IRONMAN <2

Wow, great character, Charlotte! :D I'm no mod, but I do like how you did her history. o3o

I do think it was funny. :3 Too bad though, I don't think the gods are allowed to directly contact their kids. Sorry. But change that, and she's accepted!

Edited and updated! I guess that means she's accepted? Can I start roleplaying?

Yes, you may! Enjoy role-playing with your new character! o w o

HALF-BLOODS

Name: Clemence Lotharius Reed

Age/Birthday: 16, 23/04/1995

Gender: Male

God Parent: Can't get it from here twin >:V

Claimed: No

Mortal Family: His Mother, Elizabeth Reed (née Gale). His ex-father, Alistair (Al) Reed.

Years in Camp: New camper

Brief History:
Water lapped at his feet, and Clemence giggled slightly as an inquisitive fish nibbled at his toes.

"Hello little fishie. What're you doing down there?"

Clemence liked fishing. It was so simple, and you didn't have to deal with other people. Other people made his head hurt. They were all so loud and fast, going yabber yabber yabber all day long. They got upset over the simplest of things. Father especially so. Whenever he'd had a drink from one of his special-bottles-that-Clemence-mustn't-ever-touch, Father would roar and snarl and sing songs really loudly. And badly, he reflected. Father needed singing lessons.

Fishing was definitely a better job than helping Father at the bar. All the men who came in would yell at him and make angry faces whenever he slopped some drink. Even when he was bumped, which wasn't very nice. Whereas while he was fishing, Clemence got to stay outside and speak with the fishies. He also had to catch the fishies, but that's what fishies were for.

Clemence's rod was thrust into a crack between the rocks beside him, and the end of the line was just visible in the middle of the lagoon. The water droplets rolling along the line weren't quivering, which meant he hadn't got a fishie yet. Mother had taught him that you only pulled the line in when the droplets were dancing up and down. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Clemence watched as the fishie darted away. The silly thing must of been scared by his shadow passing over the water. Clemence pulled out his notebook from his pocket, the red covering creaking slightly as he opened it. It was engrained with salt from the sea breezes that frequently washed over him, but it still hadn't been soaked in the seven years he'd had it. Mother had put some shiny stuff on it and told him it was waterproof. Mother was always right.

Scribbling a little doodle of the fish, Clemence leaned closer to the page and concentrated fiercely. Mother had shown him how to make letters, and read them as well, but he wasn't very good at it. After a few minutes of intense focus, Clemence sat back satisfied. A series of wobbly letters spelt out "fishies r skeared of shadoes."

The notebook had been a present from Mother on his eighth birthday, the day he started being a fisherman. She'd told him to put interesting things in it, and he had. There was an interesting shaped leaf taped in there, and countless examples of colorful pressed seaweed made the notebook much thicker than it had originally been. The more recent entries were writing, which showed how clever Clemence was. Mother had told him that not many boys were learning their letters at fifteen like he was.

The orange light of the sun slid off the water and bounced into his eyes, making them sting. An orange sky meant it was time to go back home. Clemence sighed, and yanked his line slowly back in. He didn't want to go back. Home meant he had to start the bar shift. Home meant he had to face Father, Father with his large hands and his growly face. Not that Father could hit him over the head any more. Clemence was too tall for him now. But he didn't like getting hit on the side any more than he had getting hit on the head.

Clemence clambered slowly back over the rocks, the dying sun at his back. His rod was slung over his back, hooked around the sack he was carrying. He'd caught five fish today, which was better than usual. Father wouldn't be too angry at him, even if he was a little late. 

His Smasher was lying at the side of the path where he'd left it. For as long as he could remember Clemence had been making Smashers. They were just a rock with some grasses tied around them to make a mace-like thing. He was going to call them rocks-with-strings-attatched, but that was too long and hard to remember. It made his head hurt.

Lot's of things made his head hurt.

Like lies. Clemence couldn't understand lies, he just said what he thought. He couldn't comprehend saying something that wasn't true. People did it all the time though. He heard the, while he was working in the bar. They'd tell one person one thing, then ten minutes later they'd be telling another person something completely different. It was all so confusing and made his thoughts whirl in his head.

