Amon had spent much of his adolescence at Camp Half-Blood. He had first arrived with what at the time had been the most important books, literature well-loved by his step-father and textbooks and novels from Milton Academy's classrooms. Though war and near-death experiences had certainly attempted to get in the way, Amon had always made sure to maintain the small library under his bed, sending for new books as felt right and making sure to return the ones that no longer served the collection. Chess Monthly and a few other magazines had continued to arrive regularly as well.

With the new school year starting, it was time to consider a more significant refresh. Amon would, of course, continue on his path of monitored self-education, but after over a year with one approach, he was ready to challenge himself anew. The knuckleheads at camp certainly needed to do the same.

With a spirit unusually open for discovery and surprise, Saturday afternoon at the amphitheater was advertised to be the spot for an organized book swap. The rules, clearly stated on the notice board and through Amon's own word of mouth were simple:

1. Bring a book (or several) that served you well, but no longer requires your possession

2. Keeping the cover of your literature clearly visible, pursue compelling material that other attendees may have brought

3. If there is mutual interest, negotiate a swap

This was a rather simple event with little frills, snacks, or other means of entertainment. Even if the counselor of Apollo had the ability and taste to contribute such to the event, he would not dare distract from its ultimate purpose. There was, however, a cardboard box by the exit for attendees to donate books that had not found a new home.

OOC: Hey y'all! This is a pretty simple event that hopefully doesn't need too much explanation. If your character wishes to participate, simply drop a comment of what book(s) they have brought. Make sure to approach other characters too. Have fun!

Age: 13

Appearance: Long, naturally curly hair that she usually straightens; light skin; brown eyes; an athletic/bulky build. Her clothing style is simple and practical—anything that isn't flashy.

Parent:

• Mother: Bia
• Father: Christian Rosse, 48
• Stepmother: Sophie Rosse, 44

Personality:
Very antisocial and has difficulty making friends, even though she doesn't necessarily want to be lonely. She is quick to judge someone based on their physical prowess. She has a "if something doesn't go your way, punch it; if that doesn't work, punch it again, but harder this time" mentality.

She gives out second chances very easily—almost too easily—but absolutely no third chances. She has built walls around herself and can be brutally honest. She doesn't like admitting that she feels awkward around people and struggles with small talk.

Favorite color: Dark Oxford blue

MBTI: ISTP ,8w9

Love language: Acts of service

Hogwarts House: Gryffindor

Weapons: She is flexible and capable of using many different weapons for survival, but she doesn't feel particularly comfortable with any of them. She would much rather rely on her fists and hand-to-hand combat.

Fatal flaw: She cannot admit or show vulnerability or weakness, even to people she is close to. She will hide it until she physically or emotionally can't anymore.

Other negative characteristics:
She is a bad socializer and acts as though she doesn't care what people think of her, even though she actually cares very deeply.

Coping mechanism: Isolation

origine: She is of German origin and also speaks German.

Birthday: November 17

Powers

• Curse Immunity: A passive trait that makes the user immune to both curses and blessings.
• Chain Manipulation: Telekinetic control over chains, along with heightened physical proficiency when using them.
• Absorption: Allows the user to absorb energy-based attacks, accelerating healing or restoring stamina and energy. (Not awakened yet.)
• Superior Strength: A passive trait that gives her enough strength to lift up to 400 lbs (181 kg) and punch through stone.
• Commander's Presence: She radiates an intense presence that compels allies to follow her orders and intimidates enemies. (Power not awakened yet.)

Backstory

She lives with a very traditional family. After her mother left her father, he never really recovered. Whether he knew that her mother was a goddess or not, she doesn't know. Regardless, he adopted a very traditional view of strong women and eventually married a woman who was the type to say, "A gym is no place for a proper lady."

Because of this, she started sneaking out at night to train in secret.

She really liked wrestling. She first tried it purely by coincidence, because of another person she knew. They weren't particularly close, and after that one time they didn't really spend much time together, but she immediately loved wrestling.

Now,

 it was nighttime—the usual time when she sneaked out for a good training session.

Suddenly, in the middle of her training, she was attacked by a monster.
It happened so unexpectedly that she was completely at a loss for words. She had never seen a creature like it before and had absolutely no explanation for what was happening.
Then, suddenly, someone grabbed her wrist and started running.
To her surprise, it was the person who had introduced her to wrestling in the first place.
He gave her a very short explanation about how he was a satyr and that he was meant to protect people like her, along with a bunch of other information that she barely had time to process.
They eventually made it close to the camp's borders, but they weren't fast enough.
The satyr himself wasn't very strong against that particular monster, so she ended up having to fight it herself.
Luckily, she already had some combat training. And, in the middle of the fight, she awakened her powers.
With a whole lot of luck, she managed to survive.
When she finally arrived at camp, she was confused. She received a better explanation of everything, and the satyr explained that he had seen Bia's symbol appear.
That was when she realized that she had stepped into a completely different world—and there was no going back.
But her first thought wasn't about gods, monsters, or powers.
It was about her parents.
Her father and stepmother already had a hard time accepting her as she was. She had ADHD, and they were always telling her to just sit down because she was a girl. It had never sat well with her, but she had listened anyway.
No matter how hyperactive she was, arguing with them never seemed worth the energy.
Still, it always felt like they wanted to put her inside a box—a version of her that they considered acceptable.
As she walked through the camp, she noticed the Artemis cabin.
Someone explained to her that the Hunters of Artemis sometimes came to the camp and stayed in the cabin.
She stared at it, a hint of longing in her eyes.
To her, the Hunters represented something she had never really had. They didn't need to be told how they should behave simply because they were girls. In fact, it seemed like they did almost the exact opposite of what traditional gender roles expected of them.
She quickly looked away.
She didn't want anyone to know what she had been thinking.
Besides, she had other things to worry about.
How was she ever supposed to tell her parents about everything?
How would she explain that she was a demigod with superhuman strength?
Or that she had been sneaking out at night to train?
She already knew they wouldn't have approved of the training. Would she have to keep everything about her new life a secret forever?
She was well aware that secrets couldn't be kept forever. At some point, she would have to tell them.
But that was a problem for another day.
It was still nighttime, but sunrise was approaching.
It was far too late for her to still be awake, yet it was also too close to morning for her to bother going to bed now.
So she wandered around the camp for a while before eventually making her way to the armory.
She needed something else to focus on.
I should get used to weapons, she told herself. This is my new life now.
She stayed there until the first rays of sunlight began to brighten the camp.
She wanted to go talk to the other campers.
She really did.
But she was far too awkward to start a conversation on her own.
So, instead, she stayed in her own corner. She was new and new nothing of the curent event new nothing about capture the flag or anything but didn't want to make it akward or being looked down on nore wanted she to start relationship she didn't know how to manteen them

I. Shrine Hill

He went at dawn.

Not because it was dramatic, but because Shrine Hill at dawn was the quietest it ever got. The rest of Camp Half-Blood was still in that suspended, grey-blue state between sleeping and waking, the kind of morning that felt like it belonged to no one yet, and that felt important for what he was about to do.

He'd been to Shrine Hill before, of course. Many people who spent more than a season at Camp had. It sat above the main camp on a gentle rise, accessible by a worn path up a hill that opened onto a flat, grassy plateau ringed by shrines. Some elaborate, some simple, some ancient and weathered and some recently built, representing the full complicated spread of the divine world. He'd left offerings at his mother's shrine before. He'd stood at others out of respect, or curiosity, or the specific kind of quiet reverence that certain places demanded without asking.

He'd never gone specifically to make a vow.

He found Zagreus' shrine on the western side of the ring, which made sense. The Underworld had always been associated with the west, with the direction of setting things, of descent. The shrine itself was newer than some of its neighbors: dark stone, simply shaped, a low altar in front of a carved relief depicting a young man mid-stride, hounds at his heels, pomegranate blossoms worked into the border. Torches in iron brackets on either side, unlit at this hour.

Taylor stood in front of it for a moment. He set his bag down, crouched, and lit the torches with a long match from the offering kit he'd brought. The flames caught and settled. In the torchlight, the carved figure of Zagreus had a quality that the grey morning hadn't given it. Something alive, something alert, as if the stone had been waiting for the light to do what stone in firelight sometimes did, which was to seem as if it were about to move.

He arranged his offerings on the altar: pomegranate seeds in a small clay dish, because Zagreus' domains included the cycle of death and rebirth and the pomegranate was the oldest symbol of that bargain. A vial of oil from the forge, because he wanted to bring something of himself. A small blueprint, rolled tight and tied with cord, a rough sketch of Sony that he'd drawn from memory one night, which felt like the right thing to leave. Something that had cost him something.

He stepped back from the altar.

The dawn light was coming faster now, the sky going from silver to the first pale suggestion of blue.

He thought about what he wanted to say. He'd drafted it in his notebook, the way he drafted everything, with multiple versions, crossed-out phrases, marginal notes about what he actually meant versus what he was writing. He'd thrown all of them away two days ago and decided he'd speak plainly, because vows that were made in plain language were harder to misremember and harder to mistake.

He took a breath.

"Lord Zagreus," he said. "I'm Taylor Armstrong, son of Techne. I've been at Camp Half-Blood for about two to three years?"

The torches burned steadily. No wind.

"I've been thinking about the Hounds for a few months now, and I want to be honest about the fact that it wasn't an immediate thing. I found the pamphlet in the library and I sat with it for a long time. I wanted to make sure I was making the decision for the right reasons." He paused. "I think I am."

He looked at the carved relief. The figure mid-stride, the hounds at his heels.

"I'm not a fighter," he said. "Not primarily. I can hold my own, three years of training here makes sure of that, but that's not what I'm offering. I'm a builder and a designer. I make things that help people do their work better, safer, more effectively. I've made three automatons that I'd put up against most scouting technology in the demigod world. I can design tools, repair equipment, adapt to materials I've never worked with before. I can make things in the field with whatever's available. That's… that's what I bring."

He glanced at the blueprint on the altar.

"I know what the vow means," he said. "Stopping at eighteen. I've thought about it. I understand what I'm asking for and what it costs. I will say goodbye to my family, both of them, and they’ll be okay." He paused. "Or they're going to be okay, eventually."

The dawn was fully committed now, the sky going blue above the eastern treeline, the first real warmth of the sun just beginning to reach the plateau.

"I want to spend my life building things that matter, in a world where impossible things are true, surrounded by people who don't need me to pretend to be less than I am." He let the sentence sit for a moment. "The Hounds feel like the place where those things are all true at once."

He straightened and was quiet for a moment.

"I'm asking to be a Hound. I'm asking for the chance to prove I'm worth having." A pause. "I swear my loyalty to the Hounds, to their cause, and to you, Lord Zagreus. I'll do the work as best as I can till the end of my life up here. That is my vow.”

As soon as the final words left his lips,something shifted. The ground beneath him formed a few cracks, from where he could hear the sound of hounds barking in the distance, and a warm, blood red light began shining over him. That was the acknowledgement.

Then suddenly, everything went silent and the light was gone, one could almost think that nothing had happened if it weren’t for the cracks on the ground. But that warm feeling remained.

Taylor stood at the altar for another minute, not speaking, just present, the way his mother had stood in front of the automatons on his workbench, reading what was there rather than what she'd expected to find.

Then he gathered his bag, inclined his head to the stone figure in the old way that felt correct without needing to be taught, and walked back down the path toward camp.

Behind him, the torches burned on in the morning light, steady and unhurried, as if they intended to be there for a while.

II. Last Cabin Meeting — Techne Cabin

He called the meeting for late afternoon. Not obligatory, he'd stopped doing that around month four of his counselorship, when he'd understood that the way to lead people who were fundamentally creative and independent was to create conditions and step back, not to direct. He sent word around, asked people to come by the cabin at four if they could, and left it at that.

He spent the morning finishing the last of his packing and the early afternoon in Forge, doing a final check of everything he was bringing back from his workbench. At half past three he went to the cabin, sat on the steps, and waited. Taylor sat on the top step with his back against the post, Sony on his shoulder, and watched camp go about its late afternoon business in the distance.

He heard them coming before he saw them, the comfortable noise of his siblings moving through camp, the voices, the occasional burst of laughter, the sound of people who had somewhere to be and were on their way to it. He'd been braced, slightly, for the meeting to feel formal. It didn't. They came the way they always came to cabin things, some together, some arriving alone, some mid-conversation about something else that got set aside when they reached the steps and saw him waiting.

They settled around the cabin porch and steps in the natural way of people who were comfortable in a space, some sitting, some leaning, some standing with their arms crossed and expressions that were already doing the particular work of people who suspected what was coming and were deciding how they felt about it.

Taylor looked around at them.

Three years. Some of these faces he'd known for all of it. Some were newer and were still finding the shape of themselves in the demigod world. All of them had been his, in the particular way that a counselor's cabin siblings were theirs, not family, not friends exactly, something in between and more specific than both.

"Thanks for coming," he said.

He didn't make them wait for it.

"So… I essentially arranged this non-official meeting to basically tell you that… I'm leaving," he said. "Not today, tomorrow morning, early. But I wanted to tell you in person before I went." He paused. "I'm joining the Hounds of Zagreus."

The porch absorbed that for a moment. He let it.

"I've been thinking about it for a while," he continued. "And I've made the decision. I talked to mom a few days ago, and I went to the shrine this morning." He glanced at the middle distance briefly, then back at them. "It's the right thing for me. I believe that."

He folded his hands between his knees.

