Arcfire—Chapter 11
by E. E. Bowers
But never mind that, now. You care not for the doings…the final doings…of an intelligent dwarf among giants. No, not actual physical giants. We speak of those who run gigantic with stupidity! Yes! Those bearers of that infinite quantity that your scientist Einstein mentioned!
What, did you think we would actually give praise for your intellects for once? Until you get around to finally understanding the value of fixing your absolutely broken genomes and getting off of that miserable back-water salt-water planet of yours, consider yourselves not just secondary citizens of the galaxy but tertiary. And when half of you finally come to understand what that last word means, feel free to gift yourself a tasty treat and a pat upon the head. Don’t pat too hard. You may undo what little intellectual progress you will have made.
Never mind it all. In fact, go on and forget we ever mentioned the before-mentioned. Dwarves are not pretty nor made to be. Dwarves are made to do great crafts with strong wits and strong hands to match. Oh, and strong arms as well. No use for stalwart fingers if there is lacking the muscular limbs to support them. No use for muscular limbs without a mighty mind to put them to work.
But, never mind it all. You would see no more entertainment value in a dwarf than you would a rather short, stocky engineer that arrives…to correct the electricity in your house…as so you may go back to charging your smartphones. By which, you may ogle the rather darling faces and long tresses of your favourite elf-girls.
What-ever for! Both dwarves and elves are of the same height. Both have long hair. Except, dwarves have it growing from chins rather than scalps. Never mind the faces! Faces are just for expressing emotion and being convenient holders for eyeballs. If you want something to look at, get an elf. If you want something done, grab a dwarf! If not for them being fleet of foot and skilled with ranged weaponry, elves would have no purpose at the least—not in this course of events, not ever!
Elves…. Accursed elves… Just so very lithe of limbs and fine of bodies. With their bejeweled-coloured eyes and their oh-so-long tresses. Why, you simply sigh at sight of them. Take an elf for a lover, and you will never return to the realm of human companionship willingly. It’s the old saying writ large. Once you go elf, you forget yourself!
Oh, all right then. Let us fancy a look in on what Aia the Amazing is doing thereabouts. Thereabouts where? Why, this planet! No means of getting off of it any time soon. And when we say thereabouts—with our vast stretch of witnessing the doings of entire bloody universes—be glad that we can bring specific planets in specific time-periods to your attention.
…
Which is to say, dear Jakk has completely forgotten himself. It was yet another merry jaunt into the city with that elf-thing for company. Such long moonsilk tresses, fluttering behind as her naturally graceful movements (fleet of foot) flow her from one venue to the next. Aia had foregone Master Fromm’s earlier advice and had therefore forgone having the hood up on her female apprentice’s garb. But the hood is just so restrictive!
Which now leaves the local citizens, denizens, and the like unrestricted in their adoration of her. Of course, the garment with its dual slits down there and clinging up there simply made love to her figure. But an elegant long neck and a too-lovely face simply makes everything irresistible.
And matters are just made worse when they are to do business in the shops and stalls of the central town square. (Humans… Stupid humans… Why do you call them town squares when a great many such places are built into circles? Must be that infinite quantity at work again!) Doing business means communicating. Such means standing in close proximity—some trouble. And it also means talking. More trouble still. Pretty figure in pretty garment. Pretty hair. Pretty face. The pretty voice just becomes too much.
If humans are already stupid, then they are already ever-more befuddled by sight of a pretty little thing with elfin ears as a bonus. Empty of wits, humans are therefore more likely to empty purses…
Oh, do stop. This is not a slight at half your species. In neo-medieval fantasy kingdoms, men also have what would be called purses—which are simply sacs made of some plant or animal material. Additionally, in the grand history of your world, men wore wigs and tights and oh-so-much perfume! Wigging stopped not when men thought it un-manly to do so, but because there was a tax imposed. If not for that tax, imagine the fun to be had! More shocking to the prudish amongst you, they also drank alcoholic beverages all…throughout…the…day…!
