Peter sat calmly cross legged in deep in the forest. He came out here to practise, so no one else would get hurt. His head was down like he was in prayer and he was concentrating one keeping himself calm. Peter opened his eyes. The morning dew covering the grass for a meter around him was frozen solid. He didn't like anyone at camp to see this side of him. The angry and fearful side of him, the side that had killed Marcus. Mostly only the Satyrs and the tree nymphs knew of Peter's abilities and he tried to keep it that way. Of course all the campers had seen his claiming but for some reason not one of them had made the connection between the God of the North wind and ice power.

Frustrated Peter stood up and slammed his fist into the nearest tree. Pain shot up his arm but he wasn't focusing on that. From the spot that his fist touched on the tree ice spread over its surface still half the tree was covered in frost. The tree spirits would be furious. Peter backed away slowly. If only he could suppress this power of his. If only he could thaw the ice. Peter turned and ran from the tree. He knew that the satyrs would know it was him but he didn't care. He just needed a place to burn off some energy and some anger.

Peter was often up before the crack of dawn. The people in the Hermes cabin slept late and though Peter had been claimed he was still in the crossroads cabin because Boreas didn't rate high enough on the God's list of super powers to warrant a cabin. Even after that Percy Jackson had made his deal with the Olympians. Peter skidded to halt in the arena. It was deserted and Peter was happy. The only weapon that Peter carried on him was the sleek blade made of solid eternal ice that his father had made for him but since a dagger wouldn't be enough to hold him in the real world Peter had taken up the quarter staff. He picked one up from the armoury and set up a dummy in the arena with the orange camp half-blood t-shirt.

Then he started to hack and slash at it in good form pushing all his rage out through the stick. By the end there was nothing left of the dummy but straw and a torn shirt. Not finished, Peter drew his dagger and cleaved the dummy's helmet in half. Tired but no less anger or miserable Peter collapsed on a bench. He thought about when life was so much easier. When he could come and go as he pleased.