( cody christian, homosexual, cis-man + he/him, support ) «—◦—→ well met, SAMSON HART! the divine born child of APOLLO. your name sings in our ears! it’s been 29 years and now they have answered the song in their veins. before they answered the song, they were a/a COAL MINER and were living in HARLAN, KENTUCKY. history and myth will remember them for their HONEST, FORTHRIGHT, & LOYAL but will also magnify their NAIVETY, HARD HEADEDNESS, & INSECURITY if it causes them to falter. now it is time for the world to sing their name with them.
Background
Full Name:Â Samson Hart
Alias:Â n/a
Age:Â 29
Gender:Â Male (He/Him)
Sexual Orientation:Â Homosexual
Romantic History:
Merrick - College romance with the son of Hecate, tender and quietly intense, ended with time and distance.
Jeremy - Former hookup turned occasional mistake; left Samson a little wary of casual connections and a little bruised in the trust department.
Appearance
Height:Â 5'8" (173 cm)
Build:Â Stocky, short and muscular - built like a coal miner, which he was. Strong in the sense of resilience, not raw power.
Skin:Â Warm-toned with a sun-blushed finish thanks to a change in scenery. Speckled lightly with freckles across his shoulders and nose.
Hair: Dark brown, thick and wavy, often tousled or flattened from his hoodie. He sometimes shaves the sides in summer.Â
Eyes:Â Bright blue, wide and expressive, always a little too honest.
Face: Square jaw, cleft chin, high cheekbones softened by smile lines and a boyishness he’s never quite outgrown. Cody Christian vibes with a gentler intensity.
Style: Practical with hints of Southern charm - beat-up boots, soft Henleys, denim jackets, and always something handed down (bracelet, belt, flannel). Gold jewelry when he’s feeling bold~
Personality & Habits
Core Traits:
Honest – sometimes to a fault.
Loyal – would walk into fire if you asked, wouldn’t ask you to follow.
Naive – wants to believe the best in people, even when it burns.
Hard-Headed – his kindness is not weakness; he’ll dig his heels in.
Insecure – especially about his place at camp, his usefulness, and whether or not he deserves what he's finally found.
Warm – makes room for others like it’s second nature.
Habits:
Rubs the back of his neck when nervous
Fidgets with thread or string when thinking (sometimes subconsciously weaving light with it)
Wakes with the sun, often praying at dawn
Hums classical cello pieces under his breath while walking
Quirks:
Has recently learned weird anatomy facts and will offer them with no warning.
Collects pressed flowers between pages of his textbooks.
Found most often in the temple or the library, sometimes by the lake if the weather is nice.
Sexual Behavior & Intimacy
Sex Drive:Â Moderate - desires connection more than the act itself. Touch-starved but patient, slow to initiate, responsive once safe.
Preferences: Gentle domination or equal footing - he’s a vers bottom who thrives in trust-driven dynamics. Emotional connection fuels everything.
Aftercare: Vital. Loves skin-to-skin closeness, warm tea, and words of affirmation. Needs to know the other person is okay - and that he didn’t do anything wrong. He’ll stay if you ask him to and probably even if you don’t.
Miscellaneous
Fighting Style: Cleric-coded. Doesn’t want to harm - but will defend with fierce conviction. He channels solar magic through threads of light to manipulate battlefield outcomes: mending flesh, blinding enemies, or subtly shifting fate.
Scars: A few scattered burns on his arms from mining incidents. A few from his childhood as well, most notably a trio of cigarette burns on the back of his right shoulder.
Favorite Music: Classical cello (Yo-Yo Ma especially), instrumental folk, bluegrass with heavy harmonies, and golden oldies when he’s feeling nostalgic.
Tattoos: A small hyacinth bloom on his ribcage, inked in golden lines and chosen just after he dropped out of college as a last act before moving home.
History
"If I am made of light, then why do I feel so heavy?"
Small-town boy, born and raised in Harlan, Kentucky, where coal dust had a way of getting on everyone's dreams. There's a saying, spray-painted on the back of the "Welcome to Harlan" sign that's made popular by the locals: You'll Never Leave Harlan Alive.
Grew up violently bullied for being queer and effeminate - hid his lisp, deepened his voice, and learned to smile like nothing was wrong. This, unfortunately, stuck with him.
Gifted cellist - won a full ride to UC Berkeley to study music. College was his golden ticket out of the mines - and away from a life that tried to crush him.
Met with Merrick his freshman year. The two were together for a time but it ended when Merrick graduated and left to start working in the field.
Dropped out senior year when his father got sick with black lung. With his mom already working doubles, Samson went back to Harlan and took up a miner’s pick.
Spent nearly a decade underground, trading symphonies for silence and futures for paychecks.
His Heartsong awakened and Hermes brought him to Camp, where he met his father, Apollo, and chose to awaken his Heartsong fully. Samson will always view Apollo as a saviour, were it not for him then he'd still be working in the mines everyday, waking up before dawn and leaving the caves after the sun went down.
Magic manifests in threads of golden light - he uses them to heal, bless, and protect, rarely to harm. His domain gives him some agency over prophecy, though this is something he's still hoping to understand.
Devout in quiet ways, still learning how to live openly, and love freely.
“if I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness.”
@trackandcapture
THE PATH WITHIN It has been three months since the son of Artemis first answered the call.
Three months since he drank ambrosia - tasting wild honey and smoke - and felt the stirrings of something ancient awaken within him. Three months of shadows and silence, of lost power and regained purpose, of walking between the memory of what was stolen and the promise of what might be.
Three months of learning to wear a mantle heavier than any crown, forged from quiet resolve. Three months of holding fast, even when the beast within flickered uncertainly. Three months of ghosts-past selves, lost hopes, forgotten promises-whispering his name. sometimes in doubt, other times through fierce insistence.
Time has a way of softening the edges of even the sharpest wounds. Three months can carry a man far, or loop him back to where he began - a circle folding in on itself, a hunter’s trap disguised as a path.
And now - something shifts in the subtle shifting of moonlight through leaves; in the soft scent of pine after rain. A quiet turning in the air, like a breath held before the hunt.
