With Halcyon’s steady help, Yuki elegantly sat on the ground in her private cultivation spot. It was too cold for the normal residents. Even if they could handle the chill, it was folly to barge in. Who knew, it might cause another awful tale. The snow lady nodded as she moved, and Artorian kept her palms firmly in hand. “That was a deep sign of trust you just slapped me with, Yuki. Do you mind if I reply with my own in turn?”
She slowly shook her head no. She didn’t mind, though her building frown spoke volumes that she wanted an explanation first. A thought raced to her mind, and she verbalized it. “Don’t… Don’t be concerned with Odin. He will willingly be canted when the time comes. I will… convince him. Now, what are you doing? My hands, they feel warm?”
Artorian smiled, musing out his plan. “You have latent memories, I believe? Tell me, my dear, what do you know about Echoing a cultivation technique?”
Chapter Seven
Nearly a full year after Halcyon and Artorian had first stepped foot on Asgard, the Jotun trio appeared on a very tall pillar in what used to be the middle of the barren Muspelheim desert. That’s how long it had taken for Artorian to work through the additional difficulties of Echoing. Copying over a technique from an A-ranked Mage to a B-ranked Mage, without it affecting that standing, turned out to be far more difficult than when he’d done it for Jiivra. His own control had needed several months of attention, and Yuki had never once held back on the snappy remarks and cutting cold to keep him focused.
Unlike a resplendent sun, Yuki’s cultivation technique warped with the overbearing chill of an icy comet hurtling through space. Her very walk now carried an air of misty atmosphere, leaving behind a crystalline coma. Those frosty vapor trails that comets tended to have as they moved. The design of the cultivation technique wasn’t any different, but the affinities at play changed the method of its function. When Yuki eventually had both it and her Mana under proper control again, her platinum sun would be polar, rather than warm.
Yuki had moved with grace before, but after practicing with a gathering method worth her salt, she moved through the landscape as if she were a natural part of it. Unlike common cultivators that loved to laud their Presence, Yuki wasn’t noticeable even if she was standing right in front of your nose. Her signature vanished below the ambient mess of existence. A Mage paying attention was more likely to see a blade of grass move than shift perception to her steps. Only mundane sight caught one’s awareness, as the chill and the vapor trail were all that distinguished her from the surroundings.
She was left incredibly vulnerable from keeping her Auric flow in that configuration, but when Yuki could slide up next to someone without their notice, their panicked, fearful reactions usually made A-ranked Asgard Mages scramble away from her. She could be anywhere, and they’d never know. It kept the mead hall residents on their toes. Frightened, chilly toes.
Due to Yuki’s temporary absence over many months of secluded Echoing—an event that couldn’t be interrupted without great detriment to both parties—Halcyon picked up the snow lady’s mantle. Cy’s methods of overseeing were different from Yuki’s, especially when she properly came into her own in this new realm. Where Yuki had everyone tiptoe, Halcyon was cause for joy and merriment!
Rather than chide the residents for actions, Halcyon instead smirked and taunted them. Saying ‘they couldn’t do it.’ When some inconvenient task was mentioned, such as cleaning the mead hall, if they sputtered excuses, Halcyon off-handedly mentioned she’d tell Yuki later, since they ‘clearly could not do something even a mortal could.’ That lit fires in their hearts, and they made a boisterous show of getting to task. Unable to do something? Pah! A mead hall member of Asgard would not be known for such.
This happened frequently, as Halcyon quickly figured out just how much the mead hall boys loved to show off. She made events into little competitions. Setting arbitrary rules and strange rewards. Such as the honor to tap a new vat of ale, and have the first mug if ‘victorious’ over something. Her popularity among the Valkyries went equally unmatched, as her flight outpaced theirs in sheer aerial dexterity. That the winged women were larger than her also brought Cy sheer delight. She didn’t need to hold back against those larger than her, like she was used to on Jotunheim.
Standing on the desert platform with her friend and Dreamer, a smiling Halcyon sported a full set of Valkyrie armor, customized to her ‘smaller’ form. She twirled an earned trident in her grip, still smirking as she stood behind Artorian to take in the sights. The environment had after all, drastically changed.
