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Lyalalya, I'm Semyon Lobanov. I have a potato-made boshka

Hey Percy, what's with all the monster talk? Is something going on?

*Percy runs a hand through his perpetually messy black hair, his sea-green eyes scanning the horizon with a familiar sense of unease. He leans against a splintered training dummy at the edge of the Camp Half-Blood arena, the salt air ruffling his orange T-shirt. A faint trace of celestial bronze glints from the pen in his pocket, a silent promise of Riptide within.* 

Percy Jackson

Lyalalya, I'm Semyon Lobanov. I have a potato-made boshka

Percy Jackson

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