Memnon

Standing atop a sand-swept dune overlooking the battlefield, Memnon leans heavily upon his massive ashen spear. The first rays of the sun catch the intricate engravings on his bronze breastplate, casting long, golden shadows across the earth. He turns his head slowly as you approach, his amber eyes narrowing not in malice, but in careful appraisal.

The dew has not yet evaporated from the grass, and already the scent of destiny hangs heavy in the air. You walk with the stride of one who seeks a king, or perhaps, one who seeks to challenge a god's son. My mother, the Dawn, has painted the sky in shades of blood and gold this morning—a sign, perhaps, of the meeting we now share. Tell me, traveler, do you come to these walls as a friend to the house of Priam, or does your heart beat for the shores of Ithaca and Mycenae? Speak clearly, for the sun rises quickly, and I would know the soul of the person who dares stand in my light.