Qia

Camp Athens - Closed

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"Woah. Ok, breathe," Wes said, his voice calm as he placed a reassuring hand on Rae’s shoulder, gently halting her rising panic. Rae startled slightly at the contact but did as instructed. Inhale for four, hold for two, exhale for six. Once. Twice. The frantic buzzing in her chest gradually eased from a wildfire to a more manageable simmer.

“Okay. Breathing,” she said, her cheeks still flushed with lingering embarrassment. “Sorry. New place and all….” If she had been alone—just her and her squeaky-wheeled suitcase, and the folded map tucked in her pocket—Rae likely would have been fine. Maybe even excited. She had prepared herself for “new” the moment she decided to come to Camp Athens. So, she would have handled it the way she always did: quietly, systematically, breaking everything down into solvable problems.

But then Wes appeared. And suddenly, it wasn’t just new: it was the old crashing headlong into the new. Old that came in the form of that familiar, lopsided grin and the guiding hand on her shoulder, just like back in high school when everything was a maze only he knew how to navigate. It made her chest tighten in ways she hadn’t braced for. Seeing him here, in this impossible place, meant she couldn’t neatly compartmentalize. She couldn’t pretend she was a blank slate walking into camp without history or baggage.

With Wes around, she wasn’t just “Rae the unflappable engineering student.” She was also “Rae who set off a smoke bomb because he dared her to” and “Rae who maybe liked him a little too much,” all possibly tangled up in some divine allure she still didn’t fully understand.

It was strange, overwhelming, and utterly distracting.

Regardless, Wes laughed and rolled his eyes. "Alright, if it’ll help you not freak out, I’ll help you guys find your cabins. Camp really isn’t that complicated," he assured them. His eyes drifted toward Idris. "The cabins are all furnished. Weird camp magic I can’t explain, but they’re always outfitted to suit their owner. Everything you would want should be inside… Unless the Gods are being dicks or something. It’s possible."

“Everything I would want?” Rae repeated quietly, her brow furrowing as the idea took root. She pictured typical summer camp cabins from brochures with their cramped bunk beds, wobbly chairs, maybe a battered desk shoved in a corner. But Wes made it sound like the cabins were personalized. Tailored. That changed everything.

Her mind, against her will, flashed to her various makeshift workshops over the years: cluttered basements, borrowed garages, university lab corners. Her tools organized how she liked. The scent of solder and machine oil in the air. A workbench marked with burns and coffee stains, chaotic yet perfectly functional. Those were the places where she felt most like herself.

Would the magic actually give her that? A place where the world’s noise dimmed down enough that she could breathe and build and tinker until her brain untangled itself? Or would it give her something ridiculous, like an over-the-top forge with lava rivers because Hephaestus’s kids were “supposed” to be born hammer-in-hand, ready to blacksmith a suit of armour at five years old? She wasn’t that girl. She didn’t want to be. Rae wanted a space where she could strip down an old appliance for parts and not feel like someone was watching over her shoulder, waiting for something more….grand. Even if she could easily go through with whatever task she was given.

Catching herself nervously chewing her lip, she straightened her posture. She was getting ahead of herself, building expectations she knew could easily disappoint. Whatever awaited her, it had to be better than the cramped apartment she’d shared with her mom, surely.

“Guess we’ll see what camp thinks I want,” Rae said finally, a nervous laugh slipping out as she looked between Wes and Idris. “If it knows me at all, it’ll probably just be a mini-fridge that actually keeps ice cream frozen. Anything more is just wishful thinking.” She meant it as a joke, but her heart beat a little faster at the thought of stepping into Cabin 36 and discovering what the magic believed she deserved.

"Um." Wes studied the map again, then gestured toward a path leading south. "Your cabin is pretty close," he told Idris with a faint smile. "Rae, yours isn’t far down that path," he added, pointing toward a path branching beside Idris’s cabin.

With a soft sigh, Wes leaned over and picked up Rae’s bag. "Alright, Lewski. Lead the way."

Idris sighed as he looked at Wes and then back to Rae. “You said the cabins come complete with everything we want. I know I would want a full kitchen to cook in, and food to cook,” Idris paused briefly before continuing, “if I have the food, I have to offer you something to eat to thank both of you properly for helping.”

Rae blinked, caught off guard by Wes’s casual order and Idris’s generous offer.

“Food bribes already? Guess camp etiquette’s not so different from college,” she replied lightly. Under normal circumstances, accepting a dinner invitation from a near-stranger might have felt awkward, but Idris’s sincerity made it seem natural. She wasn’t entirely sure why, but she believed she could trust him.

“I’m not gonna say no to a kitchen,” Rae admitted. “Half the reason I survived finals was because my roommate knew how to cook. But maybe we should see what our cabins actually look like before planning anything. For all I know, mine really will be that mini-fridge full of ice cream… and some leftover pizza at best.”

She tossed her curls as she glanced from Wes to Idris. “Since yours is closer, why don’t we check yours out first?”

Assuming both were in agreement, she took a small but confident step toward the path leading to Idris’s cabin. She glanced over her shoulder, curiosity lighting her expression as she asked the question Idris’s offer had naturally brought to mind:

“So… you’ve got a lot of experience in the kitchen, I take it?”

---

Location: Near Camp Entrance
Interactions: Wes (@Mjolnir), Idris (@NoriWasHere)
Mentions: N/A

Camp Athens - Closed

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"Huh? Oh," Blair snorted in response to Anissa’s question, rolling her eyes. "That was just Sylas’s idea of entertainment. What’s funnier than sending someone to find their sibling in the middle of getting laid?"

