The Path Least Treacherous
"I'm not doing that, Giddy." Aamon protested, but as with anything Aamon-related, the dignity of it all was absent. The Slytherin stumbled down the grassy incline, his boots slipping slightly against the damp spring grass. The path toward the campgrounds wasn't treacherous by design, but the path did not need to be when Aamon was involved. As if in compensation for various cosmic boons, nothing was easy for Aamon. One might say that the threads of fate had a way of remembering weight, price and consequence. The threads of this Seer's tapestry knew enough to shift just enough to remind him that footing was a privilege, not a guarantee.As always, my threads are OPEN, however if you join my thread it is expected that you post regularly and promptly so that the story continues.
Mentions to mentees in case they wish to join: @Inara Drakov, @Emma Fox, @Adelaide Avery-Jones and @Atlas Caius Benedict
The teen caught himself, barely, straightening with a sharp inhale that he quickly disguised as irritation rather than imbalance. "I mean it," the snake complained, brushing blades of grass that somehow found their way onto his sleeve as if dignity could be restored through casual maintenance of his wizarding robes. It could not. "This feels like a terrible idea," he announced, adding "which, historically, tends to correlate quite strongly with ALL of your ideas." Was this an accusation? No, it was truth, a statement of fact. Gideon had a terrible habit of walking people like Aamon "accidently" into a pit of vipers that he had laid out personally a few hours earlier.
Gideon Athanatos was Aamon's older half-brother, not that Aamon always seemed to be the younger one. While Gideon was older than Aamon by multiple years, Gideon clung to the appearance of youth and vulnerability. The boy was far from fragile, in fact, it was more a predatory tactic than an aesthetic choice most would eventually learn if they lived to tell the tale. The boys shared the same father, the renowned Thaddeus Athanatos, a well known philanthropist who had recently set his eye on politics. He was best known in wizarding circles for his familial skill of prophecy, the name going back generations. It is for that reason they shared the same name and the same powerful dynastic legacy, but they could not be any more different. Gideon had a cruel streak that seemed to skip Aamon, or Aamon was just too anxious to discover it was always there.
Ahead, the campgrounds unfolded in neat, curated rows. Hogwarts maintained a collection of cabins that looked deceptively quaint at first glance. Timbered exteriors, sloped roofs, soft golden light flickering behind enchanted windows. These cabins were the sort of place that promised warmth, rest, and carefully managed nostalgia, or one might think, but there was a chaotic element to everything magic and to what one would consider "normal." They were used seasonably by foreign, visiting students and left vacant the rest of the year.
Each cabin was enchanted, of course. Not merely for comfort... no, that would be pedestrian, but rather each cabin was layered with subtle, shifting magic. Space bent differently inside them, making spaces significantly larger than the humble exteriors claimed. Rooms expanded to hold whatever the wizards deemed necessary for a pleasant stay. Some spaces whispered, others remembered. A few, if rumor held any weight, did not entirely let go of those who stayed too long, but those were merely tales told by upper classmen to give the youngsters a fright. Or one would hope.
Aamon slowed.
Aamon's mismatched eyes flicked from one cabin to the next, cataloguing them without meaning to. There was one cedar cabin with ivy that seemed to grow against gravity. There was another made of a red wood with shutters that didn't quite align with the windows they covered. There was yet another cabin that seemed… dimmer. Not as if it was unlit, just as if that cabin in particular was less present. There was something about this space that Aamon did not like, in fact he barely tolerated the castle. Furthermore, if his half-brother was involved, whatever was here or about to be here could not be good.
Yet stupid... stupid Aamon was here against all logic and wit. "Is this where you bring people when you want them to have a pleasant time?" Aamon asked dryly. Aamon glanced sideways at him, something uneasy threading beneath his usual sarcasm. There was a particular kind of silence Gideon carried, the kind that wasn't absence, but intention. Like a held breath. Like a blade not yet drawn.
"I'm serious," Aamon said again, quieter now, though no less stubborn. "If this is another one of your... what do you call them... lessons? I'd like to formally opt out. I'm still recovering from the last one. Physically. Emotionally. Structurally."
iNPC: Taylor Athanatos
The Path Least Treacherous
Gideon did not slow. Gideon was the sort to lead, not follow or comply. Not that there were not exceptions, which were not moment of deference but rather moments of necessity or utility. Aamon did not represent either exception, he never did. Aamon moved through the world like gravity had a personal vendetta against him. Born soft, raised softer somehow. He blamed the house elves and their affinity for the fragile youth. The characteristic stumble, the less characteristic recovery, then brushing of sleeves as if dignity could be reapplied like polish, Gideon Athanatos noticed all of it.
