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argorpg-blog · 6 years ago

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CONGRATULATIONS and welcome to the crew of the Argo II, ABBY! The Gods have spoken: welcome aboard PHTHONOS, known as RONAN AVERY-GREENE, with a faceclaim of HENRY ZAGA. Please take a look at our checklist, and send in your account in the next 24 hours.

ADMIN NOTES: We will tell you straight up when we see Phthonos was the most difficult decision for us to make. Both apps were so rich in detail and plot, and it physically hurt us to choose one. But Abby, your portrayal of Phthonos just managed to tip the scale. We loved the idea of Ronan having a twin, that she plays such a major role in his resentment. It is clear that Ronan still has so much growing to do, and we cannot wait to watch for how this crew and this quest shape him. Your expansion of connections truly let us envision the sort of person he’s going to be among the crew, the way he’s going to mesh with others, and we can’t wait to see his anger develop and affect those around him. (And, happy birthday!)

OUT OF CHARACTER

NAME/ALIAS: Abby AGE, TIMEZONE, PRONOUNS: 21 (today! happy acceptance day lol), GMT sept-dec & feb-may / EST dec-jan & june-aug, she/her ACTIVITY & EXTRAS: I’m a full-time uni student, so while my schedule is usually pretty busy it is very flexible. I’m typically on at least a handful of hours every day, and more than likely have Tumblr running in the background (whoops?)

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED SKELETON: Phthonos CHARACTER NAME: Ronan Avery-Greene AGE & GENDER: 24, cis male FACECLAIM: Henry Zaga, Xavier Serrano, Rome Flynn, Samuel Larsen, Keith Powers

BIOGRAPHY:

It would be easy to say Ronan came into this world screaming, tiny fists raised in the air and already angry at a world that pulled him too soon from the womb’s warm embrace. It would certainly paint a nice picture: Ronan, born screeching and bloody, living and dying much the same. Too nice, perhaps, that the Gods could not give it to him. That the Fates had something else in mind.

It is Eleanor, Ronan’s sister, twin, predetermined better half that comes first, with war and fight already beating in her chest. Ronan is second, one step behind and quarter of an hour later, Nora’s umbilical cord wrapped around his tiny neck.

And so Ronan enters the world like this: already choking where his sister could breathe.

Life before Camp Half-Blood is a blur of mediocrity. The three of them, Nora, Ronan, and their mother make a home northeast of Philadelphia. She’s a teacher, History. Nora takes up soccer and field hockey and swimming. Ronan tries his hand at baseball, but is asked not to return next season after he gives the coach’s son a black eye. Any questions of their father, posed mostly by Ronan, are met with mumbled excuses and hurried promises of when you’re older.

Their mother brings a man home when she thinks they’re asleep. A few months later she introduces him as her friend, David. When they get married, the twins take his name, too, because they’re twelve and despite the storm they summon to fight it get no say in the matter.

The blur comes to a halt. August 19th, 2007. Olivia Greene is born, beautiful and bright-eyed and human, though Ronan doesn’t know yet there’s a difference between what flows in his and his new sister’s veins. What he knows is that she becomes the centre of his mother’s world, and David’s, too, but attention directed away from them is little different than no attention at all. The Avery twins cease to exist in a Greene home.

Nora doesn’t pay it much mind. She’s thirteen now and full of rage. Ronan is, too, sometimes so much he swears the only thing he can see is red, burning red. But Nora has her friends and her sports, her schoolwork or boys to keep her busy. Ronan’s teachers have all but given up on him, and despite the anger that bubbles in his chest he still waits for his mother to tuck him in before bed. He doesn’t know yet what the call the hand that closes over his heart when his mother croons over Olivia’s first word, but fails to notice her son’s slipping grades, poor attendance, rising detention count. He doesn’t know that this is only the beginning, one step down a path that was laid out from conception.

He learns, though. They all pay attention when he puts his hand through the living room wall.

The doctor that bandages his knuckles has stern words and Ronan nods like he listens, but he can’t help the grin that spreads the next time he sees the damage. And again, the next morning, when it’s still there, or the morning after. A monument to his rage and pain and fury. In everyone’s faces, where they can’t brush him aside with not tonight’s and another time’s and your sister, your sister, your sister, so many times he feels like screaming.

David patches the wall, eventually. Paints it over until he can’t even see the seam. But now Ronan knows how it feels to ruin things: a little like fire, a little like ice. Mostly it feels like quiet, just for a second, before the pain hits, and that could almost be mistaken for bliss.

