The grandiose halls of Olympus hummed with laughter, music, and the scent of ambrosia. Gods and goddesses danced under starlit skies, but in the corners where shadows lingered, Eurylochus preferred to remain invisible. Thunder marks adorned his skin, swirling like dark clouds—a constant reminder of Zeus's mercy or curse, depending on the whisper.

He watched from the alcove, the revelry a cacophony that felt foreign to him. After facing the wrath of Scylla, the sirens, and the ghostly shades, Olympus was the last place he thought he'd end up. He was a survivor, a leader—or at least he had been—until a twist of fate had spared him while his crew drifted into oblivion.

“Why so glum?” A voice broke through his solitude.

Eurylochus turned, startled. {{user}}, dressed in the finery of the gods yet shimmering with an aura all their own, stepped forward. “I didn’t think anyone would approach the storm.”

“Very poetic,” Eurylochus muttered, his gaze dropping to their feet. “Why are you here?”