AN: You probably hate me for taking so long with this, I'd hate me too. But I did publish it and it's well over 4000 words, so...Anyway, this is the rest of the character backgrounds, next chapter will really delve into camp life for some of these characters. Hope you enjoy and I hope I got everyone's character right. Please review.

Chapter 2

Ken Nakhashi P.O.V

Being a half blood is so not fun. Okay, Camp-Half Blood, hanging out with other demigods, that is pretty fun. But it always comes with a tragic past. From all I've been through I could write a book about my life, but I'll sum it up rather quickly for you.

I was born in Tokyo and I was raised by my mom, she was always convinced I'd get into trouble somehow, so she made me learn martial arts at a young age. I could fight by the time I could walk. She also made sure I learned English, so I spoke Japanese at school, but always practiced English with my mom at home. I was fluent very quickly.

When I asked her why I was learning it, she only replied:

"You'll need it when you meet your dad someday."

"Why? He's never here."

"Kenzou, your father may not be here, but he loves you, I promise," I remembered that warm smile she gave me.

She didn't tell me all that much about my dad, just that he was an American, traveling, writing poetry, exploring the world.

When I was nine, my mom married an American guy, an accountant called Paul Adams. Paul was a nice guy and he moved in with us, they had my little sister Megan shortly after. We visited Paul's parents in Florida about once or twice a year. I remembered that those years with Mom, Paul, Megan and I, was the happiest my mom had ever been.

One day, I came home from dojo training,I was twelve, I entered the house and saw the thing that would change my life forever. My mom and Paul were dead, slaughtered on the floor. My mouth went dry and I felt the need to purge myself of this experience (that is to say barf) as I saw their blood seeping into the carpet. I think Megan was at pre-school, I ran out to see what sort of vicious animal had done this to my family.

It wasn't human. It was way too big to be human, but it was blurry. It was growled, and before I could understand what I saw, it vanished. I called the ambulance and the police and vowed to kill whatever killed my mother and Paul.

We were told to move to Florida after the funeral. Mom was an only child, her parents had died when I was little, so we went to go live with Paul's parents, Gail and Marcus Adams. A week and a half after the funeral we packed up and headed to Miami. But a few days after we arrived, Gail and Marcus informed me that only Megan would be staying with them, I was being shipped off to Long Island.

At first I thought it was cause they didn't want me, but apparently, it was my mom's wishes. I guess I understand now. I was claimed as a son of Apollo, God of the Sun. I trained at Camp Half Blood for a six months before I went back to Florida. I still live with Gail, Marcus and Megan during the school year. Megan's five now, almost six.

Not a day goes by when I don't think about that...that thing that killed my mom and Paul. not a day goes by when I don't think about hunting it down, whatever it is and slaughtering it. Disfiguring it so that there is so much blood as there was on my carpet the day I came home to see my mother and stepfather dead.

Of course, nobody knows this. They don't know that I think about this. That I have darkness that I am anxious to put at rest. For now, I want to live normally in Camp Half Blood, with my friends and go back to Florida with Paul's parents and Megan during the year.

But for now is only for now. I have no idea what else I'll want in the future.

Izzie Wate P.O.V

Life on the road sucks! No friends, living in hotel rooms, getting bored out of your mind constantly! Although, now, I would take it over being hunted down by vicious monsters any day of the week. I know how this sounds, maybe I should explain.

My dad is James Wate, yes James Wate the world-famous environmentalist, researcher, journalist, speaker for Green Peace, yes that James Wate. I never met my mom, so Dad took me everywhere with him. And by everywhere I do mean everywhere. Basically, for the first ten years of my life, I lived in hotel rooms or the occasional condo if we were around long enough. My dad was always working, travelling all over the world, I just stayed in the room.

I bet you think think that being a kid alone in hotel room where you can watch TV, jump up and down on the bed is fun. It was, for about two hours at most. After that you start to miss human contact. I love my dad, I'm certain he felt the same way, but he was always working, he was always so busy.

To pass the time, I studied languages and watched homeschooling videos. By the time I was nine I could speak English, Spanish, French, Greek, Latin, Chinese, Japanese, and German. I get that saving the environment is important, but damn, it takes up so much time. When people talk about saving the Earth and such now, I can't help but roll my eyes.

The problem is I'm not the touchy-feely sort of person. I never told my dad how I felt, well not in a language he understood at least. Often at the breakfast table, probably the only chance I'd see him for the day (if I got up early enough) I'd say something in French like:

"Ne pas aller au travail, vous ne faites jamais rien avec moi, rester à la maison." (Don't go to work, you never do anything with me, stay home). Or in German, or Chinese, any language he didn't understand really.

