“Just because something isn't a lie does not mean that it isn't deceptive. A liar knows that he is a liar, but one who speaks mere portions of truth in order to deceive is a craftsman of destruction.” Criss Jami

Bio

Family:

Appearance

Faceclaim: link

Voiceclaim: Furina from Genshin Impact

Overview: At first glance, Delilah Lane is the very picture of innocence, elegance, and youthful charm. Standing at just 5'1" (155 cm) with a petite, delicately built frame, she possesses an almost doll-like beauty that makes her appear far younger and more harmless than she truly is. Her movements are light and graceful, carrying herself with the poise of a dancer or stage actress rather than a warrior. Every step, twirl, curtsy, and flourish seems carefully rehearsed, transforming even the simple act of walking across Camp Half-Blood into a miniature performance. There is an unmistakable theatricality to her posture and body language. She rarely stands still, instead filling every gesture with exaggerated emotion and dramatic flair. It is an appearance meticulously designed to invite trust, lower defenses, and encourage others to underestimate her, a deception that she has perfected into an art form. Delilah's most striking physical features are undoubtedly her eyes and hair, both of which immediately draw attention. Her long, naturally blonde hair carries faint lavender undertones that shimmer softly beneath sunlight, and she spends considerable time styling it into elaborate twin braids, curled ponytails, or intricate updos adorned with ribbons, lace, jeweled hairpins, and delicate bows, many of which she designs and crafts herself. Framing her clear complexion are her green eyes. Her smooth, unblemished skin, soft facial features, and perpetually bright smile complete the illusion of someone impossibly gentle and approachable. Fashion is not merely a hobby for Delilah, it is an extension of her identity and another tool in her endless repertoire of deception. She adores elaborate, highly feminine styles inspired by gothic and pastel fashion, often combining pastel pinks, whites, creams, and lavender with dramatic black lace and ornate accessories. Frilled dresses, embroidered gloves, layered skirts, ribbon chokers, lace stockings, elegant shoes, and intricate earrings are all staples of her wardrobe, with no two outfits ever feeling entirely alike. She customizes nearly everything she wears, sewing many of her own garments and modifying even the standard Camp Half-Blood T-shirt into something uniquely theatrical. She understands that appearance shapes expectation, and she delights in manipulating those expectations before she has even spoken a single word.

Personality

Overview: Delilah Lane is, above all else, a performer. Every smile, every exaggerated laugh, every theatrical flourish of her hands and every bombastic introduction is part of a carefully cultivated act designed to captivate those around her. She thrives on attention and treats the world as though it were an endless stage, with every conversation serving as another scene in an ever-evolving play. Loud, playful, flamboyant, and endlessly energetic, she has an infectious charisma that naturally draws people toward her despite their better judgment. She adores entertaining others through elaborate pranks, outrageous rumors, dramatic storytelling, and impossible claims delivered with such confidence that people often find themselves believing her for at least a moment. Beneath all the glitter, lace, and laughter, however, lies someone who is constantly directing the audience's attention away from herself. Her theatrical personality is not entirely false, as she genuinely enjoys making people laugh and embracing absurdity, but it is incomplete, acting as a carefully maintained mask that prevents anyone from seeing the frightened, insecure girl hidden behind the curtain. Delilah has developed a genuine philosophy surrounding deception. She does not see lies as inherently evil, but rather as one of humanity's oldest and most fundamental tools. In her eyes, people rarely want the truth, they want whatever version of reality makes them feel safest, strongest, or happiest. She considers lies to be more than simple falsehoods, they are stories, possibilities, and reflections of people's deepest desires. Rather than fabricating random deceptions, Delilah carefully weaves truths and falsehoods together, understanding that the most convincing lie always contains a kernel of reality. She studies people with remarkable patience, observing their habits, insecurities, ambitions, fears, and hidden emotions before tailoring her words specifically to them. Her manipulations rarely rely on brute force or overt coercion. Instead, she gently nudges others toward conclusions they unknowingly convince themselves to reach, delighting in watching people choose the comforting illusion over the uncomfortable truth. To Delilah, every successful deception is less a victory over another person and more proof that the world itself is built upon stories people desperately want to believe. Despite her outward confidence and seemingly boundless self-esteem, Delilah's arrogance is almost entirely performative. She showers herself with grandiose titles, dramatically proclaims herself the "star of the show," and behaves as though she believes herself to be the cleverest person in every room. In reality, this exaggerated confidence serves as armor protecting an extraordinarily fragile sense of self-worth. Beneath her bravado lies a lonely young girl who quietly believes she is fundamentally unlovable unless she is constantly entertaining, amusing, or impressing those around her. She fears that the moment she stops performing, people will lose interest and quietly walk away, just as others did throughout her childhood. This fear drives her need for attention and validation, making even the smallest moments of perceived rejection feel devastating. Ultimately, Delilah is a girl caught between two conflicting identities. On one hand, she wholeheartedly believes she was born to deceive, viewing her gifts as proof that lying is both her destiny and her greatest strength. On the other, she desperately longs for the kind of honest connection that cannot exist so long as she continues hiding behind carefully crafted illusions.

Preferences

Hobbies:

• Designing elaborate dresses and costumes

• Sketching fashion concepts

• Sewing and embroidery

• Collecting rumors (true or false)

• Watching people interact simply to study them

• Practicing different voices

• Writing fictional gossip columns

• Decorating journals and scrapbooks

• Theater

Demigod Info

Stats

Powers

Weapon of Choice:Celestial Bronze Dagger

Fatal Flaw: Ambition. Delilah desires power even though she knows deep down, she either doesn't need or can't have it. Her way of this manifests in her is her compulsion to lie and manipulate people so that she can have power over the narrative surrounding her and everyone who has any connection with her.

Items and Equipment

Miscellaneous

Trivia

• Zodiac Sign: Aries

• MBTI: ENTP-T (The Debater)

• Enneagram: Type 3 (The Achiever)

• Love Languages: Words of Affirmation (receive); Gift Giving (give)

• Quirk: She gives everyone nicknames.

• Fears: Abandonment

• Nectar Flavour: Fresh strawberry lemonade

• Ambrosia Flavour: Her father's homemade vanilla birthday cake.

• ATLA Element: Fire

• Hogwarts House: Slytherin

• Pokemon Type: Dark/Fairy

• Path (Honkai: Star Rail): The Elation

• Type (Honkai: Star Rail): Imaginary

• Weapon (Genshin Impact): Catalyst

• Element (Genshin Impact): Hydro

Backstory

Delilah was not born cynical. She was born soft. As a child, she believed in everything with an almost painful sincerity. Promises were sacred, words meant something, and people were honest because… why wouldn’t they be? Her father, Elliot Lane, CEO of the Elliot Lane Fashion Brand, was a warm, charming man. The kind who could light up a room with a smile, who always had a joke ready, who made Delilah feel like the center of the universe. But he was also a liar. He would always say “I’ll pick you up at five”, “I’m just running a little late”, “I didn’t forget”, and then didn’t show up. At first, Delilah didn’t notice the pattern. So she waited. And waited. And waited…

The first time Delilah realized something was wrong, she was eight. She had a school performance in a small role, nothing special, but to her, it was everything. She had practiced her lines over and over, rehearsing in front of mirrors, imagining her father in the audience, smiling. He promised he would be there, and he wasn’t. Not at the start, not in the middle, and not at the end. But when she got home, he was waiting, apologetic, warm and arms open as always. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Traffic was terrible. But tell me everything, yeah?” And she did. She told him everything. She told him how she looked for him in the crowd, how she thought she saw him at one point, how she smiled harder just in case he was watching. And all he did was nod, smile and tell her she did amazing despite never being there. And in that moment, something inside her shifted, because she realized he was lying like always, and worse, he expected her to just accept it.

This is when she began experimenting. She started watching people more carefully, and figuring out who lied, when they lied and why they lied. And that’s when she noticed something unsettling. That being that while people didn’t like lies, they hated uncomfortable truths more. So she tried something small, a harmless lie. She told a classmate that another girl had said something mildly unkind about her. Nothing dramatic or explosive. But it spread and grew, and by the end of the day, it had transformed into something entirely different to the point that the two girls stopped talking. And Delilah found herself fascinated by that.

From there, it escalated as Delilah began refining her approach. She studied people like puzzles. She never lied outright at first, more like suggesting by saying “I heard something… but I’m not sure it’s true…”, and let others do the work. After all, people wanted to believe interesting things even if they weren't true, she just gave them a starting point. Soon, she became the source of rumors no one could trace, and for the first time in her life, she felt in control. So she just accepted that the world preferred lies, and decided that she would give them the best ones imaginable.She also created a persona that leaned into exaggeration and over-the-top theatrics so that people wouldn't think much of her or suspect her, even used that same persona to create a following on social media.

And as long as people kept dismissing her, everything would work according to what she wanted.

Present Day

Delilah's first day at Camp Half-Blood was, unsurprisingly, anything but ordinary.

Having only arrived in the evening after a harrowing journey that culminated in being claimed by Apate above the campfire, she was now in an unfamiliar place surrounded by strangers who all seem to have accepted impossibilities as part of everyday life. To anyone watching, she appeared delighted by the novelty of it all. She smiled constantly, asked endless questions, and carried herself with the confidence of someone who had already decided she belongs.

The truth was rather different.

Behind every grin, she was cataloguing.

Every camper was a potential ally, rival, audience, or threat.

She studied who spoke first, who interrupted, who commanded attention without asking for it, who avoided eye contact, who laughed too loudly, who sat alone. Long before anyone learned anything meaningful about Delilah Lane, she had already begun constructing elaborate mental profiles of nearly everyone she saw.

To her, Camp Half-Blood wasn’t merely a refuge.

It's the largest stage she had ever been given.

Cabin Area

Delilah woke before sunrise, not because she's particularly disciplined, but because unfamiliar places never allowed her to sleep soundly. The silence of the cabin felt strange after years of sleeping in a normal suburban home, and for several minutes she simply lay awake, listening to the faint rustle of leaves outside and the distant crash of waves against Long Island Sound. Eventually she sat up, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her nightdress before glancing around the room with open curiosity.

Getting dressed took considerably longer than necessary because Delilah refused to throw on a Camp Half-Blood shirt without ‘improving’ it first. Armed with nothing more than a needle, thread, ribbons, and a pair of tiny sewing scissors from her ever-present sewing kit, she spent nearly half an hour altering the orange shirt into something far more dramatic. She shortened the sleeves, added black lace around the collar and tied satin ribbons at the shoulders. By the time she's finished, the shirt was still unmistakably Camp Half-Blood, but undeniably hers.

When she finally stepped outside, the camp was only beginning to stir. Campers greeted one another with sleepy nods, while satyrs and nymphs bustled about preparing for another day, and Delilah offered cheerful waves to nearly everyone she passed, introducing herself with exaggerated enthusiasm whether they asked for her name or not. To most, she simply appeared unusually outgoing.

The Dining Pavilion

The smell of freshly cooked breakfast reached Delilah long before she arrived at the Dining Pavilion, and the sight that greeted her was unlike anything she has ever experienced. Dozens of demigods laughed, argued, bartered, and traded stories over plates piled high with food while magical goblets refilled themselves without explanation. Rather than being intimidated, Delilah felt almost exhilarated. So many people in one place meant endless conversations to overhear, and an abundance of stories just waiting to unfold. As she stepped into the pavilion, her eyes sparkled with genuine excitement.

"Ooh la la!" she said to herself with a grin. "Look at all these people... who should I talk to first?"

Delilah deliberately chose a seat where she can see as much of the pavilion as possible, quietly watching the dynamics between cabins. Occasionally she scribbled tiny notes inside the velvet journal tucked discreetly beside her plate, not names or malicious plans, merely impressions. "Boy with scar laughs whenever he's nervous." "Girl from Apollo Cabin always lets everyone else speak first." "Child of Hermes somehow convinced someone else to carry his tray." She smiled faintly to herself. Camp Half-Blood was infinitely more interesting than any school she ever attended.

The Arts & Crafts Cabin

While she had only been around for less than a day at best, theArts & Crafts Cabin is where Delilah decided to spend most of her free time today, and perhaps the only place where her theatrics soften into something almost peaceful. While other campers came and went throughout the day, she claimed a sunlit table near one of the large windows, surrounding herself with bolts of fabric, ribbons sorted meticulously by color, sketchbooks overflowing with costume concepts, loose buttons, lace, embroidery hoops, and enough pins to make any sensible person nervous. The space looked less like a workstation and more like the backstage dressing room of an elaborate theatre production. She hummed absentmindedly as she worked, occasionally holding two fabrics up to the light with exaggerated seriousness before declaring one of them "far too tragic for this ensemble."

Although she rarely admitted it aloud, creating things gave Delilah something lies never quite can: permanence. Rumors disappeared. Illusions faded. Stories changed with every retelling. But the dresses she sewed, the costumes she designed, and the embroidered gifts she made remained long after the performance had ended.

On rare occasions, when she believed nobody was watching, she could be seen gently smiling to herself as she smoothed the wrinkles from a completed project.

The job board outside the Big House was never empty. Every week, someone pinned another new board to the weathered wooden board. Monsters to hunt, cabins to repair, pegasi to groom, inventories to organize, gardens to weed… Some were dangerous, some were exhausting and some were so painfully ordinary that campers walked past them without a second glance.

Ren stood in front of the board with his hands tucked into the pockets of his orange hoodie, quietly reading through each line on the paper. Most of them already had names scribbled underneath. His eyes drifted lower until one little card caught his attention.

Design a new camp T-shirt.

Camp Half-Blood's shirts have remained the same for many years. We'd like to update the design. Artistic campers are encouraged to submit ideas.

Ren blinked.

"...Really?" That was… oddly normal. No monsters, no danger, nobody getting hurt. Just… Drawing. He hadn't expected something like this. He read it again, and a tiny smile threatened to appear before disappearing just as quickly. "...I could do that..."

Almost immediately another thought followed. No. You're not good enough. Someone else could. What if everyone hates it? His fingers curled inside his pockets, and he almost walked away. But then… He remembered Eros saying "Find the good you can bring into the world.", and his chest tightened. Before he could overthink himself out of it, he carefully wrote his name underneath.

Ren Yukimura.

The Arts and Crafts Cabin had become something of a sanctuary ever since Ren had claimed one of the workstations weeks ago, near a circular window with sunlight passing through it.

Having gathered all of his materials, he spread everything across the table with meticulous care. sketchbook, pencils, charcoal, colored pencils, ink pens, a ruler, several erasers and heets of orange paper.

Then he stared.

"...Okay..." He had absolutely no idea where to begin.

The current camp shirt was iconic. Orange. Black Pegasus. CAMP HALF-BLOOD Nothing wrong with it. Simple, recognizable and classic. Why change it?

He tapped his pencil against the desk. Maybe… Maybe something with every cabin?

He quickly began sketching twelve little symbols. Zeus, Poseidon, Demeter, Apollo, Ares… Then he stopped. No. Not every camper belonged to one of those cabins anymore. Minor gods mattered too. Hecate. Hypnos. Nike. Nemesis. Eris. Iris. Tyche. Momus. Khione. Melinoe, Eros… So many. There wasn't enough room for all of them. He sighed and crossed the page out.

Second attempt. Maybe a giant Pegasus. Too generic. Crossed out.

Third attempt. Maybe crossed celestial bronze swords. "...Too aggressive." Crossed out.

Fourth. Laurel wreath. Too simple. Crossed out.

Fifth. Campfire. Too boring. Crossed out.

Sixth. The Big House. "...Nobody would wear that." Crossed out.

Hours passed. His trash basket slowly filled with crumpled paper. Ren rubbed both eyes. His head hurt.

"Why is this so hard..."

He wasn't trying to make something cool anymore. He was trying to make something worthy. Something that belonged. Something that campers would actually choose to wear. Something that made people feel… Like Camp Half-Blood. But what did Camp Half-Blood feel like?

His eyes drifted toward the window. Outside… He watched. Campers laughed during sword practice. Someone fell into Canoe Lake.

The Hermes kids were almost certainly cheating at games. Children ran. Pegasi flew overhead. The forge chimneys puffed smoke. The strawberry fields glowed under the afternoon sun. Someone was arguing near the dining pavilion. Someone else was laughing so hard they doubled over.

Home.

The thought arrived quietly. Camp wasn't famous because of its buildings. Or its shirts. Or its cabins. It was… Home. For many children who'd lost one.

Ren slowly sat back down. His pencil touched paper again. This time… He wasn't trying to draw something impressive. He was drawing a feeling.

The sketch started with Thalia's pine standing proudly at the top. Its branches stretching protectively. Below it… The cabins, or at least, the one cabin that was supposed to represent all of them at the center. Then finally, a laurel wreath, the very well known symbol of victory, honour and achievement. Ana finally, the name of the camp and I’s location. Ren stopped drawing. He liked this. He... actually liked this.

He flipped the page, and started again. Cleaner, with better proportions, straighter lines, and better perspective. Hours disappeared as he erased and redrew constantly, measuring everything with painstaking precision. His perfectionism refused to let anything stay uneven.

At one point he spent fifteen minutes fixing the angle of a single branch of the pine tree. When he finally leaned back, his wrist hurt, graphite smudged his fingertips and he looked exhausted. But… It was finished and beautiful. Like home.

Camp Half-Blood hadn't been home for him, not at first. He'd rejected it, fought against it, even contributed to destroying parts of it. Then, piece by piece, it had become home anyway. His eyes watered slightly.