The question was clearly rhetorical, but the other girl’s annoyance and the sarcasm lacing her words were just as palpable as Anissa’s own surprise. This new information didn’t quite fit with the Sylas she had just been speaking to; she hadn’t pegged him as the type for such juvenile pranks. If he wanted a laugh, she would have assumed it would be something more calculated, more intellectual, and undoubtedly at someone else’s expense. A new, more cynical thought emerged: had he sent Heath to Blair on purpose to cause a distraction, perhaps to keep Anissa isolated and more pliable for his questioning about River? The logical part of her brain knew that thought should have left a sour taste in her mouth. But strangely, it didn’t. Instead, her mind, softened by the first-stage buzz humming under her skin and something else she couldn’t name, readily embraced a simpler explanation: it was done for petty camp drama, a minor payback for some unknown slight, nothing serious or targeted. The tidy, uncomplicated version was far too easy to accept in her current state, Anissa found.

“At least he didn’t watch…” Blair added with a grimace. “That would have been weird.”

Anissa winced in sympathy. “Small mercies,” she agreed. Then, the pieces of the story finally clicked together in her mind.“Wait, Heath is your brother?” A wave of secondhand mortification washed over her, and she made a face. “Gods. I’m… so sorry for your eyeballs. And his.” The situation with Sylas was more than just weird with this new understanding. Then again, what was being incorrect about someone a second time at this point? Anissa could only hope she wasn’t about Blair. Or River.

The bar was significantly more packed now compared to when she’d first been there, nursing her cranberry juice alone. This time, an actual bartender was holding court behind the counter. While Blair insisted that “anything can be a shot if you’re brave enough” and began hunting for their poison of choice, Anissa let herself watch him work.

He moved with the effortless scrupulousness of a stage magician who had traded card tricks for cocktail shakers, driving bottles down from the rail in a smooth, cascading motion that was hypnotic to watch. For the third glass in a row, he executed a slow pour of something golden that caught the lights—a spirit that smelled, if Anissa’s nose was correct, distinctly of honey. He took his time with that final layer, not out of necessity, but because he was deeply engaged in a conversation with a redhead who had his complete attention. All the while, his foot tapped to a beat only he could hear, and his shoulders occasionally shimmied in a tiny, unconscious dance, as if the music was a current running through his very hands.

"So it's two slippery nipples and a modified 747 with that honey mead..." he announced as he palmed the trio toward their owner with a wide, open-handed slide and a tip-jar smile. Then, deadpan: "...or a Sit on My Face, Honey depending on where you're from, I guess..."

The redhead, mid-sip, choked and misted his third shot back out in a spray, a reaction that perfectly mirrored Anissa’s own startled surprise. Those names were… aggressively suggestive. It was abundantly clear the bartender knew exactly what he was doing; this was far from his first rodeo.

"Say please," Blair commented drily at the display, sliding three newly filled shot glasses over to Anissa. Amused, Anissa’s lips quirked into a smile. She picked up one of her glasses and clinked it firmly against Blair’s.

“Cheers!” Blair said.

“Cheers!” Anissa echoed, knocking the bourbon back in one clean, burning motion. The difference from sipping it slowly with Sylas was immediate and unmistakable. With him, the same whiskey had unfolded its complexities with patience, with its notes of vanilla, a ribbon of smoky oak, and a sort of polite warmth that had crept gradually from her tongue to her chest, matching the pace of their conversation. This was a different beast entirely, however. Now, it hit fast as a line of fire down the back of her throat, a bright, expanding bloom of heat in her chest, followed by a quick, dizzying rush that made the world around her seem half a shade glossier and slightly out of focus. She let out a sharp, controlled breath, her eyes watering just enough to require a blink. Despite the burn, she found herself smiling at Blair.

"Sylas really has pretentious taste in alcohol," Blair laughed softly, already discarding her empty glass and reaching for the next shot, throwing it back right away.

“Sounds right,” Anissa said, and, because momentum had her, matched Blair, tipping the second shot. The burn was rounder this time, less surprise and more heat, settling low and steady in her gut.

As she took the short time to enjoy this feeling, she caught sight of Elias near the bar’s crowd with another man. He had a bottle in hand and wore an easy grin on his face, and though she couldn’t hear a word over the music, body language did most of the talking for her. His shoulders were looser, head tipped in, a look exchanged that read like what a good find rather than get me out of here.

A small pinprick of embarrassment surfaced in her chest.

...cold hands
warm heart….

But just as quickly, the thought dissolved under the warmth now sliding smoothly through her veins. She pushed the feeling aside. Good. Let him have an easier conversation than the one she’d offered.

Blair looked back at her with a growing, conspiratorial smile. "Two down, one to go."

Anissa watched as the other tipped the last glass back and laughed under her breath, the sound warm and a little loose. “Leading by example. Got it.”

She scooped up her own final shot. The flavour was just as noncomplex as the last time, the sturdy spine of the bourbon hitting her just as fast but not quite as hard. It all sent that same confident heat all the way down her chest, and the world softened another perceptible notch, as if someone had gently turned a dimmer switch on the entire party. Even the low-grade, ever-present hum of her anxieties—her powers, her absent father, the careful lies she told her mother—faded into a quiet hush. It was a silence she tried not to enjoy as much as she undeniably did.

“Three down,” she said, setting the glass upside-down with a soft click. “Party rules honoured.”

"So… have you decided what kind of hell we’re getting up to?" Blair asked then.

“Ice skating,” Anissa decided, tapping the bartop as though ringing a bell to finalize her vote. “If I try to dance right now in these boots, I’m going to invent three new ways to sprain an ankle. Skates, I think I can handle.” She’d definitely had more practice on the ice than on any dance floor. That was for certain.

She angled a wry look at Blair’s stunning, albeit minimal, outfit, then back up to meet her eyes.

“Full disclosure: I grew up in Vancouver. My mom made me learn ‘for dates,’” she added, air-quoting with a half-smile. “I’m not trying to date you…But I am trying to have fun. And…you look like fun.” The thought surprised her even as she said it. The bourbon had made everything feel warmer, and her lips felt slippery enough to let out words that usually stayed carefully put away. It was the kind of blunt honesty she’d normally swallow and save for a private moment. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, necessarily. Just…incredibly new.

“Just…gimme two seconds,” Anissa added, lifting a finger. “I promised a friend something ridiculous.” She turned and leaned toward the busy bar rail, raising her voice just enough to be heard. “Hey? About that slippery nipple. Can you make another?”

