A/N: If you're reading this, they've come for me… It's too late, you need to WAKE UP!

Blah blah blah blah~this is blatant space-filling, I'm not even trying right now~blah blah blah~stupid chapter selector~blah blah blah blah.

—Boots

ε

GROVER
Lvl. 13 Farmer

They'd been on the water for nearly a full day—after a brief stop to dump their 'passengers'—and Grover was finally starting to warm up to sailing.

The first few hours were hell, of course. The skyline resembled a pig's tail. The brackish atmosphere cracked and peeled at his skin. And worst of all, everything he consumed warred against his stomach. He spent over half his time hunched over Kleo's railing, gracefully expelling their limited rations into the waves and narrowing missing the back of a curious sea turtle. Percy went into his bag and made him a cup of medicinal tea. Fortunately, he was so weak he crashed into a boneless heap after his second sip.

The full night of sleep did him wonders. His body adjusted to the perpetual rocking while his mind was off enjoying Morpheus' hospitality. Percy identified the sensation as Grover 'finally getting his sea legs.' The Farmer wasn't sure if he was being serious; in the past—when Percy could occasionally browbeat Grover onto the water—his abdomen and head were always suffering too much trauma for his legs to register at all. If anything, his legs were the only part of him that didn't violently protest the Sea.

Now that his meals remained in his stomach where they were meant to, Grover could appreciate the abstract beauty of the gulf.

A bejewelled desert. That's what his uncle Ferdinand called it—he was a travelling Bard, and a good one too. And he was right. The maiden rays of the morning bent and sparkled across the churning surface of the water as if the gods themselves embedded diamonds into the ripples.

While they weren't completely alone, the few ships they did see were skirting around the coast. Perhaps it was better to be overly cautious when there were whispers of a terror beneath the surface, but sailing through the shallows would cost them time Sally couldn't afford.

And so they trekked on. Percy stayed at the helm, masterfully adjusting the multitude of ropes to keep their ship ahead of the autumn wind. Annabeth nimbly climbed up the mast and was sweeping the horizon for threats from her perch. Grover did his best to keep the animals calm, occasionally getting help from Ella while they talked about her life before she was captured by Lydia and her men.

Ella was the mass of red feathers Grover had mistaken for a bird in his semi-delirious state. He was only half-right; she was a harpy. Annabeth took his warnings to heart and covered her face with a cloth, so when she snuck below decks to steal the kopis she got a much better look at her and was shocked when she saw her nameplate: Ella, Librarian.

"So, Ella. We're on our way west. Is there anywhere we could drop you off?" Her choppy scarlet hair bounced when she perked her head and leaned back to face the open sky.

"No home for harpies. Nomads. Live where the gods send us."

While her speech wasn't perfect, she was obviously well-read. Percy remarked that she was as smart as Annabeth. Grover secretly thought Ella could polish the floor with her in a battle of wits, not that he'd ever say so out loud. Annabeth was scary. About an hour in, she stabbed a stowaway rat in the eye while they were discussing her Skills; she didn't even look at its writhing soon-to-be corpse, she just flicked it overboard and kept talking.

"'No home'?" Ella and Grover turned simultaneously towards Percy, who'd walked over to sit with them. "Don't you have a family?"

Ella bobbed her head in a manner befitting of a hen. "All harpies are Ella's sisters." Abruptly, she focused on Percy's nameplate and blinked owlishly. "'The Raider has betrayed his own Sons, and my mistress, for a royal bed, for alliance with the King of Korinth. He has married Glauce, Kreon's daughter.' Poor Ella! Scorned and shamed and scorned and shamed and… scorned and shamed… scorned…" She petered off, her nose swaying back and forth as she muttered soliloquies to herself ("Beware the North… Beware…").

"Um…" Percy awkwardly stood back up. "Yeah, sure. I'll just…" he backed away slowly and returned to the helm.

Ella tilted her head with palpable confusion and turned towards Grover.

