Apoalo

Pines Holler [Not Accepting]

Not everyone is in the Discord quite yet but would anyone want a brother? Early twenties character. Very music oriented. Let me know!

Pines Holler [Not Accepting]

_{Faceclaim: Jeffrey Dean Morgan // Color Code: 27B09B}
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_{Full Name:}

Gideon Hale Mercer

_Nickname(s):

The Surveyor, Death Inc, Inevitable

_Age:

55

_Gender:

Male

_Sexuality:

He's been seen with young arm candy of both sexes

_Occupation:

Founder & CEO of Mercer Strategic Systems (MSS)
Private military contractor specializing in:

Terrain-based operations

Infrastructure security

“Disaster readiness”

Signal and logistics support

Public-facing role: Defense consultant & infrastructure specialist
Actual role: Power broker with private armed reach

_{Place of Residence:}

1743 Grandview Lane

_{Family and Close Connections:}

Gideon's family is heavily obscured, but both of his parents came from nothing. Gideon spent a lot of money to erase them. He is currently single and has never been married. His closest connections are to his staff.

• Butler: Philippe De Lyon || Age 70 || Handles Gideon's day to day, and runs all staff || FC: Charles Dance.
• Security Team Leader: Joel Hagerty || Age 45 || Leads the Tactical Team near Gideon at all times || FC: Jason Statham.
• Additional Team Members Liam Hagerty || Jayson 'Deacon' Deeks || Marcel Lafayette || Arthur Hastings
• Head of MSS Domestic: Andrew Barns || Age 60 || Heads up all Domestic Projects in North America || FC: Iain Glen.
• Vice-President and Senate Majority Leader: Oliver Steele || Age 57 || Vice-President of MSS, Political Officer, and Face || FC: Sean Bean.

_Appearance:

• Height: 6'2"
• Hair: Dark Brown Salt and Pepper
• Eyes: Piercing Green
• Body Type: Active muscular build, obvious strength training and routine exercise.
• Clothing Style: Formal, business casual, Expensive Suits, he always looks good.
• Body Markings: Tattoo of a Skull on his back with the names of his old unit. Various tattoo's on his arms.

_Personality:

Gideon Mercer moves through the world with deliberate calm. He speaks evenly, listens without interruption, and rarely raises his voice. Emotion, in others, registers to him as noise, data that signals instability rather than meaning. He is unfailingly polite, careful to acknowledge feelings without ever allowing them to influence outcomes. In conversation, he favors prediction over argument, framing opposition as misunderstanding and resistance as an unfortunate but expected phase of adjustment.

He does not view himself as cruel. He believes morality is contextual, a luxury afforded by stability rather than a guide to creating it. Control, in his mind, is not domination but stewardship. Sacrifice is inevitable; the only question is whether it is managed efficiently or allowed to spiral into chaos. Gideon takes comfort in systems, legal, economic, logistical, because they absolve him of personal responsibility. If the system functions, the cost is justified.

Among peers and superiors, Gideon is deferential in tone and dominant in effect. He allows others to believe decisions were theirs, positioning himself as an advisor rather than an authority. With subordinates, he demands competence, not loyalty. Failure is met with quiet reassignment, success with understated reward. People fear disappointing him more than being punished, unsettled by his composure and the sense that he is always several steps ahead.

Gideon’s greatest blind spot is his inability to understand devotion. He assumes that, when pressured, people will choose survival over sacrifice, efficiency over heritage. Loyalty to land, to community, to memory does not factor into his calculations. He believes people adapt, because they always have. It is a belief that has served him well.

There are exemptions to this. His close staff he considers family and are the only people he trusts, and each of them have been with him for a long time.

_History:

History

Gideon Hale Mercer was raised in places that never expected him to stay. His childhood followed the arc of federal contracts, dam sites, highway expansions, power corridors, where temporary housing and provisional communities sprang up around projects already destined to erase themselves. His father, a civil engineer in the employ of government agencies and private partners, believed deeply in efficiency and order. At the kitchen table, maps were treated with the seriousness other families reserved for heirlooms. Lines drawn in pencil decided which homes would be moved, which hills would be carved, which valleys would disappear beneath water. Gideon learned early that land was not sacred. It was assessed, acquired, and improved. People who could not adapt were not wronged; they were simply outpaced.

He was a quiet child, observant and methodical, content to listen while adults spoke around him. He learned how easily language softened displacement, how “relocation” replaced loss, how “development” excused erasure. Each move severed friendships before they could deepen, reinforcing the idea that attachment was inefficient. By adolescence, Gideon had internalized a worldview in which permanence was an illusion and survival belonged to those who anticipated change.

At university, Gideon pursued fields that reflected this understanding. Geopolitics gave him the macro view, how nations maneuvered populations and resources without ever naming the human cost. Systems engineering taught him how complexity could be reduced to manageable components. Security logistics showed him how power moved not through force, but through access. He excelled academically, praised for his precision and strategic clarity. His professors occasionally noted the sterility of his conclusions, but Gideon saw this as discipline. Emotion distorted analysis. The world, he believed, did not reward sentiment.

Military service followed, not from idealism, but from practicality. Gideon served as a logistics and terrain analyst, embedded in operations where success depended on preparation rather than heroics. From secure rooms and distant vantage points, he watched conflicts unfold as the inevitable result of planning done well or poorly. Roads denied mattered more than shots fired. Infrastructure controlled ended wars quietly. It was here that he truly understood the nature of modern power: invisible, indirect, and devastatingly effective.

The experience that shaped him most, however, came not from the battlefield but from its aftermath. A classified operation, successful in its objectives but politically inconvenient, required a scapegoat. Contractors absorbed the blame. Careers were sacrificed. Reports were buried. Gideon watched institutions protect themselves by outsourcing responsibility, and he understood, with perfect clarity, where real leverage lay. Governments needed results without fingerprints. Contractors provided both execution and insulation. Gideon left the service shortly thereafter, not embittered, but enlightened.

Mercer Strategic Systems began as a consultancy offering logistical solutions to difficult problems. Gideon was careful with his growth, hiring individuals who understood discretion as a professional obligation. Former officers, engineers, analysts, people who had seen how easily ideals were abandoned when expedience demanded it. The company thrived in gray zones: disaster responses that lingered longer than promised, infrastructure projects that required armed protection, regions where oversight was thin and urgency silenced questions. Each contract expanded Gideon’s reach and refined his methods.

Appalachia entered his calculations gradually. On paper, it was a region overlooked by modern strategy, economically depressed, politically fragmented, rich in natural stability and poor in institutional defense. Gideon recognized its value immediately. The mountains offered concealment, geological reliability, and distance from scrutiny. The population, bound by tradition rather than capital, lacked the resources to contest long-term pressure. Gideon did not arrive with soldiers or seizures. He arrived with surveys, environmental impact studies, zoning proposals, and acquisition offers framed as opportunities. When offers were refused, he applied pressure indirectly, tax reassessments, access restrictions, legal entanglements. Staying became expensive. Leaving became rational.

Over time, entire stretches of land changed hands without a single public confrontation. Roads closed. Easements appeared. “No Trespassing” signs replaced footpaths used for generations. Gideon remained polite throughout, attending meetings, shaking hands, expressing understanding. He never acknowledged the devastation as intentional. From his perspective, it was simply the system correcting inefficiency.

By the time resistance organized, the terrain, legal, financial, and physical, had already shifted. Gideon never needed force. He only needed patience.

_{Extra Facts // Headcannons:}

• How does your character feel about the expansion/growth of Pines Holler?: He finds it refreshing and considering he's one of the largest reasons for it he finds it to be inevitable.
• Gideon keeps every map he’s ever worked from. Not digitally, physical copies, annotated in pencil. He believes digital records are too easy to revise, too easy to lie with. Pencil marks are honest; erasures leave scars.
• He wakes at the same time every day regardless of time zone. Not out of discipline, but control. Disruption irritates him more than exhaustion.
• Gideon does not decorate his living spaces. Wherever he stays, penthouse, hotel, temporary residence, everything is functional and sparse. He never unpacks fully. Permanence unsettles him. His staff usually will decorate but he usually pays no attention.
• He has never married and has no children. Not because he dislikes the idea, but because he considers emotional dependency a strategic liability. He has ended relationships the moment he sensed expectations forming.
• Gideon drinks coffee black, precisely measured, and only in the morning. Alcohol is rare and purely social. He dislikes the loss of precision that comes with intoxication.
• He has an exceptional memory for faces, but a poor one for names unless they are tied to authority or utility. Locals who confront him are often remembered long after he’s forgotten what they were called.
• He reads extensively, but almost exclusively nonfiction, history, logistics, political theory, climate modeling. Fiction frustrates him. He dislikes narratives that rely on emotional coincidence.
• Gideon never raises his voice. On the rare occasions he does, it is not anger, it is calculation. Those moments are deliberate and deeply unsettling to anyone who witnesses them.
• Despite his detachment, Gideon is deeply order oriented. Disarray, physical or procedural—grates on him. He will straighten a crooked object unconsciously while listening to bad news.
• He believes strongly in inevitability. When something goes wrong, his first instinct is not blame, but analysis of what made the outcome unavoidable. This is how he justifies nearly everything.
• Gideon has a quiet, private disdain for politicians who posture publicly and compromise privately. He considers them inefficient and cowardly, but useful.
• He keeps one personal rule: never lie outright. He misleads, reframes, omits, and redirects, but his statements are technically true. This allows him to maintain a sense of internal integrity.
• He does not consider himself a villain. In his mind, villains are reckless, emotional, and short-sighted. He believes history will vindicate him, not by name, but by outcome.
• When alone, Gideon sometimes studies satellite images of the Appalachian region long after work is finished.
• His greatest fear is not exposure or defeat, it is irrelevance. The idea that the world might move on without needing him unsettles him more than death.
• He has never once apologized in his adult life. He has expressed regret, acknowledged inconvenience, and offered compensation, but never an apology. To apologize would be to admit moral fault, and Gideon does not believe morality applies to systems.