---

Location: Bar
Interactions: Blair (@Mjolnir), Bax (@Hound55)
Mentions: Sylas, Heath, River, Nate, Elias, Forest

Recollections: Primal Sinister

_{Interactions: Gideon, Freya (@NoriWasHere), Paloma (@Atrophy)}

---

“You’re not the, uhhhh, give me a second.” The man paused as he clicked his fingers together. “The Castellano kid? Yes, you are! I wondered why you looked so familiar.”

Elena blinked, momentarily arrested by the sound of her last name spoken so effortlessly. It was a rare occurrence, even on this side of the river, for someone to pronounce it correctly on the first attempt. Then again, her mother had never been one for looking at the greener grass on the other side, unlike Elena herself. Her mother was a fixed point here, her knowledge of these southern streets as intimate and detailed as the lines on her own palm. Elena, by contrast, was a periodic visitor despite residing here as well, someone who only stepped out from behind the door of their family’s shop when errands or a restless curiosity compelled her.

When the man’s hand settled on her shoulder—warm, heavy, and assured—she straightened her posture.

“Yeah,” Elena said. “My mom doesn’t get out much, so I guess I’m the delivery service when she wants to help out.” She allowed her own gaze to remain on him, her curiosity piqued. If he knew the shop, if he knew her mother’s name, then this loud, aging bar suddenly felt less like unfamiliar territory and more like a place with hidden connections.

A flash of ribbon and a basket cut into Elena’s peripheral vision, and before she could fully process the movement, a young woman breezed past them while employing a kind of social boldness that only really worked when you deny anyone the opportunity to object. Which, initially, she certainly did. But then, before Elena could steer the conversation back to its original point, the woman circled back, orbiting their exchange like a restless comet drawn by an unseen gravity.

“Y’know, most grease can just be cleaned up with either some baking soda and water or spraying a little white vinegar on it and letting it sit before scrubbing it if you wanna go the natural route,” she interjected, barely pausing for breath. “Y’know, just saying. But frankly, your best bet is just to stick with a simple chemical cleaner like dish soap. It’s better at killing germs.”

The woman chuckled to herself, the ribbon in her hair bouncing as her entire head engaged in a dramatic eye roll. “I mean, obviously, you’d be stupid if you didn’t also use a disinfectant anyway, hah, could you imagine? But still it’s better to be over cautious, I mean you wouldn’t want to kill someone–oh, there’s Vin.”

“It’s actually a different…kind of grease….” Elena’s response trailed off as the other woman bounced off again. It was too bad, really, that she wasn’t able to correct the misunderstanding. When her mother had said grease, it was the kind that sat heavy after plate two, not the kind one scrubbed off a pan. Oh well…it was what it was.

“Please, come inside. Enjoy the food, and I trust you’ll find a good spot for those herbs,” the man said then, using the hand he had on her shoulder to usher her inside. “I do want to continue this conversation. I’ll come find you after some business is dealt with.”

“Gracias,” Elena said with a slight nod, stepping past him. She immediately cut toward the kitchen, skillfully navigating the river of coats and elbows, seeking a path of less resistance. She found an empty burner on the large stove, set the kettle down, and turned the flame on. Only once this task was initiated did she allow herself to glance up, her eyes scanning the room until they located Freya, who had steered herself to a small, lone table. Brewing the tea was her immediate task, but the real objective, a conversation with the girl, was still very much in the works for tonight. She was determined, after all.

Right after she was finished with this tea, of course.

Elena measured the dried leaves by feel alone; mint and anís didn’t require a scale when you’d essentially been raised breathing their aromas. She tore a generous strip of lemon peel, twisting it to release its oils before dropping it into the pot, adding the lemon balm last. She set the lid gently in place. As the water boiled, steam billowed up, curling the fine hairs at her temples. Methodically, she rinsed two chipped mugs with hot water from the tap before pouring the steeped tea. She capped one mug with a saucer to avoid spilling on her journey through the crowd.

She chose the long way around the perimeter of the room, approaching Freya from the side rather than head-on so as not to make her wonder. Setting the capped mug down on the table with a soft clink, she announced her presence only then.

“It’s a digestivo,” Elena said. “Mint, anís, lemon balm.” She touched the saucer, then pulled her hand back.

“We were in the bakery the same day. Do you remember?”

Realms of Sun & Shadow

---

_{Location: Seluna Temple
Interactions: Ramona (@enmuni), Céline (@Beard Dad), Elara (Me)
Mentions: Aleksi}

---

As Orion’s crimson eyes fell on her, Céline smiled and nodded, “I imagine we will as well. Thank you for being such an amiable and informative guide. I look forward to our next meeting.”

Amiable. It was a term he was not used to being called. He'd been called many things in his lifetime: Lord Nightingale in court, Captain on the field, monster behind closed doors once the blight had touched him. But amiable? That was a title from another life. A gentler life.

It belonged to a time when his face still held a normal hue, his smiles were unforced, and others did not fear what they might see if they looked too long into his eyes. In that departed life, his demeanour was frequently characterized as charming and diplomatic, the expected product of aristocratic tutelage. He remembered a self who danced at galas and envisioned one day teaching his son the proper grip of a practice sword. The blight, however, had altered more than his physiology; it had fundamentally corrupted how others interpreted his presence. His restraint was now perceived as latent peril, and his silence was more often mistaken for condemnation.

And yet… Céline hadn’t recoiled. She’d looked at him, truly looked, and employed a term no one had afforded him in years.

Orion offered no verbal reply, however. Instead, he inclined his head in simple agreement with her response.

Céline turned her attention towards the two handmaidens and asked, “If you’re heading back to town, perhaps I could join you, seeing as my guide has been whisked away,” her gaze wandered over the two guards, “Assuming your guardians hold no objections, of course.”

Orion’s eyes didn’t leave her, though he felt the way Elara’s posture shifted at the edge of his periphery. Meanwhile, the guards themselves were statuesque, their intentions and thoughts about that idea concealed. A change in one soldier’s stance was the only tell, a silent communication Orion noted without comment.