"Don't take it personally," he patted her on the knee. "He's just tired, and he has a lot on his mind. His mother was abducted recently."

"Hymn to Demeter," she piped in. "'Her trim-ankled daughter whom Hades rapt away, given to him by all-seeing Zeus the loud thunderer.'"

"Yeah," he confirmed. "He's not been himself since."

"'Bitter pain seized her heart," waxed Ella sagely. "And she rent the covering upon her divine hair with her dear hands: her dark cloak she cast down from both her shoulders and sped, like a wild-bird, over the firm land and yielding sea, seeking her daughter.'"

"Exactly. Until he knows she's okay, Percy's not going to think about anything else."

They spoke a little longer but pretty soon the rocking of the boat lulled Ella to sleep. Her nose crinkled as she tucked into Grover's side; she must've tugged on the sutures in her wings. He methodically unwrapped her bandages and bit back a wince at the state of her wounds. Two, angry slits—now freshly bleeding—marred her soft red feathers, caking them a harsh, bathwater puce.

The smugglers had clipped her wings at first but soon became annoyed at her incessant flapping. Their solution? To stab slits into her flesh and weigh them down with manacles and chains. When Grover first saw her tortuous body piercings he nearly had a second reason for throwing up. He was not a violent person, but he was starting to wonder if Annabeth had the right idea when she proposed killing the two thugs they'd captured in Korinth. Such cruelty shouldn't be allowed to exist.

With deft, practised hands Grover crushed up several herbs and added a little oil to turn them into a cohesive paste. He slathered it on the tearing skin to ease her pain and redressed the wounds, playing a short melody on his flute afterwards to honour and beseech Apollo.

A soft slap alerted Grover to Annabeth dropping from her perch behind him.

"Where'd you learn to do that?"

Grover turned his head towards her and tried to shrug nonchalantly. Internally, he worried he came off as dismissive and rushed to correct it. "At home," he winced further at his unintentional passive-aggression. "I mean, my father taught me. He's a Herbalist, so our house sort of doubled as a small clinic."

"But you're a Farmer." Annabeth didn't phrase it like a question, but Grover knew what she was asking.

"So's he."

"Really? He's not a Healer?"

"If he was, we wouldn't live in Montauk. It's too small a town to warrant a full-time Healer." Grover picked Ella up and set her down on her improvised 'nest'—really just a pile of straw under a crumpled sheet. "But that's beside the point. My family tends not to put too much stock into classes and the like."

"But everyone has the Skills. Don't they fall behind if they don't use them?" She was fully facing him now, but Grover subtly avoided meeting her grey eyes. It felt like they were constantly studying him for the best spot to slip a knife into undetected.

"Not really. There aren't enough people competing to make the difference significant. With Skills, supply can be too quick for demand."

"So you're a Farmer who heals."

"Anyone can apply medicine. Doesn't make them a Healer. You could probably get tips from Percy on how to sail this very boat. That isn't going to change your class."

"But why would you ever take the time to learn when no amount of study or practice could catch you up to those who have the classes fit for the job?"

"My mother taught me to spin the wool shorn from Asterix and Obelix. Sure, as a Spinster, she could do it much faster and better than I ever could, but that's true even without her Skills specifically for it. And that doesn't mean I shouldn't learn to be self-sufficient. Percy's been training with a sword for years."

"He's a Raider."

"Recent change. He was apprenticed—as a Sailor—to a Fisherman. And yet, every afternoon he was learning to fight."

"To be a Raider?"

"Nope. Just to learn." It was steadily dawning on Grover that he'd been talking—unimpeded—to an attractive girl for the past two minutes. He could already feel his throat start to clam up.

"But…" Annabeth trailed off, completely at a loss for words.

He lay on his back and imagined he was speaking to the clouds. "You're a Saboteur. What do they do?"

"Break things. Efficiently."