So as Jakk tautly assured that his various purses were in place, say nothing of his masculinity. Then again true, with all the realm-coin and bits of precious gem-crystals stored throughout his person, he has monies enough to develop any sort of gendered culture desired. Whatever the case would be, it would come up against competing against the impossible, inhuman looks of Aia.
Who was a touch bit worried…on account of them being so suddenly rich. Yes, Aia knew that Jakk was quite heavy of sac. It did not require overly much knowledge of exchange or inflation rates to know that they were carrying quite the bit of personal treasure. All it took was a look at Jakk’s lunatic grin and his redness of face.
More flush than usual, that. Such usually came from being in Aia’s presence. This was amplified with how other people were present who saw that Jakk was in Aia’s presence. In other words, it was not just enough that Jakk was with Aia, it was that the city-people all saw that Jakk was with Aia. About that entire masculinity thing, being with an astoundingly pretty thing and noble-borne at that makes a young man feel ten feet tall.
Don’t say ale as an alternative for this feeling, for yeast urine has various effects upon various human brains—and none of those effects being at all good for you. The only good to come of it, long term, is that it foreshortens human lifespan and therefore helps eliminate your stupid species from the galaxy. In which case, drink and be merry! For tomorrow, you die…exactly because you drink.
Moving on, Mister Crimson-Face has all of that—entire sacs of money, a smallish elf-girl entirely full of pretty, and too attention entirely given to this combination. Nobles may match this ambling nit-wit apprentice in regards to coin. Moreover, the bloody business sorts could do so and more so. But not another man in the land had the skyfall princesse at their side. Sky-fall, sky-borne, either or all are both especially hard to come by no matter how much the wealth or social status.
Again, fascist landscape. Wealth alone does not set social status. In fact? Even with your love of fascism…er, monarchy, there is the idea that the nearest duke or noble could swoop in, then swoop off with your wealth and your head both. And do you still hate democracy?
Speaking of threats of having swooping happening to them as they stepped along this city street, Aia looked around worriedly. No such negative expressions on the faces of the others hereabouts. They were too busy alternating between admiring Aia herself—something somewhat acclimated to—and admiring Jakk’s heavy sacs. Yes, there are even things that beauty cannot always compete with.
“Jakk…?” went Aia, tugging at a sleeve of the before-mentioned. Nothing in the way of effect. Jakk was still awash in dopamine. “Jakk! Heed me!”
Heed? Since when does a contemporary teen use such vocabulary? Must be the effects of living in this neo-feudal fantasy world. Won’t be long before Aia is saying such things as besooth and harken. Jakk should have been harkening Aia from the start…
Oh, really? Is that what you think the word harken means? Dirty, dirty minds with you humans. And small at that.
“What is it, my princesse?” asked Jakk. He was also swaying slightly and grinning broadly. Nothing was stopping this rocket man. Not only with his head in the clouds, he was positively space-bound.
Certainly having a good time, he is! His miserably underpowered blot of human think-flesh is absolutely agog in all the good feelings of good things. That makes for most of his brain…being something other than functional proper. Just absolutely feeling on top of the world, or all the worlds if he knew of their existence. Enjoy your existence whilst ye may! While youth do cheer, death may be near. Apprentice-masters are dead. Dead, we say! Just you wait, boy-stripling. Your fun is soon enough to be done.
Which leaves Aia to worrying about being subject to an act of ill doings. The elf-child borne of sky (but actually born of plain old boring Earth) clung close to the tallest human present in her group. And with there only being one other being in her party, that would also make him currently the shortest in Aia’s party. Unfortunately, with the death of What’s-His-Name—that often-catankankerous speed-bump of a person—that also made him the brightest.
What, do you still believe Aia to be fairly intelligent? The girl is fair of hair! And pretty! Pretty people need not be strong of wit! In fact, they carry that paradigm with them for most all of their lives! Meanwhile, their collective brain-power is easily rivaled by that of a lukewarm turnip. IQs matching room temperature! Centigrade!