Picking up the Smasher, Clemence strode down the path and used it to knock the heads off the few thistles that dared grow near the edge. That's what Smashers were for. Smashing things. Quickly glancing guiltily around to check no-one was watching him, Clemence broke softly into song. Singing was his one secret. He didn't exactly lie to anyone, they just failed to ask him if he did it. Singing was frowned upon by Father AND Mother. It wasn't what boys were supposed to do. His voice drifting softly in the evening air, Clemence strode down the path.

"Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all.
But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall.
Lend me your eyes, I can change what you see.

But your soul you must keep totally free..."

-----------------------------------------------------------------

"What do you mean, he's special?"

His voice, while little more than a hoarse whisper, still managed to set off a painful ringing in his head. A flush crept over his face, threatening to engulf his pale features entirely. This wasn't the best morning to be faced with the kind of news Elizabeth was giving him.

Her voice strident, Elizabeth replied. She always had been independent.

"He's different, Al, he's not like the other kids."

He snorted. Clemence had always been stupid, he didn't need his wife to tell him.

"You think I don't know that? You think I'm damn well blind?!"

A hand - his hand - jerked sharply to his forehead as the raised voice sent pain spiralling along his skull. He had to stop doing that. Elizabeth (speaking softly, thank God) replied calmly.

"I don't just mean his brain, Al. He's special in another way to. Al, Clemence is not your son. He's the son of a god."
 
If it had been anyone else he might have dismissed it out of hand. But Elizabeth had never lied to him. And if it was true, that meant he'd spent sixteen year caring for a boy who wasn't even his own. Worse still, it meant Elizabeth hadn't been true to him.

Al swelled up, the angry red flush finally encasing his entire face. Heedless of the pain it would cause, he shouted at the woman - his ex-wife.

"You've got five minutes to get the hell out of my house! And you better take that idiot boy with you, because I'm not caring for him when you're gone! I don't care where you go, just leave, okay?"

Al hunched shoulders as he turned away, already blindly grasping for another bottle. Tears were seeping from the corners of his eyes. He'd lost his wife, his son and he was hungover.

He needed a drink.

Physical Appearance: is tall for his age, coming in at 6"0. He also has a stocky, muscular, build, a result of hauling beer and ale kegs around his father's bar. His hair is a sandy blond and he has a strong tan from years of working outside. He is left-handed. [Playby is Ryan Kwanten]

Personality: See 'Brief History'. You should be able to tell from that. If  not, here are some more details. He is caring and has a fondness for animals, and is very trusting. He doesn't understand other people very well and is extremely truthful. He'd be hardpressed to tell a lie to save his life. He'll believe most of what people tell him, because he couldn't imagine why someone would lie to him. Despite his size he is very gentle.

Fatal Flaw: Gullible

Pets: No.

Talents:
Clemence is a good singer and a very experienced fisherman. He also has some ability with a 'mace' (See the Smashers in his Brief History). In terms of godly gifts, he just has the usual child of Dionysus abilities; grapevine growing, etc.
Weapons: He will eventually have a celestial bronze mace, reminiscent of the 'Smashers' he used when he was younger. He'll also have a buckler.

Year-Round or Summer: Year-Round

Other: Clemence is dyslexic and has a mental condition that has slowed his mental development. This means he operates on the level of a young child.


THIS PARROT IS DECEASED!

I love him! Accepted!

HALF-BLOODS

Name: Marius Alphonse Cavello the III

Age/Birthday: 16, 28/10/1995

Gender: Male

God Parent: Ares

Claimed: No

Mortal Family: His Mother, Lady Dolores Cavello (née River). His brother, Landon Michaelo Cavello.

Years in Camp: New camper

Brief History:
Marius leaned forward, invading the psychologist's personal space with ease. Uncomfortably aware of Mother's presence outside the door in the event of any... misunderstandings, he sighed and gestured for the watery-eyed figure to begin his session. It wouldn't do to upset Mother so early in the day, though surely he would've done something wrong by evening. It seemed he could do nothing right in Mother's eyes.

The pudgy man before him reached for his cup of tea, and Marius noted the slight trembling of his hands. Good. He was scared of Marius, which was as it should be. He obviously hadn't forgotten their last session together.