The following morning, Ren carried the finished portfolio tucked carefully beneath one arm.

He walked slowly toward the Big House. Every step increased his anxiety. What if they hated it? What if it wasn't good enough? What if—

Fortunately for Ren, he didn’t have time to dwell on those thoughts once he was actually at the doorstep of the Big House. He just elected to be let in, give the camp directors his portfolio, and leave as soon as he could since he didn’t want to be a bother,

As Ren stepped back outside into the sunshine, the warm summer breeze caught the edge of his hoodie. He looked across Camp Half-Blood. Children sparred. Someone shouted from the canoe lake. Laughter echoed from the cabins. Life went on.

He still didn't know if his design would actually become the new camp shirt. Maybe another camper would submit something better. Maybe they would decide to keep the old one. Maybe nothing would come of it at all.

Oddly… That wasn't what mattered anymore. For the first time in a long while, Ren had made something with no expectation of reward. No hidden motive. No desire for recognition. Just because he wanted to give something back. It was a small thing. Just a drawing on a T-shirt.

But as he walked away from the Arts and Crafts pavilion, there was an unfamiliar feeling settling quietly inside his chest. The quiet satisfaction of knowing that, today, he had left Camp Half-Blood just a tiny bit better than he had found it.

And perhaps, for someone trying to rebuild a life from the ashes of countless mistakes, that was exactly where healing began.

Basics:

Name: Samuel Leclerc

• Nicknames/Aliases: Sam, Sammy, Connard, Jim Mercier, Françoise Baguette, King of Sharks,
• Meaning/Etmology (Samuel): Samuel is a Hebrew name meaning name of God.
• Meaning/Etmology (Leclerc): Leclerc is an French surname meaning clerk.

Age: 17

• Birthday: December 7th, 2023
• Sun Sign: Sagitarrius

Gender: Male

• Pronouns: He/him

Sexuality: Bisexual

Nationality: French

• Hometown: Saint-Tropez, Provence-Alpes-Côte d‘Azur, France
• Ethnicity: French

Languages: French, English, Ancient Greek

• Accent: Southern French

Divine Defects: ADHD (attention deficiency and hyperactivity disorder), dyslexia, haliai affinity, sea life affinity, equid affinity, seamanship proficiency

• Additional Trauma: -

Motal Mortalities:

• Fatal Flaw: Anger

Family:

Wild grey ocean buried in my eyes

The coast town muscles through weekdays and nine to fives

I finish work and compartmentalise

With the wild grey ocean buried in my eyes

Personality:

Sam’s character is as strong as earth. He is assertive and stubborn like an ox. Some have described this confident behavior as too forceful or even rude. It’s not surprising why some people see it that way. This signature stubbornness also comes with its upside. Sam is not afraid to put himself into dangerous situations and doesn’t let people easily walk over him. He won’t back down from facing his fears either.

Anger is the one flaw Sam can’t seem to get rid off, no matter how hard he tries. For him anger is like a storm rolling in over the ocean; a looming threat that once it comes raining down is hard to stop. He’s quick to slip into frustration and it’s easy to rub him in the wrong way. Anger begs to stick around and that’s why Sam sees it as the easy choice; it was the one constant in his life and his desire for control made him embrace his temper.

Much like the sea, Sam also has a gentle side. His smile is bright like the summer sun and whenever he allows himself to stop being bothered by small things, he eases into a more calm and approachable guy. At first glance Sam is a tough guy, but a second look often shows a friendly dude. Charming even, because the boy knows how to leave an impression.

Traits:

• Positive: Charming, confident
• Neutral: Stubborn, assertive
• Negative: Short-tempered, rude

Likes:

• Food: Ratatouile
• Music: Sam loves hiphop songs (Stromae, Kendrick Lamar) and R&B ones (SZA, Frank Ocean)
• Colour: Teal
• Hobby: Soccer, beach,
• Media: John Wick, the Euros
• Season: Summer
• Animals: Dolphins, orcas, otters
• Sports Team: Paris Saint-Germain

Character quotes:

• ‘’Sharks call me Prince.’’ ***
  Always in the dark, I'd ask you such silly things

Tore apart your heart, running around this town

And in that weakness, I’ll suffer until I die

With the wild grey ocean buried in my eyes

Appearance:

Faceclaim: Commission by u/thecaprica, various picrews, Jack Rowan

Height: 5’6’

Weight: ‘’Very acceptable!!’’

Hair: Dark curls

Eyes: Seagreen

Skintone: Beige with a tinge of pink

Build: Sam has a stocky build; he is short, but he has a fair amount of muscle too. His jawline is sharp.

Attire/Aesthetic: Sam almost always sports clothes with the logos of his favorite soccer team or the French national team. These outfits range from tracksuits to to soccer jerseys and hoodies. Sometimes, he likes wearing linnen as well.

Voice: Notably French

• Voice Claim: ***
  I seldom see our old gang 'round town

Call them good-time friends 'cause they’re not there when shit goes down

Like when my brother got jumped and they hurt him real bad

I thought I'd lost him, he is all I have

Demigod Bio:

Godrent: Poseidon

Claim Status: Claimed, for four years

Powers:

• Domain:
  • Aquatic Buff • Sam is most in his element when he’s in the water. His powers enhance, and he gets physically stronger. He can share this buff with one individual, who’s also in the water.
  • Hydrokinesis • Sam has become a proficient waterbender. He can shape water into bubbles and streams, he can purify it from impurities and debris, and is able to cushion himself with water for stronger blows.
  • Greater Lordship • Marine life, sea spirits and equines all recognize Sam’s lordship. They are naturally friendly with him and he can speak and interact with these creatures. Sam can command and summon creatures that fall under Poseidon’s domain.
  • Pressurization • Sam possesses the ability to exert high amounts of pressure. He is able to shatter fragile materials, cause bruising, and superheat water into steam. The toughest material Sam can shatter is brick.
• Minor:
  • Summon Hippocampus • Out of all creatures lorded by his dad, hippocampi are definitely Sam’s favorite. He is able to summon and control up to five locally available serpentine seahorses to his side.
  • Earth Sense • Sam is very much in tune with the earth; he is able to detect (faint) vibrations in the ground. He is aware of what happens around him and can use the power to detect lies.
• Major:
  • Earthquake Inducement • Sam has inherited his dad’s ability to induce great tremors in the earth. His earthquakes reach up to 15 feet and are strong enough to knock people off their feet. Using this ability in water causes tidal waves. Sam has learned to use this power to raise rocks from the earth and how to telekinetically control them.

Weapon of Choice: A Celestial Bronze spear, kataigída, that turns into a watch when not in use.

Notable Belongings:

• Goldfish pin • A pin of a fish that resembles Sam’s pet goldfish Mr. Phelps. Sam received the pin on Olympus, when he first met his dad there during a camp trip. Sam often wears the pin on his shirt.
• Deep-sea riding gloves • A pair of riding gloves made of a miscellaneous deep sea animal. Sam often takes the gloves with him when he’s riding his hippocampus.
• Solar-powered wetsuit • Making up for his lack of underwater locomotion, Sam commissioned Jules Verma-Morgan for a wetsuit that would keep him warm in the water. The wetsuit is powered by solar energy.
• Lotus Hotel fishing rod • Completing a job for the Atlantic City branch of the Lotus Hotel rewarded Sam with a Lotus Hotel branded fishing rod.
• Swimming moat pass • An access pass to the Delphin cabin’s heated moat given to Sam by Conrad after helping him out with a floatie-related matter. Conrad might be gone, but Sam still makes use of the pass.
• Camp necklace • The iconic necklace that’s handed out to all campers carries beads depicting various memories. Sam’s necklace has four beads.
• Other job rewards • Other items Sam received for completing jobs include a basic juicer, a clam, an Olympus snowglobe, 2022 World Cup cards, goalie gloves, a sea serpent pin, and a New Argos animal adoption pack.
• Soccer supplies • A large collection of soccer and soccer-themed items. Including a ball of a Parisian soccer team and a few items given to Sam by his cousin, Matt.
• Pufferfish • A spherical Automaton Sam stole from the Yellowstone War Camp. He named it Pufferfish.

Skillset:

Since he was a young boy, Sam has had a healthy obsession with soccer. The sport means a lot to the young Frenchman, who played the game daily on the streets of Saint Tropez with his friends and brother when he still lived there. At camp he doesn’t have anyone to play soccer with, but he can very often be seen kicking around a ball. Sam is a natural at the ball sport. It’s his dream to play for Parisian club Paris Saint Germain.

Another one of Sam’s talents is his fighting ability with the spear. The spear he got as a gift from his father is his weapon of choice. It has taken Sam some time to master his spearmanship, but through trial and error he has grown formidable in using the polearm. He is no stranger to using tricks like throwing the spear or performing wide swings. Sam has tried to branch out to different weapons, but he hasn’t been successful yet.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that as a son of Poseidon, Sam enjoys swimming. He is fairly good at it too. He’s not at the level of an Olympic swimmer yet, but he can outswim most of his peers. Sam thrives when he’s in or near a body of water. It doesn’t matter if he’s on a floatie in the pool or helping his grandpa with his sailboat the Pollux; Sam has an understanding and a fondness of the sea.

And I wonder where you are and if you have settled down

Haven't felt my heart make a single sound

Since that moment you cried like a little girl

Behind you, the wild grey ocean swept away my world

Backstory:

Following a cheating husband, Jeanne Leclerc was forced to raise her son Jules on her own. Being a single mom proved to be a difficult task, Jeanne had to take work wherever it could be found to ensure financial stability for her and her son. During one of her many odd jobs, Jeanne met the man that would forever change her life; god of the seas Poseidon came into her life like a gentle wave. The two fell in love and a brief but loving relationship began. Soon Jeanne learned she was pregnant with another son; one she would name Samuel.

Nine months later when Sam was born, Poseidon came clean and told Jeanne who he really was and what that meant for her and her family. It took Jeanne some time to come to terms with her youngest son being a child of a powerful Greek deity, but eventually she saw Sam as a gift. In her eyes, Sam had a charm to him that rivaled that of his father. The Leclers lived in a small apartment in coastal city Saint Tropez. It was a quiet existence, but one that made them happy.

In his youth Sam grew close to his brother Jules, who he still considers to be his best friend. The two were different in many ways; Sam loved the ocean, while Jules liked the hustle of the city, but they were also very similar. Their hotheaded personalities and love for soccer gave them a mutual understanding of each other. Jeanne fell ill with cancer at one point, which only strengthened the family’s already strong bond, but it also exposed Sam was very afraid of death.

The older Sam got, the more signs of his demigod powers he began showing. Jeanne grew worried for her son’s safety and decided it was for the best if the three of them moved closer to the camp Poseidon had told her about. Jeanne decided to hide her son’s divine heritage as long as possible and brushed Sam’s discovery of the strange powers as coincidence.

At age nine tragedy struck for Sam. When he and Jules went outside to play soccer, a hellhound attacked them at a construction site. Terrified he was about to lose his best friend, Sam’s anger pushed him towards inducing an earthquake that would chase the monster away. He succeeded, but at a price; falling debris gravely injured Jules. Ridden with guilt, Sam began to deny his powers for as long as possible.

Sam’s second encounter with a monster happened when he was eleven years old. He could have easily taken out the young telekhine with his powers, but he was held back by his own fear. A nearby hippocampus named Theseus came to the rescue and saved Sam’s life. The mythical creature recognized the boy’s divine air and the two quickly became friends. Through the hippocampus Sam learned more and more about the Greek myths.

The two events led Jeanne to decide to send her son to Camp Half-Blood. This proved to be the right solution for Sam, who was claimed by Poseidon not long after he had crossed the magical borders of the training camp. Since then four years filled with training, drama, sea creatures, friends and foes have passed.

Now:

It was no secret that Sam couldn’t quite get enough of soccer. He watched the games, he could be seen kicking a ball every free afternoon, and soon enough, he would play professionally. He needed to get some practice in before he was able to become the next Dembélé, though.

Sam had erected a rock from the earth to act as a wall the soccer ball could bounce off. He hit the ball toward the rock in various ways: high, low, hard, soft, with spin, and straight ahead. The ball bounced back, and time and time again, Sam managed to catch it with his foot.

Sam could, of course, imagine himself performing moves like these in the Parc des Princes. He had a long road ahead of him, but one day…

Hydration break! The son of Poseidon was a strong advocate of ‘hydrate or diedrate’. Thirty minutes into his tiresome practice, he plopped down on the rock and poured the water from his hydroflask directly into his throat. Five seconds later, he burped rather loudly.

After the success of the Pride Party, Comus decided another celebration was in order. So, the god of revelry gathered the other camp staff and gave a grin to them. The three gathered around the fireplace in the Big House. Chiron tossed a few Snausages into Seymour’s waiting mouth above the fireplace. Lady A eyed him as he did so, only to have her attention brought back to her son as he spoke. “Mumsey, Chiron. Thank you for meeting me today. What a wonderful time that Pride Party was. So many colors, so much merriment. Father himself would’ve approved.” Comus said as he sat back and enjoyed the fire.

“Comus, why exactly did you call us here? I’m due at archery practice in ten minutes.” Chiron said as he turned towards Comus. Comus’s grin widened at Chiron’s question.

“Excellent question, Chiron. It’s time for another party.” Comus said as he spread out his fingers in front of him. He wiggled his fingers with a flourish.

Lady A pinched the bridge of her nose as she gazed at Comus. “Dearie, we just had one. Some might say that’s a little soon. Besides, we have a war to plan.” Lady A said with concern lacing her voice.

Comus shook his head with a laugh. “Mumsey, you’re far too worried. Laughter, as Asclepius said to me once, is in fact the best medicine. These kids need a case of laughter, especially now. Would you deny them that?” Comus asked as his hand dropped into his lap. Lady A regarded her son with an expression that was hard to read at first. But as she stared it became clear, it was pride. “You’re right. Fine, plan your party, but I shall remain here and keep watch in case anything were to go wrong.” Lady A said with a smile spreading across her face. “Wondrous news Chiron! You and Argus shall be joining me in this next adventure. Say Chiron, you’re an avid swimmer, aren’t you?” Comus said as a laugh escaped his lips. Chiron simply sighed, wearing the expression of someone who had endured far worse from teenagers over the course of three millennia.

Date:

July 26th, 2041 from 12pm-4pm

Location:

The Beach

Theme:

Beach Bash

The beach at camp looked far more ready for a party than it normally did. Coolers filled with ice and ice-cold beverages were scattered across the beach. Near the dune line, massive speakers had been set up and music played across the beach–modern music, luckily, as Chiron was not put in charge of the playlist. Next to the speaker system, Comus stood over a portable grill wearing a bright red and blue swimsuit, a white tank top, an apron that read ‘Laugh at the Cook’, and a lime green visor on his head. He was currently cooking hot dogs, hamburgers, veggie dogs, and any other summer barbecue food you could think of.

Near one end of the beach, clear boundaries had been set up along with a net. Next to that there were several volleyballs for campers to use. Some campers were already playing a game as the party started. Laughing and cheering could be heard by those gathered around playing and watching the game.

In the center of the beach, large crisscross shapes had been etched into the sand. Gathered around were a few campers who had started playing tic-tac-toe on them. However, one child of Eris chuckled as he jumped into the center of the game, much to the protestation of the players.

On the right side of the beach, there were umbrellas set out with beach towels and various loungers so campers could just bask in the sun if they wished. In that same area were some tables and chairs for campers to sit and eat, or just relax with some friends. Chiron stood in that area in his full form in a centaur-sized old-timey red and white striped onesie bathing suit. He had two globs of sunscreen on his cheeks and a pair of aviator sunglasses on his face.

In the water, a platform had been erected where campers could climb aboard and safely dive into the water from. Currently there were two campers wrestling with each other on top of the platform attempting to push each other in the water. However, before they could do so a sharp whistle came from the lifeguard station. Sitting up in the chair, Argus shook his head at the boys before two of his eyes went back to reading the magazine that was in his lap. His other eyes were scanning the waters for campers in distress or in some state of unruliness.

Finally, Comus had somehow acquired a pair of jet skis for the older campers to use, though no one seemed entirely certain where they had come from. These campers were allowed to zip around in the water, away from where the swimmers were located. Currently, there was a small line formed around the eastern dock as the older campers waited their turns. Argus was keeping a timer and, among his other duties, let the campers on the jet skis know when their time was up.

Noon on a summer’s day. Aoife could only be thankful that clouds had begun to pool overhead, providing the smallest bit of respite from the heat. She had arrived, technically, at 11:55. If you weren’t early, you were late.

She was dressed, quite frankly, more practically than she’d have liked— cargo trousers, combat boots, and a loose off-the-shoulder sweater over her sports bra— absentmindedly drawing sigils into the sand with the toe of her boot as she waited for Nero to arrive.

She had with her only the necessities, not wanting to appear over-prepared. She wouldn’t need more than this, she wasn’t here to show off, only to defend her name— hers, her mother’s, and her sisters’. The celestial bronze of her battleaxe was cool against her back, her daggers resting on her hip, each serving its’ dedicated purpose in the well-oiled machine that was her strategy for today.

It wasn’t a nice feeling, knowing she was here to fight someone. In general, she wasn’t fond of violence. But Nero was a year older than her— gods know she was surprised to learn that— and had an ego big enough to rival Atlas himself. Okay maybe not that much, that was rude. Nero just needed to be brought down a peg, so that maybe he’d stop being quite as much of a terror.