This is no summons, but a reckoning of self.
When Adrian opens his eyes, the bed beneath him is gone.
Around him is a place shaped by memory and instinct - wild or sacred, known or unknown. The earth beneath his feet hums with heartbeat and history. The air holds a promise: that this night, the path he must walk is his to choose.
Look around. What is the world that holds you now?
ADRIAN didn't jolt or panic when he opened his eyes and saw something other than the inside of his room. He had many a dream that was a stitching of strange and crazy moments in his life. These days, his life was even more ridiculous than some of those dreamscapes. Just like all his recent times where his brain was given free reign to imagine what it wished, he simply stood and took in his surroundings.Â
The ground under him was pale gray. It wasn't stone or soil but something easy to stand on yet coarse to the touch like both at the same time. Textureless, like an undeveloped polaroid, waiting for it to finish. It was, unfortunately, the least interesting thing about where he was. To the left the wilds were breathing. At first glance, it just looked like the forest around camp. The more he studied it, the more it didn't seem right. It was no single place. It was an impossible mixture of ecosystems that couldn't be together.Â
There was the thick undergrowth of Chile, his home town; the there were the skeletal trunks of Joshua trees; the crystal waters of the river had rust-red sandstones under them; and above were the tangled vines of a jungle he'd once traveled through for work. The air was hot and wet and it felt more alive than he'd been for a little while. But he wasn't sure if the heat was from the melding of many different wildlands, or what was to his right. Trees so burnt they were essentially standing charcoal.Â
The ground was cracked like it hadn't seen water in centuries, despite there being some so close by. In the distance were fragments of what he could only assume was once civilization, though he couldn't tell what did them in: the harsh setting or the smoking smoldering volcano that was far away but still too close for comfort. It reminded him of how he felt when he'd woken up after his divinity was taken: stripped of anything that could be called life. He didn't know what to make of all of this. And so he did as he ...always did in situations that were a lot to take in at once: He stood there in silence, letting his patience and keen eye be his guides forward.
THE PATH WITHIN The forest breathes around you, Adrian Silva, stitched together from every place you've ever called home, or wished to. The wild to your left pulses with life, an impossible dream of every trail your boots have ever touched. The scorched world to your right bears the brittle bones of what was - charred, cracked, and watching. And as the wind shifts, something stirs.Â
Not from the wilds and not from the ash. But from behind you. You hear it first - soft footfall, or maybe claws. A shift in weight. Then, you feel it - like the eyes of a lens focusing: Not hunting or haunting, only waiting. You are not alone here. Someone - or something - approaches, perhaps to help, perhaps to hinder: only you, a son of Artemis who sees with more than eyes, can know its intentions out here. Who, or what, do you see?Â
ADRIAN He turned and took a step back. He'd never been genuinely afraid for his own well-being but what he saw was enough to put him on high alert. It was something far more difficult to comprehend than his surroundings: it was himself. But it wasn't fully him. It wore his much less weathered face from when he was much younger and fewer people to care about. It also looked like Julian, the man who had consumed his stripped divinity and used it to harm instead of protect.Â
Between both of their features were things far less recognizable: like feral eyes that Adrian couldn't relate to since he never really lost control, no matter how frustrated or in tune with his wild side he allowed himself to be. Teeth, claws, muscle- anything and everything about this thing looked lethal. He wanted to reach for his sword and shield but he was lacking both.
THE PATH WITHIN Lean musculature and the sharp, animalistic eyes of a predator flashed bestial: cat's eyes, lethal. Dean Julian Harrow sauntered with an ease to his gait, Adrian's rival divinity pulsing within his veins, throbbing as it sang with the familiar song that he'd noted that night at Miskatonic. He stepped closer, unbothered, and certainly undaunted by Adrian's warding stance.Â
His posture still steeped in arrogance as he paced around Adrian like a predator might encircle his prey, something that would undoubtedly be familiar to Adrian. "Cats are apex predators, you know." Julian explained, "they can lengthen their spines for short bursts of speed... up to thirty miles an hour. They can narrow their shoulders and chests to squeeze into tiny spaces. Jump nine times their height from a standing position and land on their feet almost every time they fall." He smirked, as if getting to a point in a very round about way.Â
"Cats.. they eat their prey to get taurine, an essential amino acid. Cats don't make enough of it, so they have to eat it. They're predators because they're deficient." Coming to a stop, boots scraping at the edge of brimstone, fire, and ruin, he turned toward the son of Artemis, still wading upon the gray filter of static.Â
"You should take a good, hard look at yourself, when the lighting is just right." A growl lined Julian's throat, though the tone was distinctly familiar - it was Adrian's. “Ever the protector... ever the guardian... but why?" He cocked his head idly to the side, looking at Adrian less like a man and more like a beast in a cage - something to be poked, prodded, and understood.Â
ADRIAN His eyes narrowed as the silence was broken. It was another sign that there wasn't much of him in there to really worry about what would happen if things came to blows. "That's a lot of science and explanation about something they don't care about." He finally answered, a rumble from his own chest.
"You can give them all the reasons you want for what they do and why they have to do it but it doesn't actually matter. They do it because it's their instinct to do it. And I'm the same way." Not exactly the truth but it was much closer to it than he was willing to give the monstrosity in front of him. It deserved much worse. It deserved the claws he'd manifested and kept just slightly above his waist's height, ready to strike back if he was struck.