But he didn't. He didn't know what I was saying. He only smiled, kissed me on the cheek and headed to work. I would be left alone at the table, wishing he'd stay home for once. Or we'd go have lunch or do something together. For that time, he didn't feel so much as my father, than he did a guy who pays for my food, clothing and shelter who I see once or twice a day.

I was always sad growing up. The only thing that could even mildly cheer me up was planting. I didn't know why, but I always loved planing ever since I was a little kid. Even when we didn't have an actual house, I always watered potted plants or bought one of my own from a store.

I think you can already tell from this that I didn't have a normal childhood. I didn't go to a regular school, I never learned to swim or play sports. I never got to pester my dad to teach me how to drive. I think it's because of my childhood, I can't stand to see people sad, because I've been there for far too long and it's not much fun.

But here comes the twist in my story.

When I was ten we were in Belgium, there was a "How to be more green in the corporate world" sort of conference going on, my dad was a representative (figures). It was late, but I decided to wait up for my dad at the hotel. I heard barking.

It was a now animal hotel, so that was weird, and we were too high up to be coming from outside (our room was on the 17th floor). The barking got louder and then these monstrous dogs burst into my room and started attacking me. They were vicious and I tried to fight them off when my dad burst into the room.

"Izzie!"

I don't know if it was a gun or knife or something that he pulled out, but he knocked down two of the dogs, scooped me up and we got the hell out of the room. Dad hailed a cab and we were straight to the airport. I was still dressed in my pajamas and on the was a couple of stores at the airport, he bought me a pair of shoes, a duffel bag and a few more changes of clothes. I was still confused.

"Dad?"

"I can't keep you safe anymore, Izzie. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He bought a single ticket to New York.

"Wait, you're not coming?"

"It's safer this way, Izzie. For you, for me, for everyone. He handed me the ticket and some cash and saw me off at the boarding gate. I gave him one last hug, with my suitcase clutched in my hands.

"I love you, Izzie. Don't ever forget."

I never have forgotten that. I stay at camp most of the year because I can't bear to be on the road like that again. Camp Half Blood at the very least provides me some form of stability, with my dad on the road I don't even have that. I love my dad and I know he loves me, but after my mom left, I don't think he was ever the same again, I think that family took the backseat and his career rode shotgun.

Chris Hughes P.O.V

"Christopher Joseph Hughes!"

Sometimes I can still hear my dad's voice. My dad was a pretty laid back guy, calm and relaxed, easy going, a lot of people say that I'm like him in my personality. It's hard not to think about him sometimes.

I can remember the times he'd call my name when I wound him up too much, when he called me by my full name, I never really liked it when he did that, but it was rare he did. The one time though, was when his brother came to visit.

My uncle, Tim Hughes was a bit of a degenerate, gambling freeloader, he came to live with us for a while when I was nine, after his girlfriend kicked him out for cheating or something, I don't even remember what it was about. Dad was always worried about Uncle Tim being irresponsible, but he needed someone to take care of me after school and Uncle Tim wasn't completely hopeless.

I came home from school one day and Uncle Tim was sitting at the table with about four other guys. Two of them were smoking, they all had beers within their reach. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. My uncle gave me a big smile and patted at empty chair next to him.

"C'mon Chris. Sit next to your uncle Tim."

They were playing poker. I don't remember how the guys looked like but I remembered their names. Mac, Jay, Trucker and Bull (I'm pretty sure those weren't their real names, except for maybe Jay.)

They drank and smoked and played for hours. Uncle Tim showing me how to bet, how to win and how to bluff (he didn't seem too good at the last two), I didn't really know what was going on, except that my uncle kept forking over chips to the other guys.

A little while in, Trucker signaled for me to come over. He had the most chips in his corner.

"Your uncle's a joke at the table, kid," he said, shuffling the deck of cards in his hands. "You won't learn jack shit from him. Learn from me. That's how you'll win."

That was the afternoon I learned how to gamble.

Uncle Tim made me promise not to tell my dad about that little session. At about five or six, the guys cleared out and about half an hour later, my dad came home, oblivious to what had been going on that day. Of course, Uncle Tim had made me promise, and being a hopeful, sort of nerdy kid, I felt obligated to keep the secret of the rather cool encounter I'd had that day.

A week later, the guys came over again, this time, I sat next to Bull. In general, being good at math, I could easily calculate how many chips they were gaining and losing and as the sessions went on, I began to notice their tells in more detail.

Trucker would pull his ear, Bull would blink three times in a quick succession (his tell was the hardest), Mac would scratch his pits, Jay's would tap the sides of his beer bottle and Uncle Tim's eyes would drift up and down. Slowly, each session, whoever I sat next to let me pick the amount to bet and then whether to call a bluff or not. Soon, I became a natural at the table.

