The Tyrant's Tomb

Hi, everybody,
Here’s a little tune I call
“All the Ways I Suck”
THE LEGION SENTRIES SPOTTED us from a long way off, as legion
sentries are supposed to do.
By the time our small band arrived at the fort’s main gates, a crowd had
gathered. Demigods lined either side of the street and watched in curious
silence as we carried Jason’s coffin through the camp. No one questioned us.
No one tried to stop us. The weight of all those eyes was oppressive.
Hazel led us straight down the Via Praetoria.
Some legionnaires stood on the porches of their barracks—their halfpolished
armor temporarily forgotten, guitars set aside, card games
unfinished. Glowing purple Lares, the house gods of the legion, milled
about, drifting through walls or people with little regard for personal space.
Giant eagles whirled overhead, eyeing us like potentially tasty rodents.
I began to realize how sparse the crowd was. The camp seemed…not
deserted, exactly, but only half full. A few young heroes walked on crutches.
Others had arms in casts. Perhaps some of them were just in their barracks,
or in the sick bay, or on an extended march, but I didn’t like the haunted,
grief-stricken expressions of the legionnaires who watched us.
I remembered the gloating words of the eurynomos at Lake Temescal: I
HAVE ALREADY TASTED THE FLESH OF YOUR COMRADES! AT THE
BLOOD MOON, YOU WILL JOIN THEM.