Deep in the furthest corner of the universe, (well not quite a corner,as universes are more spherical than polygonic) stood a woman, if you could call her that. She existed long before the concept of gender was even conceived and thus cannot be classified using such dialogue. Despite this, her physical manifestations have a tendency to err towards a more feminine appearance. Her features are hard to distinguish. A pitch-black skin tone and identically colored clothes make it next to impossible to detect the line between skin and dress. Galaxies danced across her garb, moving with an unnatural beauty that can only be found in the recesses of space.

This woman stood in the center of a vast network of spheres, too numerous to count. She turned slowly, gazing at each in turn, then moving on to the next as they slid by, rolled across, and bounced off of each other, moving with such entropy that one would believe it impossible to keep track of them all.

The woman's pure white eyes seemed to capture every detail of each glowing, life-like sphere. On any other occasion, one would observe the woman gaze into a sphere, then laugh softly, as if it had just told a particularly funny joke. Or maybe she would shake her head in perceived exasperation, as if the sphere had just taken its brother's favorite toy.

This was not a time for idle gazing however. The woman glanced around with trepidation as more spheres seemed to appear out of the darkness at an alarming rate. She is obviously searching for something, spending no more than a second or so on each sphere, before turning away from it and shaking her head.

This process continues for some time until she stops on one particular sphere for a noticeably longer time. Then, a cry of elation, and the being begins to shrink down. No, move forward. The woman moves forward and into the sphere, speaking for the first time. Her voice is deep and resonating, yet at the same time airy and melodic. It seemed to come from nowhere, yet everywhere all at once. Like the woman, her voice is a chaotic contradiction. It commands, yet reassures.

"I have found you, my champion..."

∆∆∆

The house is a simple one. Out on the southern side of Long Island, it has seems to find a small area of seclusion, far enough away from the city to be quiet, yet close enough to still appear involved in the bustle of Manhattan. Yet that was not the reason the owners chose the location. If anything, they would have preferred to be closer to the city, but for one reason: a summer camp. Not just any camp no, this was special. Young, inexperienced children go to this camp. They leave as heroes. The owners are veterans of the camp, and some of the most legendary halfbloods to walk the Earth.

The building has clearly been renovated. It has a distinctive design that would only be seen on a customized house. The blue-gray walls match the white trimming and Gothic columns in such an elegant way, an observer would get the feeling that the building had been transplanted from ancient Greece, and then modernized. In retrospect, this makes sense. The wife is quite an architectural genius, and world-renowned for her renovation projects in Greece and Italy, as well as the entire design for Olympus Cruses' corporate headquarters, a building she designed herself.

The mailbox stands in stark contrast to the rest of the property. Where the building and grounds hold a polished contemporary-Greek style, the mailbox is a simple, weather-beaten whale. The number 36, cast in bronze, is attached to each side. The name Jackson runs down the post, first in English, then Greek and finally Latin.

Three steps up is a porch which swings around one side of the building and connects to a deck on the back side. The boards are worn, showing their years of use. Two used, but still clean, chairs rest directed away from the house and towards the road. A small coffee table separates the two chairs.

One of the two chairs is occupied. An elderly man, somewhere in his mid-seventies, looks out at the road. He has a weather-beaten face, still showing the signs of a tan. His face is solemn; the man rarely smiles anymore, though smile wrinkles and a pair of lively sea-green eyes reveal his inner youth. The hair is a dull gray. Black streaks can be seen throughout it, as if the hair refuses to let go of the richness it once had. A string with a number of painted beads hangs around his neck. They are treated with such reverence that one would almost consider them religious in nature.

It is early in the morning, and the man has become a common sight among the locals. A jogger goes by and calls out a greeting. The man waves in acknowledgement. He is well known among the locals, and many middle-aged residents tell stories of the kindness the man and his wife have shown towards the children of the street.

The man taps his cane a few times and stands up, hobbling slightly from an old injury to the leg as he heads back inside. The cane is old, older even than the man and even perhaps his father. The worn wood is sturdy, but scratches crisscross the entire surface. To most, these are merely random signs of wear, though the trained eye can detect writing among the marks. Anaklusmos. The current that sweeps you under, and before you know it, you have been swept out to sea.

The man dumps out his unfinished coffee and rinses out the cup, putting it in the dishwasher to be done later. In the background, the television can be heard advertising the end of summer deal by Olympus Cruises. Write your own myth. An appropriate tagline, given the founders. The man hears the advertisement and smiles slightly. An atmosphere of melancholy emanates throughout the room. Normally the end of August is a festive time in this house, though the past year has not lent itself to joy and gaiety. The man's wife rests upstairs, an unexpected heart attack rendering her bedridden.

The man goes upstairs and peeks into the bedroom. His wife lies on the bed, covers pulled up to her chin. Gray-gold hair has been cropped short, though the natural curliness can still be seen. Were her eyes open, the man would have observed a pair of intimidating, analytical, gray eyes that seemed to pierce through everything.

Downstairs the doorbell rings. Hobbling slightly, the man goes down the stairs and opens the door, revealing a family of four: father, mother, a teen-aged girl and a younger boy. The elderly homeowner greets each in turn, greeting each of the children with a smile and a hug, before ruffling the boy's hair and sending them into the living room. He shakes the man's hand, clearly his son based on the hair and eyes, and kisses the man's wife on the cheek.

The woman calls to the children, who come over and the family fallows their patriarch up to the closed room. All five file in and gather around the bedridden woman. The man kneels down next to the bed and clasps his mother's hand. Her eyes flicker open and a smile appears from behind the oxygen mask. She greets the family members in turn, receiving careful hugs from each of her grandchildren. After talking for some time, the younger man ushers everyone out of the room, but not before his father gathers something from the nightstand, at his wife's insistence.

The family meets in the living room, everyone taking a seat facing their elder. After talking for some time, the man steers the conversation towards its original target. First he beckons his granddaughter forward and ceremoniously hands her his cane. She stares at in in awe. To a being who does not understand the family, this would appear unusual. But there is a far more significant and practical reason for this gesture beyond the apparent sentimental notion. The girl hugs her grandfather in appreciation, the sits down as the man has his grandson step forward. After quickly explaining that his wife would have preferred to do this herself, the woman's current condition prevented her from leaving the bed. He then presents the young boy with the object he retrieved from his wife's room; a baseball cap, so worn that the insignia has all but faded, leaving one with no clear assumption to its affiliation. The boy accepts the gift and hugs his grandfather as well, before returning to his place beside his father.

The little group of five continue to sit for a few hours afterwards, during which the elderly man recounts stories of his past and passes down some number of points of advice. After a short lunch, the man stands and announces that the family must be on the move. Each person individually goes to say their good byes to the bedridden woman, before bidding the elderly man farewell.

After seeing the family off, the man sits down in an easy chair. Not seconds after closing his eyes, the man disappears, seemingly pulled into a swirling mass of darkness. Upstairs, the same mass appears, pulling the woman in as well...

***

Alright people. I felt like you all could use a slight prologue to the story, this is it. I have gotten some great suggestions for stories for Percy to visit. 

Just remember to keep being awesome

~Leonidas_son_of_Nike

P.S. Perhaps I should start signing off as just Leonidas