The Tyrant's Tomb

Tattoos! Get yours now!
Free, wherever books are sold
Also, a large cat
MY ADVICE: NEVER ENTER a place where a Cyclops gets his tattoos.
The odor is memorable, like a boiling vat of ink and leather purses. Cyclops
skin is much tougher than human skin, requiring superheated needles to
inject the ink, hence the odious burning smell.
How did I know this? I had a long, bad history with Cyclopes.
Millennia ago, I’d killed four of my father’s favorites because they had
made the lightning bolt that killed my son Asclepius. (And because I
couldn’t kill the actual murderer who was, ahem, Zeus.) That’s how I got
banished to earth as a mortal the first time. The stench of burning Cyclops
brought back the memory of that wonderful rampage.
Then there were the countless other times I’d run into Cyclopes over the
years: fighting alongside them during the First Titan War (always with a
clothespin over my nose), trying to teach them how to craft a proper bow
when they had no depth perception, surprising one on the toilet in the
Labyrinth during my travels with Meg and Grover. I will never get that
image out of my head.
Mind you, I had no problem with Tyson himself. Percy Jackson had
declared him a brother. After the last war against Kronos, Zeus had rewarded
Tyson with the title of general and a very nice stick.
As far as Cyclopes went, Tyson was tolerable. He took up no more space
than a large human. He’d never forged a lightning bolt that had killed anyone