Arcfire
by E. E. Bowers
Chapter 2
Of course, we could tell you all the nasty, frightful, and sickeningly gory details of how the tele-transportation actually took place… Oh, all right. Go ahead and call it tele-portation if you must. It’s your language. Should you choose to go about slovenly, it is your decision. See what happens to fine and refined dictation!
In any event—events perhaps beyond the demise of your refined in speech—there were creatures involved. There were perhaps all kinds of greasy little coveralls-clad physical entities that look too much like much-modified human beings. Confusing wording, you say? Oh, all right. Let’s dumb that down for the weakest amongst you. Small men. Big-scary. Smell funny.
But of course, such entities serve a purpose. Else, they would not exist. And let that be something for you to learn. Nothing exists without a purpose. Not objects. Not events. Even if there is a six-legged purple-haired buffoon ambling down your avenue, you can rest assured that such a buffoon has come to exist for reasons. Even if it is merely to perpetuate the purpose of buffoonery or to further confuse an already-befuddled humanity, such is purpose enough.
As for confusion, confusion is good. It means that you are being challenged. Challenged minds grow. That said, goodness knows that humanity could use all the challenging it has coming its way.
Now about those little coveralls-clad creature-men. They did the work that the fellows chose not to do. Yes, even extremely powerful multi-dimensional entities choose to have some of their services outsourced. Unlike you, they do so not to save on spending. Because…they have no need for money. The fellows choose to outsource the trans-dimensional teleportation because they don’t mind handing over experience in such technology to other, lower-intellect entities. (But not humans. No, not that low.)
Experience, they would earn. Work, they shall do. Not that they needed to work especially often—not with being second-tier to some fellows with deifying levels of science and technology. But when they must toil, they do it well.
Oh look. A synthetic-bodied being destined for… Where is that place again? Oh, right! Sending it to that place. Have to be quite careful regarding destination, you know. There might be the mistake of sending it back to where it was born.
Well then. Pull this lever. That pre-loads the quantum hopper. Got enough chunks of dark matter in the boiler? Good, good… Don’t want a replay of what happened to an entity by the name of T’omp D’nalt or something of the sort. Ended up becoming quite insane, losing most of his intelligence, and then having his hair turn orange for good measure. (It wasn’t especially bad for him. He ended up becoming a monarch over a significant planetary landmass before being deposed by way of a comical ritual called an election.)
But this one is far from that one. This one has a human brain and never quite had much in the way of mental capacity to begin with! Well then, off you go!
…
That was from their point of view. From Aia’s point of view, it was an awful, awful feeling of being flooded down. Then being distorted all around. Having one’s metaphysical properties being stretched and swirled about the sort of fluids conducive to trans-dimensional travel, such can be quite an experience. Not the sort of experience gained at doing the bidding of serving the will of the fellows responsible for all this. Rather, the sort of experience which happens to semi-pliable, elongated bits of humanity when they are flushed.
Oh, we meant to say, teleported! We wouldn’t dare pass insult upon you miserable, stubbornly unevolved wretches. Besides, you wouldn’t have the mental capability to process anything in the way of our insults.
…
Then Aia awoke on a rather dusty plain. What other type of plain is there? Little in the way of vegetation to hold soil in place, you know. The only way that Aia knew that it was vegetation was because it was stationary and therefore not intent on eating teenage girls—synthetic body or otherwise. Plants, barely there at all really. Just so much in the way of sandy dirt. The slightest of breezes sent it skittering across…
Oh, just call it a desert plain and be done with it. Yes, Aia had touched down…or whatever you say in regards to teleportation...in a dusty dry landscape of…well, land. Lots of it all around—stretching from one orange-red dimly-lit horizon to the next. Sunset or sunrise? Well, the moon was still out. So, it could very well still be morning. Looking to the next horizon opposite, Aia also saw that the moon over there was hanging low. A glance up—straight up… Oh, using this elongated neck of hers made it so very convenient.
Touching this long pale flesh neck-column of hers. Such a long and supple thing. Quite an unattended feature, actually. Just for oddity’s sake, Aia turned her head and was able to look behind her. Which was such a very, very odd thing to do that Aia quickly whipped her head back ‘round to look straight ahead at the first moon that caught her attention.
First moon? By that phrasing, there must be another moon as well. Which is all saying that there is more than one heavenly body in close proximity to this planet. Come to think of it, the pitted faces of those things were of an unusually craggy sort. Not normal.