"S-So, Marius, d-d-do you know w-what you want t-to do after leaving S-Salem?" The psychologist's voice trembled more than his hands, accentuating his stutter to a degree that almost made his words incomprehensible. He could feel the urge to put the ridiculous fool in his place, which in Marius's opinion was six feet under, but killing and maiming definitely came under the header of "unacceptable behavior" in Mother's book. Pity.

"Well, P-p-perkins," his lip curled as he mocked the man's speech impediment. The psychologist was filth, and nothing more. "I was planning on-" killing my brother almost came out, and Marius grimaced at his near blunder. It wouldn't do for anyone to find out about that particular ambition. "-looking at a career in politics." The lie rolled easily off his lips. Politics was a perfectly acceptable area for a good little aristocrat to enter. Besides, it wasn't too far from the truth.

For as long as he could remember he'd struggled with the system he'd been placed in. Mother had taught Marius and Landon that commoners were filth, less important than the dust that covered the old ballroom's floor. Yet the Government insisted on keeping aristocrats in a position where they supposedly had a duty to the very people they should be ruling. It was like an elephant being scared of mice; completely irrational.

As all Cavello males had, Marius went to an elite academic high school in America, renowned for it's high-profile clientele. There, bored with the curriculum, he'd withered away the years pondering over the problem that lay between him and his rightful inheritance of the position of lord of the Cavello family. 

His brother. 

For you see, Marius was not the oldest. His twin brother, older by a mere twenty seconds, was set to inherit the title. Twenty damn seconds that had changed his life and represented an almost insurmountable barrier. The key word being almost. Marius had twisted the problem over in his head for years while at school, and he had come up with only one solution.

His brother must die.

And now they had come to the end of five years of pondering and planning. The end had come sooner than Marius excpected. The school went up to the seventh year, and Marius had expected that he, like every Cavello male before him, would stay till the end of the seventh year whereupon he would graduated with honors. But it was not to be. Strange occurences had plagued Marius's life, and if anything they had worsened while he was at the American school. In a desperate attempt to salvage the family name, Marius had been sent to a camp by Mother.

A camp for demigods.

Marius had little trouble believing he was the son of a god. It just added another part of his lineage that he could be proud of. What he resented was being sent to a camp full of filthy, uneducated heathens, better known as the working class.

Realizing he'd been silent for far too long, Marius looked up at his psychologist, who was staring at him owlishly from behind an overly large pair of spectacles.

Marius couldn't sit through another hour of this.

"I'm finished, aren't I Perkins?" All traces of mockery had vanished from his voice, replaced with subtle, threatening overtones. His voice promised all manner of unpleasant fates should the psychologist attempt to resist.

Under Marius's cold stare, Perkins flinched and nodded.

"Yes... y-yes indeed. N-no more need to... come h-here any more." The man's voice was wavering uncertainly, but that was acceptable. Mother would probably suspect he'd done something to the man, but she couldn't be certain.

Turning, Marius yanked open the door and stepped into the corridor where Mother was waiting.

"We're going."

Physical Appearance: Marius is tall, standing at 6"2. He has a rangy build, much like a scarecrow, with long arms and skinny legs. His hair is a sandy blond and he is very pale from years of studying inside.

Personality: See 'Brief History'. You WILL be able to tell from that. 

Fatal Flaw: Doesn't trust anyone but himself.

Pets: No.

Talents:
Marius is intelligent and already has some ability with the sword, after participating in his school fencing tournament. He can also ride and is a well-practised, if not well-loved, leader. He is very analytical and logical. Marius also has trouble feeling empathy with other people and is extremely ruthless in his dealings with commoners.
Weapons: He will have a celestial bronze sabre, as well as a light buckler.

Year-Round or Summer: Summer

Other: He's basically an elitist, ruthless git.

HALF-BLOODS

Name: Cassius Robert Greenland

Age/Birthday: 18, 21/03/1993

Gender: Male

God Parent: Athena

Claimed: Yes

Mortal Family: Flavio Greenland (Uncle), Alberto Greenland (Cousin), Samuel Greenland (Father, deceased)

Years in Camp: 4

Brief History: 
28/03/1993
Dear Brother,

Flavio, I have a son! The woman I told you about, the one I've been seeing for a while has born me a child. He is delightful, and the only thing that fills the hole of her departure. I understand why she went, but it's almost too much for this man's heart to handle.

