EPISODE 94: SLAVES
— Ivory Nation, Year: 7291. Season: Color Fading.
“Ohh, darling,” Innai said, disdain dripped from her voice as she stared at the humans before her. “Humans… especially… magi-humans are not companions. Allow Aunty Innai to teach you such.”
The Demigoddess of Purity didn’t bother to receive a response from Wilarax before she acted. A pure, refined wave of magic entered the air and its stifling presence bore down on Ilia and her daughter, Aniya. Wilarax herself felt little of it, as the demigoddess blatantly ignored her. Regardless, it was impossible for a mage of Wilarax’s repertoire to not feel the significant change to the mana within the air.
A small sense of powerlessness entered her heart, extinguished by the light of the sun. A sense of adventure reinforced the light, the domain of her God there to guide her. Her father’s protection, a teardrop necklace she was told to never remove, and God El divine presence… she felt it.
Everything happened so fast—far faster than Wilarax could comprehend. In one moment, she stood before the large demigoddess, in the next, Uma and several of her retainers acted. There was no talking or exchange of words—simple action, like a blade unsheathed, her protectors slid into place.
There was not a single creak from the dock or the boats anchored from their movement. By the time Wilarax could see anything, a large double-bladed war axe appeared in the hands of Uma, whose body weight and height more than matched Innai’s as she transformed. Thick black knight armor covered the centaur’s body, jagged edges like the thorns of roses—dangerous if you just reached out and grabbed.
The weight of the world became heavier, and Wilarax’s throat tightened. The silence that suddenly reigned over the open dock spoke louder than the actions of the demigods before her. The only change to the silence was the once-singing citizens of Ivory. The elves who sang for Wilarax silently dropped one by one—like strings of a dancing puppet suddenly cut. The Intent of clashing demigods too much for them to bear.
The world held its breath.
Ahead of Uma, matching the two other demigods of the Nation of Ivory, were Fio and Ahri. The two demigoddesses also enlarged and stood at the ready with their weapons in hand. Fio held a rapier, whose edges shined a bright white. A mix of leather and steel covered her body, light enough for quick precise movements a fencer needed to make, yet resilient enough to protect her from life-extinguishing blows. A red scarf kept around her neck fluttered in an imaginary wind, cape-like, as it danced through the air. Ahri, on the other hand, held a large, pulsating orb of magic. The nine tails of the foxkin swayed lightly in that same breeze. She wore mage’s battle robes, but hers seemed more like a decoration than protection. Her body is revealed in all the right places to distract the eyes of men and women alike. Wilarax’s eyes locked onto that orb and the deadly amount of destruction it could unleash in but a moment. She gazed at the fallen bodies of the citizens of Ivory… and the lack of care in the eyes of any of the surrounding demigods.
Youruu — Silent One and Lucky — He Never Misses, surrounded her, and the mother and daughter on both sides. They, too, were much larger than the average person and stood nearly as giants among men. A green-blue bow, with sparks of lightning dancing on its surface, appeared in Lucky’s hands. A bycocket with a sharp green feather calmly sat on his head as light leather armor covered his body, a single quill of arrows on his back. Twin obsidian daggers, the color of midnight, silently reflected all light as Youruu held them. These daggers were attached to the black bandages that covered Youruu’s entire body. Only green, ghastly eyes were revealed through the wrappings.
The air became thick with tension, and Wilarax swallowed, hard. This was the first time she experienced someone far more powerful than her act—although it wasn’t directly against her. The vast amount of power in the air began to cause a change in the surroundings. Sparks of lightning danced within the air and off the combatants. Her five high-level guards stood, but the strain showed—evident on their faces and in their movement. They could last, but for how long? The road to power is long, and surpassing level three hundred by prestiging your class or walking the path of a deity was both a qualitative and quantitative change in your abilities.
‘ Those who walk this path and level this high… have to be some type of crazy, ’ Wilarax thought.
Storm clouds emerged and thunder cackled in the sky. The once clear, cloudless night sky changed instantly. The stars and the constellations, signifying the Gods, covered. A storm emerged, its tempo and momentum seemed only seconds away from bursting. The water of the dock swelled and shifted the docked boats. Wilarax did not feel the stable connection she held to mana from her bloodline. Everything around her was posturing for control as the combatant’s domains fought against one another.
No one spoke. Somehow, Innai and the other two demigods of the Nation of Ivory held pristine weapons in their hands. Innai held a pure silver-white stave that appeared carved from one of the moons. The crescent at its peak shined with the same brilliance. Frost covered nearly half a dozen meters around her, extending from where stave met the hardened wood of the docks.
No… one… spoke. No one seemed willing to speak. Only they quietly stared at one another — Innai’s chin raised, and eyes locked with her opponents. The black mare Uma grinned, the immediate air around her hot and crackling with her Energy.