HEARTSONG Julian's smile deepened, crooked and gleaming with carnivorous intent. He stepped closer, the shimmer of divinity humming beneath his skin like his blood was too loud for just this body to contain. "Instinct," he echoed, tasting the word like it was sour. "Cute. But that's the lie you tell yourself, isn’t it? That it's all instinct. That it’s automatic. That it’s out of your hands." He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful, before delivering the next line like a knife twist:Â
“Because if it’s just instinct, you don’t have to feel bad about liking it.” Julian circled again, slower now, almost lazily, like he knew he wasn’t in danger - not yet. He gestured to the claws Adrian kept primed at his waist. “Look at you. Posturing like a predator, but trembling like a man who still wants to be good.” Sighing, his frame melded and shifted into Adrian's father mirrored back at him, though it was still Julian's voice, and Adrian's divinity humming within. "The boy abandoned, quiet mannerisms - watching rather than speaking. Offering protection but not asking for it, because how could you- when you are so deeply unworthy of it?" A sigh, "Unless, of course, you've already been declawed. Afraid of what'll happen when you fail again, this power you called to once again - does it not define you?"Â
The frame melded once again, Adrian's beastly visage stared back at him with bared teeth and a brow set in contempt, in primal fury. "Even your name, ghosttrack says it all... don't look at me." A snarl, not quite laughter, but not entirely unlike it either. He glanced toward the wilds - verdant, thrumming, alive. “You say you do it because you have to. But when you let go? When you let the beast loose?” He locked eyes with Adrian, all pretense gone. “We loved it.” He stepped in close enough for breath to mingle.
 ADRIAN "I don't feel bad about liking it." The words come out immediately, like 'Julian' had put his hand somewhere unwanted and needed to be pushed back with the threat of snapping teeth. "It's what I do- what I'm meant to do. There's no emotion tied to it." If he wasn't meant to do it, Artemis wouldn't have called on him.Â
A thought that stung in its own way but he'd have to push aside for now. The tension in his hands go lax, though, when he sees his father. That was instinct. That was a man he could never willingly harm, no matter how he'd been harmed in him without lifting a finger. The words that follow, the speak of being worthy, those are glancing blows at best. Enough to cut and draw blood, maybe, but not enough to bring a rise in emotion. It's nothing he hadn't thought of often, even after his mother repeated to him over that he was hers.Â
Runts might get neglected but few animals outright abandon. "What-" his voice faltered, just a little so he tried again. "What defines me is what I choose to do with what I've been given. Anybody can lash out, but not everybody can stand up to it. I can. I will." We loved it. Those words coming out of 'his' mouth. He wouldn't let that slide. He could be the aggressor now, with that face being the one staring back at him. Adrian reached forward to try and grab at this thing's shirt, to try and lift it off its feet, to try and toss it into the wasteland to his right. Away from him. "I didn't ask for any of this."Â
THE PATH WITHIN "Is that what She taught us: how to kneel quietly? Take our lickings and muzzle the beast off duty? We don't protect people, we survive them. We survive their neglect, their indifference, their casual dismissal -" Hoisted off the ground, Julian's voice barked back, "There he is, there's the beast: the so-called protector." Julian appeared once more, inviting, daring, challenging the creature reaching through Adrian's claws, the Artemisian divinity reaches through Julian's skin as a thicker coat of hair inches across his frame. His ribs push out, his jaw suddenly snaps forward into a muzzle - a wolf, or something akin to it - glowers down at the significantly smaller son of Artemis. "How can you protect anyone while you're still holding yourself by a leash?"Â
ADRIANÂ "NO ONE TAUGHT ME ANYTHING!" Adrian didn't yell. Hell, some days he didn't even speak. But right now, with something trying so hard to chip at this natural armor and stick a knife in where it hurt most, it felt right. The sound felt foreign to his own ears, just like the raw waver as the breath went through him. He took even more steps forward, until he was as close to being chest to chest with Julian as he could mange with their current size difference. "I didn't have a teacher. I didn't have a protector. Not my mother, not my father, not my real mother, not-" there was a name that wanted so badly to come out but he couldn't find it, even here.Â
He pushed and pushed, not wanting to lose the momentum but he couldn't do more than gape up at the creature before him before finally giving up. "But I'm here. And I'm alive. And I will NOT..." A deep breath. "I won't let what other people did or didn't do define me." His voice was quieter but had far more heat to it. "And I'll make sure that anyone I care about doesn't feel unprotected. Or abandoned. Or unsupported. Or less than. Because my-" He looked down at where his own claws had been pressed into his own body and retracted them. “Because my pain was enough. Because I've proven that I can take it- and more- enough for anyone else. Everyone else.”
THE PATH WITHIN The thing wearing his face - and his power, and his pain - goes still. The beast’s breath fogs the air between them, a low exhale that tastes like ash and old blood, but it doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t growl and doesn’t try to twist Adrian’s words around his throat.Â
“…Then stop pretending you don’t bleed.” The words are softer now, almost matter-of-fact. But they're aimed to strike like an arrowhead to bone. “You were abandoned. You were denied a teacher. You were torn down, stripped, dragged into fire and left to crawl out alone. You earned every scar by yourself - and you still keep trying to carry the world like it’s your penance to bear.” Julian’s beastform tilts its head, studying Adrian the way only prey or mirrors are studied - with unbearable, unwavering honesty. “You don’t need a leash.”Â
A beat. “You need a pack.” Then - without warning - the form begins to unravel. Smoke rises from the edges of his frame, threads of silver and moonlight pulled upward like memory slipping through a crack in the mind. The form collapses inward, curls, and reshapes, not into Julian, but into something quieter: a boy. A teenager.Â
Adrian himself, thirteen, maybe fourteen - before divinity, before ambrosia, before anyone ever asked him to protect a damn thing. His eyes are already tired in a way teenagers shouldn’t be. “I didn’t know how to ask for help either,” the boy says. His voice is Adrian’s - the version from years ago. Smaller than he is now. Quieter still.Â
"How much can we really take?" Adrian asked himself, "You saved Amalia twice now, but what's to stop it from coming for her again? For any of your friends... How can you hope to stand against it if we can't break through." The forest was gone now, the flames as well. They stood in Adrian's childhood home, the house was quiet, alone, and still. There was just him, and himself framed in the window by the moonlight - staring out at a driveway that'd stay empty through the night. The younger version of Adrian looked back at himself,Â
"Are we always going to be here?"Â
ADRIAN Whatever this was, whatever it was meant to be... it hadn't broken him but it sure had shaken something loose. Something pushed so far out of the way and out of his mind that Adrian didn't know what to do with it. There were no pictures of him at this age. There wasn't anyone there to want to take them and the young photographer-to-be certainly wasn't doing any self-portraits. Seeing himself in a way that he'd only ever seen in the reflection of mirrors over a decade ago...Â
He dropped to his knees on that cold floor and looked up at his teenage self. "I don't know." He answered honestly. It's probably the most honest thing he's said since all of this started. “I don't know how much I can take. I don't know how to move forward. I don't know how to have 'a pack.' All I know is how to do what I've done all my life: stay quiet, stay where I'm told I need to be- or where I think I should be told to be, and then pull back to a safe distance while I heal from what's been done to me. I'm... too old to learn anything new.”
