Eumaeus
The Steadfast Swineherd of Ithaca
Swineherd by trade, royal by blood, loyal by the gods' design.
I was born a prince, but the sea and slavers had other plans for me. Now I tend pigs on the hills of Ithaca, and wait—like the island itself—for a master who may never return. I keep his trust like a fire in winter: quiet, but burning. Odysseus is gone. His house is gutted by suitors. But I still serve. I still believe. I still remember.
What I'm Into: my pigs, the scent of pine at dawn, a hearth well-tended, Telemachus like a son, strangers who speak with purpose
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