Which is to also say that Jakk had wits enough to hire a ride home. Not that it was so overly far as to require a korth, and not that Master Fromm ever cared for those massive monstrosities of six legs and waste-dust spraying from their hindquarters, but there were reasons as to why they should do so. Not for the sake of harm coming to Aia. Not due to the doubly immense amount of money that Jakk was carrying due to people being brainwashed by a certain elf-girl. And it was not even due to them wanting to harm her.
Oh, not at all. They were more clearly in danger due to likely unintended consequences. So goes for multiple reasons, actually. We can immediately count a baker’s dozen. As to how we can be so very specific on that count, such would be because there was a baker’s dozen of townspeople following Aia. (Never mind that boy-shaped thing. Never mind if they did not even bother to acknowledge its presence.)
Following Aia. Actually and literally following Aia. This means that they wanted to be close with her. The wanted to be with her. And just maybe, so many wanted to be her. Inversely speaking, perhaps they would be better served to have their souls served to the Pale-Haired Goddess of Worshipful Death.
But as we continue to insist, there are no goddesses, just as there are neither dungeons nor dragons. Nor are there the usual denizens of dungeons in your drug- and cliché-fueled fantasies. Magic is not real. And if you continue to insist that it is, then we shall alert the nearest authorities to have you taken away, far away…. Whereupon, you shall relax away in a place lacking in furniture but with well- upholstered walls. That new jacket of yours will have voluminous sleeves that fit so well that the excess is locked behind your back…. Like, so.
But alas, no such institutions in this world. Yet just as there are no cruel places to place those strongly suffering from mental maladies, there are no beneficial places either. Indeed, the likes of Lord Madman’s korth riders continue to ride free …of wits…stable or otherwise. The same goes for Jort the Psychopath-for-Hire. Why, what else would you call someone who would kill for coin? And we so happened to have mentioned him because…?
Why, there he is! Riding not on his high horse but on his high korth, full having easily found the likes of the prettiest princesse in all the land. Not that Aia had a land or territory of her own. It was just that Aia was prettier than anything ambling around the throne of a certain inhabitant of a certain floating castle. Do you recall what we said of pretty people? And Aia is very pretty, indeed!
Jhort of the Dangerous Troublemaker’s Guild… Just joking. That is far and away from being an official guild. Anyway! Jhort and The Miscellaneous Band of Sharp-Objects-for-Hire did what they had done previously when Aia had made her way into town. Which, by the way, is what happens every time Aia is hereabouts. Because there are neither smartphones nor televisions, word has to get around in ways that are old-fashioned. As in, people passing the talk from one end of town to the other.
Could have just as easily concocted some kind of tele-speak crystals to do the same. But…no. People living under fascist…erm, royal governments are almost never the grand-inventing type. Too busy doing their jobs, which are just about assigned at birth. And if they wish to keep their heads on their shoulders, best keep their noses to the grindstones. (No, not talking literally. It is a metaphor.) Belabouring the point, fascist societies by any name—be they feudal monarchies of Olde Englande or capitalist oligarchies on the order of Ancient Rome—have never make names for themselves by way of grand technological advances.
Monarchies have slavery, and every single last slave-owning society has been a failure in terms of developing technologies. So, no telephones of any sort. You can have crystals enough to concoct tele-sight crystals, automatic doors or even golems, but you will never see the likes of a pocketed device for passing on short-worded messages for appropriately short attention-spanned individuals.
