fcrrokinesis

[fcrrokinesis]

closed ft. @andarrows LOCATION: the weaponry

drum fills blend with a stanky bass line and trumpets through the little foam padding of madden's headphones, the wire running down his back to the walkman clipped voguishly to his back pocket. he's carefully sorting out a couple of arrows he made specially for beckett and setting them into a quiver for him to take with him on his separate journey. the music was low, yet just loud enough that it drowned out the anxiety the impeding portion his quest actually presented. summoning death's door? what good were they without phia? uneasy hands reach for a set of daggers and turn them into drum sticks, knocking the air as if it was a full kit laid out in front of him instead of shelves, expelling the energy in one way or another.

he spins, laying eyes on beckett. one dagger is pointed towards the other man and another is brought towards his mouth in a faux microphone. " well we're together, everybody knows, this is how the story goes: " it really wouldn't be serenading the closest thing he had to a best friend if he didn't give a shoulder shimmy now would it? " you know you got everything a demigod needs to lose a cop. "

the dagger drops to his side, and he pulls the headphones down around his neck with the other hand careful not to catch his ear — or more importantly his hair. madden gestures to the arrows, " that's for you. "

[fcrrokinesis]

he's not sure why it's as much of a surprise to him that he managed at all to sneak up on the hunter like that as it is, no part of him aches to have any sort of attention on him when he walks into a room. he's learned how turn that sort of thing on and off, play to the strengths of his respective audience. at present, a single bronze arrow turns effortlessly between his fingers while he watches her, at first intrigued by the ease and artistry that she works with the bow, his mind turning a mile a minute to curate variations of new weapons.

when her attention shifts the air stills, her voice breaking him from his ideas like the tip of a lead pencil snapping against the paper to disrupt the flow of thought to paper. his hands are brought up to the sides of his head in surrender, point of the arrow catching the light as the sun dips below the horizon.

her words should be heeded as a warning, not a challenge, but he can't be compelled to take it. not when there's a perfectly poised, perfectly trained, individual in front of him now to help him clear some of the noise from his own head. " how do you feel about trying something new? "

ARCHERY RANGE, CAMP HALF-BLOOD. June 8th, 1977, shortly after 8 PM.

IN THE HUSHED AFTERMATH of the camp's tumultuous restoration, rosalynn seeks refuge in the archery range. her desire for familiarity guides each arrow's release, a rhythmic heartbeat synced with the target’s absorption rate of her unspoken thoughts. time blurs, seamlessly transitioning from daylight to moonlight during her ceaseless practice.

at some point during her ritualistic movements, a subtle rustle disrupts her concentration. she reacts instinctively, bowstring frozen in mid-draw, an arrow pointed with silent precision towards the disturbance.

her senses, finely attuned through years of training, dissect the surroundings without a need for visual confirmation. the archery range harbors an unexpected visitor, a presence that does not yet seem ready to reveal itself.

after a moment, rosie eases the tension on her bowstring, lowering the arrow but not the wariness in her gaze. ❛ either you've got a death wish, or a compelling reason to be lurking in the shadows of my solitude. ❜

her voice, measured and cool, breaks the silence like a crack in the stillness of the night.

❛ choose your next step wisely. this is not a sanctuary for the undecided. ❜

[fcrrokinesis]

closed ft. @deadun LOCATION: the hermes cabin

he recognized the back of her head from a distance, weaving in and out of campers between his cabin and her spot on the hermes cabin porch. his hands fidget with the tiny celestial bronze leaf that was once intended to be an applique for a project that was recently discarded, certain that it would find a better home with her than lost among the multiple piles of scraps scattered throughout the forge.

" i was looking for you. " he comes around in front of her, shy smile painted on his face. phia isn't a new person to camp, she's been there longer than him. but she's always existed just outside of his periphery. their paths, their lines of trajectory, hardly ever crossing for any sort of real reason. " forge still feels weird even though everything was put back, and i can't find my hammer. " the comment is breezy, despite the thread of tension that the mortal's visit has woven into it, that's still settled somewhere in against his back, just between his shoulders. calloused fingers turn the leaf, index finger pulling the curved bend while the point and stem are held fast between his thumb and middle. his boot sets right next to hers as he takes a seat opposing her, his eyes search her face, find her there. the corners of his lips tug further upwards in a teasing smile, " you think someone inside took it? "

[fcrrokinesis]

CLOSED ft. @bloodymiinded location: the forge

idle hands work at a scrap piece of metal, twisting and elongating it into a long spiral that would be good for nothing other than to tack on as a decor piece while he listens to eli pitch his latest idea for weapon mastery. madden tips back in his chair, precariously balanced on its back two wheels in a game of chance, face scrunched in a clear external display of his inward thought of what exactly their design is meant to look like.

he approaches the question with about as much caution as one would approach a squirrel in their seat on the bench. " do we get to use it afterwards ? " the two of them had an agreement: they both got to figure out how the fuck it would work after madden figured out how the hell to make it. he asks carefully, " will you even be able to lift it ? "

[fcrrokinesis]

──    𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒏𝒈.

son of hephaestus.

the hands that held him were always warm. she was an artist in her own right, moulding clay into varying shapes from time to time, spending most of her days chipping away at stone or marble to create statues that would match the beauty of the greeks. his mother's hands were the first one's to hand him a hammer, to let him hit whatever construction toys she had bought for him.

she cultivated an appreciate for the craft of creation, and he was always allowed a place beside her in the studio while she was working, but the small arts and crafts pieces were never enough for him. he wanted his hands on the left over scraps of metal discarded from abstract projects, piecing together smaller sculptures of his own right beside hers.

the quiet of the studio has shifted, somehow, into the blaring music across the forge, blending across the various slams and clinks and banging of metals. madden found it easy to stay hidden there, his hands creating weapons with the same ease his mother created art.

he's not a loud personality that attracts your eyes directly towards him. he's almost keen to not to draw attention to himself, but he possesses a very real, very tangible warmth whenever you're around him. an unfortunate byproduct of being frightfully incendiary.

[fcrrokinesis]

𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒏𝒈 — son of hephaestus, affiliated with mistparted, penned by adri.

intro / musings / pinterest / playlist

[fcrrokinesis]

im so sorry if it looks like it's my first day out here i swear its not heavy on the construction zone but tgif