You are awakened by a sailor. Or at least you assume he is a sailor. His voice is a rough Venetuium dialect, presumably from the southern portion, you add, as he rolls his tongue distinctly. Elysium and Venetuium had recently formed an alliance as king Diggerretori, the current ruler of Venetuium, came into power. Queen Regina is his cousin, and you assume she will be welcome at the capital, in the Western territory. Your mother probably had the same thought process. You wince, and scuttle out into the light as the sailor swats at your head. The dock is crowded and humid, and you are shoved around. You clutch the little pouch of coins in your fist tightly, and take the first road East. By the time you've reached the dirt path, your feet are screaming. The cloth wrappings do little to protect from the filth of the wharf. Being a tropical country, Venetuium nights are prime time for insects, which buzz around your head. You trudge miserably forward, knuckes white from clenching the pouch. The world spins as your stomach roars. You have been eating torchunder throughout the day, knowing fully well that too much of such a thing can result in poisoning. Your eyelids are heavy, despite the spike of pain in your belly. Venetiuim is beautiful, you think, vaguely delirious. The foliage is dark and lush, increasing as you head further inland. It does not compare to the rolling hills of green in Elysium, nor the neighboring sky kingdom, Pepetratious. Them and their phoenixes. You shudder to remember the firebirds, in all of their lethal beauty, (they are your family crest for a reason), swooping down and replacing troops, leaving a wall of flame in their place. It was your mother's tapestry that hung on the wall, you remember, of the great hall in your manor. She is a knight of great status, even after bearing you, and she served as a general under the king. Mother. Tears stream down your face suddenly, and without warning. You retch a little, and stagger into the underbrush just in time for a cart to pass, narrowly missing the heel of your foot. You vomit into a bush, torchunder vomit. It smells twice as bad as it did beforehand. Also, it glows faintly. If you were not in such a state, you would be documenting this. Even now, there is a small part of your mind that sounds generally distant and slightly Westalpian, (a sea kingdom, just to the north of Venetuium, but south of the former Elysium, known for their extreme wealth due to the pearl trade and the rescue of wayward vessels), notes this in bored tones. You crawl under a neighboring tree, slumping against it, surrounded by darkness, shrouded in fear but too exhausted to move, and allow the hands of fate to take you, as consciousness withdraws from you. ~*~ La dee dum what is planning ahead.
A low noise startles you awake. Everything is hazy, and your movement is limited to tilting your head. Your mouth is dry, and tastes like demons danced on your tongue. You do not recognize where you are. It's damp, light pouring from a stream of sun water. This is also native to Venetuium, a special liquid produced by... Your memory fails you. Dimly, you recognize it is an animal, however you do not remember what it is. You remember much, but you do not remember this. You wish to move greatly, but your body does not respond. The growling goes louder and in response your eyelids fall like lead, succumbing to memories. "Titus Tybalt Tolwicked!" The milkmaid yelps, and brushes off her leg coverings. Very few common women wear dresses such as the Queen does, and you remember Delinda the first time she got to wear one, too. It had been the night of her wedding. "Apologies mum," you say, rather breathless, "but you absolutely must come look! Tis of great importance. Nay, tis of utmost importance!" You say, the fervor in your voice motivating the maid to her feet. By this time she has been wed to a very drunk merchant, who means well, but forgets. There has been some concern for Delinda as she has not bore him a son as of yet, but you remain yet hopeful. You tug her out into the courtyard of the Grand Castle. You are expected to follow your mother's footsteps and become a knight, your own sire unbeknownst to you. "Hark, mum! The king hath returned!" You burst out as the gates swing open, your triumphant mother a little behind your smug father, the head of the Lyon under his arm. You remember it was the head of King Fratain's beloved beast, a great canine with feline tendencies. It's blue tongue lolled out. Brutus, the king's son, was right behind you. "Do you see, Titus? Sir Tybalt and his Majesty are practically brothers! I suspect that shall be us, and based upon that, I dub thee brother." You turned to see his bright eyed wonder, and smiled, "Indeed, brother." "Quite right then, boy, I must return to my duties if all the excitement is over." "Won't you join us, mum?" "Enjoy thineselves, if you fancy thineselves brothers." She huffed and daintily ran across the field. "Beasts such as these," your then king says, quieting the congregation instantly, "Are not unknown to the likes of Sir Tybalt," appraising smile to her, sitting right beside you, "Nor myself, of course. Yet this, this is a monument of our greatness." He gestured at the head in the center of the table. The court Mage had it dried and stuffed immediately. "Cheers to Sir Tybalt and her men for this achievement." He raised his glass. Your father was never one for epic speeches. This expression was a speech in itself. Your mother glared as she raised her glass. Mainly at you. Always at you. "Wake." A voice commands you, and your eyes open once more, unencumbered. It echoes from further in the cave. "I remember you." You croak, and extend your hand out into the darkness.