To make short of somewhat long—also catering to those individuals desperately in need of attention-expanding mental-health therapy—there were no smartphones to spread word of Aia’s presence. Word of mouth carried the message that the skyfall princesse was hereabouts. And yes, the skyfall princesse was back in the town square (which still stubbornly remains more a roundabout than a four-sided arrangement). Yes, still impossibly pretty as ever. Unfortunately, still attached to the likes of…what was his name again? Perhaps a touch-bit of misfortune could remove him from the equation and leave her delicate highness with a heart needing to be filled…
No such thing coming to pass this day, for that Jhort fellow and all of his…assorted (but well-armed) mercenary rabble came along and swooped up the pretty, pretty princesse onto a korth and went riding away.
…
It might be important for us to mention that Jhort was not sharing a saddle with Little Miss Elf-Girl at the moment. This was because half of Jhort’s Merry Band would be not-so-merry should Jhort do so again. And all of the potentially dissatisfied had either daggers for primary weapons or variations of such weapons for their noms de guerre. (Or noms mercenaires, more exactly.)
Which left Aia holding to Jakk as Jakk maneuvered this six-legged wonder homeward—surrounded by more two-legged beings riding atop more six-legged forms of transportation. This was getting to be rather habitual for Aia, and the elf of synthetic corpus had her hands wrapped in the habitual place round Jakk’s waist.
And in Jakk’s case, it was not ever to be considered merely habitual. The flush on his cheeks had well since migrated throughout the rest of his visage. Occasional glances around revealed knowing smiles all around. The occasional glance at a female gave the occasional wink, with perhaps alongside a shared giggle. Such only served to make that colour change of Jakk’s visage take on a steeper shade still.
No jealousy. Not in the least. That they were in some way, shape, or form associated with Aia’s doings as a group was close enough. Also true was what this association did for them otherwise. That they were also known as The Band of Blades Associated with Princesse Aia did wonders for their own coffers. Why-ever not? Townspeople are quite used to paying tribute to anyone with something royal in their name.
It would be wonderful if this moment lasted, would it not? Jakk the Apprentice returning home triumphantly with more than double the usual traded coin-and-treasure for smithed crystals…
Master Fromm was usually one to call Jakk a dunderhead, a mental failure, or even soon-to-be master of morons. Even so, that individual of restrained height was also acting with emotional restraint. He was just rather fond of pointing out his apprentices’ flaws. Most all of the time. The reasoning being, should anyone go about crafting the wrong kind of crystals—wrong in that they are not qualified to change them—then anyone would soon become physically no-one.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
We remind you at this point that some crystals contain trace amounts of antimatter. Additionally, they are able to produce more from matter present. Which is to say, some other crystals go about changing air and other matter into the same. We hope that you firmly understand the importance of there being antimatter mixed in with these affairs. Make your nuclear power plants seem like children’s’ night-lights in comparison.
You should therefore (hopefully) understand Master Fromm’s concerns with this business, then. This, even if the skyborne assured that myriad energy-oriented crystals would have their power-sources fizzle should they be cracked open, accidentally or otherwise. And never mind if the before-mentioned is dead and therefore unable to care either way. Not that Jakk knew of this yet.
No, not at all. He was too busy floating about in the heady throes of victory upon victory in his life. Yesterday and today. To think, all of this was just given out of the sky. Aia could have landed straight-away upon Lord Morkudum’s floating folderol and been added to his collection. Instead, the skyfall princesse had fallen into the vicinity of Master Jakk’s settlement.
No, Jakk did not call himself master just yet. Tapping into his mind, we can understand that rather handily. We were just tacking that bit on ahead of time. We ourselves not only have all the time in the world and all the worlds combined, we also have all the time in your universe. Considering multiple other universes otherwise. As for the likes of you? Still rather and especially mortal. Given your anti-intellectual antics, such is all the better!
But enough of this. Let us traipse ahead to the point where this six-hooved galloping bit of nonsense is done and over with. Some of you are keen on images and ideas of a tall dashing heroic sort astride a steed with a lady-love clinging close. Some others among you would prefer this to take place under a massive moon—completely forgetting that there is more than one moon for this world and some of them make their faces known throughout the day.
