He's not difficult to find, but it won't be exactly easy, either. He's got his back to the side of an armchair and his knees pulled to his chest, arms hooked around them as he lets his chin rest atop his kneecaps; this is the ideal position for staring aimlessly at the wall across from him. For once, he isn't wearing any eyeliner, and while they call death the eternal sleep, he doesn't look rested: those trademark circles under his eyes are darker than ever and his gaze isn't actually focused on anything in particular. Plus, horror of horrors, while his hair is relatively neat, he's actually got reddish-brown roots showing if you look closely. All in all, this is not a happy-looking demigod -- he hasn't even got his guitar or a notebook with him.
Diomedes Hades has been dead since Christmas and he's just waiting for the people to come accusing him of murder. He's a pessimist like that.
Typist: HE LIVES! Finally. I believe this is backdated to December 27th. Have fun.
*he's sure as hell not seeking out company, and he's not easily found -- but anyone with any kind of sense for these things might be able to feel that almost desperate, painful desire for something, anything to make him stop thinking*
*so -- he's curled up, as small as he can make himself, in the corner of some room, hugging his knees tightly, chin resting on his kneecaps, and his expression is -- blank, really, completely so, to the point that it's obvious he's forcing himself not to feel or cry or really react at all through a sheer, somewhat heroic effort of willpower*
*yeah, he'd secretly like people, especially people he loves*
*all right, so it's not as if he really wants to talk to people, but that's never been an obstacle*
*so: somewhere in a fairly accessible room of the mansion there is a Hadesian demigod, flopped on a couch with, yes, his guitar, plucking out a rather familiar melody and quietly (but loudly enough that anyone who's paying attention should hear) singing along, sounding somewhere between resigned and amused: "Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday, dear Dio, happy birthday to me."*
*anyone who wants to wish him a happy birthday should really stop by and bother him*
*somewhere, in a room a little out of the way, a floppy-haired Dio is curled up on a smallish couch, hair in his eyes and sweatshirt folded to the side, as he's bent over his guitar, tuning it with painstaking attention to detail*
*the only evidence that he's acknowledged the holiday of yesterday (Christmas, we mean) is the fact that if you get too close, he's going to smell an awful lot like pine* *if your name is Jordan and today is your birthday, he has a little something for you; that'd be the reason for the small black bow tied around the neck of the brand new acoustic guitar leaning against the couch next to him*
*if you're anyone else, he'd likely appreciate the company anyway, to distract him from his thoughts*
*if anyone would like the half-godling, he can be found leaning against a wall in a battered leather jacket and with sunglasses in place, filing his nails absently and surveying his surroundings with nothing so much as boredom -- he's been here long enough that it's no longer all that interesting, and he's beginning to feel the effects of not doing much at all*
*for the typist's sanity, someone throw a puppet or two at him*