#mist.start

[ptolomeas]

OPEN STARTER .ᐟ @ THE FRONT PORCH OF CABIN 12 with BUNNY, AN HOUR PAST MIDDAY  /   CONTEMPLATING THE RECENT EVENTS WHILE PRETENDING NOT TO CARE ABOUT ANY OF IT.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏∗  the camp busies herself with the strenuous task of piecing her bits back together, and bunny does very little to help. a spare weapon tossed in the right direction, and a demigod turned around toward the forest ( because that's where they belong, but bunny does bite her tongue ), and only because they're on her path ( an early path, a trip to the big house and back, mostly empty handed ). everyone today seems to have questions, but nobody has answers —  not that bunny would bother asking any of the other campers for answers, but demigods talk at a certain volume, one that makes for good listening. her glasses hang on the front of her shirt, perpetually unworn, while she twiddles her thumbs, seated in a lounging deck chair on the dionysus cabin. it makes for a perfect view of camp, and all her moving parts. bunny says, to a passing demigod, reaching into her pocket for a silver lighter ( and a pack of cigarettes, to share, of course ), "say, have you seen mr. d? i figured he'd want to play some pinochle after that debacle." a lie, and not a very concrete one.

[allthatquivers]

ARCHERY RANGE, CAMP HALF-BLOOD. June 8th, 1977, shortly after 8 PM.

IN THE HUSHED AFTERMATH of the camp's tumultuous restoration, rosalynn seeks refuge in the archery range. her desire for familiarity guides each arrow's release, a rhythmic heartbeat synced with the target’s absorption rate of her unspoken thoughts. time blurs, seamlessly transitioning from daylight to moonlight during her ceaseless practice.

at some point during her ritualistic movements, a subtle rustle disrupts her concentration. she reacts instinctively, bowstring frozen in mid-draw, an arrow pointed with silent precision towards the disturbance.

her senses, finely attuned through years of training, dissect the surroundings without a need for visual confirmation. the archery range harbors an unexpected visitor, a presence that does not yet seem ready to reveal itself.

after a moment, rosie eases the tension on her bowstring, lowering the arrow but not the wariness in her gaze. ❛ either you've got a death wish, or a compelling reason to be lurking in the shadows of my solitude. ❜

her voice, measured and cool, breaks the silence like a crack in the stillness of the night.

❛ choose your next step wisely. this is not a sanctuary for the undecided. ❜

[deadun]

fated for : open to all .

location : the big house , on the wrap around porch .

there was never silence at camp once the clocks crested five am. the younger campers were early risers, earlier now that their routines had been interrupted the events of the day before. in quieter moments, phia's mind tricks her into believing she can still hear the crunch of gravel under tire treads and the low murmurs of suspicion in the gaps in the usual din. the mortals' visit had left phia feeling as if there were eyes on the back of her neck —  to her, the feeling had always been far too easy to confuse with the warmth of the sun in the same spot. what had once been a comfort now felt like a warning. campers flit in and out of the big house, arms laden with things that needed returning to their proper places. phia hung back, stalling, running a fingertip back and forth over the spine of her latest journal, already in tatters. her mouth hangs open slightly, widening more with each inhale — each one of anticipation, one that would normally precede speech. and yet her words teeter on the tip of her tongue, back and forth. " if you see the bacchae — " she interjects, voice starting quiet and gaining volume with her momentum, words tumbling over her mind's threshold, " it's mine. " the lie comes easily. as they always have. but so does the immediate guilt. she can feel her cheeks reddening, and a glimpse down at her occupied hand tells her she's blurring.

[deadun]

fated for : open ⋆ for all .

location : sundown by the sound, the night of june 22nd.

miami had left a sour taste in phia's mouth that now refused to fade. even mr. d's overly - potent wine — the kind that she always refused on the basis that its taste clung to the tip of her tongue for what felt like days after imbibing — did nothing to wash florida from her consciousness. the quest was a mark, a tattoo, something she was stuck with. waking up in her bunk in the hermes cabin at daybreak on the 19th, morning mist clinging to the grass, she felt as if she'd fallen asleep first at a slumber party and her so - called friends had doodled unknown embarrassments on her features. perhaps it was a ridiculous thought, but the preacher in elk falls would baptize his congregation in the river, citing the divine capability of natural water sources. if the feeling refused to lift, then perhaps she needed to be reborn to be rid of it. antithetical, really. to who she was by her very blood. but last ditch efforts were rarely motivated by logic. she'd been wading around in the night - darkened water of sound for twenty minutes to no avail. she still felt wrong. being witnessed in this moment of —  what? further weakness? a step beyond her usual pathetics? — regardless, it shames her. " just —  don't ask, " phia calls from her position of holy sogginess, voice carrying easily over the water's surface, desperate to mitigate her strangeness in the face of the reputation she already had for it. she sinks into the water slightly, realizing too late and with heated cheeks that it's unlikely they would've spotted her at all if she hadn't called out.