But Gideon said nothing at first. They were almost there: the campgrounds.
The campgrounds stretched before them, quaint in the way a falsehood was quaint. Cabins, like words, carefully arranged. Intentionally harmless by design, but able to intentionally or unintentionally hide secrets. The Hogwarts campground was the kind of place designed to lull lesser minds into believing they understood the space they occupied when they could not possibly understand a world that was always changing, always manipulating by the efforts of greater hands.
Gideon's gaze passed over the cabins once, he knew what to expect here already so he was only searching for a deviation from the expected.
"A terrible idea?" Gideon, or Giddy as he preferred to be called, echoed finally. Giddy's voice was soft and level, not defensive, nor offended, only… amused.
Gideon would eventually top and turn just enough to look at Aamon. The Hufflepuff's expression was mild, almost patient. The kind of patience that came from knowing the outcome long before the question was asked. "And yet," he said, tilting his head slightly like a curious bird, "you followed me." He knew that Aamon would, that was never a question. Curiosity, duty and habit were dangerous when present in an environment clever enough to note these consistent tendencies. "That's not my habit, Aamon. That's yours."
The elder Atahanatos' gaze flicked briefly to the cabins again, to the one where the ivy climbed where it shouldn't, there was no power there, just human aesthetic. Then there was the one that felt… thinner, less anchored to the world. Indeed, he had chosen well. "You always mistake inevitability for manipulation," Gideon continued, tone sharpening just slightly at the edges. "As if I dragged you here. As if I needed to."
"You're here because some part of you knows there's something to be learned. You just resent that I'm the one teaching it." He likely resented Gideon in general, but with the mention of lessons, Gideon's attention had returned fully to Aamon. Gideon noted the fact that there was a thread of unease beneath the sarcasm. An awareness one might liken to a sixth sense or more accurately experience that emulated the almost-instinct that something wasn't right. And truth be told: something always was.
And, good...
"You don't get to opt out of the useful ones." Giddy gestured, almost lazily, toward the cabins. "Relax. This isn't a lesson," he claimed but it was a half-lie. Everything was a lesson if you survived it, but he was never really much of a teacher. "It's an opportunity," or so he claimed as he began walking again, angling toward the dimmer cabin; the one that seemed just slightly out of place, as if reality had forgotten to finish it.
But Gideon said nothing at first. They were almost there: the campgrounds.
The campgrounds stretched before them, quaint in the way a falsehood was quaint. Cabins, like words, carefully arranged. Intentionally harmless by design, but able to intentionally or unintentionally hide secrets. The Hogwarts campground was the kind of place designed to lull lesser minds into believing they understood the space they occupied when they could not possibly understand a world that was always changing, always manipulating by the efforts of greater hands.
Gideon's gaze passed over the cabins once, he knew what to expect here already so he was only searching for a deviation from the expected.
"A terrible idea?" Gideon, or Giddy as he preferred to be called, echoed finally. Giddy's voice was soft and level, not defensive, nor offended, only… amused.
Gideon would eventually top and turn just enough to look at Aamon. The Hufflepuff's expression was mild, almost patient. The kind of patience that came from knowing the outcome long before the question was asked. "And yet," he said, tilting his head slightly like a curious bird, "you followed me." He knew that Aamon would, that was never a question. Curiosity, duty and habit were dangerous when present in an environment clever enough to note these consistent tendencies. "That's not my habit, Aamon. That's yours."
The elder Atahanatos' gaze flicked briefly to the cabins again, to the one where the ivy climbed where it shouldn't, there was no power there, just human aesthetic. Then there was the one that felt… thinner, less anchored to the world. Indeed, he had chosen well. "You always mistake inevitability for manipulation," Gideon continued, tone sharpening just slightly at the edges. "As if I dragged you here. As if I needed to."
"You're here because some part of you knows there's something to be learned. You just resent that I'm the one teaching it." He likely resented Gideon in general, but with the mention of lessons, Gideon's attention had returned fully to Aamon. Gideon noted the fact that there was a thread of unease beneath the sarcasm. An awareness one might liken to a sixth sense or more accurately experience that emulated the almost-instinct that something wasn't right. And truth be told: something always was.
And, good...
"You don't get to opt out of the useful ones." Giddy gestured, almost lazily, toward the cabins. "Relax. This isn't a lesson," he claimed but it was a half-lie. Everything was a lesson if you survived it, but he was never really much of a teacher. "It's an opportunity," or so he claimed as he began walking again, angling toward the dimmer cabin; the one that seemed just slightly out of place, as if reality had forgotten to finish it.
