Penthesilea was much the same. Even in this day and age she needed war, or something similar. It was why she had gone into the military. Why she had gone up the ranks so quickly to become the main combat instructor. She needed some semblance of her past mixed into her present. Lately she had seemed softer, though she still threw some bone-breaking punches. She sat there with Achilles, gently putting her forehead to his. "Talk to me," she whispered. "Something is bothering you." What she needed to say could wait.