home is behind the world ahead
there are many paths to tread
The crashing of the waves fill his ears, as the ocean reaches hungrily up towards them. Toulouse frowns down at it, and with a flick of his telekinesis he sweep his hair back and secures the bulk of it in a bun. A few stray curls still float around his face, irritatingly close to his eyes, but he can ignore those now. The ocean never has agreed with me…
He had been on an island only once before Novus, a small little thing that the locals claimed had treasure buried along his shores. His brother had laughed at the wind and the waves, and had playfully suggested they chop their manes off and rid themselves of the inconvenience. Toulouse had hardly believed he could be serious - cut off their hair? The hair they had spent years upon years growing out, and brushing, and plaiting, and imbuing with oils until it curled perfectly and bounced lightly against their shoulders - and in the end, they had reached an impasse, and the hair had stayed.
And it had taken them no less than a week to comb the mats and the dreadlocks that had formed out. In the end their manes had been remarkably thinner than when they had started; but their pockets were full, and his brother said it was well worth the sacrifice. Toulouse had not been so sure.
He shakes his head, brushing the strands from his face, and gestures out at the sea. “And how, pray tell, are we supposed to get from here to there?” The island bobbed like a ship out at harbor, and he was far less than confident in his swimming abilities. “You might be able to fly there easily enough, but I cannot.”
True enough, it would be a simple thing for her to fly there and report back to him… but that alone would be far too dissatisfying. No, Toulouse wanted to see for himself whether they were right or wrong.
As Tuolouse muses on his predicament, some magic starts to reach for him. Whatever is hiding Prudence—or whoever—wants him and Juniper to be on their way already.
Terrastella’s island shimmers like a strange omen from far across the water. And the wine-dark, salty sea rises up to meet Tuolouse’s hooves, then falls just as quickly away, leaving a narrow strip of exposed land from the mainland shore all the way to the island that says come, come, come.
From the moment you step onto the island, you know that you are being watched.
The Ager is still and haunted as a graveyard. Its buildings are dilapidated by decades of disuse. Overhead the sky is a stormy grey, as if Solis has chosen today to frown down upon you. Sand has risen to swallow up the doorways; knotted trees and vines carpet the walls in thick grey lattices, their leaves and vines breathing in the wind; dust and moss and dark, wet dirt carpet the paths underfoot, bearing the faintest curved suggestion of hoofprints.
Winding, winding, winding, from the beach deep into the forest.
And yet those hoofprints are the only sign of life at all. No scurrying rodents, no wing-beating birds. The air is totally thick and still. As you follow the path deeper into the woods, the sunlight seems to dim and dim until your eyes are struggling to adjust. You pass bones half-buried, dirty scrolls turned belly-side up, rosebushes rewilding the wet earth. You pass buildings crumbling to brick-red dust and beds rotting away into beds of leaves. You pass a place that was once something to be proud of and you see how it has fallen totally into ruin.
And then there comes a place you cannot pass, for Wrath blocks your way.
He is tall, too tall, and strangely gaunt, as though he has not been fed well in weeks; under the oil-slick black of his coat you can see the light’s suggestion of protruding hips and ribs. His wings are tucked against his sides, and they glitter in the not-light. Not a speck of white is found on his skin. Scars rib his shoulders faintly. And oh, when he looks at you, your body can’t help but tremble at the too-green true-green of his eyes, electric as envy, bright as new leaves, and how their verdant shine is uninterrupted by even the suggestion of a pupil.
Like the cloudy sameness of a blind man’s gaze, or the unwavering stare of a too-powerful god.
You realize with a ghostly chill that these are the eyes that have been watching you all along. At every turn. In sleep. From the upturned graves, above the cliffs, deep in the blackness of the salty cave-prisons. Always in the corner of your gaze, always watching as you unravel each clue.
He smiles, and his teeth are far too sharp.
“Juniper,” he says. “Tuolouse.” His voice is smooth and silk, cold, pleased in a way that only sounds ominous. “I would not have guessed you two would work together. Use the girl for her wings, hm?”
His eyes fall down and stare blankly into the dirt. For a moment he stands utterly still, like a corpse or a statue, unfocused, unfeeling, and then without breaking the odd stare, his lips start to move.
“You are not done.” His eyes start to shake back and forth. “How strange, too, that you have not managed to decide which one of you will take the prize. If you can get to Her. If I decide that I will speak to Her for you.” And his voice trembles, but not in fear. It vibrates with excitement, so hot it becomes manic, pushing at the corners of his teeth. The rapid movement of his eyes has started to increase both in speed and ferocity—now it is nearly impossible to tell where he is looking, or why.
Then abruptly it stops. He stills, and meets their eyes.
“You are standing on an island where live three kinds of mortals.” (You cannot help thinking that he is talking about this island.) “Messengers who are truthful, fighters who lie, and healers, who, like men, may decide for themselves whether they will use their candor. Upon your arrival to the island one of each comes to greet you.”
On either side of the man, another vision of him, identical to the first, shimmers into existence. They are all tall, and black, and still. All their green eyes stare at you with missing pupils.