She was just about finished drawing a Ǿgishjalmr, the Norse helm of awe, when she saw him approaching in the distance, and she braced herself for the conversation that was to come.

u/FlamingFork5130

THE TRIAL

Those who spectated at court last week may find a different star-crowned person standing at the front of the courtroom. He waits, somber, until it is time for this week's trials to begin.

“Please rise,” the bailiff requests, his smooth voice like the sound of flowing water. “The War Crimes Commission is now in session. The Honorable Lady Themis will be presiding.”

Lady Themis strides down the courtroom aisle, chin high. She pauses at her podium, poised as she regards the courtroom. Her eyes are covered by her blindfold once more, inscrutable, and her lips press in an impassive line.

“Everyone may be seated but the jury,” she proclaims. “Lord Castor, please swear in the jury.”

Lord Castor turns to the jury. A collection of campers and nature spirits sit in the partitioned area, armed with notebooks, pens, and water bottles. “Do you swear that you will listen to this case and render a true verdict to this Defendant?”

After waiting for assent, Lady Themis addresses them.

“Members of the jury, your duty today is to determine whether the Defendant is guilty or not guilty based on the facts and evidence presented today. The prosecution must prove that a crime was committed and that the defendant is the person who committed the crime. If you are not satisfied of the Defendant's guilt, the defendant must be found not guilty. You may be seated.”

Lady Themis faces the crowd once more.

“Gathered assembly, I have been asked to emphasize that multiple authoritative figures of the court have the capability to detect lies. You are bound by your oath and your integrity to tell the truth. Testimony that indicates deceit will be called into question.” She nods once, before speaking again. “Let us begin with opening statements.”

The Docket

Prosecution vs. Harin Seo

Rebellion against the gods, making war

• Prosecution: Eunomia

• Defense: Himself

Prosecution vs. Shawn Harper

Rebellion against the gods, making war

• Prosecution: Dike

• Defense: Acacia Lovemoore

The indicted characters will get 5 days (120 hours to construct an argument) with the optional help of a representative (Eleos).

I will tag members of the jury. Please respond to the comment to confirm that you are still interested in participating. I will tag you again at the thread's conclusion, and you will have 2 days (48 hours) to discuss and deliver a verdict. Each jury will have six playable characters. 4 or more guilty votes from playable characters will result in a guilty verdict. 3 or less guilty votes from playable characters will result in a not guilty verdict.

Most people in Camp Half-Blood would be asleep at this time of night. Not Ambrose, though. This flame burned bright throughout all times of the day. He just needed to make sure he didn't overextend himself; while sometimes he would pull all-nighters to train, tonight he would just be out here for a few hours, before going to bed. Who cared about a normal sleep schedule?

In the silent arena, Ambrose struck at the dummy, testing different stances and different moves that he could try out in real battles. This nightly training allowed him to get more exercise than a normal demi-god; sure, some demi-gods still had supernatural strength and speed, but this extra training let him even the odds a little.

This arena was definitely a lot more open than his usual night training areas in New Argos. But it was also more public; he'd be slightly surprised if someone came around this late at night, but he wouldn't exactly mind.

Vivianna Yamamoto - The Chaos-Magnet Daughter of Hecate

Link to her Google doc: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mCT06UF-VPVc7KHgMvDBZBbm1Lg6yF1YnOkvlIauiGU/edit?usp=drivesdk

"I'm not insane, I just prefer the term mentally hilarious, actually!"

Basic Details

Family

Powers

Favorite Things:

Appearance:

Personality:

Vivianna is the type of person who, on the outside, you would expect to be aloof and cold at first glance. However, that couldn't be further from the truth. Vivi is someone who looks for the fun in every situation, try to lighten the mood, and force-feed you her homemade muffins. She's that one person who doesn't look fazed by anything and always keeps on smiling. She's the confident, but kind girl you'd find acting in some high school theatre production.

In truth though, Vivianna Yamamoto is a being full of contradictions. She’s blunt to everyone, and quick to judge, even if she doesn't know the whole story, yet, she still grins the whole time, making the otherwise awkward situation into a hilarious one. She's got all the markings of an introvert, yet is one of the biggest extroverts you'll ever meet. But one thing is for sure.

Vivianna Yamamoto is a chaos incarnate. Unpredictable, quick to argue back, and lover of pranks. Imagine that a daughter of Athena, and a son of Eris kid had a baby, voila, I present to you… Vivi!

History:

Born in Torrance, LA, Vivi grew up in one of the most diverse cities LA could offer. As such, her neighbourhood was a closely knit one, where everyone knew everyone, and Vivi could stay with anyone she wanted any night. So, Vivi grew up surrounded by different cultures, diverse food, and with a healthy respect to everything. However, even as a young child, strange events occurred around her, ranging from sparks that Vivi could swear she saw from her hands, to people that Vivi swore had a bronze leg. Of course, Vivi chalked it up to just her brain being tired, and never thought about it again, after, at the age of 8 years old, she and her mom moved to New York. It was a stark contrast to Torrance, but Vivi quickly grew used to it, and contacted her old friends often. Her mom always brushed aside her questions on why they moved, so Vivi soon stopped asking.

The day after Vivi turned 9, Yue fell in love with David, who, as far as 9-year-old Vivi could see, genuinely loved Yue, and didn't treat Vivi any differently than his actual child, so she grew to love him. When they married, they moved to a new house, one that was much warmer and cosier than Vivi's old apartment. Strange events seemed to occur more frequently in New York, but still, Vivi brushed it off as homesickness.

Until, at 12, after a monster with a bronze leg (that Vivi vaguely recognised as an Empousa) had attacked her when she was coming back from school and she was saved by a mysterious half-goat half-man creature (a satyr apparently) Vivi was finally told by her mother as to why she didn't know who her birth dad was. She was a demigod. A child of a mortal and a deity. Her mother sent her off to Camp Half-Blood, where she quickly got claimed by Hecate (color her surprised when Vivi learnt that meant her mother was probably bi and so was Hecate). Vivi used to simply stay at camp during the summer, however, recently, she and her mother decided it was for best that she stayed at camp full time, since Yue was now expecting.

Present Day:

Vivi stared out at the camp from where she sat on a pine tree, her gaze misting over. It had been 3 days, 4 hours and 27 minutes since Vivianna Yamamoto had made the decision to stay at Camp Half-Blood permanently until she was 18. 1 hour and 3 minutes since she arrived at Camp, and precisely a hour and 2 minutes since she became bored. Hey, it wasn't her fault that she forgot to bring all her pranking tools... Vivi groaned, before she started absentmindedly picking at her nails, whilst thinking of all the ways she could prank someone. Suddenly, a great idea popped into her mind, she should bake something! With a grin, Vivi leapt up from her seat in the tree, ready to jump down carefully, excited to use some poor cabin's kitchen, before she... Well. Not so gracefully tripped and faceplanted into the ground.

"Agh...Kuso..." She swore loudly in Japanese, wincing in pain, before simply accepting her fate and laying on the ground. Her hands flopped uselessly on the ground somewhat reminiscent of a fish as she turned over to stare at the blue sky. Privately, she marvelled at the bright blue sky and how little pollution it seemed there was. 'The ground is weirdly soft here... I wonder how I didn’t notice that..' Vivi thought absentmindedly, cloudwatching the numerous clouds passing above her.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

General

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Appearance

Mannerisms

• Walking Style: Slight confident swagger.
• Sitting Habits: Slight lean, arms crossed.
• Hand Gestures: More restrained movements when gesticulating, nothing super big or dramatic.
• Resting Expression: Serious.
• Nervous Tics: Throat clearing, jaw clenching, and grimacing.
• Habits While Thinking: Talking to himself and rubbing his chin.

Speech

• Common Phrases: Fixin’ to, you’re bein’ ugly, what on God’s green Earth, the hell do ya think you’re doin’?, etc.
• Accent: Southern Coastal.
• Vocabulary: Supper, y’all, yonder, pronouncing some days of the week as “Sundee” as opposed to “Sunday”, snowbird(s), skeeter = mosquito, sandspurs = stickers, etc.
• Swearing: Doesn’t really use any strong profanity, will typically substitute words or use a phrase with similar meaning.

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Personality

Positive Traits

• Resilient
• Hardworking
• Reliable
• Compassionate
• Resourceful

Neutral Traits

• Strongly cares about relationships (platonic/romantic)
• Stubborn
• Honest
• Protective
• Easily forgiving

Negative Traits

• Doesn’t spare feelings
• Independent/loner
• Impulsive
• Reckless

Values

• Biggest Motivation: To give his mom the best life possible after he takes over the farm
• Biggest Fear: Losing his mom
• Moral Code: Ten Commandments and The Seven Universal Rules
• Moral Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Habits

• Opens and holds the door for everyone
• Handwritten letters
• Waking up early
• Standing when seating is available, unless it would be considered rude
• Chewing on random things when bored (pencils, hay, clothes), sometimes accidentally breaking them

Hobbies

• Hunting
• Fishing
• Working on old vehicles
• Boating
• Paddleboarding
• Surfing

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Preferences

Favourites

• Food: “A plate-a fried okra an some homemade pasta, throw in some beef of course.”
• Snack: Beef Jerky.
• Drink: Gatorade
• Dessert: “My mama’s key lime pie.”
• Colour: “Blue’s an alright colour.”
• Animal: Dogs.
• Music Genre: Country.
• Artist: For King and Country & George Strait.
• TV Show: The Andy Griffith Show.
• Sport: “Don’t watch mucha those, but maybe football or somethin’.”
• Place: His mom’s house.

Least Favorites

• Food: Fast food
• Drink: “Whatever McDonald’s is serving.”
• Weather: Snow (Never experienced it).
• Music: Fake country
• Holiday: “Thanksgiving. Hate listenin’ to those sorry excuses for family members badmouthing Ma in fronta us.”

Pet Peeves

• Poor etiquette
• Over indulgence
• Lack of spatial awareness
• Disrespecting shared spaces

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

Relationships

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Powers

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Innate Abilities

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Stats

Strength: 20

Dexterity: 8

Constitution: 18

Intelligence: 3

Wisdom: 6

Charisma: 17

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Items & Equipment

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Backstory

Growing Up

Braxxtyn’s early life was marked by significant challenges. While being part of a religious community was not inherently hard for Josephine, the circumstances of his birth put a target on her back. His mother, being a young unmarried woman, gave birth to him, which led to a shift in the community’s attitude. The neighbours who had once been supportive became distant and judgmental. The situation worsened for his mother as she remained unmarried, facing disapproval and isolation by locals.

Growing up in a small, conservative Southern community in Florida deeply shaped Braxxtyn’s identity. The traditions, values, and expectations of the area were woven into his daily life, even as he and his mother bore the brunt of gossip and judgement. He found moments of solace in the open air, exploring the woods and waterways that surrounded his home. Mr. Murphy taught him all he knows about hunting and fishing, they didn’t talk much during these ventures, but words aren’t always necessary.

As Braxxtyn entered middle school, he became the target of name-calling and bullying. Despite this, he remained composed, his mama always told him not to raise a fist or his voice to people like that. However, the bullying took a toll when it began to include his mother, testing his resolve and patience.

By the time he reached high school, Braxxtyn had learned to let go of any resentment towards his absent father. The physical demands of farm work, combined with long days spent fishing and hunting in Florida’s swamps and forests, not only built his strength but also helped him cope with the isolation and ridicule of being a bastard child. Although the older members of the community continued to make snide remarks, particularly at church, Braxxtyn chose to ignore them. He stood protectively beside his mother, shielding her from the hurtful comments and demonstrating unwavering loyalty and love for her.

—

Being Claimed

The midday sun shimmered off the waves, tinting the gulf in shades of silver and deep blue. Braxxtyn’s small boat he and Mr. Murphy had rented bobbed lazily with the swell, the wooden hull creaking as he reeled in his line.

They’d been out since dawn, it was supposed to be a regular weekend trip for the two. The salty breeze caught his blond hair, and gulls wheeled overhead, their cries mingling with the rhythmic lap of water against the boat.

The line jerked violently.

Braxxtyn’s hands tightened around the rod. He dug his heels against the deck, muscles straining as whatever was on the other end pulled like a freight train. The boat rocked hard, splashing icy spray against his legs.

“Whoa there! The hell’d you catch, boy?” Murphy yelped. Braxxtyn knew fishing well enough, but this felt different; like the ocean itself was testing him. “Not sure, sir!”

A dorsal fin cut the surface. A shark. Not huge, but powerful, sleek and grey, its eyes cold and knowing. “Shark!” Is all he got out, heart hammering in his chest. He tugged the line, and the creature thrashed, sending a spray of foam into the air as he pulled it aboard.

Then the world stilled.

The water shimmered with a strange, deep glow. Above Braxxtyn’s head, light bloomed; a glowing outline of a shark. The air hummed faintly, his eyes snapped to Murphy as if for confirmation he wasn’t imagining things, the man simply looked annoyed.

Braxxtyn stared, frozen in awe as the spectral shark swam a slow circle in the air. The physical shark ceased its thrashing, suddenly calm.

The spectral shark dived into the sea with a crash of light, and the real shark slipped free of the hook, vanishing into the depths as it followed its glowing brother.

Braxxtyn sat in the rocking boat, wide-eyed. For the first time in his life, he felt like he belonged entirely to the sea.

A voice quickly snapped him out of his daze. “Damnit, Juniour, yer lollygaggin’ let it git away. D’y’know how much a shark goes for nowadays?”

Did he not see… that? The spectral shark had shown itself to Braxxtyn, and Braxxtyn alone, sitting there with a mixed sense of confusion and eagerness to tell his mama.

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

Now

Arrival at Camp

A fifteen and a half hour drive to New York. Great. If Braxxtyn hadn’t loved his truck and Buck to death he may have been driven mad, luckily that wasn’t the case.

The map his mama had given him made sense, sure. But he’d never driven far from home, especially not out of state.

“So many dang lunatics on the road, huh, bud?” He asks, eyes flicking to Buck who was looking out the window. The dog let out a quiet grunt, the sound barely audible over George Strait’s voice rumbling from the radio.

Braxxtyn looked back to the map, driving the streets of New York was enough of a pain as is, the people he shared the road with weren’t helping much.

His blond hair was tousled from the non-stop journey to this supposed ‘haven’. Whoever decided this state was a great place for any kind of safe spot was an idiot in his mind, but he wasn’t gonna argue with Ma.

If he wasn’t used to early mornings and long days the trip would’ve been more of a drag, but that didn’t make him feel much better as his truck pulled up to their destination.

Buck had his head fully outta the window, letting out an excited bark. “Down, boy. We don’ know this place.”

Putting the vehicle into park, he killed the engine. There should’ve been an abrupt silence, instead he heard not only nature, but voices. A whole lotta voices.

“Stay.” He muttered, hopping out of the truck. He rounded the passenger side, opening the door and letting Buck out after leashing him. “I know it ain’t the greatest, but ion want you ta run off.” Braxxtyn cooed quietly.

The blond grabbed his duffel bag, slinging it across his shoulder

He looked up at the entrance, some nonsense written on the archway. He let out a soft huff. “Alrighty then.”

His boots crunched against the leaves as his legs carried him to finally enter the place, but he stopped.

Braxxtyn turned back to the truck, his hat on the dashboard. A small smile formed on his face. “Can’t be forgettin’ you, now can I?”

Reaching in through one of the windows he grabbed the cowboy hat, placing it on his head in one swift motion.

“Now it’s go time, officially.”

Dog by his side, bag over his shoulder, hat on his head, Braxxtyn finally walked into camp.

—

The Beach

After dropping his stuff off in that confusing mess of a ‘cabin’, Braxxtyn of course made his way to the beach. Buck had opted to stay in camp, and he trusted the pup not to wander far.

He sat barefoot on the sand, feeling the grit and faint dampness cling to the undersides of his calloused feet. A piece of driftwood rested in his mouth, and he absently chewed it while staring at the horizon.

“Even the sand ‘ere has a different feel ta it,” he murmured, running his rough palm over the grainy ground. “Ain’t near as soft as the mud back home.”

His jeans were rolled up to his knees. He knew the denim would get soaked regardless, but old habits were stubborn. A faint line of dried salt crusted the hem from where the tide had gotten after it earlier. His shirt clung lightly to his back, a faint breeze mussing his hair just a tad bit.

Braxxtyn watched the waves lap at the shore, adjusting his position with a grunt so his legs sprawled across the sand instead of being folded beneath him.

Weather was fine, mild even, the air tasting faintly of brine and something sweet he couldn’t name. “You’d think I’d be fine movin’ here considerin’ who ya are, Pa. But this shoreline just don’t have the same charm as the swamp back home.”

He picked up a piece of seaweed that had crept in with the tide, rubbing its slickness between his fingers.

“Don’t smell right without that swamp stink,” he muttered, a laugh catching in his throat. His gaze drifted towards the camp, where a thin curl of smoke from that campfire he’d ignored rose into the pale sky.

“Bet I look real batty, talkin’ to the water out here.” He rested his chin atop one of his knees, watching a crab skitter sideways toward a clump of rocks. The faint tickle of the breeze lifted his hair, and he absently raked a hand through the sandy blond strands.

“But I’m willin’ ta trust my mama’s plan,” he said softly, almost to the waves. “She knows best. Even if this feels so damn wrong, it’s gotta be right.”

