When the door opened and they entered the ruined temple, Xanhipp the centaur began the introductions, while the man who had been bleeding from his nose went inside first to receive treatment.
"This," Xanhipp said, gesturing toward a massive, moving vessel with numerous legs, "is the Pithos Automaton, crafted jointly by the Titans and the Giants." The enormous animated jar bowed politely and then extended delicate flowers to each of the sisters.
The sisters returned the gesture with gratitude, and the Pithos Automaton responded by clapping its hands (or perhaps its handles?) in excitement.
"And this," Xanhipp continued, motioning toward another figure, "is Pagides, who will also be your instructor." The man in question had his back turned to the sisters, preoccupied with treating his wound. He gave a casual wave in response.
"Your original teacher encountered an unexpected situation, which is why Pagides has been assigned to guide you instead," the centaur explained. "It might be a little unorthodox, but rest assured—he is one of the strongest warriors recognized by Hestia Herself."
Just then, Pagides finished bandaging his injury and turned to face them. "I am Pagides,"he said, his voice calm but firm. "I'll be teaching you the fundamentals, as well as Sacred Pyromancy."
Pheropyr, looking slightly guilty, bowed her head. **"I'm sorry for hitting you earlier."
Pagides waved it off. "It's fine. Consider it forgiven."
"I'm Pheropyr," she said, gesturing to herself before pointing to her sister, "and this is my younger sister, Pherodero."
The air in the temple hummed with a quiet energy, as if the very walls were anticipating the lessons—and adventures—yet to come.
The Pithos Automaton clattered forward with surprising grace, its many legs adjusting deftly around the scattered debris of the ruined temple. As it offered the steaming bowls, it gave a little murmur of approval—a sound like wind through a ceramic flute—when the sisters accepted eagerly. When Pheropyr nearly dropped her spoon in excitement, one of its spindly limbs darted out to steady her wrist, the gesture oddly... fond.
It watched them eat with what could only be described as pride, its lid tilting like a raised eyebrow when Pherodero hesitated before trying the soup. As if to reassure her, it lifted its own empty bowl in a mimicry of drinking, then patted its rounded belly (if a vase could be said to have one) with a hollow clonk.
Then came the bread. The Automaton presented it like a treasure, cradling the loaf in two limbs while using another to theatrically brush off imaginary crumbs. When the sisters marveled at its softness, it preened, its engravings rippling in the torchlight like a blush.
But the real surprise came when they copied Pagides' dipping technique. The Automaton clapped three of its limbs together in delight, then—in a shockingly human gesture—snatched a leftover crust and dunked it into the nearest bowl with a playful splash, as if to say "See? Even better this way!"
Around them, the ruins seemed less grim in its presence. Moonlight caught the chips in its glaze—old scars, perhaps—as it shuffled about, using one limb to nudge a loose tile back into place, another to sweep aside fallen leaves with fastidious care. It was more than a servant; it was a host, stubbornly keeping warmth alive in this broken place.
The Automaton went very still. Its lid lowered slightly, like a furrowed brow. Then, quietly, it gathered the empty bowls—but not before giving each sister's shoulder a gentle, reassuring tap, its clay cool against their skin.
Once the meal was finished, **Xanhipp** stood up, his armored hooves clinking against the stone floor. "I'll go patrol the area, just in case," he announced, strapping his weapons securely to his belt.
Pagides, still seated, glanced up at him. "Still no sign of that monster?" he asked, his tone low but steady.
Xanhipp shook his head. "None at all."
Pagides rose to his feet, frowning slightly. "Do you think it might have left the region?"
Xanhipp adjusted his grip on his spear, his expression grim. "There's no trail, no reports—nothing to confirm it's truly gone. Better to stay vigilant." With that, he gave a firm nod and strode out of the temple, his heavy footsteps fading into the distance.
The sisters exchanged a glance, the warmth of the meal now contrasted by a faint unease. What kind of monster could leave even these seasoned warriors on edge?
After the meal, the sisters watched in amazement as Pithos Automaton began clearing the table—its ceramic body somehow absorbing plates, utensils, even the heavy wooden benches into hidden compartments with a series of soft clinks. Pheropyr reached out to touch its glossy surface, half-expecting to feel the outline of stored items, but the smooth glaze betrayed nothing.
Pagides ushered them outside while the automaton scouted ahead, its many legs retracting slightly as it slipped through the crumbling archway. Moonlight pooled in the overgrown courtyard where they waited, the silence broken only by distant scuttling sounds—Pithos Automaton moving through the ruins like a ghost.
Xanhipp returned sooner than expected, his armored shoulders tense. "No trace of the monster," he muttered, though his hand stayed on his spear. "But we keep watch." Pagides gave a grim nod.