“I’m Seneca,” says the first one.
“No, I’m Seneca,” says the third.
“No, I-“
“You have two questions,” the one in the middle interrupts. (You think he is the original, but it’s hard to tell; they’re all sort of bleeding into each other, mixing at the edges, moving back and forth and back again.) “Each one of us will answer, but only in ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
“Who—” cackles the third.
“Is who,” the first taunts.
On your way into the depths of the Ager, you run into a black pegasus who claims he will lead you to Prudence--if you're worthy. He poses to you a riddle to test if you deserve Her...
You may not fight, injure, or use any kind of active magic on Seneca, nor is there a way to find Prudence that does not require finding the answer to this riddle. Nothing will happen to your character if they pose the wrong question, but Seneca will disappear for a cool down period before you can come back and try again. As always, tag my OOC account (@redandblack) when you post. You may choose to use both of your questions in one post or pose one, wait for the Senecas to respond, and post again. Either way, they will respond once you have used both questions to tell you whether you are correct.
home is behind the world ahead
there are many paths to tread
He watches the oily-black man, with his leaf green eyes and glossy wings. He tilts his head when he smiles, lowering his horns until they’re bared and pointed towards the other man’s throat. Then he smiles, wicked and mischievous, and there’s a glint to his eyes that rivals the sharpness of the strange man’s teeth.
”Something like that,” he says smoothly, glancing at the pegasus beside him. They had come by boat - if the large raft they had lashed together with ropes could count as a boat - with Juniper towing him along. Flying himself to the island would have been far more preferable, but while Toulouse’s silver tongue had lifted many a jewel from a wealthy woman’s purse, he had yet to find a way to talk the wings off of a pegasus. A shame.
His eyes slide back to the dark stallion, just in time to see the two identical versions flicker into place beside him. Tall. Black. Winged. Eyes as green as a spring wood. Each man identical. Each feature the same.
He bares his horns again.
”I’m Seneca,” each of them say, and Toulouse believes each of them and none of them. It was an easy thing to call yourself by a name - it was far harder to become that name entirely. He knew, oh how he knew.
He lets his eyes rove over them all even as they begin to blend together, with their identical eyes and hair and wings. And all the while his mind is coiling itself like a snake, ready to strike.
But at who?
One of them was liar. One of them was an honest man. One of them was like him.
How would he catch himself in a lie, or his brother? How did he force a liar to reveal himself? Perhaps Toulouse knew this game better than Seneca thought he did.
He lifts his head slightly, peering out at the trio from beneath his lashes. There’s a feral, determined glint in his eyes, something wild and arrogant.
”Seneca,” he says, and lets it be an address to them all. ”Do you call yourself Seneca?”
Each of them already has.
But at least one of them would lie.
@redandblack
@Juniper hope you don’t mind that i went ahead and posted again <3
The Senecas seem strangely calmer now. Still they look past you, not at you, but without pupils who can blame them? Their heads are high, their shoulders proud and chests still unmoved by the regular human desire to breathe.
They only stand there, and look at each other when Toulouse speaks.
It’s hard to tell what sponsors the movement. Fear that the question is right, smug satisfaction that it’s wrong—their expressions are cool and only a little tremulous, the eyes unmoving brightly, the spines long and proud. Their acknowledgement of the pair is trivial at best.
The world tilts and they are there, the sea sighed in her ear and tried so hard to embrace the girl who refused the waters, and still they are there. Bodies rose from the earth and multiplied, much like the firsts that the gods created, and she does not shy away. Fear sheds like sea-drops from her skin, falling into the earth until she is bright and she is bold and she is free once more. Wings tuck to sides, ready to fly, ready to soar, ready to go at a moment's notice, but it is her eyes that stay grounded.
Green eyes glance at the three, glance at her horned companion who is handsome save for his unending pride, his unending arrogance that would be the end of him someday. If you ask, Juniper would tell you she does not wish to see his ending. He is far too lovely a face and possibility for that thought to dance and sway like her sisters in her mind. So it flutters into the breeze that nervously floats past the duo who stare at the trio.
Silence is her voice as Toulouse breaks his own, bends it into molten words to grapple at answers that she cannot riddle out quite yet. And the sighs, the laughs, the haughty reassurances fall as dew on swampy fronds, hitting their ears like grating metal in shops and burning furnaces in crafting lounges. It is harsh and soft and not at all sweet, not at all completely true or honest.
Juniper dislikes liars.
But she wonders if she would lie for love.
Vespera prizes love as much as anything else, is known for her own, and her Priestess embodies this tribute with everything she is, every ounce of herself is filtered into the coming and going and continual flowing of warmth and love both cold and cruel and warm and passionate. Like a fountain overflowing, one cannot stop her once she's started.
So with a look to Toulouse, Juniper tilts her head at him, reading questions in his eyes, deciding to trust him if even this once, and turns back to the three who see without seeing, who look the same but are not the same. To the second she looks, staring directly at the one in the middle, and inclines her head just so. "Are you the healer, Seneca?"