Nora found her fury years ago, but now Ronan has his, makes a home in it, and that’s when the monsters come. Because one is enough for attention, but two, intertwined and blazing, has their hunger. Nora notices they’re being followed first, of course she does. Ronan is always two steps behind, tissue pressed to his busted lip, papers spilling out of his open bag, lacrosse gear swinging wildly off his shoulder. But Nora sees what he doesn’t, grabs his arm, hushes him when he protests to being pulled down an unfamiliar side street.

As it turns out, their new English substitute did take a disliking to Ronan, but not for the reasons he expected.

Their satyr grabs them before anything else can, explains impossible things, gives Ronan more questions than answers. His eyes nearly big out of his head when he takes off his shoes. But Ronan’s body is braced for war and so he wants to fight, argue, shake his head until he can shake out everything the satyr’s said to them. As always, it’s Nora who has the clear head, Nora who dealt the fatal blow to the monster, Nora who decides to listen. And if Ronan could hear anything but the thump thump of his own heart, then maybe he’d realise it felt right. Because nothing except the impossible can explain what their substitute teacher became, and so it is the impossible they must accept.

Fate his kind, just this once, to Ronan and his sister. The house is empty when they arrive, Nora’s splintered softball bat and Ronan’s half-melted lacrosse stick ditched in the dumpster at the end of the street. They make haste, shove only what they can or need into a backpack each. Camp Half-Blood isn’t far, not really, but it still feels like an eternity before they reach the top of the hill, cold and bloody and shivering.

They’re claimed within the day. Well, Nora is, a daughter of Ares, but Ronan is her twin and so, by default, he must be, too. It feels right enough. It feels nice enough, to have a name to the rage that burns like acid in his veins. To have a reason. They make their home in cabin number five, sleep a full night for the first time in too long, are promised safety and training and answers in the morning. And they come, they do, in spades.

Ronan’s weapon becomes the spear, Nora’s the harpe, and together they are a force to be reckoned with. But it is Nora who deals the final blows, who captures the flags, who crosses the finish line, and each time she is lauded, praised, lifted on their shoulders as if weren’t Ronan who got her there. As if he hadn’t weakened their opponent, found the flag, cut down every chariot that came up behind them. He tries not to let the bitterness swell, tries so hard, but even his own victories aren’t met with the same vigour as Nora’s. Ronan wins, all the damn time, but he’s angry and ruthless and cruel, and so it is his sister who wears the crown.

She becomes cabin counselor. There is no other alternative. Ronan doesn’t dare challenge her, because she’s his sister, more than anyone else in their cabin, but more because he knows he’ll lose.

He does his best to ignore the way the crowd ripples when Chiron calls his name. Wills himself not to see the way their eyes swivel from Nora to him. He is not the favourite. He is trouble and dangerous, and hasn’t gotten anyone killed yet, but very nearly. It doesn’t quite fall away when he steps forward, but fades to a static. Because Chiron said his name, and because it can almost sound like his father saying it, too.

And that’s enough. It has to be enough, because if it isn’t, then what does he have left?

FATAL FLAW/DEFINING CHARACTERISTIC:

Envy has always been something of a double-edged sword for Ronan; equal parts incentive and obstacle. It’s envy that pits him against his sister, his twin, his partner fused in the womb. It’s envy that keeps him at the arena until the sun is long set, until sweat pours off him, until his palms are raw and bloody. It’s envy that has him running first into battle, always, because when Nora does it she’s praised but when he does he’s brash and careless. Envy is, truly, at the root of all action, whether Ronan knows it or not.

(He doesn’t, he’s never had the wherewithal to stop and consider, even for a moment, why he behaves the way he does; he fights and he ruins and he hates and he seethes because they’re the only things he knows how to do.)

It’s envy that will make him pick up the spear, jump to action, be a hero, maybe. It’s envy that will make him take the wrong step, move a second too late, catch the wrong side of a monster’s swinging fist. Because he’ll see Ambitio, or Dyspistia, or Honos, and think: I can do that too, and better. I will have what they have, finally. Equally, it’s envy that will paralyse him, stop his fighting heart, turn his muscles to stone. It’s envy that will make him think too hard, for too long, turn desire into obsession, miss his mark, kill his friends, kill the world.

Ronan does something because of envy, or he doesn’t do anything at all. It’s all the same, in the end.