Pheropyr studied their teacher. No staff. No visible weapons. Only a pocket bag at his belt. Was he truly so powerful that—
Her thoughts shattered as a rhythmic clattering echoed through the night. Something approached, its movement a staccato beat of metal on stone. Then it emerged: a copper-and-iron contraption shaped like a carriage, but with no wheels—only dozens of articulated, horse-like legs that moved in unsettling unison. The entire structure pulsed faintly, as if breathing.
Xanhipp chuckled. "Same Pithos Automaton."
The sisters recoiled. This was the same cheerful vase that had served them soup? The carriage's "door" swung open—revealing the familiar ceramic interior, now expanded to bench seating. Along its flank, their earlier bread basket sat secured in a bronze rack.
"What is... That?"Pherodero whispered.
Pagides smirked. "Titans' work. It adapts."
As the sisters hesitated, the automaton let out a flute-like chime—the same sound it had made when offering seconds of soup. Reassurance, or impatience? The monster might still lurk in the dark, but for now, the greater mystery was climbing aboard a walking, gear-filled titan-vase.
The rear door of Pithos Automaton swung open with a soft *hiss*, revealing an interior far more spacious than its exterior suggested. Pagides motioned for the sisters to board while he moved toward the front compartment.
Inside, two long benches lined the walls, their surfaces padded with cushions so thick they could easily serve as beds. Pherodoro sank into the seat with a sigh, her fingers brushing against a pile of embroidered pillows. They were impossibly soft—filled with something between down and cloud—and she immediately imagined stealing one for her own. Would the automaton notice?
As the door sealed shut behind them, the carriage lurched into motion. Through the narrow windows, they watched the ruins blur past. Pithos Automaton navigated with uncanny precision—its many legs stepping over shattered columns, skirting collapsed rooftops, even tiptoeing across fissures in the road. Each movement sent a gentle sway through the cabin, the cushions absorbing the worst of the bumps.
Pherodaro pressed her face to the glass. "It's like riding inside a living thing," she murmured.
Somewhere ahead, Pagides voice carried back: "In a way, you are."
The automaton chimed in agreement, the sound vibrating through its walls like a purr.
A pair of glowing eyes tracked the departing carriage from the skeletal remains of a watchtower. The observer didn't blink, didn't breathe—just watched as Pithos Automaton's many legs carried its precious cargo into the night.
"So they've arrived." The voice came from a hooded figure materializing beside the watcher. Though his face stayed hidden, moonlight caught the thick, matted fur covering his hands—hands that ended in curved claws, scraping grooves into the stone as he shifted his weight. His legs were unmistakably bestial, the haunches of a wolf or jackal, tensed as if ready to sprint.
The first creature finally spoke, his voice like grinding tectonic plates: "I'd advise tempering your… enthusiasm." He turned, revealing himself fully—a colossal black harpy standing three times the wolf-man's height. His obsidian feathers shimmered with violet embers, each movement scattering tiny constellations of unnatural light. Bronze cuffs encircled his raptor-like talons, etched with warnings in dead languages. "Recklessness displeases me. And it would displease The Primordial of Darkness Erebos far more."
The cloaked figure chuckled, licking his fangs. "But if the outcome's the same, what's the harm?" A drop of saliva hit the ground, hissing as it dissolved the stone.
Above them, the stars winked out one by one.
With a rustle of obsidian feathers, the harpy pivoted, its glacier-cold talons plunging into the shadows. When they emerged, they clutched a massive pithos jar—its ceramic surface etched with a grotesque emblem: three conjoined heads encircling a single eye, the dread sigil of the Cyclops brothers. The design seemed to pulse in the moonlight as if breathing.
"Still craving fresh meat?" The harpy's voice cracked like splitting ice. With a careless flick of its wrist, it hurled something heavy onto the stones between them—a headless monster's corpse, perfectly preserved. The severed neck showed a single, impossibly clean cut, the flesh neither bruised nor torn but sundered, as if by a blade that existed between heartbeats. "We could share... for now."
The werewolf's nostrils flared at the scent, but his clawed fingers hesitated near the corpse. The harpy's void-black eyes locked onto him, and for the first time, the beast recoiled. "Disappoint me," the harpy whispered, "and you'll learn how tender wolf liver tastes when frozen solid."
Then it moved. Not a single gust of wind stirred as those vast wings unfurled, swallowing the moonlight whole. The harpy and its pithos vanished skyward—a silent eclipse against the stars.
Left alone, the werewolf sighed at the headless bounty. "Tsk. The brains are the best part..." He snapped his fingers.
From the ruins, a chorus of wet snarls answered. Dozens of crimson eyes ignited in the dark, followed by the sound of claws scrabbling on stone. Shadows lunged for the carcass, ripping into flesh with frenzied glee. Bones cracked like kindling.
"My prince won't join us?"gurgled a voice from the feeding frenzy.
The werewolf was already walking away, his scholar's robes fluttering. "Save me the heart," he called over his shoulder. "I have a goddess to disappoint."