The Path Least Treacherous
Aamon let Gideon speak, which, in itself was an act of restraint worthy of academic recognition. It was not that he trusted his brother, that would be an act of ultimate stupidity, but there was nothing 'dangerous' in the campgrounds, or so Aamon thought.
Aamon followed Gideon a step behind. The Seer was not stumbling this time. His footing had steadied, but there was something else in place of his uncertainity. A hesitation that the snake disguised as thoughtfulness, his chin tilted just enough to imply that Aamon was considering Gideon's words rather than reacting to them.
It was feigned restraint because he could not defeat or outwit his brother, but he could pretend to be unbothered. Not that his acting was worthy of accolades. "And yet," Aamon echoed lightly, voice carrying that familiar, polished edge, "you're still narrating my motivations like you wrote them yourself." How meta.
Aamon exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking briefly toward the cabins. What was the story here? In short order, the wizarding schools would arrive for the Spring Ball and they would occupy these cabins. Some of the cabins look eerie by nature, but that was their preexisting nature. There had to be something more to all of this he reasoned, his thoughts moving to Taylor. Gideon was obsessed with her, was he looking for her cabin?
"I didn't follow you because it was inevitable," Aamon corrected. "I followed you because leaving you unattended tends to result in structural damage: to people... to places... to reality." Aamon was the hero in this story as unlikely as that might seem. "Call it civic responsibility."
Aamon's mismatched eyes drifted back to Gideon, narrowing slightly. The expression was not defiant, nor was it submissive, but rather it was aware. Or so he believed. "You always do this," Aamon added, his voice quieter now as if he was sharing some sort of secret revelation. " You turn everything into some grand design. Like every step I take is part of a pattern you've already mapped out." He was not far from the truth. A faint, humorless smile tugged at his mouth, he tried to defuse the spoken truth with sarcasm. "It's flattering, really. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were obsessed."
The wind subtlety, tugging faintly at his light wool jacket that he wore over plain dark slacks. Aamon's attention flicked instinctively to the dimmer cabin Gideon had chosen. The one that didn't sit quite right. The one that felt like it had been almost remembered into existence.
Aamon's stomach tightened. He tried to ignore it. "An opportunity," Aamon repeated with some hesitation, he preferred a pop quiz, a quest, something that had the risk written on the label. He tasted the words like they might be poisoned and frowned at their bitterness. "Right. Because every time you say that, I end up either nearly dead, mildly possessed," as opposed to majorly one might suppose, "or having an existential crisis in a corridor."
It wasn't that Aamon resented instruction, but like all of his brothers, they never bothered to ask if I wanted to learn anything at all. He just wanted to be left alone. He took another glance at the cabin, "what sort of trauma would this result in" he wondered. Aamon rolled his shoulders back anyway, posture resetting into something sharper, more deliberate. He was not as good at hiding his fear, maintaining his composure or being the man the world expected him to be, but every day he would try. Today was no expectation.
"Fine," he said at last, voice tight. "Let's call it your opportunity." But if that thing tries to rewrite his personality, steal his reflection, or start whispering in a language that sounds like it's chewing glass, he was going to submit a formal complaint to someone... Certainly not his father. The headmaster? No, he was not getting involved in some family squabble, even if there was bloodshead.
He took the handle of this strange, wrong cabin in hand and pulled.
Aamon followed Gideon a step behind. The Seer was not stumbling this time. His footing had steadied, but there was something else in place of his uncertainity. A hesitation that the snake disguised as thoughtfulness, his chin tilted just enough to imply that Aamon was considering Gideon's words rather than reacting to them.
It was feigned restraint because he could not defeat or outwit his brother, but he could pretend to be unbothered. Not that his acting was worthy of accolades. "And yet," Aamon echoed lightly, voice carrying that familiar, polished edge, "you're still narrating my motivations like you wrote them yourself." How meta.
Aamon exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking briefly toward the cabins. What was the story here? In short order, the wizarding schools would arrive for the Spring Ball and they would occupy these cabins. Some of the cabins look eerie by nature, but that was their preexisting nature. There had to be something more to all of this he reasoned, his thoughts moving to Taylor. Gideon was obsessed with her, was he looking for her cabin?
"I didn't follow you because it was inevitable," Aamon corrected. "I followed you because leaving you unattended tends to result in structural damage: to people... to places... to reality." Aamon was the hero in this story as unlikely as that might seem. "Call it civic responsibility."