They narrow their eyes, and shove a crude, wooden bowl at you. You grasp it weakly, and give them a smile. "Your teeth are orange, sire." "I know." You wince, and lift the poultice to your mouth. The Mage's apprentice withdraws, and regards you stiffly. "I see I was correct in my assumption." "Indeed, Argus. Glad am I that you survive." "The Master taught me well." They reply. Argus fiddles with the ring on their finger. You recognize it as Datalus' immediately. "How did you manage?" "Now, sir, you are aware of the Mage's code." "Ah, how could I forget." Mages are a secretive lot, never reveal anything. Argus has not even revealed a gender, if any. Datalus was much of the same. Perhaps the King knew, but he'd never tell you. Their dark face is illuminated by the rising close star. You know they are your senior, just as your brother was. You trust them, as your brother trusted them. "What is your aim?" "Of this I do not know, however," they pause, removing their hood to watch the morn goddess win her battle, "I know that I am under the Queen's rule, even with her kingdom gone." The third eye on their forehead peaks out. You start, stunned. It is the color of flames, dragon spit, phoenix feathers, ripe apples from your father's orchard. To reveal one's third eye is a sign of deeply rooted trust. "So you are a light mage." You say slowly, carefully, and the third eye closes, returning to the simple, thin line, then disappearing completely. "Indeed." Argus replies, turning their dark eyes toward you. The color of coal. "[You] trust me with such a privilege?" "Worthy of it, Titus." Their mouth turns up at the corners. You have known them since birth. You suppose Argus must trust you. "There is nothing left for me, except to follow you." Eyes shinning, you touch their shoulder. They do not react. You know. "I know, brethren." The Queen would never accept them. You remember the dirty looks she shot Datalus when the King was distracted. Lucky were they that the King found them necessary; they both were his own personal mages, though they tended to help all around the castle. If the Queen allowed, of course. She held as much power; if not more than him. You suppose it was devotion to him that caused her to refrain from being especially rude to the Mages, but without the King, Argus would suffer. They tentatively touch your shoulder, large hand heavy. Like your brother. (Touching shoulders in Elysium is a sign of loyalty, swearing to protect them at all costs. The movement of the arms is important, as they are viewed as one's most precious appendages, allowing one to write and dance and fight. This is specific to Elysium.) The potion's effect is drastic. You feel like a caelum. Like you could fly. You coax Argus to exit the cave, and pick your way though the canopy. They got quite aways away from the main road you were on. You told them of your mother's description, and they respond with a thoughtful expression. "It could do no harm to look." They say finally as you tumble out into the road. In the light, you realize how small you are, compared to Venetins. They tower over the two of you, in your adolescent stage. They would loom even over the King. Long caravans, pulled by trotains, (equine relatives, native to Venetuium; considerably larger than horses), amble by on the uneven road. Paths wind through the endless foliage, little pockets of civilian life dotting the otherwise wild forest. A number of intelligent life tend to be nomadic, and pass overhead, buying goods from the caravans themselves. Argus bottles up small fires in jars in exchange for food, anything but torchunder. You attain bunches of fat grapes, and a grandulum, (a watermelon pumpkin hybrid with both edible seeds and insides.) You walk alongside the caravan, making friends with a Mage driving one of them. The name they give you is Catrogaphus, and you cannot see their face, as is customary. You hop aboard their wagon with a little persuasion on their part. "Come friends, rest your weary legs and let us make merry." You look sideways at Argus; they tend to be more perceptive than you are. "They do not appear to be threatening," Argus, it seems, consents, so you do as they say. "What brings you to these parts, foreigners?" Catrogaphus asks, as you settle in. The back of their cart is full of odd Mage trinkets you'd rather not touch. "We hail from Elysium." You say simply. "Ah. Refugees. We've come crost a few here and there." "Aye. Our township was last to fall." You say tonelessly. "Terribly sorry. Peptratious is a fierce nation indeed." Your shoulders slump. "Where doth this train head?" Argus interjects, donning your regal speech, "We head East to Samyodra." Another costal city. Venetins rarely travel inland, with the exception of royalty. You hope somewhere deep in your heart, perhaps your mother is there. It is foolish, you know better than this, but there is always some part of you that has faith. You remember your brother's words. You are a fool. You look up at the sky, as the nigh goddess poisons her sister. The resulting color is Argus' third eye, but not quite as spectacular. Argus and Catrogaphus speak in tongues, Mage language. It sounds harsh, the gnash of teeth and harsh pronunciation. You stomach a few grapes that Argus distractedly hands you, and stare at the Matron constellation. It is across from Eli's Helm, visible just above the clearing of the canopy. Four stars, a mother and her babe. The caravan halts, and they feed trotains one last time before removing their bridles and tying them to thick trees, impossible to drag around. Their owners sleep nearby, in makeshift leaf nests. Catographus insists on the two of you simply staying in the caravan. "It is safer in there, and the prince seems a bit sickly." They have taken to calling you the prince because of how you speak. You are about to protest, but Argus nods thoughtfully and concurs. "Hospitable Mages are difficult to come by, let us take this chance, Titus." You sigh, but follow his advice. Laying near the open end, you stare at the sky. Again, you find the Matron. Then Galteus the Warrior, Deltus the Healer, Fattain the Queen. Then there is the Large Dog and the Small dog. Xenthus, Delpy, Raddium. You fall asleep, lulled by Argus' breath, and the thought, how do I compare to the vast ocean? I simply do not. ~*~ Long one, I think. Little incoherent. Am I getting better? I should think not! Haha! Pirouettes the heck out of here. BTW freaking Argus has now become a main character what a doll.
