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.
“Senna,” he says. “Theodosia.” His voice is smooth and silk, cold, pleased in a way that only sounds ominous. “One from Solterra given immediate rank, the true Terrastellan still struggling to break cadet. Your partnership is amusing.”
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 (@
Let me know if you have any questions!
