Arteusa breathes a sigh of relief, immeasurably thankful that she had not disappointed Nike in falling to Persian arrows; she's surprised that Athena also put in a recommendation, but grateful all the same. Soundly judged, she follows Thanatos with Rhaecus and Donos, listening to their conversation with attention - any story about battling the hydra is one worthy of telling and of hearing. 

And truly, she was not yet sure what to say for herself - it had been quite clear the others had low opinions of the gods, but Nike had come through for her, as she always had since Arteusa had been given to her as a young filly. So she keeps her own counsel for now, content to listen to her companions, keeping an eye on their surroundings as they follow Thanatos. 

Zaela doesn't look surprised at the outcome, and just turns to Thanatos and says, "Thank you, I guess. If you had to kill me, at least I get Paradise."

"Well, it's not my best story but since you asked... I assume you know of the Lernaean Hydra, second labor of the great Heracles? It indeed was slain, but not before having offspring. You see, where Heracles and Iolaus slew the creature near the cave in which it lived, they did not know that it had offspring who were watching. In fear of the same death dealt to their progenitor, one had fled to the Saronic islands where it made its own lair. Unfortunately for everyone, the city of Athens was a mere 5 leagues away and you can imagine the 10 Strategoi were not pleased that a mythic monster was poisoning the waters of the Saronic Gulf. War with the Persians was on the horizon and it could spread quickly."

As Rhaecus speaks with the cadence of a practiced storyteller, he mixes soft beats of his drums in to establish a slow, pleasing rhythm to set the background of the conflict. It speeds up as the story progresses with the atmosphere. "And so word was spread for need of heroes, the decedents of the Argonauts, of the Trojan War and many more who had made their name. At the time I was traveling with Iollas, a grandson to Ajax the Great and a fearsome warrior. He's not dead yet, in case you were wondering. We accepted, of course, and together with two war ships we headed for the island. The very air was poison. Even before arriving, there was death. Those who did not heed the stories of its potency and cover their face were soon embracing the deck, never to get up again. The rest of us arrived and searched the island, eventually finding its lair. We flushed it out with generous use of flames, both magical and mundane, and then the battle began in earnest."

The beating of his drums came alive with frantic energy. "Our shouts were like rolling thunder, our blades flashed like lightning. We hurled spears, shot arrows, flung stones and hacked at its necks with our swords. Magic was called upon, as well as the names of the gods but... We were not prepared for the brutality of fighting such a beast. One mistake, one tiny wound infested with its venom or blood and you would be sent off to this lineup. Fortunately, all who had made it to the Hydra's lair were masters of martial prowess and so we had no casualties at that time, though the battle was not going well. For each head severed two more grew, at this rate we would be overwhelmed. Even worse... I was getting bored."

He gives a mischievous smile and the beat changes again, with an unusual whimsy. "A battle of such proportions could not be so... common. And with such lackluster results! The usual screaming and hacking and throwing was too plain, what would the poets have to write about? I said as much to my companion before leaping out of cover and playing my drums. My drums, that can make mountains shake with joy, nymphs to dance in glee. A gift by Dionysus himself. And so we danced together, a merry jig. While the Hydra was harmless, trying to match my beat, my companions lit their weapons anew and made quick work of its heads, until Iollas lopped off its final head with one great swing, and the battle was over. The others survived, the Hydra was dead and best of all, great poetry would be written about what we did that day. I would make sure of that... Or, I would if the last severed head were not still alive. It was none too pleased with having been forced to participate in such an unfamiliar activity and like the poor sport it was, repaid me with a venomous scratch."

(OOC big wall of text, I had a good time writing it. Hope you don't mind reading)

He shrugs and then winks. "So then here we are. You, me, our companions in this lovely afterlife. Ah, well. I'm sure the poets will do us justice."

"Ah, of course you like poetry," Zaela says, "So typical." 

Donos laughs at Rhaecus' tale. He moves as if in the fight with the hydra that Rhaecus describes. Feinting one way and stabbing another with his trident.

"A true epic of an adventure. What I would not have forsaken to have been part of that glorious hunt."

He looks over at Rhaecus and says "truly a jackdaw is always found near a jackdaw."

Ignoring Zaela, "Do not mind that one. She will disfavor even Elysium."

He claps Rhaecus again on the back, "Now, let the die be cast, and let us see what Elysium holds for us."

"There's nothing wrong with poetry," Arteusa defends, brows furrowing. "They immortalize our memory, our deeds; without poetry, naught would exist!" She turns then to Rhaecus and grins - a surprisingly crooked, mischievous expression. "The soldiers under my command oft found heart in such tales, taking inspiration from them. I am sure I heard some version of yours in the camp as I wandered among them before our last battle," she chuckles, amused to find herself among the star of such a story; certainly it was not something she would have expected.  