Pines Holler - A Small Town SoL Sandbox RP [NOT Accepting]

File me interested and currently aiming for very bad guy, a good guy Doctor, and barely getting by young adult. *tips hat* Last one may get axed

Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

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___________________________________ ◇──◆──◇──◆ ​𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 Legionnaries, Loxias ◇──◆──◇──◆ ◇──◆──◇──◆ ​𝙻𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗​​​​​ Medical Station, Forum and Coliseum​​ ◇──◆──◇──◆ ___________________________________

◇──◆──◇──◆ The festival air felt even warmer once Lucius stepped out of the shaded healer’s alcove behind the training arena. Sweat clung to the back of his neck beneath his curls, and he rolled his shoulders once, the faint ache of power-use lingering in the joints. Working a healing station during Solstice always meant back-to-back patients, bruised ribs, sprains, cuts that wouldn’t clot until he coaxed the warmth of Apollo through his fingertips. Gods knew he didn’t mind doing it; it soothed something in him. But after a few hours of it, he always felt hollowed out, as if some part of his light had been scooped out and used up. The alcove behind him was already filling with new voices, groans, laughter, the metallic echo of discarded gear hitting the floor. Chandler’s apprentices were sorting tinctures, restocking nectar vials, and shouting over one another about who’d borrowed the last roll of ambrosia-wrap. Lucius offered them a halfhearted wave as he stepped into the open air. He tugged his messenger-style med bag more securely across his chest and stepped into the main artery of New Rome just as a line of sparring victors limped out past him, slapping his shoulder in passing. “Thanks, Doc!” “Lucius, you’re a lifesaver, literally!” “Come see my next match? I’m defending my bracket!” Lucius waved them off with an easy, tired grin. “Hydrate, for gods’ sake. And don’t try to show off by fighting again if your knee is still clicking, Phelan, I will drag you to the ER myself.” Phelan yelped something unintelligible and disappeared into the crowd before Lucius could grab him by the collar. The Forum stretched ahead in a brilliant sprawl of steam, music, shouting, and color. Silk banners rippled overhead like molten sunlight. The smell of charred meat skewers mixed with sweet fried dough and the sharp herby tang of faun-made ale. Someone had set up a wooden stage for impromptu performances; a few kids were sword-dancing badly on top of it. A street vendor was aggressively waving a tray of 'Solstice Lucky Corncakes' at passerby, promising divine blessings with every bite. And beneath it all, that thrum. The heartbeat of Camp Jupiter when everyone celebrated the same thing at once. Lucius slowed, letting the world fold around him in sound and heat. He loved this place. He hated this place. Or maybe he hated that it still felt like it owned some piece of him. Not New Rome. Not the people. Just… the weight of what it meant to belong here. A group of younger legionnaires noticed him lingering, waving him over with frantic energy. Lucius approached before he could talk himself out of it. “Lucius! You’re back! Are you staying for the champion duel?” “Is it true you might return to active duty?” “Sir, I— I mean— Lucius, would you look at this?” One boy, maybe seventeen, stuck out his forearm. A swelling bruise was spreading under the skin, someone had smashed him with a shield, judging from the oblong shape. Lucius sighed through his nose. “You tried to block a blunt strike with bare bone.” He took the kid’s forearm gently in both hands. “Let this be a life lesson.” Golden warmth spread beneath his palms, soft and steady, dissolving the purple blotch. The kid inhaled sharply, relief flooding his face. “Thanks, sir.” “Don’t call me sir,” Lucius replied automatically. “I’m retired. For now.” For now. The words tasted like denial. He moved on before they could ask anything else, weaving through the festival crowd. A pair of fauns tried to recruit him into a rigged coin-toss game. A veteran slapped him on the back hard enough to jolt his teeth. A little girl wearing a cardboard gladius pointed at him and yelled, “DOCTOR LUC!” before her mother dragged her away. Lucius smiled despite the exhaustion. The Coliseum loomed ahead, massive and sun-drenched, its golden stones gleaming like a beacon. Inside, the roar of spectators crashed like a wave, signaling another bout nearly finished. The vibration ran through the stones under his feet. He should go in. He wanted to see who made it to the finals. And honestly? He wanted to make sure his stepfather’s medical team wasn’t drowning under an influx of idiots who didn’t know when to quit while they were winning. But his feet didn’t carry him inside just yet. Instead, he stopped at the edge of the Forum’s bonfire circle. The fire crackled high in the pit, sending sparks spiraling skyward. Children leapt over the embers, shrieking with laughter. Veterans lounged on benches with tankards, arguing about odds. A group of centurions were making a drinking competition out of speed eating watermelon slices. A faun band was attempting a very off-key rendition of 'Jupiter Triumphant.' And Lucius stood there, arms folded lightly, watching all of it with that hollow ache still sitting just beneath his ribs. He remembered summers like this, when he’d worn armor instead of civilian clothes, when duties and destiny had held him tight by the throat. When the Legion felt like the only thing he was built for. When he’d believed his healing was a weapon as sharp and vital as any blade. Could he really come back to the Legion? Put the red and gold on again? Stand at attention next to the men he would be responsible for? March, command, fight? Would he even be welcome? Or would he just be another “what-if” story, the Centurion who wasn’t, the soldier who vanished, the healer who walked away? Had he stepped too far away? Had retirement become more truth than rest? Above him, the banners snapped in a warm breeze, and the crowd’s cheer erupted as another duel ended, a massive roar that surged out of the Coliseum and rolled over the city like thunder. Lucius exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he murmured to himself. “Not done thinking about it.” He straightened, adjusted his bag strap, and finally turned toward the Coliseum. The walkway leading toward the main entrance seemed to glow in the setting sun, like a path he’d walked a thousand times before. Whatever answer he found… he figured it would meet him somewhere inside that arena. Lucius barely made it three steps toward the Coliseum’s entrance before someone spoke behind him. “You walk like a soldier.” The voice was unfamiliar, smooth, but weathered by long roads and long stories. Lucius turned. A man stood beside the bonfire circle, leaning casually on a walking stick carved with winged horses spiraling up the length. He wasn’t old, mid-thirties maybe, but there was a gravity to him, the kind travelers carried when they’d seen too many corners of the world. His cloak was deep indigo, clasped with a silver pin shaped like a crescent moon. No legion insignia. No cohort markings. Not a Roman. Lucius frowned, automatically assessing threat, allegiance, intent. Old instincts rising like a tide. The stranger raised both hands slightly, palms outward. “Not here to bother you, Centurion.” Lucius stiffened. “I’m not—” “Right,” the man cut in mildly. “You’re ‘retired.’” He said it with that same tone healers used when humoring a stubborn patient. Lucius felt his jaw tighten. “You know me?” The man studied him as if he were examining the grain of a finely made blade. “I know a warrior who hasn’t set down his shield. Even if he thinks he has.” Lucius huffed a quiet breath through his nose, exasperated. “Look, if you’re here for medical attention—” “I’m here for perspective,” the stranger said simply. “Yours.” That stalled Lucius. “Mine?” The man stepped closer, tapping the staff once on the ground as two children dashed past them in a blur of laughter. The fire crackled at their backs, throwing orange reflections in the stranger’s eyes. “You’ve been walking the festival like a ghost,” he said. “Hands full of purpose, heart full of hesitation. You keep looking at the Coliseum like it’s a door you’re not sure you’re allowed to open.” Lucius swallowed, something uncomfortably sharp lodging in his throat. “You psychoanalyze all your conversations with strangers?” “Only the interesting ones.” Lucius ran a hand through his curls, shaking off the prickling at the back of his neck. “Look, I don’t know what you think you see, but I’m not- I’m not looking to join anything. Or return to anything.” “Is that what you tell them?” The man asked softly. Then, “…or is that what you tell yourself?” Lucius felt his breath hitch in a way he hated. He didn’t answer. The crowd roared again from inside the Coliseum. The stranger turned his head slightly, listening. “You know,” he murmured, “most people hesitate because they’re afraid of failure.” He looked back to Lucius. “But you… you hesitate because you’re afraid you might still succeed.” Lucius froze. The words struck bone. A single memory surfaced unbidden. His Second Cohort standing at attention in the morning fog. Forty young faces looking to him for direction. Forty lives trusting him. The weight of that. The honor of that. The loss of that. “I left for a reason,” Lucius said, voice low. “I’m sure you did,” the stranger replied. “But reasons change.” He tilted his head. “And sometimes… people outgrow their excuses.” Lucius forced a laugh to hide how much that hit him. “You talk like a prophet.” “I’m just a wanderer.” The man smiled, a small, calm expression, like he knew a hundred things Lucius didn’t. “But I’ve seen a thousand warriors at crossroads. And the ones who keep walking in circles are always the ones pretending they’re resting.” Lucius looked away, toward the massive stone arch of the Coliseum’s entrance. The stranger followed his gaze. “If you want to go in,” he murmured, “go in with intention. Not fear. Not guilt. Not nostalgia. Just… choice.” Lucius’s pulse thudded once, hard. “What’s your name?” he asked quietly. The stranger considered him for a long moment, then offered a slow, respectful nod. “Call me Loxias.” “Greek?” Lucius guessed. Loxias' smile broadened but didn’t confirm anything. “Call me what you like.” Then, with a curious finality: “We’ll speak again, Lucius Crassus.” And with that, Loxias pushed off with his walking stick and melted into the crowd, not vanishing, not magically disappearing, just, slipping away as if the festival parted around him to let him pass. Lucius stood rooted to the spot. Hands warm. Heart unsteady. Chest tight with something he hadn’t wanted to name. His feet shifted, once, twice, and then he found himself walking. Toward the entrance. Toward the roar. Toward whatever answer waited inside the golden arches of the Coliseum. And for the first time all afternoon. He didn’t feel hollow. He felt awake.

Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

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Location: New Rome Bazaar, and outside the Coliseum

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Camilla slipped away from the stands before the last echoes of the previous match fully faded, her steps carrying her toward the wide outer ring of the Coliseum. The sun had begun its slow descent, gilding the stone archways in molten light and scorching the air until it shimmered. The heat didn’t bother her; storms lived under her skin. Sweat evaporated before it could form.

The Solstice crowds were at their thickest now, laughter spilling into the open streets, music rising from the Forum, food vendors wheeling their carts closer for the evening rush. The air smelled of roasted meat, citrus wine, and sweet pastries dusted in powdered ambrosia. Babies cried, dogs barked, someone shouted about a lost sandal, and somewhere in the distance a faun played a slightly out-of-tune pan flute in exchange for tips. It was chaotic, alive, and exactly what New Rome looked like when it was happiest.

Along the perimeter, the younger Legionnaires stood at their posts, some tall with pride, others trying to appear braver than they felt. A few tapped their fingers nervously against the hilts of their weapons; others stiffened when a spark of festival fireworks whistled overhead. It was their first major holiday patrol, an honor, and a pressure cooker.

Camilla’s presence had a way of straightening spines.

She approached the first checkpoint: two Third Cohort campers stationed near the eastern arch. They snapped to attention the moment they spotted the purple of her cloak and the gleam of her Praetor insignia.

“At ease,” she said gently, a hand raised in dismissal of their rigidity. “Long day?”

One of them—an anxious fifteen-year-old with a gladius too big for his belt—nodded, cheeks pink. “Yes, Praetor. I mean—no. I mean—yes, ma’am, but we’re handling it.”

Camilla bit back a smile.

“You’re doing more than handling it. This is the cleanest perimeter sweep I’ve seen from Third Cohort in weeks.” She rested her hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder, grounding him. “Trust yourself. You train for a reason.”

The praise hit him like a lightning strike. His chest straightened. His partner beamed, whispering a stunned, “Told you she’d say something like that,” under his breath.

Camilla continued onward.

She moved with the kind of quiet gravity that commanded respect without demanding it. Legionnaires called out greetings as she passed; some straightened their armor, wiping sweat from their brows as if she might inspect them. Others merely relaxed when her shadow crossed theirs. Having a Praetor walk the perimeter wasn’t protocol, it was reassurance.

Every checkpoint she reached, she offered the same blend of precision and warmth, the rare balance only she could manage. A daughter of Jupiter, but not distant. A Praetor, but not untouchable. She knew every name she passed, every cohort assignment, every strength she’d seen in the training arenas and every flaw she was helping them carve into steel.

“Keep those eyes scanning the rooftops. That’s your blind angle.”

“Relax your grip, you’ll cramp before sundown.”

“Don’t forget to hydrate. Even a demigod passes out if they’re stubborn enough.”

She paused at one post where a pair of Second Cohort girls were quietly bickering over their formation spacing. When they noticed her, both froze.

Camilla simply pointed at the gap between them.
“If something slipped between you two in a real breach, you’d both have explaining to do.”
They scrambled closer, embarrassed.
“Better,” she said, then softened. “You’ve got good instincts. Don’t doubt them.”

They looked as though Jupiter himself had descended to pat their heads.

A pair of First Cohort veterans were stationed near the main entrance. Older, calmer, more seasoned, but still visibly relieved when Camilla approached.

“Everything holding steady out here?” she asked.

“So far,” one answered. “Crowd’s getting restless. Betting stalls are overflowing.”

“Well,” Camilla said, her lips curving with dry humor, “it wouldn’t be a Roman festival if someone didn’t bet their entire month’s stipend on a duel they didn’t watch.”

That earned a round of chuckles, that low, respectful kind that rolled out naturally in her presence.

As she walked, a soft breeze curled around her, stirring the edges of her cloak. The atmosphere shifted with her mood, it always did. The sky brightened just a little when she passed. The air grew steadier, calmer, like the world itself aligned out of obligation.

She didn’t consciously summon it. But nature always seemed to move around her rather than through her.

A few younger campers peeked out from their posts as she passed, whispering to each other with awestruck excitement:

“That’s her—”
“The lightning girl.”
“She took down a drakon last year on her own.”
“She’s barely even served before getting promoted.”

Camilla pretended not to hear, though her heart tightened with something warm and complicated. Admiration was a gift, but it was also heavy. She carried it like she carried everything else: straight-backed, steady, and silently.

By the time she reached the western edge looking out over the Forum where crowds were thickening in waves, she stopped. Hands behind her back. Shoulders square. Watching over her city.

From here she could see nearly everything: the flash of vendors’ gold bangles reflecting sunlight, the swirl of purple silk banners overhead, the ever-growing line of spectators pressing toward the Coliseum’s entrance as the final duels approached. Children darted between stalls carrying sweet drinks, while veterans argued loudly over which champion would take the title.

Cassian was somewhere inside preparing for the next round of duels. She could already feel the shift in the crowd as excitement swelled, the subtle change in atmospheric pressure that accompanied anticipation. Soon she’d return, take her seat at the front, and lead with poise beside him, letting him shoulder the spotlight as they’d agreed.

Her strength was presence. His was visibility. Together, they worked.

But for now?

Her place was here.
With her Legion.
With the pulse of New Rome.
With the thunder she carried quietly in her bloodstream.

“Keep your heads up,” she called to the nearest watch group, her voice carrying like a clear note of command. “It’s Solstice. That means anything can happen.”

Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

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Location: Medical Station, and Coliseum

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The scent of sunlight and smoke hung thick over New Rome.

By the time the final duels began, the Solstice Festival had reached its golden peak, laughter spilling from the Forum, strings and flutes winding together into a melody that carried all the way to the Coliseum’s open gates. Lucius Cassius Crassus stood just beyond them, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hands already stained faintly with the shimmer of divine gold. The battlefield he might be retired from, but the work, the quiet, unending work of mending others, never left him.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice low and even as his fingers brushed across a legionnaire’s bruised shoulder. A warm pulse of light followed his touch, flowing from palm to skin like liquid dawn. The soldier exhaled, the kind of breath that trembled with relief. Lucius caught a glimpse and held back a wince, a newer Legionnaire, just a child, with the insignia of the second cohort on his armor. “Better?” Lucius asked, and the 'boy' nodded, wonder and gratitude flickering in his eyes.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me,” Lucius replied, wiping his hand on a cloth as the glow faded. “Thank your training. You held your stance even when your arm gave out, that saved you more than I did.”

He said it with a faint smile, the kind that hinted at warmth beneath restraint. His tone was clipped but kind, steady as the hum of the earth beneath the city’s marble bones. Around him, the medics’ alcove buzzed with soft chaos, healers moving briskly between cots, pitchers of nectar clinking, the smell of crushed herbs and burnt ozone from spent ambrosia wafers.

Lucius moved through it all like a conductor among strings, efficient, deliberate, carrying the calm of someone who’d seen far too much of war and had learned to master his pulse against it.

It should have been easy, this, healing, tending, advising. The life of a retired soldier turned physician. Chandler Sumpter’s hospital had given him peace, purpose. The steady rhythm of the ward, the bright laughter of his younger half-siblings echoing through the courtyard, the absence of blood-soaked sand under his boots.

And yet...

His gaze drifted toward the arena’s bright mouth, where cheers erupted in a fresh surge. The air was electric, the kind of energy that made the hairs on his arms rise. The Coliseum sang with the heartbeat of battle.

He remembered that sound. The way it used to vibrate through his chest when he stood in the sand, bow drawn, eyes locked on the enemy line. The precision of it. The clarity.

Lucius tightened the strap on his bracer, an old habit, then sighed and reached for another vial of nectar. The movement was practical, but his thoughts lingered.

The Legion was trying to call him back, his men constantly asking if he'd come back and run the second with Lucius' own protégé. They would again, ceaseless in their efforts. He could already feel the whisper of it at the edge of the festival’s laughter, the sense that peace, for someone like him, was only ever borrowed.

“Lucius.”

He looked up as Camilla approached, her silhouette sharp against the torchlight, cloak gleaming violet in the dusk. Even without her armor, she carried the weight of command like a mantle carved into her very bones.

“Praetor.” His tone softened slightly, though habit still bent it toward formality. “You’re missing your celebration.”

She glanced toward the healers’ alcove, toward the row of patched-up fighters and the faint smell of burned ambrosia. “Someone has to make sure they live to see the next one.”