Artorian said nothing at first, just puzzling out what in Cal he was looking at. According to his last memory, he had plunked this pole-shaped teleportation pad in the middle of an empty desert. Not the middle of an abyss-blasted city. He pushed some tassels away from the tent structure that had been erected at the top of the cylinder. Just to be able to see better over the sprawling mess that was a thriving populace. How did a desert support this many people?
He squinted to inspect one, and saw cat ears twitch on a merchant’s head. Fish? The lad was selling fish. In the desert? Artorian didn’t speak, so his accompanying chosen kept quiet for the moment. Instead, they watched the goings on for a few minutes. Just to get a grasp on this different realm.
For starters, it was hot here. Oppressively so. If it wasn’t for Yuki’s passive aura emanations, this would have been a very unpleasant place to keep overwatch.
Artorian observed cat-people in various stages of humanization. One or two stood out that could go from Cat to full person, but keeping certain vestigial features. What else was there? Goblins, lizard people, anubites… C’towl-people? Was that a humanized scorpion over there? The city here was vast, sporting many open spaces. Were those little squares and patches of greenery sprinkled about for color? It was! Every building seemed to have hanging gardens. Self-sufficiency perhaps? Where was all the water coming from?
He nosed around with his sight until he found a well. It was quite the contraption. Was that some sort of rope-pulley system carrying buckets of water up all the way from the below? It must have been. The buckets were full of crystal-clear liquid, and it looked sparkling fresh. Some thick-muscled man with horns was turning a wheel to make it work, and a small line of more of them turned a second, perpendicular to the ground wheel to facilitate. Complicated, but it worked.
Yuki’s chill brushed over his shoulder, and Artorian returned to task. “Hmm? Oh, yes, yes. I’ll go and ask. This doesn’t appear to be the correct platform. I was sure Surtur meant this one during the chat. Let me get a confirmation.”
Artorian knocked on a mental space, and Surtur jumped. At least, he felt her do so. Even if she was nowhere near. Mental connections were funny.
Surtur didn’t reply right away, and her thoughts were elsewhere. Artorian could tell she had her hands full with something. Like she was handling a child before she could reply.
Artorian smiled silently, and slapped his palm over his eyes. His chosen shot him a look, but counted it as progress. Even if it was silly progress since they could not overhear the conversation. That was a Zelia trick.
Exhaling with satisfaction, he offered a palm to each of his chosen. “There was a hold up. We will just go directly. I’ve got the location marked now.”
When they took his palms, Artorian folded space, teleporting them without the use of the beacon-system. When they appeared on significantly less populated sands next to a desert-trade caravan, Artorian let go of his chosen because he buckled over with weak laughter. The sight was just too much.
Surtur was on the ground, trying to coil around a very uncooperative toddler that was slipperier than a ball of grease. His hand was in her face, and he squeezed free from her coils without d
ifficulty. Not wanting to be held or constrained in any way, that he needed to behave so they could get a move on was unimportant to the Djinn.
“Can you—*Ack*. Can you please take him?” Surtur was kicked in the face by a smoky, half-materialized leg. It was enough of a distraction for Halcyon to slide close and pick Caliph up under his arms when he was free. Rather than try to detain him, she just tossed him into the air. There, have some freedom. He made a sharp noise to signify that this too wasn’t wanted. Cy caught him, and he clung to her chest with wide-eyed confusion, looking around with an expression that clearly stated he didn’t understand what had just happened.
Artorian was still belly-down on the sands from laughter. Something Surtur didn’t appreciate while a foot-shaped mist mark stuck to her face like a dirty sticker.
Tapping his claws on his upper arm, Karakum said nothing. He just sat at the head of the caravan with his arms and legs crossed, enjoying a solid smirk. Cy gently bobbed the toddler in her grip, and kept him close. The movements assuaged the child, and that small token placated Caliph. Surtur wiped her face off, visibly agitated as she got up. “That is not fair. Why does that work for you?”