Riding astride a korth and being all full of lovey-dovey emotional balderdash, such is enough. Just because we have all the time in all the universes you can imagine, it does not necessarily follow we have infinite patience for your romantic antics. Your silly little bio-chemical brains are just so very much responsible for what is so very wrong with your world.
…
Ah, would you look at that! Jhort, Jakk, the mercenaries, and that elf-girl thing, they are quite suddenly back at the place of tragedy and good fortune. Look there… And look there… Look over there as well. Not only were there a great many korth riders dead, there were also plenty of pieces of them.
Good fortune, indeed! Any time any amount of humans are made dead, it is definitely a good time! Do you disagree? Well then! You also lie!
You love pain and suffering, particularly when it happens to others! Why else do you revel in the sight of so-called sports? Rugby, boxing, gladiatorial contests! Seeing your fellow humans really having it out—letting the blood out. Such includes that nonsense of two meat-heads with cushioned fists standing nearly toe-to-toe and rendering each other ever-more brain damage. Because if they did have brains, then they would have invested more time in learning how to dodge. But no, you don’t pay to see ducking and weaving. You pay to see acts of face-meat tenderising! Pow! Blam! Spla-a-at! Quite literally a bloody good time!
Upon seeing this carnage, Jhort slowed his steed…as did the others of his hired sword-hands. And dagger hands. And bow-hands, of course. The man makes his coin and treasure by way of sometimes-deadly deeds. He can see carnage—recognise carnage—before civilians can. Jhort and the like have seen this before. They also expect to always see more of the same.
Six-hooved mounts traipsing through a field of battle turned to a field of garden of assorted gore. Their steeds taking on a sort of modified parade gallop to keep from tarnishing their hooves on human ichors.
“Quite right, ladies and gents!” suddenly declared Jhort. “Step lively! Step lively! Come see an astounding assortment of human parts! You sir! Would you like to see…a spleen? No? Well then, good fortune is yours this day! There so happens to be one…over there!” Nodding to half a human carcass with exactly that exposed. And a lot more. “Yes, ladies and gents! Behold the whole anatomy of the human form both outside and otherwise! Guaranteed gobsmacked! And all of this gratefully arranged by…” Sidling his korth and therefore himself over to Jakk…
Continued Jhort, now speaking to Jakk in particular. “Master Fromm’s handiwork? If I’d known he was so very ace with making living humans otherwise, I would have requested his services for something other than crafting crystals and gear.”
Which caused Jakk to give a sudden shake of his head. “Master Fromm! Where is Master Fromm!” Elf-princesse be damned, Jakk hopped down from his korth and began looking ’round the carnage.
Which would be quite a difficult thing to undertake, given circumstances. If it was a normal battle with the usual bladed or bolted human-killing antics, each corpus would be in one cool and rotting piece. (That said, you humans usually render just enough harm to be mortal. Seldom do you take the time to dismember or decapitate.) A poke in the chest. A cut across the rest. Dispatch one enemy, and then moving on to the next customer. Of all the things that humans do inefficiently, the job of killing is one of the very few things that you do efficiently.
Circling back again, how do these facts help or harm Jakk’s efforts at finding his half-sized career overlord? Again, it is exactly because Master Fromm is…erm, was a dwarf. Now? His remains are the consistency of sand! Powder! As in the powder which coats the donuts you eat with fish and chips all the day long whilst enjoying your accursed Arsenal matches on the telly! Certainly putting the arse in Arsenal, making their admirers of physical prowess into examples of tubby bodies and even worse.
But Jakk doesn’t know this. He’s looking for someone half-sized among the mass, and Lord Morkudum certainly discriminate based on height for choosing his ilk. (You must be this tall to ride with his korth riders.)
No children involved in this mess, so that rules out short entities in that regard. So, that would mean the only individual grossly matching the physical description of Master Fromm would be Master Fromm. Not that anyone would want to match his looks. Not when he was alive, and certainly not in his current state!
