Pelops the Victor

‘O Lyrides, sing of swift-footed Pelops! Sing of the favored son of Thalass, whose many triumphs put even great heroes to shame! Sing of his strength of spirit, that lifted him to victory in the Gymnastikon ten times over! And sing of his arrogance, that despite his glorious epithet, jealousy bites at this victor’s soul. In the annals of brave Argonites that have trod the hallo wed track of the Gymnastikon, none hold a candle to lauded Pelops. From wrestling, to chariot racing, to javelin throwing, his prowess is unmatched by any who dwell within the Argolades. The crowds once full-throatedly chanted his name, as if he were a god. He always put on a spectacle worthy of the finest drama, and they responded in kind. They showered him in gifts, threw themselves as supplicants at his feet. But now, no honeyed word or exotic trinket satisfies. But now, he no longer returns his adorants’ devotion, spurning their praise both on and outside of the field of competition. No mortal word can quell the burning desire that consumes Pelops’heart. He has deemed himself worthy of a seat at the highest table; atAmbrosis, the High House – the first home of the Aetherials, those elevated beings who see our mortal struggles as mere entertainment. Pelops’ triumphs are sung by bards across our islands – he vanquished the stone-eyed Gorgoa, and chained her head to his mighty shield! He reclaimed the Flaming Labrys from the sulfurous pits of Pyrenesos, the Low House, in a single breath, while fire licked his every pore! He swam the waters of the Tritonean Reef while cyclones rent the wine-dark seas asunder to obtain the Auric Fleece! Surely, a Man of such renown would have guaranteed their place among those who dwell in their palace on the highest peak? ‘O Lyrides, sing of swift-footed Pelops! Sing of the favored son of Thalass, whose many triumphs put even great heroes to shame! Sing of his strength of spirit, that lifted him to victory in the Gymnastikon ten times over! And sing of his arrogance, that despite his glorious epithet, jealousy bites at this victor’s soul. In the annals of bra ve Argonites that have trod the hallo wed track of the Gymnastikon, none hold a candle to lauded Pelops. From wrestling, to chariot racing, to ja velin throwing, his prowess is unmatched by any who dwell within the Argolades. The crowds once full-throatedly chanted his name, as if he were a god. He always put on a spectacle worthy of the finest drama, and they responded in kind. They showered him in gifts, threw themselves as supplicants at his feet. But now, no honeyed word or exotic trinket satisfies. But now, he no longer returns his adorants’ devotion, spurning their praise both on and outside of the field of competition. No mortal word can quell the burning desire that consumes Pelops’heart. He has deemed himself worthy of a seat at the highest table; at Ambrosis, the High House – the first home of the Aetherials, those elevated beings who see our mortal struggles as mere entertainment. Pelops’ triumphs are sung by bards across our islands – he vanquished the stone-eyed Gorgoa, and chained her head to his mighty shield! He reclaimed the Flaming Labrys from the sulfurous pits of Pyrenesos, the Low House, in a single breath, while fire licked his every pore! He swam the waters of the Tritonean Reef while cyclones rent the wine-dark seas asunder to obtain the Auric Fleece! Surely, a Man of such renown would have guaranteed their place among those who dwell in their palace on the highest peak?