Rhaecus smiles and nods at Donos and Arteusa, then turns his head towards Zaela. "Not so, dear 'priestess'. Most Satyrs drink and party from dawn to dusk to dawn again with no appreciation for art. I," He says in mock indignity, "am a Satyr. Of. Culture!"

He laughs a little at his own act but follows with an earnest smile. "No, in truth I have great respect for poets. Our gods are fickle, our monsters are cruel and some even wear the guise of man. Those who can look upon such a world and smile still, I admire."

"Poetry is hardly an art," Zaela states, "Any village idiot can sling together a handful of rhyming stanzas. As all satyrs of culture, I indeed learned how to master poetry, song, and instruments in my time in the wildlands, but I never drowned myself in the futile repetitiveness of that hobby."

Kaneis laughs lightly at the lengthy performance of the rather hubristic Satyr's tale. It reminded her of the tales of the grand performers at merchant halls and at inns that she took comfort in while making her way through the Persian cities. "Easy there, Rhaecus. While your deeds are remarkable, poetry glorifying them are no more than a form of enjoyable art." Now smiling at the other Satyr, she continues. "The tale was fine in it's own right. Let people enjoy the pleasures they may, no matter how simplistic they may be."

“Ah, though the muses bless so very few. Any fool can pluck a string or chip stone, yet they are not musicians and sculptors. In that sense, any brute can swing a blade or hold a shield, yet they are not warriors."

"Poetry is storytelling and whether you know it or not, stories are what shapes culture. I for one think the world could use more of these so called village idiots." He shrugs with that lopsided grin, feeling like he had made his point. 

Yes," Zaela responds to Kaneis, "His deeds are honorable. Forgive me, I did not mean to belittle them. It is good that you died for a purpose. Not many are lucky enough to do so that way. I was one of those unfortunate ones. If you wish, I could share the story of my fateful end." 

Kaenis crosses her arms and peers at Rhaecus. "And when hard times and frightful monsters come for your life, would you prefer to have - as you say - any 'brute' defending you to their last breath, or a merry jingle that dispenses wisdom and rhyme to accompany your journey to the Underworld?" Turning her head towards Zaela, Kaenis curiously nods her head. "You seem to have a very gloomy demeanor surrounding your soul, yet you have traveled with the best of us to Elysium. Pray, tell us your tale.

"Yes, yes. Another saga before we reach Elysium," Donos says and then turns to Kaenis. "I have been the brute defending the needy against the monster in the sea and many was the fight where the strength of my resolve was buoyed by a merry jingle."

He sweeps out his arms as if to encompass them all.

"We must have both, my friends."

"I agree," Arteusa says, nodding towards Donos. "In the midst of overwhelming odds, often that 'merry jingle' can restore a warrior's resolve, as it has mine many a time. But yes, come, tell us your tale that we might know you better." 

Rhaecus is clearly curious as well to know what had made a kindred of Dionysus, God of Wine and Ecstasy, into such a depressing person. He had asked the same before himself, after all.

"Rhaecus," Zaela says, "Perhaps you will appreciate my story more in a poem."

"In free wooded forests of my Pholoe,
Where free nymphs, and satyrs, and dryads played,
My happy life ended by centaur's blow, 
I plead with Death, and with slav'ry repaid,

I spent a score years, to serve Master Death,
Hunting those who escaped the endless grave,
Slaying all those whose life has stolen breath,
As servant for life, 'twas hard to behave.

A traveler for years, traveling 'cross the lands,
Snuffing life with dark powers, from Death's decree,
Once sent to slay Heracles, His commands, (gesturing to Thanatos)
My sad life was crushed, lost eternally. 

I've been played by the gods, stuck in my hell,
This tragedy that's ended is mine to tell." 

After she finishes the poem, her staff again emits the weeping of the dead. 

"Such a sad tale," Donos says. "The gods care not for mortals and any boon they grant is for their own gain and benefit."

He walks on for a moment. Then stops.

"Still. Battle with Heracles. If a life is to end, that is a magnificent final memory," he pauses. "Our paths never crossed. Apparently he could not breathe underwater." 

Even being bested in combat by another hero would have been a preferable end to what he is now sure was poisoning by a jealous husband.

 Rhaecus lets out a long appreciative whistle while clapping lightly. "That is indeed an excellent tragedy, my lady. Comprised in stoic style, too!"

"You've led a hard life. Surely Elysium will be easier on your soul. You might even find the heart to indulge in this so called 'futile hobby'!"

"It seems my life was wasted, just like the time used to make that poem," Zaela sighs, "I gave it so my brother could remain with me, but it appears that I will never see him again. So yes, Donos, it appears that I will disfavor even Elysium. The gods are a fickle bunch, and since they designed the Afterlife, this realm is fickle as well. I do wonder if Heracles ever died. Maybe then he'd receive the punishment he deserves."