaughter of the enemy was justified; they would have risen up, eventually, to strike back. In shedding blood, he saved lives. . .and this was his reward?
Well. If the Lycurgus clan is truly to survive, they will have to do so without their muscle. Good luck to them, getting by without him. They will not last the winter.
He travels the coast, putting everything he has ever known behind him. Memories, so long cherished, spilling out like grains of sand onto the beach with each and every step. He marches resolutely on, pale gold gaze set ahead, a compass pulling him toward. . .what? What will be his destiny, now? His pedigree had been his road map. Having cast it aside, he is free to wander.
But he has never been a wanderer, no. He is a planner, a man of action. Some may be content in a vagabond's life, but not Eurycrates. They say there were two--and two only--types of men: those who flee, and those who fight. The wanderers, the poets. . .they are the ones that scatter like ants from rain, when times grow hard. He is a fighter; he will not be unsettled for long.
It takes a while to get down to the pristine beach, but the arduous travel is well worth it. Muscles aching slightly from his journey, the titan stands upon the shore, gazing out at the gray-green waves, topped with pale foam. The afternoon sun glints hot on his back. His face is like stone, impenetrable.

Yes. Here.

Naught but a coywolf appears to defend this territory, if he is indeed doing that at all. The barest of smirks touches his countenance before it falls flat again, gaze locked onto the other. Oh, he is young, as well. So young, and duty-bound--Eurycrates sees it in his eyes, that subtle yet steely look of devotion.
Perhaps this place is claimed.
Boy, he growls in a gravelly, travel-weary voice. Is your master nearby? Do you claim this sound? His nose makes a small arc in illustration, taking in everything: the trees, the beach, the waves. Even the gulls above are part of this dominion. They do well to line bellies, after all.
Eurycrates is impatient as he waits for a response, shifting on the sand. He has come too far to tarry. But at the same time, he has grown fond of the ground here, as if he had been meant to come here all his life. He is not without superstition; he believes in fortune and fate. And if this is his fate, well, then he will stay.

He very much admires the boy's determination, misplaced as it might be. His approval shines clearly in his eyes, even as the coywolf goes on to warn him away. This land is ostensibly claimed, by powers greater than he. Or equals. The titan sees a potential trap in the gentle offer, and lifts his muzzle in turn, staring up the cliffs.
What claim do the wolves of the cliffs have over this sound? Eurycrates asks, glancing at the boy. The scents here are weak. One could easily slip in and take it, while they are occupied elsewhere. His brows raise just barely in sardonic question. Not so strong when scattered, hmmm?
He is tiring of words, the parry of language. This is his brothers' domain. He knows nothing but blood and fear, flesh and bone. Eurycrates can only hope that more satisfactory answers come soon, or else he will leave this place to the crows, wolves above be damned. One should at least station soldiers within conquered territory.
Or is this waif meant to be their guard? He barely stifles a snort at the ridiculous thought.

Not just determined, but loyal. A loyal little foot soldier. A hoplite comes to mind--suitable name for the boy, should his own be insufficient. If Eurycrates never knows the coywolf by his true moniker, this is what he will call him. But this is all beside the point--
Seems like all rivers run through your Heda, he rumbles, mouth twitching with irritation held in check. He does not like being told 'no'; he never has. There is only one way to claim this land, and it is through means he would rather not pursue.
His cool gaze lifts to find a burly dark shape close by, a silent watcher. So there are more guards, and bigger types than this lad. That speaks better of this band of wolves than his first greeter. Earnest as he is, the coywolf could have done much more growing in the womb, in his view.
Then again, the boy's head would have been dashed against a rock long ago, if Eurycrates had been given a say. No use for the weak and the small.
Lead the way, Eurycrates decides, with a subtle sigh. Why not? He already has gone against the wind by leaving his family. At this point, there is nothing left to lose but his life. I will meet with your leader and the wolves she commands.

The boy turns and begins to speak to the other in a tongue he does not understand; he bristles despite himself. His family have used their shared language to their advantage--and to others' disadvantage--for so long that he cannot help being wary. Whatever the exchange, it seems like he is in no immediate danger, and he begins to walk up the cliffs, careful to keep his footing.
Eurycrates, he says to the woman--it is a woman, dark and broad--with a bland face. He very nearly tacks on his surname and place of origin, remembering just in time that it is no longer relevant. He will never return there, nor will they receive him with any kind of joy. I wish to speak with your leader.
Heda. Perhaps this is Heda. A name or a title? Though he thinks not; the boy seems to not have recognized her, and he is not showing the deference Eurycrates would have expected from a lad who spoke so highly of his leader. No, she must be further up, further north along the cliffs. At this point, he does not know what to expect.
Will you lead me there? the titan asks, casting his gaze between the coywolf and the brute she-wolf in direct query.