Aamon's mismatched eyes drifted back to Gideon, narrowing slightly. The expression was not defiant, nor was it submissive, but rather it was aware. Or so he believed. "You always do this," Aamon added, his voice quieter now as if he was sharing some sort of secret revelation. " You turn everything into some grand design. Like every step I take is part of a pattern you've already mapped out." He was not far from the truth. A faint, humorless smile tugged at his mouth, he tried to defuse the spoken truth with sarcasm. "It's flattering, really. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were obsessed."
The wind subtlety, tugging faintly at his light wool jacket that he wore over plain dark slacks. Aamon's attention flicked instinctively to the dimmer cabin Gideon had chosen. The one that didn't sit quite right. The one that felt like it had been almost remembered into existence.
Aamon's stomach tightened. He tried to ignore it. "An opportunity," Aamon repeated with some hesitation, he preferred a pop quiz, a quest, something that had the risk written on the label. He tasted the words like they might be poisoned and frowned at their bitterness. "Right. Because every time you say that, I end up either nearly dead, mildly possessed," as opposed to majorly one might suppose, "or having an existential crisis in a corridor."
It wasn't that Aamon resented instruction, but like all of his brothers, they never bothered to ask if I wanted to learn anything at all. He just wanted to be left alone. He took another glance at the cabin, "what sort of trauma would this result in" he wondered. Aamon rolled his shoulders back anyway, posture resetting into something sharper, more deliberate. He was not as good at hiding his fear, maintaining his composure or being the man the world expected him to be, but every day he would try. Today was no expectation.
"Fine," he said at last, voice tight. "Let's call it your opportunity." But if that thing tries to rewrite his personality, steal his reflection, or start whispering in a language that sounds like it's chewing glass, he was going to submit a formal complaint to someone... Certainly not his father. The headmaster? No, he was not getting involved in some family squabble, even if there was bloodshead.
He took the handle of this strange, wrong cabin in hand and pulled.
iNPC: Taylor Athanatos
The Path Least Treacherous
Gideon was not going to stop his younger brother, not when Aamon was so closely following the script. That was always the distinction between the brothers: Aamon reacted, even when he dressed it up as choice. Gideon simply observed, making himself as small or unnoticeable as he needed to until the moment came to decide whether intervention was necessary or instructive. If it was not, he would remain as he was - a child worthy of being overlooked, perhaps even saved.
Aamon was changing, a late bloomer in some ways. He truly did have more of his mother's inferior blood in him, yet he still managed to grasp the legacy boon of their family: prophecy. Had he lacked, as others before him had, he would have been thrust from the family long ago. Yet, the features of something more were begging to stir within him. It was a process more with some than others, that hollowing of their nature, the replacement of their compassion with something colder, more calculating and necessary. He might even live long enough to see that day. And there were signs. He saw it in the faint shift at the corner of his mouth when Aamon called this his civic responsibility, the expression was not quite a smile, nor was the gesture quite a mockery. It was an attempt to become something sharp, but his instrument was at best was still clay.
"Heroism," Gideon said at last, almost thoughtfully, as if testing the word for weaknesses. There was a tome to be found. "How exhausting."
Gideon's gaze didn't leave Aamon as he continued, his voice calm, precise, cutting without raising itself as if he was giving a lesson or simply proving how much smarter than him he was. "You don't follow me to prevent damage. You follow me to witness it. There's a difference. A subtle one, but an important one still. One implies control." Which Aamon continued to lack. Gideon tilted his head ever so slightly. "The other implies... curiosity."
Curiosity was a dangerous thing and curiosity was Aamon's true weakness. Not his fear, not his anxiety, not his numerous failings or short-comings. Luck and mercy had often favored the Seer, but weakness was something else. Gideon's smile held too many teeth, "...and you've always been curious."
The wind shifted, brushing past them both, but Gideon didn't move with the capricious winds. The fourth-year remained still, anchored. The world adjusted around him, like it did around any true Athanatos cognizant of their worth, rather than the reverse.
"If I were obsessed," Gideon replied quietly, "you wouldn't still be guessing." The edges of his lips drew upward, his voice softer but the words carried more of a threat than the previous. "You'd know."
Aamon reached for the door. He thought more prodding would have been necessary. Perhaps this was his attempt to take control, to prevent disaster by becoming the unexpected. But as Gideon said before, this was a battle against inevitability.
