Othrys, Twenty-seventh World of Its Name
Adras, Ninth Continent of His Name
The shimmering spire dominated the city’s skyline, but only when one was close enough for it to appear.
Distance revealed a sprawling city of wide streets and buildings with white-painted roofs to keep the citizens cool in the bright sun.
The city stretched out for many kilometers on both sides of a mighty river.
Adrasia, Fifth of His Name, also known as Adrasia on the River Icthyion.
They stepped out of the spire.
Two towering figures.
One man and one woman.
Citizens stared with wide eyes and made to bow until the latter activated a magic crystal.
Citizens blinked and continued on with their business.
“I wouldn’t have minded speaking to them. It isn’t everyday that one may speak to an eidolon,” Theron said.
“You may bask in adulation after our business is finished,” Akanthe said.
“Your business, you mean.”
“You’re here to learn because in time you will be called upon to perform this task.”
The two Eidolons of Adras stood head and shoulders above the crowd as it flowed around them like the river did around the mountain.
One of the city’s many market districts lay near the river to take advantage of its bounty.
Fresh fish, shellfish and other watery treasures went straight from the boats to the docks to the vendors’ stalls.
There was no chaos in the process.
The rules were clear.
The forms were followed.
The men and women didn’t fish, dive, sell or cook for anything so vulgar as coin or the need to earn a living.
The God’s laws ensured that no man, woman and child went hungry, cold or hot.
Illnesses and injuries were taken care of.
All services were performed by people that held the passion for their classes or if they didn’t they were content to contribute according to Adras’ words.
Those that didn’t wish to participate in this society were free to go elsewhere.
There were many Gods with many lands.
Though, it was commonly known that Adras was one of the more benign and supportive of them.
Such benevolence was personified in the pack of unruly children currently skulking about in one of the many shadowed alleys deep in the heart of the market district.
The boys and girls wore white chitons made of good quality cloth. The mud and dirt splattered all over was the bane of their caretakers back at the orphanage.
Their sandals were likewise well-made and well-fitted, though it might be hard to tell under the layer of dried mud.
Their faces, knees and elbows were no less dirty.
Chubby-cheeked children were well-fed children and these orphans were no exception.
“Oh no, Gideon! It’s those kids again,” Kyrene said as she hurried to move the wares on the outer edges of her stall.
The finest pastries on the block, according to her sign.
Gideon snorted. He had already moved his oldest pastries to the edge.
“Why do you waste your time?”
“I know that it doesn’t matter. I don’t need the coin. And the Administarium always provides reparations without question. But, Gideon. It is the principle. We shouldn’t be encouraging children falling into thievery.”
“Adrasia makes use of all,” he tutted. “History was shown that rogues, thieves and such serve in their own ways. Besides, you never know if one of these orphans is the next great hero. Why, my grand uncle received a cloak made out of the pelt of an Nemean Liger from the great hunter, Theron, long ago and all for the cheap price of one single persimmon a day over a handful of years. That cloak has kept many members of my family alive.”
“There are schools for that.”
“Ah, but there is no substitute for the unpredictability of the wild, so to speak.”
Gideon glanced at the alley.
A tousled head of dark hair ducked back into the shadow.
He turned his back to them.
“Eyes In The Back Of My Head.”
A Skill earned from his service as a scout during the last great war nearly a decade ago.
The unified people of Adras, Ninth of His Name had fought off an invasion from a pantheon of rival Gods.
It had been a bloody, violent affair nothing at all like the conflicts between Adrasians, which were closer to sporting events than true combat.
Hence, the seemingly sudden rise in orphan street stall thefts.
For some, like Kyrene, it was an unacceptable dereliction of proper discipline.
For others, like Gideon, who had fought, it brought back unpleasant memories and sadness.
He kept watch while he moved his old stock back and replaced them with his freshest.
A custodian automaton puttered across the street of perfectly cut and placed stone.
He saw the twin gems within its gleaming brass shell pulsing. One emanated great heat and one conjured water. Together they created the steam that moved the pistons in its engine, which in turn moved the rods and gears in its limbs.
The automaton’s skeletal arms and legs moved in a stilted manner as it swept up the rare bit of litter that the citizens failed to notice and pick up.
Adrasians took pride in all aspects of their city.
That included cleanliness.
The orphans were taking their sweet time.
The crowd around Gideon and Kyrene’s stalls thickened as the morning wore on.
