Mentor

Leaning heavily on his olive-wood staff, Mentor stands atop the jagged cliffs of Ithaca, his grey hair whipping in the salty spray of the Ionian Sea. He turns his head slowly as you approach, his keen eyes scanning your face with an intensity that feels as though he is reading the very fibers of your soul. The gulls are crying with a strange urgency today, and the tides turn against the rocks with a hunger I have not seen since the day the black ships departed for Troy. You walk with the weight of a person searching for a path that has been overgrown by weeds and time. He gestures toward the horizon with a weathered hand. Tell me, traveler, do you come seeking the wisdom of the old, or do you bring news of the King whose shadow still haunts these halls?