We named the child Cassius after Father. He already has a head of nice dark hair, just like his Dad. I'll send you pictures with the next letter, you won't believe how alike we look, and him only a baby.

Your loving brother, Sam.

03/08/1996
Dear Dr Flavio P. Greenland

We regret to inform you of your brother's death. Samuel Greenland was found dead in the wreckage of his car on the highway. The coroner will release his body in a few days for the funeral.

There was a young child in the car with him, who we understand to be one Cassius Greenland. Miraculously the child survived with only minor scarring, and the deceased's will requested that you would be caregiver of his child should he die. If you are willing, please come pick the child up from the hospital.

Sincerest Condolences,

The Chicago Public Hospital

04/07/2005
Dear Trimellion Academy,

I wish to enrol a child, Cassius Robert Greenland, in your school, specifically the gifted class. He shows exceptional cognitive abilities for an eleven year-old, and your academy has a reputation for the finest tutoring. Obviously a small donation will be made to the school upon his acceptance.

Yours formally, 

Dr Flavio P. Greenland

06/09/2005
Dear Uncle,

The Academy is amazing! The library has these huge curving arches that support the roof, and it seems every second wall you look at has a frieze of some description. And the books! The books are undescribable. There are thousands of them, and if I didn't have to sleep I would spend the entire night there.

The people in this place are okay as well, I guess. My tutors are amazed by me, and they're giving me work meant for sixteen year-olds! They say I might be one of the most gifted pupils since Sir Arthur Trimellion himself.

There's this girl in my physics class who is always staring at me whenever I look round. Perhaps I have something on my neck? It seems strange that she would stare so. Surely I'm not the only new boy she's seen.

Your nephew,

Cassius

07/12/2007
Dear Uncle,

I asked Claudia out, and she said yes! She said she's had a crush on me since I first started at the Academy two years ago. This will only be a short letter, for I must dash. The tutors (I call them the Birdmen, they do waddle around so) are testing me with Bursary entrance papers. It is not particularly difficult, but it is a refreshing challenge compared to the work I'm used to.

I have to go. Claudia is waiting for me outside the library!

With love,

Cass

[Thie letter is smudged and stained, the writing almost illegible]
05/04/2008
Uncle,

Claudia is dead. Even writing the word hurts like a hot knife driven into my skin. The Birdmen say a hunting dog got loose and mauled her, and they say it was lucky it didn't kill me. I know better.

We were hidden in the back field when a giant dog burst onto us. The thing was huge, far larger than any dog I've ever heard of. It zeroed in on me and was charging straight for my throat. Claudia threw herself in front of it, saving my life by sacrificing hers.

I managed to get away and alert the Birdmen, but I don't think I will stay at the Academy any longer. Too many memories.

A strange man has contacted me about a camp where people like me live. I will go with him.

Yours finally,

Cassius Robert Greenland

Physical Appearance:  Cassius has long, dark, wavy hair that is always kept carefully styled. He keeps his clothes in pristine condition and is usually wearing a jacket. He is not overly tall, just brushing six feet, but he's reasonably fit. Cassius is of medium build and mainly wears long pants.

Personality: Curious. If any one word were to be picked out, that is the word that most would associate with Cassius. Everything holds a small sense of wonder to him, from a tiny ant metropolis to the ancient Greek architecture. Ever since the death of his girlfriend Claudia, Cassius has been emotionally detached, wary of seriously involving himself emotionally with another human being. So while he expresses emotions like any other person, there is always a small part of him that holds back. Slightly arrogant and very proud, Cassius has great faith in his abilities as an intellectual. He tends to view anyone with a lesser IQ as an inferior species. Can't take being beaten by someone.

Fatal Flaw: Detachment/Arrogance

Pets: No

Talents: Obviously is very smart and good at analyzing a situation then coming up with a solution. Extremely quick, which is essential when fighting with knives. Very persuasive and argumentative.

Weapons: Two long daggers and one heavy wide knife.

Year-Round or Summer: Year-round

Other: No.

I AM SO JELLY. Accepted!

HALF-BLOODS

Name: Christopher Gray

Age/Birthday: 18, 10/11/1993

Gender: Male

God Parent: Hermes

Claimed: Yes

Mortal Family:
Grandmother: Meredith Gray
Mother: Lillian Roberts (née Gray)
Stepfather: Jonathan Roberts
Half-brother: Liam Roberts
Uncle: Steven Gray
Cousin: Wilbur Gray

Years in Camp: Three

Brief History:

Six years old:

"You know what I'm gonna be when I grow up?"

