Off to the side in the gathering, a gaunt old man sits perfectly still on his stone bench. Beside him, a slender black wolf sits, glancing around as if taking things in with perfect clarity. The grey-skinned old man rests a hand on the wolf's neck, and scratches it now, pensively.
He turns to listen to the impassioned pleas of Agamemnon and Berenike. He tugs absent-mindedly at his cloak. He looked around at the assembled people, and weighed among them a dozen warriors of great respect, and a few others like him whose gifts were...cloudier. As Berenike sits, the old man rises, a trifle unsteadily. He bows slowly to the assembled rulers.
"Lords, ladies. We are here to serve, but do not presume to know the right course. The gods are not fair, nor do they claim to be. If we seek a destiny with even a scintilla of fairness, it will be shaped by our own hands."
Nodding sadly, the old man sits again.