Tia Boyd
Camp Half-Blood
Her dreams were becoming rote, and for some reason that irritated her. They were almost always set in her home in Chicago, having dropped some sort of plate or caused an accident of some kind, something trivial. Her limbs would freeze up as she heard a thundering bang of steps rushing towards her, the foundations of the brick house seeming to shudder with every successive boom. Eyes trained to the floor, the sight of those white shoes coming into view would send a shiver down her spine as her muscles tensed.
There wasn’t really a word she could use to describe the tirade that would follow, often random but sometimes it was like the dream had plucked her own worst thoughts about herself and play them on repeat. Last night was no different, lambasting her for cowardice and running away from Camp Jupiter and coming to the Greek’s as if that would wipe away what she’d done. Particularly scathing was her own stupidity in lashing out at Ward and attempting to force some imagined authority over Cornelia, was she really so weak that she had to big herself up by trying to subjegate those she deemed lesser? What right did she have to deem anyone lesser?
The words washed through her body with an unwelcome sensation, fingers prodded her mind and gripped her bones, refusing to let go. The words, though hurtful, weren’t the worst thing. No, it was the shrill voice of her stepmother, like shattering glass, following her everywhere. That was just how life had been for her before she’d discovered the truth, anything she caused or did would be imagined as a threat on the lives of her half-siblings or an insult posed against her. Day in and day out, despite her trying her hardest to not slip up. She thought she’d escaped when her father, or her uncle (she supposed that was the actual title now), had taken her from Chicago to Wolf House, but no, the voice had followed her unrelentingly.
Relief washed over her when she was awoken, glad to be free of the voice and annoyed that nothing she did seemed to make sleeping any easier. The frustration aided her in the mornings PT, pushing herself to right her wrongs and give her dreams less things to insult her with. Obviously she hadn’t exceeded the pace setter, that would be improper and showboating, but she certainly kept as close as she could the entire way.
The same occurred with morning drills, seeking to imitate the example as best she physically could. Swordplay, especially, had always come naturally to her. She’d spent hours upon hours training herself, having long realised that her strength, while superior to regular humans, was only middling in comparison to her fellow half-bloods and that technical mastery was probably her best route. She often had to practise duels with those older than her, one because of her abilities, but also because no one really wanted to duel her. She didn’t believe it was because they were afraid of losing, though.
In the afternoon, they were released for free activities. For most, this meant joining the Greek cousins in the eclectic mix of classes they had. From archery to song writing, she could admit she was impressed at just how widely the arts were represented in a camp meant to train half-bloods to fight monsters and try to stop them dying an early death. For her, though, she usually tried to stay in the garrison. Not just because working with the Greeks made her nervous and uncomfortable, she’d noticed many seemed to cast irritated glares her way whenever she walked into a class or even just within their vicinity, but also because song writing just wasn’t in her blood. Rhyming just seemed to avoid her like the plague.
Which was how she ended up back in the garrison’s training yard, striking the training dummies with her gladius. Sometimes she’d test a new technique she’d read, like using the flat of the blade to slap the opponent in the face and cause a moment of confusion, but mostly just cycling through the same motions. Sweat beaded her forehead after thirty minutes of it, the blade in her hand was becoming heavier and her arms were beginning to tire, but still she continued to hit the dummy.
Grunting, she startedher movements again, her blade glinting in the sunlight as it cut a path through the air. Thuds filled the arena as she swung and stabbed quickly, wood chips and straw flying with every successful land. She brought her blade up, blocking some imaginary strike before rolling out of the way, the sand that made up the arena’s surface rustling. Getting to her knees, she then stabbed out, catching the dummy in what would have been the small of its back.
She sighed breathlessly as she got back to her feet, chastising herself for the needlessly flashing finishes she’d put on her strikes. Though she hoped it looked cool for the audience she lacked, in a real fight it would have cost her vital milliseconds that could be better put elsewhere. Likewise, the final strike was too slow, the enemy could spin round in the time it too her to get to her knees and attack. She slid her gladius into her scabbard, making sure to memorise where to improve so she wound’t be caught lacking in future. She groaned as she felt sand find its way under her camp t-shirt and jeans, shaking her head in an attempt to loosen whatever might have gotten caught in her hair.
Brushing a hand through her neck length hair, she, not for the first time, considered cutting it off to stop unnecessary flecks of debris getting caught in it. In a situation like a quest, where showering might not be as easy to achieve, it’d become nothing like an irritant. She stopped herself in the thought though, her father(?) had always said its sandy blonde colour was one of the main things he remembered about her mother. Or, at least, what his brother had told him about her before he’d gotten himself killed in some deployment. In a life where she was lacking in decent mothers, she always thought her hair might be some sort of connection that her mother might appreciate. Maybe even enough to say hello?
She chided herself at the thought, childish to presume a goddess had nothing better to do than speak to her child. She returned to her starting position, wiping sweat from her forehead, her hand set tightly on the handle of her gladius as she began to run through the drill again.
Capture the Flag
Friday
The Legion’s armour had always been comfortable to her. While others grumbled and groaned about its weight or their discomfort, she felt as though it was a second skin. It fit perfectly the first time she’d worn it and she had beamed with pride at the fact. Even her shield and gladius just felt like extensions of her own arms, the hours of training she’d put in reinforcing this fact.
The cool air of the woods brushed against he face, her nose twitching. She was crouched a bit behind the main fighting line with three others, her body was tensed as she prepared for any surprise attack launched by the other team. There were other Romans as well, small groups in a chequerboard formation behind the main line, and they were led by Optio Centurae Thomson and Centurion David. A fact she was thrilled about. Ever since arriving at the garrison, she’d been appaled at just how loosely things were being run here, even now some of her compatriots were far too relaxed. Leaning on shields or against a tree, stretching as they waited for the order to come to move forwards or just any order, really. She hoped that Centurion David might be able to whip them into some sort of shape, the garrison the way it was was hardly befitting the role it was given of representing New Rome and the Twelfth Legion.
“Would you chill out?” one of those in her group asked her, in the gloom she could make out the tanned face of Legionnaire Avery “The game hasn’t even started yet”
She shook her head “Doesn’t matter, you think the Greeks aren’t trying to press whatever advantage they can. I wouldn’t put rule breaking passed them”
He gave her a disinterested reply before returning to hushed conversation with the one next to him, Legionnaire Brenner. Both were far too relaxed, but she returned her gaze to the forest. She was aware of the teams, pitched against Optio Centurionius O'Neil and Centurion Lorino and some random mix of Greek cabins that seemed to be decided by lots rather than any thought process. She’d heard grudges were the main deciding factor for sides, and she could well believe it. The fact Centurion Lorino of the Third was on the other side compounded her suspicion that she had it out for her, taking whatever chance she had to have her away from her command. Maybe she wanted to humiliate her again. Tia keenly felt the metal of her helmet, where once it had been a wolf’s pelt. Her hand tightening on her gladius’ handle, as though she thought holding it tight enough might turn it into the cohort’s standard.
No, she thought, she wouldn’t give Centurion Lorino the chance. She had been training for just this exact thing.
In the distance, she could hear the horn blow.
