Peaceful.
Quiet.
The only sounds, a low hum from the bottom of a young boy's throat and the lapping of water against the posts. The creaking sound of weight shifting atop the wood boards of a pier and a few swallow chirps would chime in, but for the most part it was like a quiet summer day. It was always a quiet summer day; if not for the explanation, then the serenity, the always partly cloudy sky, and the silent heat of midday would be border line chilling. Ironic. It was quite different from Chicago, quite different from Seattle too—better than both, actually. But sometimes rain wasn't bad at all, and sometimes the sun wasn't as cheery as it should have been. People learn that as they live. There were so many variables, so many things to take account of; it was a headache waiting to happen. Actually, it was a lot better to just go with the flow because it would essentially be a waste of time trying to understand it. It was actually kind of a waste of time trying to understand any of the demigod stuff too—all that Greek literature and mythology. A manual would easier explain, rather than nearly getting trampled by nightmare fuel.
There was one golden rule, though.
No, not, "Do unto others..."
More like, "Don't piss off the Gods. The Goddess of women especially." Double entendre and all.
There was obviously more to that, so much more that it was a lot like trying to understand the correlation between weather and mood. The whole of Greek Mythology, its philosophies, and its Aesop fables, and its tragedies, was an encyclopedia and a dictionary combined. There are just so many words or meanings that it would be kind of redundant to attempt to memorize and learn all of them. Though that bit about a manual—can't take that back. It was a good idea. Regardless, experience, even in discovering that Scylla and Charybdis are both women not to be dealt with by nearly, or actually, getting mutilated by both—preferably not at the same time, but sometimes circumstance can be a bitch—was altogether worth more than a few remembered definitions and guidelines found in a flimsy, two ton book. Some things are meant to be experienced, in spite of how dangerous that experience actually is. So, it's best to avoid those experiences altogether. But, where was the line?
That's where Dover stood, or rather sat, at the moment. Feet churning the water below, he could only glaringly stare into the depths of the lake of Camp Half-Blood. Never mind the news floating around about a bear attack; at that specific moment, glaring at water was more important. Not that he didn't care, though the hard gaze and the furrowed brows would say otherwise. Being stuck at an impasse was taxing on an individual and quite frustrating, so much so that it often left one eyeing the nearest object with a smoldering gaze that would light a campfire. Dover had learned the butt end of the stick when he'd set off a chain of events that left many people in a ten meter radius around him bruised, beaten, and bloody. It was better he smolder the water alone, rather than cause an outbreak of jealous teenagers—teenagers were already innately horndogs. No need to make the camp supervisors' jobs worse, or that musky pheromone smell worse either. Was a side effect of being the illegitimate child of a God. The Bastard of Eros had a catchy ring to it, actually.
Time, however, did not permit Dover to stay for longer than he'd intended: it was capture the flag day. So, deciding the morning basking and the early glowering was to be cut short in the essence of the preservation of frivolity and joviality, Dover stood from his position, stretched with a small yowl, and turned to begin suiting up for the day's activities. His figure, especially in the sunlight, was lithe and only slightly hulking—the added height gave him an intimidating stance over the many campers that were shorter than him. But, he retained a certain hop in his step, a something that often nullified the imposition of his frame and figure. On good days, it completely overpowered it, to the point were he was among the most amicable of the older campers at Half-Blood, a guy that would probably call killing a fly an abomination. What would completely topple all of that, erasing any notion of him being intimidating or scary or even masculine, was the always elated look on his face; the pale blue eyes that didn't seem to waver from their regular beaming glint; the ever so slightly titled head, with his hair flopping and bouncing charmingly over his eyes; the arms spread wide to offer a warm embrace in the winter or a comfortable shade in the summer.
Hulking figure? What, Dover? Completely and utterly harmless. Almost traversing into the gentle giant territory, but rather settling in just gentle—comfortably, really.
So, when he threw armor over his normal apparel, regular tank top and a pair of cargo shorts—safety first—and sharpened his rapier before heading to the small capture the flag field, he looked a little out of place. But, then again, they were all considerable warriors, though some more than others. Looks can be deceiving.
Finding his place among the right team—he'd accidentally bumped into the other team, literally falling over Billy in particular, before being given that face from Chiron—he gave everyone on his team a once over and simply smiled. He let them discuss battle strategies, what was who and where we what—stuff he couldn't be bothered with if he was only defending. Just before he saw them rush off, Dover chimed in, already mid stretch.
"Whoa, lets not tear any muscles. We should... stretch first. Yeah, good luck I guess? Can't hear me. Whatever."
They were already long gone, sadly. So, he merely gave Iria a nod when she suggested he take to hiding before giving her a small salute and a wink while bounding off into the brush nearby. Alert and ready as he'd ever be, Dover couldn't help but smile at Iria's display of pre-battle giddiness; she'd regret being so happy to fight when things got sticky, but he'd not tell her that. They'd all need the confidence, regardless of whether this was just training or not. That and a good vantage point, if he was going to help her defend. So, up he went, clambering the tree just beside him, rapier a simple pin caught between his teeth as he climbed. Settling on a sturdy branch, Dover closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and further cleared his senses. Not the fastest nor the strongest, but he certainly made up for that in other ways—they'd have to wait and see, though. No use in wasting energy, especially not on such a lovely morning, noon... kind of afternoon? He lost track.
