Derek hates the smell of this place--there are too many smells, including a stiflingly stale one. The son of Euros scrubs a hand over his permanently wind-blown hair in frustration. He's at least grateful there aren't many people in this cabin. He's not quite sure what he would do in that case (he'd probably hide out in the forest). Setting his bags down, he resolutely sets about touching things. Just a quick pat here, a brush of fingers there, enough to somewhat drown out the bad smells. Once he's satisfied, he haphazardly arranges things around his bunk. To anyone else, his bunk would look more or less chaotic. To Derek, everything is in order and as it should be. With his trademark scowl planted firmly on his face, he rummages for a drachma in his pockets. He tosses it up into the air, catches it easily. He'll send an iris-message to his siblings soon, preferably somewhere slightly secluded, where innocent bystanders are not subjected to his siblings' loudness.