Lucius’s mouth curved. “And you thought I’d forgotten how to do that?”

“I thought you might need reminding,” she said simply, and there was humor in it, quiet, but familiar.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the noise of the arena a distant roar. Camilla’s gaze lingered on him, the steady hands, the worn bracers, the eyes that had seen too much to be at ease for long.

“You’re thinking about coming back,” she said finally, though it wasn’t a question.

Lucius didn’t answer right away. He poured the last of the nectar into a fresh cup and set it beside the cot of a sleeping recruit. The faint light from the liquid reflected in his eyes, gold threaded with shadow.

“I’m thinking,” he said at last, “about whether I’m still the kind of man who belongs on a battlefield.”

Camilla regarded him quietly, then inclined her head, not in command, but understanding. “The battlefield remembers you, Lucius. Whether you remember it or not. Your men loved, and continue to love you, and I can see your soul still longs for the Legion. You've simply stopped listening to your heart and are instead thinking with your head. It's something you Minerva Legacies have in common, and while it served you well in training, you have to master yourself Lucius Crassus. Consider this my permission to rejoin if you decide to re-enlist.”

Then she turned, the folds of her cloak whispering across the marble as she strode back toward the light.

Lucius watched her go, the noise of the crowd swelling as Cassian’s victory was announced, the cheer of a thousand voices calling a name that once might have been his. He knew there were other bouts left but Lucius sighed and went to look into the sky.

The sky above the city burned gold and crimson, and the first stars began to spark through.

Lucius stood there a moment longer, surrounded by the scent of ozone, herbs, and the faint metallic tang of healing, caught between the life he’d built and the one that refused to release him.

Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

---

---

Location: New Rome Bazaar, and Coliseum

---

---

---

---

The Summer Solstice made New Rome shimmer.

By late afternoon, the whole city felt drenched in gold, streets glinting beneath the sun, marble facades glowing as if they themselves had been blessed. From her perch at the Forum’s edge, Camilla Julia Asper watched it all unfold with the faint smile of someone who knew both the beauty and the burden of what she saw. Below, the avenues thrummed with life: music spilling from every corner, laughter rippling over the chatter of markets and the cry of vendors, a thousand small moments of joy woven into one brilliant day.

It was strange, sometimes, to see Camp Jupiter like this, unguarded. For all its discipline and order, the legion still had heart, and on the solstice that heart beat wild and free. Camilla let her gaze wander across the crowd: the dancing children encircling the bonfire, the fauns weaving through the forum with wine jugs and mischief, the veterans swapping stories under the silk-draped columns. Every scent and sound spoke of summer, roasting meat, citrus wine, the hum of life at peace.

She rested her hands along the cool marble railing, her posture statuesque yet unpretentious. A low vibration stirred beneath her fingertips, subtle but familiar. Her father’s presence, as constant as breath. Jupiter often spoke to her directly, but today his guidance came in silence, in intuition, in the electric weight that settled in her bones when storms gathered. And as she closed her eyes, the air itself seemed to hum in acknowledgment.

You’re watching, aren’t you? she thought, tilting her face toward the light. The faintest breeze brushed against her cheek, and the corner of her mouth curved. She took it as an answer. You can literally speak in my head and you're going to use the weather to communicate. So dramatic on the solstice.

“Praetor Asper!” a young legionnaire called from behind, breaking her reverie.

Camilla turned, braid swaying across her shoulder, the sunlight glinting off the golden clasp at its end. “Report.”

“The final duel is nearly ready to begin, ma’am. The crowd’s already gathering.”

“Good,” she said evenly. “Ensure the perimeter is secure and the vendors stay within the lower Forum. No incidents like last year’s firecracker debacle.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The legionnaire saluted and hurried off.

Camilla lingered for a moment longer, taking in the sight of her people, laughing, careless, alive. She had learned long ago that joy was as necessary to order as discipline. The legion could not survive on duty alone; it needed days like this, bursts of celebration to remind them what they fought to protect.

Still, she never let herself relax too fully. Her eyes moved constantly, sweeping the crowd for disturbances even as she descended the steps toward the Coliseum. The familiar click of her boots echoed against the stone as she passed through streets lined with purple and gold silks. Every few paces, someone called her name, “Praetor Asper!”, to offer a toast, a greeting, a salute. She returned each one with measured warmth, the kind that carried both authority and affection.

By the time she reached the Coliseum, the air was thick with anticipation. The great arena pulsed with life, torches lit along the stands, fauns selling roasted nuts and wine, and the thunderous cheers of demigods waiting for the evening’s final bout. Camilla made her way to the praetorial dais, high above the sand, her purple cloak catching the last light of day.

The match was already underway: Cassian Murphy, her co-Praetor, stood in the ring against one of the morning’s champions, Alex Rhea, both armored and gleaming beneath the setting sun. Cassian was everything the crowd loved, charismatic, loud, fearless. His laughter echoed across the arena as he deflected a strike and countered with a sweep that sent his opponent sprawling. Camilla watched, expression unreadable, though there was an unmistakable glint of pride in her eyes.

They had long ago made their unspoken pact: she would lead from the shadows, the strategist, the judge, the lightning in reserve, and Cassian would be the visible face of power, the sun that rallied their people. It was balance, like day and storm. They had a close relationship, some would say they should end up together but Camilla had never had time for true relationships and besides, Cassian was far closer than that, a brother. They spent many hours meeting about the Legion, sparring, or just talking and he was one of three that Camilla could actually count on.

As the final exchange rang out, Cassian’s blade disarming his opponent with a clang that reverberated off the stone, the crowd erupted. Applause thundered through the arena, and the setting sun split through the arches, casting both Praetors in molten gold.

Camilla rose as the victor saluted her. Cassian’s grin was wide, sweat streaking his face, triumph lighting his eyes. She inclined her head in return, a silent acknowledgment between equals, between friends.

“Well fought,” she murmured under her breath, her voice barely audible over the din.

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.

The day’s last light caught her hair like fire as she turned from the arena, cloak brushing the marble steps. Around her, the festival continued, laughter, song, life. And overhead, the sky began to deepen from gold to indigo, a thousand unseen stars waiting to burn through.

The Solstice belonged to light and to victory. But tomorrow, she knew, the storms would return, and when they did, she would meet them head-on.

For now, though, Camilla let herself smile as the crowd chanted Cassian’s name. Balance was kept. Order held. And the daughter of Jupiter stood at the heart of it all, the calm within the tempest.

Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

₊✧ Lucius ₊✧

---

_{Alessandro Bedetti | BBC922}
"A true healer is the one who heals himself first so others can benefit from his own healing." — Hong Curley

---

---

_Name:

Lucius Cassius Crassus

_Age:

Twenty-three ₊✧ July 9th

_Gender:

Male

_{Sexual Orientation:}

Pansexual

_Ethnicity:

Etruscan, Neapolitan, Roman

_{Years at Camp Jupiter // New Rome:}

Ten years at Camp Jupiter || Thirteen in New Rome.

_{Place of Birth:}

New Rome, California

_{Key Relationships:}

• Significant Other:
• Friends:
• Enemies:
• Step-father: Chandler Griffin Sumpter- A son of the Greek Apollo and Legacy of Sekhmet. A gifted Healer who took Lucius in as a student and ended up in a relationship with his Apprentice's mother.
• Mother: Annia Hesta Antonius- A Healer that has recently entered into a marriage with Chandler Sumpter, Lucius' stepfather.

---

---

"And high up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
But if you never try, you'll never know
Just what you're worth
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you" — Fix You - Tommee Profitt Feat. Staarz and Stanaj (Written by Coldplay)

---

---

_Appearance

• Height: Six Feet
• Hair: Light Brown, dark Blonde, various highlights, changes shade in the Sun to a brighter blonde.
• Eyes: Blue
• Body Type: Lean, dexterous
• Clothing Style: Almost ALWAYS wearing traditional Roman Garb, enjoys the tunics and toga's that were the style. He'll occasionally wear modern clothing, especially when motorbiking or swimming, or outside the borders but otherwise enjoys simple white clothing. He is meticulous about his clothes being orderly, wrinkles or dirt are quickly brushed away, not out of vanity, but because he sees presentation as discipline. His herb satchel is always with him, as is a green cord band around his wrist.
  
  • ₊✧
  • ₊✧
  • ₊✧
  • ₊✧
• Body Markings:
  None, his skin is flawless.

_Personality:

Lucius doesn’t need to raise his voice to command attention. The weight of him does it for him, the way he stands, the way his eyes linger on a room as if measuring every angle. He carries himself with quiet certainty, like a man who already sees the end of a story before the first line is spoken. Whether the arena is war, politics, or the fragile matters of the heart, he reads the battlefield with unsettling clarity. Sitting across from him is to feel the full force of his attention: studied, understood, laid bare without ever being judged. His gaze is sharp and calculating, a tactician’s mind behind it, but softened by a warmth that hints at a healer’s hand.

He is Roman through and through: disciplined, deliberate, relentless in control. His words are measured, carved to carry weight rather than noise. He never wastes them. Yet when he does speak, there is always a thread of compassion binding his thoughts. His voice steadies the anxious the way sunlight steadies shadows after a storm. Still, that warmth never erases the edge beneath, the reminder that he can be as unyielding as tempered steel when necessity demands.

