EPISODE 233: [CHOSEN OF GODDESS MADRIS] 2

— GREAT EDRYAN, YEAR: 7294. SEASON: CENTRAL.

They dance in the street, free of woes, for they know not that their tomorrow is not promised. They laugh freely, making merry as they expect a new tomorrow, a better tomorrow. The words—the Promise of their [Chosen] remains staunchly fulfilled. It's discussed and displayed in song and dance. ' I pledge myself to thee, Citizens of Edryan. To never walk far without building the steps for Edryan Citizens to follow. To never look forward without opening the door behind.

It's such a beautiful thing—the innocence of ignorance. It is a privilege, one that I desire but hold no faith with. My sister is in town, having traveled from far away to arrive here—do I meet her? Should I see her? Would she recognize me by my eyes, or would I pass as another stranger? Oh, the bliss that is ignorance, what I would sacrifice for your touch.

My name is slowly forgotten, my exploits unmemorized. The song and dance of the bards once praised me—praised the Red Hand, but now they only release their tongue for Hope and Her. Oh… ignorance, what bliss you are.

— Excerpt from ???

"Where is the [Chosen of Madris]?"

The question whispered its way through the streets of Edrya—carried by the winds, animals, and any creature that would listen. It crawled through the sewers, splashing past the rodents that dwelled and the underground gangs that sold their illegal wares. It flew through the air, as fly as a sparrow, wings a-beat with a thrumming hum.

"Where is the [Chosen of Madris]?"

Such a question danced in the streets, performing tricks with magic, astonishing the children who watched. It tiptoed through alleyways, a [Thief] in the night, prowling and waiting for their next score. It was fervent, ardent in its ways as it traveled through the streets. It grabbed those near, spinning them with song and dance. It celebrated, a flame's last hurrah before it slumbered into a deep darkness. Yet no darkness would come forth, for this flame was endless, consuming all who neared in a perpetual upward motion.

"Where is the [Chosen of Madris]?"

It passed through the mouths of the guests who entered Edryan, Great Edryan, as the nation proclaimed itself. It traveled on the vehicles, those flying slightly above the ground or traveling upon it, tickling them like the wind as it passed. It was ever-present but not visible to the eye. It was a force, but not felt by the body, but by the mind. For two years, he had disappeared, leaving his people. At first, they were quite fine with it; after all, even as a youth, he hadn't much publicized himself, but that changed when he turned fifteen. He emerged from his cocoon, like a butterfly after its metamorphosis. And they watched, while the bravest even reached out, hoping for his favor… hoping for… something, anything even.

"Where is this [Chosen]," a man spat, "…of the Goddess Madris. How long does he intend to keep the four of us waiting?"

Ninjaro's eyes slid to the side, calmly observing the four brothers—two were twins with bowl haircuts that seemed messy yet organized all in the same manner. They weren't humans, but were a species related to them called the Machan, closer to orcs as cousins than anything. The two brothers, seemingly the younger pair of twins, were grey-skinned with a single tooth jutting from the top and bottom of their mouths, each on a different side. The other twins were larger, with longer hair and piercing bronze eyes.

Ninjaro noticed them immediately. "[Heroes]," he commented to the White Wall. Ai'esha ignored him, but her interest was piqued as she sensed the strength of the four brothers. Her eyes glanced at the even larger Machan that stood as a silent guardian next to them. His eyes turned immediately, and Ai'esha glanced away, her red eyes burning from the small strike of the man.

Ninjaro frowned. "That's why I didn't stare directly. The Machan take stares as such as challenges—they're known for their pure physical strength. We should stay away from them, not to cause Grandfather any issues."

"You could have warned me," Ai'esha grumbled, rubbing her eyes to clear them of the pain. "Grandfather isn't here anyway, just a few Elders."

"You should know better than to look at unknown [Prestige]."

"Where is this [Chosen] of the Goddess Madris."

It wasn't a question, but a statement—nearly a demand with how it was spoken.

This time the words were said louder, loud enough to draw not just Ninjaro's attention but that of most of the hall. The Edryans had graciously hosted a small event before their summit began, allowing those who traveled to meet one another preemptively.