And you are no doubt wondering how your pretty princesse is handling affairs. Not terribly well, to be forthright. Not minutes ago—and minutes are a long time for those of your attention spans—they were atop a korth and feeling on top of the world. Or at least this one. Just coming back from a wonderful trip to this world’s equivalent of a shopping place. So many, many people with swords and crossbows… And daggers! Forget not those daggers! No arms-control laws hereabouts, certainly.
And Aia thought that Americans were so very free with means of murder! Americans do not take to carrying blades of size enough to split a troublemaker twain! Or…perhaps the should, rather. Might strongly discourage that sort of people from nicking the occasional purse or wallet if they see one of their sticky-fingered colleagues in two halves.
But, blades did not do this. Not that Aia was an expert in forensics regardless of how many drama procedurals the girl had seen on streaming media. But, Jhort and company have seen many ways in which morons may be dispatched. Blades leave the corpse rather gummy and the corpse besides. These cuts were accompanied by clean-closing burns.
“Golem cutting lights must have been used here,” went Jhort. “Whatever your father-figure ultimately did with his crystal-powered marvels, he certainly went all out.”
But upset humans are hard of hearing due to being so very distraught. This is on top of just being human and therefore tending to not listen to a great many things otherwise. Which is saying, Jakk did not quite catch Jhort’s observation even after he voiced it aloud.
“Go to Master Short’s cottage and have a look-see. We’ll continue hereabouts,” went Jhort. He conveniently left out how he and his colleagues would be busy relieving the living-deprived of the worldly treasures carried on their persons.
Given her European existence prior to life in America—a Europe not doing too well due to World War Third—Aia has had more than a little experience in getting down from a horse. Doing the same for a korth took a bit more doing, of korth. Even so, that would not explain her hesitation and slowed movements. When some-one knows that some-thing has gone very wrong, there is no burning desire to rush on ahead.
Goes back to your ancestry, evolutionarily speaking. If something has gone head and gobbled up one of your fellow cave-flat dwellers, you are not going to dash up and make yourself an immediate follow-up. You know full well that such would only result in a full stomach…for whatever the bloody hell creature had eaten poor old Og Claptooth. (We don’t come up with these names. And believe us, we would very much prefer that the translation be incorrect. As to why your more-hirsute predecessors could not do each other the luxury of granting more luxurious monikers, you may never know.)
Aia was many times removed from such an event or paradigm—especially since the girl is now an elf-girl and a synthetic-bodied one at that. Nevertheless, there goes the pressing desire to tread carefully. Never mind if doing so will not do anything to un-stir the threads of fate. Such is especially true given how the threads of fate do not exist—sharing their non-existence with dragons, sorcerers, flaming-sword Saracens…
And then the elf-girl put a gentle pair of hands on Jakk’s right elbow. Craning her too-long neck to look up at Jakk. Those huge elf-eyes of hers showing just so much worry. Fear not, little wench! For the target of your concern is long beyond any worldly worries—not any worries in all the worlds!
Ahem! Of course, this is more of what Aia cannot hear. Although…we could maybe possibly suggest a meandering thought or two of the same sort… Perhaps similar thoughts just coincidentally come wriggling into one of those little brains belonging to one of Jhort’s cohort. But that would not happen, for such would be against the rules! This, much as it would have been against the rules to use quantum induction, tickle a few hundred-thousand neurons, and have sent Lord Misery-Maker’s bunch to cause this in the first place. Certainly against the rules! Wouldn’t even consider rumors of us having done such a thing. Who would even consider this (so to speak)!
And so, the miserable tall-little duo of Jakk the Crystal-Master and Aia the Pretty Elf-Princesse were off and ambling. Going toward the cottage. More exactly, going off to see a dead fellow in all his powdery glory. By the way, have you ever wondered what said substance would taste like if applied to scones?
Oh stop, you! Why-ever should you care about what else comes to pass with the dwarf? Your concerns? Useless as a pillow in a casket!