Lucius embodies contradiction as if it were second nature. His hands are steady enough to bind a wound, but just as steady when stringing a bow. He can lose himself in herbs, scrolls, and long silences of reflection, then rise and command a war game with ruthless precision. His soldiers respected his economy of motion, every gesture purposeful, every command tested against what he himself would endure. But more than respect, they trusted him. He knew and still knows their names. He remembers who favors the weight of a gladius over a spear, who conceals a limp behind bravado, who hides grief in silence. They followed him because he sees them. And to this day they ask him to return to active service.

Glory does not tempt him. He does not measure worth in songs or carved monuments. His victories are quiet ones, the soldiers who return alive, the wounds that do not fester, the lives preserved. His gift of vitality, the power to mend or to drain, is both a blessing and a burden. He treats it with caution, every use a decision weighed like a blade in the balance. To restore life is a mercy he offers readily; to end it is a judgment he makes only when no other path remains. Those who have seen him wield this darker half describe it with unease: not rage, not cruelty, just inevitability, as though life itself bends to his hand, unwillingly but without protest.

For all his discipline, Lucius carries softness within him. Apollo’s gift threads through his veins, a music that will not be silenced. He rarely performs, but the low hum of a song under his breath can still a restless camp faster than any order. In unguarded moments, he laughs easily, the sharp tactician fading, his eyes bright with a gentleness that feels almost too vulnerable for a man built of iron and shadow. These flashes remind those who know him that beneath strategy and command lies a man who longs to heal as much as to fight.

Yet his greatest strength is also his undoing: responsibility. He shoulders burdens that aren’t his to carry, refuses to yield even when exhaustion hollows him out. Every lost soldier weighs on him. Every wound left untreated cuts deep. He takes failures into himself, silent and unrelenting, as though he can balance the world if he just holds on long enough. He lives less for his own sake than for those who depend on him, the embodiment of duty in its purest, most punishing form.

Lucius Cassius Crassus does not lead from marble steps or gilded thrones. He walks among his people, bow in hand, voice low but steady, healer’s satchel as close as his quiver. He is light and shadow, healer and marksman, son of the Sun and scion of wisdom. To know him is to know steadiness, to feel the strength of someone who will not break even when he bends. And to follow him is to understand that true power lies not in conquest, but in the discipline to protect what others cannot. And when not in command, Lucius takes a welcome reprieve but even then outdoes himself by trying to make his superiors life easier. He knows how hard it can be to be in charge and is quite the Lieutenant to have.

_History:

Lucius Cassius Crassus was born beneath the Roman sun, his first cry ringing like a hymn through the streets of New Rome. His mother, Annia Hesta Antonius, carried in her blood the legacy of Minerva, goddess of wisdom, strategy, and the crafts of both war and peace. His father was Apollo, not the wandering, youthful poet of Greek tales, but the Roman Apollon: radiant and severe, a god of order, prophecy, medicine, and the bow. From the moment he drew breath, Lucius embodied their union, light and clarity tempered by discipline, wisdom sharpened by warmth.

Even in childhood, Lucius showed little of the fumbling uncertainty common to other demigods. He was precise, deliberate, and quietly observant, his mind always reaching farther than most. At three, he memorized his mother’s lessons in logic, rhetoric, and the small strategies hidden in games of stones and lines. By five, Apollo’s voice came to him in dreams, shaping his instincts into those of a tactician, teaching him the mathematics of war and the patience of archery. At seven, he strung his first bow, his aim steady, his release unshakably true. He did not boast of his talents, but even the older legionnaires visiting New Rome took notice of the boy whose arrows never missed and whose questions cut to the heart of every lesson.

He was raised not only to fight, but to think. Minerva’s blood gifted him with clarity: an eye for patterns, a mind that absorbed histories, formations, and arguments with ease. He read the battlefield like a scholar read a scroll, each movement another line of poetry, each maneuver another step in a grandly designed piece of orchestral music. While his peers delighted in contests of strength, Lucius learned the weight of foresight, the ability to see outcomes before they unfolded, and to bear the responsibility of choosing which path to take. Some mocked his quiet reserve, but when his predictions proved true again and again, their laughter turned to trust. In time, his tent became the place others went for counsel before drills, exams, and war games.

From Apollo, he inherited healing and music, though he wielded them with a Roman’s restraint. His touch could close wounds, purge sickness, and restore strength. Yet with equal ease, he could turn that power to destruction, unraveling the vitality of his enemies with chilling efficiency. He carried this duality with care, never careless with the life he held in his hands. To his comrades, he became both shield and sword, healer and executioner. In time, a saying spread through the legion: “Lucius carried life in one hand, and death in the other.”

At Camp Jupiter, within the Second Cohort he rose swiftly, though never with arrogance. His bow became a symbol of precision; he did not loose an arrow without purpose, and when he did, it found its mark unfailingly. In one war game, he turned what looked like certain defeat into victory by predicting the enemy’s flanking maneuver before it even began, leading a counterattack that struck like a dagger in the night. In another, he ordered his team to hold position for hours, resisting every temptation to charge, until the opposing side broke formation in impatience, only then did he move, securing victory without a wasted step. In the infirmary, his steady hands saved countless legionnaires, sometimes working until dawn to tend wounds others might have left for the gods. His presence itself was a balm, and many said they felt steadier simply knowing Lucius was nearby, while others requested his soft and steady hands in particular.

What set him apart was not only skill, but balance, Apollo’s brilliance tempered by Minerva’s judgment, passion steadied by discipline. Unlike many of Apollo’s children, he did not rush into danger for glory. Unlike many of Minerva’s descendants, he did not let cold logic harden him into stone. He stood at the center, wielding both fire and reason with equal measure.

By twenty, Lucius had earned the respect of New Rome as both soldier and scholar, tactician and healer. He did not seek titles or honor, yet the legion looked to him all the same. His greatest struggles were not in the clash of blades, but in the choices that followed: whether to preserve or to strike, whether mercy would save more than it endangered, whether sacrifice was the price of survival. Each decision carved itself into him, but he bore the weight silently, believing it was the natural burden of those born to lead. His current choice, whether to return to the Legion or to move on fully into life within New Rome.

Lucius Cassius Crassus is more than the son of Apollo or the heir of Minerva. He is their harmony, sunlight sharpened by wisdom, strategy softened by compassion. To some, he is the tactician who sees the world as lines and angles; to others, he is the healer whose touch restored what would otherwise have been lost. To all of New Rome, he is a reminder that true strength was not found in the extremes of mercy or wrath, but in the discipline to wield both with care.

---

---

---

---

_{Godly Parent:}

Apollo.

_{Relationship to Godly Parent:}

Lucius has had the pleasure to meet Apollo twice. Once within the Camp Halfblood during a brief stop during a quest and then again in Apollo's temple in Camp Jupiter. Apollo has a great amount of pride and love for Lucius but also finds him to be infinitely difficult to relate to. Minerva's Legacy is a strong one and the combining of their tenants leave Apollo seeing himself in the young man but unable to fully connect. He has not stopped trying however and regularly gifts Lucius with knowledge of Poetry, music, and healing arts.

_{Abilities Pertaining to Godly Parent:}

Biokinesis: Inheriting his father's ability in Biokinesis, this is Lucius' strongest ability by far. Within Biokinesis he is proficient in three sub-categories. First is the control and formation of disease: With this sub-power, Lucius can eliminate any disease from a patient he is able to touch or choose to inflict any disease using the same method. The diseases and plagues he creates can be placed upon his weapons to be spread upon contact. He is also able to create new diseases never before seen. His second sub-power is Hemokinesis: Lucius is able to slow, quicken, and otherwise manipulate blood flow, and can even stop it entirely. Beyond this Lucius can change bloods makeup, Essentially allowing anyone to be a universal donor. He has been known to use this power to calm exceptionally tense situations by lowering blood pressure and 'relaxing' people. His third and final sub-power and by far the strongest is Vitakinesis: His ability to heal is truly powerful. With a physical touch, Lucius is able to sense all current ailments and injuries on his patient, and then with some visualization and a bit of power, he can restore the patient back to optimum health, without scarring or residual damage. This ability is Lucius's most used, explored, and trained power. When healing his skin gains a slightly golden hue and his pupils turn to a golden amber color. It should be noted that Lucius' healing lowers in potency during the night or within locations such as the Underworld cut off from the Light. Within these locations, his healing takes a toll on his own, or others life force instead.

Archery and Natural Aim: A natural Archer is one thing, but a child of Apollo who develops this power never misses unless outside forces influence it. Impossible shots, trick shots, inexplainable precision with any projectile, not just arrows. Footballs, Ping-Pong balls, cards, darts, etc. If it can be thrown or aimed Lucius is perfect with it.

Battle Precognition: A power granted by Apollo but refined by the calm and cool intellect he gained from Minerva, Lucius can catch glances of the near future of battles based on the current positions and movements of troops. Lucius 'see's' various versions of events and possible outcomes and can then adapt to those events to make them come true. The future is constantly in motion however and it is wise never to trust wholly in what one sees.

Audiokinesis: Lucius has the ability to pick up any instrument and instantly know how to play it. He has perfect pitch, a deep knowledge of musical theory, and an amazing singing voice that all comes naturally to him. He hardly needs to practice. His aptitude also allows anyone who listens to hear what they would like the most even if he was singing or playing something that person usually hated. This ability is also known to be able to induce slight emotion based on the hearer's feelings at the time and what they hear.

Usual Demigod Enhanced Abilites: As with every Demi-god, Lucius has enhanced attributes such as Dexterity, Stamina, Strength, etc.

