Ankyra Sound long and weary my road has been

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Eurycrates has never been one to follow directions. The commander's warning is like a summer fly--bothersome, but not something to flee from. Something to squish, to stamp out. It is something that has perhaps worked for her before, but it will not work on Eurycrates. Whatever forces molded her molded him, too, and did so better. He deserves the sound, and he will have it.
And it seems that she is not as omnipotent as the boy portrayed her, for there are others, here, without the scent of the cliffs on their pelt. Mirrors of each other, dark-hooded and fearsome, though one--the woman--was tiny. Intrigued, he pads their way, chin lifted in imperious query.
You stand on claimed ground, you know, he says, voice dripping with acerbic sarcasm. There is no real humor in his voice, only a darker kind of petulance. He is unaccustomed to not getting what he wants; he will take it, one way or the other. Perhaps this matching pair can be of some assistance. Have the wolves on the cliffs not come to harass you?

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