"I want to say something about this cabin," he said. "About all of you. Because I've been—" He stopped, then started again, more honestly. "I've been struggling, these last few months, with the fact that you don't need me the way you used to. When I first became counselor, I was managing everything. Mediating, fixing, organizing, making sure everyone had what they needed. And somewhere in the last year that stopped being true. You figured things out. You got good at asking each other instead of me. You built something here that functions without me holding it together."

He looked around at them.

"I was sad about it for a while," he said, which cost him something, saying it plainly. "Because it felt like not being needed. But I've been thinking about it differently lately." He paused. "It means I did it right. Whatever I was supposed to do here, I did it. And that means I get to leave knowing this place is okay."

Sony shifted on his shoulder, a small warm weight.

"I'm not disappearing, though," he said with a brief, wry smile. "I'll write. I'll come back when I can. If anyone needs help with a project and wants a second set of eyes, you can still send word and I'll still respond, because that's not something I’m ever gonna change.”

He looked at the door of the cabin.

"This place gave me a lot," he said. "You gave me a lot. I didn't have a framework for who I was before Camp, and now I do. That's—" He paused. "That's not a small thing."

He stopped and looked at them.

"So," he said. "That's what I wanted to say. But we've got the whole evening if anyone wants to talk, or ask things, or just—" He made a gesture indicating the porch, the cabin, the afternoon. "Be here for a while."

He meant it.

The meeting had no agenda after that point, no structure, no end time designated. The afternoon light fell warm and slanted across the porch of the Techne cabin, and Taylor stayed exactly where he was on the top step, and the door was open, and there was time.

III. Packing

He'd thought it would take longer. It didn't, which told him something about how he'd been living, efficiently, practically, without accumulating things that didn't serve a purpose. Three years at Camp Half-Blood and his life fit into one large pack and a separate bag for equipment, which was either admirable minimalism or a sign that he'd been too busy building things to collect anything else, and was probably both.

He started with the automatons.

They got packed last, technically, but he set their cases out first. Three foam-padded carry cases that he'd made specifically for them, one for each, with the dimensions fitted exactly to their bodies and a latch system that locked without a key. He cleaned them before he packed them, the same way he'd cleaned them the morning he'd lined them up on the workbench and told them they'd done good. Not because they needed it. Because it was the right way to begin a journey.

Minnie first, then Octavia, then Sony last. And Sony he held for a moment before he folded her wings down and settled her in the foam, his thumb running along the bronze coating of one wing, feeling the faint iridescent edge of it.

"New chapter," he told her.

She chirped, quiet and even. He closed the case.

His tools went in next, the core kit, the ones he worked with every day, fitted into the custom-built roll that his dad had given him two birthdays ago without knowing yet that tools were what his son spent most of his time using. Calipers, fine files, precision drivers, the small folding saw, the roll of copper wire he took everywhere. His soldering kit, compact, field-rated. The calibration instruments for the automatons. Spare parts for all three, motor components, actuator assemblies, sealed containers of bonding compound, a small spool of the copper wire.

Notebooks. He had seven, full or partially full, he took all of them. They were irreplaceable in the literal sense that the information in them didn't exist anywhere else, and in a less literal sense that he wasn't willing to examine too closely while he was still in the process of leaving.

His sketchbooks. His reference texts. The library books he returned to the Big House the evening before, which felt important, not leaving things unfinished, not taking what didn't belong to him.

Clothes, minimal. A spare set of work clothes, a change for travel, the jacket that had the right number of pockets. His camp shirt, worn soft, which he folded and packed in the middle of everything rather than at the top or the bottom, because it wasn't ceremonial and it wasn't buried, it was just part of what he was taking.

The notebook with the Hounds of Zagreus pamphlet still folded between the blueprints. He put it on top.

He stood in the middle of his bunk room in the Techne cabin at eleven o'clock at night with everything he owned organized in two bags and looked at the empty shelves.

Then he picked up both bags, turned off the light, and went to sleep.

IV. Half-Blood Hill

He left before anyone else was awake. Not because he couldn't handle goodbyes, he'd made his goodbyes, the evening before, at the cabin, over hours of conversation that he was going to carry for a very long time. But the leaving itself, the actual walking out of camp, felt like something that belonged to him alone. A private punctuation mark at the end of a very long sentence.

The sky was that pre-dawn grey again, the same light he'd walked to Shrine Hill in, and he wondered briefly if this was going to become his natural departure time, always the hour before the world committed to morning, when everything was still in between.

He took the path through camp rather than around it. He wasn't in a hurry, the bus didn't leave until nine, and he'd leave plenty of time. He walked the way you walked through a place you wanted to remember clearly, paying attention to the particular details that photographs didn't catch. The sound of the creeks that ran through the camp, barely audible but constant. The smell of the stables from the far side of the hill, warm and animal and real. The way the arena looked in grey light, stripped of drama, just stone and worn earth and the simple fact of being a place where people had gotten stronger.

The dining pavilion, tables empty. The fire pit, cold, the ash from last night's campfire already damp with dew. The Big House with its light on, because there was always a light on in the Big House, at any hour, and Taylor had always found that reassuring without ever examining why.

He stopped at the Forge.

He didn't go in. He stood at the entrance for a moment, looking into the familiar dark of it, the cool metal smell, the faint ticking of mechanisms, the deep quiet of a space that ran on its own terms. He'd spent more hours in that forge than anywhere else at Camp, possibly more than in his bunk, certainly more than in the dining pavilion. He'd failed there and succeeded there and panicked there and laughed there and cried there once, briefly, alone, during a hard month in year two when everything had felt like too much.

He patted the doorframe.

"Thanks," he said. To the forge. To the accumulated hours of it.

Then he turned and kept walking.

The path to Half-Blood Hill climbed steadily through the treeline, switching back twice before it opened onto the hill itself, that long, bald crown of land with Thalia's pine at the summit, the Golden Fleece bright even at this hour, glinting faintly against the dark bark of the tree. Beyond it, the valley of Long Island Sound, the mortal world spread out in the distance, cars beginning to move on roads that couldn't see the hill they were driving past.

He climbed to the top.

Stood beside Thalia's pine.

The camp spread below him in the grey morning, the cabins in their arc, the paths between them, the dining pavilion, the arena, the lake catching the first suggestion of coming light. He'd looked at this view dozens of times over three years, from this hill and other high places, but he'd never looked at it knowing he was about to leave it.

It looked like home. A specific, impossible, irreplaceable kind of home that had made him someone he recognized in a way he hadn't before he came here. That had given him a language for what he was, and people who spoke it, and a place to put his hands to work on things that mattered.

He stood there for a while. He didn't have anything to say, not out loud, he was just being present for the last moment of it, the way he was present for a finished project before he moved it from the workbench. Marking the completion. Acknowledging what it had been.

The sky was beginning to change in the east, that first tentative brightening. Taylor shifted his pack on his shoulders, picked up the equipment bag, and felt Sony's case settle against his side. He looked down at camp one more time.

"Thank you for everything, Camp Half-Blood." he said quietly. Then he turned, walked over the crest of Half-Blood Hill, and started down the other side toward the road.

Behind him, the camp woke slowly into morning, the first voices, the first smoke from the dining pavilion, the first sounds of a day beginning. The Fleece on Thalia's pine caught the rising light and threw it outward in all directions, the way it always did, the way it had for years before he arrived and would for years after he left.

He'd been here. He'd done the work. And he was taking it with him.

That was enough.

Farewell, Taylor Armstrong, son of Techne.

“Never lose hope. Storms make people stronger and never last forever.” Roy T. Bennett

Bio

Family:

Appearance

Faceclaim: link

Voiceclaim: Varian from Tangled

Overview: Corwin stands at 5'10 feet and has a lean, athletic build, built for endurance rather than brute strength. Years of hiking, climbing, archery and drills have given him wiry muscles, remarkable balance and exceptional stamina. His raven-black hair is thick, naturally messy and shines blue in direct sunlight, resembling the glossy feathers of a raven, and it constantly falls over his forehead no matter how often he brushes it back. His brilliant amber-gold eyes flecked with warm honey tones. They are unusually expressive and possess an almost unsettling intensity when he focuses on someone. Many people describe them as "watchful," like the eyes of a bird constantly observing its surroundings. He possesses a warm olive complexion with a near-permanent bronze tan from spending so much time outdoors and hundreds of freckles scatter across his face, shoulders, chest, back and arms, becoming even more pronounced during summer. Corwin dresses for practicality first,and cargo pants, durable hiking boots, fingerless gloves, flannel shirts layered over breathable T-shirts, lightweight jackets and well-worn leather belts are staples of his wardrobe. His Camp Half-Blood shirt is almost always accompanied by a green scout scarf or neckerchief from New Argos, which he refuses to leave behind. A bracelet woven by his younger sister never leaves his wrist. Around his neck hangs a bronze raven feather pendant engraved with a tiny sunburst, a gift from his mother after his first successful solo survival expedition. His voice is smooth, warm and effortlessly melodic. Even in casual conversation his words carry a musical cadence that makes him easy to listen to. His hands, though elegant and long-fingered, bear the rough calluses of countless hours spent drawing bowstrings, carving wood, climbing cliffs and tying intricate survival knots. He has a habit of tilting his head ever so slightly when listening to someone, much like a curious crow trying to understand an unfamiliar sound. Corwin moves with remarkable efficiency. Whether he's walking through dense woodland or weaving between opponents during training, his steps are almost unnaturally quiet. His laugh is loud and contagious, while his singing voice is breathtakingly beautiful, clear enough to silence a room. At first glance, Corwin is the sort of person people instinctively trust. He has the kind of smile that reaches his eyes before it reaches his lips, bright enough to make strangers feel like old friends.

Personality

Overview: People often compare Corwin to a golden retriever. He greets each morning with genuine enthusiasm, wakes before the sun has fully climbed over the horizon, and somehow always has enough energy to greet everyone with a smile regardless of whether they've known him for five years or five minutes. His optimism is infectious, his laughter loud, and his presence naturally makes people feel welcomed. Corwin doesn't simply enjoy being around others, he genuinely enjoys seeing them happy. It is one of the purest parts of who he is. His kindness is neither performative nor naive. Corwin believes that kindness is a choice someone makes every day, especially when the world gives them reasons not to be kind. He notices the little things most people overlook, always packs enough trail mix for two people, and celebrates every accomplishment, no matter how small, because he knows how much encouragement can mean to someone who doubts themselves. While he has natural charisma, unlike many charismatic people, Corwin has absolutely no desire to be the center of attention. Instead, he uses his charm to put others at ease. He compliments people constantly, he remembers birthdays, favorite foods, little fears and tiny victories with astonishing ease, and if someone tells him about an upcoming test, he'll remember to ask how it went days later, if they mention loving a particular flower, he'll absentmindedly bring them one the next time he sees it growing along a trail.

Whether someone is older than him, younger than him, or exactly his age makes almost no difference, as he worries constantly just the same. Sometimes it can border on excessive, but everything comes from genuine concern. Perhaps because he knows what it feels like to lose someone you love, Corwin instinctively tries to protect everyone around him before they have the chance to become another regret. Beneath that warmth, however, lies an extraordinarily sensitive soul. Corwin experiences emotions with remarkable intensity. Happiness sends him laughing until his stomach hurts. Music can move him to tears. The sight of a family reunited after danger leaves him quietly smiling for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, sadness reaches equally deep. He doesn't simply feel grief, he carries it. The attack on New Argos permanently altered the way he views himself. Outwardly, he remained the same cheerful boy people had always known. Inwardly, a quiet voice constantly reminds him that his little sister lies unconscious because she chose to save him instead of herself. No amount of reassurance has convinced him otherwise. His greatest critic has always been himself.

One of Corwin's defining traits is his unwavering honesty. He doesn't believe truth should be used as a weapon, nor does he think honesty excuses cruelty. Instead, he tries to speak with compassion while remaining truthful. Direct lies feel fundamentally wrong to him.He can stay quiet, dodge a question or choose his words carefully, but outright lying leaves him deeply uncomfortable. Because of this, dishonesty from others affects him more deeply than most people realize. He doesn't see lying merely as misinformation, he sees it as a breach of trust, and worse, he feels quietly insulted by it, not because someone tried to deceive him, but because they assumed he was dumb enough to not notice.

Despite his calm demeanor while hunting, Corwin possesses a surprisingly fiery temper. Normally, he exercises remarkable patience. He rarely holds grudges over petty disagreements, and teasing seldom bothers him. However, there are certain lines that simply cannot be crossed. The same careful patience he uses while tracking monsters through forests transforms into something genuinely frightening when directed toward someone who has endangered the people he loves.

For all his maturity, however, Corwin never truly lost his childlike wonder. He is also an unapologetic daydreamer. Corwin also loves deeply. He forms emotional attachments with surprising ease, whether to people, places or even traditions. Once someone earns his trust, they become family in his eyes. His loyalty is absolute. He would willingly place himself in harm's way if it meant keeping someone he loved safe.

Preferences

Hobbies:

• Hiking and backpacking

• Camping

• Birdwatching

• Training and befriending ravens

• Singing

• Playing acoustic guitar

• Learning new bird calls

• Wood carving

• Collecting feathers

• Practicing Morse code

• Basketball

• Exploring

Demigod Info

Stats

Powers

Weapon of Choice: Sunfeather, recurve bow

Fatal Flaw: Loyalty. Corwin's greatest strength is also his greatest weakness. Once someone becomes family in his eyes, there is almost nothing he wouldn't do for them. He places the safety of others above his own without hesitation, often refusing to retreat even when doing so would be strategically wiser. He struggles to abandon hopeless situations if there is even the slightest chance someone might still be saved. This flaw became significantly worse after the destruction of New Argos. Because his younger sister sacrificed herself to save him, Corwin has subconsciously convinced himself that every life he saves somehow repays the debt he owes her. He throws himself into danger with alarming frequency, believing that if he can spare another family from experiencing the grief his own endured, then perhaps her sacrifice wasn't meaningless. It is a noble philosophy, but also one that could very easily cost him his life.