One young elf stepped forward—silver-gold eyes stern with belief as she moved past her protectors. Her steps were light, but never once did they falter. Uma harrumphed, and she paused next to the Demigoddess of Bravery—knowing this was as far as she could walk.
Wilarax summoned all her courage and simply spoke the same words that began this entire fiasco. Her eyes shook and radiated what she truly believed in.
“ People are not pets… and Aniya and Ilia certainly aren’t mine. They are my companions… and will be treated as such ,” Wilarax repeated herself. The quietness of the docks allowed her gentle voice to carry into the ears of all present.
The Demigoddess Innai kept her eyes locked with Uma, a hint of disdain within them as they softly glowed a pure white. It was only when Wilarax spoke that the demigoddess’s attention finally broke off.
Wilarax stared back—this was not her first rodeo. All her life, she grew up under the watchful gazes of demigods and those of similar strength. The Demigoddess of Purity could squash her like a bug, but she held true to her belief. The demons the magi-humans were said to be were not Ilia or Aniya. The mother… was just a lost soul-searching for a way home. Wilarax saw herself within both mother and daughter. The same bright gaze Aniya held was how she grew up looking at this world of magic. However, deep down… she longed for home. She missed her little brothers and felt hurt at the missed opportunity to watch them grow into teenagers. She missed her friends, her family, and her old life… ended too soon. Wilarax—Celina came to understand these feelings and be at peace with them… but she never forgot her roots.
Wilarax didn’t know what the Demigoddess of Purity saw within her eyes, but she gasped. The ground shook as she took two small steps back. Her eyes, once full of pride and disdain, dispersed just as the gathering storm clouds above. The air, once thick with tension, eased. The pressure built, released.
“What a pure and gentle soul… unmarred by the river of time and unsoiled by loss of all you’ve known,” she began, voice soft, saddened . She paused only to shake her head, before her glowing eyes locked onto Wilarax’s. Their glow softened and dispersed to reveal the silver-black eyes of the demigoddess.
“When the armies of magi march through the prosperous land of where you call home—burning, pillaging, and destroying all you’ve ever known… I hope to still see the purity in your soul.
…
Welcome to the Nation of Ivory, Wilarax — Daughter of the Sun. I hope never to see your light fade. ”
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— Theocracy of Jhan, Year: 7291. Season: Color Fading.
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“Move slave,” a deep and menacing voice uttered.
Ìmólè Jhan frowned , but she didn’t speak—silently watching as the slave was forced before her. Shadows hid the features of his face as large braziers full of flame lit the statue of the Goddess standing tall above them. Large pillars rose from the ground, carved with birds of all categories. Hawks — tearing and ripping the flesh of others — were the most prominent.
The Temple of Jhan stood at the greatest of heights, watching from above like a bird of prey on the hunt. A city — built by the hands of slaves — stood beneath the great temple.
Two people, twins , stood beneath Her stature, hawk-like eyes gazed down on them with stifling intensity. Ìmólè found it challenging to breathe, not just this time when she entered the temple… but the previous, and the one before that… and the one…
It would be the same for the morrow and the day after… and the day after…
Ìmólè stepped forward, mouth open to give the sacrifice one final word of hope, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her. Frowning, she turned to face the young man who pulled her back.
“What is it Izon,” her frown softened but did not disperse.
“You cannot forgive them all, Goddess Jhan is watching, waiting.”
Silent sobs emerged from the demi-human before them, and Izon quietly pulled her further back to prevent any splash back from landing on her pristine white robes. A crown of gold-dipped flowers rested on her temple as well as his. Sometimes, Ìmólè forgot who the older twin between them was.
The executioner’s blade chopped down, but before it connected, Ìmólè closed her eyes. Instead, Izon watched. He watched as the head rolled and the red blood of the demi-human stained the steps before them. The body’s blood continued to flow, but its pattern was not random. Deep groves pulled the blood outward and then in, one on each side of the body. Gradually, it traveled toward the feet of the statue. The hawk-like eyes of the Goddess above were unmoving and unrelenting. The braziers’ intensity only grew as the process continued.
Izon Jhan watched —hoping, praying, that Goddess Jhan would be satisfied. He committed the name of the slave to memory and added another tally to the list that had grown since their birth. If any citizen of the theocracy stood as close as Ìmólè was, then they would hear a single silent chant.
“…five thousand, six hundred and eighty-four,” Izon silently whispered. “Leion… five thousand, six hundred and eighty-four.
…
Leion… five thousand, six hundred and eighty-four. ”
Ìmólè gently tugged on Izon’s blood-red toga, a single stripe of purple represented who he was. Above them, the eyes of Goddess Jhan seemed to hold satisfaction to its stoney visage—as if their performance was found… acceptable . The blood that flowed up Her sandals and up her legs absorbed and returned the statue to its neutral grey color.
