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[color=#A8516E][b]#A8516E[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=9b9b9b][b]Rosalia’s Cabin > Arena[/b][/color]
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[color=gray][h3][sup][sup]Dancing the night away wasn’t how Rosalia had imagined her first night at a training camp for demigods, but she couldn’t complain. She’d learned something, tried something new, and even enjoyed it. And hell if it wasn’t for the best that she’d kept up the distraction; there was plenty of nonsense going on elsewhere that she was relieved to have stayed far away from. A bunch of twenty-somethings running around with magic powers, drinking, getting into it, and fooling around—it was sure to be a mess, and just plain surreal at that. As she stumbled into bed, Rosalia half-expected to wake up back in her old bed. 

She awoke in her new bed and checked the time. She’d slept in. Of course she did; yesterday was so eventful. But then, the sun still wasn’t out, was it? She wasn’t late for anything—not that she knew of, anyway. She wasn’t even sure if there was even anything on the docket for the day at all. So she had time to kill, just like the day before. It was at once relaxing and unnerving. There was nothing to do, nowhere to be, and nothing she could prepare for. So what was she going to do with herself? She wasn’t tired. She knew it was silly to get dressed in preparation for activities she couldn’t anticipate. And she could hardly justify cleaning everything she’d just cleaned the day before. But wasting time just felt plain wrong. 

Well, she could do something she hadn’t done in ages. She could take the time to watch the sunrise, and actually savor it. So she sprung out of bed, put on a pot of coffee, and did her morning routine. Then, when the coffee was brewed, she fixed herself a mug, put a coat over her pajamas, and sat on the front porch with her coffee and a cigarette facing east. It never used to be so difficult to sit still. But that was when sitting still was a break. It was frustrating. She wanted this. She chose to sit there, waiting for the sunrise. And yet she was struggling to put herself in the space to enjoy it. 

She needed to breathe. She needed to make each breath deep and intentional. She needed to savor the crisp, cold morning air. She needed to push the thoughts out and treat the whole thing as a break—as a well-deserved rest, as a well-deserved indulgence. Doing nothing when there was nothing to be done wasn’t lazy; it was only sensible. And she’d earned a sunrise, hadn’t she? 

Sunrise was as pretty as she remembered it. The dim blue of night slowly gave way to the sun’s warmth. Its red light gleamed off the melted and refrozen snow in a halo of orange. Her attention drifted to her arm. It was much easier to appreciate the gentle heat of the morning sun’s rays when it fell on goosebumps than on sweat. After a hearty sip of coffee, she sighed peacefully as the drink warmed her from within in turn. She lit her cigarette and took a long draw. She exhaled slowly, watching as her smoke curled before the rising sun. If this was her future, at least this part—this part she could savor. So maybe Helios was real, was he? Perhaps one day she’d meet him, offer her compliments, and let him know she understood. She understood why so many cultures deified the sun. Sunrise changed the whole world, every single day, in a way that was so significant, yet so constant, that it could never go unnoticed.

And yet, reliable as it was, it always seemed to go faster than she felt it ought. The sun had risen. She needed to as well. So what next?

Breakfast. Rosalia resisted the urge to go inside and start cooking for a time, but as the sunrise neared its conclusion, she gave in. To cook was to do something. Cooking served a purpose. It produced results, met ends, and provided something tangible to enjoy in the end. It was familiar and relieving, even when she wasn’t cooking anything altogether that fancy. But the biggest relief? The P.A. announced activities. Training! Straight to business it was—precisely what she’d anticipated when she accepted her invitation. She only stopped herself from eating faster as it occurred to her how chilly it was outside. She could very well get ready now, but it was best not to arrive too early, or she’d end up just standing around in the cold. 

She found herself having to stop routinely as she fiddled in the mirror. It felt ridiculous. It was, really. Getting all gussied up to do what? Train? Who did that! It was futile—a waste of time—and just plain decadent. She’d sweat it off. She’d wipe her face and smear it. But that was the point, wasn’t it? To waste time? To prolong getting dressed so she wouldn’t show up so early to the arena that the others would wonder if she’d camped out overnight? Silly. Just silly. She held the eyeshadow palette in her hand and shook it while shaking her head. She couldn’t go that far. She stowed it again, and put on the setting spray. Mascara, lip stain, foundation, and blush was already more than anyone needed for this sort of thing.

And yet, here she was, curling her hair just to put it in a claw clip. Here she was picking her earrings meticulously. Here she was, decadently fooling with [i]athletic wear[/i], as if a dozen microadjustments were necessary to make sweatpants layered over running shorts and a hoodie layered over a tank top over a sturdy sports bra look “good.” But it was worse doing nothing, wasn’t it? She was going to go nuts if she didn’t find something better to do for her morning routine soon. This was madness. It was athleisure wear for serious training. It just needed to work.

And thank God she had run out the clock on herself. She filled a thermos with water, and set out. All that stood between Rosalia and that feeling of accomplishment was a leisurely stroll with a cigarette.

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