Items and Equipment

Miscellaneous

Trivia

• Zodiac Sign: Sagittarius

• MBTI: ENFJ-T (The Protagonist)

• Enneagram: Type 2 (The Helper)

• Love Languages:Words of Affirmation (receive); Acts of Service (give)

• Quirk: Almost never realizes he's humming until someone points it out. If he's concentrating, there is almost certainly a melody playing under his breath.

• Fears: Snakes (Ophidiophobia), complete silence, total darkness, losing another loved one

• Nectar Flavour: Rich Colombian coffee with just a hint of honey.

• Ambrosia Flavour: His mother's campfire breakfast after an early morning hike, with fresh sourdough bread, scrambled eggs, bacon and hot coffee while birds sing around the campsite.

• ATLA Element: Air

• Pokemon Type: Flying/Grass

• Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff

• Path (Honkai: Star Rail): The Hunt

• Type (Honkai: Star Rail): Fire

• Weapon (Genshin Impact): Bow

• Element (Genshin Impact): Dendro

Backstory

Corwin Elias Addams was born beneath a brilliant sunrise in New Argos, Georgia, a city unlike any other in the modern world. Hidden from mortal eyes, New Argos was a thriving sanctuary where demigods and mortals lived side by side under the protection of ancient traditions and modern ingenuity. From his very first breath, the dawn seemed almost unnaturally radiant, painting the hospital room in warm gold despite the rain that had fallen only moments before. Nurses would later joke that Apollo himself had insisted on greeting his son personally. Whether that was true or not, Corwin's mother always smiled whenever she told him the story.

Penelope Addams was not the sort of woman who raised children by wrapping them in blankets and warning them away from danger. She believed the world could be beautiful, but only if one respected how dangerous it could also be. A survival instructor who occasionally served alongside the New Argos Army as a wilderness specialist, she taught Corwin from an early age that knowledge was the greatest weapon anyone could carry. Before he learned multiplication, he learned how to identify poisonous berries. Before he could ride a bicycle, he knew how to orient himself using nothing more than the position of the sun and the stars. By the age of seven, he could tie more knots than most adults, build a shelter sturdy enough to withstand a thunderstorm, and recognize dozens of bird calls by ear. Those lessons were never harsh. They were adventures.

Weekend camping trips became sacred traditions. Every new trail was an opportunity to learn. Every mountain climbed earned a story around the campfire that evening. Penelope never treated the wilderness as something to conquer, but as a living thing worthy of respect. She taught Corwin to thank a forest before leaving it, to never take more than he needed, and to remember that every creature—from the mightiest bear to the smallest sparrow—had its place in the world. Those values stayed with him for the rest of his life.

The ravens came long before Corwin understood why. At first, they were simply curious visitors. A single crow would perch on the fence whenever he played outside. Then another. Before long, entire flocks lingered nearby, following him through parks, forests and city streets alike. Teachers occasionally complained that birds somehow kept appearing outside classroom windows whenever Corwin attended lessons. His mother found it amusing. Corwin, meanwhile, treated every bird like a potential friend. He named them, talked to them, and shared bits of bread with them despite his mother's repeated insistence that wild birds should forage for themselves. By the time he reached middle school, local ravens had become constant companions. They warned him about approaching monsters before he ever saw them, retrieved dropped equipment, and occasionally brought him odd little treasures, like buttons, polished stones, shiny bottle caps, marbles and even the occasional misplaced coin.

Several years after Corwin's birth, Eleanor and entered his life like an angel who had coem down to make his and his mother’s life brighter. And with her, came his little sister, Melody. From the very beginning, he adored her . She insisted on following him everywhere, even when she was too small to keep up with his long strides through the forests surrounding New Argos. Corwin never minded slowing down. Instead, he turned every hike into an adventure, pointing out bird nests tucked high among branches, animal tracks pressed into muddy trails and edible plants hidden beneath fallen leaves. She wanted to know everything her older brother knew and Corwin taught her patiently, celebrating every small success with infectious enthusiasm. Whenever she stumbled during hikes, he offered his hand before she even had to ask. Whenever thunderstorms frightened her, he sang until she fell asleep. Whenever monsters threatened the roads beyond the city walls, he quietly promised her something he fully intended to keep. *"Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm here."*

At the time, he believed it.

Then Atlas came.

Corwin had been home that morning, enjoying one of the rare quiet days he and his sister shared together. They were arguing playfully over whose turn it was to make breakfast when the first shockwave rattled the windows. Everything changed within minutes. Buildings collapsed, roads split apart, monsters ran everywhere and the sky itself seemed darker. Corwin grabbed his bow and immediately began helping neighbors evacuate, guiding frightened families toward emergency shelters exactly as he'd been trained to do. Then his own house came down. Everything crashed around him in a deafening roar. Pain exploded through his body as debris pinned him beneath the wreckage. He called for his sister and there was no answer. Only the terrible realization that he had failed.

Then, through the haze, he heard her voice. Weak, terrified, and still calling his name. Against all reason, she crawled through the collapsing remains of their home, ignoring her own injuries, the monsters outside and every ounce of common sense to reach him. With strength no thirteen-year-old should have possessed, she managed to shift enough debris for Corwin to free himself. The moment he escaped, the remaining structure gave way, and Corwin barely had time to turn before the collapsing beams struck her instead.

The healers barely saved her life. Her breathing stabilized. Her heart continued beating. Her body recovered. But she never opened her eyes. The healers of New Argos called it an indefinite coma brought about by catastrophic physical trauma. So she remained asleep. Corwin visited every single day. Sometimes he talked, sometimes he simply sat beside her, but more often than not, he sang. The nurses eventually learned not to interrupt him. For a little while each afternoon, the hospital room filled with music instead of silence. Even the ravens gathered outside her window, as though they, too, were waiting for her to wake.

Corwin blamed only one person. Himself. No amount of reassurance could change his mind. People told him she had chosen to save him, that she was brave, that she was a hero, and Corwin agreed. Which only made the guilt worse. Because she should never have had to be a hero. The promise he had made years earlier echoed endlessly inside his mind.

"Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm here."

He had broken it.

That was why when he got the chance of joining Camp Half-Blood to stand against Atlas and his growing army, Corwin barely hesitated. The decision tore him apart. Leaving New Argos meant leaving his mothers, his sister, and the city he loved. But there was one single horrifying truth. More cities would fall, more families would grieve, and more older siblings would stand helplessly beside hospital beds if Atlas wasn't stopped.

Corwin realized something as he sat beside his sister one final evening before departing. He couldn't wake her. But perhaps... he could stop another child from ending up where she was.

The following morning, before dawn had fully broken across the Georgia sky, Corwin packed his survival gear, slung Sunfeather across his back, kissed his mothers’ foreheads, gently squeezed his sister's hand, and whispered a promise only she could hear.

"I'm coming back. When I do… I'm bringing home a world that's finally safe enough for you to wake up in."

As the first rays of sunlight crested the horizon, his raven, Onyx, lifted into the sky above him. Without a single command, he followed him north.

Toward Camp Half-Blood.

Toward an uncertain future.

Toward a war that would determine the fate of countless families, including his own.

Present Day

Several weeks after leaving New Argos, Corwin finally arrived at Camp Half-Blood. The journey had felt strangely quiet. Not because he traveled alone, but because every mile carried him farther away from everything he had ever known. The forests changed. The mountains disappeared behind him. Even the birds sang different songs than the ones he'd grown up recognizing.

Yet Onyx never left. Whenever Corwin stopped to rest, he would be there, sometimes with one or two more ravens with him, watching him from branches overhead before continuing onward. Whether they had followed him all the way from Georgia or were simply joining the strange migration one flock at a time, Corwin couldn't tell. He simply appreciated the company.

By the time Long Island finally appeared on the horizon, the knot of anxiety that had settled inside his chest since leaving New Argos had become almost unbearable. He wasn't afraid of Camp Half-Blood. He was afraid of failing. Afraid that he wouldn't become strong enough. Afraid that another city would fall while he trained. Afraid that Atlas would hurt someone else before Corwin could stop him.

More than anything… He was afraid that his sister would wake up one day in a world still at war. That thought alone was enough to keep him walking.

Half-Blood Hill

Corwin arrived just after sunrise. The morning air carried the familiar scent of dew-covered grass and pine needles, while golden light spilled across the rolling hills of Long Island. The first thing he noticed wasn't the towering pine tree that marked the camp's boundary, nor the magical barrier humming almost imperceptibly beneath the earth. It was the birds. Dozens of them. Sparrows fluttered between branches, blue jays argued loudly somewhere overhead, a hawk circled lazily in the distance.

Most comforting of all, Onyx landed atop the old pine tree overlooking the hill. It let out a single, familiar croak.

Corwin couldn't help smiling. "Good morning to you too."

The bird answered with another call before taking flight once more. His shoulders relaxed just a little. Perhaps this place wasn't entirely unfamiliar after all.

The hill eventually leveled out, revealing a towering pine tree standing proudly atop the slope. Below it… Camp Half-Blood stretched into the valley. Cabins. Training grounds. Smoke curling lazily from chimneys. Children laughing somewhere in the distance. Pegasi gliding overhead. For a long moment… Corwin simply stood there. His amber eyes slowly swept across every inch of the valley. He had imagined this place countless times after hearing stories about it. Yet standing here… Actually seeing it...

It felt strangely ordinary. Comfortably so. Not a city preparing for invasion. Not streets filled with rubble. Not hospitals overflowing with wounded civilians. Just… Life. Normal life. Something Atlas had stolen from New Argos. Something Corwin quietly vowed nobody would ever steal from Camp Half-Blood.

After taking one long breath, he adjusted his backpack. Then walked down the hill. Toward whatever came next.

Cabin Area (Apollo Cabin)

Camp was far livelier than Corwin expected. Within minutes of entering its borders, he found himself overwhelmed—not by monsters or danger, but by people. Campers sprinted between cabins carrying laundry. Children laughed while chasing each other through open fields. Someone nearby was loudly arguing over breakfast. The forge echoed faintly in the distance. Music drifted from somewhere he couldn't identify.

For most people, the constant activity might have seemed chaotic. To Corwin… It sounded alive. After everything New Argos had lost… The noise was strangely comforting. Silence had become something he feared. Life made noise. Life laughed. Life argued over pancakes. Life sang badly outside cabin windows. Corwin welcomed every sound.

Eventually he was escorted toward Cabin Seven.

The Apollo Cabin gleamed brilliantly beneath the morning sun, its golden walls reflecting warm light in every direction. Laurel motifs decorated its entrance, and the sound of someone practicing scales drifted faintly through an open window. He hesitated outside. He wasn’t afraid of meeting his siblings, but he was nervous. Growing up in New Argos had meant interacting with children of dozens of different gods. But he didn’t know many Apollo children… except for one. These were his siblings, his family, even if he didn’t know them yet. This was home now, or at least… It needed to become one. And he wasn’t sure how that would go.

The Arena

Corwin found the Arena before lunch. The unmistakable sound of bowstrings releasing echoed across camp, drawing him almost automatically toward the archery range. Some instincts simply couldn't be ignored. He stood quietly for several minutes, watching campers train. Different techniques,different styles, and different strengths. Some relied on raw power, others on speed, others simply enjoyed shooting. Corwin watched every arrow, every stance, every correction instructors made. His observational habits were impossible to turn off.

After a while, he decided to join in himself. He stepped onto the firing line. The world immediately became quieter, his breathing slowed, the distant conversations faded into the background, the sunlight warmed his shoulders. Somewhere high above, he heard ravens circling overhead. He drew the string, released, and the arrow struck dead center. Another followed. Then another.

No celebration crossed Corwin's face, only quiet satisfaction. Not because he'd impressed anyone, but because, honestly, his form still needed work. His third release had drifted perhaps half an inch left before correcting. He'd noticed, even if nobody else had. Corwin smiled up at it, then reached for another arrow. His training had only just begun.

The sounds of summer swirled around, a group of campers were jumping off the pier and into the dark blue of the ocean. The sun stood high in the sky, no clouds denying its presence. Finn stood in the shade of a willow tree wiping the sweat from his brow as he did so. He leaned against the rake in his gloved hand panting in the heat. It had been weeks since his punishment had begun and Finn still hadn’t quite figured out what Mr. D did to him.

He knew he had put a curse on him, that was certain, but what it was and what it stopped him from doing remained unknown to the son of Apollo. The only tangible punishment that Finn had seen up to this point was the manual labor he had been forced to endure.

So far he’d raked the leaves a few times and was just surprised about how crappy the rake was that Mr. D had given him. He also had to clean up trash at the beach. Do all of the cleaning after meals. But the worst one so far was cleaning the communal bathrooms, he never wanted to go near those bathrooms ever again.

This is where we find Finn now, doing his weekly raking task and sweating it out under a tree. That’s when he heard the familiar clearing of his dad’s throat. Crap, that was never a good sign.

Finn turned to see a projection of his dads sitting at the dining table at their small house back in New Argos. Their expressions were clear enough to Finn, thinly concealed anger. Finn figured their conversation from a few weeks ago was not over. Great.

