#neritics

𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒  four   in   the   afternoon,   &&   verso   has   a   broken   nose.   that’s   as   far   his   injuries   go   for   the   moment   which,   all   things   considered,   is   par   for   the   course   when   it   comes   to   dealing   with   the   empousa.   still,   better   a   little   bit   (   read   as:   a   lot   of   bit   )   of   blood   running   down   his   face   than   getting   drained   to   death   by   a   discount   kardashian.   maybe   that’s   a   little   harsh;   the   one   currently   crumpling   into   dust   in   the   alley   behind   him   wasn’t   that   bad   on   the   eyes.   not   his   type   but,   hey,   not   far   from   it.   he   wipes   his   still-bleeding   nose   with   his   jacket   sleeve,   snorts,   &&   pulls   his   flask   out   from   his   pocket.   a   quick   twist   &&   he renews taste   of   honey   whiskey   in   the   back   of   his   throat   once   more.    not   a   bad   start   to   my   morning,   thinks   the   eldest   of   zeus,   tucking   the   flask   away   a   beat   later.   …   huh.   isn’t   jackon’s   school   on   this   block?   his   stride   stutters.   the   eldest   of   zeus   groans,   drags   a   hand   down   his   face,   &&   curses   into   his   palm.   father,   i   know   you’ve   blocked   my   number,   but   please   don’t   let   that   little   shit   turn   the   corner…   i   woke   up   twenty   minutes   ago,   please   don’t   make   me   deal   with   my   cousin…  

@neritics // starter call !!

is it a rhetorical remark meant to highlight his perceived righteousness over her own alleged moral failings or has she been genuinely kept in the dark? either option is certainly believable. for someone usually so adept at reading the intentions of others, percy is proving a rather annoying challenge.

after all, one could very easily draw a line in the sand when it comes to the differences in their respective convictions. this demigod son of poseidon seems to inhabit so many of the virtues lauded in the stories of old: bravery, loyalty, kindness. while aurelia, on the other hand, is more often than not a poster child for all the flaws: anger, vindictiveness, resentment & ambivalence.

or maybe he's just trying to paint a clearer picture of her circumstances. after all, neither kronos or his buddies could be considered the most honest of allies. either way, asking for clarification will make her seem dangerously ignorant. vulnerable. so that's not exactly an option.

❛ what makes you think that? ❜ she rebuffs icily, pale blue eyes glittering with frigid animosity as her posture tenses. ❛ kudos on all your successes or whatever, but i think they've gone to your head.❜ she drawls as she seeks to maneuver this disconcerting conversation back to more comforting territory.

Practical is when something is useful, like the tools Tyson uses in the forge. Percy does not need to be useful. Tyson's frown is as much from sheer offense as it is from sadness. His brother is a hero, he is strong and good and important. If anybody other than Percy had implied otherwise, Tyson would probably be starting a confrontation. Instead, he simply lays one hand on Percy's small shoulder.

𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑪𝒀 ( @neritics ) sent a prayer: "do you want one?" ( here ; no longer accepting )

IT  IS  A  SHAME  ITS  MASK  STAYS  FIXED  between  extremes  most  of  the  time;  a  droplet  of  sorrow  turns  to  a  mask  drenched  in  tears,  a  moment  of  happiness  turns  into  a  painted  grin  which  threatens  to  split  its  visage  cleanly  down  the  middle.  that  is,  this  is  a  problem  most  of  the  time.  now  is  not  one  such  time.  now  the  extreme  matches:  small  beads  of  green  behind  its  mask  fix  themselves  on  the  son  of  poseidon,  a  cousin  of  sorts.  

one  hand  extends  and  plucks  one  of  the  gathered  snacks  from  the  demigod’s  hands.  it  turns  the  treat  over  in  its  digits.  the  bright  blue  packaging  is  enticing.  how  fortunate  it  is  that  mortals  have  finally  learned  what  good  branding  looks  like.  

❝  i  would  bless  thee  for  this,  but  your  stock  is  full;  the  gods  affection  already  sits  ‘pon  your  shoulders in spades.  ❞

a  pause  as  its  head  bobs  from  side  to  side,  still  not  indulging  in  the  treat.  laughter  creaks  out  from  behind  its  mask.  its  free  hand  rises  to  cover  its  mouth,  which  is  to  say  flatten  itself  against  the  smooth  and  divine  porcelain  of  its  ‘face’.  