Ninjaro would have done the same. There were plenty of… personalities present, and it was best to cut tall grass to reveal the snakes underneath before allowing guests to partake in your event. The first of the snakes had been revealed. Just because the invitation of the Edryan Queendom was accepted didn't mean everyone arrived with good intentions. That included Ninjaro.

The young leader was here for one purpose only.

"Which one is making the ruckus," Ai'esha questioned, shaking her head one last time before focusing on Ninjaro. "Okan or Eji?"

"That one is Erin, with his twin being Ẹ̀ta," Ninjaro responded, tone slightly annoyed. "Don't challenge them, Ai'esha. They are [Heroes] and each has gained the class by themselves."

Ai'esha shrugged, uncaring as she responded. "The Path I walk isn't easy," her voice was melancholic, and her gaze veered southward, toward home. She placed her hands on the table and readied herself to rise. "We have to quickly gain in strength as all high-levelers leave this realm… I will not see our race fall or go extinct—besides, I'm tired of diving in the sea for prey. Mojo and Asan fought the magi, and I want to—"

Ai'esha's voice was interrupted as grand doors on the opposite side of the hall opened. Two figures entered, their auras swept forward and blanketed everything over a fiercely intense power. Ai'esha looked again, only now noticing another two figures who entered with those beyond mortality. Their appearances were similar to the figures who entered, and Ai'esha recognized both.

"Sit," Ninjaro commented, arms folded across his chest. "Enjoy the show before you leave to have your fun."

Ai'esha's brows arched together, but she sat back down to see how the magi would deal with their unruly guest. Her eyes focused on the taller magi with long braided dreadlocks. Since their initial meeting two years ago, Ade Oni had grown into a refined young man. There was still a wild air around him, but it seemed restrained—no, tempered by his years of travel. She was itching to try what Ninjaro gave her.

The [Path Walkers] of Edryan didn't bother to announce themselves; instead, they quietly walked to a platform where the room's occupants could easily view them. Ìmólè Jhan narrowed her eyes, a quiet curiosity within them as the commotion from the Machan began. She pursed her lips—the Machan were no friends to the human race, if not for their small territory on the other side of the Jehda Plains, then the humans may have found themselves fighting the four-armed race. Her hawk-like eyes fixated on Ade Oni as the magi entered. A hint of challenge resided within them.

Last time… last time she was not strong enough to challenge the magi youth who defeated a few prominent patricians of the Theocracy. That was no longer the case. Her [Heroic] class called for worthy challenges, and this was one she desperately wanted to face.

Magenta colored eyes traced the hall, gazing at figures renowned throughout the continent. To those eyes, the hall was barren. She took that as deliberate disrespect.

"Fifty-seven," Amaya spoke. It was more to herself than anyone else. "And only thirteen show."

There were fifty-seven countries on the Edryan continent, and Amaya had visited most of them, extending an invitation to the Edryan lands in hopes of kindling a connection and giving a choice. And, only thirteen showed up.

Amaya couldn't consider any of them allies—those who arrived came with a purpose. Whether it was the Machan, their thinly veiled probe into the state of the [Chosen] and the formidable Prestige who escorted them, or if it was the Umojo—a society of pale-skinned people of many different races all worshiping [The Lady]. The Asigbonle people already denied a reach for friendship, and the Yorimen… Amaya knew Lawruthian already held a contact within their sixth princess. The humans of the Theocracy arrived, their Holy Lady or whatever she was at their helm. The rest were other human tribes and a rare few elven ones—strong Prestiges leading them.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Amaya smirked, clearly understanding why they were here.

"Hmph, I still don't see this [Chosen] of you magi people," Erin's voice echoed across the hall. "What host invites the Machan and doesn't come to personally receive them—does he believe himself better?"

"Yes," Amaya's soft voice responded. "He is."

Immediately, a strained silence cast its shadow over the hall. Ninjaro smirked, his eyes shining with interest. Ai'esha scoffed, but there was curiosity in her eyes as well.

