Post by vadellia on Mar 22, 2012 19:45:25 GMT -5
It was finally springtime.
Colorful birds leapt from their branches. The thick air smelled like perfume, thanks to thousands of flowers' rich scents. The sky was azure blue, the lake used for canoeing was crystal clear this time of year, and almost everything outside was totally perfect. Many campers spent their days lounging by the canoeing lake, tanning, smelling the flowers, or reading under a tree. Honestly, Troian thought Camp Half-Blood would be a perfume maker's dream. All the flowers that were never found anywhere else, the tropical ones, the normal ones, they wove together to make a passionate, otherworldly scent. If you could put scents into bottles and keep them like little kids did with insects and fish, that was exactly what Troian would do with the smells around here.
She was finally, finally back at camp. After a hiatus thanks to traveling with the Hunters of Artemis, she was back. It wasn't that she didn't like traveling, but she'd done a lot of it. Well, she loved traveling, yes. It was so exotic. All of her favorite memories were definitely from the places the Huntresses had gone. Paris, a few decades ago, was probably her favorite. It was perfect paradise for her. She had loved the sightseeing, the food, every minute of it. Australia, which had been recently, had also been amazing. Hawaii, which had been forever ago but permanently ingrained in Troian's memory. The smell had been just like this. Perfumed and wonderful. The climate was just perfect. The plants and animals had been so different and amazing. She had loved, completely loved, all of the Hawaiian flowers. The colors, the smells, the looks. She had fashioned a perfect lei and worn it often, until the flowers wilted and died. It was a pity that things so beautiful had to die.
Well, everything eventually did. Except the Hunters, maybe, just maybe.
On this one spring day, Troian de la Veur was sitting on the edge of the strawberry fields, underneath a sprightly tree of her choosing, surrounded by flowers and satyrs playing mainstream music on reed pipes. She really wished they would stop playing a harmonized version of Flo Rida's "Wild Ones" — the original song sounded like a dying, drunk elephant and it was even more terrible when it was harmonized, as though it were a quality song. Troian considered her taste in music to be better than the mainstream crap of modern times...well, she'd lived for over three hundred years. She had perfected her song-selecting technique. This one she had deemed absolutely horrible. Some Aphrodite girls had been singing it, and, well...yeah, it was terrible. She had been on her way to these fields when she'd heard a blonde girl who was as thin as a Twizzler screeching, "Hey, I heard you were a wild ooooone! WhOOOOOOOooooooo!" Her ears were practically bleeding, but the satyrs looked like they were having such a good time, she didn't yell "Shut up!" and for a girl like Troian, that takes a lot of patience.
Wincing at the reed-pipes' music, Troian dug her leather diary out of her bag. Property of Troian de la Veur, the cliché on the cover read. Please Return If Found. She had kept over twenty notebooks in her life, and sometimes reread them. To be honest, they were very entertaining. Her first was anything but eloquent. But you could see her writing skills evolving and honing themselves over time. Troian flipped to the first page of her book and saw it was the contact information. If you find this, please do not read it. Return to... Followed by her cell number (not that she ever used it), email address (again, not that she ever used it), and the address to Camp, aka Delphi Strawberries. She had written this ages ago...
Shrugging, she began to read her past entries. She eagerly flipped to one written in Australia. It was an account of the weather, the accents, and the animals, namely kangaroos. Bo-ring. She decided to just write another entry instead. She had just gotten back to camp, after all. There was a lot of stuff to write about.
Colorful birds leapt from their branches. The thick air smelled like perfume, thanks to thousands of flowers' rich scents. The sky was azure blue, the lake used for canoeing was crystal clear this time of year, and almost everything outside was totally perfect. Many campers spent their days lounging by the canoeing lake, tanning, smelling the flowers, or reading under a tree. Honestly, Troian thought Camp Half-Blood would be a perfume maker's dream. All the flowers that were never found anywhere else, the tropical ones, the normal ones, they wove together to make a passionate, otherworldly scent. If you could put scents into bottles and keep them like little kids did with insects and fish, that was exactly what Troian would do with the smells around here.
She was finally, finally back at camp. After a hiatus thanks to traveling with the Hunters of Artemis, she was back. It wasn't that she didn't like traveling, but she'd done a lot of it. Well, she loved traveling, yes. It was so exotic. All of her favorite memories were definitely from the places the Huntresses had gone. Paris, a few decades ago, was probably her favorite. It was perfect paradise for her. She had loved the sightseeing, the food, every minute of it. Australia, which had been recently, had also been amazing. Hawaii, which had been forever ago but permanently ingrained in Troian's memory. The smell had been just like this. Perfumed and wonderful. The climate was just perfect. The plants and animals had been so different and amazing. She had loved, completely loved, all of the Hawaiian flowers. The colors, the smells, the looks. She had fashioned a perfect lei and worn it often, until the flowers wilted and died. It was a pity that things so beautiful had to die.
Well, everything eventually did. Except the Hunters, maybe, just maybe.
On this one spring day, Troian de la Veur was sitting on the edge of the strawberry fields, underneath a sprightly tree of her choosing, surrounded by flowers and satyrs playing mainstream music on reed pipes. She really wished they would stop playing a harmonized version of Flo Rida's "Wild Ones" — the original song sounded like a dying, drunk elephant and it was even more terrible when it was harmonized, as though it were a quality song. Troian considered her taste in music to be better than the mainstream crap of modern times...well, she'd lived for over three hundred years. She had perfected her song-selecting technique. This one she had deemed absolutely horrible. Some Aphrodite girls had been singing it, and, well...yeah, it was terrible. She had been on her way to these fields when she'd heard a blonde girl who was as thin as a Twizzler screeching, "Hey, I heard you were a wild ooooone! WhOOOOOOOooooooo!" Her ears were practically bleeding, but the satyrs looked like they were having such a good time, she didn't yell "Shut up!" and for a girl like Troian, that takes a lot of patience.
Wincing at the reed-pipes' music, Troian dug her leather diary out of her bag. Property of Troian de la Veur, the cliché on the cover read. Please Return If Found. She had kept over twenty notebooks in her life, and sometimes reread them. To be honest, they were very entertaining. Her first was anything but eloquent. But you could see her writing skills evolving and honing themselves over time. Troian flipped to the first page of her book and saw it was the contact information. If you find this, please do not read it. Return to... Followed by her cell number (not that she ever used it), email address (again, not that she ever used it), and the address to Camp, aka Delphi Strawberries. She had written this ages ago...
Shrugging, she began to read her past entries. She eagerly flipped to one written in Australia. It was an account of the weather, the accents, and the animals, namely kangaroos. Bo-ring. She decided to just write another entry instead. She had just gotten back to camp, after all. There was a lot of stuff to write about.