Christopher's eyes were two polished pebbles gleaming in the darkness as he gazes across the fire at his cousin. Liquid flames rippled there, a weak reflection of the flickering blaze.

"I'm gonna be a hero."

He was going to be a hero like in the books, where you rescued the princess and lived happily everafter. Christopher could imagine himself in bright silver arnour, sword flashing as he killed dragons left and right.

"You can't be a hero. Everyone knows they aren't real."

That was Wilbur. Timid Wilbur. Cautious Wilbur. Wilbur who lorded his status as oldest with all the authority of a king. The firelight was shining on Wilbur's glasses, which were pushed tight against a nose scrunched in disbelief.

"You can so be a hero! My Momma told me that one day I'd be her big strong hero and rescue a princess for her!"

Momma always called him her little hero. Her budding warrior. She'd given him a stick when he was four and told him to go slay some monsters with it. He hadn't actually found any monsters, unless you count that toad he'd spotted hiding in the pond.

Christopher had seen a monster once though. Out in the garden one night he'd heard something break, and when he poked his head out he'd seen a snake lady standing in the wreckage of his Momma's favourite flower pot. In the morning the flower pot had disappeared.

Wilbur might think monsters were just stories, but Christopher knew better.

Twelve years old:

The attack was as sudden and brutal as it was eerie and upsetting.

The monsters came out of nowhere, two dogs as big as - or bigger than - hippopotami. They flowed into the alley, two walls of living fur that completely surrounded their victim. One of the beasts picked the whimpering boy up in it's mouth and then they were gone, melting into the shadows.

Through it all Christopher sat frozen behind a trash can.

Later this incident would come back to haunt him, more than any other such episodes. He could've done something but instead he'd sat back and let the monsters steal someone's life away.

The boy hadn't been well known to Christopher. He'd joined the public school he went to only a few months ago, and ever since then he'd only spotted brief glimpses of him in corridors. Today however it was clear that he'd followed him home. The boy - Tolliver, possibly? - had been stalking Christopher none too subtly as he walked home, and so Christopher had hid behind a trash can in the alley he used as a shortcut to his house. Tolliver's footsteps had sped up as he rounded the corner and saw that Christopher had disappeared, only t be confronted by the giant dogs.

The next day at school no-one had even heard of the boy called Tolliver.

Fifteen years old:

Christopher leant his forehead against the rough bark of the pine, feeling small shavings of lichen trickle down his front. He was out in the forest behind their house, his favourite spot ever since he and his cousin had played make-believe when they were little. Well, at least he'd played make-believe. Wilbur had merely disdainfully announced that all this was 'childish and inappropriate'.

His Mother had dropped a bombshell today. Several bombshells. He was going to live in a new camp. Monsters were real. And - this one was really a nuclear bombshell - his father was a Greek god, Hermes. It all made an awful kind of sense. His Mother's constant hints that he was a hero, the father he'd never met and the strange creatures that sporadically entered his life, almost always causing pain when they did.

Christopher slumped to the ground, turning on his back and gazing p through the pine fronds to the steel grey sky above. Was that where his father lived? Up there in the sky? Was he proud of Christopher?

He let out a puff of breath. Perhaps the answers would be found at this camp for - what did Mother call them? Demigods? Yes, demigods.

Christopher was a demigod now.

Physical Appearance: (Playby: Andrew Garfield)
Christopher is not overly tall, standing at 5"10. He usually has his fringe pushed up off his face and wears a variety of clothing, usually whatever is handy/comfortable. He has dark brown eyes, or liquid brown eyes as his Mother calls them, and light brown hair. He's lightly tanned and smiles often.

Personality: In a general statement, you could say Christopher is a complex puppy with a hero complex. He gets really sad when you mistreat him, but most of the time he's happy. Christopher also seems to have a lot of energy and always feels the need to help other people or solve their problems for them. Even when this help might not be wanted. He can't resist the opportunity to 'play the hero'.

Fatal Flaw: Hero complex. Feels like he needs to be the hero. ALL THE TIME.