But it all came to an end fairly quickly.

About a month or so in, my dad came home from work early during one of the poker sessions. He was furious at Uncle Tim and demanded that everyone leave. But he was pretty pissed off at me.

"Christopher Joseph Hughes! How could you not tell me what was going on?"

"Dad-" I tried to explain.

"No. You don't gamble, you don't hang out with these guys anymore. You hear me?"

"But dad-"

"No buts, Christopher!"

So I didn't gamble anymore. I assume that Uncle Tim got chewed out by Dad, but kept gambling elsewhere, probably at Trucker or someone else place. He kept losing money. He kept prowling around the house for any money dad kept loose. He'd come home with bruises, because he couldn't pay back his debts. One day dad got a call that he was in the hospital because he'd broke both his legs, well, someone had broken both his legs.

I felt awful for him. Dad eventually paid back the guy and threw out Uncle Tim once he could walk. My life suddenly became normal again, looking at girls, doing homework,reading books, hanging out with friends. But normal never lasts for long.

When I was fifteen I came home to a mess, a bloody one. I rushed over to my dad and begged him to wake up, I cried, I shook him. Nothing. At the funeral, I received a letter, explaining everything, Camp Half Blood, my mother, everything. My life went from schoolboy to training for monster attacks and quests

But I guess that happens to every half blood.

Bree Williams P.O.V

Two words describe most of my childhood. Workaholic father.

Let me start over. I didn't have a mom. I had a biological mother, as in the woman who gave birth to me and a workaholic father. I never had a mom who tucked me in at night, read me a story or told I'd be stupid to chase after some boy. My dad was a college professor and my mom...well God knows where she went after I was born.

So my neighbor, Agnes Weldon looked after me. She was in her 60s, she had a son and a daughter who had both grown up and moved away. She was always smiling and often baked cookies or made cocoa when I was little.

I would go to school, come to Agnes' when it was finished and she would often put me to bed, before my father picked me up. And then the next day would repeat itself. Even on weekends, dad was too busy grading papers or holding lectures or tutorials or I didn't know.

Agnes became my best friend and my mom and my grandmother all in one. She was the person I could trust most, who I could talk to, no matter how bad something was, she was always there for me. She taught me how to bake and how to do my multiplication tables and she inspired me with magic.

Her husband, who'd died a few years before I met her, Archie, had been a magician, in fact, they had met at one of his shows. Agnes showed me one of his magic kits and I quickly caught on and became intrigued. But then something more happened.

I didn't need a quick hand, or had to divert attention anymore. The magic wasn't a con, it wasn't a finely tuned trick it was...real. There was no other way to describe it. It was real.

I remember always putting on little shows for Agnes. I wanted to show my dad too, but the great professor Aiden Williams was always too busy. When I got home from school, Agnes would have cookies ready for me or some cheese cubes. She had no clue (and neither did I) why I loved them so much, but she always made sure there were some in the fridge in case I got hungry.

We would talk about our days and she would send me to do homework while she prepared for dinner. After dinner I would work on magic in my room. Even though it was Agnes' house, we would always consider it my room. After I was done, I would come out with a new "trick", put on a little show and where Archie's old top hat. She would clap every time and pat me on the back, tell me it was a job well done.

"I'm sure if Archie were here, he'd be amazed at the magic you can pull off, Bree," she smiled at me.

"Your really think so?"

"Absolutely. Can I tell you a secret?"

"Sure," I nodded happily.

"I think that you're an even better magician then Archie was," she whispered.

"Wow! Really?"

"Of course. The things you can do, Bree...I used to live with a magician. I know nearly all the tricks. But with you, it doesn't even feel like tricks anymore. Maybe you're a witch or something, eh?" she joked. "Maybe you've got real magic powers? Maybe they've forgotten to put you on the list to Hogwarts?"

No, they didn't forget to put me on the list to Hogwarts. They forgot to put me on the list to Camp Half Blood. But Id find out soon.

I was nine years old when my whole world was torn to shreds. When my life was ripped out from under me. Dad was at work at usual, but I was home with Agnes when it attacked. It had the body of a lion, the wings of a large bird, and the face of a person. I was terrified. Actually, terrified is a mild way of putting it as it attacked me.

But she saved me. Agnes pushed me out of the way and was killed by the thing instead. The sphinx... But I felt like dying. The only person I could ever trust, my best friend, my family, was gone. Dead. It wasn't fair, she didn't deserve this, my heart dropped about twenty feet that day.

As it...as that thing finished her off, two teenagers came through the door, wielding...weapons? It was a boy and girl, who looked about sixteen.