Izon turned and without hesitation, Ìmólè followed. The pair left the executioner behind and the sole witness to the deed. Tomorrow, they would meet with him once again, and the day after… and the day after.
“Bra-brother… I’m… sorry.”
When they reached the last of the steps underneath the statue of Goddess Jhan, Ìmólè finally spoke. Her hand tightly clasped the toga of her twin, but he did not turn to face her.
“If this is the price I have to pay to keep you alive. Then I will bear the burden alone. It is I who should be sorry for allowing you to witness this, but we must never forget the weight of the lives sacrificed to keep yours.”
His back was broad, and one Ìmólè grew used to staring at. Silently, he stepped forward, the hand clutching his toga a monumental weight that he chose to bore alone.
The journey resumed, and the pair continued to walk through the temple—leaving the far reaches and moving to the front. Lanterns lit their way as the sound of their footsteps was the only noise to accompany them for now. No others were present in this Temple of Jhan. None but Ìmólè Jhan — High Priest and Pontiff of the Church of Jhan and Izon Jhan — [Chosen] and Grand Purifier of Jhan, Commander of Her armies… protectors of the human race. Oh, but of course… [The Executioner] remained in the temple as well.
The pair found themselves before two grand temple doors that held the weight of a mountain.
“Hmph,” Izon let out. The doors slowly opened and with their opening, the sound that was suppressed to the outside, entered.
It was here that Izon finally turned and gazed at Ìmólè, who moved to stand next to him, hawk-like eyes searching over her.
“You do this every time, I’ve long since grown used to it,” Ìmólè said with a small chuckle. Her hand, painted with multiple symbols, raised to cover her mouth.
“It wasn’t long ago that you stopped hiding behind me,” Izon smirked. “Are you ready?”
After he asked her, the smirk disappeared and his piercing gaze met her own.
“Yes.”
The door's opening completed, and together the two stepped through and into the light. Heat threatened to blast the pair back, and the voices of the crowd drowned them as they emerged above a thousand—thousand people.
Some bowed, some prayed, others those who were the lowest of inhabitants of the Theocracy, cursed. They cursed the [Chosen of Jhan] and the sacrifices he made daily. They cursed the [Chosen] for they knew not if their head would roll next. They cursed Jhan and her conversion through a cycle of life and death. For they had gone from the masters to the slaves.
“HUUUZAAAAAH,” Izon roared, spittle flying and hints of the unknown in his eyes.
Ìmólè felt it all, her hands tightly clasped together in front of her.
‘When did he change so much…?’
“HUZZZAAAAAAAH!
HUZZZZZZAAAAAAAH,” the crowd roared back. Their hands reached skyward toward Izon as if they were not at the foot of a pyramid but instead placed in front of the young ruler.
It didn’t matter if they were praying, bowing, or cursing the name of Izon Jhan. Now, each member of the crowd roared back as a strange compulsion overtook them. Izon stared at them, seemingly searching for something. When he found it… he spoke, voice carried thousands of feet, ensuring everything below heard him.
“I am Izon, [Chosen of Jhan] and Grand Purifier of the Theocracy—leader of Her armies and the one who took us, humans, considered the lowest of races… to the greatest of heights. For the last three years, I have guided our great nation! Repelling the Warring Beast Plains and fighting the starving orc hordes of Jehda—establishing the might of Jhan and extending the reach of humanity! I have freed millions of captured humans and enslaved those who once called themselves our masters! Goddess Jhan has guided my hand. Jhan has many faces. She is in me! She is in you! Yet regardless of what you look like, we all share one trait.”
A million pairs of hawk-like eyes returned Izon’s stare. Next to him, Ìmólè swallowed but did her best to stifle the nervousness she felt in front of the eyes of so many people.
They were twins, yes, but her younger brother was taller, his presence always attracted the eye of everyone in the room. She was the older one, yet she was the mistake… for there can only be one [Chosen] for the Theocracy. One person to lead their nation to greatness.
“Death is only but a second cycle of the Great Rebirth , the Great Promise our Goddess gives us! Death is but a mere passage of time before you return to our great nation under Goddess Jhan! I am Izon and I have sworn to lead you to the greatest heights! I have not failed, and for sixteen years you have sacrificed a life nearly every day for me! For my sister! No life has gone unremembered. No death has gone unjustified.”
The crowds below hung onto every word Izon uttered. A silent anticipation rose in their chest. A thousand—thousand men, women, and children… some citizens—others slaves—listened to the words of the [Chosen] for his words were Her words. For where he turned his gaze, meant She did as well. Ìmólè shuttered, feeling the connection to their Goddess grow stronger. She was here watching… waiting for the third cycle to start. One that would be the last for the Great Rebirth to complete. Ìmólè didn’t dare turn for fear that those eyes, the very ones she gazed through the world at… would be there.
Oh, how she hated them.