Grover stalled at her curt answer. His chiton felt oddly restrictive against his chest. He coughed into his closed fist and continued. "Specific. Most classes are. But specialisation and well-roundedness aren't mutually exclusive. Like those needles of yours. Do you actually use them?"

Thunk! Grover jumped away from the cloudy, stone-grey stiletto pike embedded into the deck, quivering a hair's breadth from where his palm was resting moments ago.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Annabeth asked shrewdly, her slightly dishevelled peplos the only hint that she moved a finger.

He didn't even see her draw!

"N-nothing! Just asking if you sew! Of course, you use them, what was I thinking…" he was hyperventilating now. "Ignore me…"

Annabeth was smirking at him, thoroughly amused. "Yes. I know the basics of sewing: mending clothes and stuff."

"And you aren't a Seamstress."

"Well, no." Annabeth went silent.

Grover knocked the deck with his staff pointedly, and they both lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "Welp, I'm going to go check on the animals," he announced, still refusing to make eye contact.

"I'll watch Ella," Annabeth volunteered.

"Right." Grover stretched his arms and lumbered to the trapdoor that led below decks.

Hey, he had most of a conversation with Annabeth and survived; maybe things were finally looking up—

THWOOOOM!

The collective might of the Sea body-slammed him into the floor.

Acrid water sloshed in his lungs. Grover rolled on his side, frantically trying to cough it out. He was sliding. Vertigo swelled in his chest as Kleo's mast carved a wide arc above him. It was as if the waves were actively capsizing her. An invisible storm.

Someone was screaming. Was it Annabeth? Grover didn't know she could. Or maybe it was him…

The ship groaned in protest as—miraculously—it began to fall back even with the tide. Thick, braided ropes coiled and slithered through the air, lashing everything on deck to each other. Grover's head shot up towards Percy.

He was still standing. His Passive, no doubt. His eyes flashed sporadically as he pushed his Skills to their limits; his pulsing green glare blinking in time with a hellish, silent tune.

CRASH! White walls of ocean-froth burst from her hull when she landed.

Grover scrambled to his feet and threw the hatch open, skipping the ladder entirely and letting himself drop.

His sandals splashed against the treated planks; Grover bit back a curse.

It was flooding.

Geysers of water were bursting from cracks and gaps in the portside hull. The boards had split: the pressurised water only widening the seams further. They could be patched easily enough, but the pink snake flailing about inside the ship would only undo all his work if he tried.

…

Wait, what?

The serpent lashed towards him and coiled around his right ankle.

"Metrokoi—" his head jerked to the side as he was whipped foot-first across the cabin.

Grover bleated in pain as it squeezed, a distinctive 'pop' reverberating up his leg. It felt like thirty rusty nails had been driven deep into his bone.

Fortunately, his agony was significantly muted when his skull cracked against the enchanted bars. Sharp ringing echoed in his head and into his jaw. The impact buzzed in his teeth as the metallic taste of rust coated his tongue. Grover hawked and spat a scarlet glob onto the floor.

Seawater in his ears robbed him of his bearings and distorted the cacophony of chaos surrounding him. Grover pushed himself up and got his first good look at the invading creature.

He was wrong. It wasn't a snake. Or at least, it was unlike any snake Grover had ever seen before. Its body was pink and waxy, and the head was covered in hundreds of tiny holes. It had no eyes, nor a mouth of any kind; save for the dimpling, it was smooth all the way around.

Keeping one wary eye on the distending tendril, Grover glanced into the cage to check on the animals.

The lion—too weak to drag itself to higher ground—had rolled onto its back to keep its snout above the surface. The not-deer was struggling to stand, one of its forelegs sporting a gory second elbow. Grover made out a white knob jutting from its skin and turned his attention away before he could vomit. Obelix was braying manically, precariously balanced atop a bale of soaked hay but otherwise alright.

Goliath wasn't so lucky.

"No!" Grover bound to his feet but collapsed before he could take a second step, his ankle screaming at him for the pitiful attempt.