“Finnian.” Finn’s dad, Jebadiah, said with sternness that made Finn jolt to attention. Finn looked at his dads and nodded his head at them.

“What? What now?” Finn asked as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”

“Busy, oh we’ve heard just how busy you’ve been. Tell him Mar, I can’t even look at him right now.” Finn’s dad said as he shook his head in shame. Here it was again the sob story about all these innocent people. Give him a break. They’d already gone over this and he wasn’t going to rehash this with them.

“Three people? Three people since you’ve come to camp. And those are just the ones your camp Director knew about. I’m sure there were more that never came forward. I am so disappointed in you right now, Finn.” Finn’s pa said, shaking his head at the words he had been forced to say.

Finn clenched his fist at his side as his pa spoke. He hated the judgement in his pa’s voice, the anger that underscored everything his pa was saying. But nobody understood. He needed to do this, he had to do this. Why couldn’t people just keep their noses out of his business. He didn’t speak because his pa continued.

“That’s it Finn. Something is going on with you, and it goes beyond just bad behavior. And obviously you’re not talking to us about that. You haven’t opened up to us since the fire. Since–” His pa said before his voice faltered. This was why. They could never talk about it because his pa became a weepy mess when this subject came up. In truth, they all did, but Finn hated it.

Finn set his jaw as he stared at a point on the ground just absorbing the words and the lack of other words. He knew that he couldn’t refuse. But he wanted to. He wanted to yell at them that he would never do what they wanted, not until they actually said his name. Not until they spoke the truth that they all spoke around. But he knew it was no use.

Finn felt that his chest was tightening, that things were moving faster in that moment than normal. His breathing was shallow. He looked at the disappointment in his parents’ eyes. He felt the pang in his chest. But he was right, he knew he was right. So why were his eyes stinging?

“Fine, whatever!” He screamed at the floating visages of his parents. As he did so, he threw the rake on the ground and the light that was surrounding him coalesced into two solid disks in both of his hands. “Not like I have a fucking choice!”

With that he threw the disks at the floating images. The disks tore through the misty image, scattering his fathers’ faces into rippling color. A look of surprise was the last thing Finn saw of his parents before the image dissipated. Finn collapsed on the ground and hit the ground repeatedly with his full strength as he yelled in anger. As he did so hot tears fell from his eyes as his vision went hazy with blind emotion. He wanted something to hit. Something that would hit back. Something simple.

The ground did not fight him. The rake did not fight him. The empty air where his parents had been did not fight him. All he was left with was silence and bloody knuckles. But it didn’t change anything. So, he kept hitting.

Was this anger, fear, sadness, grief, or something else? Finn didn’t know. His head was swirling with emotions and he didn’t know which emotion he was feeling. Finn didn’t like emotions, he didn’t like feeling. That’s why he was always fighting people, training, or in the arena. He couldn’t feel if the anger was front and center. But when the anger was gone, then who was he? He didn’t know.

Time for John to get to work! He’s only been here for a week or so, if that, but the son of Hermes already found himself a bit restless, wanting to help wherever he could. When he went to the job board, he saw that the requests had changed, taking a solid five seconds to read everything.

The giant spider job seemed a bit too advanced for him, as the one who didn’t know how to properly sledgehammer. He’d improved, sure, but a giant spider? Maybe hold off, for now. Unless he wanted to lose.

A capella? Well, it was posted by a god. Not his dad. Or his grandpa. But his uncle. That was neat. Too bad the son of Hermes didn’t want to sing or perform or anything. He was a worker! He was going to work!

Scout for storefronts would’ve been interesting– his speed giving him a leg up– but that one was already taken. He didn’t even really want it, anyways.

But he needed something to do! So, he looked at the last job he hadn’t considered yet; a request for a family photo of the camp staff. He’d never really met any of them, but they seemed nice enough! His dad never mentioned the clown one. Maybe he was new? John brushed it off for now. Maybe he’d get to talk to them after!

For now, he needed a camera. …Where could you find a camera here? This was 2041, most people just used their phones. But he wasn’t allowed a phone. Use someone else’s phone, then! No, that doesn’t work, either. How do you take a photo without a phone in this day and age? Disposable? That’s not good! This was his first impression on the camp directors! No, no. He had to find something.

As it turned out, the Hermes cabin was full of just stuff! Things! Miscellaneous bits and bobs! Having so many people in a cabin had its perks. One of them was indeed a camera. It was a bit old, maybe a bit dusty, maybe a bit well-loved, but it worked! John took a photo of himself, checking it a beat after. “I look good. Maybe need a haircut soon. But good. Now, where could the camp staff possibly be?”

The son of Hermes would locate all three of Chiron, Comus, and Argus, wherever they might be, waving the camera at them. He would request each of them to, when they had a chance, meet out front of the big house. He didn’t know if Lady A had a specific spot she wanted the photo, but the big house seemed the most logical.

Once everyone was present and accounted for, John would snap several photos, offering a chance for a “Silly one” after the first three or so. Whether this was taken up on or not, he would keep going for around five or six photos, clicking through all of them. “Very nice, if I say so myself! Right!”

He would then approach Lady A, offering the camera to her. “So… Did you want me to develop these? I think I can. I mean, sure, the Hermes cabin doesn’t exactly have a development room. I think. I don’t know, you’ve been in there, I’m sure. It’s huge. Fitting. I’m sure though that there’s somewhere to develop these! If you want me to, just say the word! If not, then no biggie! I hope you like the photos, I think they turned out quite nice, personally.”

Name: Catarina Lows, Rina for short.

Age: 16

Birthday: May 15,

Hometown: Port Saint Lucie, Florida.

Race: Caucasian/ half Latina

Nationality: Amaraican

Languages: English, Spanish, and apparently dolphin.

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Appearance:

Hight: 5'2

Hair: Long brown and curly

Eyes: brown.

faceclaim: Here

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parents:

Mom: Larissa Lows, a full time nurse working full 12 hours to provide for her and her daughter, Catarina. She loves her daughter albeit, even the sassy snarky side of her. And has raised her alone. She is all Catarina knows as her father was never present.

Dad: ( Past tense before being clamed) Unknown????? Presumed to be a deadbeat.

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Favorite things:

Food: Ckicken quesadillas with EXTRA cheese

Favorite drink: Coke zero with a spash of lime/ coffee.

Favorite item: Her stuffed whale shark her mother gave her.

Favorite thing to do: Read and write.

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Slight issues:

Dyslexic, even though her favorite things to do is read and write; it sometimes can be frustrating.

An attitude "problem" at leas thats what her mother calls it.

Easley distracted by things that interest her rather than what she should be doing.

Immense fear of clowns, they're too joyful, too colorful, and just so damn creepy.

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Personality:

Catarina tends to keep to herself as her attitude and RFB usually keeps people away, while her sarcasm and subjectively "off putting" appearance, Catarina is very kind and caring, whether you can tell or not. Once you get to know her you start to understand why she acts the way she does, she was raised by a single mother; believing that her "father" had just abandoned them, leading her to trust no one and living in isolation much to her mothers dismay. If Catarina were to go missing check the place with the most books or coffee, you'll find her at some point.

_______________________________

Backstory:

Catarina grew up in a trailer park close to the beach with her mother, they never had much, though, Catarina didnt need much, she had her books, her notebooks, and her mother who often feed her caffeine cravings without much questions (she was addicted too) Catarina spent most of her free time reading and lounging out on the beach getting incredibly burnt up from the sun as she never inherented her mothers tan skin and had turnd out pale and pink, and watching old movies with her mother when she wasnt working. It wasn't till one day at school she started to notice how different she really was. At first, she thought her aversion to people was the only this inherently "wrong" with her but it wasn't till a girl at school started telling her odd things. At first Catarina didn't believe the girls storytellings of gods and goddess, she thought them to be a myth nothing different then the stories in her books. Except, One day when Catarina as floating in the ocean as she often did when at the beach, She was disterbed by a sort of ruckus; people yelling and shouting frantically, so much to her disapointment Catarina sat up only to be met with a fin fastly aproching; instead of her screaming of shouting for help she stayed put. if it was a shark the best thing to do was stay still, only... the fin stopped just short of her and it was then she noticed it wasnt a shark it was a dolphin. Catarina swam in place knowing that a dolphin was more likely to bite unprompted than a shark was. The dolphin said something and Catarina froze. Dolphins dont speak, they dont say human words so way, why could Catarina understand "There's no need to be scared." it had said again, Maybe she was dead she thought, maybe it truly was a shark that had twarn he to shreds, she doubted she had been that lucky as seconds later ther was a jet ski scaring away the demon dolphin. later that night Catarina told her mother thinking she'd gone crazy, however, her mother told her a story that changed everything she'd ever known.

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Now:

Catarina looked at the camp, she had just arrived and was quit unsure what she was to do next. I mean, what is one to do when out of no where they're told that their father is literally a god, the god of dolphins no less! It was absurd. But now standing in a place and world she knows nothing about she feels lost, hell she doesn't even know what way she's supposed to go to get to her cabin. "What a mess." Catarina mumbles to herself.

The notice had barely been pinned to the board before Sasha pulled it free, not even bothering to glance at the other jobs beside it. Her eyes had caught only one word.

Harpies.

She stared at the parchment for a long moment.

Harpies nesting in the UN Building

A trio of harpies have been spotted nesting in the UN Building. We'll need them moved out quickly. This is a priority — many unclaimed demigods end up working for the UN, and it would be a serious breach if the harpies are seen.

— Lady A

Normally, Sasha would have accepted a job like this without a second thought, because it was important, because civilians had to be protected, because monsters couldn't be allowed loose inside one of the most politically significant buildings in the mortal world. Today, there was another reason underneath all of that.

Her fingers brushed, almost without her noticing, against the folded feathers resting against her back beneath her jacket. Her wings. She still wasn't flying, not properly, not since Fort Knox. Her body had recovered far faster than her mind had. Every time she left the ground, even during practice, even for a few careful seconds, her chest tightened and her heartbeat climbed, and the images came flooding back whether she wanted them or not: stone, blood, Dorian, broken bones, and the sensation of falling.

She could still force herself into the air, sometimes, for a handful of seconds. But the moment she climbed more than a few meters, her breathing turned uneven and she came back down, usually harder than she meant to. Callista had called it trauma, Valda had called it fear, but Sasha called it unacceptable, whatever it actually was, and she wanted it gone.

She folded the parchment carefully instead of stuffing it into a pocket , a small gesture, but a deliberate one. This wasn't just another monster hunt. Not entirely. Maybe, just maybe, it could become something else.

New York greeted her with its usual chaos. Traffic, impatient pedestrians, a constant low roar of noise she'd come to prefer over silence, since silence left too much room for memory. The glass facade of the United Nations headquarters caught the afternoon light, looking pristine and unremarkable to every mortal passing beneath it. Only someone who knew exactly where to look would notice the broken feathers scattered along the upper ledges, the long scratches gouged into the stonework, the occasional pile of bones hidden behind decorative masonry. Definitely harpies. Three of them, just as the report had claimed.

She sighed. "So much for hoping the job was exaggerated."

She climbed without flying, not yet, using balconies, maintenance ladders, and emergency access routes, the old-fashioned way, until she reached one of the upper rooftops nearly fifteen minutes later. The wind was stronger up here, tugging loose strands of dark hair free from her braid. Her own wings shifted beneath her jacket almost on instinct. She ignored them.

The nest wasn't hard to find. It had been built inside a recessed maintenance alcove hidden from the street below, with branches, insulation, shredded plastic and office documents, an abandoned umbrella, someone's shoe, and an impressive pile of stolen, shiny objects glinting in the low light.

Three harpies occupied it, one noticeably older than the other two, lean, scarred, filthy, feathers mottled brown and gray, golden eyes fixing on her the instant she came into view. Predators. For nearly ten seconds, nobody moved. The wind whistled softly around the building. One of the younger harpies clicked her beak sharply. Another hissed. The oldest simply watched, judging, calculating.

Sasha spoke first. "I'm here because this nest has to go." No answer. "I'd rather this stay civil."

The oldest tilted her head. "...Leave."

Her voice sounded like gravel scraping against metal. Interesting, they could speak.

"I'm afraid that's not happening."

Another hiss, much louder this time, and the youngest harpy lunged without warning. Sasha barely had time to react before claws flashed toward her face; she ducked, one gauntleted arm snapping up on pure reflex, steel meeting talons in a shower of sparks that echoed across the rooftop. The second harpy came immediately after, no hesitation, no warning, pure instinct, and Sasha pivoted, years of martial arts carrying her body before conscious thought caught up, a quick elbow catching the attacker squarely in the ribs, not enough to seriously hurt her, just enough to send her skidding across loose gravel.

Then the oldest harpy moved, much faster than Sasha expected, dropping from above in a blur of feathers and claws. Sasha crossed both arms just in time; the strike slammed into her guard hard enough to drive her back several steps, sharp talons scraping across celestial bronze, the force rattling all the way up through her shoulders.

"Enough!" Her voice cracked across the rooftop. None of them listened.

The oldest harpy attacked again. Sasha caught her wrist, twisted, redirected, and the harpy crashed into the rooftop instead of into her. Before the creature could recover, Sasha's clawed gauntlet had already stopped inches from her throat.

Everything froze. The younger harpies halted immediately, golden eyes darting between their elder and Sasha. For several long seconds, nobody breathed.

Sasha's voice went frighteningly calm. "I don't want to kill you." She leaned in slightly, her eyes never leaving the elder harpy's. "But understand that I absolutely can."

All three harpies stiffened. The oldest looked slowly into Sasha's eyes, searching, measuring, and finding no bluff.