Oh-ho! And what is supposed to be normal? Far-flung any trillions of miles away from Earth! And perhaps a trillion years for good measure at that! (Those fellows seemed to have nothing but time on their technology-deified hands. Little effort on their part to use some of it in flipping her elsewhere into the future, or something like that.) Far and away from anything and everything that Aia knew and could have possibly known! What level of normalcy could Aia hope to impose upon a world that was simply not hers? That way lies arrogance in extremis, you should know! A world beyond imagination!
Not too far off, however. It was nevertheless possible for young Miss Aia to take in the completely encompassing view and not lose her sanity. Anything too far beyond what a human mind can handle can do things to your fragile mental health. For goodness’ sakes, if it was ever admitted by your world’s governments that aliens were sending down bio-bot scouts to merely test your reactions, then there would be madness. Fortunately, no madness here even if the situation was inverse.
As in, Aia is a human on an alien world. Or in an alien world—to use your oddball prepositions. In its atmosphere. And apparently, breathing it in even if her synthetic body had no need to do so outside of voice communications.
Time to take better stock of her situation. Now, speaking of atmosphere, at least it is breathable… No, wrong assumption. Her lungs were—again—as synthetic as the rest of her new corpus. Could be breathing bromide in vapour form blowing in from cerulean-colored highlands elsewhere. Or some-such other place. And the gravity could very well be six times that of Earth’s. Gravity enough to keep three satellites hanging ’round whilst going round.
Other worlds, other chemistries. There could very well be a completely different kind of normal here that would have and should have killed a girl with a living flesh-and-blood human body. Now Aia has a synthetic-flesh and polymer-bone synthetic body which is doing all sorts of things to allow her a presence here. Even allowing her to feel the wind on her bare skin…
Do you see what’s going to happen next? Do you now! Why, you must be a time traveler. Must have encountered this setting before, you have! It can’t very well be that you as a human have intelligence enough to infer the results, the reality. The fact that Aia can feel the wind on her bare skin must be significant in that such petty details are left otherwise uncared for by everyone but children otherwise—those who delight in simple sensory pleasures. And being completely unclothed as the day being born, Aia could experience such a thing yet again.
Which is to say that…yes, Aia was not wearing anything. The technical, scientific, what-have-you excuse would sound all kinds of sensible as to why. To transport the girl and her clothes would have doubtless cost any extra number of terajoules of power. Opening a rift in time and space the size of a mere pinhead costs as much energy as what an entire planetary civilisation would produce in a hundred years. (Hence, such is why certain civilisations only send colonists off-world once a century. Impoverished sorts, will never develop colonies…and rightfully so. Forever passing asinine laws against anything vaguely resembling technological progress.) So any being who considers herself worthy of warp transportation should not care for such an inconvenience as having nothing in the way of clothing upon arrival. Or just having nothing.
But all the same, for those paying attention to that bit of narrative, there is the word excuse buried somewhere in the depths. Any civilisation capable of summoning great and awesome power from the vasty deep of time an -space should also have no trouble summoning mere petawatts of power. After all, where else did energy come from in the first place? Besides, your universe is slowly decaying into dissipated energy regardless. May was well use it for something vaguely useful.
Which still leaves Aia naked. Oh, and quite en colere at the fellows. Yes, the Swiss have ideals regarding physical modesty that go far beyond those of America, Britain, or most any nation-state with a government imposing a Puritanical hatred for nude human bodies. Never mind if there are statues, paintings, and entire house-sized frescoes of naked men all throughout various religious institutions—groin sirloins on plain display and all. Most every English-speaking country has a government that bans nudity. But Switzerland speaks French, German, Italian, and…oh look, nary a single listing as English for an official tongue of state! Which means… When it comes to going in the buff, Switzerland pretty much does not care.
Unless said Swiss-born girl is spirited away to what is obviously an alien planet and a potentially dangerous one at that. Aia was granted a technologically advanced synthetic body that—declared the fellows—did not require food or water and could heal itself to an extent. But, no clothes. And also, no knowledge of the language or customs! “Nesm’rk elkr’k etet,” declared Aia.
Oh, now that is completely uncalled for! What Aia meant to call the fellows was something on the order of…well, calling them a discharge of human genitalia. Unpasteurised at that. Not very sporting—especially since the girl was given the power of the planetary tongue after all.
“Ekow?” went Aia, clearly trying to say what in your planet’s world-wide language but the word coming out as something else. “Ekow es’ap ilit?”