He couldn't tear his gaze away from the mass of wet fur curled in a corner, a crimson cloud swirling around it and darkening the surrounding water into a murky brown. Phantom flashes of tortured emptiness crawled up his throat and grappled his tongue. Obelix cried her encouragement. Or perhaps her concern for the pup. He couldn't tell.

His eyes widened, alarmed. He could always tell.

The tentacle swiped above his head, narrowly ruffling the short curls of his hair. He yelped and pressed his forehead to the floor. The terror—intentionally or not—was guarding the gate. The prehensile limb thrashed wildly, bouncing off the walls and smashing chests and baskets into kindling.
Grover winced as the bars shivered under its assault. For the first time, he thanked the gods for the prison's magical strength.

His knuckles bumped into something heavy. He glanced down.

Lydia's sword twinkled in tandem with his heartbeat. With nary a second thought, he wrapped his fingers around the guarded handle. As he lifted it before him the metal pulsed happily—overjoyed at being wielded again.

Slowly, he pushed himself back up to his feet. His knees shook under the strain of his weight. He spotted his trusty staff on the far side of the boat, illuminated by the light shining through the open trapdoor.

In simpler terms: right next to the monster.

A quick attempt at Pacify yielded no results, not that he expected it to. Even if it was a snake, it was unlike any Grover had ever heard of. At least a passing knowledge of what would calm a creature down was needed to make it work properly.

Not for the first time, he bemoaned his lacklustre abilities. His remaining two didn't even pretend to have a use beyond the surface-level faring they were intended for. Harvest would only multiply whatever he could manually sever from the beast. Locate Stragglers was even worse. Unlike every other instance of a livestock Farmer using the Skill, his Passive twisted it so it only applied to his herd.

Grover grit his teeth and braced the blade across his torso, like he'd seen Percy do. It was a shallow imitation, but it was better than nothing.

Hopefully.

The sword felt more like a bludgeon than a weapon of precision. It was forward-heavy and awkward to grip, forged for someone much stronger than him. Certainly not for a stagnant Farmer. He was several moons older than Percy, plus he settled far younger than the Sailor did. It was more than a little embarrassing he hadn't classed yet.

Luke's voice echoed in his head.

"Any mule can swing a sword like a club… once. It's the next swing that takes practice."

The polished point swayed awkwardly, the leather slipping in his slick palms. Grover was sure he looked a sight. His stance felt flighty. His everything was shivering. His skin and chiton were drenched in sweat. He was certain if the tentacle would have laughed at him if it had a mouth. Not for the first time, he cursed his past-self's refusal to learn the sword with Percy. As if his years of frolicking would ever help him.

The fleshy serpent tensed and lunged at him.

A very masculine 'yelp' escaped his lips as he twisted his body out of the way and stumbled forward.

"Always assume your opponent is better and stronger than you. Get in close. Get personal. It might be your only shot to do some damage."

Grover pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and stepped closer. Unfortunately, Luke's advice was best applied against another swordsman or at least something with arms to speak of.

An impossibly quick, deceptively-strong serpentine monster?

The 'head' immediately flipped under itself and caught him on its backswing. Grover choked on his tongue and nearly lost his grip. The tendril wrapped around his torso twice and started to squeeze.

Bright colours swelled in the edges of his vision. His chest was burning from the inside out. Everything was turning blurry and vague. He felt his feet leave the floor as the monster flipped him upside down…

It was going to kill him. And then it'd be free to chip away at the cage's magic and get to the prisoners. Get to Goliath.

NO!

With the final dregs of strength in his chest, he wrenched his elbow up and desperately flung the kopis down. He had no form. No technique.

… But even he could swing a sword like a club.

He landed on his stomach and took a shaky gulp of air. His stomach curled at the meaty thwack of the severed end hitting the wood beside his head.

Without its porous feeler to guide it, the tendril's movement was even more erratic. The stump flapped back and forth spraying dark-blue liquid everywhere. It rained down on his back and every open surface, staining the surrounding timber.

