The only reason (I'm pretty sure, anway) that I wake up is the squawking.

Oh gods, the squawking.

I pry open my bleary, sleep-laden eyes, trying to pinpoint the source of the caterwauling - AKA the only thing I can hear for about a hundred miles.

I'm attempting to push myself to my knees when I realize I may or may not have sustained semi-serious injuries to several of my limbs and/or head, because not only do my arms give out before I'm even propped up two inches from the ground, but my vision swims and there's a hellish pounding infecting my skull that only seems to go away when my face is pressed into the soft, whispering grass I've found myself lying on.

Something's digging into my stomach in a not all-together pleasant way, forcing me to forsake the comfort of my dirt nap and roll over, cradling my abdomen while I try not to moan too pitifully. Whether or not there's anyone around to hear me, I'd rather keep my image intact as best I can.

My bow. It must have slipped from my bag while I was tumbling through the air like a disgruntled ballerina.

Thank gods. I didn't lose it in the fall.

In a jerky movement I roll off to the side, careful not to apply anymore crushing weight to the delicate instrument beneath me. Unfortunately (but not unexpectedly) a bolt of pain shoots through me, seemingly from all directions, from each battered limb and from my vibrating cranium.

The choked gasp that slips past my lips sounds all the worse when I promptly bite down on my already-bleeding tongue to keep from producing anymore pitiful noises; while it works, it also has the added bonus of cutting off my wheeze of discomfort so that it resembles a death rattle more than an exclamation of extreme pain.

Oh, gods. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods--!

Momentarily forgetting the damning fatigue plaguing my arms, I throw one up in order to clamp a hand over my tainted red mouth, and I let loose a scream so shrill and agonized that, if not for my hand, would surely have the neighbors running out in their fluffy slippers and threadbare bathrobes.

If I landed in a neighborhood, anyway - unlikely, considering no one's come to investigate the incessant squawking coming from the badly-bruised gryphon off to my left.

When I've regained control of my breathing (and somewhat brushed aside the matter of my insatiable agony), I pick myself up with the minimal amount of whimpers and sharp exhales and additional wounds to my battle-scarred tongue. I'm unsteady on my feet, the pounding in my head having not subsided in the least; instead, it's grown stronger, more violent, with every second I don't immediately collapse into a broken mess on the crushed grass from whence I came.

Ugh. Just ugh.

I waste no time in digging through my rumpled bag, pulling out the crushed ambrosia squares after a solitary moment of complete and utter panic.

Jasper would kill me if I lost the damn things.

The single bite I take from the edge of the flaky square blossoms across tongue, drowning the metallic tang of blood with the wholly blissful taste of my mom's homemade blueberry jam. It doesn't quite mesh with the texture of the ambrosia, but it is so easy to stomach due to the overwhelming nostalgia lighting up the pleasure points in my brain.

Feeling a little refreshed (not much, but to the point where I won't tear up with every step I take), I retrieve my bow from where I abandoned it to the wayward grasses, then set off to quell the wailing mythical beast.

Ok. Easier said then done, I have to admit.

I ease into a trembling crouch at Andrena's side. My hand unconsciously moves to caress her bristling fur, but I jerk it back an inch from contact. Too scared, I'd reason, too on edge.

That's it. I'm a coward.

Forgoing my instinct to cringe excessively and duck behind an abandoned trashcan, I command my unresponsive fingers to flit over Andrena's neck as a way to calm her. Her reaction is startling, to say the least, as she doesn't immediately go for my throat, but instead relaxes at the hesitant touch and curls her serpentine tail into a delighted spiral.

I think she hit her head in the fall.

"Er, good girl," I mumble, taking a cue from the absent brunette I've come to tolerate and knuckling the beast's tufted ears. Something caught between a purr and an ear-splitting caw rumbles from her throat and I barely restrain myself from jerking back in surprise.

Seeing as how she's hurt and bleeding (not to the extent that I am, but still), I crumble up a bit of ambrosia and feed her from the palm of my hand (not a pleasurable experience by any means, but what're you gonna do?).

Huh. I've never actually thought about what happens to non-demigods who eat ambrosia... I know mortals burn up but... what about gryphons...?

Apparently - and here I speak from experience - they sleep.

"What the--?!" Her head's dropped onto her paws, body worked into a contented bundle, tail tucked over her beak, eyes closed and breathing steady.

She's sleeping. After we almost died. And while we're stuck in the middle of nowhere.

For some reason, I'm getting the feeling that she and Isaiah have a lot more in common than meets the eye...

In any case, while she naps away the day, I plop down in the brittle grass, propped up with my palms against the grounds, loose dirt wiggling between my fingers, as I survey the area, taking in the scenery, as it were.

My first conclusion was right after all: This is no neighborhood. Well, not a conventional one at least. The buildings are scarce, abundant tracks of land set between each one, and they're lonely, filled with want for a caretaker. Windows are smashed, doors scuffed and kicked in; I'm half-expecting a giant tumbleweed to breeze through the empty earthen streets at any moment. But alas, my movie-expectations are for nought, as the only thing blowing across the way is discarded litter.

"Weird place to land... crash-land.... nearly die... whatever...."

I'm unconsciously threading my fingers through Andrena's fur, finding her much more pleasant to be with when not in full-on attack mode. When she sleeps, she doesn't radiate her touch me and die aura nearly as much, which is reason enough to see why Lady Artemis might find her cute. Isaiah, on the other hand, who's never seen this before... He's a naturally trusting person who possible has a thing for cats? Like a fetish, maybe?

Either way, he's naive and needs to learn the value of one's instincts.

As I'm scanning the vacant skyline, a familiar prick of anxiety hits the back of my neck, and at first I think it's a mosquito, but the feeling persists, so I irritably lower my gaze in hopes of catching whoever's watching me.

Seeing a partially-formed Iris Message isn't really what I thought'd be.

The vague outline of a prismatic mirror hovers just above Andrena's dozing form, the image of a worried blonde and a panicking brunette held within it in the form of sparkling droplets that catch and bend the light at such an angle that I can sorta make out those on the other side. And while I can see their mouths moving, shouting, brows furrowed and drawn in worry, I can't hear a thing.

Then the image promptly winks out of existence and I'm left all alone with an unconscious gryphon and a heavy feeling of dread settling in my gut.

Something's interfering with the Iris Message... but I thought only a god could block those... like Iris herself...

"Heh. You're not the one I was looking for."

My body moves on its own, spinning me around, drawing me to my feet in a quick, stunted motion that sets my aching head into an impromptu drum solo again. My eyes are out of focus, the world shifting beneath my feet, so it's difficult to make out the blurry figure sitting in front of me, their legs dangling over the side of a wasted shed. As my eyes readjust, the figure drops, soundlessly hitting the grass and moving with serpent-like precision as they make their way towards me, a worrisome grin stretching their lips.

"Eh, whatever. No biggie, I guess. Long as I get to have some fun." They take a distressing step forward; I skid backwards. Their smile twitches in a way that seriously irks me, like they couldn't be more amused if Hermes himself was here dressed in those eye-catching spandex shorts his sons are always going on about. "I wasn't aiming for you," the girl - yeah, it's a female, judging by the high pitch of their voice and the fluidity of their movements - says flippantly, rolling a careless hand at me, "but you'll do."

In that same hand, a glowing Chia Pet suddenly bursts into life.

Crap.

Magic.

Again.

"Wanna play a game, Miss Demigod?"
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This chapter was written by Arctic_Sky