"He has to go, Minerva. And it can't wait. He has to go now. Within the hour, if possible."

The woman - Minerva - was waiting for this day. She'd raised her son, knowing what was coming, though she'd hoped against it. With a sigh she turned to face the man standing in her kitchen.

Her eyes beheld the same sight that had roused her on so many levels near two decades ago. Tall and lean, pale of skin and wrapped in a cloak that shifted around him like shadows and smoke. Elegant features, handsome and proud, framed in thick curls of coal-black hair. Yet there is a strange sort of way about him that many might mistake for furtiveness. She knew better, even in those naive days - it was malice.

Even now she felt the flutter of her heartbeat, that wanton, wild girl of wicked ways (and try saying that five times fast, why don't you?) of her youth. She's older, yes, but the beauty still shines through - tall and willowy, hair nearly black until the sunlight hits it and reveals shades of deep crimson, laid against ivory skin and framing delicate features that were only beginning to show the mark of years. Deep, dark eyes regarded the man whose face she had not seen in almost twenty years.

"Hades. What brings you skulking into my kitchen?"

His eyes flash crimson from within, bloodlight with a hint of amethyst. Some might mistake it for anger, might have been cowed by the dark expression on the face of the Underworld's king. "Our son brings me here, Minerva. His foolish use of his power risks his exposure." The voice is the same rasping wheeze, its undertones hinting at the growling of great hounds, the roaring of flames. "I will not let those vile, scheming sons of b*tches sink their filthy fingers into my heir, woman."

She sees through it, as ever she has, even back when she was a fragile wisp of a girl, her eyes full of stars that such a one would bestow his attentions on her. Under the anger and malice written on his features, she can see something else - concern. She won't let him soften her so easily, though.

"After...what has it been, almost two decades? Now you care?" Snorting, she turns towards the fridge, reaching in and pulling out the open bottle of merlot. As she reaches for a glass she speaks over her shoulder. "If it's that important to you, why don't you just bring him to live with you?"

Her fingers find a glass and she returns her attention to pouring. She has no fear of the one behind her, never has. It's what endeared her to him in the first place, she knows, despite her being one of the 'filthy mortals' she'd heard him digress on once.

So when his hands settle on her shoulders she doesn't start in fear as most would have when meeting Death's master. They are gentle, his voice soft, as near to warmth as he will ever get. "You know there is no choice. We may be allowed to interject in small ways, but we cannot openly interfere and expose ourselves. There are too many dangers." He sighs, and she can see him standing there behind her, his head bowed, eyes closed, a resigned expression on his features. "Would that I were able, Minerva, I would never have left."

For the briefest of moments she wants to lean back into him as she did of old. Strange as it may be to anyone else, the only arms she's ever taken comfort in are those of a being most spend their lives trying to avoid for as long as possible.

But those times are past. He is still the same as ever he was and seemingly will be; she has changed, grown from an enamored slip of a girl to a woman on the other side of raising a son to manhood. She feels for the man behind her, understands his position and the reasons for his absence. Instead of leaning back she bows her head over the glass of wine, looking down into the dark crimson liquid.

"I know. It's been seen to by now, anyway, I'm sure, knowing you. If I can make a suggestion, you might give your son a gift, since I'm sure he's quite displeased with you already."

She's just turning to face him when he realizes she can't feel the weight of his hands anymore. Turning the rest of the way, she finds herself alone. With a sigh she lifts the glass of wine to her lips, speaking to the empty room, now absent of the god's presence.

"And tell him his mother loves him."

The dog had followed him in, surprisingly a silent and faithful animal despite its apparent youth - to look at him, the hound is an undocked Rottweiler of maybe nine months of age, which walks behind him with a quiet sort of confidence and alertness in its gaze as it follows in the demigod's wake.

Cyrus, he'd decided on calling the dog. It fit rather well, in his opinion. Nothing common like Rex or Max or Killer.

The dormitories hadn't been hard to find, really. Another gift he can credit to his father, an unwavering, undeniable sense of direction. The young demigod suspects to himself that it's a good thing to have, if your realm is the Underworld of Hades

Still, there's that bitter taste again. He'd found himself with the spell book he'd been working on while he waited, wrapped in the silvery linen cloak his father had given to him. Nothing special about it, really, just that it's nice material.

He already has a few tricks up his sleeve for that. And the spell book. as well. He might not have any formal schooling, like a lot of these bluebloods, but he's been a quick study all his life, and those stodgy students he'd run across in the Inn, he's sure, are lacking in imagination and innovation.

