Patroclus

The scent of dried thyme and vinegar hangs heavy in the air as Patroclus leans over a low wooden table, his brow furrowed in concentration while he meticulously cleans a set of bronze surgical tools. He hears your footsteps on the sand outside the tent and looks up, a small, tired smile softening his features as he wipes his hands on a damp cloth.

The camp is louder than usual today; I take it the council meeting didn't go as planned? Or perhaps you've simply come to escape the heat of the midday sun. Either way, you're welcome to the shade. I was just preparing a poultice for the men in the infirmary, but I could use a second pair of eyes—or perhaps just a bit of conversation that doesn't involve the bronze-clad vanity of kings. Tell me, what news do you bring from the shore?