Richard Garza is a Son of Hermes, Greek God of Messengers and Mischief. He has been on no quests.
|Son of Hermes|
|Family||Julie Garza (Mother)|
|Status||At Camp Half-Blood|
|Eye Color||Dark Brown|
5' 9 3/4"
Atychiphobia (Fear of Failing)
Hiya! Richey here. Full name Richard Garza. Son of Hermes and one of the oldest and best swordsman here at camp. Born in 1993, I am a year older than Percy Jackson, hero of Camp Half-Blood. So I can say that I was there when he saved the camp and the world. But enough about Percy, this is the time for me to tell my story, well at least the beginning of my demi-god adventure.
“Someday you will do something great and memorable, Rich.” My mom told me this every night. You see, growing up in this small town down here in the huge state of Texas was not really my idea of “great and memorable”. Nothing cool or exciting happened here. I went on my middle school years being that average nerd kid that everyone picked on because he had glasses; though I wore glasses since the age of 5 so I did not see anything wrong with them. All throughout middle school, I’d seen weird things. And when I say weird I don’t mean a pimple on someone’s face, I mean robotic pigeons, horse-men (centaurs I had read somewhere), and a giant, golden lion once. I tried to tell people about these sightings, but most people ignored me. Be that weird nerd kid with the ADHD and slight dyslexia and people tend to disregard your crazy thoughts. And so, I went about middle school; the only memorable thing about it was when that kid that crashed his stepdad’s car came up on the news.
Everything seemed pretty normal and nonchalant, that is, up until just before the Christmas break of my freshman year. I was walking home on the normal shortcut one day when, all of a sudden, this guy came running at me. So instinctively I went into my fighter stance (I had been taking martial arts classes since I was 8). I was about to punch the guy when he tripped on his laces. He was panting pretty hard; that’s when I realized the two other guys running towards us.
“Friends of yours,” I asked the sweat drenched kid. He shook his head so hard I thought it would fall off his neck.
“Stay out of this kid,” one of the guys said. The two guys wore letterman’s jackets with a football patch embroidered on. I could see how big these guys were even under their jackets.
I stepped in the way of them and the slightly chubby, now sweatier kid. “You really want to get hurt don’t you kid,” Jock #1 said meaningfully. Both jocks snickered and walked toward me slowly with fists raised. Normally, I would have barely been able to take out one big guy. But there were two of these beef-heads. I reached into my jacket and pulled out my two, 21-inch expandable batons (eskrima sticks were my area of expertise). The jocks didn’t even flinch, they just licked their lips which wasn’t weird at all. Jock #2 threw a heavy right hook; I stepped in and landed my baton square in his left ribcage. That should have been enough to send any person down gasping for air. But this guy just swatted me, and my batons, away like a fly and rubbed his rib like it tickled.
The big guy laughed, “You actually think you can beat me with puny sticks, mortal?” Mortal? He said it as if he weren’t.
The kid who was being chased threw me a bronze looking knife. “Use this, it will kill him!” Now I didn’t like the two jocks as much as the next guy, but I wasn’t going to just kill him. Just then, Jock #1 ripped up a light pole and bought it down on me. I side-stepped, just avoiding the pole by a couple of inches. The other jock rammed into me with his shoulder while my attention was diverted. He picked me up with such ease. At first I thought this guy had just taken muscle milk, a lot of it, because he seemed to grow another nine inches of muscle; his jacket was torn at the seams.
“Can we hurry this up, I’m hungry for some satyr-human burger,” the bigger jock said. Jock #1 let go of his pole and tore off his jacket. He started to grow bigger and bigger until he was the same size as Jock #2. It was like watching those toys that grow if you put them in water. Then I noticed something, where the eyes should have been, there was one big eye in the middle of the jocks’ faces. Cyclops, I thought. The one holding me up seemed to be arguing with his friend. I knew I had a couple of seconds before my head would explode from all the blood or be eaten by the one-eyed muscle men. Without second thought, I slashed at the cyclops’s wrist. His hand came clean off. I landed on my feet and, before the now handless cyclops could retaliate, I drove the knife right into his chest. He instantly disintegrated.
“Brother!” the remaining muscle-bound jock screamed. He charged madly to me. I rolled to the left, but the cyclops didn’t stop. He kept running toward the chubby kid he’d been chasing earlier. I grabbed a metal chunk from the broken street lamp and hurled it right at the jock’s head. That was just enough time for the chubby kid to scramble off behind a trash can. The cyclops rubbed the back of his head and turned toward me with a look of anger. He started to charge at me. I had about a few seconds before he made me part of the alley. I looked around to find anything useful. To my right was a small fence. Jumping off of that could get me behind the guy. I braced myself. The cyclops raised both arms up to smash me in. At the last second, just before he brought his arms down, I kicked off the fence and jumped right over the guy’s head. As gravity did its work, I pointed the sword point down and made a sizable gash on the jock’s back.
“AAAAGH!” he bellowed.
Just as he turned to strike me, I stabbed him right into his ribcage. He turned to ashes and disintegrated. I went over to the chubby kid and helped him up.
“So you’re a satyr, huh?” I asked as the kid rummaged through his backpack.
“How did you know?”
“The Cyclops mentioned a satyr-human burger. And I’m guessing I’m the human, which makes you the satyr.”
“Well, I guess you are the demi-god I’d smelled back at school.”
“Demi-god? Like the kids of the gods? No flippin way I’m one.”
“Well,” the satyr put on his bag, “judging by the way you just killed two Cyclops singlehanded, I would say you’re definitely a demi-god.”
“Sweetness,” I said in awe.
The satyr stuck out his hand, “I’m Enrique Clovenfield, your new junior protector and escort to Camp Half-Blood. Nice job with the knife”
“Thanks. Name’s Richard Garza, Richey for short.”
And from there started my epic journey for Camp Half-Blood. A tale of adventure, joy, sorrow, a so-called Hunter of Artemis, and epicness. But that is a story for another time, my fellow demi-gods.
- NAME: Richard "Richey" Garza
- AGE: 20
- BIRTHDAY: 4 March of 1993
- FAMILY: Julie Garza
- Has a secret stash of discontinued Twinkies
- HEIGHT: 5'9 3/4
- WEIGHT: 135 Lbs
- EYE COLOR: Dark Brown
- HAIR COLOR: Black
- HAIRSTYLE: Whatever I wake up with + a pat down
- SKIN COLOR: Fair with slight farmer's tan
- PIERCINGS/TATTOOS/SCARS: Scar on left elbow
- USUALLY WEARS: Camp Half-Blood shirt, jeans, black Vans
- POWERS: Most locks open upon command (pretty handy)
- ENCHANTED WEAPONS AND OBJECTS: Standard issue winged shoes of Hermes, magic collapsible batons
NATURAL SKILLS ABILITIES
- WEAPON OF CHOICE: Dual eskrima sticks, knives
- MARTIAL SKILLS: Boxing, Krav Maga, and Kick-boxing
- NON-MARTIAL SKILLS: Thievery >:), climbing, and escaping/disappearing
- COLOR: Blue
- FOOD: Spaghetti
- BEVERAGE: Mountain Dew
- SPORT: Basically any kind of combat
- MOVIE: Spy/Action/Thriller in general. A Romance movie from time to time (shhh)
- MUSIC: Most music except slow, sappy country (no offence)
DISLIKES AND FEARS
- Drowning (I have slight trouble swimming) and high heat