Damien looks to the old, weathered man, intent on his words. "Truly," he muses aloud, his own voice calm and steady, "far more wisdom is whispered than shouted. All the same, I am unsure if such a task would bear fruit, and now such an investigation would commence; would we capture a minotaur or harpy and demand they tell us from whence they came? While we did such a thing more storms would rise, more dead babes die, and more monsters would pour forth. I think it is best to go directly to the gods, honored Cheiros. Even if they are not the cause of this calamity, they must have some knowledge of the cause. We may even find them embroiled in a battle of their own, assailed by some unknown force."
Damien looks around as he raises this final possibility, his eyes narrowing as his mind races through the possibilities. "It is unlikely, but we know for a fact that there are forces that can contest the gods, minor blasphemy though it may be to admit it. They are not utterly immortal, nor infallible. They may need our aid as much as we need theirs; and if not, then who else could be to blame for these calamities and horrors? No, honored elder, I respect your words, but I do not think a diversion or delay would benefit us. We know that the ultimate source of this disease must lie on Olympus, and if it does not, then the gods owe us the cure before we are destroyed by this affliction."