"Things are truly going to be interesting," the red-eyed woman commented to Ninjaro.

Both saw that it was a clear provocation by Amaya Musa. The young woman had only grown more refined since her visit to the Federation. She seemed taller, more confident, and her dressing attire changed. She was now dressed in a gown that enhanced her presence. It left her arms bare but gems and jewels glittering along her skin. Her hair was braided, but two distinct parts kept them separated. Her magenta eyes were deeper, more calculating, and captured Ninjaro's attention.

The Asigbonle man's smirk disappeared, and the heavy abacus in his beard began to tingle. He lightly fondled it but ran no calculations. It wouldn't matter if he did anyway, demigods and Prestige couldn't be factored in and would pose as anomalies to whatever plan he made.

The quiet of the hall was broken, a clear light rang from the left side where many of the elven-like races resided. An elf, with sharp, needle-like teeth and a bright red tongue, stood and applauded. His eyes remained fixated on Amaya, the desire within them not hidden.

Ninjaro frowned, and a look of disgust crossed his face. The desire in the elf's eyes was obviously of a malicious nature. Ninjaro attempted diplomacy earlier with those who considered themselves from the greater half of the continent. Unfortunately, those who considered themselves greater societies and countries than those of the Lower Kingdoms chose not to interact with them.

"[Skyscraper]—the Hero of the Waldleute — the People of the Forest," he commented to Ai'esha. His hands itched, and the grasp of his golden abacus intensified. "He is an old age [Hero]—born sometime in the 6300s."

Ai'esha frowned, her arms folded as she watched the ongoing conflict. "How isn't he…"

"Dead? A demigod or Prestige? I don't know," Ninjaro shrugged. "He isn't the only old age [Hero] that's appeared in recent years. It's almost like they've been asleep, kept away from the world until needed. Pawns of their Gods called forth now that their game is beginning."

The hero's long, dark brown hair with green undertones grew animated. His body was lengthy as he appeared refined and without waste. He was skinny, and the dark wood bark armor that covered him gave glimpses of his toned physique. Golden-brown eyes flecked with leaf-vein patterns intensified their gaze on Amaya.

The Demigoddess of Spell-Crafting flicked her eyes toward the Waldleute hero, a slight crease in her eyebrows.

The [Skyscraper] halted his laugh and suddenly spoke. "I am Alaric, born beneath the Blutmond and flowing blood—first of my name, [Firstborn of Tiefe Wald] and The One Who Scrapes the Sky ," Alaric's voice switched to his native language as he spoke his titles. He paused for a beat, his tall stature imposing as he said from the designated area for the Waldleute. His deep voice grew with each passing moment—it was ancient, like a shifting, breathing forest, its pressure like that of one beyond mortality, and it never left its concentrated efforts on Amaya. " Aus dīnem bluot grüenet hundert boum. Wenn ich dich falle, trinkt der Tiefe Wald – und wächst. "

Alaric then turned his attention to the Machan who'd begun to grow irritated at his interruption. He spoke once more, a smirk on his face as he did so. "Your blood is bitter and cannot sustain even a tenth of a tree. Your mind is weak and lacks true depth. When I sacrifice you to the [Tiefe Waldgöttin], [Goddess of the Deep Wood], you will not be a sufficient platter before this [Chosen of Madris]—only an appetizer."

Erin looked at his twin, and then they looked at the second set of twins. The four turned toward Alaric and laughed; the elder Machan, who floated above them with folded arms and legs, smirked.

"Skinny elf believes his insults can provoke the Machan? He thinks he can speak to [Blue Blade Erin] and live another day?"

"Huh-haaaa, perhaps we should capture him and feed him to ready him for the slaughter. I fear his meat would be too stringy and his bones brittle," his twin responded.

"Fäulnisskind," Alaric cursed. "I will flay you slowly, keeping the head alive while drinking the marrow from your bones, before extracting your soul and offering it to the Goddess wretched creature."

‎ Erin stood, one of his four hands reaching upward as he cracked his neck. His brothers began to jeer, but their eyes remained sharp, calculative .