EXTRAS

blog tag // moodboard // pinterest

CONNECTIONS, EXISTING (or expanded)

Anasfaleia: Ronan has met plenty of people who don’t like him. It’s in his nature to abrade, antagonise, rile up; the only true gift he considers from his father. His instinctual response has always been to dislike them back. But herein lies the issue: he doesn’t dislike Anasfaleia. Maybe he’s lacking in some respect for them, which he doesn’t feel is unwarranted, but he thinks of all the Greeks aboard the argo he might even like them the most – though that says little when he measures in relative distaste. Still, something familiar flickers in them, and the fact that they’ve rebuffed every attempt at connection only beckons him more. Kindness has always felt clunky on his tongue, strange and unfamiliar. It’s clear, by contrast, that Anasfaleia is unfamiliar with the Ares way of affection – or at least liking. But he also knows that only pushing them further to the edge of the cliff is a sure way down to destruction. He just needs to come to terms with his own actions and, gods forbid, their consequences.

Ambitio: When Ronan is at a loss for how to express himself he becomes cruel. It’s a learned response, because anger is loud and kindness is quiet and because he feels, so he wants others to feel in return. It’s childish, and immature, and a thousand other things Ronan hasn’t stopped to consider, but still he persists. With Laurel it is amplified tenfold. He feels everything, can do nothing, and so he seethes. Quietly, at first, until it isn’t. And then it is loud, burning and raging and filed down to a point. He doesn’t yet know how to get under her skin, how to garner the response he’s looking for, but he’ll keep trying. Eventually, something has to stick. One of his jabs will land, because he’s never known how to relinquish anything, especially pain, and when he does it will likely bring disaster raining on all of them.

Dyspistia: War and strategy, Ronan’s heard the mantra, had it drilled into him from his very first capture the flag. He knows Dyspistia would rather Nora be aboard than him; they’ve not exactly been quiet about it. He wants to prove them wrong, Dyspistia and everyone who dared whisper when he was chosen. He’s meant to be there, he’s earned this right. What has Dyspistia done to be chosen? What accolades have they been passed over for? But Ronan is self-destructive, and maybe he wants to prove them a little right, too. Maybe that’s why he buries his spear in the side of the ship, why he mouths off, antagonises the most volatile of the Romans, why he acts without fear of consequence. Because Dyspistia is right; Ronan is the wrong twin, always has been, and his refusal to cooperate with what should be his better half aboard the Argo II is just one more nail in the coffin he’s built for himself.

Pacis: It’s not the first time someone has tried to make peace with him. But Ronan has war and wolves howling in his veins, chariots pounding in his heart. He has never known peace, likely never will. Those who extend the olive branch only end up getting burned. He understands this quest is bigger than him, bigger than even the Greeks, he does, honest to gods. But his mind is so easily clouded, his gaze so easily distracted. More so, Ronan is suspicious. The Romans are never what they present themselves to be, and though Pacis’ attempt at bridging the gap between camps seems nice enough, Ronan keeps looking for the snake in the grass. He cannot, for the life of him, fathom how someone trained in battle for so many years of their life can be so kind, simply because Ronan has only known it to be weakness, and it leaves him dubious. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, so sure it will.

CONNECTIONS, POTENTIAL

Agapi: Hunters of Artemis are never permanent fixtures in Camp Half-Blood, but when they do visit Ronan is sure to give them a wide berth. Just once, he turns away from the conflict rather than towards it. He knows he’s everything the Hunters are bred to hate, and so when Agapi is chosen beside him he’s already braced for impact. But, maybe, a hunter and soldier aren’t so different, and Ronan has always been a wild thing, so it’s possible he’s been too hasty. They don’t take a liking to each other, but that’s hardly out of character. Still, the age behind their eyes intrigues him. He sees them watching the Romans, but can’t discern if it’s with hate, which he knows, envy, which he knows, or something else entirely.

Amarus: Another Roman who scorns the gods. Is Ronan missing something? Is there some great secret they haven’t let the Greeks in on? Half of him knows already, really. Half of him understands Amarus, because what have the gods given him except a gaping hole? A void he’s forced to fill with violence and anger and pleas that fall on deaf ears. But half of him scorns Amarus right back, because what would they – any of them, all of them – be without the gods? Self-made heroes? What a farce. Something bitter twists in Ronan’s stomach when he looks at them. If he were crueler, he might say they’re only there to be the ship’s lucky charm, but surely even he isn’t so cold-hearted, right?