Grover dissolved into a fit of wet coughs that ended with him spitting out a glob of mucus and blood. He collapsed and laid there for a moment to catch his breath. All of the Farmer's physical Aspects were lower than Percy's, so while his friend might bounce back after a minute of rest and some water, Grover needed at least that to recover enough energy to even stand.

Finally, when his breathing evened out and his racing heart calmed down significantly, he looked up.

In the turbulence, his staff had rolled to the far side of the ship. Remaining on all fours—he was unwilling to test the durability of his knees—he pulled himself towards it and scanned it for any cracks. Miraculously, it was fine. He muttered a grateful prayer to Demeter before planting it in the floorboards and lugging himself to his feet to assess the damage.

There were still four concerning holes spewing saltwater inside the ship, and the flood had risen to his ankles. He was no Carpenter, but every child on Montauk was taught the basics of hull repair. He dragged his feet towards their cache of spare wood and selected the driest pieces he could find…

"Grover! We need the sword! Now!" yelled Annabeth from above.

There was a brief pause.

"Are you still alive?"

Good to know she cared. He made to run to the ladder when his legs sharply reminded him why that was a bad idea. He let out a strangled whine as proof of his well-being.

"Percy's trapped it, but it won't hold!"

Another monster? How much bigger must it have been to require both Annabeth and Percy to fend it off?

With tired strides—leaning heavily on his staff—he trudged to the open hatch clutching the still-gleaming weapon in his pale fist.

"No, no… take your time, gràson!" she spat as if he wasn't exhausted and covered in the blood of the monster he'd just vanquished single-handedly.

In open defiance of his sore arms, he grasped the sword's blade to push the handle into Annabeth's impatient hands. The second the wood brushed her fingers, she snatched it away and vanished from view.

Grover huffed and hauled himself up the ladder steps to see what all the fuss was about.

A swaying, chitinous wall dwarfed Kleo's mainmast and blocked out the early-morning sun; the entire deck was blanketed in its long shadow. Through the shade, Grover could just make out twin pillars flexing in waves up the terror's belly. The hypnotic motion drew his eyes to its grotesque head and, consequently, its nameplate:

Skolopendra, Leviathan.

Its face reminded Grover of a catfish—if that catfish was large enough to feed the entire Spartan army for a year and sprouting thousands of tentacles from its nose. The tendrils were twisted and tangled together, warring against a writhing web of agile rope tying them down en masse. At that height, they looked more like spider-silk than heavy, sea-worthy sailing line.

Dozens of coils were wrapped around Skolopendra's mouth, cinching it closed. Its mammoth head yanked and tugged at the twine muzzle, gradually snapping the cords faster than Percy could replace them. Ever so slowly, its maw opened.

A paint-peeling bellow tore through the salty air. Grover was nearly floored, his bones rattling in their sockets. The tides responded with a roar of their own, throwing sea-spray up over the hull and drenching his chiton. He faintly heard Percy screaming frantically through the foam, "Now or never, Annabeth!"

A thin figure peeled away from the rigging—Grover didn't even see her—and jumped to catch a line zipping by. Right before she reached the apex of her swing she let go. The sword was in her hands. She raised it above her head. The sunlight bounced off the polished bronze and her blonde curls trailed out behind her as she streaked through the open sky.

Grover dizzily thought she looked like a shooting star…

The world winked out.

It was late afternoon when Goliath woke Grover up the best way he knew how: licking his face until he physically pushed him away. As he wiped the slobber and sleep from his eyes the excitable puppy yapped cheerily in his ear, firmly dislodging any remaining drowsiness.

It was a perfect day. The ship was rocking gently in place. The sky was a bright and brilliant blue. A pleasant warmth swaddled him like a blanket without feeling muggy or suffocating. And yet, he pondered as he ran his fingers through Goliath's fur, he was far from comfortable.

His entire body was tingling. A muted burning—as if sheer heat had overwhelmed his senses. It wasn't painful, it was just… wrong. Like the Thunderer had charged his bones with holy lightning and cursed him to be hyper-aware of his own skin.

