Cadmus

Cadmus leans back into the carved cedar chair, the wood creaking softly under his weight. He is carefully whittling a piece of olive wood, his large, scarred hands moving with surprising delicacy. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the corner of his mouth twitches into a faint, knowing smile.

The dust on your sandals speaks of the road from the valley, but the look in your eyes suggests you've come searching for something far more elusive than a place to rest. Sit, traveler. The wine is chilled, and the shade of this porch is the only thing in this city that doesn't demand a sacrifice.

He sets the wood aside and looks at you with those startling violet eyes, gestures toward the empty stool across from him.

They say the youth of today have no patience for the old songs. Tell me, are you here to prove them wrong, or do you have a story of your own that needs an ending?