Gideon's attention shifted, not to the unexpected but oddly compliant act itself, but to the space around it. The cabin itself, the way the structure seemed to hesitate. The way the edges of the structure felt thinner than it should. Like something remembering how to be solid but it was a false memory of a life that never was.
As Aamon's hand closed around the handle that looked like polished brass but lacked the coolness metal should give, rather with a sigh the door began to give. Gideon took this opportunity, it was one of the potential outcomes, just now he knew the favored thread. With a single step forward, Gideon's hand come to Aamon’s shoulder: a sharp shove. Strong enough to send his younger half-brother over the threshold if Aamon did not avoid him or if Aamon did not walk inside on his own without intervention.
This was of course no accident.
"Go on," Gideon said, his voice almost mocking, as if this had always been the natural conclusion. "Let's see what becomes of you." The door swung wider with the motion, the space inside unfolding in that wrong, subtle way as if the cabin were larger than it had any right to be.
Gideon had no intention of following, he did not test terrible things on himself. He remained just outside, hand still on the doorframe, watching. Then, assuming Aamon had been forced inside, the door would slam closed with a finality to this chapter and if Aamon did not take care, an end to his story.
Aamon was changing, a late bloomer in some ways. He truly did have more of his mother's inferior blood in him, yet he still managed to grasp the legacy boon of their family: prophecy. Had he lacked, as others before him had, he would have been thrust from the family long ago. Yet, the features of something more were begging to stir within him. It was a process more with some than others, that hollowing of their nature, the replacement of their compassion with something colder, more calculating and necessary. He might even live long enough to see that day. And there were signs. He saw it in the faint shift at the corner of his mouth when Aamon called this his civic responsibility, the expression was not quite a smile, nor was the gesture quite a mockery. It was an attempt to become something sharp, but his instrument was at best was still clay.
"Heroism," Gideon said at last, almost thoughtfully, as if testing the word for weaknesses. There was a tome to be found. "How exhausting."
Gideon's gaze didn't leave Aamon as he continued, his voice calm, precise, cutting without raising itself as if he was giving a lesson or simply proving how much smarter than him he was. "You don't follow me to prevent damage. You follow me to witness it. There's a difference. A subtle one, but an important one still. One implies control." Which Aamon continued to lack. Gideon tilted his head ever so slightly. "The other implies... curiosity."
Curiosity was a dangerous thing and curiosity was Aamon's true weakness. Not his fear, not his anxiety, not his numerous failings or short-comings. Luck and mercy had often favored the Seer, but weakness was something else. Gideon's smile held too many teeth, "...and you've always been curious."
The wind shifted, brushing past them both, but Gideon didn't move with the capricious winds. The fourth-year remained still, anchored. The world adjusted around him, like it did around any true Athanatos cognizant of their worth, rather than the reverse.
"If I were obsessed," Gideon replied quietly, "you wouldn't still be guessing." The edges of his lips drew upward, his voice softer but the words carried more of a threat than the previous. "You'd know."
Aamon reached for the door. He thought more prodding would have been necessary. Perhaps this was his attempt to take control, to prevent disaster by becoming the unexpected. But as Gideon said before, this was a battle against inevitability.
Gideon's attention shifted, not to the unexpected but oddly compliant act itself, but to the space around it. The cabin itself, the way the structure seemed to hesitate. The way the edges of the structure felt thinner than it should. Like something remembering how to be solid but it was a false memory of a life that never was.
As Aamon's hand closed around the handle that looked like polished brass but lacked the coolness metal should give, rather with a sigh the door began to give. Gideon took this opportunity, it was one of the potential outcomes, just now he knew the favored thread. With a single step forward, Gideon's hand come to Aamon’s shoulder: a sharp shove. Strong enough to send his younger half-brother over the threshold if Aamon did not avoid him or if Aamon did not walk inside on his own without intervention.
This was of course no accident.
"Go on," Gideon said, his voice almost mocking, as if this had always been the natural conclusion. "Let's see what becomes of you." The door swung wider with the motion, the space inside unfolding in that wrong, subtle way as if the cabin were larger than it had any right to be.
Gideon had no intention of following, he did not test terrible things on himself. He remained just outside, hand still on the doorframe, watching. Then, assuming Aamon had been forced inside, the door would slam closed with a finality to this chapter and if Aamon did not take care, an end to his story.
The Path Least Treacherous
The hut was dark, full of secrets. Everybody want to enter, but the fear is great lord. The floor creaked, dark brown, maybe it could be made of oak. You can see it's old. The walls they were built of brick, and then It was painted with shades of dark colors.
