<div class="floatleft">(http://www.prestigedumonde.com/uploads/1/2/1/8/12183267/4424512_orig.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Elias Neighton (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=207204.msg10388159#msg10388159)<br/><strong>Cabin:</strong>Apollo<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Countryside near outskirts, Camp border<br/><strong>Date/Time:</strong>September 24th, 5:45p.m.<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Open<br/><strong>Notes:</strong>Appears exhausted, passed out, badly burned, may have got in a fight with an ashpile. Covered in gold dust.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><em>Two hundred yards.</em><br/><br/>No more, no less. It might as well have been a thousand. Elias couldn’t stop his sides from heaving, his body covered in a thick sheen of sweat. His face was buried in the grass, eyes peeking from between the stalks like drops of honey as his form quakes from exertion. There was no way he would make it. His nose twitches a few times.<br/><br/>Maybe just a few more feet though. The smell of burnt flesh and sweat wasn’t one he was fond of. If not for his mind’s ignorance to the extent of his wounds…his body wouldn’t have been functional at all. He could tell, just by the scent, that he had some third degree burns. If not worse….<br/><br/>His eyes fix upon his left pinky, which had taken on the most frightening tone of silver…and all on his birthday. He had been sure, the moment he got off the plane two days ago that this monumental even would be marked by parades and confetti at his new home! Camp Halfblood! But, fate seemed to intend for him to celebrate it in the jaws of…<br/><br/>The crack of leathery wings fill the air, the slim green form of a dragon taking flight out of the nearby corpse of trees. Steam curled from his nostrils, his eyes two beady black orbs of hatred. Python. The dragon Apollo had so mercilously slain in his youth…<br/><br/>Come to kill his son on his birthday. How ironic. Elias’s mind sends his torched fingers the idea of plucking a string on the lyre strapped to his black, but the digits barely manage a twitch in response. Yes, troubling indeed. The youth decides it won’t matter if he dies though, how grossly burned it was. And if by some chance he survived….well, he could work with burns.<br/><br/>With a groan, albeit a quiet one, as to not alert the winged devil of his continued survival, Elias rises to his knees, looking about for a way to climb that next rise…and hopefully cross the border. If he could just get inside…<br/><br/>His legs begin to move, the entire frame of his being trembling from the effort. He could do this. Just a few more steps. Maybe it would be over soon…His golden eyes cast upwards, fixing on the sparkling green of the shimmering dragon. He nods his head once to affirm himself. He would not die here. He owed too many people too much for that.<br/><br/>He would fix the damage he had caused. And, with the statement clear to himself, Elias begins to run. Maddeningly fast, the roar of the dragon thundering through his ears as the wave of sound crashes over him. With the shock ridden slowness of his thick fingers, Elias jerks the lyre off his back, the shining gold of the instrument comforting even in these last few moments before death.<br/><br/>“Dad, if ever there was a time to not be an absentee parent…now would be that time!” He shouts, the roar of wind filling his ears to match the deep panting of his breathing. With a loud shout of his own, as if to make such a noise would defy the dragon, Elias turns, slides to his knees, and looks upward. His eyes lock on the maw of the beast, seeing the boiling rage of fire wash across the blood stained maw.<br/><br/>Thin chords fill the air, becoming more numerous by the second as his fingers move without direction. The blessing of Apollo…his dad was actually having mercy upon him? Now!? Of all times, he decided he would not let his son fall to the creature! After two days and nights solid of being hunted across the country side!<br/><br/>The distaste in his soul never reaches his mouth though, as the fire the dragon was preparing to unleash continues to build and shimmer, the beady eyes screaming murder at the kneeling form of the boy it was closing in on.<br/><br/>Elias hoped his father knew what he was doing…<br/><br/>His fingers begin moving faster, shimmering with a golden heat. He could feel the air around him heating up, giving off the impression of mirage forming….<br/><br/>The dragon roars, his signature breath of fire pouring from between the spread jaws, the heat alone was stifling, but still Elias plays, not of his own will, but of some outside force acting upon him…The fire was getting closer and closer, the jet of flame nearly licking his face…<br/><br/><em>It stopped.</em><br/><br/>The nearest tongue turns back and begins crawling back to it’s source, the malicious orange seeming to turn solid gold as musical notes continue to fill the air. Whatever in the divine will of the gods was going on, it was WORKING!<br/><br/>His scorched fingers pluck faster and faster, becoming a blur upon the neck of the lyre as they struggle to match the inhuman speeds demanded of them…The dragon turns, mere feet from the ground as his great wings snap open to slow his dive.<br/><br/><em>ROAR!</em><br/><br/>The thunderclap of noise hits Elias’s ears like a cannon, drawing blood to his ears from the damage to his ear drums. His head was blooming with pain, his eyes seeing dancing spots matching the sight of fire behaving as it had never done before…<br/><br/>It was crawling back down Python’s throat. The flame was white hot…of course, it came from a DRAGON. And the smell of burn flesh became even more prominent as gold dust begins to run off the massive beast, his bead black eyes seeming to take a last look at Elias, as though to lock him into memory.<br/><br/>The youth had no doubt he had made a very scaly enemy this day. But who the hell cared? He was alive. Python was slumped over in the grass, his flanks thankfully still. The beast no longer drew breath…and his form was rolling with golden steam, his body disintegrating before Elias’s very eyes.<br/><br/>If only he could get a trophy…<br/><br/>But his eyes were already growing cloudy, his fingers barely plucking the strings of the lyre as whatever magic had been there moments ago faded to nothingness. He couldn’t feel his fingers. His entire body was throbbing with pain…<br/><br/><em>The border is so close…</em><br/><br/>He attempts to rise once more, his tshirt soaked with sweat, ash, and burned to a toasty crisp from the day’s events. He manages to get his knees out from under him, then slumps face first into the grass.<br/><br/><em>This was going to be humiliating if he lived long enough to see it out…</em><br/><br/>Elias puts one of his tingling silver fingers in front of the other, then heaves, his mouth open in a not so silent scream of pain at the feeling of his abdomen sliding over the coarse grass. His eyes shut, his breath coming in great pants from between his lips as the pain settles in.<br/><br/><em>Alright then. That was how it was going to be.</em><br/><br/>He throws his right hand forward once more…and heaves. His left hand tightens around the lyre as a fresh scream comes forth. It wasn’t so bad really, it just felt like he was being impaled. His honey eyes water, streaming fresh salty droplets to run down the blackened soot stained face. The boy didn’t even want to imagine how crispy his hair was…if there was any left.<br/><br/><em>Those were matters for the living though…</em><br/><br/><em>Heave.</em><br/><br/>Elias finally reaches the top of the hillock, pulling himself through a sparse layer of leaves that seemed to be invisibly separated from the grass. One more heave. One more and he was across the line. He could almost see the mist shimmering in the hot summer air…or maybe that was just his vision going. Shock was setting in. He couldn’t feel his lower half anymore. His feet were dead against the ground.<br/><br/><em>Heave.</em><br/><br/>The youth crosses the border, then slumps with finality, his breaths reduced to shallow pants as his body struggles to deal with the damage wracked upon it from the fire. His left hand continues to grasp the lyre, albeit in a death grip as his fingers have seized.<br/>