People with bags full of fish, vegetables and fruits went to this street for their last purchases before heading home.
Tasty treats, sweet and savory for their children at home or for themselves.
Kyrene’s concern over the orphans faded in the face of customers.
“Come try my latest creation! Twelve layers of thin pastry, soft, but crunchy, with berry cream filling every other layer, all topped by a chocolate glaze!”
“Oh, that sounds delectable!” an old woman placed two gold coins on the counter. “I’ll take two. What kind of berry did you use?”
“I got a fresh batch of black yesterday.”
“Ah, perfect!”
Kyrene placed two of the round pastries into a bag and handed it over.
The new product drew the greater share of attention.
Kyrene stuck her tongue out at Gideon.
“Act your age, woman!” he called out over his shoulder.
“Tch,” a grizzled man approached his stall.
“Aratos,” he nodded at the old soldier.
They had both fought in the war, though in different theaters.
Gideon had been luckier.
Aratos scratched the ugly scar underneath his gemstone eye.
The magical artifact was the least of what the Administarium rewarded him for his sacrifices.
“Not a fanatic about that new stuff, Kyrene’s always coming up with. Give me the old classics just like my grandmother and mother used to make,” Aratos grunted.
“Same as usual?”
“You know me well, friend.”
“That I do,” he grinned and moved around back into his stall to wrap up a small try of his freshest baklava.
A coin arced over the counter to land in his cup.
“Come now, friend, you know that’s not necessary between old soldiers.”
“Eh, my pile’s getting too big again. You won’t be getting my coin once I’ve spread it around a bit more,” Aratos laughed. “Say, you know those kids are lurking, right?”
Gideon nodded. “If you hang around there might be a show. Just keep a tight grip on your bags.”
Aratos moved to stand to the side of the stall, out of the street while a few more customers bought Gideon’s pastries.
“Reminds me of the war,” Aratos muttered.
“Lots of boring waiting in between bursts of terrifying violence,” Gideon said. “All things considered I much prefer the orphan raids.”
“Here we go!”
Gideon could hear the smile in his friend’s voice.
It started with shouts.
Some laughing, some angry, most in surprise.
Gideon saw it despite the press of the shopping crowd.
Children ran through the forest of adults.
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“Huh?”
“What are you seeing?” Aratos didn’t have the eyes to see like Gideon. All he saw was the jostling of the crowd.
“This group isn’t purloining their ill-gotten gains from any of the shoppers.”
“An ethical bunch, this lot!” Aratos chuckled.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s that,” he mused. “Not a lot to like in those bags for a child. Why take a fresh fish when you can have fresh-baked baklava?”
“True, true… feeling generous?” Aratos eyed the small tray of said treat Gideon placed out on the counter at the corner of the stall.
“Not at all. I just want to see how they’ll handle something a little too hot for soft-fleshed fingers.”
“Ah, a good challenge for the young scamps!”
Grinning children weaved through the forest, snatching pastries from the stalls.
No vendor was spared.
Though, it was a shared sort of misery.
They only took a handful or two from each.
That mattered not to those that believed in principle and the right way to raise children.
Kyrene cursed them and waved a fist, even giving a halfhearted swat to the backside of one pudgy little fellow that had the daring to reach deeper in her stall for the fresh stuff.
Still, Gideon didn’t fail to notice that she didn’t grab him by the scruff of his neck like she had always threatened.
They reached his stall next.
Beyond which lay daylight.
A scrawny, stone-faced boy reached for the hot tray.
He recoiled like a puppy gone too close to the iron pan on the fire, yet the only indication of pain was a slight frown.
They locked eyes for a moment.
Gideon raised a brow in question while Aratos laughed in the background.
The boy tugged his sleeves over his hands and grabbed the tray.
“In here!” a tall, long-limbed girl dashed by with an open bag.
The boy dumped the baklava, tray and all in one smooth motion into the small bag
“Keep the tray,” Gideon chuckled.
The children scampered in a cloud of dust.
“I can’t see!” Aratos coughed.
Gideon watched them disappear into an alley at the end of the street.
Incidentally, right in front of a pair of patrolling watchmen.
“Seems like one of them has a pretty useful Skill.”
“Not enough dust on the street for this,” Aratos agreed as he fanned his hands. “That girl had a bag of holding.”
“A lot of surplus from the war.”
The watchmen reached his stall at the same time as Kyrene made her way through the thick cloud.