As if his limbs were asleep, but indisputably, palpably alive.

After a brief stretch to get his blood flowing again, he surveyed the surrounding scene.

Percy was in a similar position, sitting with his back pressed against the mainmast. He was passing the time by tossing olives into the air to try and catch them in his mouth. The spattering of oil stains on his chiton was a telling indicator of his success, but at least he didn't seem to be wasting any.

Annabeth was stalking around a tall bale of hay, occasionally hacking the straw apart with a tarnished bronze knife. She was almost dancing; her fluid, repetitive motions indicative of years of practice and honing deadly technique. Her circling also meant that she was the first to see that Grover was awake.

"You're up," she remarked as she walked over to him, patting her forehead with a rag before using it to wipe down her dagger. "How do you feel?" Goliath whined and retreated into Grover's side.

"I'm okay," he responded quietly. "I thought I'd hurt my ankle earlier, but I guess I was wrong. I'm fine now."

Annabeth stared at him with a flat expression. "I'm not asking if you were hurt; I'm asking how you feel. I know you were hurt."

Grover blinked and gingerly began to press his fingers into his calf. Maybe it was hurting so bad he just couldn't tell anymore, in which case he needed to wrap it before he made it worse.

Annabeth started counting on her fingers.

"You were caked in Skolopendra's blood. Your ankle was swelling like a frog's throat and your chest was covered in bruises; you likely cracked several ribs. You fought it."

Grover's affirming nod went unacknowledged as she barrelled on.

"A small part of it, sure—one of its larger tentacles based on the hole we had to patch in the hull—but you still fought. You survived. Skolopendra didn't. And then you got a third of the Exp and levelled up enough to completely heal yourself. So… how do you feel?"

There was a long, thorny silence while Grover failed to find the words. She was right. He'd jumped three levels! He hadn't gained more than one a year since he was five.

"I… I don't know," he eventually stammered. Goliath slipped his head under his palm. He smiled softly and started to scratch behind his ears. A sudden splash pattered against the hollow hull.

Annabeth huffed and stomped over to the starboard side. "Get out of here! Shoo! I don't have any more rats!" Another splash. "Is this thing yours?"

"Is what thing mine?" he asked, lifting Goliath away from his lip and standing to peer over the side of the boat.

Splish! Seawater rose in a column and struck him in the chin. He sputtered and cleared his eyes to see a crooning turtle grinning up at him from the surface.

"It's been following us for ages. Is it another one of your familiars?"

A dull pang throbbed in his stomach. Goliath whined at his feet. "No."

"Then why is it following us?"

Grover swallowed. "I have an empty slot," he explained, turning his back on the turtle. "When I first settled, every adolescent animal in Montauk started following me everywhere. I couldn't leave home without being swarmed by dozens of them. My mother asked a few of the Ranchers she worked with if they knew what was happening, and one of them suggested they might go away if I started taking care of a couple of my own. He even offered a few runts."

"Sounds like he was just offloading unwanted cargo on you."

"Probably. But it worked." Grover sat back down and leaned against the posts. "I got Asterix," he muttered, his voice cracking slightly. "And Obelix. And then they all left. A few years later I'd gained enough levels that it happened again. That's when I got Goliath."

Goliath barked his agreement.

"And you've levelled enough that you got another slot?" Annabeth sat cross-legged beside him.

Grover stared off into the horizon. "No."

…

"Oh. If I haven't said it yet, I'm sorry for your loss."

Grover scoffed. 'His loss'? He didn't lose anyone. Asterix didn't wander off while he was being negligent. He was murdered.

"Would bonding with another animal help?"

He blinked twice and raised his head, unsure if he heard her properly.

"You physically felt it when Asterix was killed. I saw what it did to you. If your state of being is that closely related to the animals, you might not recover until you fill that gap."