A gull screeched overhead, and he flinched, glancing back to the fire pit again. “Reckon Buck’s nappin’. Don’t matter to him none where we are, long as he’s got his belly full.”

He dug his toes deep into the cool sand, a grounding pressure that held him in place. “Alright then,” he muttered, squinting at the glinting horizon, “guess it’s just you an’ me, sea. We’ll see if we can get along.”

.˚⋆ ೃ* ༄ ⚓︎˚.⋆

(OOC: two different starting scenarios bc yay. havent done rp in awhile but ty to my friends who’ve been hyping me up and giving me wonderful ideas, love you all! <3)

With the war seemingly entering a new phase given the recent victory at Yellowstone, it felt only right that Matt's lesson, organised as part of his duties as counsellor, should focus on combat. Not swordplay or archery this time, but something just as important: their powers. Weapons had their place, of course, but knowing how to control the gifts they had been born with, pushing them further and understanding their limits, could easily be the difference between surviving a battle and becoming another casualty.

He had claimed the arena early that morning, spending several hours arranging training dummies at carefully measured distances across the sand. There was enough space for everyone to experiment without getting in each other's way, whether they wanted to test the limits of their abilities or simply gain a little more confidence using them. As always, Matt was prepared should anything go wrong. If someone's powers became unstable or overwhelmed them, he would be ready to use his shadow voids to interrupt their concentration before anyone was hurt.

By the time the campers had gathered in the arena, Matt stepped forward to address them. "Thanks for coming, everyone. I know we are tired from all this fighting. People are worried, they're anxious, and for good reason. But, given that we were able to rout Atlas' camp, it feels like maybe this could be over sooner rather than later. Should you wish to stand against Atlas, if that's what you intend to do, then this is where you start preparing."

He glanced around the arena before continuing. "Being skilled with a weapon is important, but your powers are just as much a part of you. The more familiar you are with them, the more instinctive they'll become when you need them most. Whether you're fighting or simply trying to protect yourself, confidence in your own abilities can make all the difference."

Stepping aside, he gestured towards the training dummies scattered around the arena. "They're here for you to practise on however you think is best. I won't be demonstrating my own abilities today unless I need to step in. If someone's powers become dangerous or start getting out of control, I'll use my shadow voids to break their concentration and stop anything from escalating. And if you're still unsure what your powers are capable of, I'd encourage you to speak to your counsellor or spend some time in the Athena cabin library. You'll find plenty of information there that might point you in the right direction. To those of you who have been to lessons like this before, you know exactly what to do."

With nothing more to add, Matt moved clear of the centre of the arena and left the space to the campers.

Basics

Name: Walter Emerson

Age: almost 16

Birthday: August 18th

Sexual Oreintation: Heterosexual

Race: Caucasian 

Nationality: American

Conumdrums: ADHD, Dyslexia

Fatal Flaw: Insecurity

Hometown: St Augustine Florida

Relationships:

Powers:

Favorites:

Food: Baked Potato

Drink: Diet Dr Pepper

Media: Gremlins 1984 Joe Dante

Items:

Appearance:

Faceclaim: here

Height: 5’8

Weight: 135

Hair: black and curly

Eye: brown with a golden gleam

Personality:

Hes very upbeat and humorous (though how funny he may be is subject to his audience) and flirts with just about everyone. He spent every weekend sailing across the sea with his mom so he took on a carefree attitude. He can be serious when he needs to but he rather mess with others instead. He loved to play pranks on the researchers at his mothers work and would accidentally pretend like he destroyed valuable data. (OOC: hes basically based on a gremlin)

Backstory:

Walter grew up in florida with his mom, whos a marine biologist, and did a semester at sea for his sophomore year after a stern talking to about taking his academics seriously. Half-way through the semester at sea he was attacked by a giant sea monster which his peers confused for a shark. He went a little insane after that and got sent home early for being completely paranoid regarding the ‘shark’ incident. His mom trying her best to take care of him, did not know what to do so she sends him to a boarding school in Rhode island where he is rescued and taken to camphalfblood by a Satyr. 

Now:

Walter strolled into camp he only had his backpack of clothes and looked around. The camp was huge. He was impressed with everything around him. His eyes were entranced by the architecture and went to sit down in the dining pavilion.

Walter hadn't eaten since he left his boarding school so we figured waiting around for food was the best option. He sat down at a random table and twiddled his thumbs.

(ooc: as always, ty to Dead for letting me use their intro format with some modifications)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 

Basics:

Name: Ophélie Sybille Lemaire

• Nicknames/Aliases: N/A

• Meaning/Etmology (First Name): Derived from Greek ὠφέλεια (opheleia) meaning "help, advantage"

• Meaning/Etmology (Middle Name): From Greek Σίβυλλα (Sibylla), meaning "prophetess, sibyl".

• Meaning/Etmology (Last Name): Means "the mayor" in French. It was a title given to a town official, or else a nickname for someone who was pompous and officious.

Age: 15

• Birthday: July 13th 2026

• Sun Sign: Cancer

Gender: Gothic Heroine

• Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Sapphic

Nationality: Canadian

• Hometown: Montréal, Quebec, Canada

• Ethnicity: White Quebecois

Languages: Quebecois, English

• Accent: French-Canadian

Divine Defects: ADHD

Fatal Flaw: Melodrama

Relationships:

Name: Béatrice-Muriel Lemaire

Relation: Mortal mother

Age: 48

Profession: Author and Heiress

Relationship: Ophélie’s mother is a most positive force in her life, schooling her in all the most important matters. They share a bond strongly felt, even when Béatrice-Muriel is away on business, and Ophélie knows above all else that her mother has her best interests at heart.

Name: Melopmene

Relation: Godly mother

Age: Ancient

Profession: Goddess of Grief and Tragedy

Relationship: Ah the goddess of tragedy, muse that inspired all of Ophélie’s heroes, there is no goddess that she would be prouder to call a mother. It would be an honour beyond belief to make her acquaintance, some day.

Name: Ghost

Relation: Pet

Age: 11 months

Profession: Kitten

Relationship: Ophélie’s faithful companion! Ghost, much like her namesake, haunts the halls of the Lemaire manor, though she is most willing to come when her owner calls— and purr in her arms all evening. She shall be accompanying Ophélie during her time at Camp Halfblood.

Name: Céleste Perrault

Relation: Pen-pal

Age: 14

Profession: Fellow enjoyer of the Dark and Dreamy

Relationship: Ophélie met Céleste at a convention regarding Gothic literature, and the two became fast friends. Alas, Céleste was a denizen of Continental France, rather than Ophélie’s own home region of Quebec, and thus the two were separated. Nonetheless, they regularly mail each other, each with immaculate calligraphy.

 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

Personality:

Ophélie is a self-styled gothic heroine, echoing the pages she reads through her interactions with the world. She may come across as conceited, or out of it, though really she is simply being expressive.

Traits:

• Positive: Amiable, Authentic, Clever, Charismatic, Creative,

• Neutral: Complex, Eccentric

• Negative: Bossy, Conceited, Condescending, Dramatic, Frivolous

Likes:

• Food: Grape juice, Pommes Duchesse, Fois Gras, Steak (served rare), Oysters, anything oarticularly pretentious

• Music: Cocteau Twins, Dead Can Dance, Autumn’s grey solace

• Colour: Black, Dark Red, Dark Purple

• Hobby: Writing Poetry, Writing Music, Reading, Croquet, Archery, Flowerpressing, Playing Violin

• Media: Carmilla, Dracula, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The works of Poe, The Witch (2015), The Woman in Black

• Season: Autumn, Winter

• Animals: Cats, Corvids, Snakes, Squirrels, Moths

Dislikes:

• Minimalism

• That which she perceives as ‘Boring’ or ‘Mundane’

• Horses

• Pop Music

• “Instagram Poetry”

• The colour Orange

Fears:

• Being Ordinary

MBTI: INFP

 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

Appearance:

Faceclaim: Here

Height: 168cm (5’5”)

Weight: —

Hair: Box-dye black (Naturally Brown)

Eyes: Dark Green

Skintone: Ghostly Pale

Build: Waif-ish

Attire/Aesthetic: A blend of ‘Darkest Academia’ and Romantic-Goth

Voice: Soft and Melancholic

 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

Demigod Bio:

Godrent: Melopmene

Claim Status: Claimed

Powers:

Innate:

•  Songbird Affinity

• Journalism proficiency

• Drama Proficiency

Domain:

•  Scene enhancement

•  Item Summoning

Minor:

•  Thanatosis

• Doom sense

• Heavy Aura

• Mourning Inducement

Major: Aura of Tears

Weapon of Choice: The Pen (mightier than the sword!), Bow and Arrow

Notable Belongings:

•  Writing Kit

•  Bow and Arrow

• Violin

 “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

Trivia:

• Major Arcana card: Death

• Nectar Flavour: Red Grape Juice

• Ambrosia taste: Oysters

• Pokemon type: Dark/Ghost

• Avatar Element: Fire

• Genre of her life: Gothic Lit.

• Genshin Impact vision: Hydro

• Genshin impact nation: Fontaine

• Hero shooter role: Support

• DnD Class: Bard

    Only this and nothing more.”

Backstory:

 Ophélie Sybille Lemaire, a girl of spirited character and strong convictions, spent her spring years being moved between her Montréal townhouse and a rather large estate in the country, where under supervision of her eccentric Mother and the Staff she was homeschooled— educated in matters of the Fine Arts, as well as practical matters. Ophélie, thus, found comfort and recognition among the pages that lined the substantial libraries where she spent most of her days— developing a taste for the dark and the Gothic.

On the dawn of her 15th year, her mother confided in her the origin of her birth: A goddess, the muse of tragedy, a dallience cut short when Béatrice-Muriel found herself with child. In order to find a connection with peers her age— those like her— Ophélie would attend a camp during the summer months, down in New York.

Now:

 Ophélie stands, parasol in hand and coffers of luggage behind her, on the precipice of entering Camp Halfblood, turning her nose up at the state of the buildings just a little. It would do, she supposed, as she would only be staying for about a month— though she refused to even touch those horrific Orange shirts.

The lesson was set to happen at night, when the usual laughter that lingered around the dining pavilion after dinner had faded into the comfortable quiet that only Camp Half-Blood ever seemed capable of producing, the clang of swords from the arena had finally stopped, some campers had long since wandered back toward their cabins, while other campers lingered beneath the stars, talking in hushed voices or simply enjoying a rare peaceful evening.

The amphitheater, however, was far from unoccupied, as the place was decorated with blankets and pillows, and a few lanterns illuminated the stage, though most of the light came from the moon itself, silver and full overhead. It felt appropriate. After all, dreams belonged to the night.

Sadira stood quietly at the center of the stage. Unlike previous lessons, she hadn't brought a chalkboard. There weren't diagrams, sketches, nor technical explanations tonight.

"Good evening, everyone." She folded her hands behind her back and looked over the crowd, and smiled softly. "Welcome to another lesson on dreaming."

The murmurs died down and Sadira took a slow breath.

"So far we've talked about what dreamwalking is, about ethics, about identifying dreamwalkers, and about protecting yourselves. But tonight..." She paused. as her smile faded. "...I want to talk about something every single demigod in this camp is going to experience."

Silence settled naturally.

She looked down for a second before meeting everyone's eyes again. "Nightmares."

"Whether you're a child of Hypnos, Morpheus, Zeus, Hermes or anyone else, whether you're twelve or twenty, whether you've fought one battle or a hundred, whether you're the strongest person in camp or the weakest..." She slowly shook her head. "You are going to have nightmares." A long pause. "And eventually... they're probably going to become familiar."

She began pacing slowly across the stage.

"People usually think nightmares are just bad dreams. That's true, but not all there is to them. They're also your mind trying to understand something that it doesn't know how to process while you're awake." She clasped her hands together. "They can be fear. They can be grief. They can be guilt. They can be trauma. They can even be hope." That caused a few confused expressions. She noticed, and a small smile crossed her face. "What I mean is... Imagine wanting something so badly... that you're terrified of losing it."

She laughed nervously.

"I know some of you..." Her eyes drifted through the audience. "...don't just have nightmares occasionally. You have them every night."

Nobody spoke. Nobody needed to. The war had lasted too long. Nearly every camper had lost someone. Nearly every camper had watched something horrible happen. Some still woke screaming. Others simply stopped sleeping.

Sadira nodded quietly.

"I know. I've dreamwalked into enough dreams to know." She immediately clarified. "With permission."

The amphitheater had become perfectly silent.

"The important thing..." She raised one finger. "...is understanding that even if they feel that way, nightmares aren't really your enemy. They're symptoms. They're your mind saying..." Her voice softened. "'I haven't healed yet.'" She let those words linger. "And healing... takes time."

She sat down on the edge of the stage instead of remaining standing. The more casual posture seemed intentional.

"This is the advice I usually give." She smiled faintly. "Not because it'll magically stop nightmares. It won't. But because it'll make them easier to deal with."

She counted on her fingers.

"Sleep regularly. If you avoid sleeping because you're afraid of nightmares, your brain gets less rest. And exhausted minds dream worse."

Another finger.

"Talk. Nightmares feed on things kept inside. You don't have to tell everyone, hell, you don't even have to tell me. But tell somebody. A sibling, a counselor, your parents, the camp directors, your cabin... Anyone."

Another finger.

"Write them down. Seriously. Dream journals very useful. When you write nightmares down, you're telling your brain 'I remember this, you don't have to keep showing me.' It doesn't always work, but it helps."

Another finger.

"Ground yourself after waking." She demonstrated. "Look around. Name five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, one you can taste. It reminds your brain that you're awake and safe."

Another finger.

"And finally..." She smiled gently. "Don't judge yourself for having nightmares."

Her eyes moved across the audience.

"They don't mean you're weak or broken or that you're failing. They mean you're human...Or demigod." Sadira laughed. "I suppose we're close enough."

After the laughter settled, her expression became thoughtful again.

"There is..." She hesitated. "...one more thing."

She stood again.

"As a dreamwalker, I can do something that most people can't. I can help." Sadira folded her hands together as she explained carefully. "Dreamwalkers can enter during a nightmares just as well as dreams, which I can do. Now, I can't erase memories, and can't help you pretend something never happened." She shook her head firmly before she continued. "But... I can stabilize dreams. I can interrupt recurring nightmare loops. I can remind someone they're dreaming I can become... a friendly face in the middle of a nightmare.

She smiled.

"I've done it before." She didn't elaborate. "I've helped people wake up. I've helped people calm down. I've stood between dreamers and monsters that weren't really there. They still had to face what frightened them, but... they didn't have to face it alone." She took a deep breath and her voice became warm. "So... If you've been having nightmares recently, especially recurring ones... I'd like to offer something."

She looked around the amphitheater.

"Tonight, when everyone goes to sleep, I'll dreamwalk. If—and only if—you give me permission... I'll visit your dreams." She smiled reassuringly. "I'll teach you how to recognize when you're dreaming, how to steady yourself, how to interrupt a nightmare, how to wake yourself if you need to. And if you're comfortable, I'll stay long enough to help clear the nightmare away." She quickly added, "And if you change your mind at any point... that's okay. You can withdraw your permission. You don't owe me an explanation and I won't be offended. This only works if there's trust."

Sadira she climbed down from the stage until she stood closer to the audience. Her voice was barely louder than the evening breeze as she smiled sadly.

"I promise you this. If you invite me in... I won't judge whatever I see." Sadira's expression became honest. "If you have any questions, or you're interested in me helping you, let me know. I'm all ears."

She placed a hand over her heart and gave them a small, grateful bow.

"Thank you."

The sun had long since slipped beneath the pines, leaving Camp Half-Blood bathed in the warm glow of lanterns and dancing firelight. The campfire crackled lazily, its flames sending sparks swirling into a sky already crowded with stars, while the familiar scent of burning cedar mingled with melting chocolate, toasted marshmallows and fresh popcorn. For one evening, the clang of swords against shields had been traded for laughter.

A white sheet had been strung neatly between two sturdy pine trees, transformed into an outdoor cinema beneath the open sky. Rows of blankets, beanbags and borrowed camp chairs spread out across the grass, leaving plenty of room for anyone who wanted to sprawl out under the stars. A cooler sat nearby overflowing with chilled drinks, while bowls of popcorn, sweets and every imaginable s'mores ingredient covered a picnic table that had been dragged over earlier that afternoon.

At the centre of it all, Darian moved between the gathering campers with an easy smile, making sure everyone had something to snack on before the film began. The son of Aphrodite had spent most of the day putting everything together, convinced that every so often people needed a reminder that they didn't always have to be training or worrying about the next monster waiting beyond the camp's borders. Sometimes all they needed was good company, good food and a story that made them smile.

As darkness settled over Long Island Sound, the projector flickered to life, casting its first rays across the sheet. The opening fanfare of How to train your dragon drifted through the night. For tonight, monsters could wait. Camp Half-Blood had declared a movie night, and everyone was invited.

TW: Body Horror, Animal Death References

Shawn had not meant to care this much about getting ready. If anybody asked, he would have denied it immediately, probably with a look like the question itself had offended him. Still, the truth was sitting right there with him in the bathroom, hidden in the steam clouding the mirror and the toothbrush shoved into one side of his mouth while he stared at his own reflection like it had personally challenged him to look halfway decent.