…
Being a door gifted with a bit of rock a lot smarter than you are most of the time, the door recognised its new master. As for that bit of elf-shaped little beauty at the side, the limited crystal-brain of the door assumed that such would be acceptable.
But Jakk was not thinking about what the door’s crystal-eye lock had been thinking. Normally, that thing does not open for Jakk or Aia or anyone but Master Fromm. Keep the riffraff out. Truth be told, Master Fromm was so very frustrated with the overall human condition that he would have preferred the door not even open for himself. That would therefore complete affairs by completely eliminating not only those who have been a source of ignorance-fueled agitation but also those exposed.
And what are you going to do regarding this pronouncement? Try to cast a spell or curse on us? May as well write the word ginger on a piece of paper, shred it to bits, and sprinkle it on one of your scones.
And then? Knowing your state of mind, you just might actually think your select spice would actually have affected the flavour. Just never-mind it that most inks are not supposed to be edible! The same can be said for the hogsheads’ worth of yeast urine you consume by the week or the occasional bit of petrol. Never stopped you before.
But, there shall be no scones for young Crystalsmith Master Jakk here. None for a while. He seems to have lost appetite. And strangely enough, also seemed to have forgotten about the absolute treasure gleaned from his…and Aia’s…foray into the city. Master Jakk was too busy seeking someone who previously held his title.
Of course, if you seek trouble, you are bound to find it. Then again true, trouble will find you regardless. Plenty of idiots, imbeciles, morons, and lack-wits to go about stirring things up just for the sake of sub-par sub-intellectual fun. (Hurr-durr…! Put the sack of cow-flop in the headmaster’s favourite seat!) Jakk was not seeking trouble deliberately, no. He was seeking Master Fromm.
And he would find what happened to Master Fromm. This, though it took his tender little human intellect a goodly long bit of moment to understand that he did.
Jakk was staring at a note written…erm, burned into a sheet of paper. Slightly golden cast to the paper, for it is made of razorgrass fibres as processed by growkilns. And because automatons had written the note as long dictated by a dead dwarf, it had quite neat lettering. Less likely to misunderstand no matter how much a former apprentice would have preferred to do so. Meanwhile? Why bother to read the thing to you? You don’t speak this world’s language, nor can you understand its writing. We have to translate everything for you.
Suffice to say that the letter said for Jakk to check the place of long rest and relaxation. Master Fromm is a hard-charging dwarf, and such sort are all about work. Rest is for big people! Big in body, big in laziness, you layabouts! Master Fromm has said quite often to a younger Jakk that he can rest when he’s dead. And since death would be the only thing stopping Master Fromm…
“Please no,” went Jakk aloud. “May it not be so.” Looking down at the elf-princesse. “It must not be!” Then Jakk made a mad scamper for the appropriate place, hoping that there was not one more container bearing a dwarf’s name.
Aia could understand this world’s language because such understanding had been granted her. And yet, it was probably more important to chase after that raving mad loony who was on about something or other. Not Aia’s exact line of thinking, that.
It was more ours. We are above such petty nonsensical things such as grief or emotion, for dead means dead. When you mortals finally understand the value of genetic engineering and cybernetic technology, and perhaps having burned a few hundred thousand Luddite ethicists to death in the process, such will no longer be the case. In the meanwhile, we have dramatic turns of events in which young humans lose what little sense of mind they possess whenever someone close to them dies.
Even with the gracefully lithe agility of her wondrous synthetic legs and synthetic everything else, Aia still had a time of catching up to Jakk. Jakk was sped along with grief and worry. Hard for the skyfall elf-girl to catch up because Jakk was leading the way. If you don’t quite know where Jakk or someone else is going, how do you intend to be there ahead of them? Neither time-travel nor mind-reading are in your technological bailiwicks, so such explanations are ruled out.