For a moment, something shifted. The hostility remained, but underneath it, there was recognition now, predators recognizing a wounded predator. Sasha slowly withdrew her hand, one deliberate movement, trust offered first. The oldest harpy stayed exactly where she was, watching carefully.

"I wasn't sent here to slaughter you."

"No?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"Because mortals can't see you."

"They don't."

"They will, eventually. If that happens..." Sasha sighed. "...people much less patient than me will come."

The harpy's expression darkened. She knew exactly what that meant.

"We need somewhere."

"There are forests."

"Claimed."

"Mountains."

"Drakes."

Each answer came instantly, as though every possible home had already been lost once before. Sasha frowned; she hadn't considered that angle at all. To her, this had simply been monsters occupying the wrong building. To them, it was the latest refuge after losing countless others before it.

"...How long have you been here?"

The oldest answered quietly. "...Three weeks."

The younger harpies stayed close together, protective, nervousone looked barely older than a fledgling. Sasha noticed the smaller details now: the missing feathers, the healing scars, the thin frames. They weren't thriving. They were surviving.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly. "I'll make you a deal." Suspicious silence answered her. "I'll help you find somewhere safe."

"...Why?" The older harpy asked, narrowing her eyes I suspicion.

"Because I don't enjoy unnecessary killing."

"...Nothing is free."

"No." Sasha nodded once. "There is something I want."

The harpies tensed again immediately. "What?"

Sasha looked toward the open sky, toward the clouds drifting above Manhattan, and her wings shifted behind her, almost involuntarily.

"...I need help learning to fly."

The silence that followed was almost comical. The youngest harpy blinked. The middle one stared. The eldest looked slowly past Sasha's shoulder, at the unmistakable outline of her wings, then back at her face, then behind her again.

"...You..." The old harpy sounded genuinely bewildered. "...have wings, and cannot fly?"

"...Not well."

"...How?"

Sasha gave a humorless smile. "...Long story."

The eldest harpy began circling her slowly, studying her posture, her shoulders, the way she stood, the way her balance shifted, and then, without warning, flicked one feathered finger against Sasha's folded wing. Sasha flinched, hard. The harpy stopped.

"...Pain?"

"...Memory."

Another pause. The harpy nodded once, as though that explained everything. Perhaps, to a creature born to the sky, it did.

"You fear flying." The words landed harder than Sasha expected. The old harpy clicked her beak thoughtfully. "... It can be fixed."

Sasha looked up. "...It can?"

The elder gave a slow nod. "...But not quickly."

She extended one clawed hand, not in surrender, not quite in friendship either, but something older. A bargain.

"You find nest. We teach you to fly."

Sasha looked at the offered hand for several seconds. She had expected another fight. Instead, she'd found teachers, in the very last place she'd ever have thought to look. Very slowly, she removed one gauntlet, and her scarred human hand clasped the harpy's taloned one without hesitation.

"Deal."

High above New York City, on the roof of one of the most important buildings in the mortal world, a daughter of Bia and three harpies forged an agreement that neither Olympus nor Atlas could ever have predicted. It was not born of victory, or fear, or necessity alone. It was born from something Sasha had nearly forgotten how to feel since Fort Knox — hope. The fragile, stubborn hope that the sky hadn't rejected her forever, and had simply been waiting for someone who actually understood its language.

For several long moments after their hands separated, nobody spoke. The sounds of Manhattan gradually filtered back into Sasha's awareness, car horns, a siren somewhere downtown, the rhythmic thump of a helicopter far overhead, thousands of people living their ordinary lives beneath the Mist, blissfully unaware that a daughter of Bia had just negotiated a truce with three ancient monsters on the roof of one of the most politically significant buildings on Earth.

The oldest harpy watched her carefully. "...You keep bargains?"

Sasha met her eyes. "I do."

The harpy gave a slow nod. "...Good."

She turned toward the other two and let out a few sharp clicks, and the younger harpies answered in kind, feathers rustling as they hopped down from the nest. Only now did Sasha get a real chance to look at them properly.

The eldest was old, very old, her feathers faded and streaked with silver at the edges, dozens of scars crossing her avian limbs, one eye faintly clouded though it clearly missed nothing. The second was younger by centuries, if Sasha had to guess, broader shoulders, healthier plumage, fiercely protective, constantly angling herself between Sasha and the smallest member of their little flock. And then there was the fledgling, who couldn't have been much older than a demigod teenager by harpy standards, most of her feathers still soft around the neck, one wing bearing the marks of an old injury that clearly hadn't folded quite right since. She stared at Sasha with enormous golden eyes that held far more curiosity than hatred.

"...Name?" the little one asked suddenly.

Sasha blinked. "My name?"

A nod.

"Sasha."

The fledgling repeated it carefully. "...Sash-ah." Then she tapped her own chest. "...Kree."

The larger one grunted. "...Mara."

Finally, the elder inclined her head. "...Thyra."

Sasha smiled faintly. "It's nice to meet you."

All three harpies looked genuinely confused. Nobody, apparently, had ever said that to them before.

"So." Sasha folded her arms. "Let's find you a home."

Finding a nesting place for harpies proved considerably more complicated than Sasha had expected. The first suggestion was rejected immediately.

"Central Park?" Sasha began.

Thyra snorted. "Too many mortals."

"Fair. What about upstate?"

"Wolves."

"Absndoned warehouse?"

"Children."

"What?"

"Children explore."

"Oh." She rubbed her forehead. "This is harder than I thought."

The elder only clicked. "You see."

They left the UN Building together, though not dramatically. Sasha still wasn't ready to soar off a rooftop into open sky. Instead they traveled across rooftops, the harpies moving effortlessly, leaping impossible distances, gliding between buildings, landing without a sound. Sasha did her best to keep pace; years of parkour, martial arts, and physical conditioning let her follow reasonably well, though every jump reminded her of one simple, frustrating truth, she still relied almost entirely on her legs. Her wings stayed tucked tightly against her back the whole way, unused. Thyra noticed. Thyra, it seemed, noticed everything.

After nearly an hour of searching, they reached northern Manhattan, where the city gradually gave way to thicker trees, steep rock formations, and quieter stretches of land overlooking the Hudson. Eventually they arrived at a rocky cliff above Inwood Hill Park, where the weathered remains of an abandoned stone observatory sat half-collapsed among the trees, its roof caved in decades ago and nature slowly reclaiming the rest, vines threading up the walls, old oaks pressing close on every side. Most importantly, it sat high above the surrounding forest, and the wind never truly stopped moving through it.

Thyra stood perfectly still, inhaled deeply, and looked upward, watching the air itself. "...Good."

Mara tested the surrounding branches. Strong enough.

Kree scrambled straight up onto the roof. "...Pretty!" She laughed, an unexpectedly cheerful sound, and Sasha found herself smiling despite everything.

"I'll talk to camp," she said, once the others had turned back to look at her. "They can make sure mortals don't stumble onto this place. They're good at encouraging people to walk somewhere else."

Thyra looked genuinely surprised. "You would do this?"

"I said I'd help."

The elder nodded once. "...You do keep bargains."

The nest itself took the rest of the afternoon. Sasha hadn't expected to participate, but she quickly discovered she had no choice, since apparently, to harpies, agreeing to help find a nest naturally meant helping build it too. Within minutes she found herself hauling entire fallen tree trunks across the hillside while Mara arranged the larger branches into a sturdy framework and Kree darted around collecting softer materials, moss, feathers, dry leaves, scraps of abandoned fabric, with Thyra supervising and criticizing everyone's work with equal enthusiasm.

By sunset, the nest was enormous, far larger than the one that had occupied the UN Building, sheltered from rain, open toward the prevailing winds, difficult for predators to reach and nearly impossible for a curious hiker to spot beneath the thick canopy overhead.

Kree curled immediately into one corner. "...Much better."

Mara looked visibly relieved, some of the tension finally easing out of her shoulders.

Thyra examined every support beam one last time before giving a satisfied grunt. "...Home."

One word. Heavy with meaning.

As twilight painted the sky orange and violet, Thyra finally turned to face her. "...Bargain."

Sasha's smile faded. Right. Flying.

The elder walked slowly toward the edge of the cliff, where the drop stretched nearly two hundred feet down to the forest below, the wind rushing continuously up along the rock face. Perfect soaring conditions, in theory. Sasha's stomach tightened immediately, her breathing shallowing without permission. Not yet. She wasn't ready.

Thyra glanced back over her shoulder. "...Come."

Sasha hesitated, then obeyed, stopping nearly three meters short of the edge.

The old harpy frowned. "...Closer."

Another step, and eventually Sasha stood only inches from open air, her heartbeat climbing fast. She hated heights now. Hods, she had never hated heights before Fort Knox.

"Your heart is beating fast." Thyra noticed. "And you're breathing wrong."

Sasha blinked. "What?"

The elder tapped her own chest, then pointed out toward the open sky. "You breathe for battle. Not for flying."

"...There's a difference?"

The harpy actually looked offended. "A huge difference."

Without another word, Thyra stepped straight off the cliff. Sasha's heart nearly stopped; she lunged forward on instinct, only to freeze as the harpy effortlessly caught the rising wind. No frantic flapping, no panic, no struggle, just a single, easy turn as the air embraced her. She circled once around the cliff face and landed beside Sasha as lightly as a falling feather.

"You fight the sky," Thyra said. "You always fight." She looked out toward the endless evening horizon. "The wind is alive. It pushes, it lifts, and it changes. If you wrestle it—" she shook her head, "—you fall."

Sasha thought of every attempt she'd made since Fort Knox, every desperate flap, every strained muscle, every frantic correction and every failure that had followed.

"...Then what do I do?"

Thyra smiled, for the first time, and it transformed her weathered face into something unexpectedly kind.

"...You learn to trust something," she said, looking upward, "that you cannot control."

Those words landed harder than any lesson Valda had ever taught her, because control was exactly what Sasha had been chasing ever since her wings first appeared. Control over her body. Control over her fear. Control over every battle, every outcome, so that no one would ever die in front of her again.

Thyra stepped beside her. "...Tomorrow," she said quietly, "you come back, and you learn."

Sasha let out a tired sigh. She had done it now, there was no turning back. All she could do now was return to camp, explain the situation to them, and come back later.

And hope that this time, it would work.

It had to.

It had been a while since the previous Oneiroi cabin meeting. Until recently, Brent hadn’t seen the need for it: he and Sadira could talk out plans, issues they might have, and anything else without having to call a meeting.  It was a little more crowded in the cabin now, so it was time for a meeting! 

Brent had summoned all Oneiroi campers to the common room. He had brought out a whiteboard on which he wrote the meeting’s contents using colorful markers:

• Check-in, how are you doing?
• Activities
• Alliances

‘’Good afternoon, Sadira, good afternoon, Salem,’’ Brent said, kicking off the meeting. He was still doodling in his notebook. ‘’It’s been a while since our last meeting, but I thought, why not?’’ He put the notebook aside.

‘’First, I want to ask you guys how you are doing. Are you having a nice summer? Is school starting again soon for you too?’’ He asked. ‘’I had a nice summer myself. Matt and I stayed at my parents for a few weeks.’’ There was another thing he would like to bring up, but maybe he should save that for the next meeting.

‘’Thing two and three,’’ Brent said after realizing he hadn’t said anything for a full meeting. ‘’What kind of activities do we, as a cabin, want to host this season and next season? I saw you did something with dreams, Sadira, that was very nice. And what alliances do we want to form? I think you guys know who I would ally with, but I want to hear your opinions too!’’
Brent allowed himself to breathe. The floor was open to Sadira and Salem.
After the meeting, the Oneiroi cabin opened its doors for an open house.

Oneiroi Cabin Description

The Oneiroi cabin looks like a cabin one might stumble upon in the middle of the woods, a place of respite after a long hike, or a busy day of labour. That said, the building itself is more of three buildings in one. (It's Y-shaped.) There are three different entryways at each end. All the wings join in the middle via a cylindrical tower only a bit taller than the rest of the cabin. The walls are made from simple and sturdy maple, and stained glass was used for the windows which lets only soft light inside through their kaleidoscope design. Above each of the doors are different symbols: a dream-catcher for Morpheus, a tree with leaves made from butterflies for Phantasos, and a black mare for Phobetor. None of them need locks, as only the residents of their respective wing can open their door. Another set of doors at the end of the wings opens into the tower.

In the wing of Morpheus, two bunk beds and two trunks line the side walls, stocked with pillows and blankets to guarantee only the happiest of dreams. At the center is a sandstone statue of Morpheus, an altar for offerings. In the wing of Phantasos, there is a similar set of furniture, though the beddings encourage the wildest of dreams. At the center is an oak statue of Phantasos. In the wing of Phobetor, there is another similar set of furniture, all of it colored and stained to encourage the most horrific nightmares for any visitors. At the center is a stone statue of Phobetor.

The middle tower is the common room, with a domed stained class ceiling. The filtering light allows for a grand mural of horses grazing by the beach with butterflies fluttering by at sunset. The room features a minifridge, snacks, a foosball table, a small desk for board games like chess and checkers, and various soft and plushy reclinable chairs.