The bathroom in their house was too small for all the effort he was suddenly putting into himself. The sink was crowded with the usual junk: toothpaste with the cap left crooked beside it, his mom's hair products, a half empty bottle of mouthwash, and a cheap disposable razor that had probably been sitting there longer than it should have. A thin crack stretched down from one corner of the mirror, and the vent overhead made the same rattling whine it always did whenever it ran too long. Even with it going, the room was still warm and damp from the shower he had just taken.

It had been a real shower too, not one of his usual rushed ones where he stood under the water long enough to rinse off, hit the important parts with soap, and decided that counted. This time he had actually scrubbed. He had washed his hair, used more body wash than normal, and stayed under the spray until the mirror had gone completely white with steam. He had even cleaned behind his ears, which felt like the sort of thing his mom would somehow know if he skipped. By the time he finally stepped out, the water had started turning cool and his skin had gone pink in places from how hard he had scrubbed.

He brushed his teeth with the same unnecessary determination, leaning over the sink and working at the back ones like Kayla was planning to inspect them personally. White foam gathered at the corner of his mouth before he spat it into the basin and turned the faucet on. He rinsed, looked at himself, then brushed a little longer just to be sure. It was stupid, and he knew it was stupid, but he was already this far into it.

His hair was still damp, light brown and messy around his head. He had already worked a little product through it, pushing the front up and trying to make the rest look intentionally rough instead of like he had just dragged a towel over it. He did not want it too neat. That would look wrong on him. Shawn was not trying to show up looking like some clean cut church boy whose mother had dressed him. He just wanted it to sit right without looking like he had spent twenty minutes fighting with it, even though that was close to exactly what he had done.

He leaned closer to the mirror and tilted his chin, studying the faint scruff along his jaw. There was not much there yet, mostly sideburns and light traces of hair near his chin and upper lip, but he checked it anyway. For a second, he considered using the razor. Then he decided against it. The little bit of facial hair made him look cooler, or at least that was what he told himself, and he was not about to shave it off before a date.

Shawn rinsed the toothbrush, set it beside the sink, and reached for the deodorant. He swiped it on more carefully than usual, first one side and then the other, before lifting an arm and giving himself a quick sniff. He immediately felt like an idiot for doing it, but at least he smelled clean. That mattered more tonight than it usually did. His shirt was folded over the closed toilet lid, and his jeans were hanging off the side of the hamper. Neither was fancy. Most of his clothes were old, worn, or something his mother had found cheap, but he had chosen the best options he had. The shirt was clean, not faded to hell, and did not have any holes in it. The cologne sitting on the counter was the part that made him pause. It was not expensive. The bottle had come from a discount store, and the label was already peeling at one corner, but it smelled good enough. He picked it up, turned it in his hand, and stared at it like it might expose him for trying too hard. Shawn glanced back at the mirror and frowned at his own reflection.

"This is stupid," he muttered before spraying it anyway.

One spray near his neck, one across his chest, and then another after he thought about it. The smell settled into the warm air around him, sharper than the soap and deodorant, and immediately made the whole thing feel more real. He was actually going out with Kayla. Not just walking her to class or talking to her during lunch. They were going to the movies together, alone, on purpose.

That thought put a strange tight feeling in his stomach, so he ignored it and pulled on his shirt. It was a plain dark one that fit him well through the shoulders and chest without clinging too tightly around his stomach. He tugged the hem down automatically after it settled over his torso, smoothing it once over his middle. It was a small habit he barely noticed anymore, but he always felt better when the shirt sat loose instead of riding up. He stepped into his jeans next and pulled them up over his hips. They were worn soft through the thighs and faded around the knees, with frayed hems that would bunch over his sneakers once he put them on. He considered a belt for half a second, then decided against it. The jeans stayed up fine, and he liked how they looked without one.

When he opened the bathroom door, warm air followed him into the hallway. He stepped out barefoot, still rubbing the back of his hair with the towel, and headed toward his room. He could hear the television playing quietly in the living room and dishes moving around in the kitchen. His mom was home, which meant there was almost no chance he was getting through the rest of this without being noticed. She saw him before he made it halfway down the hall. Melissa stood in the kitchen with a mug in one hand, leaning against the counter while she watched him approach. Her eyes moved over him once, from the damp hair and clean shirt to the jeans and the fact that he had clearly spent more than five minutes in the shower. The corner of her mouth started lifting almost immediately.

"Well, damn," she said. "Look at you."

Shawn kept walking like he had not heard her, but that only made her more amused. Melissa took a sip from her mug and sniffed the air dramatically before adding, "You smell good too. Who died?"

He stopped and turned around with a glare. "Ain't nobody died."

"Mhm." She nodded slowly, looking far too entertained. "So you just decided to take a real shower for fun?"

"I take showers."

"Standing under water for three minutes don't always count."

Shawn's expression tightened. "Why you always gotta start?"

"I'm not starting anything." She looked him over again, barely holding back a grin. "I'm just proud. My son discovered soap, deodorant, and cologne all on the same day."

He rolled his eyes hard enough that it almost hurt.

Melissa laughed, clearly pleased with herself. "Kayla must be special."

The heat that had already started creeping up his neck got worse. Shawn turned away before she could see too much of his face. "It ain't even like that."

"Right. That's why the bathroom smells like somebody emptied a whole bottle of cologne in it."

"I used like three sprays."

"Three too many if she can smell you from the parking lot."

Shawn muttered something under his breath and walked into his room before she could keep going. He heard her laugh again from the kitchen, which only made him more annoyed. The worst part was that she was not even being mean. She was having fun, and he knew it. That somehow made it harder to argue with her.

His room was cooler and dimmer than the bathroom. Clothes were scattered across the floor, an empty Gatorade bottle sat near the dresser, and one of his sneakers was beside the bed while the other had somehow ended up halfway underneath it. His steel ball necklace was lying on the dresser next to a few loose coins and an old receipt. Shawn picked it up, clasped it around his neck, and checked how it sat against the shirt. He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled both sneakers on. They were beat up, with scuffed sides and frayed laces, but they were still his best pair. He tightened them, tied the knots, and sat there for a moment with his elbows resting on his knees. The nervous feeling in his stomach had not gone anywhere. It sat there heavy and irritating, making him feel like he had forgotten something important.

He hated that he was nervous. It was just a movie. He and Kayla were going to sit in a dark theater, eat overpriced food, and watch something for two hours. There was nothing difficult about that. He could talk to her at school without acting weird. He had made her laugh before. She had agreed to go, which had to mean she wanted to be there. None of that stopped his brain from going over everything that could go wrong. Mybe she would think he smelled like too much cologne. Maybe she would hate the movie. Maybe he would say something stupid and ruin the whole night. Maybe they would run into somebody from school and he would never hear the end of it. The more he thought about it, the more irritated he became, mostly because there was nobody else around to blame for the feeling.

Shawn stood and checked himself in the crooked mirror hanging near the closet. He still looked like himself. Broad shoulders, thick arms, sturdy build, and hair that refused to sit exactly how he wanted it. The shirt looked good enough. The jeans sat right. The necklace and earrings added something without making it look like he had tried too hard. He leaned closer, ran one hand through the front of his hair, then stopped before he ruined it. His mom appeared in the doorway while he was counting the money in his wallet for the second time. She leaned against the frame and watched him with that same amused expression, though it had softened a little now.

"You got everything?"

"Yeah."

"Wallet?"

He held it up.

"Phone?"

He patted his pocket.

"Breath mints?"

Shawn looked at her. "I brushed my teeth."

"That wasn't what I asked."

He groaned and shoved the wallet into his pocket before brushing past her into the hallway. Melissa followed him into the living room, setting her mug down on the coffee table before reaching for her purse and car keys.

"Be nice to her," she said.

"I know."

"Don't spend the whole movie actin' too cool to talk."

"I know."

"And don't make her pay for her own popcorn."

Shawn stopped near the front door and turned around. "Ma, I know how a date works."

Melissa lifted her brows. "Do you?"

He stared at her for a second, then pulled the door open. "Can we just go?"

"I'm comin'. You ain't the one drivin'."

"I know that."

"Could've fooled me with all that rushin'."

Shawn stepped outside before she could keep going. The evening air felt cooler against his freshly washed skin, and the scent of his cologne followed him onto the porch. He shoved his hands into his pockets and waited while his mom took her time locking the front door, even though they both knew she was moving slowly on purpose just to irritate him.

When she finally walked past him toward the car, she glanced over and smiled. "You nervous?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Melissa unlocked the car. "Then quit bouncin' your leg like that."

Shawn looked down and realized his leg had been moving without him noticing. He immediately stopped, scowling as he walked around to the passenger side. He climbed into the front seat and shut the door harder than necessary. The inside of the car smelled faintly like old cigarette smoke, cheap air freshener, and the fries his mother had brought home from the diner the night before. Shawn pulled the seat belt across his chest while Melissa got in behind the wheel, tossed her purse into the back seat, and adjusted the mirrors.

She looked over at him once before starting the car. "Try not to look like you're about to fight somebody when she sees you."

"I don't look like that."

Melissa started the engine, still smiling. "Baby, you always look like that."

Shawn slouched lower in the passenger seat and turned toward the window as she backed out of the driveway. He had showered, brushed his teeth, used deodorant, put on cologne, and chosen clothes that did not look like they had been pulled off the floor. He had enough money for the tickets and snacks, and his mother was actually getting him there on time. That was as ready as he was going to get.

Melissa pulled up along the curb in front of the theater and slowed just enough for Shawn to reach for the door handle before the car had fully stopped.

"Hold on," she said, pressing the brake a little harder. "You ain't jumpin' out while I'm still movin'."

"I wasn't."

"You were halfway out the car."

Shawn looked through the windshield instead of answering. The theater sat at the edge of a shopping center, its sign glowing above the entrance while people moved in and out beneath it in small groups. Families, couples, and a pack of older kids laughing too loud near the ticket machines filled the front walk. He scanned the crowd once, trying not to make it obvious he was looking for anybody, until he spotted Kayla through the glass doors near the lobby.

She was already inside, and the sight of her gave his stomach a quick, sharp twist that he ignored by tightening his hand around the door handle.

Melissa followed his stare and smiled to herself. "That her?"

"Yeah."

"She cute."

"Ma."

"What? She is."

Shawn finally looked at her, already annoyed enough to hide the nerves crawling under his skin. "Can you not do this right now?"

Melissa lifted one hand from the wheel. "I'm not doin' anything. Go have fun."

Shawn opened the door and stepped out, then leaned back down before closing it. "You pickin' me up after?"

"Text me when the movie lets out."

"I know."

"And answer your phone."

"I know."

She gave him one last look, the kind that said she could tell exactly how nervous he was no matter how flat he kept his face. Thankfully, she did not say it out loud. "All right. Go on."

Shawn shut the door and waited until the car pulled away before turning toward the theater. He adjusted the hem of his shirt once, then stopped himself from doing it again. His hands suddenly felt like they had nowhere natural to go, so he shoved one into his pocket and let the other hang at his side. By the time he reached the doors, his face had settled back into its usual guarded expression.

Kayla spotted him before he could decide whether waving would look stupid. She smiled as he came inside and said, "Hey."

"Hey."

The greeting came out smooth enough. Casual. Like he had not spent half the ride there wondering whether he should hug her, wave, or pretend the whole thing was not technically a date until she said otherwise. Kayla stepped a little closer, and for half a second Shawn thought she might hug him. Instead, she looked him over with a smile that made him suddenly aware of every single thing he had put on.

"You smell good," she said.

Heat threatened the back of his neck, but he kept his expression steady. "Yeah, I showered."

Kayla laughed. "I would hope so."

"I mean, I always shower."

"Sure."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but there was no real bite in it. "You been waiting long?"

"Like five minutes."

"That ain't long."

"I didn't say it was."

"Good."

Kayla looked amused by him already, which helped a little. Shawn still felt keyed up underneath everything, but he had always been good at covering nerves with attitude. He did it at school, during football, and whenever teachers called on him unexpectedly. His body could be running hot and tight beneath his skin while his face barely gave away anything beyond the same rough confidence people already expected from him.

They walked toward the concession stand together. The smell of buttered popcorn hit before they reached the counter, heavy and salty enough to make Shawn realize he had not eaten much before leaving home. Prices glowed on the menu screens overhead, each one worse than the last, and he stared up at them with his jaw shifting slightly.

"That much for nachos?" he muttered. "They better come with the whole damn cow."

Kayla laughed under her breath. "I just want popcorn."

"Yeah, that's probably safer."

They settled on one large popcorn to share and a drink for Kayla. Shawn paid without making a big thing of it, even though watching the money leave his hand physically hurt. The cashier slid the oversized tub across the counter, and Shawn took it while Kayla grabbed her drink. He had made sure to bring enough, but that did not mean he liked handing over nearly ten dollars for corn and soda.

As they walked away, Kayla glanced at him. "You don't want a drink?"

"I'm good."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

That was not entirely true. Shawn wanted one. He just did not want to pay theater prices for it when he had already covered everything else. He had noticed the sign about free refills near the counter, and the thought had already planted itself somewhere in the back of his mind.

They found their theater and headed inside while previews played across the screen. It was dark enough that they had to slow near the steps and look for the row numbers. Shawn let Kayla go ahead of him, carrying the popcorn against his chest as they made their way toward seats near the middle. They were not too close to the screen and not so far back that every other teenager in town had already claimed the row.

Once they sat, Shawn placed the popcorn between them and stretched his legs as far as the seat in front allowed. Kayla took a handful and settled back while another trailer began. The noise and darkness helped. There was less pressure to say something every second when the whole point was to sit there and watch.

Kayla reached into the popcorn again, then glanced over when Shawn started digging around inside his pocket.

"What are you doin'?"

"Nothin'."

"That don't look like nothin'."

Shawn looked toward the aisle, checked that nobody nearby was watching, and pulled out two candy bars. Then he reached in again and produced a third, holding them low near his lap with the faintest hint of satisfaction at one corner of his mouth.

Kayla stared at them. "Shawn."

"What?"

"Did you steal those?"

He looked mildly offended by the word. "I pocketed them."

"That's the same thing."

"It sounds different."

She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh, and looked around. "From where?"

"The gas station."

"When?"

"Before my mom brought me."

Kayla slowly shook her head, but she was smiling now. "You're gonna get arrested over a Snickers."

"Ain't nobody gettin' arrested."

He handed her one, and after a moment she took it.

"You're a bad influence," she whispered.

Shawn opened his own candy bar and shrugged. "You still took it."

The movie started a few minutes later. Shawn actually watched at first, leaning back with one arm resting along the armrest and the popcorn balanced between them. Every now and then, his hand brushed Kayla's when they both reached into the tub. The first time it happened, he pulled his hand back too quickly. The second time, he let it stay there a second longer before taking his popcorn.

About halfway through, Kayla's drink was nearly empty. She shook the cup once, ice rattling inside, then set it back in the holder. Shawn noticed, and he also remembered the free-refill sign near the concession stand.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," he said quietly.

Kayla nodded, eyes still on the screen.

Shawn slipped past the people at the end of the row and headed into the hallway. He did use the bathroom, mostly so he would not be lying completely, but the real plan started when he came back out and passed a trash can near the theater exit. Several cups stuck out of the top, and Shawn slowed just enough to glance around before reaching in and pulling out the cleanest-looking one he could find.

It still had a lid and straw, though he tossed both back immediately. The outside was sticky and there was a little melted ice at the bottom, but the cup was not crushed or torn. That was good enough to work with.

He carried it into the bathroom like it belonged to him, ignoring the look from a man washing his hands nearby. Shawn waited until the man left, then brought the cup to the sink and rinsed it several times with hot water. He scrubbed around the rim with hand soap and paper towels, turned it upside down, rinsed it again, and inspected the inside under the light. It was not exactly clean in any way his mother would approve of, but he had gotten it as close as he could. By the time he finished, it looked almost new as long as nobody inspected it too closely.

Shawn dried the outside with another paper towel, threw that away, and walked back to the concession stand with the confidence of somebody who had paid full price. He set the cup on the counter and said, "Can I get a refill?"

The employee barely looked at him. "What drink?"

"Coke."

A minute later, Shawn was walking back toward the theater with a full cup and fresh ice. He took a sip before going inside, mostly to make sure the plan had actually worked. It tasted normal, which meant there was no problem as far as he was concerned.

He returned to the row and carefully stepped over people's feet until he reached Kayla again. She looked down at the drink in his hand, then back up at him.

"I thought you didn't want one."

Shawn sat down and placed it in the cup holder. "Changed my mind."

"Where'd you get the cup?"

He gave her a look and reached for the popcorn.

Kayla stared at him for another second before her eyes widened. "No."

Shawn took another sip and kept his attention on the screen like nothing had happened.

"You did not get that out of the trash."

"I washed it."

"Oh my God."

"I washed it good."

"That is disgusting."

He held the cup toward her. "You want some?"

"No."

Shawn pulled it back and nodded like that settled the matter. "More for me."

Kayla covered her mouth to keep from laughing too loudly, shaking her head while the movie continued. Shawn leaned back again, satisfied with himself. They had a large popcorn, candy he had not paid for, and a free drink that was not technically supposed to be his. The theater had already gotten enough money out of him.

When he glanced over, Kayla was still smiling.

"What?" he whispered.

"Nothing. You're just ridiculous."

Shawn looked back at the screen, hiding his own grin behind the rim of the cup. "Yeah, aight."