The furnitures was clean, but still old. The door opens into a beautiful living room. You can smell the old things.
In the hut, next to the living room, there was a small room. There was a girl,was short for her age, she has black long hair, absolutely matched with her black cloak. It looked like her hair was tied up, but the elastic wasn't too tight. In her hair was a little star buckle, It was silver, shiny. Her hands are small, and dirty, bc of the searching.
She was searching something, every furniture was open, and useless objects were thrown on the ground. It was a mess. there was something in her arm. When the door closed her face turned pale and she raised her head. She slowly turn around to the door.
Her face is little dirty too. She was young, like 11 years old. And she is, 11 years old. She has deep black eyes, with long black eyeslashes. Her tie is yellow, which shows she from Hufflepuff.
The furnitures was clean, but still old. The door opens into a beautiful living room. You can smell the old things.
In the hut, next to the living room, there was a small room. There was a girl,was short for her age, she has black long hair, absolutely matched with her black cloak. It looked like her hair was tied up, but the elastic wasn't too tight. In her hair was a little star buckle, It was silver, shiny. Her hands are small, and dirty, bc of the searching.
She was searching something, every furniture was open, and useless objects were thrown on the ground. It was a mess. there was something in her arm. When the door closed her face turned pale and she raised her head. She slowly turn around to the door.
Her face is little dirty too. She was young, like 11 years old. And she is, 11 years old. She has deep black eyes, with long black eyeslashes. Her tie is yellow, which shows she from Hufflepuff.
The Path Least Treacherous
‿︵‿୨✿୧‿︵‿
Interacting: @Gideon Athanatos | @Aamon Athanatos
Mentioning: @Mathias Athanatos | @Emma Fox
A pair of pink boots pressed softly against the yellowed grass. It was still early spring, the world still half asleep as winter began to loosen it's hold over the landscape, with colours bleeding into the mix. A blade of green here, a dash of yellow from the frost battling flowers.
Winnie had always been a fan of wildflowers, and while some were beginning to bloom most weren't ready to collect just yet. Some bright yellow gorse was carefully tucked behind her ear as she bent down to inspect the buds below her feet. In a week or two, the land would be alive again, and she wouldn't need her floral sweater to protect her from the cold anymore. Until then... More gorse would brighten up her dorm room.
She was busy humming a soft melody under her beath as she plucked them, a new muggle song her mother had introduced her to during her Winter break. Then something broke through the silence, through her happy place. A voice in the distance that sounded familiar. She stilled, pausing to listen. The sprig of gorse she had plucked bent beneath her fingers when realized who the voice belonged to. Gideon. The worst of the Athanatos crew, in her opinion. She was an Athanatos only through marriage, wed at a young age to the family's current heir, Mathias.
The Ravenclaw had been successfully avoiding the blonde terror the last few months, after Gideon had lured her to the forest and she had broken his fingers in anger. She would have ignored the Hufflepuff or tried to slip away away, but she heard a second voice... Aamon. Something protective flared within her. Winnie happened to be fond of the young Athanatos, as he was quite possibly the most 'normal' of her husband's siblings.
She carefully crept towards the direction of the voices, the top of her head peeking out behind one of the cabins as she watched the brothers talk. She tilted her head to try and eavesdrop, her copper curls slipping over her shoulder. As she watched Aamon reach for the door knob, she stepped closer, her flowers held closer to her chest.
Slam. Dammit, he had already gone inside. Where was this boy's survival instincts?
"Why are you poking around the cabins?" She finally spoke, her eyes narrowing as they settled on Gideon, her suspicion clear.
When her eyes landed on the door Aamon had just walked through, her voice softened. "Come back here, Aamon." It was less a command, more of a plea. Do not go places where even Gideon refused to follow. She had no idea what was waiting inside for him, or that there was a first year hiding among the cabins.
│ │ | │ │ | STA: 15 • EVA: 18 • STR: 8 WIS: 11 • ARC: 7 • ACC: 17 | │ │ | • Healing Sage • Muggle Condition • Paragon of Health • • Poison Resistance • Animagus • Wandmaker • Lovely Creature • | │ │ | │ │ |
The Path Least Treacherous
The shove was not violent and that was what made it worse. Gideon's hand came down firm between Aamon's shoulders and then the world tilted forward just enough that resistance became irrelevant. It was not that Aamon was compliant, nor that he was unwilling to struggle, he just did not have the opportunity.
