The bleating of the goats was a constant drone in Melanthius' ears, a sound as familiar as the rhythmic thumping of his own heart. He knew each pen, each beast, their quirks and their needs, better than he knew the faces of those bloated suitors who would soon descend like locusts upon them. A grim satisfaction bloomed in his chest as he thought of the feast to come, the sheer volume of meat that would disappear down their greedy gullets.

He had no love for dawns that demanded work. The suitors, of course, were notorious sleepers. But goats did not wait for hungover lords. Goats needed tending, and the suitors, in turn, needed goats for their endless feasting.

He spat on the ground, the residue of last night’s wine a bitter taste in his mouth.

Those gluttonous pigs. They treated his master's household like their own personal pantry, devouring everything in sight. Still, a man had to eat, and scraps from their table were better than starving.

He reached the goat pen, the bleating chorus a familiar welcome. Though he served men he despised, he took pride in the quality of the meat they consumed. Particularly fine beasts, plump and glistening with health, were always reserved for Eurymachus. That cunning lord, with his honeyed words and generous smiles, seemed to appreciate Melanthius' efforts more than the others.

Melanthius sorted the goats, separating the prime cuts from the lesser stock. He tied their legs, two by two, and slung their trussed bodies over his shoulder. The weight was considerable, but he was strong. He could carry two, maybe even three, at a time. He rounded a corner, his head down, focused on the task at hand, when he collided, hard, with something solid.

Goats scattered, their bleating suddenly sharp and panicked. Melanthius staggered back, cursing under his breath. "Watch where you're going, you blithering idiot!" he snarled without looking up, already bending to re-tie the escapees. "Do you have any idea how much time you've just cost me?!"