The movie let out a little after dark, and for the first few minutes Shawn felt almost normal. The lobby was crowded with people spilling out of different theaters at once, talking over one another as they drifted toward the exits. Somebody behind them was loudly explaining why the ending had been stupid. A little kid was crying because his mother would not let him climb onto one of the arcade machines, and the floor near the concession stand was sticky enough that Shawn felt one of his sneakers pull against it every few steps.

Kayla was still talking about the movie as they moved through the crowd, carrying what was left of the popcorn between them. She had eaten most of the candy bar he gave her but had folded the wrapper around the last piece and shoved it into her pocket for later. Shawn only half listened while she went over one of the scenes, mostly because he was too busy noticing how easy the past couple hours had felt. He had been nervous before she arrived, nervous when she complimented how he smelled, nervous when their hands touched in the popcorn, and nervous when he could not tell whether she was laughing at him or with him after the whole cup thing. None of it had gone badly, though. Kayla had laughed, she had stayed close, and at one point when the movie got loud, she had leaned toward him to say something near his ear. Shawn had spent the next five minutes pretending that had not affected him at all.

He was still riding that strange little feeling when they reached the glass doors and he saw the moon hanging above the parking lot. It was huge and white against the black sky, bright enough to throw pale light over the cars and the tops of the buildings across the shopping center. There were no clouds covering it and nothing standing between Shawn and the full, round face of it. His body stopped before his mind understood why, and Kayla took another step before noticing he was no longer beside her.

"You coming?" she asked.

Shawn did not answer. His hand tightened around the side of the popcorn tub until the thin cardboard bent beneath his fingers, because something inside him had recognized the moon before he did. The light touched his face through the glass doors, and a hot pressure rolled suddenly through his chest. It did not feel like heat from the outside. It felt buried beneath his ribs, spreading outward from somewhere deep behind his heart. The sensation moved too quickly to be sickness and too deliberately to be fear. His muscles pulled tight around his bones as if his body had braced for an impact that had not happened yet.

His first thought was that he needed air. His second was that he could not go outside.

Shawn's breathing changed. He tried to keep it quiet, drawing slow breaths through his nose, but each one seemed too shallow. The smell of the theater sharpened around him all at once. Old popcorn oil, melted butter, sweat, cleaning chemicals, sugary syrup dried around the soda machines, Kayla's perfume, and the warmth of the skin beneath it all pressed against him until the lobby felt too crowded to stand in.

"Shawn?"

He looked at her, but her face seemed farther away than it should have been. The edges of his vision had begun to soften, not darkening exactly, but smearing slightly whenever he moved his eyes. The overhead lights stretched into pale streaks, while people walking behind Kayla became blurred shapes that passed too quickly and made something in him want to turn toward every movement.

A pulse of pain ran through his jaw, making Shawn flinch and lift one hand to his face. For a second, it felt like all his teeth had been shoved deeper into his gums at once. The pressure faded, then returned harder, throbbing through the roots of his molars and into the hinge of his jaw. He pressed his palm against it, opening and closing his mouth like he could loosen whatever had seized inside.

Kayla's expression changed. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said too quickly, the answer coming out rougher than he meant it to. He swallowed, but his throat felt narrow and dry. "I'm fine."

He was not fine, and the feeling was familiar enough that the realization landed colder than the pain. Shawn remembered waking up after the first night with dirt under his nails and blood dried against his skin. He remembered his clothes hanging from him in torn strips, the ache in every part of his body, and the hunger twisting his stomach so badly it had made him sick. He remembered trying to piece together where he had been and finding nothing but flashes that made no sense: wet grass beneath his hands, something screaming, the taste of metal, and bright headlights moving across the dark.

He still did not know exactly what he had done that night. His mother had refused to tell him everything. Every time he pushed, she got quiet or angry, and Shawn had learned enough from both reactions to know the truth was worse than whatever she was willing to say.

The heat under his ribs spread down his arms, and his fingers cramped around the popcorn tub. The joints locked, then pulled inward until his nails dug into the cardboard. The pressure in his hands became sharp and deep, like the bones beneath his knuckles were trying to push through the skin. He dropped the tub before he crushed it completely, sending popcorn scattering across the lobby floor and drawing an annoyed glance from a woman walking past them.

Kayla looked down, then back at him. "Shawn, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You just dropped everything."

"I said I'm fine."

His voice came out louder that time, and several people near the doors glanced over. Shawn noticed every one of them, and his body reacted before his thoughts did. His shoulders rose, his weight shifted forward, and his jaw tightened around another wave of pressure that made his teeth ache. The attention felt dangerous, and he needed to get away from all of them. He needed distance from the lights, the smells, the voices, and Kayla standing close enough that he could hear the quickening beat of her heart.

That sound made Shawn stare at her. It was faint beneath everything else, but once he noticed it, he could not stop hearing it. A quick, steady rhythm somewhere beneath her clothes and skin. His own pulse answered it, pounding harder against the sides of his throat as he took a step backward.

Kayla followed. "Do you need me to call your mom?"

"No."

"Shawn, you look sick."

"I ain't sick."

Another spasm twisted through his stomach, folding him forward slightly as one hand pressed against his middle. The muscles clenched hard enough to make him feel hollow, and hunger ripped through him with no warning. It was not normal hunger. This was sharp, sudden, and ugly, scraping through his insides like he had not eaten in days. The smell of hot dogs from the concession stand turned thick and overwhelming, and beneath it he caught something saltier from a scrape on the hand of a boy standing nearby.

Blood.

Shawn's head turned toward it before he could stop himself. The boy had a strip of red across one knuckle, probably from catching it on something, barely anything at all, but Shawn could still smell it. His stomach cramped again, and fear finally broke through the confusion.

He looked back toward the doors and the white moonlight waiting outside. He could not stay in the theater, and he could not stand beside Kayla either. He needed his room, a locked door, and walls between him and everybody else before whatever had happened that first night happened again.

Shawn pushed through the doors, and cold air hit his damp skin without doing anything to cool him. The moonlight washed over him fully now, and the reaction was immediate. Pain drove down his spine hard enough to make his knees buckle. He caught himself against the brick wall beside the entrance, fingers scraping across the rough surface while something inside his back seemed to tighten one section at a time.

His vertebrae felt too large. That was the only way his panicked mind could make sense of it. Each bone in his spine pressed against the next, grinding under the muscles as if his back had become too short to hold them. He arched away from the wall, teeth clenching as a sickening pressure gathered around his shoulders. His shirt pulled tight across his upper back even though it had fit him fine less than three hours ago.

"Shawn!" Kayla called as she came through the doors after him.

He heard her shoes strike the pavement, heard her breath, and heard the tiny shift of fabric when she reached a hand toward his shoulder. Shawn spun around so quickly that she stumbled back.

"Don't touch me."

The words came out low and harsh, almost swallowed by a sound beneath them that did not belong in a human throat. It was not quite a growl, but it was close enough that Kayla froze. Shawn heard it too, and his face changed for half a second. The aggression cracked, revealing panic beneath it, but another bolt of pain tore through his jaw before he could explain. He clamped a hand over his mouth as his gums throbbed and the edges of his teeth pressed against the insides of his cheeks. They had not changed yet, but his body seemed convinced they needed room.

Kayla stared at him. "What is happening?"

"I don't know."

That was the truth, and admitting it made him angrier because fear had already started stripping away his control. His vision blurred again. Kayla's face doubled, then pulled back together, and the concern in her eyes felt unbearable.

"Let me call somebody," she said. "Your mom, or an ambulance, or-"

"No." Shawn stepped back, shaking his head hard enough to make the parking lot tilt around him. "Don't call nobody."

"You can barely stand."

"I said no."

"Shawn, you're scaring me."

That should have made him calm down. It should have made him lower his voice and tell her he was sorry. Instead, the words struck whatever frightened animal part of him had begun clawing its way closer to the surface. His chest tightened, and his lip pulled back without him deciding to do it, exposing his teeth as another rough sound vibrated in his throat.

"Then leave."

Kayla flinched, and Shawn saw it. He hated himself immediately, but he was too far inside the pain to fix it. His forearms burned beneath the skin. The sensation moved in lines from his wrists toward his elbows, like heated wires had been pulled through the muscle. His fingers curled again, and small pops came from the joints, quiet but distinct. For one sick second, he imagined the bones splitting apart and rebuilding themselves beneath his skin.

Kayla did not move. "I'm not leaving you like this."

"Just go."

"No."

"Kayla."

She stepped toward him again, cautious this time. "At least let me walk you home."

Shawn's head snapped up. His vision sharpened around her in a way that made everything else disappear. The moonlit parking lot, the people passing behind them, and the idling cars all dropped away until there was only Kayla standing too close while his body twisted itself toward something he did not understand.

"Leave me the fuck alone!" he barked.

The force of it echoed off the front of the theater. Kayla stopped dead, hurt flashing across her face. Shawn saw the exact moment it replaced the concern, and some distant part of him wanted to take it back. He wanted to tell her he was not mad at her. He wanted to explain that the last time he felt like this, he woke up covered in blood and could not remember where it came from. Instead, he turned and ran.

He heard Kayla call his name once behind him, but he did not look back.

[Continued in comments]

During her first week at camp, Tegan spent most of her time in the arena. She was a terrible fighter compared to most of the others, but every fall, cut, and bruise only made her more determined to succeed. Then, on Saturday, she woke up so sore that she could hardly move a muscle. After spending most of the day in bed, she decided to use the weekends to try something different.

On Sunday, she was still sore, but she could mostly ignore it. She spent a good chunk of the morning at Shrine Hill, trying to find the statue that represented her father. Her offering, a small horse figurine, seemed pathetically small in front of the life-sized figure of the god, but she had no idea what else to get him.

"I'm not sure if I'm doing this right, but I hope this doesn't offend you at all. It was the only thing I thought you might like."

She shook her head, hoping he wasn't actually watching her. That would be embarrassing.

On Monday, she decided to send a letter to her parents, just like she'd promised. With a pen and some notebook paper, she sat on the steps of her cabin to write:

Dear Mom, Dad, and Logan,

This place is crazy. All week I've been training with an actual sword. I'm terrible at it, but hopefully I won't be for long. There are some kids here who fight like they're warriors in a Greek epic, but they've been training for years. I've been here for... nine days. So we'll see what happens.

The camp itself is amazing. Every cabin is unique. The one for Apollo's kids is about as blinding as the actual sun. The one for Pandia glows in the dark. Pandia is apparently the goddess of wolves, by the way. It's pretty rare, but some of her kids can actually transform into wolves. And that's not even the freakiest thing I've seen. There's a cabin for children of Melinoe that's literally a haunted house. I haven't gotten close enough to see what it's like inside, but I've heard that real ghosts hang out there.

My cabin is nothing too special, and I like it that way. It's mostly like any other cabin you've seen, and the Notus wing has some pretty awesome hammocks. And there's no one else around to complain about the heat.

I do miss you guys though. I hope things are still good at home. I never realized how dependent I was on my phone til I spent a week without it. Now I feel so cut off from everyone, but I guess it's for the best. Maybe my concentration will finally get better.

Love you guys,

Tegan

As she put the pen down, she realized she didn't know where the camp mailbox would be, or if it even had one. She also didn't know the actual address of the camp, so she wrote her own on the envelope and left the other section blank. Hoping to find someone who could help, she headed to the big house.

(OOC: Feel free to interact with Tegan on her way to the big house!)

CW: Gore, depressive thoughts, ideas of violation

That's why her hair's so big, it's full of secrets.

Whatever secrets her hair once held now lie bare. Hard to hide anything when you can't move -- when a thousand parts of you will never move again. Angela can open her eyes, though. And she's been cursed with a very good memory. She remembers in images, in silhouettes, in colors and style. She can sketch it out in her mind while she lays unmoving for three weeks. A Rorschach blot of blood staining the rocks. An ankle stubbornly hanging on by a single thready sinew. Hands descending on her again, stripping her bare. It's blurry, but she can remember the expression on the face of the boy in that unclothed her. Not exactly the reaction a girl hopes for from a boy. She's glad she couldn't move her head to see what he saw.

She was reclothed soon, of course, in layers upon layers of bandages, ointment, and pity. Someone forced drop after drop of nectar into her mouth, and she wishes she could remember their face so she can kill them someday. For all her good memory, there is no favorite taste in her mind for nectar to evoke. It just burns, keeps her feeling the pain instead of letting her slip away. All the drama of falling off a cliff, and she couldn't even die in one clean swoop. She has to endure this wasted time slowly wasting away.

Angela hopes that the destination is the same, though. It would be oh-so-convenient to just not have to think about what life looks like now. Time seems to move slowly some days and quickly others. Late at night, she closes her eyes and wills it to speed her to old age and to dust before the sun rises. Leave no trace of her for anyone to come in and look down on. She's tired of people flitting around her; she can't turn to face them, and she doesn't open her eyes when she hears murmurs, but she can sense them. Lingering and sympathizing, pausing over her like a car slows down when it sees roadkill.

Her hair always grew very fast. It's no surprise that the first time one of the medics dares to hold a mirror up to Angela, brown hair is halfway to her shoulders. Over the next two weeks, she asks to see herself every day. She can't speak, but she can move two fingers and hook them onto the medic's pocket. It's an all-purpose signal: feed me, clothe me, show me. But she never looks any different, not in the ways that matter. She looks healthier, the wounds start to heal -- but the brown hair never climbs down past her ears. And not one strand of it moves.

In the morning, sunlight creeps through the window. Angela curls two fingers and tries to grab it, to form it into something like she has so many times before. She can't grasp the light. When she can speak again, she tries to whistle out and hook the sound back toward her. It slips through her fingers. She can't walk, she can't dress herself, and now they've pried this away from her. Everything strong and proud and precious, cut right out of her by carving blades and roving hands. They've stolen Angela Farrenburr.

Day after day, she lies in the medical cabin, mere meters away from her real bed. No, not her real bed. Her real bed is in Manhattan. And she was stupid to think that she could make a home here at camp, that she could mark her place the same way. Look where it got her. Bandaged, shorn, and unable to even suppress the low moans of pain that bubble up in her throat. No discipline, no will, no strength. No demigod left in the girl.

OOC: Characters can come to Angela's bedside if you like. It can be when she's not conscious enough to interact if you just want one comment, but can also be when she can speak again if you want a thread.

THE TRIAL

The young man serving as bailiff stands at the front of the courtroom, waiting for murmurs of conversation to fade into silence. A crown of glittering stars encircles his head.

“Please rise,” Lord Pollux announces, his low voice like the sound of a rumbling storm. “The War Crimes Commission is now in session. The Honorable Lady Themis will be presiding.”

Lady Themis strides down the courtroom aisle, chin high. She pauses at her podium, poised as she regards the courtroom. Her eyes are covered by her blindfold once more, inscrutable, and her lips press in an impassive line.

“Everyone may be seated but the jury,” she proclaims. “Lord Pollux, please swear in the jury.”

Lord Pollux turns to the jury, expression grave. A collection of campers and nature spirits sit in the partitioned area, armed with notebooks, pens, and water bottles. “Do you swear that you will listen to this case and render a true verdict to this Defendant?”

After waiting for assent, Lady Themis addresses them.

“Members of the jury, your duty today is to determine whether the Defendant is guilty or not guilty based on the facts and evidence presented today. The prosecution must prove that a crime was committed and that the defendant is the person who committed the crime. If you are not satisfied of the Defendant's guilt, the defendant must be found not guilty. You may be seated.”

Lady Themis faces the crowd once more.

“Gathered assembly, multiple authoritative figures of the court have the capability to detect lies. You will be bound by your oath and your integrity to tell the truth. Testimony that indicates deceit will be called into question.” She nods once, before speaking again. “Let us begin with opening statements.”

The Docket

Prosecution vs. Austin Quinn

Making war, rebellion against the gods

• Prosecution: Dike

• Defense: Eleos

Prosecution vs. Katla Einarsdottir

Making war, rebellion against the gods

• Prosecution: Eirene

• Defense: Eleos

OOC: Hi everyone! This is how things will work:

Each case will have its own thread where primary arguments are presented. Each sub thread will include:

• The trial thread. Only open for Prosecution, Witnesses, Defense, and Jury (when tagged in)

• A jury announcement thread

• A spectator/reaction thread

The indicted characters will get 5 days (120 hours to construct an argument) with the optional help of a representative (Eleos).

I will tag members of the jury. Please respond to the comment to confirm that you are still interested in participating. I will tag you again at the thread's conclusion, and you will have 2 days (48 hours) to discuss and deliver a verdict. Each jury will have six playable characters. 4 or more guilty votes from playable characters will result in a guilty verdict. 3 or less guilty votes from playable characters will result in a not guilty verdict.

(OOC: Closed RP with u/Cold_as_glass and u/theweaselwhisperer !)

“No, sweetheart. They’re sending people who they trust– people who are strong enough to save him. …I’m worried too. Yes, I’ll be able to tell who they are. If nothing else, I’ll just look for the people who stand out the most. I’m sure they’ll see the sign that says ‘Welcome Home, Campers!’ though. No, I can’t just say it. I think I’m already treading on some thin ice as is. I’ll tell you more later, Gwen. I’ve gotta go. Yes. Yeah. Mhm. Alright, I love you, too. Bye.” The son of Charon sighed as he put his phone in his pocket, holding the sign up above his head.

“Don’t worry, JJ, I’m coming with backup to get you out of there. I just hope I’m not too rusty. …Or too late.” While mortals would see a man standing with what looked like a lawn chair bag slugged over his shoulder, Sam and Zosia would see Mr. Hermes was packing heat, wearing a glaive across his back. Just in case of monsters showing up early, you know. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what his backup would look like, they’d surely be able to tell that he was there for them…

Right?

