𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 time he flew, he was fourteen. it is perhaps a stretch to call it flying, looking back; verso was far from as skilled with the art as he is now, && effectively used it as nothing more than a way to avoid becoming a pancake after underestimating the distance between a rooftop && the concrete down below. he struggles to recall the exact cause of the event beyond it being in one of the west-coast cities, && that he had done something or other to upset a local gang. the air had caught him on the way down, though, && eased him to a skidding halt. now when the air lifts him, it deposits him firmly on the deck of the docked andromeda. the large duffle-bag over his shoulders is filled to the brim with materials sought by the more magically inclined, herbs && the like which they could not grow aboard the cruise ship for one reason or another. there’s a tension in his shoulders as his combat boots touch down. a stranger lurks, one he has never met, yet one who shares divinity with him; he seeks her, calling out as he tosses the bag to a waiting demigod to carry below deck, ❝ where the hell’s my half-sister ?? ❞
@kronosarmys ( thalia ) // starter call !!
