Half-Blood Hill

[IM]
[He's in the Hermes cabin for the IM, giving a small tap of two fingers off his temple before he speaks.]

'S up. So, uh, I got a question. Stop me if it's one you've heard before. I've no problem with new arrivals, you know, the more the merrier and all but with four different pantheons slowly trickling in.. what happens when we run out of beds.

[One hand lifts to wave off the Iris Message, then he pauses to add--] Speakin' of new arrivals, if you haven't seen me around, I'm Dave Strider. Son of Janus, Third Cohort Legionnaire. Yo.

[--before ending the message.]

[Action]
[He can be caught in cabin eleven for about an hour after that, then he's out by the lake pacing back and forth up a small section the shore. Occasionally he stops to write something in a notebook. It's full of scribblings, some pages just entirely crossed out lines, some are full of doodles instead of writing and it's well within range for someone to grab if Dave doesn't have hold of it at the time.

What writing isn't crossed out - and is actually legible - looks like slam poetry.

When he's pacing, he's muttering to himself and tapping his pen against his free hand in a disjointed rhythm. Now and then he'll stop, sway back on his heels and rub a hand through his hair or just look up at the sky, swearing under his breath.

Okay, so he's looking more than a little stir-crazy right now.]

[There are one of two places that are a sure fire way to catch Dave today.

The morning finds him in the armory, distractedly picking up weapons and putting them back just as quickly. Occasionally he might weight a sword in his hand or linger on one weapon longer than another but he seems conflicted. Or maybe he's not in here because of the weapons at all.

Later on in the day he's in the arts and crafts cabin. Janus isn't what you'd call a 'creative' god (really he's more of an asshole if you've ever had the opportunity to meet him), but Dave is creative enough on his own and is taking some down time to draw some ironic and disturbing comics.

Every now and then he'll look up at the door as if he's expecting someone, darting his attention away if someone happens to walk in.]

[IM]
[Dave's looking a little more... unsettled... than he ever usually does as he opens the IM. He glances offside before he speaks, clearing his throat and nudging his shades up with his middle finger.]

Anyone seen Egbert? I've been tryin' to reach him and all I'm getting is rainbow static and shitty white noise. Looks like someone broke a kaleidoscope and set it loose in a hurricane. In a bottle.

Shit.


[Private Action]
[Whether or not someone can tell him where John is, he finds his way to the Arena eventually and picks his friend out, hanging back a little way to keep clear of any unexpectedly wide blows.]

Uh, dude?

[A quick, barely there smile that pulls more sideways than upwards tugs at one corner of his mouth and he huffs out a quick breath.]

John.

[Is that Dave Strider sitting half-asleep at the breakfast table with his chin propped up on his hand and a half finished apple held in the other? Yes, it is. The dark screen of his shades can't quite hide the fact that his eyes are occasionally sliding closed, yet every time someone walks by him they snap open again.

Dave is one Roman demi-god who had definitely become far too used to the easier life in the Greek camp, and now he's paying for it (while silently berating himself for obviously letting himself go, in the moments when he's not slowly dozing off) after the morning training.

He rubs his fingers up underneath his shades and grunts under his breath, as if the noise might wake him up a little. Dave's an elusive sort, usually just in and out when it comes to breakfast, but he's lingering around this morning.

Mostly because he just doesn't want to get up again.]