Aamon stumbled over the threshold and entered the cabin. He could hear someone call his name. It was not loud, more a request. He tried to look behind him, he saw a pink, a flash of red. The door shut behind him with a dull, final weight. He did not feel a slam, not even a click as the door shut behind him. Just closure without a lock. As if the cabin had decided that was enough.
The living room unfolded before him. There was someone there already, @Emma Fox, not that he knew her name. How she got in there, what she was already doing there, that was beyond him. Hopefully that would be something her author could explain.
Firelight danced in the hearth, casting long amber shadows across polished wood floors. A low table sat at the center, papers scattered in deliberate disorder, a single candle burning with a steady, unwavering flame. Around it, chairs: three of them, were angled slightly inward, as though mid-conversation. One upholstered chair was leaned just a fraction too far back. Another faced not the table, but the space beside it. The air smelled of smoke and old wood, but there was no heat, the air felt slightly cool and damp.
The walls pressed in with a quiet kind of attention. Shelves lined with books and objects that felt curated rather than lived-in. As if someone had went on a shopping spree at Pottery Barn. A window to the side revealed nothing but dim, indistinct blue—no trees, no sky, no world beyond the glass pane. Just the suggestion that the window led to the outside.
Aamon's boots touched the rug, and the sound felt… delayed. Like the room had to decide to let it happen. Aamon wheeled around. Behind him, the door did not exist anymore. He did not see anything besides a wall, unbroken, uninterrupted, as if the door had never been there at all. He could not hear the girl's voice that called his name, nor could he hear Gideon's but he pounded on the wall where the door should have been all the same. "Giddy!" The side of his fist pounded on the wall, there was no give, no hollow noise.
"Giddy!" He shouted a second time, knowing that it was no use. Whatever Gideon was up to, he was not going to just open the door because he raised his voice. It was then that he turned around and looked, really looked this time at the living space. It looked like a normal cabin, a sort of faux rustic atmosphere. He was pretty sure the chairs had rotated slightly since he had first entered, but he had no time to fixate on the furniture.
He would look over at the girl, the dirty stranger. She was probably a ghost. In fact, he was certain she was a ghost or some sort of dead or illusionary thing. "H-hey zombie girl," well, possibly ghost girl but she was not floating or translucent like the other ghosts he had seen. "Do you happen to know how to get out of this place or did you get trapped here and starve to death..." because those were the only two logical conclusions. "Are you some vengeful creature now forced to haunt these halls forever?"
iNPC: Taylor Athanatos
The Path Least Treacherous
Gideon did not turn when Winnie's voice broke an otherwise perfectly pleasant encounter with his brother. That was the problem with broads, they had an issue with attention on anything but them. No brotherly bonding today.
Giddy stood exactly where he had been, one hand still resting lightly against the rough wooden doorframe, not as if he meant to open it again, but as if he were listening through it. There was a noise, a faint one. He could not quite hear Aamon's voice, but he could feel the vibrations through the closed door. He knew that the wood beneath his fingers did not behave like wood, it couldn't because it wasn't. This building was more than an aggregation of iron and splinters, this structure held tension.
Only after a moment, after Winnie had spoken his brother Aamon's name and softened her voice, revealing her concern did Gideon move. He turned his head just enough to regard his perpetually frustrated sister-in-law. Gideon's pale gaze settling on the splash of yellow at her ear, the clutch of flowers in her hands like some fragile, defiant offering against the world.
There was something almost curious in his expression. As if the scene humored him. "Still picking things that die within the hour," he said quietly. His words were not mockery, not quite. Just observation sharpened into something unkind. It was after all human nature to pluck what is beautiful from the fertile ground so that they may watch it wither and die.
Gideon's attention flicked briefly to the cabin door again as Winnie called for Aamon. The call would be ultimately useless. "He can't hear you," Gideon claimed, his voice even. "Not anymore." The not-heir shifted his weight slightly, withdrawing his hand from the door at last. The absence of contact seemed to settle the space around it, as if something inside had acknowledged the boundary.
"You should be careful who you decide to rescue," he continued, eyes returning to her. "You might start to believe they want saving." Aamon was stupid even for a gullible young man, always stumbling into disaster and death. Giddy gaze dropped, briefly, to the flowers in her hands. Gorse, it reminded him a lot of the girl who adorned herself in it. Bright, stubborn, blooming where it shouldn't.
"In a minute," the Hufflepuff went on, almost conversationally, "he's going to realize the door isn't where he left it. Then he'll try another one. Then another." A faint tilt of his head. "After that, it depends on how honest he's capable of being with himself." Aamon in particular had an issue with personal honesty. He knew exactly what he was and what he deserved. "He'll either come back out…" Gideon said softly, his shoulders shrugged "or he won't."
