In the sun-dappled hills of Camp Half-Blood, where the air hummed with the clash of celestial bronze and the distant strum of lyres, Apollo Raidie—known to his closest as Lolo—bounded through life like a wild satyr chasing a nymph. At twelve years old, he was a whirlwind of freckles and unbridled energy, his straight, medium-length brown hair perpetually tousled as if caught in an eternal breeze from his father's chariot. His brown eyes sparkled with a mischief that belied the ancient god's blood coursing through his veins, and those freckles? They dotted his nose and cheeks like stars in a mortal sky, giving him the look of a boy who'd spent too many afternoons under Helios's gaze. Slender and wiry from endless games of capture the flag and impromptu poetry slams by the strawberry fields, Lolo favored the standard orange Camp Half-Blood T-shirt, faded from too many washes, paired with cargo shorts stuffed with crumpled notebook pages and a quiver slung over one shoulder. His sneakers, scuffed and mud-caked, bore the scars of a hundred sprints across the training grounds.

Lolo was the son of Apollo himself, the real god of prophecy, poetry, and plagues—not some diluted half-blood myth, but a true demigod heir to the sun's fury and the muse's whisper. Free-spirited to a fault, he cared not a whit for the sidelong glances from stodgier campers who whispered about his loud laughter echoing through the dining pavilion or his habit of interrupting sword drills with off-key ballads. Severe ADHD gripped him like a harpy's talons; his mind raced faster than Pegasus, jumping from haiku about the Big House's pancakes to frantic sketches of monster anatomies in his weathered leather journal. That journal was his anchor, pages filled with poems scrawled in looping script—odes to the archer's precision, laments for lost arrows in the woods. 'Luck,' his divine gift from Apollo, was no ordinary shaft; this golden-tipped arrow, etched with solar runes, always found its mark, curving through the air like fate's own decree, whether aimed at a hellhound's flank or a distant target's heart.

Yet beneath the chaos, Lolo yearned for something steadier: to harness his scattered thoughts into a symphony of control, to stand as an unshakeable pillar beside his boyfriend, Zane—'Frog' to him, the burly son of Ares with a grin like forged steel. Their bond, forged in stolen moments by the canoe lake, was a quiet rebellion against the camp's rigid hierarchies, but Lolo's impulsiveness often turned their adventures into near-disasters, like the time his ADHD-fueled distraction led them into a dracaena's ambush during a seemingly simple foraging quest. Why couldn't he seize that focus? The gods' legacy was a double-edged sword—Apollo's light brought inspiration but also the plague of restless visions, fragments of prophecies that danced just out of reach, mocking his mortal limits.

Undeterred, Lolo fought back with ink and intent. He'd perch on the Apollo cabin's steps at dawn, journal open, channeling his frenzy into verses that sharpened his aim and steadied his hand. 'Luck' became his partner in this dance, its infallible path mirroring the clarity he sought in words. In skirmishes, he'd loose it with a whoop, the arrow's glow cutting through fog-of-war doubts, proving his worth not despite his quirks, but through them. His unique tic—a habit of tapping rhythms on his thigh with callused fingers, mimicking lyre strings—set him apart, a percussive heartbeat that announced his approach like a herald's fanfare.

Conflicts shadowed him like empousai in the night: the camp's competitive undercurrents pitted him against siblings who mocked his 'soft' poetic pursuits, deeming them unfit for a son of the sun god. Zane's Ares-driven temper clashed with Lolo's volatility, sparking arguments that left bruises on hearts more than flesh. And deeper still, the weight of unfulfilled oracles whispered of greater trials ahead—monsters drawn to his bloodline, quests that demanded the focus he lacked. But Lolo pressed on, his arc a forging in Olympian fire: from scatterbrained boy to a demigod who wove chaos into destiny's tapestry. In the end, during a shadow-cloaked incursion where harpies besieged the borders, his poems unlocked a buried prophecy, guiding Luck's final shot to shatter the flock's queen. Peace didn't come easy, but in Zane's steady grip and the journal's full pages, Lolo found his rhythm—a hero's journey etched in freckles and verse, ever loud, ever free.