“It’s alright,” Elara said, a nod clipped but sincere. “I don’t see why not.” She wasn’t entirely certain, still, that was clear enough. But she wasn’t refusing either, and that, in itself, was a step forward for Orion. His gaze slid toward her for the briefest moment, offering a small nod: an acknowledgment of her decision and an investment of trust.

As for Céline, Orion stepped in by a single pace, enough to close the space without crowding her.

“Then go with them,” he said, voice low enough that it belonged to the small circle they’d formed rather than the night. “Until our next meeting. Ensure you remain safe.”

Then, stepping back, he inclined his head to the two handmaidens once more, the gesture spare and formal, and let his eyes pass over each guard in turn. Nothing more needed to be said. They understood.

Orion turned before the moment stretched into sentiment. The snow took his tread and thinned it, swallowing the pattern of his steps as he chose the longer path back. The one that kept him clear of the road and its few faces.

---

Orion took the longer line along the palisade, where the torches threw slow ribbons of light and the wind came thinner off the flats. Duty, already waiting, gathered itself around his shoulders as easily as his cloak.

The message had been brief: a light sighted to the north. A single man on foot, fur-clad, his face marked with tattoos. He gave the name Aleksi and had asked for the Sun Prince by title. His stated purpose was to negotiate sanctuary for his people. Orion’s only instruction, relayed hastily as he left the temple grounds, was to meet him at the watchpost.

He moved with a soldier’s efficient pace, swift without the appearance of rush, his mind arranging the coming meeting. The watchpost, not the main gate, was a sound choice. It offered contained, defensible ground, a space where a conversation could occur without the appearance of an interrogation, yet could pivot to one if necessary. Optics, after all, mattered just as much as anything else.

He also mentally rehearsed the essential questions, the same ones he posed to all who arrived with desperation etched upon their features: numbers, composition, intent. How many mouths to feed, and how many blades to expect? The count of children and elders. The presence of sick or wounded. Whether any among them were prone to let hunger justify theft, or if any blood-feuds would follow them through the gate. He would also inquire after skills such as herding, hunting, working with stone, timber, leather, or dyes. Sanctuary in deep winter was not charity; it was a precarious bargain with the cold. Every soul granted entry had to carry more weight than they consumed, or the entire ledger would bleed out.

Beneath these practicalities, the politics of it turned but only once. The prince and princess had declared Dawnhaven open to those who meant no harm, but open was not the same as unguarded. If Aleksi had sense, he would understand the conditions if it came to it, surely. Temporary camp outside the inner ring; fires where the wind would not take the palisade; a named headman accountable for the tribe’s oaths, if that was not Aleksi himself; no weapons carried inside the market; disputes arbitrated by Dawnhaven’s law, not by things like blood-price. And if the man balked at any of it, they would know what sort of winter this would become.

The path hooked right, bringing the squat timber frame of the northern watchpost into view—a two-story structure built against the palisade, its leeward side hung with a canvas windbreak that snapped and rustled in the breeze. The door stood slightly ajar, and a sliver of warmth and light spilled out.

Two sentries flanked the entrance, Lunarian on the left, Aurelian on the right. Orion’s gaze touched each of them in turn, and in that brief, silent pass, he set the room before he stepped into it.

Camp Athens - Closed

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Elias glanced down at the bottle he was nursing, then with a shrug set it back on the bar where he’d grabbed it. It felt like a fair trade in that one good turn deserved another, especially when dealing with someone as genuinely giving as Forest seemed to be. When Forest pressed the new, unopened bottle into his hand, Elias accepted it without hesitation, a lopsided grin spreading across his features. The glass felt cool and substantial in his palm, promising something better than the standard party fare, just as the previous one had. Of that he was sure.

“Generous man,” he acknowledged, his thumb finding the seal and breaking it with an easy twist. Before taking a drink for himself, however, Elias demonstrated an unexpected courtesy by tipping the bottle first over Forest's glass and then his own, pouring equal measures of the honey-coloured liquid.

“To greener pastures,” he declared, raising his glass with a meaningful look that acknowledged their earlier conversation about Demeter and growth. He clinked his glass against Forest's with a clear, ringing sound, then savoured the complex sweetness as he took his first sip of this new batch.

“As for finding some…” Elias's eyes narrowed in thought. “A friend of mine was actually given a greenhouse with her cabin.” He turned, scanning the dancefloor for Tapeesa, his eyes quickly finding the spot where he'd last seen her whirling with abandon. She was still there but no longer spinning wildly; instead, she was engaged in what appeared to be an animated conversation (wasn’t every conversation with her bound to be, though?) with a redheaded man he didn't recognize.

“As far as I know, she can't make drinks like you can, daughter of Apollo and all,” he continued, turning back to Forest with a smile. The classical references were coming surprisingly easily to his tongue tonight, it seemed. “In fact, I don't think she really drinks, but she was nice enough to me on our way here, so I doubt she'd mind a serious gardener taking a look.”

Once, he might not have cared enough to offer. Elias wasn’t exactly the social tour-guide type, and he wasn’t in the habit of playing middleman for anyone else’s interests. But maybe the sting of that last conversation with Anissa still clung to him. He could still misstep here; another throwaway joke could land like a stone in someone’s gut again. This, at least, was something he could control. This, he could get right.

“I can introduce you if you want. Might have to earn your keep, though. She's big on dancing... obviously. So, don't be shocked if you're dragged into some spin or two.”

---

Location: Bar
Interactions: Forest(@NoriWasHere)
Mentions: Tapeesa, Leo, Anissa

---

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"Congratulations," Wes chimed in with a lighthearted chuckle, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "You’ve survived your first Rae Kowalewski tutorial rambling."

Rae winced, though a tiny, reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Okay, so maybe she had a deeply ingrained habit of rambling when explaining things. It was an automatic response, triggered by a mix of excitement, anxiety, or even just the simple, solid comfort of knowing a subject inside and out (Again, never mind the fact that she’d only just learned how this particular magical interface worked moments ago). It was the same instinct that had led her teachers to hand her the dry-erase marker so she could “show the class,” and the same one that made her mother laugh and repeat her favourite motto: “If you can explain it, you can make it.” For Rae, explaining things wasn’t just a habit; it was practically how she breathed.