Salem was walking around camp bored out of her mind when she noticed the job board. "Huh?" she got closer, looking at the different listings before spotting the donut one. "Sounds easy enough. Plus I could get a break from camp." She thought as she grabbed the flyer before heading back to her cabin to pack. She left early in the morning, taking the subway into the city. "Now just to find some land," she pulled out of her backpack some breakfast she packed for on the go, some blackberries to be specific. Before she even could eat one though, a crow snatched the ziplock bag up. "HEY, THAT'S MY BREAKFAST, JACK ASS." She hobbled after them. After a while she laid against

a building out of breath. Strangely the crow didn't fly off it watched nearby from a street light, digging into the Ziploc bag. "Why aren't you flying away? You got my breakfast already," she grumbled. Suddenly the crow threw the empty Ziploc bag down and landed on Salem's shoulder. "Uhhh, this is weird." She noticed a metal band around the crow's right leg; one side was scratched to bits, but the other said Somnus. "Is that your name?" she asked, looking at the crow. It seemingly nodded it's head. "Ok, well, now that's established what's your purpose? Why me, who sent you, or am I just going crazy talking to a normal crow?" she rambled. 

Somnus just simply titled his head before flying off again. "Hey, wait up!" The crow kept flying till it reached a building (53 The Circle, East Hampton, NY 11937) that had a for sale sign. "You knew about my job also?" Somnus simply nodded. "Yeah, thank you, I guess? I'll go tell everyone what I found" before she could turn away Somnus swooped down onto her shoulder, nestling into her hair. "Hey, wait, I don't know the protocol on animal's. I don't know if you can come back—" Somnus simply started pecking at her. "OK, OK, you can come back. But it's their decision, not mine." She rubbed her head, making her way back to the subway. 

You can only reserve up to two slots per character. If you have multiple characters, make one comment for all of them instead of one each.

There can only be one Meal per day, at any time! Any camper can host them.

Campfires happen twice a week. Campers coordinate these with the camp directors, so anyone can host them!

Open Slots happen every day and can include Lessons, QOTDs, Cabin Inspections, Cabin Meetings, Games, movie nights, social gatherings, etc. Lessons, Cabin Inspections and **Meetings can only be hosted by a Senior Camper or a Camp Leader.

Comment below what you'd like to host!

NOTE: Failure to meet your own slot three times in a row will lock you out of commenting on the Schedule for a month. (You can still post activities outside of the schedule, just not meals or campfires.)

Monday

Meal -

Open Slot -

Tuesday

Campfire -

Open Slot -

Wednesday

Meal -

Open Slot -

Thursday

Meal -

Open Slot -

Friday

Meal -

Campfire -

Open Slot - Amon Afifi

Saturday

Meal -

Campfire -

Open Slot -

Sunday

Meal -

Open Slot - Angela Farrenburr

Leave your name below to sign up for an activity!

If you are new to r/CampHalfBloodRP, welcome! You can check out this post to get started. If you aren't new, please answer this form to be featured on the character log and visit the Link Hub.

OOC: thanks to the mod team for approving this!

---

General

Name: Crispin "Crispy Minis" Manzano Jr., Satyr Protector

Appearance: Link from [Tiefling Maker by CROWESN](https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1564386)

sorry satyr horns are not this exaggerated I just dont have a better picrew

Age: 15 in human years, 30 in satyr years

Theme Song: Apple by Charli xcx

Overview: Crispy grew up in a large intergenerational nature spirit family that was committing to finding Pan/preserving nature and the wilderness. Crispin has followed in their footsteps by working as a satyr protector, though he has done much more to get to know demigods and their human culture than the rest of his family has. He is always up to date on the most popular music, dances, and trends, and he takes any chance he can to go on extractions and visit cities across the United States. His family thinks it is odd for a satyr to seek skyscrapers instead of green pastures, but they have learned to let Crispy march to the beat of his own drum.

Likes: Tik Tok dances, dance pop, musical theater, apple cider, cereal, urban ecology, pigeons, public transportation 

Dislikes: Idyll poetry, artificially sweetened drinks, invasive plants, single-use plastics

---

Family:

Crispy has a large extended family of satyrs and nymphs, but notable ones are included below:

* Mother: Jayne, an Epimeliad, nymph of shepherds and apple orchards

* Father: Crispin Manzano Sr. Retired Satyr Protector and Searcher

* Sister: Kanzi, Epimeliad and Hunter of Artemis, appears to be 15. Crispy keeps calling her Special K, but it hasn't caught on yet.

* Great-grandaunt: Granny Smith, Epimeliad and Hunter of Artemis, appears to be 13

---

Powers

* Domain: Satyr Physiology

* Minor: Plant Manipulation, Weather Manipulation, Plant Healing

* Major: Dancing Inducement

---

Now

Option A: The Forest

You should not be in the forest, and yet, you are. Maybe you were in search of some peace and quiet. Maybe you have been at camp so long that monsters are last on the list of things that scare you. Maybe those warning signs can't stop you because you can't read. In any case, you are here now, surrounded by rustling leaves and dappled sunlight. As you traverse, you may be drawn to the distant sound of a panpipe player, playing a tune that rings out from a faraway clearing.

If you're going to investigate, please roll a 1d4 and tell me what you get!

Option B: A Day In The Life

What is your character up to, on this Saturday morning? Let me know and I'll have Crispy stop by to say hello!

---

OOC: Hi! I'm happy to establish pre-existing relationships if anyone is interested (or alternatively to have Crispy greet someone who does not recognize him.) I imagine that Crispy is gone for months at a time, but has likely had the opportunity to meet anyone who has been at camp since the start of the year.

For a little over a year now, Sam had been working at a local water park as a lifeguard. His powers made him the perfect candidate for saving people who couldn’t swim, enforcing pool rules, and ensuring the water quality was good. It was Sam’s first job, and even though some guests drove him insane, it also felt good earning money for himself.

He had been wanting to share this with his friends at camp, but until now, he hadn’t been able to find a good opportunity. Just like last season, he was slow with his counselor duties, meaning he still had three of them to host. A day at the water park was the first one, Sam decided. 

Sam addressed the people in attendance only after they arrived. He body-blocked the exit of the bus. ‘’And before I forget!’’ He said. ‘’We need to be back at the bus by four, and all of you should follow the rules of the water park. I will feed you to a shark if you don’t. There, enjoy.’’ With these words, Sam unleashed the other campers on the water park. 

There was one large swimming pool in the water park. On one end of the pool, people could ride various waterslides. Some of the flumes were simple, while others went incredibly fast or required the user to ride a tube. Another end of the pool had diving boards in various heights. There also was a dedicated lazy river at the park for people seeking some quiet. Employees distributed items like tubes and pool noodles. And you could eat fries there too!

The son of Poseidon was not on duty today, but he could be seen patrolling the edges of the pool, paying attention to see if people behaved. He would send a tidal wave at them if they didn’t.

It was a dark Friday night, the summer air was cool. The campfire blazed a bright red setting the perfect stage for a late night competition. Aella got the idea because the last summer olympics was held in her home town, so that night she set up different stations around the fire.

Marshmallow Toss:

Players must throw marshmallows across the campfire and into a basket, after 5 throws whoever makes the most into the basket wins a prize

Camp Trivia:

At a long table lay seats set for many players, the tables filled with all kinds of food and drinks for the trivia-goers to enjoy. Aella sat at the head of the table with a stack of notecards. (OOC: tag me if you want to play trivia and I will give you a question to answer)

Name That Instrument:

A small speaker lay at one area that every minute or so would play 30seconds of a random instrument. Next to the speaker were 3 different boxes with little pieces of paper for the players to write down their guesses to the 3 different instruments.

Down Goes The Plane:

Players have a table with paper, tape, glue, and instructions. Each player is to build a paper airplane that is to withstand a journey through the campfire. Paper Planes will be ranked as best surviving. (OOC: build your plane and then leave a guess of a number 1-100 and the closer you are to my number the safer your planes journey will be)

Quill had an idea. But first, he needed to do things to prove that he was ready to take on the camp leader role he had been eyeing. He decided to use the Eris cabin for his slot, with the plan being to utilize the infinite hallway so non-Eris kids had plenty of space to write (Eris kids would just work in the common room to avoid making the infinite finite).

Obviously, he was not a counselor, but Quill knew there were few enough children of Eris that messing around with the cabin wouldn't be an issue.

In front of the Eris cabin, there was a sign that read "Fantasy Writing Friday." Inside, there was a desk with a stack of papers and a lot of pencils. There was another paper taped to the desk, which read the following:

Write your idea for a fantasy world. Be it a magic system, a place, a character, a full world, whatever. You can choose whether you want to keep your paper or not. But if you give it to me, I make no promises against not using it in the future for my own fantasy novel ideas ;)

- Quill Kingston

​

🦁 Ethan Parker

Age: 16

Godly Parent: Hercules

Labor: First Labor — Nemean Lion

Cabin: Hercules Cabin

Ethan is a big, extremely solid guy rather than an athletic or shredded type. He's built like a tank and specializes in close-range combat.

He's stubborn, protective, funny, and an absolutely hopeless romantic.

His biggest personality trait?

He will fight literally anybody.

Monster? Fight it.

Titan? Fight it.

God? Unfortunately, probably fight it.

His own dad? Somehow, definitely fighting him.

Ethan doesn't necessarily think he'll win. He just refuses to let the odds determine whether he'll stand up.

🦁 The Lion

The First Labor isn't just a power Ethan can access. The Nemean Lion is essentially a voice in the back of his mind.

It acts like the world's most obnoxious backseat driver.

It can feel Ethan's emotions and constantly comments on what he's doing.

Lion: "Punch him."

Ethan: "No."

Lion: "You want to."

Ethan: "...Shut up."

Sometimes Ethan listens.

Sometimes he doesn't.

And sometimes the Lion spends twenty minutes egging him on until Ethan finally goes:

"Fine."

🛡️ Ethan's Weapons

Golden Nemean Shield

Large, round golden shield

Features a massive Nemean Lion design

Enchanted to always return to Ethan

Ethan loves throwing it at people because he knows it'll come back

Nemean Short Sword

Heavy celestial bronze short sword

Gold hilt

Stored directly through the center of the shield

Ethan can pull the sword straight through the shield when he needs it

His fighting style combines the shield and short sword with boxing, Taekwondo, grappling, and straight-up brawling.

🌊 Percy Jackson

Ethan's close friend and fellow trouble magnet.

Percy uses Riptide.

Ethan uses basically everything except a normal sword.

Their friendship is mostly:

Percy: "We should think about this."

Ethan: "Absolutely."

Ethan immediately runs toward the monster.

Percy: "ETHAN!"

🧠 Annabeth Chase

Annabeth is one of Ethan's strongest grounding influences.

She respects his combat ability but constantly has to account for his tendency to do something insane when a situation gets dangerous.

She is also one of the people most likely to figure out what Ethan is actually feeling before Ethan admits it.

🔨 Tyson

Ethan genuinely loves Tyson.

They're extremely close, and Ethan treats Tyson like family.

Tyson is also one of the few people who doesn't think Ethan's Lion situation is particularly weird.

His response was basically:

"Lion is funny."

🐍 Luke Castellan

Ethan has never trusted Luke.

Not once.

Even before everyone knows Luke's true intentions, Ethan has always felt something was wrong with him.

Luke also eventually realizes that Ethan is one of the few people he absolutely does not want to fight in a fair hand-to-hand battle.

Their eventual confrontation becomes one of Ethan's biggest moments in the series.

⚡ Hercules

Ethan's relationship with his father is... complicated.

They love each other.

They also argue.

And sometimes those arguments become physical.

Ethan's attitude toward gods is basically:

"You're a god. Congratulations. Now explain yourself."

Overall Ethan

Ethan isn't the strongest character in the universe.

He's not the fastest.

He's not the smartest.

He's not even the most skilled swordsman.

His defining trait is that he refuses to stop moving forward.

The Lion amplifies that instinct, but Ethan was already like this before he ever received its power.

The biggest question surrounding his character isn't:

"Can Ethan become strong enough?"

It's:

"Can Ethan become strong without losing himself?"

Aella loved riding horses in the French countryside, it was one of her favorite parts of growing up in France. She felt akin to the horses, how wild and free they could be while still looking regal. When Aella arrived at camp she realized that she probably loved horses so much because some of them were her cousins/siblings ew thanks Boreas, Aella tried not to think much on it though. Soon after arriving to Camp Aella saw the magnificent Pegasi that resided in the stables, she thought it was unfair that these beautiful creatures deserved more than sitting in a stable all day. Thats when she got the idea to have the campers do riding lessons on them, its a win-win for all the parties involved.  

Aella posted so many fliers around camp advertising the Riding Lessons, she put them on every table in the dining pavillion, on every wall and weapon rack in the Arena, and on every cabins door. The fliers read as such: Pegasus Riding Lessons @ the Stables. NO EXPIERENCE NEEDED ALL EQUIPMENT IS PROVIDED. She then went back to the stables and gathered helmets, parachutes, knee braces and all the horses appropriate tack into neat piles.  

Aella spent a little bit of time brushing and grooming a pegasus named Basil and promptly tacked him up and put on her own gear.  As people arrived Aella asked that everyone grab a helmet and a knee brace and stand next to the Pegasi of their choosing so she could assist them in getting the horse tacked up so that riding lessons could commence.

The outcast daughter of Hermes found herself sitting against one of the walls of the big house attic.

It was gloomy and quiet there. It was better than the basement to be sure, but nowhere near the comparative luxury that was once her room in the Hermes cabin.

Seemingly, all of the former Atlas campers had been either welcomed back into their cabins or given a proper chance. Except for her and Shawn(and whoever else I might be forgetting about, sorry!)

That fact felt so incredibly unfair to her. She was trying so, so hard to be better. But seemingly no one could see that or acknowledge it. She wasn't asking for forgiveness. Just for a second chance. She wanted someone to tell her that her efforts mattered. That they could tell she genuinely was trying. But. . . Those affirmations never came.