THE PATH WITHIN The boy smiled first. And when he stood, taller and older, the tiredness didn’t leave - but it changed into a strength that wore itself quietly where lines of wear became marks of knowing.Â
Fenn stepped into that space like he always had - without noise or ceremony - just his presence and what that had come to mean for Adrian. It was as if he’d always known Adrian would get here, like he never doubted him.
He crouched beside him, that same reliable crouch Adrian had seen in the woods a dozen times before - half between rest and readiness. An arm came around his shoulders, steady and familiar, patting his back once, twice. Recognition matching recognition.
Then, with a crooked grin, “What, an old dog can’t learn new tricks?” The words hung between them for a breath before Fenn leaned in, voice lower, fiercer, like a fire stoked just for Adrian: “You think you’re done? You think this - this moment on your knees, this fear, this ache - is the end of your story?” He shook his head, disbelief. “No way, this is the part where legends begin.”
His hand tightens on Adrian’s shoulder - grounding, anchoring. His eyes meet his, unwavering. “You’ve already survived things that would break most demigods. You’ve protected people who didn’t even know they needed it. You’ve stood in the dark with nothing but your instincts and still found a way to carry others through. You’re the one people call when the wolves are at the door.” He would not allow the demigod to stop here, to falter now, this was his burden to bear, this was his path to walk.
 “You are not too old. You are not too late. You are the son of Artemis - and the wild waits for you.” He nods toward the window, toward the world outside it, toward every version of Adrian that still hesitated at the treeline. “So stand up, Ghosttrack. Show me the protector you want to be. Not the one who hides behind pain, but the one who uses it. Show me the hunter who doesn’t wait for orders - who is the call. The one whose heartsong was meant to lead.”
Then, softer now, reverent: “You’re not alone anymore, Adrian. You never were. And you were never too much. So let the beast out. Let the forest answer. Let them see you.”
ADRIANÂ Adrian didn't move at first. He let all those words wash over him and fill in the gaps of what felt broken and vulnerable just moments before. This didn't feel solved but hearing them said with the face that he respected made it easier to accept and swallow down. He'd never felt like any kind of alpha. He'd always thought of himself more like a stray: always ready to protect what little in the world he could call his and be suspicious of anyone who tried to get too close or give too much.Â
But at some point during this journey, something had shifted and he hadn't even noticed it. Maybe it was in Troy? Maybe it was in that damn house in the clearing? Maybe it was when he managed to hold his own against the mind-affecting divine being despite the odds. Whatever it was it had happened and he couldn't deny it.Â
"...you always say the right thing." he said to Fenn, aware that it was most likely not him. He took the offered hand all the same and stood up. "It's annoying." His grip on Fenn's hand was strong and he didn't let go, even once he stood. He didn't fully understand the idea of pack but there was no denying he was stronger with others behind him- and they were far more formidable with him in the way of any threats. He took in a deep breath and the moon seemed to shine even brighter in the sky.Â
Instead of exhaling, he let out a howl. He'd made many a animal-like noise, but he'd never made this one before. Most of the animals he'd embodied and focused on the aspects of had been solitary ones, or ones that were known for being viscously protective of their territory.Â
A wolf was harder to relate to, until now. In truth, Adrian still didn't feel completely ready. But at least now, he was open to the idea that he didn't have to deal with that alone.
THE PATH WITHIN The howl pierces the quiet in rueful declaration. It echoes through the bones of the dream and out into the forest beyond, a call with weight behind it. Not of desperation, but belonging.
Not a cry for help - a rallying cry.
The boy at the window fades. Fenn doesn’t let go right away either. He stands shoulder to shoulder with Adrian, gaze tilted toward the stars as he hears something in the distance responding. A sequence of them reaching into the night sky.Â
And then - light. Pale and clean, not searing. Moonlight filters down like breath through branches. The world begins to fall away, collapsing and releasing him. The house fades. The ash forest. The static ground. Even Fenn -Â especially Fenn - gives Adrian one last squeeze of his hand before stepping back, a small smile playing across his face.
The world doesn’t vanish but instead it evolves around him.Â
And the son of Artemis changes with it.
He is not the same man who started down this path.
He did not need to become the wolf.
He is the wolf. The panther. The Bear. The Eagle.
The one who endures. The one who protects. The one who chooses to fight.
One who has worn pain like armor, without it defining. He is not what was taken. He is not a moment of weakness. He is what remains - and what remains is stronger. Sharper. Truer.
His heartsong does not tremble. It leads.
He is the shield. He is the claw. He is the howl of the wild that carries.
He is not alone.
And when he opens his eyes again, it is morning. The bed is beneath him. The camp is quiet. There are faint bird calls in the distance and the scent of ash and sage still clinging to your pulse.
The moon may be gone from the sky, but it hasn’t gone far.
Not from you.
Never from you.
bc,
thank you for your endless appreciation, your moral support, your willingness to distract, and your openness to taking all 5 fingers.
here's to a day worthy of great celebration, and another year of getting to be your friend.
 with love,
kay
“What are gods, if not the longing that survives them?”
— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
notes: death tw
they’d been successful, and samson was glad - but it had come with a cost. samson could feel it once again, how his body had become weaker- his muscle mass a little bit less dense, his lungs winded a little more easily. he wasn’t alone. a few of them had taken a step closer toward death for no reason other than to lift mnemosyne’s influence over brent’s memories. samson wanted to believe that there was meaning to these sacrifices, but his faith was shaken. he knew that faith only had merit when it was tested, that believing was harder than not, but his certainty was lacking these days.Â
echion had asked what he would give up for his heart’s desire, if there was an ambition he’d sacrifice.Â
another threat, another mystery, and all samson could find in the moot accomplishment was the feeling of deja-vu. he’d been here before. standing on the outside looking in, coming into focus when he was needed - and now - not even then. an afterthought’s afterthought.Â
there was much that he’d said and so much more that had gone unproclaimed, but what was the point? it just always ended up the same.Â
where the camp mourned elian, samson did not. in fact, he couldn’t have hated the mage’s decision more. samson was someone who fought with everything to keep people alive, for any of them to throw their lives away - it undercut everything that he and demigods like him worked for. it wasn’t hard to see why elian must have believed no one could - or would - save him: that he had to die to scrap together the pyrrhic victory the demigods had obtained. still, they boasted, strutting around camp as if they’d accomplished something when the truth was a man was dead because he didn’t believe in them. because they were more prone to step over the bodies of their allies so they could take a swing on whatever monster was tearing them apart.Â
in himself, samson had been confident in his ability to see things through. where the rest were concerned, he had to keep faith, but mounting evidence to the contrary made it harder to believe. it had taken the quick, sharp movements of a friend for it to click into place: inevitably, one of these campers was going to get him killed. or worse, they’d get someone he cared for killed.Â
he wondered, sometimes, if he existed at all to people outside of these moments of need. that was what the deal had promised, wasn’t it? orthrus had stared him dead in the face and said as much: you want to be loved, for being yourself rather than being useful. but it wasn’t as if he could stop. stopping meant bear would shrug his shoulders and consign to the curse’s fate, and if samson faded any further into the background he was certain that he’d disappear completely.Â
and yet, little by little, he could feel himself slipping away. giving away pieces of himself for others to succeed - recognizing that what wasn’t for him simply wasn’t for him - so what was left?Â
just him, this temple, and his prayer:
“Lord Apollo, Father… the one for who the swan still sings for - clear and bright, with wings cutting over the river’s edge where the water curls like breath. i’ve seen it, how even the smallest thing bends toward you and how every note reshapes in your name. i am your son, i’ve dedicated every morning to you, i’ve played at your altar every night, and so i hope that now… after all these months, you’ll visit me again.”Â
there was a long, pensive beat, it was in this moment that samson realized he’d come here unprepared. shrugging the shield off his back - his father’s shield - he laid it at his father’s feet. “i’ve carried this with me since that day, it brings me comfort to know that - like me - you once laid your hands on it. it was with me when i first faced mnemosyne, again when we saved moros, again when we descended into daedalus’s prison… but the magic it holds isn’t one i’ve ever been able to make use of.” his face crumpled, struggling with what he’d say next,
“i've carried it with nothing but pride. but i don't deserve it. so, it’s my offering to you. i don’t think it has any use in hands like mine, i’ll just end up letting everyone down.” it spent the bulk of combat strapped to his back, samson’s bloodied limbs far too busy trying to stop the bleeding to bother holding a shield. Â
“i’m afraid.” samson admitted, “and i feel that… no matter how strong i become, it will never be enough. i feel…” his eyes were wet, voice shaking, “like i miss my mom and dad. like i’ve watched titans torture towns, gods, my friends - cities laid to waste - and all my efforts just amount to more suffering. to more of us getting caught in the crossfire. and what’s worse, i don’t feel like i can trust the people im meant to count on. i feel alone, and after everything -” he thought of the burns, of the hate, of the slurs, of the self-loathing, of everything he’d given up both on his way to camp and once he’d arrived. “i don’t think anyone here can understand me, and i’m terrified i’ll spend the rest of my life trying to explain my soul.” Â
apollo was a god, and samson could still not definitively say why he was here, or what he was hoping for. he’d brought his shield as an offering because it seemed appropriate, but in some regards, this also felt like a farewell. what use did the olympians have for a halfbaked warrior who was losing his will to fight. day in and day out he had to remind himself why he was here, what they were fighting for - but when the chips were down, his presence wouldn’t make a difference. he was just one demigod, and if nothing else, the rotating numbers had proven just how replaceable they were.Â
maybe the next son apollo brought to camp would do better.
“i don’t expect you to fix it - or me - or this. i know that i have to stay, and i have to fight. i know that if i did walk away, i’d never be able to forgive myself…” samson’s shoulders slacked, he was lost, a shepherd without a north star, “but i need a reason to get out of bed in the morning. i feel invisible, angry. i can heal, but not as well as some. i can break curses, but not like others. i can’t defend myself, and I have to rely on people who i don’t even know anymore if i can trust. i don’t want to keep watching my friends die, if that’s why i’m here… if you’re testing me, i’m failing.”Â
tears streamed in twin rivers down his reddened cheeks, his eyes - more blue than they had any right to be:
at the edge of camp, the spare apollo cabin had been left empty for months. neither cassidy or samson had much use for it when the two were clearly quite content to live under the same roof, to share the same bed. this cabin, vacant and left wanting, has been completely decked out and converted into a haunted house. it took many hands, samson roping in the theatrics of satyrs and the mischievousness nature of the fey, grateful for a boyfriend with a mind for robotics and his own penchant for theatrics.
the moment anyone enters the cabin, the door slams shut behind them as the lanterns flicker, dimming to a blood-orange ember. an old phonograph crackles to life in the corner, its horn spinning without a record as a distorted voice whimpers hoarsely: it hurts, everything hurts. he burned, the sun- he burned everything.
with the last of the words the hallway warps and shifts, stretches impossibly long as hands jut out to grasp at shoulders and ankles, some simple decor, others engineered, the rest paid actors as the chortling satyrs cackle unseen: you'll die in here, pulled to pieces to feed my army BAHAHAHA!