It's not really an...eye, per se, it's more of a physical manifestation of being a Mage, side effects if you will. They're not a natural occurrence, although only a certain type can achieve becoming a Mage. Basically you get the eye once you're full fledged, and it becomes a part of your identity, all of which is hidden away. Titus' kind, (they're not really human, but I haven't come up with a good name for them), really don't understand what the third eye actually is, so they try to liken it to something they can grasp. Since it's mainly from his perspective, that's what it's referred to as. Mages themselves have a word for it, but they certainly won't be telling anybody.
Also I realize I accidentally called Argus a he. Let me be clear, Argus by all accounts is non binary, and will be referred to as they, not it, he, or she.
Your eyes flutter open. Drowsily, you look over to see Argus, assured by their presence. They are busily slicing up the grandulum with a small knife, saving the seeds in a small pouch, provided by your other mage friend. Catrogaphus is saddling up their trotain, patting them on their big flank reassuringly. "I hope thou slept well, prince." The older Mage snorts. "Indeed I did, comrade." You look over at them. Their robes are a greenish color, darker than that of the forest. You wonder vaguely what the different colors mean. Argus dons a dark blue in a similar fashion. You remember briefly their face, broad nose, thin lips, high forehead, skin surely darker than your own. You wonder if Catrographus is the same way. It occurs to you that you never really thought about mages in any sort of depth. You cast a wayward glance at Argus, who hums the national anthem tunelessly as they divvy up your morning portions of grandulum. You yourself hide with twitching smile on your lips with eating that which Argus gives you. You pretend to ignore when they give you a slightly larger portion. The put the rest in a spare jar also containing the rest of your rations. Since there are few townships near the port you awoke in, you hope that you might be able to find some form of work, lest worst come to worst. You want to avoid the castle as much as possible, a grim future as a knight, or a servant. You cannot, simply cannot bear the thought. Argus echoes your thoughts. "What shall we do Argus?" You say, as you carefully count the coins your mother tossed you. They're copper currency; with Venetin script on them. You believe it is enough for a week's meal for one body, not two. You look up at Argus and you have a feeling they're pondering. "We shall find work, definitively. I do not know beyond that. I know that I will follow you, if you will allow me, with the exception of the palace." They say, drawing their knees to their chest. "Ah yes, the castle. I do not believe I wish to venture there. I'd much rather eat an entire stalk of torchunder, I should think." You shudder, and you almost feel their smile. "You are your brother's likeness, if you'd permit me to say such things." "Nonsense, Argus, we are equals. There is no Sir Tybalt or King Deceman to say otherwise." You dismiss, and smile at them. "Perhaps not quite as much your brother as I thought." They say, and glee saturates their voice. You remember their face again, but the thought is banished as the caravan jolts. "Argus, you and your prince should take thine leave." Catrographus whispers, frantically, a sudden thrill of tension up their back. "Take all that you need. Be swift." They add, and shake their shoulders. You quickly grab your coin pouch and wait half a heartbeat for Argus to sidle up to you, knife, bowl, and the jar in hand. "May the gods remain with you." "Bit late for that, your highness. Go, before they lay eyes on you." They retort, and you slide out, the merchant driving the cart behind Catrographus's is pale, fingers shaking on the reigns. They don't notice you, black eyes focused on the unseen force in front of them. You disappear into the nearby underbrush, daring to look back momentarily. Bandits. You should have known. Quite a few as well, too fair to be native. You want to stop. You don't want to hide anymore. You cannot do this- But Argus does not give you a choice. They move behind you, block your view, urge you on. "It is not the time to play savior, Titus." They rumble, and you turn your head back around, speeding up the pace as much a you can between the vines and branches. Though you cannot help, you also cannot cry. Not again. You have lived for 15 cycles. You are fully fledged. Mother always taught you that too much emotion is for the weak willed. "I will never be weak again, Argus." You yell at them over your shoulder. "Nor will I." They grunt, and you nod firmly, legs carrying you far from the road. ~*~ I have a feeling this will be a trend for them. Running away. Yes. I did it. I fawking did it look at me and my impressive bullshitting skills.