Merope had made the mistake of venturing out of his dormroom a day after the trials. Truthfully he had no reason to leave the safety of his dormroom. As an undead, he did not have a drive or urge to eat as strong as one of the other races. He did not need to shower, nor did he feel a compulsion to seek out the company of someone else. He was a solidary creature by circumstance. If he ever needed access to the outside world, he could very easily access the interwebs and view it from there.

But for him, there was one thing he could not do from the safety of his room: scavenge. Living at Amityville and taking a vacation from it had drained him of most of his resources. What little he had left was carefully hoarded away, tended to carefully. While there were a lot of things he did not understand, Merope plainly knew that he was running out of money. He was at a crossroads: as a dragon-like creature, he should be wealthy. He should have had an immense, awe-inspiring hoard that he could lay on and be proud of. And yet, at the same time he wasn't exactly a dragon. He was a leviathan, and an undead one at that. Merope did not know if that held him to the same unwritten law as a dragon. Merope did not know whether he should have a hoard or not, or even if he required one. It seemed to him that it was commonly agreed upon that all dragons had a hoard. People had called him a dragon. Numerous names, really: dragon, sea serpent, leviathan, water dragon... He was a member of the Lost-Fathoms, a clan of undead Leviathan that made their living serving their Leader and scavaging. During his time spent at Amityville, Merope had come to realize that his kind's method of scavaging was seemingly backwards in comparison to the traditional surface view. His kind did not scavenge for precious metals or wreckages. They specialized in seeking out and scavaging body parts.

Admittedly, this line of trade was difficult to follow on the surface. On the surface, parts were not uncovered by sand or harvested from from other creatures. On the surface, it required digging. And then there were other people to contend with. In the ocean it was drastically easier. Granted, you had to keep an eye or whisker surfaceward in case someone tried to get the jump on you as well as below. But on the surface? Merope disliked how crowded the digging fields were. The competition for parts was much steeper, more fierce and trying. Merope stuck to dredging the lake as well as he could, patiently examining the nooks and crannies that other like-minded scavengers had already tried and searched for. Sometimes he was successful, other times he was not.

Now was one of those unsuccessful times. While he was unsuccessful at the lake, there was one other place that Merope liked to search: the lost and found bin. Usually when an item was found lost, the gnomes took it upon themselves to take it and put it to good use themselves. Sometimes they would toss it into the lost and found bin instead. Usually when an item wound up there it was beyond fixing or far beyond use for anything. Merope liked to dig through it anyway, just because of the various odds and ends that end up there.

The mysteries of the Lost and Found bin would have to wait however. Merope looked uncertaintly at the reporters who had gathered around him, watching him. To Merope, there was something about their eyes that made him shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. It felt to him like he was being sized up, weighed and judged. And possibly scavenged from. His attention was drawn towards a ghoul with short hair and pointed ears. "Rhichette Warringston, Ghoulington Post," she introduced briskly, pen and paper poised and ready to write. "Someone is saying that the winning groups unfairly cheated. What do you think about this?"

Merope tilted his head to one side and considered. After a moment, he simply asked, "How?" The pencils and pen snakes writhed and wrote more than what he said, making Merope feel nervous. "I mean," he continued, "How would they even cheat? How would they have done it? I mean, I didn't look at the other castles. Did they include something they shouldn't have? Did they somehow manage to use a natural ability? I wouldn't have minded being able to use my natural form, even if it would've been tiny." Merope added, "It's one thing to say someone could have cheated, but how? I'd have liked to known."

"So you would have liked to have cheated too?"

"No, not at all!" Merope protested. "This was my first time building a sand castle, so I didn't even know what I was doing. It looked like all you need to do is get a bucket full of wet sand, turn it over, pat the sand out and you'd have a bucket-shaped lump. You then shape the lump into a castle." Merope eyed the reporters uncertainly, "That's how you're supposed to do it, right?"

Another reporter raised his pen snake, the motion catching Merope's attention. "Scottie Phiratan, from Scream Weekly. I'm doing a series on every group. You were a team leader, right?"

"Yeah, Team Splash Attack."

"Excellent. So, what can you tell me about yourself?"

Merope stared. What was he supposed to say? Where could he begin? In a way, he was flattered and touched. Someone want to know about him. Someone -- no, multiple people were waiting for him of all people to speak. It was a first. "I guess I don't know how exactly to answer you," Merope said honestly. "I haven't been asked something like that before. I don't know where to begin."

Scottie looked as if he wanted to push the point further before a ghost jumped in, catching Merope's attention. "What was the hardest moment for you to overcome during the last Trials?!"

"As I said before, it was my first time building a sand castle," Merope began. "But the hardest moment was probably the fighting bit. I'm not very experienced when it comes to fighting." He did not add that the only victory to his date was the Christmas before last where he managed to defeat an elf by himself, and a Santa Scout with a group. Last Christmas was a rather painful experience in how easy it was to be defeated by yourself.

"Yes, but what was the hardest moment you had to overcome during the last Trial?" The reporter insisted. "I need facts! Statements! Which fight? The crab? Kraken? Tide?"

Merope bristled. "I already told you, the fighting bit. If you want specifics, I guess it was the fight with the kraken." The undead boil shrugged. "The castle was looking pretty weak, and where I'm from Kraken are handled a bit differently when there's a disagreement." He paused, grimacing. His clan would work together to drive out an interloping Kraken that dared to enter their territory uninvited, the tentacles severed and taken for their use. While he did manage to sever the tentacle that threatened their castle, that particular tentacle managed to crush their castle and return to the ocean.

...Then again, Merope had no idea what to do with a tentacle of that size anyway.

"I mean, I managed to throw the clam at it." Merope continued, "But that was it. I felt like I should've been able to do more, y'know?" He shrugged.

"Where you're from? Could you tell us a bit more about yourself and your background?" Scottie Phiratan persisted, shoving the ghost out of the way.

Merope bit his half-lip, trying to think. "I could," he ventured slowly. "Is there anything specific you'd like to know about? I mean, I'm from the deep sea. Even though I've been here for about a year, I'm still not accustomed to... this." He waved his hands vaguely, indicating the area. "I mean, I still don't know how to even approach someone or hold a decent conversation with them. I don't know that many people, and it's not like I can ask someone for help with that... or can I?" He looked questioningly at the reporters, then reconsidered, shaking his head. "Nevermind about that. I still have a lot of learning to do, I guess. I'd like to go back to my dorm right now, so... I guess that's it?"

It wasn't it, as Merope found out. They were still calling questions for him as he pushed his way through the crowd, head down and fins pressed against his body. He ignored them all, fighting against the unease that was building up in his stomach. Would word get back to Leader? Would his Leader be pleased with what he said? Displeased? Should he have said nothing at all? What would they think of him? What do they think of him? Merope slammed his door behind him, sliding the lock into place. Until the next trials, he would remain safe and sound in his dorm room, alone.