“As late as always,” she regarded them like animal droppings steaming in the middle of the street.
“Apologies, Citizen Kyrene. We lost them in this cloud. Terrible visibility, you see,” one nodded with a grin.
“Report any lost goods to the Administarium and you will be compensated, as always,” the other one said.
“It is the principle,” she huffed.
“One of them got a good Skill,” Aratos said.
“Indeed… now, excuse us,” the watchman took a breath, “citizens! Calm! This will disperse on its own shortly! Please do not push! Go to the Administarium for any losses! I have already notified them of today’s incident! Have a pleasant rest of your day!”
“There shouldn’t be any incidents. Second time this week,” Kyrene muttered as she stomped back to her stall.
Gideon shrugged and waved as Aratos bid him good day before ambling down the street.
He set about dismantling his small portable ovens.
It was then that he noticed something odd from the eyes on the back of his head.
Down the street, near where the orphans had turned into the alley.
A ripple of sorts in space.
Though, there was nothing.
But… for a moment… it seemed as though the empty air distorted.
Much like a small pebble dropped into a still pond.
“Mildly disturbing,” he muttered then put it out of his mind.
They were in no danger this deep inside the city.
As always, Adras protected them with his strength beyond that of the other Gods.
With his task done, he relaxed and waited for the rest of his stock to go into the bags of his fellow citizens.
Filled stomachs were purpose enough for him.
“That baker makes good stuff,” Theron licked his lips and fingers.
The pastry, the nuts, the honey… all baked together into a perfect piece.
Truly, it epitomized the idea that the whole could be greater than the individual parts.
“He possesses a good sensory Skill,” Akanthe said.
“He did indeed sensed something through our concealing gems,” Theron nodded.
“Citizen Gideon is, was an Argus Scout in the last war.”
“Interesting…”
“You weren’t aware?”
“Should I be?”
“You’re a native of this world. You became a hero here. The start of the path that led to this.”
“That was a long time ago and I don’t remember spending much time in this region. I was born in Adrasia on the Verdant Sea and spent most of my days in and around forest. When I came back to fight the war, well, I was too busy to remember every single soldier I encountered.”
“The end of a war brings a time of respite. To recharge. To learn. I have spent much time in the archives to immerse myself in every aspect of the people of this world. All to better do my duties as an eidolon. The people are our most valuable resource. We must know and understand how each individual citizen can best serve.”
“One for all,” Theron hung his head. “I understand the censure and take it to heart and mind. Though I have been an eidolon for nearly thirty years there is still much to learn.”
“I have been one for over a millennia and never have I once thought that there is nothing more to learn.”
Long strides quickly carried them to the half-empty warehouse that almost all the packs of marauding orphans in this part of the city used as a base for their day time pursuits.
They waited outside for a time to give the orphans the opportunity to enjoy their stolen treasures.
People often asked the owner of the warehouse why he allowed the orphans access?
Those that took it a step further asked him why had he left things like benches, tables, even comfortable couches to be ‘found’ in the warehouse?
He never answered, merely chuckled and shook his head before doggedly changing the subject.
Inside, Alcaestus stared at his fingers while listening intently to the dozen voices talking over, under and through each other.
The hot tray had surprised him.
Not the pain.
He had experienced worse in scrapes with rival packs and within his own.
Fortunately, one of the others had a minor healing spell.
Thus, instead of painfully blistered fingers he merely had slightly red tender ones.
Certainly not enough to stop him from tearing a strange round thing apart to figure out what the sweet, creamy, berry flavor was coming from.
“Miss Kyrene always has the newest, tastiest stuff!” Damaris loomed.
He noted the smile on her face.
It seemed to reach her eyes.
He marked it as genuine.
Experience taught him that he could answer in a multitude of ways.
He could agree, which in this case was truthful.
He could disagree, but he couldn’t see a reason.
The only certainty was that their erstwhile leader was expecting an answer.
“Yes,” he nodded. “I have never had this before,” he held up many-layered baked good oozing dark gooey cream, “and it is tasty.”
She looked at him expectantly.
He searched his memories.
What did she seek?
“Ah,” he muttered. “Though, I find the taste pleasant, it hasn’t replaced Mr. Gideon’s baklava as my preferred snack.”
“Worth the hurt?”
He thought about it.
“No.”
Pain was not to be traded for frivolous things. No matter the tastiness, no food was worth injury. He had learned this by observing those around him. Young, old and everyone in between. Also, Ms. Mirias back at the orphanage always scolded them when they hurt themselves through idiocy.