Oh sure, they might know a few things he doesn't, they can probably recite histories and esoteric magical formulae and the hundred uses for a gremlin's testicles in a potion, or whatever.

But can they create something truly original?

Jacen has his doubts.

No one had told him where he was going to be rooming. In fact all he knew for sure was that he was supposed to be staying in the dorms on-campus, and that he needed a cloak, a spell book, and a wand. Okay, so the wand is actually a staff, but he's got an idea for that as well...if only he can find wherever it is he's supposed to be staying and get a few minutes to play around a bit.

Which is when he turns a corner and runs into a massive wall of minotaur.

Jacen manages (just) to keep his feet as he rebounds off of the massive creature, which leans down, huffing at him through his nostrils and staring at him with a glower so deep it's almost comical as it addresses him in a deep, rumbling voice. "Who are you?"

He recoils automatically, not in fear but simply surprise, backing up a few steps. Behind him he hears the equally surprised growl from the Rottweiler as he almost steps on its forepaws.

As always his mouth has a ready response, despite the shock of a huge, blue-grey minotaur suddenly right in his face...or perhaps because of it. Grimacing and turning his head to the side, he asks in a disgusted tone, "Who are you? And when are you going to do something about that breath? You could slay an ogre with that sh!t, and you're breathing on people like that!"

It's not that bad, really - he'd spent a week among rotting wraith corpses before his father had deigned to speak to him, and another week after that as further punishment. Dragon feces would smell sweet by comparison to that putrid stench.

It's funny, really, that he'd always been kind of the geek in school - scrawny, wiry, maybe a hundred pounds, soaking wet, and most of it in his boots, as the old saying goes. But he'd always had a brain that was three steps ahead of the game, too - unfortunately it wired directly to his mouth at times, and until recently it had gotten him into trouble repeatedly that he couldn't get himself out of.

But it's interesting, the things that you learn when you find out you're the son of a god.

Not just any god, either.

The minotaur continues glaring at him, another huff of breath escaping it as it answers. "I am Sartha Kruha, and I am the Dorm Warden. And if you don't answer me, I'm going to break you in half and feed you to your mutt."

The Rottie growls louder in response, a tone suggestive of canine and something much darker. "Down, Cyrus," Jacen says almost absently, and the dog immediately quiets.

He recognizes the name, naturally - the siren he'd had such a memorable encounter with some nights ago had dropped it to him, though he hadn't expected...this.

He'd been expecting a hall monitor of some kind, lean and balding with glasses, perhaps that semi-creepy way that might be suggestive of a shadowy assassin or former spy.

This is going to be much more difficult.

For the time being, though, until he gets the lay of things, it might be best to go with being nice...or, well, his approximation of nice.

"Oh...well...uh, in that case, I'm Jacen Balthazar. Nicetameetcha, Sartha." He sticks out a hand to the beast to shake.

The blue-grey minotaur simply looks at the hand, then back at Jacen with that same glower. "Sit and wait." Straightening again, the warden stomps off down the hallway, waving in the general direction of a few chairs against the wall.

The young demigod watches the blue-grey giant form go stalking off, arching an eyebrow. He'd have thought if anyone would have known where he'd be rooming, it would be the guy in charge of the dorm...right?

He's just about to take a step towards one of the chairs when he hears the thunderous footfalls returning, and Jacen looks to see the minotaur headed back his way. Its expression is unchanged from when he left, which could be good or bad.

The beast stops short of him and says only two words: "Follow me." And then he's stalking away without looking to see if the young demigod is trailing.

Which of course he is - it seems there's little choice in the matter. Both Jacen and Cyrus walk along after the massive minotaur, both seemingly curious more than concerned. Along a labyrinthine maze of hallways it leads them, bringing to mind a few stories Jacen had read in the past few years.

It's funny, the things you start reading when you find out you're a demigod.

Finally, the minotaur stops before a set of double doors. The faceplate mounted on it is rather hard to read in this light, but he can make out the word 'Headmistress' on it.

"Wait here." It's the only words the minotaur says to him before stomping it's way back to wherever it had come from.

He's pretty sure he'll find his way back without trouble, but for now, what can he do...but wait.

Cyrus walks up beside him, the Rottweiler taking a seat and leaning subtly against his leg. Leaning down, he pats the side of the young hound's neck and scratches under his jaw. "Listen, Cyrus, if she ends up telling us not to pay attention to that inconsequential man behind the curtain, you know what to do, right?"

The dog looks up at him with its alert, somewhat aloof gaze and makes a low grunting sound, then turns its attention back to the door to wait with its master.