Amaya Musa watched this, and a frown settled on her face. She didn't speak yet, not to respond to the calls of the [Chosen of Madris] outside of her initial response. This was bait; they believed she was the fish—Amaya was the fisherman.

Memories of her visit to Machan Land and the Deep Wood played through her mind. She'd met or had a glimpse of these figures involved—some through not-so-subtle conflict. Many times, the [Envoys of the Chosen] were challenged—the Sanctuary even faced several attacks throughout their journey. The countries played a game, poor imitations of the same game that the Twelve Thrones played.

Amaya played it too—if she wanted to become a demigod, if she wanted to still follow her sister's footsteps… she had to. She had to.

Before Erin could take a step, another voice spoke, interjecting themselves into the brewing conflict. "These are the superior kingdoms? The ones who believe themselves better than the lower half of the continent? A bunch of rabble and swine—barking the moment one walks by. Unfit to call themselves Kings and Queens—Rulers and Protectors."

Ai'esha's eyes slid over to Ninjaro, and she kept her expression neutral, but her internal surprise could not be kept from his calculations. She muttered, causing a Ninjaro to internally chuckle.

"And I was supposed to sit down and stay away from the conflict."

Gazes turned toward them as Ninjaro stood, a sneer on his face. His voice continued, its condescending tone barely hidden. "You are the next leaders of your territories and races? I fear your Gods held no other option but to choose rabble—mad dogs not able to sit and converse properly."

"I find myself in agreement," a feminine voice uttered. "Why is rabble from the Theocracy here? They've chased me for so long but haven't captured me. Hounds I know who repeatedly fail their jobs are put down."

The sparkle once in Ìmólè Jhan's eyes slowly dispersed to be replaced by a frost. Cardinal of the Eye — Snake-Eye, abruptly stood. His gaze was wide with anger and a cold fury.

"Sit," Ìmólè commanded.

Snake-Eye didn't seem to hear her, and the young woman frowned. How did her brother command such respect that his words only need to be said once?

" NOW, " Ìmólè added force to her voice. Yet it still lacked the same commanding presence as Izon.

The Cardinal of the Eye was tasked with securing the daughter of Zion and had been chasing her for nearly three years or more. For her to appear here in front of him was an insult that could not be taken lightly. The Prestige's fist clenched and unclenched, but he slowly sat back in his seat.

Ìmólè Jhan studied the young woman who spoke. Her feline features provoked a sense of disgust in the young woman. The Felion was barely clothed, with gleaming black fur on display and a face that barely held any human features on display. Her chest was bound by cloth, and several large animals surrounded her. Animals that radiated a strength beyond what Ìmólè could handle. Her glistening black fur held stripes like that of a tiger, and bared carnies displayed themselves in a pleasant smile directed at Ìmólè as their eyes met.

A second, larger felion smirked as she locked eyes with Snake-Eye. She was much larger than her charge, and two bear ears sprouted from her head. Long brown hair drifted from her shoulders, barely covering her bare chest, while scaled wyvern skin covered her lower body. Her muscles rippled, and countless scars riddled her body with a prominent one blinding her left eye. She blew him a kiss and made a rude gesture before turning her attention to the stage as a voice spoke.

"Great Edryan has graciously opened her doors, invited you in," Amaya spoke her voice soft but easily traveling into the ears of all present. "We wish to discuss the status of our continent and ease the transference of those beyond mortality. Our [Chosen] has a mission, destined by the Goddess, yet if peaceful means can be achieved, then it's best we carve a path forward through those left to carry the legacies of our forefathers."

Amaya gazed around, directly meeting the gazes of many of the members of the younger generation—directly meeting the gazes of those who'd be left in charge once those beyond mortality left.

"This is our future—and, it can be one where we choose a differed Path than those who came before—the decision is in our hands, no matter how they will direct you. None will be able to save you save for the strength you wield," Amaya's voice was mellow, like she was describing the weather and not a topic so harrowing. It hardened as she next spoke, and the aura of a [Hero] emerged, unique within itself, bashing against those who held similar classes.

"Or," Amaya paused, letting the weight of her words settle. "It can be one of war."

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