In the years Achilles had passed in the wilds of Mount Pelion, Chiron had seldom shown affection through touch, but for a solid hand on his shoulder or other such spare gestures. His affection was always, like the mountain on which he made his home, rougher around the edges.

"Yes, let us find someplace to drink sweet wine. Although, in this country the laws of hospitality are sorely neglected and guests are given little unless we first pay gold," he laments. (You can take the Greek out of Greece, but...) "While we sit, will you tell me of what has passed since I left Mount Pelion all those years ago? And I in turn will tell you of my own tales."

So speaking, he begins to walk again.