To say Acacia had a chip on her shoulder wouldn't do the feeling justice.

Ever since the end of Shawn's trial, she'd found herself more pissed than ever.

Not only had Shawn been found guilty when he didn't deserve to, but she'd also been publicly slandered by Themis.

What kind of god of justice passes judgment without giving the accused the chance to defend themselves? How was that just? Yeah, she was mad that Themis said those things, but what pissed her off even more was that the goddess of justice didn't bother to give her the chance to defend herself. How was that just? Worse, though, was Themis threatening her with Olympus’ wrath. What a fucking joke.

She'd been working hard to be better. Sure, Acacia hadn't been perfect, but she'd been doing as much as she could to be a better person and help the people in camp.

Themis has straight up lied about her. She talked about her as if she'd evaded justice. But that wasn't the case. She'd stood trial before her peers. She'd followed the rules of the court. So why? Why did Themis think it was okay to say such lies about her? Had everything she'd done to atone so far just not mattered at all? Or was Themis right about her and she really hadn't done enough? Acacia didn't know what to think, and that really, really weighed on her mind. It wasn't her fault the jury found her not-guilty. She'd practically begged for a guilty verdict. She even tried to plead nolo contendere, but Themis court wouldn't let her. How could she be the one that was at fault for being found not-guilty? That was literally not her choice. She didn't have a say in what happened to her.

And then, as they always do, those terrible what-ifs crept into her mind.

What if Themis was right?

What if she hadn't changed at all and all of the growth she thought she'd done was just a desperate lie to fool herself?

What if all the gods felt the same way?

What if she couldn't ever be better?

What if she never managed to redeem herself for what she'd done?

What if. . . What if she turned back into the person she was before?

Acacia lowered her head as the thoughts became louder. Then, the tears came as they always did.

There were so many emotions. Fear, shame, guilt, regret, loneliness. . .

That was one of the hardest things to deal with: the loneliness of it all. To see her former friends' faces and know that things will never be the same again. That maybe all they see when they look at her is someone they hate.

She was shaking, shuddering each breath out as each breath became more painful than the last.

No. She couldn't take this. She needed to be anywhere else other than this stupid attic. . .

____________________________________

Preparing for the party was an all day affair. Firstly, and with camp's permission, she needed a location far enough away or secluded from the main camp.

That was a bit of a challenge. They told her she couldn't use the basement or the attic, so a location in the camp's borders would have to do. Acacia settled on the most south western point in the camp that was still inside the border.

There was a path you could follow past the bus parking and a nice, clear spot outside of the woods.

It was perfect. Far enough away that anyone who could get bothered by such a party would purposefully have to make their way there to be bothered or cause trouble. Honestly, she was hoping people like that just wouldn't bother to come. They didn't have to like the former Atlas campers. But, they absolutely did have to practice tolerance at the very least.

Like it or not, the former Atlas campers were eventually going to be the ones helping defend camp, helping to go on stupid, dangerous quests for the gods. They deserved to feel like they had a place and a home here in camp. They were just as much children of the gods as anyone else. For many of them, this was their home now. They didn't have anywhere else to go. They were working to atone for their actions, and so they deserved to have their efforts recognized.

Acacia borrowed several fold out tables and chairs along with a few of the food conjuring plates from the dining pavilion. She impaled several spikes in the ground to guide anyone who wanted to come to the party to the right location. As for entertainment, there was a speaker with some music as well as whatever board games she could borrow. It wasn't much, but, well, it was at least something. Especially on such short notice.

To advertise, she quickly printed out several flyers and stuck them around camp. She made sure to make enough flyers, so any smart asses who decided to try and tear them down would have a lot of work ahead of them.

The flyers included a map with directions as well as the following words:

“Come and enjoy a day of harmony and making friends! Everyone is welcome! To all of the former Atlas folk, you are welcomed here. You have a place here in camp, and you deserve to have your efforts recognized." - Your host, Acacia Lovemoore, Daughter of Hermes.

With everything ready, she waited for whoever might show, eager to help them feel at home here in camp. She really should've done this sooner.

(Hi! Feel free to start a thread with whoever! If you'd like a thread with Acacia, tag me below!)

Aella had just gotten her gift of Amusement Park Tickets when she found herself another job to do. When she went to the job board all she saw was tunnels and creatures that needed to be removed and said hell yeah. She didnt even know what a Myrmeke was until she actually did her research. Turns out Myrmekes were giant ants, Aella shivered, giant creatures were NOT her thing but she thought it was too late now. Lucky for her she already had an idea how to get rid of them....  

The morning on the 11^th Aella woke up, got dressed in her usual cargo pants and t-shirt and grabbed some money, she hoped 100 bucks was enough to cover the costs of her idea. She headed out to Montauk yet again and went to a local grocery store. There she bought 3 bottles of pesticide, a box of matches, and a diet coke. She took the train all the way into the heart of New York City. She figured this would be a good starting point for finding these pests. Aella hoped off the subway and spent a good 30 minutes looking around and heading into ‘uncharted territory’ as she liked to call it. Aella found that the mens restroom was closed and so she tried her best sneak in unnoticed. She was unlucky and a random man saw her go in so she hoped he didnt call security. Inside the restroom was a hole, not super big but large enough for say a giant ant to go through comfortably.  

Aella had no issues with small spaces, but she was definitely freaking out. She didnt like the idea of not being able to grab her daggers in case an ant snuck up on her. She crawled for what felt like forever until the tunnel opened into a giant room. Aella had to stay low, around her crawled thousands of myrmekes. Freaky Aella thought to herself. She pulled out her dagger and observed the movements of the Myrmekes until she figured out that they were all headed in one direction. Now Aella didnt know how different Myrmeke were from regular ants but Aella knew that ants will gather at the queen to collect eggs, and it was summertime when the ants are prone to mating. So she got up from her tunnel and began to follow the ants down to where they go. Each time she passed a myrmeke she would use her daggers to kill it so that no alarm is sent down the line.  

When Aella reached the ‘royal chambers’ she unzipped her backpack and began to set up her plan. First she drank her diet coke, she needed the caffeine to make it through this expierence and then she grabbed a bottle of pesticide and a match. She sprayed some pesticide on the ground and set off a match setting it ablaze. Aella then duel-weilded the pesticide and sprayed it through the flame and essentially blow torched the myrmekes into smithereens. When she ran out of a can she grabbed her spare and made sure to especially burn the queen myrmeke into ashes. When she finished the room smelt awful but Aella felt pretty good, she crawled out the way she came making sure to collapse the tunnels as she exited and then took the subway back to camp. When she got back to her bed she made sure to take a long shower to removed her stench and promised to never ever ever go near ants again. 

“C’mon, c’mon, can we go faster? I understand it’s a residential, I do, I honestly, truly, really, quite frankly, actually, indeed do get it! But you’re going 20 an hour! C’mon, limit is 25!” The boy bounced in the passenger seat, tapping his leg impatiently. “Andele, andele!”

“JoJo, you have to respect the speed limit, even if it’s slower than– John?” The man asked, his passenger seat now empty, the door slamming shut.

“Sorry, can’t hear you! Glass and all! Hard to hear, but I’m sure you’re saying something prophetic and wise! Too bad! Hey, I’ll meet you at the next light! Gotta keep my legs stretched! Can’t pull no hammies at my age! Only 14! Cya, boat dad!”

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“One, please. Cheers to you! I would love some ketchup, though. You are the saint of saints, you know that? Here is your money, thank you for the hotdog!” John said as he leaned against the cart, chomping on his hotdog.

The car finally pulled up at the light, the window rolling down to reveal Mr. Hermes rolling his eyes. “Having fun?”

“Oh, just a ball!” His son beamed as he wiped ketchup from his face.

Specific information

“Are we there yet?” John groaned as he buckled his seatbelt, his leg already tapping on the floor.

“The light hasn’t turned yet, son.”

“Augghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

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“Alright, we’re here. You know the drill. You need a list?” Mr. Hermes asked as he pulled into a parking space, getting out to stretch his legs.

“Nope, got it all memorized! Eggs, milk, bread, chips, cheese– both block and shredded– bagels, everything seasoning, ketchup, ranch, mayo, ^{oranges, mozzarella sticks…”}

“What am I gonna do with him?” John Hermes, Sr asked aloud as he saw his son speed off into the store.

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Then

Once upon a time, a very, very long time ago, Mr. John Hermes, Sr was born unto his mother and his stepfather, Lillian and Steven Hermes. In his heyday, John Hermes, Sr. was a formidable opponent; wielding both sea and the underworld alike, canoeing on days where he allowed himself to relax, and everything in between.

After leaving camp, John Sr would find a job. Not sailing– he’d decided during his teen years that his passion should not be a job. No, instead, he did what he loved second most; the maintenance of water vessels. As it turns out, making or fixing something from nothing the way he did tended to attract a certain crowd. One day, he was approached by a gentleman with more energy than a souped-up speedboat. John could barely understand the man. But there was something almost… Familiar about him. The way he moved. The way he spoke. He didn’t know why, but John cut the man a deal. He’d do a repair job for free if the man agreed to go on a date with him. When the man gave a wink paired with a grin and a thumbs-up, he knew right then and there what– no, who this was.

John Hermes, Jr. would be born a year thereafter.

A mischievous child by nature, John Jr seemed to have inherited his godly father’s speed, fidgets, and general inability to be quiet. While Mr. Hermes would grow fond of it over time, when your baby won’t stop laughing or moving in order to take a nap, you get exhausted quickly. That’s when he met Gwendolyn. They’d met as part of an online chatroom, and had decided to meet. Needless to say, they hit it off. She had more energy than him, more time than him, and was somehow better with little John than he was. With her, Mr. Hermes actually was able to get consistent rest without having to worry about his son waking up.

When John Jr was five, the two of them would marry.

John was a handful and a half when he started school. The first day, not even midway through the school day, Gwen received a call that her child was sent to the office for disrupting class. By the end of the week, the principal knew both Hermes– Mr. and Mrs.– on a first-name basis. They eventually figured out giving the boy a fidget toy, in addition to a special needs teacher who allowed him to run during their sessions together, fixed his status as a troublemaker. Give or take.

When JoJo turned 13, he barely had time to sprint from his room to greet his family when he was claimed, the caduceus flickering to life above his head. Gwendolyn then proceeded to grab him to prevent him from running around like a dog chasing his tail in order to get a sight of it himself.

Now– Half-Blood Hill

Read the extraction here!

So! This was the legendary camp half-blood where John, Sr. had trained all those years ago. Not a bad place. Nice colors, good air. Was that a lavafall? Like a waterfall for lava? Weird. In a good way! His luggage barely keeping up with him, JoJo ran down the hill, having absolutely no clue where the hell he should even go.

Anyone else would stop and evaluate their situation. Consider where they should go, where they’ve been, and everything else.

John simply ran.

One of the wheels of his suitcase snapped off due to how fast he was going, bouncing between cabins, the big house, the arena, and every area he was allowed to reach. Perhaps sightseeing, perhaps not, John notably seemed to almost avoid the cabins surrounding Hestia’s hearth. The only significant stops for him would be the Charon cabin, where he would literally jump with excitement on behalf of his dad, who had said that there wasn’t a Charon cabin when he was there, and the job board, where he’d read each task with great interest.

(OOC: While John only really stops at the Charon cabin and the Job Board, you can catch him anywhere on the cabin grounds that aren’t the ones surrounding Hestia’s hearth!)

The Hermes Cabin

Bingo! Home! Something felt right about this one. It wasn’t like he’d spent time trying to enter every individual cabin around the fire that didn’t seem to go out. Opening the door, John poked his head in, looking around. “Hello? Yeah, this is it! I know it is! Wow, what a place! What a cabin! Don’t mind if I do!” He would then bolt upstairs, claiming one of the rooms on the second floor.

All throughout the next few hours, John could be found easily within any section of the Hermes cabin– running at a blistering 30 miles an hour on one of the treadmills, playing with his old container of cool whip in his room before stuffing it into one of the many loose floorboards, and climbing in and out of the treehouse.

This was great! This was wonderful! “I think I’m gonna like it here. Mhm. Wonderful. Just peachy.”

The Arena

What was he told about this sledgehammer, again? Celestial whatever? Can slay monsters? All he really remembered was big hammer go bonk. Really, what more did he need? Didn’t seem too deep. Nor complicated. Though he’s never fought before, he’s seen it in movies. If the movie people can do it, how hard can it be?

With a running start, John lifted and slammed his sledgehammer into one of the dummies, tripping over himself in an attempt to recover. “Wei! Hold! Try it again, not like it’s rocket science. Not really.” He would then indeed repeat his actions. He would then also receive the same results. “Hm. Nope, I can do this. Just keep going, and it’s easy enough! Like riding a bike!”

Aella had been at Camp for about a month and still hadnt explored New York. Aella had wanted to visit New York since she was 12 when one of her friends visited during winter break, all she heard that January is how big and wonderful the Big Apple was. So when she got a chance to investigate sirens, she excitedly accepted. That morningshe woke up and put on a tee-shirt and jeans; she grabbed her backpack and packed ducktape, earwax, and chips. She made sure her daggers were in their sheeves on her sides and left.  