Pets: No

Talents: As a son of Hermes, Christopher was always going to be a bit of a jack-of-all trades. He's a pretty good athlete, pretty smart and alright in the arts department. One thing Christopher does excel at is ideas however. They just seem to arrive in his head as fully formed packages. This might have something to do with Hermes being the patron of inventors, though he prefers to think of it as his own special talent. As all Hermes children classically are, Christopher has a talent for sleight of hand, stealth and in general, thievery. Unusually, he doesn't often use this talent for personal gain.

Weapons:
Christopher is definitely a classic knight in shining armor kind of guy. So obviously he wields a nice long sword and uses a buckler when he can.

Year-Round or Summer: Year-round

Other: Dibbed by Skye.

Accepted! Oh my god, he's so hot I cannot even.

*sniffles* that was too beautiful. Too bad he's a son of Hermes D8

He's so beautiful.

Accepted! Excellent character Charlie!

HALF-BLOODS

Name: Paris Desmarais

Age/Birthday: Appears 17, actually 165. 09/12/1846

Gender: Male

God Parent: Aphrodite

Claimed: Yes

Mortal Family: All long dead. When they were alive he was only close to his father Pierre Desmarais, who was an aeronaut famous for his revolutionary hot-air balloon designs. Pierre travelled to America to demonstrate his balloons to the military and President. While over there he met Aphrodite who blessed him with Paris. The baby was left in a cot beside his bed with a note saying 'From love, for love, I give you Paris, fit for the City of Love.' He never saw Aphrodite again and returned to his home country within a week of her departure. Pierre was an important man in France. Not just for his balloons, but because of the influential role he played in the 1830's 'July Revolution' against King Charles X. Pierre helped lead the revolution through Les Trois Glorieuses, the 'Three Glorious Days', deposing King Charles X and placing King Louis-Phillipe on the throne. He became one of the King's closest advisors. But while he was away in America the King fell under the influence of another advisor who counseled the King to make foolish decisions. Pierre arrived back in France just in time to witness a second revolution aiming to establish a democracy. Using what little influence he had with the revolutionaries, he managed to convince them not to kill the King but to let him abdicate and be exiled to England. Pierre himself did not leave France, for it was his home and there was Paris to think of. Instead he withdrew from politics, becoming solely a father and aeronaut. Paris, who was by this time three grew up in a world of propellers and canvas. By the time he was seven he knew hot air balloons inside and out. He was also learning, among other things, the piano, the violin, the art of fencing and, incongruously, bare-knuckle boxing. Admittedly the bare-knuckle boxing was from his friends amongst the street children, rather than the tutors Pierre hired. At thirteen he was a clever, well-practiced musician and had earnt a name for himself on the streets as a fighter, which got him into trouble more than once with people looking to try him out. His fencing instructor told him he had a rare speed with the blade, but his father had expressly forbidden him to engage in any kind of duel with naked blades so he hadn't yet had a chance to try a proper duel. Well, unless you counted fighting Frances from down the road with sticks. Paris didn't count that. When Paris turned sixteen things changed. There was rumors of war, discontent in France and monsters were beginning to stalk him. After one close encounter with a Hell Hound and an unruly mob, Pierre got down on his knees and prayed. He prayed to the woman he'd met in America all those years ago to come back to him, to help him care for his son. The next day Paris was gone. In his place lay another note, exactly like the first. 'For you Pierre I will care for this child. He is in a safe place, but you must forget about him. With love.' Pierre never saw Paris again and was killed two years later in a scuffle over the election of Napoleon. Paris had been taken to the Lotus Casino by Aphrodite, where he remained, not growing older until Aphrodite decided to release him. That time was now.

---------------

The first time Paris woke, there was a rushing sound in his ears. Light flickered over his face in a frenetic pattern of shadow.
Black.
White.
Black.
White.
After a minute or two of lying there, a thought drifted into his head. Perhaps he should look around. With some effort he forced his head onto it's side. Sheer walls of dark brown leather filled his vision, the fresh scent of varnish escaping from them in waves. He must of inadvertently made a noise, for a gloved hand reached over and stroked his cheek.

"Not now, young one."

The voice was smooth and filled with gentle humor. There was a brief whiff of perfume and the Paris was out once more.