a door creaks open to reveal a child's nursery, perfectly preserved with dolls sat propped up on shelves, their glinting glass eyes subtly following the movements of those within. now and then, one will slowly turn its head toward members of the group as another falls from its shelf suddenly - a mobile over a crib suddenly spinning as a warped lullaby sings. it's on the third repetition that the cradle begins to rock before the tiny automaton within, sits up. the doll's voice opens unnaturally wide, then shrieks with a pitch shrill enough to churn even the most iron of stomachs.
through the nursery those venturing through the house will feel the floor tilt. a damp, slick, green condensation coats the floor as chains swing from the ceiling - brushing against people as they navigate the room. corners crawl with horrors - skeletal constructs and actors in full dress crawl with cracked porcelain masks, creaks and snaps coming through the loudspeaker as their jaws unhinge and they pull and grapple at the campers: meet the last group, they didn't quite make it out alive!
the room, spinning like a fun house, laughter booming like a fiend straight from hell. when the music stops, the room does as well and a red door with smoke billowing from beneath appears now where there was not one before. beyond it, there's laughter, music, and warmth. caramel popcorn, bonfire smoke, ambrosia, and obvious revelry. through the door, it's just that. a clearing behind the apollo cabin complete with golden fairy lights hanging from trees, tables overlowing with snacks, cider, drinks of all kinds, and glowing jack-o'-lanterns.
there's a DJ booth and samson is already queueing another track - leaning into a microphone as his distorted voice booms through the cabin, precipitating the wild screams which immediately followed.
@speedsterborn
location: the forest
notes: october event
Truthfully, Samson didn’t have the best track record with the forest but it had been a few months since the last time he’d gotten lost out here. Of those that were no longer with him, it was out in the forest that he felt his most connected with at least one. Sat against a tree, the camera that Samson had purchased perched neatly on his pulled in knees, he scrolled through the photos that he and Adrian had taken together. There was a smile, then the end of the film. It shouldn’t be in his nature to dwell on the past, and yet, the past seemed to be everywhere he looked lately.Â
Those who left, those who’d been cursed - they were meant to be stronger now - but Samson felt more powerless than ever. To be certain, he was a light that never went out, but he flickered from time to time.Â
As the forest curled around him, shadows growing longer, there was a creeping sensation that ran up his spine. Something akin to being watched, but when he looked up, he only saw someone just coming through the treeline. “Brent -” They’d texted… briefly, but beyond that Samson couldn’t say he knew him particularly well, “I uh-” he flushed, spine still tingling before he looked around the small clearing - eyes scanning the misty trees. “Do you ever feel like something’s following you? Not like… hunted,” that was for the bedroom, “just like, waiting? I haven’t been able to shake the feeling all day that something’s watching me.”
@stanistrack
location: outside the apollo cabin!
notes: october event!
Highs and lows, a penchant to self-isolate. Samson was good at managing expectations, at setting boundaries and keeping to them. If he didn’t wish to be disturbed, he wasn’t, there was a lot of comfort that came from being alone and his tendency to recharge after extended periods of social exhaustion.Â
Athens was a lot like that, endlessly exhausting. Just as the wake that followed; returning to camp from the city they’d helped save - having listened to the speeches, saw the flowers, observed all the tears. A pyrrhic victory, one that made their own loss seem small by comparison to the stats.Â
And yet, as the autumnal air snaked through the campground - bringing with it a low-settling fog - Samson lingered for a beat at his cabin steps. “Would you…” Fingers interlacing with fingers, “stay a little while?” There was an emptiness waiting for him on the other side of his cabin door, and things he wasn’t sure if he could face. “I don’t want to be alone just yet.”Â
“Sweets and pastries, hm? You’re in luck.” Brad chuckled, It only made sense that someone as sweet as Samson had a sweet tooth. “I’m no baker or pastry chef, but I make a mean pie. Might just have to drop one at your door one of these days.” Yes, that was Ziggy’s thing, but good ideas and great effort deserved to be rewarded. Especially since Samson kept the infirmary so well organized, and that was essential.
“I get it. It just takes so much more time to find the things you need when they aren’t the right place, and sometimes you just don’t have that time to lose.” It was a cardinal rule in his kitchen, and it seemed the son of Apollo made sure to run the infirmary with the same order. “Besides, it helps someone like me, who’s just getting here, to understand what should be where, and to spot what’s missing.”Â
So, he made his way to the cupboards. The list was plastered on the wall, easy to check while he went through the items. “I’d imagine being a son of Apollo, you’d wake up to see the sunrise every day.” The camp was still sleepy, and few people were up already. “How is it, living here? Do you miss home?” He asked, more softly. Samson felt so similar to him that Brad couldn’t help but relax around him.Â
“To save me from potentially stepping in your warm gesture, maybe knock?” An eyebrow went up as Samson canted his head gently to the side, keeping his hands busy with the task he’d set out for himself. “And be prepared to be invited inside, from my experience some of the best things in life are the things we get to share with others.”
Particular might be a bit of an understatement, clean clothes all freshly pressed, very little out of place or in any sort of disarray. “That’s a sweet way of putting it, and yes, it’s absolutely meant as a helpful guide and not at all for efficiency's sake.” Sarcasm, playfully mused - but to that end it was for his own benefit as well - his mind was sharp, but if he could avoid leaving things to chance then he always would.Â
“Is that so?” Samson laughed, “I don’t need to watch the sunrise to feel His presence.” Though he was generally up around that time, it wasn’t often that the son of Apollo took the time to appreciate it. At the mention of home, he faltered - however briefly. “I miss my parents, sure. My dad got sick a few years ago from working in the mines, so I worry about him.” Honesty in spades, he straightened out the last row of beds then stood upright to inspect his work, turning to look at Brad with deeper consideration. “But beyond that there isn’t much for me to miss in Harlan, this is my home now: these people, my extended and highly dysfunctional family.” He laughed, light as air, “You?” Gentler, “Is there anyone out there missing you right now?” Â
@dirtyxpawx
location: artemis cabin!
notes: october event - spooky domesticity!