_Legacy:

Minerva

_{Legacy Abilities:}

Vast Intellect, total knowledge of medicinal components and herbs, defensive strategy, basic magic ability.

_Cohort:

Previously the second.

_{Position in the Legion:}

None currently, former Centurion, and former Head Healer.

_{Fatal Flaw:}

Lucius' fatal flaw is the constant and welcomed harm he puts onto himself. He will never complain, will never NOT help someone in need even if that means he will suffer. He suffers silently then and lets no one know. Someone knowing that he isn't well makes himself consider himself a failure.

_Weapons:

Imperial Gold Recurve Bow:
A masterwork crafted in New Rome, its limbs etched with laurel leaves and sun motif patterns. When drawn, faint golden light shimmers along the string, and manifests arrows made of sunlight which hum with Apollo’s radiance. these 'Arrows' may heal or harm, depending on Lucius’s intent: they can carry soothing vitality into allies, knitting wounds shut, or sear enemies with burning, radiant energy.

Apothecary’s Satchel:
A leather bag slung over his shoulder, filled with carefully prepared draughts, poultices, and charms of both Roman and Oscan tradition. Most are minor aids, salves for burns, tinctures for fever, charms against venom, but Lucius’s training makes them potent in ways mundane healers could not manage. Always meticulously organized: he believes a healer who fumbles for tools is already too late.

Strategist’s Tablet (Wax Board & Stylus):
Not a weapon, but an indispensable tool. Lucius carries a wax tablet for rapidly sketching troop positions, tactical plans, or even marking down medical triage. Often seen tucked into his belt or the crook of his arm during campaigns, the marks of a thousand battles pressed faintly into the wax.

_{Misc Information:}

• Always carries himself with a calm, deliberate poise; even under pressure, his movements are precise, measured, and economical.
• Has sharp, steady eyes that seem to read not only the battlefield, but the people around him, weighing motives, moods, and hidden wounds.
• Prefers practical Roman attire with touches of symbolism, laurel motifs, sunbursts, and muted gold accents.
• Often hums or whistles under his breath when treating wounds, usually old Roman hymns or Oscan healing chants learned from his mother’s family. Has the secondary effect of a lullaby on his patients.
• Has a habit of sketching quick tactical notes or diagrams even when unnecessary, planning is second nature to him.
• Keeps an almost obsessive order to his satchel of medicines; if someone disrupts it, he grows quietly agitated.
• Tilts his head slightly when listening, as if giving full weight to every word spoken.
• Writes with his left hand, shoots with his right, ambidextrous training from childhood.
• Keeps track of every person he has healed in a small notebook; names, dates, wounds, outcomes, a private archive of his service.
• Talks to patients while healing them, not idle chatter but calm, grounding conversation, a way to keep them focused and remind them they are safe. Explains everything he is doing and what has happened to them.
• Tends to stand slightly behind others in casual conversation, observing first before speaking.
• Has an uncanny ability to remember small details about people, the name of a sibling, a past injury, or a fleeting comment, and brings it up later, making others feel deeply seen.
• When frustrated, he rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger before speaking.
• While rare, his laugh is contagious and causes feelings of elatedness and warmth.
• Refuses to drink excessively, claims blurred senses are an insult to Apollo, though it’s also about control.

Mimbulus Mimbletonia

Favorite Song: Built By Titan - The Heart & The Blood (feat. Skybourne)

Coolest Looking Tarot: Star

Favorite Greek God: Apollo cause he's my dad *nod*

Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

Annnnnnnd, final one.

₊✧ Lucius ₊✧

---

_{Alessandro Bedetti | BBC922}
"A true healer is the one who heals himself first so others can benefit from his own healing." — Hong Curley

---

---

_Name:

Lucius Cassius Crassus

_Age:

Twenty-three ₊✧ July 9th

_Gender:

Male

_{Sexual Orientation:}

Pansexual

_Ethnicity:

Etruscan, Neapolitan, Roman

_{Years at Camp Jupiter // New Rome:}

Ten years at Camp Jupiter || Thirteen in New Rome.

_{Place of Birth:}

New Rome, California

_{Key Relationships:}

• Significant Other:
• Friends:
• Enemies:
• Step-father: Chandler Griffin Sumpter- A son of the Greek Apollo and Legacy of Sekhmet. A gifted Healer who took Lucius in as a student and ended up in a relationship with his Apprentice's mother.
• Mother: Annia Hesta Antonius- A Healer that has recently entered into a marriage with Chandler Sumpter, Lucius' stepfather.

---

---

"And high up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
But if you never try, you'll never know
Just what you're worth
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you" — Fix You - Tommee Profitt Feat. Staarz and Stanaj (Written by Coldplay)

---

---

_Appearance

• Height: Six Feet
• Hair: Light Brown, dark Blonde, various highlights, changes shade in the Sun to a brighter blonde.
• Eyes: Blue
• Body Type: Lean, dexterous
• Clothing Style: Almost ALWAYS wearing traditional Roman Garb, enjoys the tunics and toga's that were the style. He'll occasionally wear modern clothing, especially when motorbiking or swimming, or outside the borders but otherwise enjoys simple white clothing. He is meticulous about his clothes being orderly, wrinkles or dirt are quickly brushed away, not out of vanity, but because he sees presentation as discipline. His herb satchel is always with him, as is a green cord band around his wrist.
  
  • ₊✧
  • ₊✧
  • ₊✧
  • ₊✧
• Body Markings:
  None, his skin is flawless.

_Personality:

Lucius doesn’t need to raise his voice to command attention. The weight of him does it for him, the way he stands, the way his eyes linger on a room as if measuring every angle. He carries himself with quiet certainty, like a man who already sees the end of a story before the first line is spoken. Whether the arena is war, politics, or the fragile matters of the heart, he reads the battlefield with unsettling clarity. Sitting across from him is to feel the full force of his attention: studied, understood, laid bare without ever being judged. His gaze is sharp and calculating, a tactician’s mind behind it, but softened by a warmth that hints at a healer’s hand.

He is Roman through and through: disciplined, deliberate, relentless in control. His words are measured, carved to carry weight rather than noise. He never wastes them. Yet when he does speak, there is always a thread of compassion binding his thoughts. His voice steadies the anxious the way sunlight steadies shadows after a storm. Still, that warmth never erases the edge beneath, the reminder that he can be as unyielding as tempered steel when necessity demands.

Lucius embodies contradiction as if it were second nature. His hands are steady enough to bind a wound, but just as steady when stringing a bow. He can lose himself in herbs, scrolls, and long silences of reflection, then rise and command a war game with ruthless precision. His soldiers respected his economy of motion, every gesture purposeful, every command tested against what he himself would endure. But more than respect, they trusted him. He knew and still knows their names. He remembers who favors the weight of a gladius over a spear, who conceals a limp behind bravado, who hides grief in silence. They followed him because he sees them. And to this day they ask him to return to active service.

Glory does not tempt him. He does not measure worth in songs or carved monuments. His victories are quiet ones, the soldiers who return alive, the wounds that do not fester, the lives preserved. His gift of vitality, the power to mend or to drain, is both a blessing and a burden. He treats it with caution, every use a decision weighed like a blade in the balance. To restore life is a mercy he offers readily; to end it is a judgment he makes only when no other path remains. Those who have seen him wield this darker half describe it with unease: not rage, not cruelty, just inevitability, as though life itself bends to his hand, unwillingly but without protest.

For all his discipline, Lucius carries softness within him. Apollo’s gift threads through his veins, a music that will not be silenced. He rarely performs, but the low hum of a song under his breath can still a restless camp faster than any order. In unguarded moments, he laughs easily, the sharp tactician fading, his eyes bright with a gentleness that feels almost too vulnerable for a man built of iron and shadow. These flashes remind those who know him that beneath strategy and command lies a man who longs to heal as much as to fight.

Yet his greatest strength is also his undoing: responsibility. He shoulders burdens that aren’t his to carry, refuses to yield even when exhaustion hollows him out. Every lost soldier weighs on him. Every wound left untreated cuts deep. He takes failures into himself, silent and unrelenting, as though he can balance the world if he just holds on long enough. He lives less for his own sake than for those who depend on him, the embodiment of duty in its purest, most punishing form.

Lucius Cassius Crassus does not lead from marble steps or gilded thrones. He walks among his people, bow in hand, voice low but steady, healer’s satchel as close as his quiver. He is light and shadow, healer and marksman, son of the Sun and scion of wisdom. To know him is to know steadiness, to feel the strength of someone who will not break even when he bends. And to follow him is to understand that true power lies not in conquest, but in the discipline to protect what others cannot. And when not in command, Lucius takes a welcome reprieve but even then outdoes himself by trying to make his superiors life easier. He knows how hard it can be to be in charge and is quite the Lieutenant to have.

_History:

Lucius Cassius Crassus was born beneath the Roman sun, his first cry ringing like a hymn through the streets of New Rome. His mother, Annia Hesta Antonius, carried in her blood the legacy of Minerva, goddess of wisdom, strategy, and the crafts of both war and peace. His father was Apollo, not the wandering, youthful poet of Greek tales, but the Roman Apollon: radiant and severe, a god of order, prophecy, medicine, and the bow. From the moment he drew breath, Lucius embodied their union, light and clarity tempered by discipline, wisdom sharpened by warmth.