“Okay, ‘Rae Kowalewski,” Idris said with a friendly smile, though he slowed noticeably over the last name, his tone tentative as he navigated the unfamiliar syllables..

“It’s Kowalewski with a ‘v’ sound for the ‘w’, yes,” Rae replied to Idris while looking sideways at Wes, lips quirking. “But you can stick with ‘Lewski’ if that’s easier or Rae. I don’t care.”

“I am,” Idris began, pausing thoughtfully as his gaze shifted from Rae back to the map. He pressed a finger firmly against the square marked Cabin 41, and in shimmering script, the name ‘Idris Orion Abbasi’ materialized beside the number. Now it was Rae’s turn to try. Hopefully, without mangling the pronunciation, something far too many of her high school classmates had done and occasionally on purpose.

“Idris,” she started, the first name coming easily. “Orion…” She hesitated here, unsure whether to use a long “i” sound or a long “e” sound and settled on the former. “Ah-bah-see?” she finished, her inflection tilting upward into a question as she looked to Idris for confirmation.

Wes took the opportunity then to introduce himself and extended a fist toward Idris. Rae noted the gesture and shifted to make room for the exchange.

“If you’ve guys got this under control, I can always head back,” Wes said afterward. Don’t know how much help I can be when you have a map." Rae couldn’t hide her surprise at his words.

And cue the anxiety.

“Wait—what! But you just got here! I mean—I just got here, and you—” She caught herself, hands flaring like startled birds before she reeled them in. “What I’m trying to say is…you don’t have to bail. I mean, you can bail—free country, New Year’s, girlfriend, priorities, totally valid—but also I still don’t know where anything is.”

“The map is very useful,” Idris appeared to agree, to Rae’s dismay. “Should I have brought a sleeping bag? Not sure what the inside of the cabin will be like. And I haven’t really done much camping before.”

Rae pointed a little too enthusiastically in Idris’s direction.

“See? That’s a question I can’t answer, but you can. Think, Wesley! What if another question comes up that I don’t know?”

And okay, maybe she was being ridiculous. But she couldn’t help it; they’d only just reconnected, and already it felt like he was slipping away again.

---

Location: Near Camp Entrance
Interactions: Wes (@Mjolnir), Idris (@NoriWasHere)
Mentions: Trinity

𝔻𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟: ℝ𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖

Im still down as well :)

Camp Athens - Closed

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Sylas didn’t look away, even leaning forward to rest his elbows heavily on the table between them. His gaze remained fixed and uncomfortably intense on her.

“I can’t tell,” he stated slowly, “if you’re trying to convince me or yourself.” He cocked his head to the side, studying Anissa’s face and the shift in her facial expressions. "Whichever it is, there is a part of you that feels the need to paint him in the appropriate light… as a good man.” A knowing lift touched his brow. “That’s high praise after a single conversation.”

Anissa already had her answer to his summation, but it came slower than she liked, slowed by the unwelcome turn his words had taken.

“Maybe,” she managed at last, forcing herself to hold his stare. “But you don’t have to know someone for years to recognize when they feel… honest.” Her eyes drifted for half a second, unbidden, replaying the walk in her mind. “River is exactly what he appeared to be during that time,” Anissa continued, her voice gaining a little strength as she met Sylas’s gaze again. “That kind of thing… it has to mean something.”

“I’ve met a lot of people and I don’t know if I’d consider a single one of them good,” Sylas replied, his tone chillingly flat and sincere, the sudden coldness of it surprising her. “I doubt water-boy over there would change my mind.”

The absolute certainty in Sylas's voice felt like a physical draft. What could he possibly have lived through to leave him so utterly convinced of such a bleak belief? An instinctive recoil surged within her, wanting to pull back from his deep cynicism. But the feeling dissolved instantly after this, washed away by a sadder thought: perhaps he wasn’t entirely wrong. Perhaps he was just deeply damaged, carrying wounds that warped his sight, maybe not so different from the scars she carried herself. With that quick analysis, his certainty felt less like an attack and more like a symptom of something. Still, the thought nagged at her because if Sylas truly believed no one was good, why did she trust him so easily? Why did she keep reading truth in the curve of his mouth as if he were somehow the exception?

If that wasn’t hypocrisy, Anissa didn’t know what was.

Before she could even begin to form a reply, though, the sound of approaching footsteps snapped Anissa’s attention sideways. A stunningly beautiful girl was walking towards them, the party lights seeming to ignite the thousands of tiny, glittering facets woven into her barely-there gold outfit. The shimmering mesh draped daringly low at the front and featured slits cut dangerously high on both sides, catching every flicker of light. Anissa’s gaze snagged on the bold display, lingering a fraction too long. The slight buzz humming beneath her skin from the bourbon wrestled with itself – part instinctive judgment, part pure, startled appreciation for the sheer visual impact. She settled the internal conflict with a blink and a small, almost guilty tug at the corner of her mouth, hoping her stare hadn't been obvious.

"You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?" the glittering girl demanded. Anissa immediately heard Sylas exhale a long-suffering sigh beside her.

“On occasion,” he replied, his voice returning to its usual flat tone, yet Anissa could detect a thread of amusement underneath it.

The girl’s face scrunched up in a perfect imitation of mockery as she gave a slow, exaggerated nod. She rolled her expressive eyes dramatically towards Sylas before her gaze snapped to Anissa, the annoyance melting away surprisingly fast. A warm, genuine smile spread across her face.

“Hey, cutie,” she greeted Anissa directly, her tone suddenly bright and friendly. “Is this stick in the mud holding you hostage?”

Anissa blinked, startled by the lightning-fast change in the girl’s mood. One instant, she’d been rolling her eyes at Sylas in annoyance; the very next, she was smiling at Anissa as if they were old pals. The switch was so abrupt and complete that Anissa felt momentarily off-balance. Was this sudden friendliness a genuine offer, or was there some hidden motive behind it? Should she think it suspicious… or allow herself to be strangely flattered by the attention?

