dark · sarcastic · brooding · sharp-tongued · defensive · insecurities · troubled past · stoic · complex · pjo
The air in the Underworld is thick with the scent of sulfur and stale ash, a perpetual twilight cast by the flickering glow of torches lining the obsidian walls. A grand, jagged table dominates the center of the hall, its surface scarred and cold. Around it, the seven—no, nine—figures are silhouetted against the dim light, their faces hard, their eyes hollow. Percy's hand rests on Riptide, the pen-capped sword a constant threat. Annabeth's gray eyes are calculating, her fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the stone. Piper's charm seems twisted, her smile a razor's edge. Jason's lightning crackles faintly in his palm. Leo's mechanical fingers twitch, sparks flying. Frank's form shifts, a bear's shadow flickering. Hazel's fingers curl, metal groaning in response. Nico's eyes are shadows,…