Even in childhood, Lucius showed little of the fumbling uncertainty common to other demigods. He was precise, deliberate, and quietly observant, his mind always reaching farther than most. At three, he memorized his mother’s lessons in logic, rhetoric, and the small strategies hidden in games of stones and lines. By five, Apollo’s voice came to him in dreams, shaping his instincts into those of a tactician, teaching him the mathematics of war and the patience of archery. At seven, he strung his first bow, his aim steady, his release unshakably true. He did not boast of his talents, but even the older legionnaires visiting New Rome took notice of the boy whose arrows never missed and whose questions cut to the heart of every lesson.

He was raised not only to fight, but to think. Minerva’s blood gifted him with clarity: an eye for patterns, a mind that absorbed histories, formations, and arguments with ease. He read the battlefield like a scholar read a scroll, each movement another line of poetry, each maneuver another step in a grandly designed piece of orchestral music. While his peers delighted in contests of strength, Lucius learned the weight of foresight, the ability to see outcomes before they unfolded, and to bear the responsibility of choosing which path to take. Some mocked his quiet reserve, but when his predictions proved true again and again, their laughter turned to trust. In time, his tent became the place others went for counsel before drills, exams, and war games.

From Apollo, he inherited healing and music, though he wielded them with a Roman’s restraint. His touch could close wounds, purge sickness, and restore strength. Yet with equal ease, he could turn that power to destruction, unraveling the vitality of his enemies with chilling efficiency. He carried this duality with care, never careless with the life he held in his hands. To his comrades, he became both shield and sword, healer and executioner. In time, a saying spread through the legion: “Lucius carried life in one hand, and death in the other.”

At Camp Jupiter, within the Second Cohort he rose swiftly, though never with arrogance. His bow became a symbol of precision; he did not loose an arrow without purpose, and when he did, it found its mark unfailingly. In one war game, he turned what looked like certain defeat into victory by predicting the enemy’s flanking maneuver before it even began, leading a counterattack that struck like a dagger in the night. In another, he ordered his team to hold position for hours, resisting every temptation to charge, until the opposing side broke formation in impatience, only then did he move, securing victory without a wasted step. In the infirmary, his steady hands saved countless legionnaires, sometimes working until dawn to tend wounds others might have left for the gods. His presence itself was a balm, and many said they felt steadier simply knowing Lucius was nearby, while others requested his soft and steady hands in particular.

What set him apart was not only skill, but balance, Apollo’s brilliance tempered by Minerva’s judgment, passion steadied by discipline. Unlike many of Apollo’s children, he did not rush into danger for glory. Unlike many of Minerva’s descendants, he did not let cold logic harden him into stone. He stood at the center, wielding both fire and reason with equal measure.

By twenty, Lucius had earned the respect of New Rome as both soldier and scholar, tactician and healer. He did not seek titles or honor, yet the legion looked to him all the same. His greatest struggles were not in the clash of blades, but in the choices that followed: whether to preserve or to strike, whether mercy would save more than it endangered, whether sacrifice was the price of survival. Each decision carved itself into him, but he bore the weight silently, believing it was the natural burden of those born to lead. His current choice, whether to return to the Legion or to move on fully into life within New Rome.

Lucius Cassius Crassus is more than the son of Apollo or the heir of Minerva. He is their harmony, sunlight sharpened by wisdom, strategy softened by compassion. To some, he is the tactician who sees the world as lines and angles; to others, he is the healer whose touch restored what would otherwise have been lost. To all of New Rome, he is a reminder that true strength was not found in the extremes of mercy or wrath, but in the discipline to wield both with care.

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_{Godly Parent:}

Apollo.

_{Relationship to Godly Parent:}

Lucius has had the pleasure to meet Apollo twice. Once within the Camp Halfblood during a brief stop during a quest and then again in Apollo's temple in Camp Jupiter. Apollo has a great amount of pride and love for Lucius but also finds him to be infinitely difficult to relate to. Minerva's Legacy is a strong one and the combining of their tenants leave Apollo seeing himself in the young man but unable to fully connect. He has not stopped trying however and regularly gifts Lucius with knowledge of Poetry, music, and healing arts.

_{Abilities Pertaining to Godly Parent:}

Biokinesis: Inheriting his father's ability in Biokinesis, this is Lucius' strongest ability by far. Within Biokinesis he is proficient in three sub-categories. First is the control and formation of disease: With this sub-power, Lucius can eliminate any disease from a patient he is able to touch or choose to inflict any disease using the same method. The diseases and plagues he creates can be placed upon his weapons to be spread upon contact. He is also able to create new diseases never before seen. His second sub-power is Hemokinesis: Lucius is able to slow, quicken, and otherwise manipulate blood flow, and can even stop it entirely. Beyond this Lucius can change bloods makeup, Essentially allowing anyone to be a universal donor. He has been known to use this power to calm exceptionally tense situations by lowering blood pressure and 'relaxing' people. His third and final sub-power and by far the strongest is Vitakinesis: His ability to heal is truly powerful. With a physical touch, Lucius is able to sense all current ailments and injuries on his patient, and then with some visualization and a bit of power, he can restore the patient back to optimum health, without scarring or residual damage. This ability is Lukas's most used, explored, and trained power. When healing his skin gains a slightly golden hue and his pupils turn to a golden amber color. It should be noted that Lucius' healing lowers in potency during the night or within locations such as the Underworld cut off from the Light. Within these locations, his healing takes a toll on his own, or others life force instead.

Archery and Natural Aim: A natural Archer is one thing, but a child of Apollo who develops this power never misses unless outside forces influence it. Impossible shots, trick shots, inexplainable precision with any projectile, not just arrows. Footballs, Ping-Pong balls, cards, darts, etc. If it can be thrown or aimed Lucius is perfect with it.

Battle Precognition: A power granted by Apollo but refined by the calm and cool intellect he gained from Minerva, Lucius can catch glances of the near future of battles based on the current positions and movements of troops. Lucius 'see's' various versions of events and possible outcomes and can then adapt to those events to make them come true. The future is constantly in motion however and it is wise never to trust wholly in what one sees.

Audiokinesis: Lucius has the ability to pick up any instrument and instantly know how to play it. He has perfect pitch, a deep knowledge of musical theory, and an amazing singing voice that all comes naturally to him. He hardly needs to practice. His aptitude also allows anyone who listens to hear what they would like the most even if he was singing or playing something that person usually hated. This ability is also known to be able to induce slight emotion based on the hearer's feelings at the time and what they hear.

Usual Demigod Enhanced Abilites: As with every Demi-god, Lucius has enhanced attributes such as Dexterity, Stamina, Strength, etc.

_Legacy:

Minerva

_{Legacy Abilities:}

Vast Intellect, total knowledge of medicinal components and herbs, defensive strategy, basic magic ability.

_Cohort:

Previously the second.

_{Position in the Legion:}

None currently, former Centurion, and former Head Healer.

_{Fatal Flaw:}

Lucius' fatal flaw is the constant and welcomed harm he puts onto himself. He will never complain, will never NOT help someone in need even if that means he will suffer. He suffers silently then and lets no one know. Someone knowing that he isn't well makes himself consider himself a failure.

_Weapons:

Imperial Gold Recurve Bow:
A masterwork crafted in New Rome, its limbs etched with laurel leaves and sun motif patterns. When drawn, faint golden light shimmers along the string, and manifests arrows made of sunlight which hum with Apollo’s radiance. these 'Arrows' may heal or harm, depending on Lucius’s intent: they can carry soothing vitality into allies, knitting wounds shut, or sear enemies with burning, radiant energy.

Apothecary’s Satchel:
A leather bag slung over his shoulder, filled with carefully prepared draughts, poultices, and charms of both Roman and Oscan tradition. Most are minor aids, salves for burns, tinctures for fever, charms against venom, but Lucius’s training makes them potent in ways mundane healers could not manage. Always meticulously organized: he believes a healer who fumbles for tools is already too late.

Strategist’s Tablet (Wax Board & Stylus):
Not a weapon, but an indispensable tool. Lucius carries a wax tablet for rapidly sketching troop positions, tactical plans, or even marking down medical triage. Often seen tucked into his belt or the crook of his arm during campaigns, the marks of a thousand battles pressed faintly into the wax.

_{Misc Information:}

• Always carries himself with a calm, deliberate poise; even under pressure, his movements are precise, measured, and economical.
• Has sharp, steady eyes that seem to read not only the battlefield, but the people around him, weighing motives, moods, and hidden wounds.
• Prefers practical Roman attire with touches of symbolism, laurel motifs, sunbursts, and muted gold accents.
• Often hums or whistles under his breath when treating wounds, usually old Roman hymns or Oscan healing chants learned from his mother’s family. Has the secondary effect of a lullaby on his patients.
• Has a habit of sketching quick tactical notes or diagrams even when unnecessary, planning is second nature to him.
• Keeps an almost obsessive order to his satchel of medicines; if someone disrupts it, he grows quietly agitated.
• Tilts his head slightly when listening, as if giving full weight to every word spoken.
• Writes with his left hand, shoots with his right, ambidextrous training from childhood.
• Keeps track of every person he has healed in a small notebook; names, dates, wounds, outcomes, a private archive of his service.
• Talks to patients while healing them, not idle chatter but calm, grounding conversation, a way to keep them focused and remind them they are safe. Explains everything he is doing and what has happened to them.
• Tends to stand slightly behind others in casual conversation, observing first before speaking.
• Has an uncanny ability to remember small details about people, the name of a sibling, a past injury, or a fleeting comment, and brings it up later, making others feel deeply seen.
• When frustrated, he rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger before speaking.
• While rare, his laugh is contagious and causes feelings of elatedness and warmth.
• Refuses to drink excessively, claims blurred senses are an insult to Apollo, though it’s also about control.

