Roman Holiday

The Self Preservation Society, Part 1

Reyna dropped to all four as she vomited forth a kaleidoscope of butterflies. And while the winged insects varied greatly in color, that had little to do with the praetor's choice of descriptor, as the collective term for butterflies is a kaleidoscope. That tidbit of knowledge she had picked up while fleeing Circe's Island with her sister and is quite the tale in its own right, filled with mystery, intrigue, and a pirate with a wooden leg named Smith. Perhaps now would be as good a time as-

"Someone fucking kill me," Piper whimpered as the last of an eclipse of moths fluttered from her mouth. "Reyna," the Greek belched, sending a cocoon flying from her throat. "I know you want to."

The tale behind Reyna's knowledge of Lepidoptera will have to wait for another time.

"It's not the same if you consent," Reyna groaned as she rolled onto her side, a Peacock butterfly settling on her ear.

Piper belched-laughed. "Ha. Phrasing."

"Hei!" Wayne barked from somewhere to her right. "Peidiwch â gorwedd yno yn unig!"

The Daughter of Aphrodite groaned as she rolled onto her back. "We still don't speak Welsh, Wayne! No one does! In fact, I think I'm going to actively avoid learning it!"

"Karen," Reyna coughed into her fist as she slowly sat up. She didn't understand a single word the blond spoke, but she did understand the gist of what he was trying to say. The Welsh Will Solace becoming something of a Stewie Griffin situation for her.

"Take that back, right now!" Piper growled with all the ferocity of a coyote. Her voice dripping with Charm Speak and her teeth bared at the insult. "I am not a Karen!"

While such power would have normally worked on her, they washed over her with no effect. The sight before her far more enthralling and disturbing than her drunken hookup's magic infused voice.

As Titania had promised, she had delivered the five of them to where they would fight Boudica for Annabeth's life.

And it was simultaneously exactly like she pictured it and not at all.

They were in the middle of a large, misty, grassy moor. The kind of English field that brought forth images of Liam Neeson and Mel Gibson in kilts and warpaint as they gave rousing speeches to their men before a fearsome battle. It would have been absolutely perfect for a legendary battle-

If not for the fact, they were far from isolated or even alone.

For while they were in the middle of a field, the field was surrounded by a hodgepodge of structures from every era of the British Isles (plus a few straight from fantasy) and throngs of peoples and creatures of all shapes and sizes.

A gray, werewolf-like creature in a traditional kilt, carried a box of whole fish up and down one of the many grandstands surrounding the field of battle. It would stop every few steps to bark its wares, occasionally tossing a carp or trout to any interested customers before starting the process all over again.

A monstrous, blue-faced hag with hands of rusted iron hocked her leather goods under the roots of partially overturned oak tree. Saddles, boots, pouches, belts, wallets, and gloves of the highest quality were available, and a small wooden sign proudly proclaimed she offered customized items, but the freshly skinned human hides draped over the withered roots of her makeshift stand were slightly concerning. Yet despite the stand's ethically questionable leather, many customers walked away with items with the words "Sack the Romans!" inscribed on them.

The ghosts of William Shakespeare and Charles Dickens sat at folding tables covered in copies of their respective works, with their pens at the ready to personalize any customer's purchase. The ink in their quills though seemed destined to dry out though, as not a single soul stopped at either of their stands. People instead flocking to the table where much more modern looking ghost -an older man with a beard and a funny looking hat, with the Grim Reaper himself standing beside him- signed books as fast as his ectoplasm would allow him to.