I’m Achille, mightiest of the Achaens. Note my proud forehead, my sinewy arms, and the fairness of my face, which rivals any boy’s. My grip is that of a man, the mightiest of men. I did mention I was the mightiest of the Achaens? The siege against Troy wouldn’t have a chance, without me. Not that I’m eager to go. Scyros is a lovely place and the guise of a woman has offered surprising diversions. Such as the charms of the fair of Deidamania, whom insists on calling me ‘Pyrrha’, even though she has ample evidence of my manhood. Ah, well, there is a simple pleasure in braiding each other’s hair, even if it never equals the kiss of steel from another blade’s. There will be plenty of kisses of that sort from young Troile, if the gleam in his eye, when he raises his blade to me, continues to blaze. (appreciative smirk) Perhaps there will kisses and raised blades of another sort, as well. Yes, I know, a certain coyness is expected in a beloved, but my relationship with Troile is intriguingly unique. (another smirk) I quite look forward to seeing where it goes, if that fool of an author will finish our story and submit it. She had better, or she is sure to face defeat, when she attempts to finish her other works. For without Achille, one is sure to face defeat! Did I mention I was the mightiest of the Achaens?