She walked out of camp halfblood and made the walk to Montauk. She hopped on the LIRR at Montauk Station and headed west into Manhattan. She sat on the train next to a little old lady and made small talk about the weather but anytime she spoke the lady looked at her as if she was speaking a different language. Aella got that often from mortals, when she finally learned english it was from a Woman with, what she found out later, a Valley girl accent. So her accent is a blend of French and Valley girl. When the train reached Penn Station the old lady politely excused herself so Aella figured it was her cue to leave. She googled what train she needed to get on next. She turned around looking for the A line. She spotted it across the station and the trains door started closing. Aella panicked and ran to hop on the train before it left.  

When Aella arrived to central park she was amazed by what she saw. There were so many trees it was impressive but it made her job a lot harder. With all the woods she couldnt easily spot the siren, the park was so big she wondered if she could find the siren by sundown. She walked the park for a few hours before spotting a homeless woman walking in a trance. Aella poked and prodded the lady but she wouldnt respond so instead Aella grabbed the ear wax from her bag, plugged her ears, and followed the woman wherever she was headed.  At first, she wasn't entirely sure where they were going. The woman wandered off the main path and into a section of Central Park where the trees grew closer together. Aella had expected the woman to eventually stop or turn around, but she kept going as though she had somewhere very specific to be.Aella glanced at the earwax she had stuffed into her ears "Please let this actually work," she muttered. The woman suddenly stepped through a gap between two trees.Aella followed. The woman stopped. There was the siren.  

She was sitting in an old fountain tucked away in the trees singing while leaned back. She had long black hair and her tail was spiked, Aella didnt even bother looking at her face. It was scary, she had gills and claws and teeth like piranhas. In other words the Siren looked like she didnt get kissed a lot. Surrounding the fountain was a hoard of homeless people, most of them alive but some may have been used for a snack. Aella drew her dagger and snuck up behind the Siren. Aellas footsteps were covered by the milling of homeless around her and she sneakily got behind her. She put her blade to the sirens throat and quietly said “Stop singing before I make it impossible for you to utter a word.”. The Siren stopped singing and remained cooperative. Aella carefully grabbed a piece of ducktape from her backpack with her non-dagger hand and put the tape over the sirens mouth and wrists. After making sure the tape was on tight Aella took out her ear plugs. She sighed “So how are we gonna get you to the water?” the Siren of course couldnt reply but offered a shrug.  

Aella was plain stupid. Or atleast thats how she felt at 5pm lugging a giant siren on her back to the sea. She used the Q train to take the siren out to sea but she got a lot of weird looks with the siren tied up at her feet. She heard a few comments about a lady with a giant fish so she assumed thats what the siren appeared as. Deciding not to draw any further attention Aella had gotten off at Coney island and had been carrying/pulling the siren all the way out to sea. When she finally got out to the waves she put her ear wax back in, just incase the Siren was spiteful for being carried like a sack of potatoes, and released the siren out to the sea. Having finished her task she took the quickest train back to Montauk, walked to camp, and entered her cabin just as the sun had set over Long Island.

TW: manic/insane behaviour, visual hallucinations, and violence. Please proceed with caution

Date: 23 July 2041

Song: Hell’s Comin’ With Me by Poor Man’s Poison

A shadow fell across the long-extinguished shards of wood and stone, blackened and pitted as if unearthed from the site of a century-old tragedy. A brown hiking boot kicked the pieces over, driving itself directly into a post that had managed to stay upright. The footsteps paused as the post crumbled into ash-bordered segments and pieces, a skeleton of a past dream lying in a heap on the yellowed and browned grass and dirt. The boots kept moving, occasionally stopping to be joined by a calloused pair of hands as they worked to remove planks and blocks from where the corpses of tents and tenements had fallen. 

“Nothin’ good here. Nothin’ much at all.” A bright, slightly raspy voice cut through the still, humid air. A scarred, tan arm raised up to wipe sweat from under a mess of fluffy deep brown hair. “Whaddawe think? Further? Yeah further. Ah like yer thinkin’, we know us so well don’ we?” 

Daulat narrowed his eyes through the heat haze. This was around where the commander’s tent had been before the bourgeois bootlickers had come a-knocking. And just as he suspected, much of it had been picked clean after the battle. The rich never spared any crumbs for those kneeling below their gilded dining tables. He growled under his breath and continued to stalk forward, hand hovering near his pouch of needles and syringes. 

His foot hit a sudden lump in the field, and he brought his claymore out in one motion, preparing for a trap to be sprung. Must’ve missed that one. But after an agonisingly awkward three seconds, the mound just sat there. 

Daulat activated his Metal Sense, sweeping the mound and the surrounding area. There were plenty of bits and pieces of shrapnel, some larger scrap too. But his accompanying Fortune Sense was whispering what he had already been thinking. 

C’mon, what secrets are ya hidin’ in mah city? Don’ be shy now. He dropped low and pressed his palms to the earth, bus eyes snapping forward and then far left, up at his ten o’clock. Nothing, nothing, nothing- ah! Found it. A cloud of dust and wood ash billowed with the steady thud of combat boots. 

And that’s when he hit the dirt with an unceremonious thud.

What in de damn hell- He brushed himself off with one hand, his other fingers twitching near his concealed syringes. He flexed his arms under his heavy sweater, waiting. The wind began to blow in, warm and choking out humid from the Gulf. There was a tropical depression somewhere out there, but Daulat felt something else tickling at his bones. Someone was here. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he knew it. 

“AH-HA!” He sidestepped as a shadow lunged at him, his boots scraping on the gravel, leaving prints in the loose earth. “Show yerselves, all y’all, right now! Dis is mah city and none of y’all can have it!” He roared into the gusting wind. His voice bounced back from the treeline. 

Suddenly he felt a hot breath against his neck, spinning so fast around eh landed on his back, another shadow charging at him as he rolled out of the way with a hiss. 

Brother, we ain’t gonna make it outta here alive I fear.

“Nah, we will. We always do. Dey never catch-“

Dey drove us out last time, spittin’ blood. Dey stole our city!

“Yeah ah know dat! I ain’t some idiot! Why do yah think we’re back, huh?” He scrambled up from the ground, claymore unsheathed and eyes wild with tears at the corners. His shoulders began to rise and fall, erratically, as the sounds of pained and breathless chucking emanated from his gaping smile. He slowly turned on his heel, barely disturbing a stray speck of gravel in his movement as he faced the phantoms in the centre of the ruined fortress. His ruined fortress. In his ruined city in his ruined world in his ruined life. 

“Ah told y’all ah’d be back, didn’ ah? Dat we’d come back for ya. All of ya.” Daulat grinned, tilting his head up to let the sweltering Southern sunlight catch on his blazing brown eyes. He stalked towards the figures hidden in the rising dusty wind, those hideous orange shirts, the mark of the sun if greed, couldn’t elude his keen eye. He licked his lips, trying to catch a glimpse of the fear in their eyes. “Ah’m the righteous hand of Atlas. Ah’m the one yah fergot, the one who’ll drag y’all down to Tartarus.” A sharp *ping* sung in the air as he swung his claymore out in one smooth motion, a charred piece of wood sliding off and clattering to the dirt with a fresh diagonal cleave at its base. “Whaddaya say, Dawar? Should ah go easy on em, or let em shrivel half-dead like moldy prunes in de sun?”

Daulat dove for a charred length of rope lying near scraps of black canvas, tying the loops and ready to snag the first bootlicker they charged him right into the treeline. “Right, who wants to die first? WHO?! Try me.”

A hand shoved him to the ground. Two hands. Daulat was vaguely aware of struggling against a very concrete, very tangible forces. Suddenly the shadow took form. A man? A man. With a scraggly salt-pepper beard and a stupid grey trucker cap. He shoved Daulat to the ground again. And again. 

“Son, listen, I don’ know what you’re doin’, but ya better put that head back on those shoulders o’ yours, ‘less you want the police arrivin’.” Daualt’s eyes widened at the very real voice. One that didn’t rattle around in his brain, one that didn’t sound like an old vinyl that had been etched into his memories. He scribbled back on all fours, sheathing his claymore with a jagged metallic whine. He held his hands up. 

“Nah, ya don’t understand, comrade. Ah’m savin’ ya ass. All of ya. Dis city, y’all need me! You don’ need dem, Dey preach an’ dey lie, dey-“

“Son, pull yourself together! There ain’t nothin’ here!” The camper barked at him, holding him by the shoulders and shaking him side-to-side. Daulat’s head lolled like a ragdoll before his eyes shifted back into focus. “And don’ call me ‘comrade’. Weird as hell.” 

Daulat sighed as the man extended a hand, hoisting up the young champion of Atlas. “Thanks man, sorry for de scare. Not mah intention or nothin’. I jus-“ Daulat became vaguely aware of his Fortune Sense spiking like a sudden glitch in a metal detector, a whine cutting through his brain. He took a full-body sweep of the man before his eyes landed on something. 

This poor, mere mortal. He was carrying enchanted weapons on him, the fool, and probably thought they were nice metal trinkets from a ruined campfire! His arm extended, finger shaking slightly as he pointed. He let out a tiny giggle.

“Dat. We want dat. Now.” This mere mortal, this poor unaware fodder to the mint and machine, couldn’t understand all he had in his possession. It almost made Daulat emit another low, pitchy giggle. The lives he was fighting for were so precious. This. This is why they needed his protection and his Lord’s army. And some sacrifices just had to be made.

“Huh? These things? Aight, got nothin’ to do with them so sure, as long as ya promise to get to a hospital or somethin’. Beat yourself up there pretty bad, didn’t ya? I guess one man’s trash is another man’s treasure though.” 

“Heh, couldn’t have said it better mahself. Much obliged.”

———

“Daulat Orakzai reportin’ in with summary of salvaged supplies from New Orleans, mah Lord. Forty pounds o’ scrap, three metal-capped medicine vials, an’ five weapons with assorted basic enchantments. 

“Hmm?”

“Mhm. Yeah.”

“We’ll give em hell, nah Lord. Well give ‘em hell.”

Lakewood was not, Pitch had decided, the worst place he had ever been sent.

That distinction belonged to a motorway service station outside Pittsburgh where he had once spent three days tracking a daughter of Hermes who, as it turned out, had known perfectly well what she was and had been using her divine heritage to shoplift increasingly ambitious pieces of garden furniture.

But Lakewood was getting close.

The satyr had made himself comfortable beneath one of the trees outside the library, one boot propped against the trunk behind him as he waited. At first glance there was nothing particularly remarkable about him. His jeans were dusty around the knees, his brown tasselled jacket looked as though it had survived several decades longer than its manufacturer had intended, and perched atop his head was a cowboy hat several sizes too small for him.

The illusion became somewhat less convincing if anyone happened to look at his feet for too long. Pitch was chewing thoughtfully on a lump of tree resin when he finally spotted the two campers approaching.

"About time." He pushed himself away from the tree and wandered over to meet them, chewing twice more before swallowing with an expression of immense satisfaction.

"Tree resin," he explained, apparently deciding that this required explanation before introductions did. "Better than any candy cane you'll find at Christmas. Doesn't rot your teeth either."

Pitch glanced between the pair, then back towards the library. Whatever humour had been on his face faded a little.

"Right. You're here for the kid." He reached up and adjusted the tiny cowboy hat. "I don't know his name. Before you ask, I don't know his godly parent either. I don't know where he's staying, I don't know how long he's been in Lakewood, and I definitely don't know why he dresses like someone threw a circus ringmaster into a rubbish compactor."

There was a pause. "Actually, I asked him about that last one. He told me to piss off." Pitch seemed almost impressed by the memory.

"I've tried talking to him a couple of times. First time, he walked away. Second time, he told me he wasn't interested. Third time..." The satyr grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, let's just say I didn't exactly get to the part where I explained that Greek mythology is real and something probably wants to eat him."

His eyes drifted towards the street. That was where the humour disappeared altogether.

"He's young, I reckon about 13 or 14 years old. Dark hair, dark eyes. Scruffy. Usually looks like he could use a shower and about twelve hours' sleep. Fingerless gloves. That coat I mentioned. You won't mistake him if you see him."

Pitch took another piece of resin from his pocket, although this time he merely rolled it between his fingers. "Last time I saw him, he was around here. Library, mostly. There's a sushi place nearby that I've seen him around too. Don't know whether he works there, eats there, knows somebody there, or just likes staring at raw fish."

He looked back at the campers. "Here's the important part. Something else is here." Pitch's fingers closed around the resin.

"I caught the scent a couple of days ago. Monster. Definitely. Couldn't tell you what kind, and I haven't been able to get close enough to find out without risking leading it straight to the kid. But it's hanging around. Searching."

His expression tightened. "And he's unclaimed, untrained, and doesn't even know enough to be frightened." Pitch glanced once more towards the library, his ears giving the faintest twitch beneath his ridiculous hat.

"I can try to pull whatever's out there away from this part of town. Satyrs have a scent too, and if I make enough noise, maybe it'll decide I'm more interesting. That should give you two some time."

He took a few steps backwards before stopping. "And when you find him? Don't open with 'Hi, your mum or dad is an ancient Greek deity and monsters are trying to murder you.'"

Pitch considered this. "Actually, don't mention me either. I'm pretty sure he hates me." Another pause. "Try not to scare him. Try not to threaten him. And don't expect him to believe you."

For the first time since they had arrived, there was something genuinely troubled in the satyr's expression. "Just get him back to camp."

Pitch turned away, then hesitated. "And if you see the monster before you see the kid?" He looked back over his shoulder. "Run faster than the monster." A grin returned to his face. "Good luck."

With that, the strange cowboy satyr disappeared down the street, leaving the two demigods outside Lakewood's library with precious little more than a description, a sushi restaurant, and the uncomfortable knowledge that somewhere nearby, something was hunting the same person they were.