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Hawley Eames Griffin
Camp Half-Blood ~ Obstacle Tower
Clear skies; warm sun; fresh air; blood on the wind...It was going to be a damn good day. The Obstacle Tower, Camp Half-Blood's insurmountable, nearly-unbeatable challenge. There was naught a demigod in Camp Half-Blood capable of besting it unscathed. It's difficulty merely fueled the drive of competition, unleashed a more ferocious edge within even the most timid of demigods - and Hawley Griffin relished in its conquest.
Earbuds firmly held in his ears, the leather-clad son of Hermes darted through the various snares and trappings of the tower with an Olympian athlete's ease and grace. Indeed, very few had the opportunity to see Griffin participate in many Camp activities, and many would simply disregard him as lazy -- until the time for the Tower came, at least.
The Irishman looked almost perfectly coordinated as he rushed towards the climb, muscles working in almost perfect unanimity to accomplish its goal. Griffin wore a goofy, adrenaline-fueled grin for the length of the competition, feeling his heart rush from within his chest, a cool sweat forming on the edge of his brow as his wiry muscles screamed a little bit louder with each exertion.
The rest of his competitors seemed beatable enough. Elena Reese, Charlie Alexander.... Ky' vie. A few mischievous thoughts entered Griffin's head as he began quickly devising a way to achieve victory. Mostly for the bragging rights....and because he wanted to see the look on Charlie's face when he lost that bet he made.
With an absolutely ridiculous song blaring from his iPod (most likely pirated,) Griffin continued his ascent with a marathoner's vigor and endurance, not even stopping to taunt, let along acknowledge his opponents. There would be time for shaming, oh yes...Once he got his hands on that ring.
He kicked his foot into a jutted-out baton harshly, enough to send it kicking back and collide dead-on with a random camper's face, sending them plummeting with a thud. Snickering, Griffin soon reached the next-to-last platform, meeting face-to-face with Ky' vie.
Grinning even wider (if it was possible,) Griffin stretched both arms out beside him, bellowing out a practically insane laugh fueled with adrenaline and the lust of contest.
"Well, well, lookie here, boys! A lost...bird. A lost bird that never learned to fly." Speaking in the most thick Scottish accent he could muster, Griffin no sooner finished his little speech before immediately leaping into the air, fingers clasping onto the opposite-spinning platform as soon as it came into view, clinging on with all he could as he began yanking himself upward through the hole; upper arms cramping with exertion.
Wincing, Griffin lunged up with one last burst of energy, managing to make it atop the platform and shoot out a single hand, grasping the ring off the helmet and yanking it away with ferocious might, hoisting it far above his head.
Victory tasted sweet.
Roy Montag
Camp Half Blood ~ The Lake
Cabin One. Very few demigods were able to call Zeus' Cabin their home, and such a claim could be confirmed by its almost immaculate appearance. Not marked by stains, carvings, or other signs of previous inhabitants like many of the more well-inhabited cabins (with Hermes' especially coming to mind.) Seated within it was Roy Montag, the son of Boreas. Though the raucous noise of the Obstacle Tower from outside were somewhat attractive, Roy nevertheless preferred his solitude spent thinking. There'd be more time for socializing later that night. Now was his time to reflect - be by himself.
Though typically, campers without a cabin for their parent were sent to Hermes', Roy managed to convince Chiron and Mr. D to let him stay in Cabin One, due to Boreas' close association with Zeus. Who better to pair with the lord of the sky than the North Wind?
And so Roy sat on his bed, a small block of wood in a single callused hand while another deftly held a Swiss army knife, whittling the sharp edge against the block, paring small shavings and slivers off the block autonomously, giving the block of wood shape and definition - meaning almost.
Roy could hear his father's words echo through his head: "Whatever it is you do, son. Do it well, and put your all into it." Those words, insignificant as they may be to some people, stayed with Roy since he first went to Camp. He applied this motto everywhere, whether it came to quests, to competitions, or simply whittling. What point was there to doing something if you treated it without your full care or attention?
Roy's eyes, bright and blue like slivers of ice themselves, were keenly focused on the piece of wood, picturing the final product of his creation thousands of slices ahead of his current progress. The more he whittled, the more shavings began to gather into a neat pile on the floor. Hircine, Roy's shaggy beast of a dog, buried his wet snout into the pile of shavings, immediately regretting his decision as a loud sneeze ran through his body, scattering the shavings all about the cabin room.
With an indignant shake and a huff, Hircine walked out of the room, too disgusted by the behavior of the shavings to stand even another moment in their presence.
Snickering as he caught his dog's antics in his peripheral, Roy continued to work ceaselessly, finding solace in its simplicity. The more he lost himself in his work, the clearer his mind became. And he would find himself humming that very same song his mother would often sing for him in his younger years - a song that, like many memories; stuck.
In the joyous days of childhood
Oft they told of wondrous love
Pointed to the dying Savior
Now they dwell with Him above.
Oft they told of wondrous love
Pointed to the dying Savior
Now they dwell with Him above.