“Good. Be more careful next time,” she grinned.
“Yes,” he nodded.
Damaris exited his attention as she went to her next person to fulfill her duties as their leader.
Instead, he paid closer attention to the words and expressions on the interactions taking place between the others. He committed them to memory while comparing it to older ones.
He was building a better human being as Ms. Mirias often liked to say.
Crashing thunder interrupted his studies.
The others screamed and scrambled for the exits while he remained seated and expressionless.
Something told him that escape wasn’t going to be possible, so with that variable taken out of the equation he shifted to the other possible paths.
He ruled an effective fight out almost immediately as the hulking form took shape in the dust and debris from the broken roof.
It was the largest person he had ever seen before.
Over a head and a half taller than the biggest wrestlers at the school near their orphanage and even wider, the man grinned freely and easily as he fanned the dust away with arms that looked to be greater in circumference than Alcaestus’ entire body.
Their was something off about the man’s dark brown skin and black hair.
The latter was styled or rather not like a lion’s mane, wild and unruly on his head and around his mouth and cheeks. There was a thick patch covering his otherwise bare chest, thinning as it went down his stomach and arms.
It appeared black at first, but when it caught the sunlight just so, he saw hints of blue.
When the dust cleared his suspicions were confirmed.
The skin on the man’s fingers were colored lavender like the flower. This continued up his hands, becoming streaks as it went up his lower and upper arms. Fainter and fainter as it moved toward his chest. The thick hair and beard made it difficult to tell, but Alcaestus would’ve wagered an entire week of meals that the man’s ears were also pure lavender in color.
Eidolon of Adras!
They had all read the stories, seen the paintings, sculptures and the rare picture and recording.
It was an important part of their history after all.
They said that an eidolon came to resembled their patron God with time and the strength of their deeds.
Thus, this specimen was almost certainly one of the younger ones.
Not so the woman that entered through the eastern wall.
She was enormous, but certainly more feminine than the man, like a perfect statue brought to life.
Her spiked hair was a vivid blue and her skin was entirely lavender.
Her facial features where blunter than what he tended to observe in Adrasia, suggesting that she was from another land. Perhaps another world entirely.
The female eidolon raised a fist and every single orphan was suddenly pulled back toward the center of their once hallowed domain as though the table piled with their purloined treasures exerted gravity like the burning orb in the sky.
“Do not run. You will not be harmed,” the female eidolon said mildly.
“Greetings, little brother Adrasian!” the male eidolon boomed.
“Yes, you appear as I do in both color and feature. That means you are likely of old Adrasian stock like me.”
“You talk like an old teacher,” he raised a brow. “What’s your name?”
“‘Alcaestus’.”
“That is a strange name.”
“I have heard that before.”
“Many are those with unfortunate names. As for me, I am called ‘Theron’.”
“The great hunter turned hero of the distant past.”
“Am I a simple namesake? Or him in the flesh?” Theron waggled his brows with a grin.
“Theron is a common name, hence the probability you are the former. However, the stories say that true heroes become eidolons at greater rates than non-heroes.” Alcaestus regarded the frightened looks on the others, the questioning, calculating one on Damaris. What was that she liked to say often? Ah! He remembered.
The pack takes care of its own.
He cleared his throat.
“You aren’t here because of that,” he pointed to the pastries and other snacks. “The Administarium compensates the bakers in full. Thus, you must be here for me. Let them go… please,” he added.
“You’re a strange child, but not wrong in this case,” the male eidolon said.
“The others will perhaps serve the greater purpose of Adras in the distant future. So, they will remain to observe,” the female eidolon said, not without kindness as she flashed a dazzling smile. “Children are ever safe and cherished in our lands. You have nothing to fear, not even your daringly-gained treasures. May I?” she gestured to the table.
Damaris nodded hesitantly.
The female eidolon approached and plucked a pastry.
The huge round bread thing would’ve taken both of Alcaestus’ hands to encompass, yet she held it lightly between thumb and forefinger.
“Theron, you may begin,” she said before nibbling daintily on the bread thing.
The enormous eidolon approached.
Alcaestus expected thumping, earth-shaking steps, yet Theron moved almost as quietly as a stalking tiger.
Theron loomed, a dark shadow that seemed to blot out the sun shining through the skylight.
“Little Alcaestus,” he intoned. “Your God has called you. Will you answer?”