When the last of them comes to the fourth path the mare has nothing else to say. She only watches them with her heavy eyes made of moon-stone and moonlight. At her side those mighty wings of nightshade bloom and flutter. Each beat of her wings comes faster than the last, until this entire part of the maze feels like a storm.
Petals streak like bullets around them and the air is thick with perfume, pollen and poison. At her back a small tornado blooms, a funnel of flower and ivy and stems. It even groans like a storm should and each moan makes the hedges rattle like old, dying bones. Closer and closer the tornado of flowers comes and the entire path leans towards the center of it.
Just as the first wave of flowers touches the strange mare she explodes into petals and light. She's a planet of silver and wild flowers. The winds settle and where she once stood there are two holes in the maze where there was nothing but solid leaf before.
The first hole glimmers strangely. It looks almost like glass, but surely the light dancing across the pathway like a rainbow suggests diamonds instead of plain glass. At first it looks like that pathway leads to the right. Another look makes it seems that straight is the only way to go. The third glance makes it seems like that path leads to the left. Maybe it's a path of mirrors and illusion, maybe it's nothing more than a trick of the light to hide another end.
The only way to find out is to try it---
The second crevice in the wall smells sweet, too sweet. Teeth could ache for the sweetness of his path. Pink and finely spun sugar floats from the opening. It drifts in what's left of the breeze like a million
dandelions seas. The bits of candy-floss seem almost alive. A closer look finds them dancing against the breeze and it's easy to wonder if they bits of cotton candy or if they are small insects who might bite.
Further down the second path the pink floss gross thicker and each breath tastes sweet but bitter with fear. Will there be any air left at all or only sugar?
@Shrike @Caine @Toulouse
RULES
This part of the maze will break off into two choices. The first is a hall of mirrors. The second path is full of cotton candy. Please pick one and post it at the end of your reply. Replies are due by 12/28
For this path I've send each participant 20 signos since it's still continuing.
Shrike does not falter when the path grows darker and darker, when the air turns bitter and the leaves begin to curl. She does not shy when the stem blooms into a garden of nightshade, or when the garden produces a mare.
She is no stranger to this kind of magic; she is no stranger to mazes and dream-things (and nightmares, too).
The painted mare says nothing, only watches, only listens, as the dream-mare speaks. The expression in her dark eyes, on her pale face, is unreadable; maybe there is disappointment there, or loneliness, but neither of them have anything to do with the maze. It feels as much like home as anything in Novus. Perhaps that is why there is something like sorrow, a weight across her sturdy heart.
Only when the maze-mare explodes into nothing (nothing but petals and scent, light and darkness, sound and void) does Shrike toss her head, paw a rut in the black-smelling earth like a bear might. Still she pays no heed to the others - they are strangers to her as all have been in Novus, all but the ones she knew from the rift-lands. Shrike only steps forward, something feral and wary in the shine of her eyes, the curve of her nostrils.
When she glances to the left path she dismisses it at once. It smells too sweet, sickeningly so, and the mare wants nothing to do with it. Not the color, not the smell.
So it is down the first path she turns, only pausing for a moment when the first mirror catches her reflection and casts it to all the others down the line. There she stands, wary, scarred, stoic. She watches herself grit her teeth, turn her red ears back - and take first one step, then another, down the path.
The darkness closes in around him, shadowy fingers curling into fists around his mane, his scarves, his legs. The only thing missing to make this night perfect was a full moon shining overhead to light his way.
He draws to a stop beside the others, his eyes full of moonlight and malice. The mare before them says nothing, hardly even looks at the equines she’s drawn ever farther into the maze. But in the same way that the darkness crept upon them - subtly but steadily until the sky instead turned black with shadows - her wings began to beat.
Toulouse hardly noticed it at first, the way he hardly cares when a bird takes to the skies above him. But gradually, progressively, the wind she generated grew stronger and stronger.
He wrinkles his nose as a petal flies too close for comfort, as if rejecting the sickly-sweet smell that it carried. But another petal follows the first, then a third, a fourth, too many to count - and for the first time tonight, Toulouse almost feels the need to step back.
Almost.
A frown tugs at his lips, tilting them ever downwards as he resists the urge to lift his head higher, knowing he would never be able to escape the barrage of wind and flowers and ivy. His heart skips a beat, then kicks into overdrive, as if trying to keep up with the storm she’s created.
And then, almost as suddenly as it started, it stops with a flash of light and still more petals, and the mare disappears.
He surveys the holes left in her stead with a hungry look, his blood thrumming loudly in his ears. And he can’t help but thank the mare silently, for this decision is far easier than the first.
Toulouse couldn’t even stand the smell of the flowers - he wouldn’t risk suffocating in the sickly sweetness of the cotton candy. Perhaps that would be his demise tonight.
He steps to the first hole, filled to the brim as it was with reflections. And as he does, a hint of amusement dances at the corners of his lips.
---he chooses the path of mirrors.
home is behind the world ahead
there are many paths to tread
hen the mare of nightshade and moonbeams explodes into shatters of light — so bright that Caine flicks a night black wing over his aching eyes — he is reminded of a night, years ago, when he had conjured a meteor shower.
He drew up short when he spotted her. A peasant girl, hidden behind a stack of crates, so steeped in shadow he had almost missed her. Silver eyes impassive, the boy continued on his way — she wasn't a target, and the first rays of morning light were already staining the inky sky lavender; he was late, and Agenor would be furious — and stopped, again, when he felt his magic wake.
Sometimes, when he was especially tired, his magic would burst from him like shadowy fingers when it sensed a dream it hungered to see.
He hesitated only for a moment before kneeling down next to the sleeping girl and slipping inside her dreams.
The beauty of her dream stunned him. Stars fell out of the sky like tears, breaking against the ground in a shower of prismatic light. One after one, the night bled constellations. He had never seen anything like it. The magic in his blood boiled red-hot and scalding, begging to be released. And release it he did.
In the depths of a shadow-steeped alley, stars fell like rain onto the sun-bleached cobblestones. As they hit the ground, one after one, they vanished back into the world of dreams.
When the tornado of petals finally settles, leaving behind a nauseatingly strong perfume, Caine lowers his wing.
Looming in front of him like chasmic eyes are two holes in the hedge where there had previously been none. For a moment he stays rooted to the spot, far too troubled by how much the maze has unsettled him. "The Night Queen has outdone herself."
Quickly, though, Caine recovers. Wings flattened against his side, ears perked, he inches towards the twin openings and peers through at what lies beyond.
The first path disorientates him. It reminds him too much of Agenor's Hall of Mirrors, a room made for the sole purpose of delighting the Consul's guests at his weekly dinner parties. Caine had been the one to construct it, and he had never hated one of his creations more.
Too eagerly does he turn towards the second path. When he sees it, he is so surprised that he chokes back a laugh.
A path of candy floss. Perhaps this maze truly will fulfill my dreams tonight, Caine muses, a boyish gleam to his quicksilver eyes.
When the others turn down the path of mirrors, their hooves tinkling like a chorus of bells on the glass, Caine stretches his neck forwards to catch a wisp of sickly sweet floss on his tongue.