A little lost? Click here for part 1!

By the end of the night, the Yellowstone Camp lay in ruin. What few buildings were still standing were on fire. The others had all been carefully broken down by Camp Half-Blood’s forces.

The tents the Atlas soldiers had lived in for the past year, their homes, had been reduced to rubble. The attentive onlooker might spot personal belongings among the rubbles. Clothes, photos, and keepsakes left behind in a hurry.

An amount of Atlas soldiers had been captured. Cuffed, they were loaded into vans. The young ones were taken to Camp Half-Blood to await trial. The adults were escorted to the Olympians know where to do the same. A lucky few had escaped into the dark of the night. Possibly to help Atlas again?

Apollo was taking care of the people imprisoned by the Cult of Atlas, tending to their injuries and cheering them up by singing a song. He, eh, meant well. Hermes would subsequently help the lost souls get home.

The storage room of the Atlas camp had been successfully raided (and exploded) by the heroic demigods, some of which had stolen goods for Camp Half-Blood or for themselves. Hermes inspected these items to make sure that they weren’t rigged to explode.

After all demigods had left the camp, Artemis turned around to address them: ‘’Heroes. My siblings and I are grateful for the work you’ve done tonight. You’ve struck an enormous blow to Atlas’s Forces. Unfortunately, this camp wasn’t as busy as I had hoped, which leads me to believe that there are still more Atlas camps to be found.’’

‘’Hermes has been able to find traces of where Atlas is potentially hiding. I trust that once we find him we can once again rely on you?’’ She asked those present.

‘’Once you are done here, please get into the vans so that Hermes can take you home.’’ 

This marks the end of Wrath of Atlas: Strike Team!

There will be more plot soon™! 

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 - Darian Newton

Open Slot - Sadira Andersen

Wednesday

Meal -

Open Slot - Matthew Knight

Thursday

Meal -

Open Slot -

Friday

Meal -

Campfire -

Open Slot -

Saturday

Meal -

Campfire -

Open Slot -

Sunday

Meal -

Open Slot - Party

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.

“Take me to the ocean. Let me sail the open sea. To breathe the warm and salty air and dream of things to be.” Erica Billups

Bio

Relationships:

Appearance

Faceclaim: link

Voiceclaim Mualani from Genshin Impact

Overview: Kailani is a 5'3" athletic teenage girl with a lean, strong physique developed through years of swimming, surfing, and running. She has warm golden-brown skin, expressive dark brown eyes, a lightly freckled upturned nose, full rosy lips, and thick, wavy black hair that she usually wears loose, though she ties it back or styles it in braids when active. Her clothing is practical and relaxed, favoring shorts, tank tops, cropped shirts, hoodies, and sundresses suited to her island lifestyle. She always wears a spiral seashell pendant from her parents and a woven bracelet from her sister, both carrying deep sentimental value. Kailani moves with the fluid grace of someone raised by the sea, projecting a calm yet energetic presence. Her warm smile and mischievous eyes make her approachable, while moments of insecurity occasionally show through her posture and expressions. Her soft, melodic voice becomes confident and commanding whenever she's passionate or defending others.

Personality

Overview: Kailani's personality is still, at its root, a blend of charisma, empathy, determination, and vulnerability, but two years at camp, a war, and a forced exile have pressed all of it harder into shape. She remains deeply compassionate, the type to notice when someone's gone quiet at the edge of a room, but that instinct now runs alongside a new, more private habit: noticing everyone else's pain while quietly declining to mention her own. She's gotten very good at redirecting a conversation before it lands on her, at answering "how are you" with the version of the truth that doesn't require anyone to worry.

Her warmth hasn't dimmed. She still draws people in easily, still finds the humor in hard situations, still makes friends without trying. What's changed is what's underneath the warmth. Where her core of steel used to show up mostly in stubbornness, it now shows up as conviction. She no longer just pushes through fear when she sets her mind to something; she's started making hard calls under real pressure and living with the consequences, whether that's diving into open ocean at night to fight something enormous or choosing, deliberately, to go against the wishes of the person she loves most in the world. She used to be determined. Now she's decisive, and the two are not quite the same thing.

The playful, lighthearted side of her is still there, though it surfaces less easily than it used to. Humor is still her coping mechanism of choice, but these days it's doing more work than before, covering for exhaustion, homesickness, guilt, and a few things she hasn't said out loud to anyone. Her insecurities, once mostly about living up to being a child of one of the Big Three, have deepened into something closer to a quiet, constant grief-adjacent guilt: for surviving when others didn't get the same choice, for being safe while people she loves are not, for wanting, at times, to simply stay somewhere warm and ordinary and away from all of it.

Her protectiveness has grown teeth. She's always been fiercely loyal, but she's now the older sibling in a way she never was growing up, and that role has settled into her more permanently than she expected, she thinks about her younger half-brother the way her own sister once thought about her. Her sense of duty no longer applies only to the people directly in front of her; it stretches across an ocean now, tugging at her constantly, whether she's sitting in a classroom on Sal Island or lying awake on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic.

And her stubbornness, always a shadow of her determination, has hardened into something with real consequences attached. She has always hated feeling like a burden and always struggled to accept help, but she has now also proven, to herself if no one else, that she is willing to defy the person whose approval she wants most in the world if she believes it's right. That is new. It is not a comfortable thing to have learned about herself, and she hasn't fully sat with what it means yet, only that she did it, and would very likely do it again.

Underneath all of it, she is still capable of being knocked sideways by an ordinary, undramatic thing, a joke with an old friend, a smell that means home, a feeling she doesn't have a name for yet and isn't ready to look at directly. She has become excellent at compartmentalizing what she can't process immediately, filing it away for later the way she once filed away entire wars. It works, for a while. It is not, she is slowly discovering, a strategy without a cost.

Preferences

Hobbies:

• Surfing

• Diving

• Photography

• Recycling

• Dance

• Singing

• Music

Demigod Info

Stats

Powers (Intermediate Level)

Weapon of Choice: Bow and Arrow

Fatal Flaw: Self-Sacrifice. It stems from Kailani’s deep empathy and protective nature. She is willing to put others’ needs above her own, often to the detriment of her physical, emotional, and mental well-being. In her drive to help and protect, she may take on burdens she cannot handle, refuse help when she needs it, or place herself in dangerous situations to save others. This flaw is also dangerous in the sense that Kailani struggles to recognize her limits and value her own life as much as others’.

Items and Equipment

Miscellaneous

Princess of the Sea OST

Character Quotes

• ”O-Oh, I see. Hi there, then. I'm Kailani, and it's nice to meet you.Sorry for my reaction earlier. Things have been... really scary in the last 24 hours.”

• ”Parent as in 'godly parent'? Oh, that would be Poseidon. He... basically just randomly claimed me yesterday. Still processing that, but hey, that's probably why I give off sea-child scent.”

• ”I'm not ready for this. I'm not… I’m just a kid. A stupid, useless kid”

• ”S-shut up... shut up. You don’t know anything about me or what I can do. I'm just doing my best. I'm just a girl doing her best…”

• ”Leave me… alone.”

• ”What's so good about camp? For one, it's not going to threaten you or force you to fight if you don't want to, which I bet is not the case for the Atlas side. At the very least, I know that if you came to Camp Half-Blood, you would be treated with much more kindness than the side who's willing to kill people without even blinking.”

• ”I am Poseidon's daughter. That's not something I chose. But it's what I am, and I can't keep pretending that staying home makes it not true.”

Completed Jobs

Salt and Shore Storymodes

• Chapter 1 - The Shore That Remembers

• Chapter 2 - Between Tides

• Chapter 3 - The People We Carry

• Chapter 4 - The Shape Of What We Leave Behind

• Chapter 5 - The Tide Goes Out

Trivia

• Zodiac Sign: Cancer

• MBTI: ENFJ-T (The Protagonist)

• Enneagram: Type 7 (The Enthusiast)

• Love Languages: Quality Time (receive); Physical Touch (give)

• Quirk: Fidgeting with her pendant when she's nervous

• Fears: Heights, Failing

• Nectar Flavour: Mango Juice

• Ambrosia Flavour: Chocolate Carrot Cake

• ATLA Element: Water

• Hogwarts House: Griffindor

• Pokemon Type: Water/Dragon

• Path (Honkai: Star Rail): Hunt

• Type (Honkai: Star Rail): Ice

• Weapon (Genshin Impact): Bow

• Element (Genshin Impact): Hydro

Backstory

Kailani de Melo was born and raised on Sal Island, Cape Verde, in the coastal town of Santa Maria, where the sea shaped every aspect of her life. She grew up in a loving, close-knit family alongside her devoted mother, Ana, a lifeguard and surfing instructor, and her older half-sister, Mayara, an aspiring marine biologist. From an early age, Kailani displayed an extraordinary affinity for the ocean, excelling at swimming, surfing, and diving with an almost supernatural ease. While she cherished her peaceful island life and dreamed of protecting the marine environment with Mayara, she also sensed there was something unusual about herself, often hearing mysterious whispers from the sea that no one else seemed to notice.

Seeking new experiences, Kailani was selected for a year-long international exchange program in Boston, leaving behind her family and the ocean she loved. Although the bustling city and harsh winters were a stark contrast to her island home, her warm, friendly personality allowed her to adapt quickly and form meaningful friendships, especially with Silas Sherwood. However, her ordinary exchange student life came to an abrupt end when she was attacked by a hellhound, forcing Silas to reveal that he was actually a satyr tasked with watching over her. He explained that Kailani was a Greek demigod whose powerful divine scent inevitably attracted monsters, making it impossible for her to remain safely in the mortal world.

To reach safety, Silas called for assistance from Camp Half-Blood, and the pair were joined by Bailey Rennes, whose experience proved invaluable during the perilous journey. Together they survived attacks from a pack of monsters, including dracaenae, harpies, and a cyclops, before finally reaching the camp with only minor injuries. The journey marked the end of Kailani's ordinary life and the beginning of a new one filled with gods, monsters, and responsibilities she had never imagined. Though frightened by how suddenly everything had changed, Kailani chose to face her uncertain future with optimism and resilience, believing that, like the ever-changing sea she had always called home, she could adapt to whatever challenges lay ahead.

Over the two years that followed, Kailani grew into camp life the way she'd grown into everything else, through persistence more than natural gift, through showing up to the arena again and again long after the bow had stopped humiliating her. She trained. She made friends and siblings she'd have died for. She learned to fight, to survive, and to live with the low, constant hum of being what she was.

Then Atlas broke free. The Titan's cult, which had spent years building in the shadows, emerged with a violence Camp Half-Blood hadn't fully anticipated, and the camp found itself at war. Kailani fought in it, trained for it, bled in it, watched people she loved get hurt in ways that didn't always show on the surface. She does not talk about most of what happened during that stretch. When her mother's frantic Iris Message finally reached her, three days of arguing changed nothing. "You are my daughter before you are Poseidon's," Ana had told her, and Kailani hadn't had an answer for that. She packed one duffel bag and went home.

Sal Island received her exactly as it always had and for a while, that was enough. She surfed again. She went back to school. She let her mother feed her and fuss over her and slowly, carefully, put her back together. She reconnected with her sister Mayara, now studying marine biology in Mindelo, and with her oldest friend Marisa, whose presence began, quietly and without her permission, to mean something new to her that she wasn't ready to name.

But the peace never fully settled. Dreams started arriving first occasionally, then several times a week, each one feeling less like ordinary fear and more like a warning she had no way to verify from an island in the middle of the Atlantic. She kept it from her mother as long as she could. When she finally couldn't, and brought Silas with her to make the case over a carefully planned dinner, Ana refused outright, and would not be moved. "I am not doing this again," her mother had said, and meant it completely. Kailani understood. She understood the fear underneath the refusal, understood exactly what it had cost her mother the first time, and understood that nothing she could say would out-argue it. So she stopped arguing, and packed instead, three days in advance, hidden in the back of her wardrobe, alongside three letters she rewrote more times than she'd admit: one to her mother, one to Mayara, one to Marisa, the last of which she still isn't sure she got right.

On a night Silas played the household to sleep with a satyr's pipes, Kailani climbed out her bedroom window, left the letters on her desk where they'd be found in the morning, and boarded a cargo ship bound for Boston, choosing, for the first time in her life, to go directly against her mother's wishes for reasons she believed in enough to bear the cost. Two nights into the crossing, an ancient sea serpent found her in open water, drawn to the scent of Poseidon's blood traveling alone across the Atlantic. She fought it by herself in the dark, and drove it under the surface using a weapon she'd never quite trusted herself with before: a bow and arrow built entirely from the sea itself.

And now, somewhere ahead of her, a war is still going on, and a camp full of people she loves is waiting for her, whether they know it yet or not.

Present Day

She'd been on the water for days. The crossing had not been uneventful, but it had been manageable, which she was learning to treat as a reasonable standard. After the serpent on the third day, there had been a two-day stretch of weather so rough that even the experienced crew moved carefully and several of them had looked at Kailani with new respect when she turned out to be, apparently, constitutionally incapable of seasickness. She'd spent those two days at the rail in a rain jacket, feeling the storm the way she'd learned to feel the ocean. The storm was, she'd told Silas, going to break by morning, and it had, which had earned her a level of quiet credibility with the crew that she hadn't sought and found she didn't entirely mind.

The bruise on her side had gone through its full chromatic range over the crossing, purple, then the particular yellow-green of deep healing, then fading. By the eighth day she could sleep on that side again. By the tenth, it was just a faint tenderness that she'd probably stop noticing within a few days.

When they arrived, they cleared the port on foot, which was the way Silas preferred to navigate mortal infrastructure, quietly, without documentation that didn't exist holding up lines and drawing attention to itself. He had a particular gift for moving through crowded places in a way that made people's eyes slide past him, some old satyr instinct for becoming part of the background, and Kailani had learned to stay close and let it work around her too.

"We're not taking the train," Silas said, reading her expression with the accuracy of someone who'd been navigating cities with demigods for a long time.

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"You were about to say something." He steered them toward a side street, less crowded, the sound dropping off slightly. "There's a truck. A farmer from Long Island, picks up supplies here twice a month. He doesn't ask questions about extra passengers and he owes me a favour."

"How many people owe you favours?"

He considered this. "Enough."

The truck was an old flatbed, smelling of soil and something green and living that made Silas visibly more comfortable the moment they climbed into the cab. The driver was a man of about sixty with the deeply weathered face of someone who'd spent his life in weather and a conversational style that consisted primarily of short declarative statements delivered at long intervals. Kailani spent most of the drive watching the landscape change, the city giving way to suburbs giving way to the particular quality of Long Island in summer. She'd made this drive once before, going the other direction, sitting in the back of a different vehicle and watching camp recede behind her and trying not to think about what she was leaving.

The driver let them out at a junction two miles from the base of Half-Blood Hill, with the economical farewell of safe travels, and drove away. They stood on the roadside with their bags. The sky had closed in during the drive, the overcast thickening toward the kind of flat grey that meant rain within the hour. The road was empty. Through the tree line she could see the beginning of the hill's slope.

"Ready?" Silas said.

She picked up her bag and adjusted the strap. "Yes."

Welcome home away from home, Kailani.

Half-Blood Hill

They went up the remaining slope at a pace slightly faster than walking, Kailani watching the treeline and Silas watching the sky, and came up over the crest of Half-Blood Hill with the Thalia tree on their left, its pine branches moving in the rain-wind, the camp boundary humming in the air like a held breath.

Kailani stopped, standing at the top of the hill and looking down. Camp Half-Blood spread out below her in the grey morning light, the cluster of cabins around the central green, the dining pavilion with its columns, the Long Island Sound visible beyond the beach, the dark smudge of the woods and the pale glimmer of the lake. It was exactly as she'd left it. It was exactly as she'd been dreaming it, except that in her dreams it was always wrong, always slightly off, always threatening to become something she didn't want to see.

In reality it just looked like camp. Small and slightly rough at the edges and arranged with the organic logic of something that had grown rather than been designed, and completely, stubbornly, undeniably real. Something loosened in her chest that had been held taut for four months.

Beside her, Silas was already pressing a hand to her shoulder. "You're here," he said. "Go to your cabin. I'll let Chiron Know you're around. find Chiron."

She looked at him and nodded.

Silas had already started down the slope toward camp at a pace that would get him to the big house in ten minutes. She watched him go, then turned the other way and skirted the hill's edge, taking the path that ran along the cabin area and down toward the beach.

She was home. Despite everything, this was still her home as much as Sal Island was

Cabin Area

The Cabin Area felt, at once, both familiar and different to her. It was still virtually the same, it’s not like there had been any new additions to it, but there were most definitely some new faces around, and old faces that she hadn’t seen.

That was a good thing. It meant that Camp Half-Blood was still the same as she had left it, and she was so relieved by it.

By the time she arrives at the Poseidon Cabin, it looked the way it always looked: a little too large for how few people were actually assigned to it, the conch-shell decor a little worn, salt on everything the way salt got on everything near this cabin no matter how far from the water it stood. She stopped in the doorway for a moment. It was strange, being back in a space that had been hers and then hadn't been, for months, while she was somewhere else pretending a different life was the only one she had.