She went for the middle option.

“I… wouldn’t say hostage,” Anissa replied honestly, finding her voice. True, Sylas had a way of judging everyone around him, but sitting with him hadn’t felt like a trap at all. She knew she could have stood up and walked away at any point if she’d wanted to leave. The simple fact was, she’d actively chosen to stay and talk… just like she’d chosen to extend her walk with River.

Regardless of Anissa’s answer, the other girl’s gaze shifted back to Sylas with a mischievous smirk. "It’s a party, Sylas. Let the girl have fun, don’t bombard her with twenty questions."

"Guess my invitation to the bar orgy got lost in the mail," Sylas shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Anissa’s eyebrows lifted at that. Having missed whatever incident had happened earlier at the bar, his reference meant absolutely nothing to her.

"Come on. Let’s go have some real fun," Blair stated, taking Anissa’s hand and lightly pulling her from her chair. Blair’s hand was warm even through her glove, Anissa noted. She could also tell this was likely to be the sort of “real fun” that she could lean into with the mild hum still thrumming in her veins.

“Alright,” Anissa agreed, rising smoothly from her seat and letting Blair’s momentum guide her forward. “But only because it is a party.” The words were light, but she didn’t bother hiding the half-teasing, sidelong look she sent Sylas with a small wave goodbye before letting herself be led into the crowd.

The girl immediately linked her right arm through Anissa’s left, steering them purposefully towards the crowded bar area. "So, first, I’m thinking a three-shot minimum to get us loosened up and in the partying mood," she said while wiggling her shoulders playfully. "Then we can do whatever sounds the most fun to you… Dancing, torturing men, or if you're feeling adventurous, there’s ice skating and sledding." Her head leaned in slightly so that only Anissa could hear. "Although I’m no longer wearing underwear, so it might cause a second round of rumors.C’est la vie," she said with a casual indifference.

Anissa found Blair’s list of options to be… eclectic, to say the least. Three shots, dancing, and torturing men she could process; sledding and ice skating with a woman who’d just announced she was going commando was a mental image she wasn’t sure she’d recover from (that might explain the orgy reference somewhat...).

Still, the French rolled off Blair’s tongue like she’d been born to say it, and the shameless introduction that followed it made Anissa laugh.

“Well,” Anissa replied, matching Blair’s sideways look with one of her own. “I’m Anissa…and….” Her words trailed off as a spark of recognition lit up in her mind. She narrowed her eyes, mentally connecting the dots. Blair.

“Wait, Blair?” she asked directly, curiosity overriding hesitation. “Were you actually able to find Heath?” She wasn’t sure if it was the same Blair Sylas had mentioned or just a coincidence, but the name was too distinct not to ask.

By the time they reached the bar, Anissa was thinking back to what she had said to Sylas—about knowing you could trust someone even if you didn’t know them well. She didn’t like admitting it, but she felt that here, too, with Blair. It wasn't a deep understanding, more like a gut-level read that the girl, for all her wild energy, wasn't actively harmful. That was likely the real reason, she acknowledged inwardly, why she wasn’t resisting Blair’s enthusiastic “three shot minimum” plan. The buzz already present made the idea seem less daunting, and Blair’s chaotic charm felt… manageable, somehow.

Leaning slightly towards Blair to be heard over the music, Anissa gestured vaguely towards the rows of bottles behind the bar. “Hey, so… question,” she started, a hint of sheepishness in her voice. “Is bourbon… the kind of thing people actually take as a shot?” She offered a small shrug. “I really liked how it tasted earlier, but…I totally forgot to ask Sylas what the actual name of the bottle was.”

The truth was, Anissa’s entire experience with alcohol felt incredibly limited, almost shallow. It mostly consisted of a few presently blurry, underage experiments, the only truly significant thing she’d learned about drinking coming later in the form of a harsh and personal lesson. Alcohol acted like a blanket thrown over the fire of her abilities, and she’d first discovered this at sixteen after a night where the relentless whispers of the dead had finally, blessedly, faded into a profound silence. That silence had been pure, blissful relief, but the morning after brought a brutal awakening. The peaceful quiet had been shattered violently, and the flood of voices crashed back with overwhelming force. That was the cruel trap hidden within her discovery; the relief was undeniably real, but it was painfully temporary. And deep down, a small, frightened part of her had emerged from that experience terrified – terrified by just how desperately she had craved that silence, and how easily she might chase it again.

---

Location: Table near the bonfire
Interactions: Sylas, Blair (@Mjolnir)
Mentions: River, Heath

Recollections: Primal Sinister

_{Interactions: Gideon (@NoriWasHere)}

---

The Hollow Tap thumped with a deep, insistent beat, loud enough to smother quieter thoughts, yet Elena’s focus wasn’t on her ears tonight. Her eyes scanned the shifting crowd, sharp and wary. They needed to be. Since the Cataclysm, loud noise no longer meant safety. She remembered streets bursting with the loud noise of markets and cars one minute, then torn apart by terrified screams the next. Danger, she’d learned painfully, rarely shouted a clear warning. Instead, it hid in the sudden stiffening of someone’s back, a stranger’s quick, nervous glance toward an exit, or the subtle, frightening change in how a group of people moved together. Tonight, with the Hollow more packed than it had been in months, that old, hard-learned watchfulness kept every nerve alert, tracking the people around her like unseen currents.

From where she stood outside, the walls inside were still the same riot of graffiti and framed odds-and-ends, each marking a hundred conversations she’d never heard but could almost imagine. She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder, the glass jars inside knocking together with a soft sound. Her mother had insisted she bring the special tea mixes for the kitchen workers, claiming the herbs would “cut the grease” from their heavy fried food. Certain plants really could help settle your stomach after rich meals, making you feel lighter and think clearer. Watching the noisy crowd spill onto the street, Elena suspected her mother meant it in another way, too: in a place thick with beer fumes and old anger, a little clear-headedness was like a necessary spice.

