Eliot glances around, head cocked to one side as he examines his surroundings. He's heard a few things, now, from other Travelers, and been warned what to expect. This must be the space of his Arcana - The Emperor, apparently. He's fairly familiar with tarot cards, though they're more hedge witch magic than anything else. Familiar enough that he's both amused by this choice and slightly puzzled by it. Eliot, after all, has never been much of a traditonalist.
"So am I here for the interview? I'm afraid I left my CV behind," he comments casually to the back of the chair.
"It is no matter," a voice replies as the leather chair turns. "I have already reviewed it."
The man who had been in the chair looks Asian and is opulently dressed. "Greetings, Eliot Waugh, High King of Fillory. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
Eliot's brow furrows just slightly as he regards the other man. This is the wrong Arcana - he's supposed to be recruit by the Magician, not the Emperor. Will he be approached by more than one of them? And then there's what the man is saying ...
"I think you have me mistaken for someone else. I'm not High King of anything."
If anyone was going to earn that title after they finish whatever quest there is to do, it would be Quentin, who loves Fillory so much it's embarrassing. But then, the Emperor clearly knows what world he's from - is this flattery? Prophecy?
"No," Eliot says, "And it's likely to be exceedingly difficult to become that if I'm stuck here, so I'm going to presume that means you're sending me back?"
He's asked around, he suspects that is not the case, but it can't hurt to try, can it?
The magician pauses, then smiles slowly. "I don't think I'm going to say what I wish just yet. It seems a little careless. I still don't know the whole situation, so I'll hold on to that one for just a little more."
"Synodiporia is done as a series of wagers between myself and my kin," the Emperor says. "We place our Travelers in situations that need to be rectified. If the solution fits that of our archetype, then we win that wager and can progress further. The one who wins the last wager wins Synodiporia."
"And what, exactly, is Synodiporia?" Eliot asks. He understands the Greek base of the words, but he's not sure how they translate into something to 'win', and not just a description of the people here.
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"So am I here for the interview? I'm afraid I left my CV behind," he comments casually to the back of the chair.
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The man who had been in the chair looks Asian and is opulently dressed. "Greetings, Eliot Waugh, High King of Fillory. I am the Emperor, numbered fourth among the Arcana, and this is my Conversation Space."
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"I think you have me mistaken for someone else. I'm not High King of anything."
If anyone was going to earn that title after they finish whatever quest there is to do, it would be Quentin, who loves Fillory so much it's embarrassing. But then, the Emperor clearly knows what world he's from - is this flattery? Prophecy?
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He's asked around, he suspects that is not the case, but it can't hurt to try, can it?
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He pauses. "So how do you win?"
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