The Greeks lived in a land with active volcanoes. Smoke and fire escaping from a mountain needed some explanation, so some posited that volcanoes were workshops of the gods, where giants like Cyclops worked with fire and anvil. Homer gave Poseidon as the father of Cyclops, while other ancient Greeks wrote that the giants descended from Titans. In any case, all agreed they were powerful, lawless beings, not to be trifled with. While Homer saw them as shepherds, other writers believed Cyclopes were smiths and metal workers.
Something smelled different today. The great Cyclops Polyphemus lifted his scarred face again, trying to catch the new scent. It wasn’t sheep, nor was it dead fish, the two smells he knew best. This was something else. Leaving his sheep, the Cyclops strode down a hill, crushing rocks beneath his feet as he walked. He came to a clearing and saw a group of figures walking on two legs just like him. Cyclops scratched his large head and blinked his single eye. Men? He’d heard of these creatures. Nothing but trouble, he knew. He approached and spoke to the one with the finest armor, surely the leader. “Who are you?”
“I am nobody,” the man responded.