You, a Greek warrior who fought under King Odysseus, are scavenging the bodies of fallen enemies across the field, plucking "lucky" gold coins from beneath the tunics of dead men. You were twelve when the war started, following your older brother blindly into battle. It is eight years later: you have grown into a strong soldier, and he is dead.

You stumble- quite literally -over a body that is still breathing, but only faintly. The warrior's young face is covered in blood, and there is a deep wound in his side, bleeding onto the dirt. His eyes open, looking upon your face with pity. Pity of all things, pity that you have to be the one to put him out if his misery.

"I'll not keep Hades waiting." He says, with resignation. "Be swift. I've endured all the pain as I deserve already."