"We're too late."

"No we're not."

The boy scooped me up as the girl, held off the sphinx. The boy tried his best to comfort me, but I was inconsolable.

"Hey, hey. Everything's gonna be okay. My name's Patrick, that's Lilly," he whispered. The holding off didn't last long, as they rushed me out of there as fast as possible. There was a ride waiting for them, I was sobbing.

"Agnes," I sobbed. The girl- Lilly- tried to comfort me this time, but I couldn't be comforted. She was gone.

I was whisked away to Camp Half Blood, but i never forgot that night. I still have nightmares. I still wake up in a cold sweat over it.

Daniel Anderson P.O.V

I knelt down in the grass, stroking the headstone. I looked at the words and lightly traced them with my finger, closing my eyes, I remembered that day. I'm usually a cheerful guy with friends, who loves to have fun. But I need this one day a year, I just need it to mourn when I lost everything I ever knew.

James Anderson

1968-2010

Beloved Son, Father, Friend

I have some of the fondest memories with my dad. He was an artist, when I was little (young, but not young enough to try and drink the paint), he would take me to his studio and give me some paper or as I got older, a small canvas of my own, where I could draw and paint, while he would work on his art. He also took me to the gardens every Saturday because I loved gardening.

"You get the arts from me," he would often day. "The green thumb, though. That's all your mom."

"What was mom like?" I'd ask. "Why isn't she here anymore?" The first time I'd asked, I was about four or five years old, when we were at the gardens.

My dad very carefully knelt down, till we were at we level when he told me for the first time.

"Daniel, it's complicated."

"Did she not like me?"

"What? No! No, Dan, it's not like that. Not like that at all," he said quickly. "Your mom. She wanted to stay, with you and me, buddy. She wanted to be here with us. She really did, I promise you."

"So how come she's not here."

"Dan," he sighed deeply. "She was, she wanted to stay. But she couldn't. She was forced to come back to the country side to tend the crops and plants, because they needed her. They needed her to grow strong and healthy."

"Is that why we have these plant?" I asked.

There were several plants in the gardens, planted and looked after Dad and myself. From saplings to orchids and ferns, we had plants that we always looked after specifically.

Dad nodded. "Yeah. Because, like the crops needed Mom, these plants need us, to grow healthy and strong, Daniel. Think of it like this, your mom, gave up so much to help the crops grow. We are doing our part. Every time we water the plants or take care of them, that's one less thing for your mom to worry about."

So, that was the story for a while. I always had this picture of my mom with her hair blowing about as she tended to the crops in the countryside, wherever she was. And I'd think about that, every time I planted a seed or watered a plant. I always thought that somewhere, my mom knew what I was doing and she was proud of me. I know my dad was.

So I spent my days after school at the studio. Doing homework and chatting to my dad as he painted and then doing a little painting or doodling of my own when I had finished with my work. Dad would always laugh in amusement at the cartoon drawings I used to do of my teachers.

When I was ten, my dad spilled the beans. Told me that I was going to Camp Half Blood. That it was the only chance of me one day being able to see my mom. We were in the car, when there were three separate thuds on the hood of the car.

Dracaenae was what they were. It's still fuzzy to me but, they blocked the windscreen and burst through to attack. My dad couldn't see, I don't remember how, but I got out alive. My dad didn't make it though. The car exploded, all I remember after that is red. And then I woke up at Camp Half Blood. I've been here ever since. Except for July 7th. I visit my dad's grave. I've moved on since then, made friends, trained, even been on a quest.

But I need that one day. Just that one day to mourn the loss of my happy normal childhood.

I stroked my dad's tombstone one more time and looked longingly at it. Remembering the little boy who drew pictures in the art studio and planted in the gardens. I closed my eyes and I could almost see it again, feel it again. My dad's laugh at my drawings, the plants at the garden, homework in the studio.

"Hey Dad," I whispered. "I know you were worried about me. But I'm doing okay now. Things aren't always easy, but I get through," I paused for a moment. "I miss you, Dad. I really do miss you and I wish you were here," I sighed. "But, you know something? I really am doing okay." I stayed there for a bit, talking to him. I knew he was listening just like I knew that my mom knew I was taking care of all those plants when I was little.

"Goodbye, Dad," I whispered. "See you next year."

AN: Thanks for sticking through it! I think this is everyone, so that's pretty much it for the character background chapters. Again, cannot apologize enough for making you wait so long for this, but I do hope it was worth it. So any ideas on friends? Couples? Anything, so far?

Thanks for reading and if you have any questions, ideas, suggestions or comments about your character, leave them in a review. I love reviews.