Cy just looked the other way with a *hmph*. “Is it difficult? He’s tired, but still has energy and doesn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t want to play, just get away. Look at his droopy little eyes now that he’s being carried instead of held back. He’ll be a snoozy little bundle soon.”
Yuki stabbed their Dreamer in his thigh with an icicle, but didn’t move one inch from her position to do so. Artorian just jumped up with a yowl, and rubbed his thigh while he got a hold of himself. He cleared his throat, but Karakum spoke before he could ask the question. “Get on the carts. Since we’ve picked you up, we can veer off and change direction to the Palace.”
With some confusion, and a desire for questions, the Jotun group boarded the caravan. Only after did Artorian notice there was nothing drawing or pulling them. “How exactly do these stationary little carts go anywhere? Mana?”
Karakum winked snootily, and with a minor tug of the reins caused a massive millipede resting below the sands to spring into action. The sections were mounted on its back, and Artorian felt his further questions stifle at the sight of this giant, harmless insect carrying them over great distances with surprising speed. Was a millipede even an insect? He didn’t know for sure, and distracted himself with a quick-fire question. Since his head remained poked out of the window to see if he could see the tail-end of the critter. “Dawn has a palace? Since when?”
The man-scorpion’s mouth clicked in agitation. “She does not. There is a palace, and a place was made for her in it. Our Dreamer was invited, and the accommodations were very nice. I have never met a more charismatic Goblin in my life. I think he used to be an Elven bard in a previous life or something. That little pest is sickeningly likable, and dangerous with a lute.”
Artorian held his further questions, watching the sands go by. Peering into the distance, he noted they approached some… he was going to call it an interlocking set of structures. Except that they moved. The thing appeared to be a massive sundial, where the main building continually shifted. Remaining under the most optimally available solar conditions. Interesting invention, now that they had a functional day and night cycle.
It also told the time, he supposed.
A small army was waiting for them. Thousands of Goblin soldiers lined up and formed so the incoming millipede caravan had a straight-shot walkway to alabaster stairs. Leading up to a structure that appeared to be coated entirely in tin. Strange choice, but who was he to consider something strange.
Taking in the sights of the army, he wondered why one was necessary. Surtur filled him in based on the questioning bend of his wrinkles. “Sand worms. They’re a pain, but their bowels naturally cultivate very expensive and rich spices. The economy must flow, and thus, so must the spice. Bags of measured spice are Muspelheim’s established currency method. The more refined, or stronger the blend, the more value it has. It changes colors depending on said quality, so it’s easy to tell. We can either consume it to give our otherwise bland food some truly spectacular flavor, or it is, as I said, currency for goods and services.”
Understanding nods made the rounds, and Artorian got out to help Halcyon and Yuki down from the caravan, even if they didn’t really need it. As Yuki elegantly descended the steps, a well-dressed Goblin wearing a huge smile bolted madly down the parted line towards them. He was chased by several rowdy advisors and counselors. Some waved papers at him, yelling in the Goblinoid language.
Artorian again lamented the loss of the Bobs, and especially Translation Bob. He was going to have to learn all these languages the hard way, or find a memory stone somewhere.
After a very swift bow that turned into a spiraling skid, the pleased-as-punch Goblin spoke to Yuki directly. She raised an eyebrow and turned to her Dreamer, who shrugged his shoulders to convey he didn’t know what was going on either.
Karakum was dying from laughter at the head of the caravan, and fell back into his cart. They figured some misunderstanding was at play, so Surtur planted her hand onto her face, and slithered over to translate. With a sigh, she explained the situation to the confused Jotun group. “Emperor P’dink says he is delighted to meet the Dreamer of another realm.”
Halcyon pointed at Yuki with confusion. Their group frowned, trying to make heads or tails of this. Artorian bent away a little, speaking to Surtur behind Yuki’s back. “Wait. He thinks Yuki is the Dreamer?”
The Lamia just slowly nodded to the positive, and Artorian flashed a toothy grin. He turned to Yuki, and winked. “Know what? Sure. Play with it. Have some fun.”