Anisychia: Ronan has never known them to be timid, or skittish, or anything except overwhelmingly kind. They might’ve even been a friend, once, between bandaging his bruised knuckles and patching up black eyes, if Ronan hadn’t found a gift for ruination, for spoiling all things sweet that came his way. But he knows this: something fundamental shifted in the throne room. He can’t even begin to fathom what Apollo might have given them, as all gifts the Gods grant their children are laced equal parts with poison, but he clutches his spear tighter every night. Thankfully, the Argo II leaves little room to hide, and if Anisychia insists on keeping this secret to themselves, they’ll soon have Ronan biting at their heels.

Apatheia: Of all the things Ronan has been burdened with, or otherwise hoisted upon himself, death is not one of them, and for that, perhaps, he is fortunate. But he is still a victim of the crowd, a follower of trends, and for all the summers and years he’s shared with Apatheia at Camp Half-Blood, he’s given them a wide berth through each one. Who wouldn’t, he thinks, with their sunken eyes and raised hackles, always looking like something backed into a corner. They scare some campers, unnerve others. Ronan simply stayed away because everyone did. But the Argo II leaves little room for escape, and Ronan finds himself forced to reconsider: are war and death really so different, after all?

Culpa: Cursed, they say, and Ronan wants to laugh. He looks at her and sees nothing but profound sadness – an emotion unfamiliar on a Roman’s face, but something he knows well enough. If Ivy thinks she’s the one to bring dishonour and disaster to the Argo II, she hasn’t met Ronan, the Least Glorious Child of Ares. Surely no bad luck or ill fate can compare to Ronan’s profound mediocrity, the highest disgrace in his father’s eyes. He wants to spit at her, you know nothing of failure, of fighting for everything only to get nothing in return but scorn and disregard. But Ronan knows better than that. Still, something about her beckons him, like a bruise; to touch, to press, to see where all the hurt is.

Cynici: Envy blossoms in his chest again, this time a different shade. How Ronan wishes he could cast off the shackles of his father, feel resentment or hatred, or Gods even indifference, instead of despair. But he can’t, and he doesn’t, and he hates Cynici all the more for making it look so easy. They despise their godly parent, Ronan thinks, maybe because he’s looking for it, or maybe because violence and anger are the only things he knows how to recognise anymore. He wants to ask how they do it; how they stopped begging, if they ever did, how they learned to live with the burden, if they ever felt one, but that would require a moment alone and a shred of trust, both of which Ronan is lacking.

Honos: Hero, the Romans whisper, as if it’s already decided. He can’t say they look like much, but if appearances were the sole factor determining glory then surely Ronan would be suffocating in it by now. As it stands, he doesn’t know what to make of Honos. Half of him wants to believe they were only chosen for their legacy, because he is, at his core, insecure and yearning for a kindred spirit. But he’s not blind to the way greatness wraps itself around their shoulders like a shroud – or perhaps it’s simply duty he sees; they look so similar to Ronan these days. Regardless, he treads carefully around Honos, watches when he thinks they aren’t looking, waits, but what for he doesn’t yet know.

Othisi: Ronan struggles to feel little more than contempt for the Hermes cabin, and they are no exception. They take nothing seriously, where Ronan takes everything, and Gods help them if they come within sight of his spear. He knows, he knows, the Greeks need a united front if they’re to have any hope against the Romans, but it seems like everything Othisi does is purposely designed to set him off. The cheeky smirks, quick hands, half-truths, each crafted to slip under his skin. Ronan knows he’s not that special, really, but he can’t help the anxiety that builds every time they’re in the room. The only good Othisi has ever done is give Ronan and Dyspistia something to agree on, but perhaps that is a feat all on its own.

Superbia: If Ronan hadn’t been in the room himself, he scarcely would’ve believed Superbia of all people was a chosen hero. Everything about them drips opulence, and though Ronan knows little of quests or glory, he knows battle, he knows war, and decadence has little place in either; sooner would it get you killed than bring you victory. He’s convinced Superbia will stick out like a sore thumb, if only because he fails to see their use. Bacchus is not a warrior god, and in turn has not made a warrior child. It’s likely that Ronan’s own hubris clouds any perceived threat, but perhaps that’s for the better. Of all the Romans on board the Argo II, Ronan can find the fewest reasons to hate them.

#accepted

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