----------------------------

The second time Paris woke he was sitting in a field by the side of the road. It contained the usual features of such fields. Grass. Flowers. Mud. A lot of mud. And right over at the very edge there was a cow. One eye rolled to look at him then the cow went back to eating, evidently deciding that he was no danger. He probably wasn't. Putting one hand on a handy fence post Paris hauled himself to his feet, his head spinning. Where was he? It certainly wasn't Paris. The city, that is. The only cow he'd seen in Paris had been marinaded and served with a light salad. The cow flicked its tail and turned its back on him, as if it could read his mind and heartily disapproved. There was a meow at his feet. He looked down. A little white kitten was rolling in the dust and somehow he'd missed seeing it until now. "Hello you." he reached down and picked up the kitten, who proceeded to gnaw on his thumb. "Fate seems to have abandoned us in this field. I think we should stick together." He popped the kitten into his shirt pocket, where she promptly curled up and fell a sleep.

Well, he wouldn't find out anything just by standing there having a mental exchange with a cow. "Au revoir cow! May your grass be plentiful!" Paris hopped over the fence and began to trudge along a strip of hard black material that was marked with strange symbols in yellow and white. Obviously it was important, so perhaps if he followed it he would reach people. After a few miles of dreary walking in which nothing much happened, Paris came to a dirt road that branched off the black material. Dirt roads were more his sort of thing. They lead to places and places usually had people. He broke into a light jog, trotting up to the top of the hill. His jaw dropped slightly. Beneath him lay a Greek camp. How had he managed to arrive at a Greek camp when the last thing he could remember was falling asleep in his father's workshop? His father. Pierre. Paris gasped. What had happened to his father? He surely wouldn't have let Paris get magicked away without at least attempting to find him.

There was a scuffle behind him and he turned. He was confronted by the sight of a warrior in ancient Greek armor that looked as good as new.

"...Bonjour?" he ventured tentatively.

***NOTE: I know almost no French so I'm typing most of his dialogue in English. All you French speakers can just translate in your heads.***

Years in Camp: None

Brief History: [It just got incorporated into family. I don't know how. Read up there. Idek what the snippet below is. I started writing it ages ago and I don't want to delete it so yeah. There it is. Unfinished.]

Antonio was worried.

The blood trickling down Paris' face wasn't a good sign, especially this early in the fight. His mate was leaning drunkenly against his corner post, an ugly thing made of rough splintered wood and a rushed blue paint-job. The entire ring was basically held together by spit and prayers, with ropes made from old fishing nets attached loosely to the slip-shod poles.

The fight had been a bad idea from the start.

Across the ring Paris' opponent grinned and kissed his fist. It was a habit that had earned the dockworker his nickname of 'The Kisser'. Fighter's nicknames were rarely very original. 

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Physical Appearance: Long windswept blond hair, blue-green eyes and a ready smile make Paris good-looking whatever time period you happen to be in. Not surprising considering his genetics. He isn't tall by modern standards, having reached a height of 5'10" at seventeen. He's hoping he hasn't stopped growing yet. Paris is well-tanned and has good musculature from hours spent outside bare-knuckles boxing. His fingers, conversely are deft and long, pianist's fingers. They have the tell-tale calluses of a boxer on the knuckles but retain the inherent delicacy of a musician. (Playby: Anthon Wellsjo)

Personality: Boisterous, rowdy, life-loving, hot-headed, all have been used to describe Paris. He loves excitement and is definitely ADHD, even if he's never been diagnosed with it. The only reason he practiced enough to become a musician was because his father locked him in the warehouse and wouldn't let him out until he had. If there's a fight, you'll probably find Paris in the center of. That's not to say Paris is uncivilized or brutish. He can use courtly manners with the best of them, thanks to his father's determination to raise him as more than just another uneducated commoner.

Fatal Flaw: Hot-headed and impulsive. Overly loyal to his friends.

Pets: Yes. An as yet unnamed white kitten.

Talents:
Pianist.
Bare-knuckles boxer.
Violinist.
French speaker.
Fencer.
Aeronautical knowledge.
Charming.

Weapons: Rapier. Fists.

Year-Round or Summer: Year-round

Other: He knows a fair few words of English but is by no means fluent and is unfamiliar with today's technology. I know he's a ramble of a character. But at least he's reasonably historically accurate.

<3

Why'd you beat me into accepting this character? Hmph.