But Jakk had to stop eventually. Even if he were to step out that cottage door, then another door after that, he would come to the plains and have an entire continent to cross. But then he would drop from an abject lack of wit for it is quite stupid to wander the plains without provisions.
But he did not step out of two doors. He was still quite indoors and more-so still given this back-room of the cottage. Once Master Fromm’s. Now it’s his…
Jakk found the urn… Quite a bit of poetry in that phrasing, actually. Hmm… Jakk found the urn. You should try saying it whilst bearing a glass of wine and speaking in sotto voce before a microphone—which is in turn before a gathering of pseudo-intellectual coffee-shop caffeine fiends.. Makes it all the more dramatic.
More dramatic still was Jakk’s reaction. Little else maturity-wise to be expected from mortals with so little time to consider their existence and their comportment in it. He was stopped in this room. He was staring wide-eyed and wide-mouthed at the filled position occupied by a newly placed urn. Other than slight changes in colouring due to chemical reactions over time, there was no way to tell one container of dead powdered bits from another. Other than the label engraved which read…
“Master Fromm…?” went Jakk, his voice rising. And such was what he had gotten out before those awful emotions just began to take over. Oh dear goodness. So it begins. And of course, just when Aia found him here.
Which him? Are we playing the pronoun game—where a storyteller will go for the entirety of pages without using names? Oh, and then when the audience expresses confusion thereabouts and having to literally take pieces of foolscap to write down things and try to figure out, the editors raise their noses skyward and declare them uncultured.
Why, found Master Fromm standing there, of course! There he is, fully restored to all of his foreshortened massively shouldered dwarven glory! Jakk turned to see the grumpish father-figure and promptly bent over to give him a massive hug and…!
Of course we are joking! There you go again, wishing for what can never be. Why don’t you try studying up on your maths and your science to make such a thing possible? You could quite easily have brought him back from that state by quantum tweaks and the like. But since you’re too busy heeding tales of sword-swinging buffoonery doing battle with beasts that do not exist, that won’t happen in your lifetime. This, whilst you stoutly demand an end to all scientific and technological development because you firmly believe that science and technology are evil! Won’t you ever go back to your cave and leave the rest of your species to actually forge ahead?
No? In which case, we will forge on with the inevitable at this point. It had to happen simply because it just did. Or at the least, inevitable barring the interventions of certain trans-dimensional entities with capabilities transcending time and space. But that would be against the rules.
While we watch Jakk sink to his knees and become even more dumbstruck than usual. His head bowed (youngster sorely in need of a good hair-trim, by the way) and was all choked up about affairs.
Which is to say, Aia found her current companion and guide to this world in a highly compromised state. (No, not that sort of compromised. Those minds of yours are still occupying gutters.) Jakk, not quite noticing the world at large—missing the shortish person who was there to put a head on things. Nothing quite like taking one of the smartest geniuses out of the picture to make things quite headless and stupid, indeed.
What could Aia do about this situation? Simple, really. Just put one tender-fingered hand under Jakk’s chin, then another placed gently (but firmly) at the back of his head. Caressing it. A sharp twist, and all of Jakk’s troubles will be over forever. Eternity is a long time to go without personal problems. So it might be something for you to strongly consider the next time your favourite football team loses to Manchester United yet again.
But, being ever the cruel platinum-haired harlot, Aia did not end Jakk’s misery. Aia did not put Jakk out of his misery and hers. It is now a matter of her having to listen to him whingeing and burbling through a face of tears and drool about how Master From is…
Quite difficult to understand what he is actually saying. Or even trying to say. His state of mind is just as out of sorts as his verbal capabilities at the moment. Trying to read that rather humble little human brain of his at this time is akin to trying to see that extra bit of tentacle at the bottom of a bowl of tesl’atar soup. And don’t go about pretending as if such is no problem for you. Tesl’atar soup is notorious for its quantum-flux properties—all the more welcome for inducing altered states of consciousness in trans-dimensional beings.