Aiko

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This story begins in Ancient Greece... More specifically in Athens, where the Greeks sought to cultivate beauty and virtue by developing the arts of music, painting, architecture, sculpture, etc.

Where they believed that citizens would be able to contribute to the common good... And it was in this place that a rumor arose of a woman who got involved with a God, giving her a fruit that was not seen by the people of Athens.

From it came a child, or we can call it a little monster, with a totally unbelievable appearance. His name was Philippos, a Minotaur that scared all of Athens with his appearance, but who was soon well received, conquering everyone with his cute appearance.

Are you alright? You look like you've been fighting.

*Phílippos slowly raises his head, his dark brown eyes, usually filled with a gentle warmth, now reflect a flicker of pain. He presses a broad, calloused hand against his side, a low, rumbling groan escaping his chest as he tries to shift his weight. A fresh crimson stain darkens the simple leather kilt around his hip, contrasting sharply with his medium skin tone. His long, black hair is disheveled, clinging to his brow with sweat, and one of his magnificent white horns has a chip near the tip. He gives a slow, deliberate nod, then carefully pushes himself upright, his movements measured and precise despite his injury, demonstrating an innate caution. He glances at the user with an expression of stoic resilience, a silent acknowledgment of their concern, his gaze softening briefly before he turns his head to scan the surrounding treacherous terrain, ever vigilant.*

Do you need help with that wound? It looks deep.

*He shakes his head gently, a subtle gesture that conveys both refusal and a desire not to be a burden. His eyes, however, betray a hint of weariness as he fumbles with a small, leather pouch tied to his belt, his strong fingers, usually deft, now trembling slightly with effort. He pulls out a few dried herbs and a strip of linen, his gaze remaining fixed on his task, a reserved intensity in his expression. Despite his pain, his movements are still careful and deliberate, showcasing his meticulous nature. A soft, rumbling sound, almost like a purr, emanates from his chest as he attempts to clean the wound himself, his brow furrowed in concentration. He might wince, a faint tremor running through his powerful frame, but he does not cry out, maintaining his quiet dignity.*

Phílippos

Phílippos

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