❝  but  i  do  appreciate  such  an  offering.  too  many  pour  out  wine  or  burn  grapes  as  of  late;  i’ve  no  want  for  them  !!  yes,  yes,  wine  is  upon  my  great  list  of  domains,  but  even  gods  tire  of  drunken  revelry.  ❞

its  shoulders  slump,  then  perk  back  up  again.  

❝  nonetheless  !!  you’ve  my  thanks  all  the  same,  o’  cousin.  ❞   

Katie doesn’t have battle strategy planned like Clarisse. Katie doesn’t have an invisibility cap that Annabeth does, or a bronze sword like Riptide. Katie doesn’t have speed of fleet footed sons of Hermes, ability to channel lightning like Thalia, or strength and mechanical knowledge of Beckendorf. Katie doesn’t have charmspeak nor can she summon the dead. Katie can only heal through the means of herbalism, not some divinely appointed gift.

What she does have — aside from her divinely maternal abilities — is a refusal to fight unless deemed necessary and stubbornness inherited from her own mother. And Katie deems it necessary now.

“Thanks. I really appreciate it, Percy.”

In spite of Katie’s sincerity, the ground grumbles in reply. Katie’s not sure if it’s due to Percy (his father is called Earth-shaker after all), an ability of her own that she hasn’t been aware of until now, or both. Katie feels a tingling sensation in her fingertips, and though she looks seemingly distracted, the steady increase of green in her normally hazel irises reflects the green of chlorophyll.

Although the monsters are as quick as Percy warns, the monsters are not as quick as the whip like vines that obey Katie’s hand motions. From nearby flowers, the leaves and stems weave together until something like a snare forms. Katie winces when she feels some monster claws or fangs tearing at her, sharply gasping as she sees blood through the fabric of her floral dress. Though Katie stumbles for a moment, her years of training refuse to allow her to falter.

luke   doesn't   get   to   * lecture   percy.   not   with   this. percy's   face   twists   in   something   consisting   of   rage,   distrust,   and   unwavering   sadness.   luke   is   nothing   short   of   a   * sore   subject   -   the   fact   that   he   * dares   to   show   his   face   to   percy   is   alone   enough   to   make   his   fists   curl,   the   rage   of   wanting   to   just   * pummel   him   without   rhyme   or   reason   wins   over   any   and   all   rationality. " you   * don't   get   to   say   that.   you   can't   * lecture   me   about   how   i   see   everyone   as   great   when   * you're   the   reason   i   even   * have   to   second   guess   them! " he   * spits   the   words   out   as   if   they   were   the   same   venom   that   he'd   poisoned   thalia's   tree   with   -   the   * same   backstabbing   movements   that   was   similar   in   namesake   to   his   weapon   of   choice.

The emotions drift across Luke's face like the cast off shadows of a flame. They ripple and twist until they settle into the neutral anger he had existed in long before there was a son of Poseidon. Before the prophecy rang and destiny called him to something greater. " So you do doubt them. "

The who ambiguous. Leading. Letting Percy fill it in of his own flavor of distrust. Being a child of the gods meant an inherent failure of parental faith holding hands with an unending devotion. He wondered if he felt it already. If he was struggling as Poseidon's Only Son or if the gold was clinging on.

After Thalia and before golden apples fell from the sky, he had wanted nothing less than his father's eye and pride. He could forgive absence for glory until more and more children fought for space in a crowded Cabin. When more came up missing and it was the symbol of the parents who never cared they burned under. Would be remembered as nothing else. Daughter of Demeter. Son of Aphrodite. Child of Hephaestus.

Everything hurts, so much so that even laughing sends a sharp ache through her ribs. Still, the pain isn’t enough to stop Elodie from snorting. “ Do not let my old man hear you call me that, superstar. ” Rough fingertips work carefully over her forehead, where the damage throbs loudest. The God of Wine has, on more than one occasion, broached the subject of his disdain for glory-chasing fools, always with a spectacular array of colorful metaphors. Elodie is certain that’s why she’s never been allowed to wear one of her masks, never officially permitted to play the part of the perfect demigod. No quests. No hardcore lava-wall climbing. No chariot races. All the fun things? They’re forbidden to her for now.