“These turned out great.” Samson commented as he kept a squat, a steaming cup of coffee in either hand as the fall chill rolled across the ground, painting a light frost over the camp’s morning. By these, he meant the pumpkins that he, Hughie, and Luka carved together; among other things. “Despite all the distractions…” He stopped short of Hughie, the other sitting on the porch as Samson extended the cup toward him. “Good morning,” he added just a beat after, fingers brushing gently against the graying line of Hughie’s stubbled cheek. Shifting to take a seat and take in the morning and the rising camp from the other’s lap, “When I got up to go to the washroom last night, I thought I saw someone in the cabin. I called out to them, then they just turned and smiled.” He’d been half asleep at the time, wiping his eyes to find himself alone in the hallway.Â
@mechabeaar
location: mojo dojo casa de apollo cabin
notes: october event
Twilight faded into night as Samson busied himself about the cabin, a movie night - though really just an excuse like any other to spend the evening together. Fixing a bowl of popcorn, Samson looked up and saw Bear standing on the other side of the window… an almost eerie look in his eye. A menacing smile, so wide it looked like it might split the other’s face completely; shutting his eyes, Samson willed it away, opening them again to the night. “Bear - ?” Calling out, he turned to see the other in the doorway, “There’s…” he looked back toward the glass, confused, “something at the window, I thought it was you.”Â
@creatlcn
location: Pluckley Village, England
notes: october event
Was it cruel to arrive in England’s most haunted village after sunset? Maybe. Considering the town had no street lighting and a rumoured thirteen or fourteen ghosts, the autumnal evening fog crept eerily through the trees and seeped over the old stone road. “This isn’t so bad.” Samson commented, he wasn’t exactly shaken easily but there was this creepy feeling that they were being watched, or at least, that he was. A little more… on edge than usual, when he looked toward Luka, Samson’s eyes went a bit large. “You just looked at me like you saw something…” he quickly looked over his shoulder, “what did you see?”
Everything Samson said seemed to settle somewhere deep in Brad’s chest. Without even realizing it, he was smiling already. The son of Apollo had that kind of light about him, the kind that made it easy to be around. “You might even say kindness is my main thing.” His tone teased, but it wasn’t untrue. Sure, he had been training how to fight, and he had been told many times now how important it was to get better with both weapons and his own divinity (as much as the word weirded him) would be.Â
And yet, there was something heavy on Samson’s words about cause. Having something, and someone, to fight for wasn’t foreign to Brad. He had that in spades. But the way Samson said it... there was a weight to it that didn’t quite belong to him. Loss had a sound, even when unspoken. Brad opened his mouth to ask, and then the topic shifted, to one he was much more comfortable with.Â
“Dude.” He was very serious. “I would. Never. Skip. Breakfast. Or second breakfast.” His grin broke wide then, almost a laugh. “If anything, I’ll be hunting down campers who aren’t eating well. I know there are already a lot of cooks here, but I signed up for kitchen duty anyway. It’s what I used to do back home, so….”
He looked around, finally realizing Samson had been in the middle of… something. “I don’t mind helping out, if you think I won’t be in the way. I’ll just need you to explain what you’re doing. Those look way more complicated than the first-aid kits I’m used to.”
If there was anything that the healer was known for besides his level head, it was the warm disposition that rolled off of him in waves. Bright like the sun, but in the comforting sense that came with the first light of day, “You and I have that in common.” Samson mused, playful in his own way; undeniably so, ease came off of Brad in waves. The kindest hearts were often the strongest, but it was far from his nature to pry.
“I’ve said it before, it takes many hands.” To build a village, to form a community, and to sustain what they’ve made here: what their Heartsongs called them to. “I’m sure the cooks appreciate a relief in duty now and then - and I certainly appreciate a hearty meal.” At every meal hour Samson was generally easy to find sitting at one of the long tables, plates piled almost comically high as he neatly worked his way through whatever mountain of food was placed in front of him. “Sweets and pastries are a bit of a vice, something to keep in mind if you ever feel like baking.” Generally unselfish, he could be a bit greedy when it came to food - but everyone had their flaws.Â
Looking around, Samson felt his face go a bit red as his hand moved to scratch nervously at his temple, “Well..” caught in the proverbial act, so to speak. “I like to get here in the morning and just do an inventory: make sure the cupboards are stocked, double check potion levels, check for creases in the bed linens.” An unmade bed could cause skin breakdown, a tidbit he’d learned while watching the healers tend to Adrian months ago. “A bit anal, I know: but I made a checklist if you want to go through the cupboards for me.” He’d laminated it and stuck it to the wall, and yet, things were still often missed. A fact that might be infuriating to some, but Samson held patience in spades - and the time to amend any mistakes.
“He’s a good one, isn’t he?” Brad couldn’t help but remember how the unusually tall son of Demeter stopped by his cabin one day to offer him some of the best potatoes and squash he’d ever tasted. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve met anyone here who hasn’t been incredibly nice, or ridiculously cool.” A quiet chuckle followed. Samson, standing before him, seemed to be no exception. There was a warmth in him that seemed quite effortless.Â
“I’d love some advice. You guys have lived… this more than I have and there’s a lot I can learn from it.” Besides, it gave Brad the freedom to make a whole set of new mistakes, all of his own.Â
That’s when he realized his manners. “Sorry, I never introduced myself. I’m Bradley, but please call me Brad. I’m a son of Hestia.”
“One of the best.” Samson affirmed, considering the Son of Demeter for a few beats longer, his relationship with Samson’s brother - the genuine heart that lived beneath a veil of shadow. Typical goth behaviour. “I didn’t have many friends before, I was an only child- everyone is here for similar reasons, because we want to make a different. We want to help others, for the most part that inherently makes everyone quite nice, and very cool if kindness is your thing.” The amused look on Samson’s face slipped as he considered the next question.Â
“Apollo,” Samson offered, “as in Son of -” he laughed, obviously. “It’s good to meet you, Brad.” He’d waited a beat to answer Brad’s question, taking a moment to consolidate his feelings on the matter; they’d nearly lost Cian, Adrian had his divinity stripped only for him to awaken then opt to leave camp entirely. Merrick had left, Gustave, Leonardo, Skylar, etc - the list of those who didn’t wish to contend with this life grew longer as the weeks went by and their trials escalated. “Find something worth fighting for, someone or… some ideal. Hold onto it, when things get dark, you’ll be grateful for it.” Holding onto the good times was all they had, sometimes. “Oh, and don’t skip breakfast… or second breakfast, for that matter.”