Only then did he look at her fully. "You can go after him," Gideon offered, the words almost polite. As if he was allowing her ingress to save a boy that would surely perish without her. "I won't stop you." He did not have to. The doorway was far from a threshold, it was a question that needed to be answered and he wondered if Aamon could find the thread that led him back out. If he couldn't, would the same happen to her?
The Path Least Treacherous
When i turned around i saw Aamon, when he stepped in the hut. There was a hand on his shoulder, pushing Aamon in this place. The boy said Ginny, she don't know who is that, but shouted very loudly. It seemed to her, he need help. Aamon looked around, then he saw Emma.
I stood up slowly, when he was talking to me.
-Hello?-her face tried not to react to the stupidity she heard. One of her eyebrow stood up and she tilted her head to the side.
-So... i'm real human, i'm not dead! I have legs, arms, and i'm not gray!-she shows him. On her feet are black boots tied with star laces. Her boots are clean, and fresh. On her feet she also has dark stockings and a black skirt on top. Her skirt hanging down towards her knees. On her arms there are hair ties, and some friendship bracelets. The bracelets are colorful.
-And i don't know how to get out of here. I was searching for stuff, like key, or some papers to help me, but i got nothing.-she looked down, but she quickly realized how cheeky she might seem...
She looked up on Aamon, bc he are taller than her.
-Um... My name is Emma, Emma Fox. What's your name? And how did you get here?-
I stood up slowly, when he was talking to me.
-Hello?-her face tried not to react to the stupidity she heard. One of her eyebrow stood up and she tilted her head to the side.
-So... i'm real human, i'm not dead! I have legs, arms, and i'm not gray!-she shows him. On her feet are black boots tied with star laces. Her boots are clean, and fresh. On her feet she also has dark stockings and a black skirt on top. Her skirt hanging down towards her knees. On her arms there are hair ties, and some friendship bracelets. The bracelets are colorful.
-And i don't know how to get out of here. I was searching for stuff, like key, or some papers to help me, but i got nothing.-she looked down, but she quickly realized how cheeky she might seem...
She looked up on Aamon, bc he are taller than her.
-Um... My name is Emma, Emma Fox. What's your name? And how did you get here?-
Last edited by Emma Fox on 8 Apr 2026, 16:38, edited 2 times in total.
The Path Least Treacherous
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Interacting: @Gideon Athanatos | @Aamon Athanatos
Mentioning: @Mathias Athanatos | @Emma Fox
Winnie's expression shifted, annoyance settling across her features at Gideon's nonchalant statement. Her gaze remained on Gideon momentarily, one of her blue eyes twitching. "Still speaking in riddles. Do you know how insufferable you are?" They were words spoken like a exhausted older sibling, if one didn't know the history between Gideon and Winnie.
"Gorse has a lot of uses," The Ravenclaw went on, her voice taking on a lecturing tone, as if Gideon had insulted her very being by suggested she enjoyed destroying nature, "it doesn't just sit there and look pretty. You can add the petals to a salad, you can use it for tea, it's even been used for dye--."
She cut herself off at his next comment, her eyes shifting to the cabin door, then back to him. "What do you mean by that? Why wouldn't Aamon want to be saved?"
Her face twisted in anger, scrunching her brow and nose. The heels of her boots digging into the grass she stormed over to him and grabbed the blonde by the scruff of his jacket. She'd use whatever strength she had to try and slam him against the door (feel free to say whether or not she succeeds). Long gone was the girl that would tremble at the very sight of him, broken when he had pushed her to the point of physical violence mere months ago.
"I don't think so," She had to lean up to hiss at him, likely still shorter than he was at whichever height he decided to be today, "I'm not waltzing into whatever hell trap you've set up for your own little brother while you narrate whether we live or die."
The flowers were crushed between them, some of the golden petals laying forgotten on the ground below. Her eyes searched his, as if she would be able to somehow read his mind. Unfortunately she lacked the talent for legilimency. "You're going to open the door yourself." Winnie demanded. She drew in a slow breath, her voice dropping to a whisper, "You're going to do it yourself, or I'll make you do it."
│ │ | │ │ | STA: 15 • EVA: 18 • STR: 8 WIS: 11 • ARC: 7 • ACC: 17 | │ │ | • Healing Sage • Muggle Condition • Paragon of Health • • Poison Resistance • Animagus • Wandmaker • Lovely Creature • | │ │ | │ │ |