cras es noster.

𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔭𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔦𝔰 octavian (pjo) rp & ask blog

rules - about - visuals - aes - ask

cras es noster.

Somewhere Out There, Apollo Nearly Smote Octavian for the Mere Idea II @bringthunder

"First of all, if you call me 'kid' again, I'm going to remind you that one doesn't need brute strength to fight when one has the eye of an archer." Octavian ticks a finger. "Second of all, I'm not sure if you noticed, but Apollo's genetics literally cause rainbows to cast off of my hair in the sunlight, so with as much disrespect as I can possibly express: there is not a world that exists where I would debase myself so terribly as to touch hair dye."

What Sorts of Cracks Could Have Begun to Form Between Wars, I Wonder... II @furysburn

Octavian’s smart enough to raise his hands and flick his gaze to the ground, keeping his teeth squarely hidden behind his lips. “Praetoria, please, do not debase my loyalty to Twelve in this way. Not a word that passes my lips will ever be a lie,” not in its entirety, anyway, “Not the least of all when it involves the fate of the legion itself.”

He tests the waters by lifting his eyes first. “I swear it, Reyna.”

His brows square. “I haven’t the foggiest what happened to Jason Grace. Believe me, if I did, I would share it. All I can tell you is that at this second, an enemy we didn’t even know existed is going to come knocking very, very soon. Our war with the Titans may not be over after all, so please, trust me when I say that, as much as I wish not to cast burrs upon Jason’s triumph, and especially his loyalty, the fact of the matter is that he is gone, and until he returns, we will know nothing of why he has vanished, or what it means that our camp is yet again under the threat of very insidious, very concerning opponents seemingly at the very same time as when his presence is needed the most.”

He takes a breath. His lips go taut, and slowly, he begins to allow his hands to drop.

Octavian glances at Reyna's dogs carefully.

the decision starters II accepting

“Whoever said 'it’s never too late to change your mind' was a scammer.” Octavian sniffs discerningly. “Empty platitudes help no one, and shallow comfort is a waste of time. But, then, if you wanted to be babied, you’d have asked someone else, no?”

The augur has a hair elastic between his teeth, and a partially braided platinum tail woven through his fingers. “Further, you’d have actually meant your question, or otherwise asked something else.” Rarely does Octavian feel the need to spell out anything so plainly, so arbitrarily, but he’s exacting as he is pragmatic— in the ways that matter, of course, given that ritualistic divination tends to be anything but those— so he’s plenty happy to take on, thus, the role of a lepidopterist, pinning Jason’s wings to the observation board, so that he can’t but squirm as the descendant of Apollo nails him precisely where it hurts the most— where the ache needs the most attention, that is.

“What are you really afraid of, Jason Grace?” Octavian’s tone is sour and metallic, almost the bearing of wolf’s teeth. “That we will lose legionnaires? That I, you, or Reyna could be hurt or killed? Or, shall I rephrase both questions to be more accurate? That is, statements of truth, rather than objects of rhetoric.”

Octavian is one of the few campers who needn’t raise his chin to meet Jason’s eyes squarely on. “You are afraid to fail— us, your expectations, and, somehow, the entire godsdamned world, as though it could ever be your fault alone that this planet gives up the ghost.” His hands go to his hips, one braid completed.

the decision starters II accepting

Temple Hill is beautiful at dusk. Naturally, it’s always beautiful, but— and perhaps the augur is just a touch biased toward his own ancestry— the setting, bronzed-red sun has a particularly breathtaking way of splashing the temples in claret and gold, and Octavian can’t help but think that that’s when the gods’ altars shine the most clearly with the appropriate majesty begotten by creatures of their magnitude.

Besides, Jason himself looks kingly, too, in this light (despite his own best efforts, Octavian is sure).

Try as he might to hide behind poor posture and the worst-ranked cohort— and humility that Octavian happens to know is bizarrely earnest— one’s parentage is difficult to obscure, especially for the blonde paragon of Roman soldiers that Jason Grace, legionnaire, centurion, and likely future praetor (no matter how badly Octavian wants it, how little Jason has to try for it) is. The fact is, then, that his friend is royalty. And decorated by the Sun Chariot’s glow, there is no question whether or not he’d fit in on Mount Olympus. For the gods’ sakes, he looks like he descended from it, for a petty little jaunt among the mortals below his feet!

All of this, then, is so near enough to ease Octavian’s ever-bustling mind.

Evidently, Octavian’s company is not enough to afford Jason the same comfort in reliance. He can understand why, of course, but it rankles nonetheless.

“The Fifth needs you here, Jason.” Camp needs you here. Octavian sighs softly, reaching over to slide a palm between Jupiter's son's burdened shoulder blades. “Besides, it isn’t as though our legionnaires can’t handle this…”

He’s lying.

They both know it.

The prophecy was suitably vague, as it should have been, but there are very few ways to interpret lines such as “one shall be lost in the east / and bear witness to the might of the beast,” and a grand sum of none of them are good. None of them much indicate promise for a return of three.

“You’re too tense, Lovey.” He mutters, instead, hoping a change of subject can soothe, where cold facts cannot. Jason is a warmer man than he, when all is said and done. “You ought to visit the baths more.”

He kneads his thumb into the muscle beside Jason’s spine. “If for no other reason than to wash away the smell of ozone. Nervous, are we?” Octavian chuckles, a light noise meant to worm its way into his friend’s much softer chest.

Clairvoyance Does Tend to Exclude You from Game Night II @bringthunder

"Much of what I do is casting lots and hoping for the big win." Octavian sniffed, gesturing to the wooden sortes at his right. Golden bangles on his wrist clinked with an almost musical quality, as he then brought his palm down onto the plush belly of a pristine stuffed animal rooster, returning to his work at hand.

"It's never the tablets' faults for miserable fates, and pitching a fit about destiny to the weavers of it is not unlike climbing to the top of a mountain and proclaiming that Jupiter can't smite you." He sliced the fabric open, before firing a grin at the child of the king of gods.

// i really don't need to tell you but @tidaltow :)

Is there a demigod form of Excedrin? II @tidaltow