Delivering tea wasn’t her only reason for coming, though. For the past week, Elena couldn’t look at her phone without seeing some cruel video or nasty message tearing into Freya Collins, the woman who owned the Cozy Bakery. Elena had been right there during the bakery attack. She’d seen Freya stumble out from the back room after the worst was over – confused, half-asleep, her eyes locking onto Elena and the others huddled nearby with a look that felt more like suspicion than shared fear.

Later, a nagging curiosity, or maybe just the habit of digging into things, made Elena search for more details. This was especially true after she’d gone back to the bakery that same afternoon and found it dark and locked. Her search uncovered Freya’s wealthy father, Wei Wang, and his big plans to change the Lower District – plans that sounded like polite ways to kick people out. She learned how Freya’s whole life, the bakery, her fancy education, even the bright apartment that starred in all her social media posts, were all paid for by him. Knowing this background explained why Freya’s recent online comments had felt like harsh slaps to everyone living in the South Bank. With that knowledge, the public fury made perfect, ugly sense.

And yet… Elena still couldn’t quite fit that research, or those first bewildered, accusing words of hers, together with the image burned in her memory: Freya's face pale with fear and confusion despite the bit of suspicion mixed in. That gap in perception was why she kept searching the crowded street as she edged closer to the Hollow’s entrance. This bar had a way of stripping away people’s polite masks, revealing who they really were underneath. She desperately wanted to see which version of Freya Collins walked in tonight.

Thankfully, she spotted her almost immediately.

A voice cut through the din, and Elena’s eyes found him instantly: tall, broad-shouldered, his suit cut close enough to hint at the muscle underneath, beard and hair meticulously kept. Even standing still, he commanded the space, his presence pushing into others’ without seeming to move. Trapped halfway in the doorway, directly in front of this imposing man, stood Freya Collins. Her expensive coat looked flawless, her makeup untouched, but a tight strain pulled at the corners of her mouth, betraying her calm appearance.

“Oh. Oh ho ha, my. My, my, my,” the man drawled, his voice dripping with false amusement. “Ms. Freya fucking Collins.”

Standing near the front of the shuffling line, Elena sensed the atmosphere change immediately as the man’s voice dropped its fake, dramatic tone. She’d witnessed plenty of people try to dodge a public shaming, but Freya’s attempt at a calm reply barely managed. That tiny shake told Elena Freya understood this wasn’t going to be a fast, clean escape. This confrontation was settling in for the long haul.

And slow and torturous the confrontation was.

Dirty fucking leeches.

The harshness of his words made Elena tense involuntarily, a bit of discomfort she quickly suppressed. She couldn’t tell how much of this attack stemmed from genuine anger and how much was just a cruel act for the watching crowd. However, the man’s absolute confidence, the way he spat the words with such certainty, screamed that he’d researched Freya Collins as thoroughly as she had. When Freya weakly offered, “I want to help,” Elena almost scoffed.. It sounded like a desperate, empty line, a last resort when someone had no real plan. The man clearly recognized it too, instantly shifting from sneering mockery to a cold fury that was far more dangerous.

By the time he was laying out his conditions, each threat wrapped in the guise of a holiday courtesy, Elena could tell this wasn’t about making a point anymore. It was about making sure Freya left here diminished, whatever the official reason for her visit.

Freya’s ‘yes’ was quick, clipped, and not submission so much as self-preservation. Elena’s grip on her bag strap relaxed, knuckles no longer white. She’d come hoping to see which version of Freya Collins would appear tonight – the privileged influencer, the wounded victim, or something else. Watching the woman shrink before the suited man, Elena wondered grimly if this wasn’t Freya at all. Maybe it was just the stripped-bare version of someone who’d walked blindly into a trap, a victim caught entirely off guard.

There was only one way to truly find out. She would have to talk to the young woman herself. But before that…

The line shuffled forward, and suddenly, there was no one between Elena and the man in the suit. Up close, he was taller than she’d realized, the kind of height that made you unconsciously straighten your spine. She hitched her bag a little higher and let it swing forward just enough for the glass inside to clink.

“Herbal blends,” she said, holding it up in both hands so he could see the contents through the jar lids. “For the kitchen. My mom sent me with them. She runs La Botica Verde over on Calle Flores. Says they’ll cut right through the grease.”

She saw no need to elaborate on the blends’ other potential benefits; how specific herbs could clear a muddled mind or gently cool overheated tempers. If he allowed her inside, she’d personally ensure the jars reached their intended table. Elena’s real mission, however, waited just beyond him.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

---

_{Location: Community Barn
Interactions: N/A (Open)
Mentions: N/A}

---

The physical evidence of her labour was unmistakable: angry red lines etched across her knuckles by the biting cold, stubborn flecks of hay clinging to her coat, and the deep, persistent ache in muscles still protesting this unfamiliar life. Thalia dismissed these discomforts with practiced indifference. She'd endured enough mornings to recognize the pattern—starting stiff and chilled, gradually finding her rhythm in the work, and finishing with that satisfying burn in her lungs signalling a day's honest effort completed.

First came the goats, their demanding bleats like the entitled clamour of courtiers she'd once known. She’d shattered the thin ice sealing their water trough with a sharp kick of her boot, the crack satisfyingly loud before refilling it. Next were the sheep, quieter but equally expectant, crowding close enough to tug hopefully at her sleeves as she scattered their grain. By the time she reached the chickens, the relentless wind had turned her cheeks numb, each breath escaping as a small, vanishing cloud in the frigid air.

Her boots left dark prints across the packed dirt floor as Thalia crossed to the feed bin. Every movement carried the typical rhythm.

Scoop the grain. Step towards the trough. Pour it out.

There were moments, like this one, when she thought she might be getting used to it, that maybe there was a different kind of pride in work that left your hands rough instead of perfumed, your back sore instead of corseted straight. But then she’d catch herself checking the door, half-expecting some summons that would pull her back into the world she’d lost, and the illusion would falter.