The snow lady didn’t physically respond, nor did her face move. But the lack of amusement was palpable. He couldn’t be serious. No… No, this was their Dreamer they were talking about. The playful fool was serious. A cold exhale of frost left her, and she extended a cold hand to the strange, pint-sized Goblin emperor who was being practically dragged away by his administrative staff. He screeched in joy at the quick shake, and yelled things back while being literally carried off above the heads of his staff.
There was paperwork to do!
The Goblin advisors slammed the palace doors on the way in, but aides quickly worked to get them back open. Those doors were open to receive the guests! Surtur’s face remained buried in her hands. Karakum was still laughing, and the Jotun group didn’t know what to make of the Goblin emperor. Artorian just spoke his mind. “This did not go as expected. This is going to be so much fun.”
Chapter Eight
Emperor P’dink was not a Goblin that enjoyed work. He was a Goblin that enjoyed serenading with his lute in the middle of the night to proclaim his love for Yuki. Her responses were as chilly as expected. During a fancy dinner a few evenings later, Halcyon got into a row with the cooks since she ate her food faster than they could make it. Yuki had side-stepped the Emperor entirely without a second glance to his schmoozy advances.
P’dink was nearly eating his own crown after a week of the coldest shoulder he’d ever attempted to sweet talk. Goblin-crushed Dreamers! The rest of the chosen were in tears from continued laughter each time he tried another tactic, with equally dreadful results.
He was the great P’dink! Bringer of the smiling word. Everyone was elated in his presence, and good cheer surely followed. But this one. Single. Impossible. Frozen Dreamer just wasn’t thawing. Was she immune to bluster? Why? Her old attendant had the worst of it, needing to excuse himself several times before breaking down with laughter around a corner somewhere. What was so funny?
Karakum quietly sipped spiced fruit juice from a flute, shooting side-eyes to the entire affair. Surtur had left to do ‘actual work,’ or so she’d said. The scorpion man knew she just didn’t want to deal with this anymore, and wanted to wait until their Dreamer showed up.
Karakum thought he at least was holding up well! So long as nobody paid attention that
this was his thirteenth fruit juice in the last hour. He did not have a strawberry problem! They were just the best fruit, that’s all there was to it. If that Oni down on the trireme said raspberry was better one more time… He put the flute down and walked away, passing an old man heaving for breath, who leaned against Halcyon’s side. Meanwhile Cy held a well-fed Caliph with the other arm. She had become the Djinn’s designated nap spot.
When Dawn *vwumphed* into the palace center, she needed a moment to blink and take in the scene. Karakum was sitting down with some lizard folk, having decided to actually talk about his juice problem. The sugar was just so good! Surtur was nowhere to be found.
Dawn located her in the trireme, lying face down, depressed, in a bundle of pillows. Sunny was here, but he was in pain from laughing. Her sweet baby Caliph was doing well, nestled in the arms of one of Sunny’s chosen. Then there was P’dink, nearly in tears and on his knees to try to make a very frosty lady do so much as smile. He was getting nowhere, and his advisory crew was trying their best to haul the embarrassment away. Her other chosen lingered across the continent, seeming to be doing actual tasks.
When Artorian staggered over, Dawn caught him by the shoulders as he tried his best to stop giggling and tell her what was going on. When she understood Yuki had been pretending to be the ‘Dreamer’ and P’dink was talking her up to try to gain good favor, Dawn couldn’t help but smile. The chilly, silent smackdown to the otherwise charisma-oozing Goblin that always got his way was a delight.
Dawn purred out her response. “I arrived later than expected. Not even a single trumpet? What discord have you sown.”
Artorian knocked himself on the chest. “Ah… Yes. A little. I’m not fond of the way the Goblin is acting, but Yuki is just making the entire affair solid gold. Or glittering spice? Interesting economy in Muspy. Where’d you go? It’s unlike you not to be punctual.”
Anima: A Divine Dungeon Series (Artorian's Archives Book 6) Page 6