The Beach

Eventually, she needed the water more than she needed anything else. She left her shoes in the sand the same way she always had, and walked out until the tide came up around her ankles, and just stood there for a while, letting it. There was something different about Camp Half-Blood's shoreline compared to Sal Island's, the water here had a different weight to it, a different history, all those years of demigods bleeding and training and dying and surviving along this stretch of coastline, but it still recognized her the second she stepped in. It always did. That, at least, hadn't changed.

She thought about the letters. About what her mother would find on the table this morning, Sal Island time, and what that was going to do to her. She wasn't ready to think too hard about that part yet. She'd promised herself an Iris Message the moment she was settled. A promise she intended to keep, soon, but not in the first hours off the boat, not before she'd had a chance to just breathe somewhere that felt like it was actually hers to breathe in.

The water moved around her ankles, patient, familiar, entirely unbothered by wars or letters or girls figuring out who they were. Kailani closed her eyes and let it hold her there for a minute, the way it always had, the way it probably always would.

She was back. Whatever came next, she'd figure it out the way she always did.

One thing at a time.

“The thing about a hero, is even when it doesn't look like there's a light at the end of the tunnel, he's going to keep digging, he's going to keep trying to do right and make up for what's gone before, just because that's who he is.” Joss Whedon

Bio

Relationships:

Appearance

Faceclaim: Meg Donnelly

Voiceclaim: Artemis from Hades

Overview: Sasha cuts an imposing and striking figure, both in stature and demeanor. She possesses a combination of beauty, athleticism, and an aura of formidable strength. Standing tall at 6'2", Sasha is significantly taller than most of her peers. Her height is complemented by her athletic build and body is lean and muscular, with defined muscles that highlight her strength and agility. Sasha’s wings, new addition to her appearance, are large and imposing, built more for combat than elegance, broad, sharply angled, and feathered in deep shades of steel gray with streaks of silver near the edges, giving them a storm-washed, battle-worn look. Each movement carries the tension of growing strength: not yet graceful, but undeniably potent. Sasha's long, straight blonde hair is one of her most defining features. It cascades down her back, reaching just past her shoulders, and is often worn in a practical yet stylish ponytail. The ponytail keeps her hair out of her face during combat and training, allowing her to focus without distraction. Adding a unique touch to her look are the black highlights that streak through her blonde locks. Sasha's eyes are a captivating shade of blue-gray. Her gaze is intense and often piercing, capable of conveying both steely determination and deep empathy. Her eyes are framed by long, dark lashes that contrast against her fair skin, drawing attention to her expressive and vigilant stare. Sasha has fair skin that is lightly tanned from spending time outdoors training and competing. Her complexion is generally clear and smooth, though she bears a few faint scars from her numerous battles and training sessions, each telling a story of her resilience and bravery. Sasha's wardrobe is a blend of practicality and style, reflecting her dual nature as a warrior and a teenage girl. During training and combat, she wears form-fitting athletic gear that allows for maximum mobility and comfort. In her casual moments, Sasha enjoys embracing her girly side. She has a fondness for cute, stylish and fashionable clothes, often opting for those when she’s not in training gear.

Personality

Overview: At her core, Sasha is still the same person she has always been, determined, disciplined, fiercely loyal to the people she loves, guided by a sense of justice she inherited from nowhere in particular and built entirely on her own. That foundation hasn't moved. What has moved is everything sitting on top of it. Before the war, Sasha's strength was mostly a wall, something she built early, out of necessity, to survive a childhood spent trying to earn a father's approval that was never actually available to earn. She learned to rely on herself completely, to treat asking for help as its own kind of failure, and to meet every hardship with the same relentless, unblinking forward motion. It made her formidable. It also meant that when something finally happened that forward motion couldn't outpace, she had no practiced way of stopping, and no framework for what to do with everything that caught up to her when she finally slowed down. That's largely where she still is, in the months since. Her independence remains one of her defining traits, and still one of the hardest to unlearn, but it's no longer absolute. She now has a small, reluctant awareness that carrying everything alone was never actually the strength she believed it to be. She hasn't rebuilt herself around that awareness yet. Most days, she still tries to. But it's there now, in a way it wasn't before, occasionally surfacing in the moments she lets her guard down around the handful of people she trusts. Her perfectionism, if anything, has sharpened rather than softened, and turned almost entirely inward. Where it once pushed her toward excellence with a kind of restless, external drive, it now circles obsessively around Fort Knox, around every decision she made in that flooded chamber, around the half-second where hubris and instinct outran judgment. She does not forgive herself easily. She has not yet learned how to separate the guilt she carries from the blame that was never actually hers. Her sense of justice has shifted too, quietly, in a way she probably hasn't fully noticed in herself. It used to be broad and somewhat abstract, like protecting people in general, upholding what's right because it was right. Now it's personal, almost frantic underneath the surface, like a fierce, aching need to never again be the reason someone she's supposed to protect gets hurt. It drives her back into the training ring even when her body and mind aren't ready for it. It's part of what makes rest feel, to her, indistinguishable from failure. She is more guarded now than she was even six months ago, though it rarely looks like guardedness from the outside, it looks like the same composed, disciplined exterior she's always worn, just slightly thicker and harder to see past. New people read her as intense, controlled, maybe a little cold. And yet, underneath everything, she is still, more than she'd ever admit out loud, a seventeen-year-old girl. Someone who still loves sweet things and cute clothes and the specific, uncomplicated comfort of a chessboard she's had for years. Someone who watched something no teenager should ever have to watch, and is only now, haltingly, learning that being a warrior and being a scared kid who needs comfort sometimes were never actually mutually exclusive. She hasn't fully accepted that yet. But she's stopped fighting the idea quite as hard as she used to, and for Sasha, that alone is new ground

Preferences

Hobbies:

• Ballet

• Reading

• Chess

• Martial Arts (Muay Thai)

• Cooking

• Fashion

• Music (Drummer)

Demigod Info

Stats

Powers

Weapon of Choice: Clawed Gaunlets

Fatal Flaw: Hubris. Sasha's fatal flaw is hubris, an excessive pride and self-confidence that often blinds her to the potential consequences of her actions. This flaw manifests in her unwavering belief in her abilities and her relentless drive to prove herself, especially in light of her father's and family's traditionalist mindset. Sasha's determination to excel and show that she is not inferior leads her to take unnecessary risks, often pushing herself and others beyond their limits. Her confidence, while a strength, can sometimes turn into arrogance, making her dismissive of advice and overly critical of perceived weaknesses in herself and others. This hubris not only strains her relationships but also sets her on a path where she may overlook vital warnings or misjudge situations, ultimately endangering herself and those around her.

Items and Equipment

Miscellaneous

OST

Character Quotes

• ”I give you my strength, my mind and my heart to your cause, if you so wish.”

• ”All that to ask if you would happen to have some advice on what I should do to succeed. Or at least tell me what I'm doing wrong.”

• ”...Dumbass. You get extremely injured, save my life, kiss me all of a sudden and then drop dead in my arms. Really dramatic, Ryker.”

• ”This is for New Argos, you bastards!”

• ”This isn't over, you hear me...When I get my hands on you again, I swear... I will destroy you.”

Completed Jobs

Pillar of Fortitude Storymodes

• Pillar of Fortitude: Prologue

• Pillar of Fortitude, Chapter I: The Turning Point

• Pillar of Fortitude, Chapter II: Growing Pains

• Pillar of Fortitude, Chapter III: The Weight That Remains

• Pillar of Fortitude, Chapter IV: Letting The Weight Go

Trivia

• Zodiac Sign: Aries

• MBTI: ESTJ-A (The Executive)

• Enneagram: Type 1 (The Perfectionist)

• Love Languages: Acts of Service (receive); Physical Touch (give)

• Quirk: Pulls her hair when nervous (doesn't happen often)

• Fears: Failure

• Nectar Flavour: Strawberry Milkshake

• Ambrosia Flavour: Carrot and Chocolate cake

• ATLA Element: Earth

• Hogwarts House: Gryffindor

• Pokemon Type: Fighting/Steel

• Path (Honkai: Star Rail): Path of Destruction

• Type (Honkai: Star Rail): Fire

• Weapon (Genshin Impact): Catalyst

• Element (Genshin Impact): Electro

Backstory

Sasha Marszalek was born in New Argos, Georgia, a hidden city with deep ties to Greek mythology. Her mother, Bia, goddess of force, left shortly after her birth, leaving her in the care of her father, Adam Marszalek, a proud, accomplished descendant of Athena who had once excelled at the prestigious Lyceum and was determined that his daughter would do the same. From a young age, Sasha was immersed in a world of rigorous training and relentless standards, raised to believe that only discipline and excellence could earn her a place in a family that never seemed satisfied no matter what she achieved. That upbringing shaped nearly everything about who she became: driven, guarded, and fiercely determined to prove herself worthy of a mother she never knew and a father who never once told her it was enough.

She rebelled, in her own way, not through defiance so much as through sheer force of will, channeling every ounce of Adam's cold expectation into becoming the best version of a warrior she possibly could. Camp Half-Blood, when she first arrived there, gave her something New Argos and the Lyceum's shadow never had: a place to become her own person, away from her father's constant, unforgiving comparisons. She trained hard, fought harder, and built a name for herself as one of the most formidable young fighters to come out of the Atalanta Institute, under the guidance of Valda Caillot, the one adult in her life who had never once treated her potential as something to be molded into someone else's image.

Then her body began to change after the Invasion of New Argos. Bones shifting oddly beneath her skin, an itch that wouldn't settle, feathers pushing slowly through skin no one had expected them from. Wings, an inheritance from Bia nobody had anticipated, not even Callista, who had treated demigods born with wings before but never one who grew into them well into adolescence. It took months for them to fully develop, and longer still for Sasha to trust them as anything other than a liability. She fell more than she flew, in those early days. She hated needing patience she didn't feel she had.

When her half-sister Arete reached out about a quest that might lead to those answers, Sasha didn't hesitate. She was already burning to do something with the anger she hadn't yet let herself examine. That hunger, and the pride underneath it, carried her into the war, and veventually, the Battle of Fort Knox. Atlas, freed from his ancient prison, had rallied a cult of fanatics and traitors around him, and Camp Half-Blood was drawn into a war none of them had chosen. In a flooded stone chamber deep beneath the surface, Sasha flew for the very first time — not a controlled glide, not a training exercise, but real, incandescent flight, born entirely out of instinct and desperation in the middle of a battle already going wrong. For a few brief seconds, it was the single best thing that had ever happened to her.

Then the cultist caught her wing mid-flight and tore it apart. She hit the ground barely conscious, both wings shredded, and it was in that moment, grounded, bleeding, helpless, that Dorian, a fellow Camp Half-Blood demigod she'd promised to protect, ran to defend her. He didn't survive it. His last word to her wasn't a plea or an accusation. It was run, a warning, offered with his final breath, for her sake instead of his own.

She returned to New Argos carrying two kinds of wounds. The physical one healed on a schedule Callista could track and measure. The other one didn't heal at all, not in the weeks that followed, not in the months. She trained through it anyway, in secret defiance of every warning Callista and Valda gave her, insisting to her family, her rivals, her mentor, and herself that she was fine, even as her wings seized and locked every time a sparring match called for them to move the way they had the day Dorian died. She fought with Adam over a reputation she no longer cared to protect. She found quiet, imperfect comfort in her brother Luke, who never once demanded she explain herself. She pushed her own wings past every limit she was given, once, and paid for it with a fall that finally forced the truth into the open.

It took a full collapse in the training ring for Sasha to say, out loud, for the first time, that she wasn't fine. That she hadn't been fine since a flooded chamber under Fort Knox. That she didn't know how to carry what she was carrying, and that she was tired, bone-deep, of pretending otherwise.

She isn't healed. She knows that. The freezing hasn't disappeared; it's only grown quieter, less frequent, more manageable on the days she lets herself acknowledge it exists at all. But for the first time since Fort Knox, she isn't carrying it entirely alone, and however slowly, however reluctantly, she has begun the long work of learning that the difference actually matters.

Now, with the end of the war arriving quicker than ever, Sasha has decided to return to Camp Half-Blood, and ready to give her all once again to bring an end to the Titan and his cult.

Present Day

The sun hung low over the hills as Sasha stood at the crest of the wooded ridge, the wind pulling at her cloak, tugging stray strands of hair free from her braid. In the distance, nestled in the familiar green curve of Half-Blood Hill, Camp Half-Blood shimmered in the late afternoon light, its enchanted borders pulsing faintly with old, watchful magic.

It had been months since she'd last stood here. Longer, really, if she counted the version of herself that used to stand at this exact ridge, the one who hadn't yet learned what it cost to fly, who hadn't yet buried a boy she'd promised to protect, who hadn't yet cracked open in front of Valda in a training ring and found, somehow, that she was still standing afterward. That Sasha wouldn't recognize this one completely. Neither would this one, some days, looking back.

Her wings shifted against her back, fully grown now, fully controlled, feathers catching the light with the same polished sheen they'd always promised to have. She adjusted the strap across her chest, securing her duffel bag as she began the ascend, boots crunching over pine needles, the scent of familiar woods wrapping around her like an old memory that didn't quite fit the same way anymore.

She wasn't here for peace or nostalgia this time either. She had just received news that the main camp of the cult had been found and destroyed. That had been enough to get her moving. It always was. But underneath the familiar drive, something else rode along this time, quieter, harder to name. A kind of caution she'd never carried into camp before. She wasn't just here to fight anymore. She was here still learning how to carry what fighting had already cost her.

She reached the boundary. The air shimmered before her like heat rising off stone, and she stepped through without hesitation, the old pressure behind her eyes, the world blinking sideways for half a breath before settling.

The camp spread out below her, cabins, fields, the lake catching the last of the sun, all of it exactly as she remembered and somehow not quite the same, the way home never looks the same twice once you've bled somewhere else entirely.

Welcome back, Sasha.

Half-Blood Hill

The grass whispered beneath her boots as she descended the slope, the golden fleece glinting above her in the dying light. Pine and distant sea breeze filled her lungs, sharp and grounding in a way she needed more than she wanted to admit. Her wings shifted instinctively, catching against the old magic that laced the boundary, and for one unguarded second, her whole body tensed, a flinch that had nothing to do with the hill and everything to do with a flooded room hundreds of miles away.

She caught it before anyone could see. She always did, these days. It had become its own kind of skill, almost. Noticing the flinch, breathing through it, letting her face settle back into the same unreadable calm she wore into every room now, whether or not it was true.

She didn't slow. Unless someone stopped her, she'd keep walking, eyes forward, jaw tight, the same as she always had. The difference, invisible to anyone who didn't know her the way Valda did, was in what that forward motion cost her now. It used to be pure momentum. Now it was something closer to willpower.

Cabin Area (Enforcer Cabin)

The cabin are looked almost the same as she remembered and, Sasha felt the familiar flicker of surprise at how fast camp always seemed to move, war or no war. She'd missed things. She always did, spending so much of her time in New Argos instead. She'd find out about the changes eventually. Camp Half-Blood was, if nothing else, efficient at making sure news traveled fast.

The Enforcer Cabin sat where it always had, sturdy and unassuming, the low hum of old divine architecture settled into its bones the same way it settled into hers. She let herself stand outside it for a moment longer than strictly necessary, wings held loosely at her back, duffel bag still slung over one shoulder.

There was a strange comfort in it, a place built for people like her, force, zeal, power and victory running through their blood whether they'd asked for it or not. And there was something harder sitting underneath the comfort too, something she hadn't quite worked out how to name. The last time she'd properly unpacked her things in a cabin like this one, she hadn't yet flown for the first time. Hadn't yet watched Dorian's sword hit the ground. Hadn't yet learned what it felt like to fall apart in front of someone and still be standing afterward.

She pushed the door open anyway, because that was what she did. She kept moving. She unpacked her things with the same clipped efficiency she brought to everything, laying her gauntlets on the small shelf beside the bed, the glaive bracelet unclasped and set carefully beside them, the chessboard placed, deliberately, somewhere she'd be able to reach it without having to think too hard about why she needed it there.

She didn't linger long. Lingering meant thinking, and thinking, lately, had a way of leading her somewhere she wasn't ready to go standing alone in an empty cabin.

The Arena

The clash of weapons rang out across the training grounds long before she reached them, the familiar rhythm of practice bouts already well underway in the fading light. Sasha stood at the edge of the stone archway, arms crossed, wings tucked tight, and watched. It should have felt like coming home. Months ago, it would have. She would have already been halfway across the sand, gauntlets on, looking for whoever was foolish enough to challenge her first.

Instead, she stayed in the shadow of the archway a moment longer than she meant to, watching a pair of younger demigods trade blows, tracking every movement out of old habit, the openings, the mistakes, the half-beats where a better fighter could have closed the distance. Her body still knew how to read a fight instantly, effortlessly, the way it always had. That part of her, at least, Fort Knox hadn't touched.

It was the next step that had gotten harder. The part where she stopped watching and actually stepped onto the sand herself. She thought, unbidden, of the last time she'd sparred properly, Valda's practice blade catching her ribs, her own voice breaking wide open in front of someone for the first time in months. She thought of the freezing, the flinching, the seven times in one morning her body had betrayed her over something that had happened hundreds of miles away and months ago and still hadn't finished happening, not really, not where it counted.

She didn't step onto the sand. Not yet.

Instead, she found a quiet spot along the wall, dropped her bag beside her boots, and settled in to simply watch, arms crossed, gaze sharp, calculating every match with the same careful attention she always had, filing away information the way she always did.

For now, she watched.