Mimbulus Mimbletonia

Favorite Song: Built By Titan - The Heart & The Blood (feat. Skybourne)

Coolest Looking Tarot: Star

Favorite Greek God: Apollo cause he's my dad *nod*

Trials of New Rome - TEMPORARY HIATUS

𓃗 Colter Jace Burnett 𓃗

_{Paris Brosnan | #9F0C07}
"I was born where there were no enclosures and where everything drew a free breath. I want to die there, not within walls." — Ten Bears, Comanche Chief

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_Name:

Colter Jace Burnett

_Age:

Twenty-seven 𓃗 July 24th

_Gender:

Male

_{Sexual Orientation:}

Homosexual.

_Ethnicity:

Native American/American Hodgepodge

_{Years at Camp Jupiter // New Rome:}

Eight Years in New Rome

_{Place of Birth:}

Texas

_{Key Relationships:}

• Nikolas Burnett, grandson of Hades and Hermes: Husband and love of his life
• Cassian Slade Murphy, son and Legacy of Ares/Mars: A sort of cousin, whose love of horses bonded them
• Elio Lux Burnett, and Matteo Carmine Burnett: Sons whom he loves more than anything
• Chandler Griffin Sumpter, Son of Apollo and Legacy of Sekhhmet: Godfather, and current head of New Rome's Hospital

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"But I love gold buckles and wild horses and
Spurs that rattle when my boots hit the ground It's the blood and the glory, baby that's why we ride" — That's Why We Ride by Casey Donahew

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_Appearance

• Height: Six feet, one inch.
• Hair: Brown, sometimes mixed with lighter tones.
• Eyes: Hazel.
• Body Type: Lean, solid, and toned
• Clothing Style: For the most part Colter looks like a Cowboy, a legitimate bonified Cowboy complete with flannel shirts, rugged blue jeans, boots, big belts, and of course the hat to complete the picture. Often has hay either in his fingers, twirling, or biting on the end. Has taken to wearing sunglasses more as well. If he's not in Cowboy getup he's usually shirtless and resting with his hat over his eyes. It's very rare to find him in anything other than that. However, he is known to clean up REAL well, just ask his husband.
  
  • Cowboy Look
  • Cowboy Look 2
  • Cowboy Look 3
  • Cowboy Look 4
    Cowboy at Rest
    Looking Dapper
• Body Markings:
  𓃗 Bull horn scar on his right wrist.
  𓃗 ​•​ Bull Tattoo _{(𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚖)}​​​​
  𓃗 ​•​​ Feather on rope 𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚘 _{(𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 wrist)}​​​​
  𓃗 •​​ Feather on rope 𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚘 _{(𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 leg)}​​​​

_Personality:

Colter Burnett is a man caught between two worlds, his roots in Texas ranching and his life now in New Rome. But he carries both identities with ease. At heart, he’s the same cowboy who grew up under the wide skies of the Four Sixes Ranch: respectful, steady, and deeply loyal. He embodies the old values of southern hospitality and is dripping with southern charm, rarely raising his voice unless defending someone he loves, saying yes ma'am or no ma'am and yes sir or no sir. His accent and manners mark him as a Texan through and through, something he wears proudly even in a place as cosmopolitan as New Rome.

Fearlessness defines him in the arena, but outside of it, his courage takes on quieter forms. He is unafraid to be vulnerable with Niko, openly affectionate with their children, and unashamed to speak out when something feels wrong. Colter thrives on action and challenge, but as a husband and father, he’s learned patience and tenderness. He loves adventure, whether that means riding a bull or exploring New Rome’s twisting streets, but he always returns to the steady center of his life: his family.

Colter is not without flaws. His restlessness sometimes clashes with the structured calm of New Rome, and his fierce protective streak can make him stubborn when it comes to letting others take risks. He occasionally struggles with self-doubt, wondering if a cowboy truly belongs in a place of demigods, warriors, and history as rich as New Rome’s. Yet he overcomes these doubts by leaning into what he does best, loving without restraint, working harder than anyone else, and holding fast to his principles.

Above all, Colter is defined by his heart. Whether standing in a rodeo arena, sitting by a campfire under the stars, or cradling one of his children in his arms, he is a man of devotion, anchored by Niko and the family they’ve built together.

_History:

Colter was born on the Four Sixes Ranch in Texas, one of the largest and most historic ranches in the state. His father, Tristin Burnett, was a man of few words but endless lessons, teaching Colter the rhythm of ranch life: waking before sunrise, tending to cattle, and treating every animal with respect. His mother instilled in him a gentler side, showing him the strength in kindness and the beauty of patience. From childhood, Colter was fearless, riding anything with four legs, climbing fences, and chasing adventure wherever he could find it.

Among the families that circled through the ranch was the Rumancek family, friends of Tristin, and it was there that Colter first met Niko. Even as a boy, Colter felt a pull toward Niko that he couldn’t put into words, a mix of admiration, curiosity, and a quiet longing. Over the years, that crush deepened into something unshakable, a thread that followed Colter into adolescence and adulthood. While he threw himself into rodeo competitions, chasing championships and traveling across the country, part of him was always tethered to Niko.

By the time Colter reached his late teens, his reputation in the rodeo world was growing, he was known for his daring rides and unshakable presence in the arena. But all the trophies and belt buckles meant little compared to the moment he and Niko finally admitted their love for one another after a scary Bull ride that left Colter in the hospital. The two finished their schooling paired at the hip, and then Colter made good on his promise and took Niko around the world on a trip of their lifetime. Their love bloomed ever more on the trip and at the very end Colter asked the boy, now man of his dreams to marry him. The wedding followed soon after, and with it a sense of wholeness Colter had never known before.

The couple’s journey into marriage life was both challenging and deeply rewarding. After long deliberations and with medical assistance, they were able to have two children, thanks to Colter and Niko's close friend Kas. The two children quickly became the heart of their world. Colter, who had once thought his life would be defined by bulls, broncs, and barrel racing, discovered that being a husband and father was the greatest role he’d ever take on.

Their move to New Rome marked a new chapter. For Colter, it was a leap of faith, leaving behind the open Texas plains for a city steeped in Roman tradition and filled with demigods and legacies. Yet he adapted, blending his cowboy roots with the culture of New Rome. He still rides and competes when the opportunity arises, but much of his time is now spent building a home with Niko, raising their children with the same values he was raised on, respect, love, and courage.

Colter’s history is not just about rodeos and ranching, it’s about love that endured from boyhood, about carving out a family against all odds, and about finding a place in a world far from where he began while still staying true to who he is.

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_{Godly Parent:}

N/A

_{Relationship to Godly Parent:}

N/A

_{Abilities Pertaining to Godly Parent:}

N/A

_Legacy:

Paháh, Comanche Supreme Deity of the Sky, Sun, and Moon.

_{Legacy Abilities:}

Ability to sense and communicate emotions with Horses. Able to control Horses to an extent.

_Cohort:

None, Colter is here mainly because his husband Niko was offered a spot.

_{Position in the Legion:}

None.

_{Fatal Flaw:}

Overprotectiveness, and fear of loss

_Weapons:

A Lasso.

_{Misc Information:}

• Hat etiquette: Always tips his hat to greet or show respect, even in New Rome where it stands out.
• Animal whisperer: Talks to horses, bulls, and even stray animals as if they fully understand him, and sometimes they seem to.
• Night owl stargazer: Often sneaks out late at night to sit on the porch or a rooftop and watch the stars, saying it helps him “breathe again.”
• Superstitious streak: Keeps a lucky silver concho in his pocket during competitions or stressful moments.
• Calloused comfort: Sometimes rubs his thumb over the old scars on his hands when deep in thought.
• Plays with the charms on his necklaces when deep in though or nervous.
• Coffee cowboy: Drinks his coffee black, no matter the hour. Refuses fancy “city” coffee drinks.
• Protective touch: Always keeps a hand on Niko’s shoulder, back, or arm in public, both as a casual show of affection and a subconscious way of keeping him close.
• Family man first: No matter how successful he becomes in rodeo or respected in New Rome, Colter measures his worth by how well he cares for Niko and their kids.
• Cowboy in New Rome: While he adapts to city life, he still keeps ranch traditions alive, teaching his children horsemanship, respecting animals, and living by the cowboy code.
• Animal rights advocate: Still deeply involved in ensuring rodeo and equestrian events are ethical and safe for animals.
• Food & cooking: Loves southern cooking, biscuits, fried chicken, brisket, and peach cobbler. He’s not a chef, but he makes a mean campfire chili.
• Accent: His Texan drawl is strong, and though it makes him stand out in New Rome, he wears it with pride.
• Keepsakes: Carries a worn leather wallet with a photo of him and Niko on their wedding day, plus a tiny doodle one of the kids made.
• Smells of sun-warmed leather, faint smokiness from campfires, hay, saddle soap, fresh-cut grass, earthy musk of horses, cedarwood and tobacco (not smoke, but the cured sweetness), with hints of sandalwood from the simple soaps he favors.

Fortuna Major

Favorite Song: Built By Titan - The Heart & The Blood (feat. Skybourne)

Coolest Looking Tarot: Star

Favorite Greek God: Apollo cause he's my dad *nod*