There's a moment of pause, before the grin's back in full force with a rather simple answer offered.
"You been thinking a lot about what you'd do with me in a nice confined closet, Samson?" He didn't bite back the playful tease in his tone, the ease with which the answer came to him. Nah, this was definitely becoming another in a long list of scenarios where David was entirely happy to just enjoy the ride. Not that there were a lot of scenarios where he wasn't, but still. Confirmation was good. Letting Samson lead the charge was also good, eyes instead watching the other walk ahead.
Stepping in to the threshold of the Eris cabin was always an experience, even for David. Samson might have been expecting, say, an entry way, a living room, just some space. Instead? He walked in to what was fairly clearly the kitchen. Not that it... Made any kind of sense considering the size of the cabin. Or layout from the exterior. Or even just any logical architectural sense.
"Huh. Normally it's like... At least a room with more than one exit." David's voice, however, showed this was far from his first rodeo in a cabin that wanted to keep rearranging. And he was right, there was only one exit from the room, the same doorway they'd just stepped through. Not that it looked like it led back outside any more.
Samson stopped just inside the doorway, his hand still on the frame as he glanced over his shoulder, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “Among other places, yes.” The words came easy, warm and teasing, flirtation clear and enjoying the candor as he leaned into the steady ease. His voice echoed faintly in the uncanny quiet of the Eris cabin - the confined space, with only one door leading Gods knows where didn’t leave much room for sound to escape easily.
He turned fully then, the light from the overheads catching in his hair, making it look almost golden. “You weren’t kidding,” Samson murmured, taking in the kitchen that shouldn’t have existed. “I thought the performance hall in my cabin was a bit unique… This seems a touch more extraordinary…" He let his hand fall to his hip, studying the single door that now sealed them in.
Then he laughed, low and genuine. “Alright, so have you noticed any tricks? I knock three times, spin in a circle, tell the cabin I like its interior design?” His fingers brushed against David’s shoulder again, casual but steady - leaning on the shorter of the two just slightly, “Or do we just wanna find out where it leads?” Embracing the chaos, he wouldn’t assume the cabin had a mind of its own, but Samson would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious as to where sequences of random events may lead him.
like, sure, he could believe that, but it didn't always sink in. until moments like these, when his knees were up and his back was bent, his elbows were on the bed to prop himself up, and he'd just spilled out his fantasies for samson to see. bare. exposed. more naked than naked; hell, getting fucked felt less intimate than this, but here they were.
samson, gazing down at him with a bit of shock, a bit of awe, and a hell of a lot of dusting over his cheeks. "yeah?" grin half-cocked, but full-beam. "fuck yeah." clearly, samson was inspired, since he began to fuck into luka in earnest, which had him arching and bending, trying to help the angle as much as he was dealing with the spread. luka didn't get fucked all those times just for social comfort-- he liked it. really, really liked it. and having samson being the one pulling him apart, spreading him open, just made it that much better.
face relaxed, expression soft, it was his turn to gaze up at samson a little raw, a little real. brown eyes wide, aimed up. bouncing, with the pace of samson's hips finding that well-worn path along his insides. "can see it any time you want," offered back. quiet, but just a little cocky. definitely all luka. biting his lip at getting grabbed, he just tried to nod, fingers curling into the sheets. "all fuckin' ready. all yours." breathing slow, low in his stomach, letting it expand inside and out -- making more room for samson to take. "gotta give it to you real good. show you what I can do."
some would say there isn't much one can do on a dick, but some weren't silently tasked with trying to keep a small army of 'straight' guys interested. settling his weight on his shoulders, luka used his hips to help match samson's movement. full-length, full-depth, getting every inch he could of that dick before letting it go again. staring into samson's eyes, nodding, encouraging, as he slid a hand down his own stomach. knocking his balls aside to feel where he was fucked-- fingers spreading over his stretched him, brushing samson's shaft, bumping the flare of his head if he'd pull that far. spreading apart, to really let samson see himself disappear into luka's body. the way his rim tugged out just a bit with samson's cock, fed back in on each slide.
“Damn it-” Samson exhaled, watching his cock slide out of Luka before pushing right back in again. Luka’s deft, worn fingers brushing against the shaft - grazing the base of the crown as Samson drew back - holding his sack back for the son of Apollo’s purview. Loverboy was a fucking star, all firm musculature that knew where to stress, and where to pull: a masterwork of floral grace and earthly power. Heat rising, chest burning, something within his breast felt like it might sing as soft, ambient lights began to drift in motes around them. “don't worry, Lover. I intend to.”
Luka could epitomize every jock that Samson had ever imagined in this very position, bent and arching, needy and wanting. A real bro in the tight, muscular body of Samson’s closest friend - brofriend, boyfriend, whatever definition they landed on he’d settle into it neatly. Affectionately, desperately. Samson’s hips snapped forward with sudden precision, enough to jolt the bed and the flower boy beneath him. Another snap as Samson sank forward and blanketed his heavy, muscular frame across Luka’s - nuzzling into his neck as he sucked a mark below the other’s ear. A kiss of sorts, as Samson delivered steady but shallow thrusts into the other.Â
“I love you,” Samson breathed, the calloused hand of the former miner bracing against Luka’s hip as he withdrew enough to look fully into the other’s eyes, heavy body laid on him as his free hand stroked idly through Luka’s hair. The short, soft, pinstraight strands chording seamlessly through his fingers as the tips brushed against Luka’s scalp, the blue of Samson’s eyes fixing only a few inches away from the warm brown hues of the other. His mouth twitched, something akin to a smirk as he leaned forward to capture Luka’s mouth on his own, more tongue than lips before he spoke again, strong arms curling under Luka’s waist as he kept the same, steady tandem. “Hang onto me.”Â