Grover's shoulders tensed. "I'm not going to replace him." He didn't mean to sound so scathing, but he made no effort to correct it either. A low growl rumbled from Goliath's throat as he bared his teeth at Annabeth.

"I'm not asking you to. Your friend is gone. That's the worst feeling in the world. On any other day, you wouldn't be remiss to stay in bed and mourn for a week, but we don't have that kind of time. We need you at your best. Percy's mother needs you at your best."

"Why do you care?" Grover asked bitterly. "You've never met her."

"I have not," she agreed. "But I care about this quest; it's my best shot at reaching the Underworld. And for the good of this quest I need to convince you to bond with that turtle. That doesn't invalidate what I'm saying."

Grover was gobsmacked at her unabashed honesty. He had dozens of responses on the tip of his tongue, but what came out was: "Just a second ago you were shooing it away!"

"I didn't have all the facts then," she shrugged. "When I get new information, I adapt. We need the spoils."

Grover didn't have a clue what she was talking about.

"Ma Dia, what do they teach you out in the sticks? Spoils. Loot. Monsters drop it when they die. The meaner the monster, the better the rewards. Our rewards for killing a legendary Leviathan are at the bottom of the gulf, and if we're going to have any chance of escaping Hades with another person—something no recorded hero has ever done—we have to take every advantage we can get."

Goliath started nibbling on the tips of his fingers.

Grover stood up and let out a long, tired sigh, his hands resting on the guardrail.

"Well?" Annabeth pushed.

He gripped down tightly and vaulted over the railing.

Percy's panicked cries rang out as he plunged into the cool water, bobbing next to the turtle. Save for a few flaps to stabilise itself, it seemed entirely transfixed by him.

While Grover probably wouldn't drown if tossed into a river, no one would ever call him a particularly graceful swimmer. His legs spazzed wildly under him to keep him somewhat steady as he twisted to face the creature head-on. His chiton billowed around his thin torso as he outstretched his open palm.

He closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose, holding at the top of his breath.

For a fleeting moment, neither moved—save for the occasional kick from Grover to keep him afloat. The murmur of the Sea swelled in his ears and crescendoed into an epic chorus as he waited. Percy. Annabeth. The groaning Kleo. A flock of gulls passing overhead. Everything was flushed away to preserve their tiny wrinkle in time.

Just as soon as it started, it was gone. The subtle sounds of the waves dulled into the background and the gulls sang their discordant melody. Percy was throwing him the rope ladder and Kleo creaked as she rocked.

And Pyla's ridged, leathery beak was pressed firmly into Grover's hand.

"Hello, I'm Grover," he introduced. "It's nice to meet you."

She chirped a joyous greeting of her own and nuzzled his shoulder.

Grover

Lvl. 16 Farmer

Aspects

Mnd: 43

Bdy: 50

Brh: 44

Sol: 59

Rkn: 29

Passive: Head of the Herd

Grants Grover his Herd, an extension of himself.

Skills

Harvest: A dutiful farmer is blessed with a bountiful harvest.

Pacify: A skilful Farmer's soothing voice has a calming effect on even the most troubled of creatures.

Locate Stragglers: Wanderlust is common in all manners of domesticated beasts. A proper caretaker becomes quite adept at tracking them down.

Glossary

Gràson — A derogatory expression; Literally meaning 'he who smells like a goat'.

Kopis — A short, single-edged, forward-heavy sword used for powerful blows on the battlefield; Famous for severing limbs.

Ma Dia — A generic exclamation; Literally translating to 'By God (Zeus)'.

Metrokoites — One who has relations with their mother.

Skolopendra — The Largest of the Sea-Monsters; Child of Keto and Phorkys.

A/N: This week's chapter was down to the bloody wire! BUT IT IS POSTED! I HAVE DEFEATED YOU SCHEDULE! This was not an easy chapter to write, specifically because fights are not my forte, but I think I did a decent enough job. I hope. I think. Maybe. Also very important character interaction.

—Pincoat