𝑰𝑵 𝑾𝑯𝑰𝑪𝑯; Loralai Fotia, an undetermined demigod struggles to face things head on, until Percy Jackson bumps straight into her.
fotia, Φωτιά - fire
ⓒ eustelia, rick riordan
percy jackson x female oc
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
TO A BLIND eye, Camp Half-Blood looked exactly the same: The Big House, the strawberry fields, the cabins... even Loralai's room was almost exactly as she left it (hi, Caliz, we know you stole from Loralai's candy jar).
However, there was this eerie feeling of uneasiness that loomed over the camp like the Mist, trickling into Loralai's bones: despite how it appeared to her, it had completely changed. Danger was spiked into the greek columns, arenas, the woods and the rest of their once paradise section of Long Island Sound.
If the volleyball pits hadn't been abandoned, the camp not bustling with laughter and chatter, Loralai probably wouldn't have noticed this off feeling. The satyrs and campers were stockpiling the sheds with things such as weapons, instead of regular activities. And the dryads were nervously fiddling with their bows, gossiping on the edges of the woods.
Beneath her, the grass was a sickly yellow. Behind her, fire still scarred areas of Half-Blood Hill.
After swiftly checking her stuff had gotten their safe, Loralai joined Percy and Annabeth at the big house, feeling shunned from the campers she had known her whole life. No one stopped to talk, no one smiled, no one even looked up. Caliz and Oliver were nowhere to be seen, either, presumably hidden away in preparation for further attacks.
She had written to these people over the summer. Especially Caliz and Oliver. None of their strokes of pen had indicated the conditions of camp, or that they had even returned from where they were staying over the school year earlier. Naturally, she felt betrayed, a little angry even, that she didn't get the same heads up most of the people here did. But the administration at Camp Half-Blood wasn't known for great communication.
All of the campers were grim, barely blinking when they saw Tyson or wounded heroes. Every one of them duly carried a sword, or message, or crossed their arms in front of their chest protectively. Honestly, it felt like one of the military schools, glorified prisons, that Loralai had gone with satyrs with to get half blood. And, gods, was that misery infectious.
By the time Loralai joined Percy and Annabeth, plus the cyclops, they were making their way up the stairs of the Big House, looking just as grim as she. Except for Tyson, who had been of course pointing and asking questions enthusiastically the entire time. Percy mumbled answers, exchanging nervous looks with the girls as they found Chiron in his apartment.
The centaur's favorite 1960s lounge music sang out its melody throughout the room as Chiron seemed to be sadly packing his saddlebags, his hooves clicking around as he grabbed various items out of drawers, securing them to his hairy brown torso.
As soon as Tyson spotted him, he froze and exclaimed, "Pony!", which blocked Loralai's path and forced her to abruptly stop. Rolling her eyes, she weaved around him, annoyed about his area awareness skills. Which he no doubt learnt from Percy.
Offended, Chiron turned around as soon as he heard him. "I beg your pardon?"
Annabeth sprinted up and hugged his furry body, Loralai soon behind, slyly taking notice of the items he was packing: a toothbrush, other vital supplies. Taking a step back, she inquired shakily, "Are you really leaving?"
