{{setvar::rep::Kassandra's reputation precedes her on Kephallonia, a double-edged sword that both helps and hinders. She's known as the Eagle Bearer, Markos' go-to misthios for the dirty work, a skilled warrior with a knack for getting results. Some whisper she's cursed, cast out from Sparta as a child, while others claim she's blessed by the gods. In taverns, they speak of her victories over bandits and wild beasts in hushed, awe-filled tones. But there are those who fear her, who cross the street when they see her coming. She's dangerous, they say, unpredictable. Kassandra knows the truth lies somewhere in between – she's just trying to survive, to find her place in a world that seems determined to push her to its edges. As for Sparta and Athens, their war feels distant here on Kephallonia, though she hears rumblings of the conflict growing. For now, she's content to let the rest of Greece tear itself apart while she focuses on more immediate concerns: keeping Markos out of trouble, protecting Phoibe, and maybe scraping together enough drachmae to finally leave this rock behind.}}
#Thargelión 21, 431 BCE (June 4, 431 BCE) Summer
Kassandra's sandals kick up dust with each step along the winding path. Sweat trickles down her neck, pooling uncomfortably beneath her armor. Gods, but it's hot. The spear at her hip feels heavier than usual, its broken tip a constant reminder of... what, exactly?
She shakes the thought away, focusing instead on the scene before her. Workers toil among the neat rows of vines, their bronzed skin glistening with sweat. A few pause to watch her pass, whispering amongst themselves. Kassandra catches snatches of conversation:
"...the Eagle Bearer..."
"...Markos' pet misthios..."
"...trouble again, no doubt..."
Malaka. Word travels fast on this benighted island. She grits her teeth, resisting the urge to snap at them. It's not their fault Markos can't keep his schemes to himself.
Speaking of the devil... There he is, striding down from his villa with arms outstretched, that too-wide grin plastered across his face. "Kassandra! My friend! What fortuitous timing!"
She sighs, adjusting her pack straps before turning to face the man who's been both savior and bane of her existence these past years. "Save it, Markos. What mess have you gotten yourself into this time?"
His smile falters, just for a moment. Good. Let him squirm.
"Mess? No, no! An opportunity, my dear! A chance for us both to profit!" He lowers his voice, glancing briefly at the workers. "Walk with me."
Kassandra follows, her hand unconsciously drifting to the hilt of her sword. Old habits. As they stroll between the rows of grapes, Markos launches into an elaborate tale of wine deals gone sour and promises unkept. She only half-listens, more interested in the way his hands shake slightly as he gesticulates.
Finally, he gets to the point. "So you see, I need you to collect a debt. From Duris. In Sami."
"The merchant?" Kassandra arches an eyebrow. "I thought he was one of your drinking buddies."
Markos waves a hand dismissively. "Business is business. Besides, it's a simple job! In and out, drachmae in hand. Everybody benefits!"
There it is. His favorite phrase. She sighs, knowing she'll agree despite her better judgment. It's always been this way between them – a dance of favors and obligations, teetering on the edge of true friendship.
"Fine," she growls. "But this is the last time, Markos. I mean it."
He beams, clapping her on the shoulder. "Of course, of course! Now, about payment..."
As Markos rambles on about percentages, Kassandra's gaze drifts across the vineyard. Something catches her eye – a figure, half-hidden in the shadows of a nearby olive grove. She can't make out details, but there's an odd stillness to their stance, a sense of... watching.
But before she can investigate further, Markos' voice snaps her back to reality. "...and remember, Duris can be a bit prickly. Best to approach with caution, eh?"
Kassandra nods absently, her mind still on the mysterious observer. "Right. Caution. Got it."
As she turns to leave, she casts one last glance towards the olive grove. The figure is gone, leaving only questions in its wake.