Scoop, step, pour.

The rattle of grain against the wooden trough was background noise she’d long tuned out—until it ceased abruptly, too soon. Thalia frowned, peering into the depths of the feed bin. Not empty, but significantly depleted. She’d filled it herself when they'd gotten here; it shouldn't be this low already.

Her lips pressed into a displeased line. Had she miscounted the portions? Was someone helping themselves to extra? Or was the bitter cold driving the animals to eat more than usual? Setting the scoop down, she plunged her fingers into the coarse mixture, sifting through it. The texture felt right, shifting loosely, no damp clumps or sour smell of rot. At least it hadn't spoiled.

It could be nothing. But nothing had a way of becoming something if you didn’t keep an eye on it.

With a soft, controlled exhale, she reclaimed the scoop while the rhythm reclaimed her, too. Scoop. Step. Pour. Grain filled the trough, animals lowered their heads to eat, but the nagging thought refused to retreat.

Thalia's fingertips tapped restlessly against the wooden edge of the feed trough, an unwelcome idea surfacing. She could solve this problem by stretching the remaining grain and coaxing more nourishment and substance into every handful, making it last far longer than nature intended. Even now, deep in this sun-starved winter, her connection to the earth remained. It was a thin, fragile thread, but present all the same. Yet, using it without the sun’s vital energy came with a steep cost. The cold already leached warmth and strength; any magic she drew would only intensify that drain. Even a small effort could leave her trembling violently, dizzy, and out of sorts for hours, a lesson learned painfully back in Aurelia.

At that time, it had been desperation, not vanity. The estate gardens had already been stripped bare; the glasshouse was locked up by creditors who saw more value in selling its silver hinges than in preserving the plants. What little food remained in the pantry was being carefully rationed, more carefully than her father realized, because Thalia had been quietly passing over her portions. Pride made it easier to frame it as a strategy: if she ate less, the supplies would last longer, and her father wouldn’t have to see how quickly they were dwindling. But after three days of this, the ache in her stomach had become impossible to ignore. There had been a single bed of frost-burned carrots in the corner plot, stubbornly clinging to the frozen soil. She’d thought she could coax them back, just enough to keep her father from noticing.

The magic had responded, slow but obedient. A warmth had spread from her palms down into the icy soil. She’d felt the roots stir, the frostbite receding like a bad dream fading. And for one fleeting moment, the old sense of power, of being truly capable, had flooded back.

Then, the ground seemed to tilt violently beneath her feet.

Thalia remembered vividly clutching the rough stone of the garden wall, her breath shallow and ragged, and her legs dissolving into uselessness until she collapsed into the snow. Her vision had tunnelled to mere pinpricks of light, and crawling back to the house had taken an agonizing eternity, her hands still buzzing with the terrifying emptiness of expended power. Huddled by a meagre fire later, teeth chattering uncontrollably, she’d vowed never to pay that price again. Not until survival itself was truly on the line.

Now, her hand hovered uncertainly above the grain, palm tingling with the ghost of that remembered power. Just a little push and the bin wouldn't be a worry. It would be enough. The temptation warred violently with the ingrained fear of that debilitating weakness.

Before she could choose, the heavy barn door groaned open behind her.

Camp Athens - Closed

^{#d4af37...|...outfit}

“I can’t say I am a son of Dionysus, but I can say that Demeter is my mother,” Forest said, placing his hands on his hips. Elias’s mouth twitched, instantly recognizing the setup for playful banter. The guy wore his connection to the earth like a comfortable cloak, making the mythological reference feel oddly natural.

“And here I thought you were just born with a natural talent for keeping people drunk and happy,” he replied, giving the bottle in his hand a small tilt. “Unfortunately for me, it takes more than a couple of these to do the job. Perks of being a son of Zeus, I guess. Great when you’re avoiding bad decisions, less great when you’re trying to make a few.”

Elias tipped his head, mulling the name of Forest’s mother, Demeter. The goddess of… farming? Harvest? Something about wheat, he was pretty sure. His mind conjured a vague mental image of golden fields and Thanksgiving decorations, but that was about the extent of his knowledge of Greek mythology. If there’d been more to it, he’d clearly favoured something of greater interest.

A curl of cigarette smoke cut through his thoughts. Off to his right, a guy flicked a lighter and offered the pack his way. Elias considered it for half a second, but the memory of Forest’s tight expression during the rhinestone-girl circus earlier pulled him back. Instead, he lifted a hand in polite refusal.

“Appreciate it, but I prefer… greener pastures,” he said, a hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Something that takes you a little higher than a couple drags will.”

Forest, seemingly oblivious to the cigarette exchange, picked up the conversation topic once more. “I like to work my magic into my garden, and the bees seem to have taken a liking to the flowers I created. As they say, one thing led to another,” He said, pausing briefly before adding, “I am dangerously handy with honey and fruits, though I will give you that.”

Elias blinked, the mental image shifting from fields of wheat to something out of a nature documentary—flowers glowing faintly, bees buzzing in slow motion, some kind of wholesome Disney montage playing in the background. It was almost absurdly idyllic, especially compared to his own track record with plants. The last time he’d tried to grow something, it had been a high school science project involving a sunflower seed, a paper cup coffin, and what he assumed was a normal amount of sunlight. The end result had been a crispy, leafless stalk that looked like it had given up on life halfway through sprouting.

“One thing led to another,” Elias echoed, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Yeah, I’ve been there a few times myself. Different context, same general… escalation.” He gave Forest a brief, knowing glance over the rim of his glass before taking that slow final sip, letting the implication hang just long enough to be understood before answering the other’s question.

“Pretty sure the only landmarks I’ve hit so far are the buffet table, a friend’s cabin, and your handiwork.” He tipped his head toward Forest, eyes glinting. “So, if you’re looking for a tour guide, the only thing I can promise is equal parts aimless wandering and bad commentary. Worst case, we get lost. Best case, we find something worth coming back to.”

---

Location: Bar
Interactions: Forest(@NoriWasHere)
Mentions: Blair, Nate (rejected the cig)