So there you have it! A completely naked elf-eared Swiss teenager talking to herself in a language that you will not ever learn. (Oh, do behave. Teen as in eight-teen, to remind you all.) Standing nude in the middle of a dusty plane with three moons overhead, wearing a synthetic body…whilst talking in an alien language. Happens more often than you’d expect, really.
But in an effort to keep your mono-lingual wits about you, translation shall be provided. Or at least, a reasonable proximity thereof. Besides, all lunatics that declares no English equivalent are lying with such severity that they should start a career in politics. Use enough words in English or most any other Germanic language, and you’ll get the job done.
No, English is not a Romance language. Who said that, an American? Such is to be expected. That, just as most Americans are only capable of speaking one language and one language only. Such also leaves them intellectually inclined to exploit those of other tongues. Or, it just shows intellectual decline. No mental wherewithal to understand the languages of others. Or simply, a lack of intellectual currency.
Which are all considerations of circumstances beyond Aia’s control. There is the present, which must have problems addressed and resolved—preferably in an advantageous manner. The past is no longer and can only be revisited by way of the mind’s eye. No matter how clearly a septuagenarian insists that the past is just like yesterday, the twentieth century is in fact and indeed much, much farther away than a mere twenty-four hours. Time only flows in one direction… Or rather, there may be entities with astoundingly high levels of technology. But until and unless they grant some of that to humanity, there is no going back.
There is only going forward. Now, it is either close to dawn or close to sunset. Goodness knows how long either time of day lasts, or how long days last upon this world. But nevertheless seemingly true is how the sun is low at one end of the horizon. And yet, there is a faint glow coming from another end of the horizon. Perhaps ever so slightly more light over there. Aia squinted.
Which did little, actually. If human eyes are lacking with regards to lenses, then such could perhaps help. Especially for those of you who live in that awful, horrible part of human history in which gene therapy and cybernetics technology are banned. Well, banned in the official sense. The ruling families of your solitary world have quite the access to technologies which extend their lives well into their first century of existence.
By the way, have you never stopped to ask why heads of state seem to live so very, very long? Even after lifetimes of consuming carcinogenic fumes including lifetimes of the same for mind-altering recreational chemicals? There you have it.
Fortunately for Aia, there was no banning of technology to assist in her quest—whatever the bloody Hades that is supposed to be. Something about playing a game and saving a world or some-such folderol. Aia had no experience with living within a synthetic corpus, but the fellows did state something about being immortal. Not invincible, mind you. But avoiding astoundingly foolish acts of injury could leave her to live until the sun of this planet blazed out of existence. Which could very well be a century hence! Again, no significant knowledge of this world.
All the more reason for Aia to trod onward. One bare foot in front of the other… There we have it. The sandy grit felt quite uncomfortable beneath her bare feet. If not for her skin being synthetic, then cuts and such would likely have occurred—short of her tearing off bits of this silk cloth and fashioning slippers. As things stand, this really is some sort of long-cloth. Wrapping it over herself was an attempt at giving strangers the wrong impression. How horrid would it be to go gallivanting into a settlement of rude huts or hovels whilst being completely starkers? No doubt, the village elders or what-have-you would have a roast in her honor. Which is to say, they would tie her to a stake, set the works alight, and see to it that her presence is expunged from their land!
Have to be quite careful around peasants—especially those who live in hovels and huts. No significant machine-technology to speak of. This would be an outgrowth of having no science worthy of mention outside of botany unto agriculture. Her very presence might offend their beliefs around a sun god.
Which left her considering perhaps not going forward. Aia could very well survive a celebrity roast—given her synthetic skin and artificial flesh otherwise. Nevertheless, the fact of her not dying would only solidify their belief in her being a sorceress. Which would set off a feedback loop of them trying ever-more lethal and holy-prescribed antics. It lives! Kill it again!
Which were considerations around just presumption and weakness. The beings of this planet—and there were beings according to the fellows—would no doubt hazard upon her as a matter of course. Riding their alien space-camels or steam-powered chariots, they would find her too finely shaped to be a mere mirage.
Yes, there is always the assumption that distant other science-fiction and fantasy worlds are of less than optimal technology. Oh, and of less-than-optimal intellect. You can have computers that speak for themselves, star ships that can pretty much fly themselves, vast castles full of robots that can tend the whole business themselves. But some way and some how, there is always an excuse for groups of buffoons to hop onto beasts of burden and start swinging swords.
Of all things, swords. Not even crossbows. Not even throwing spears. For goodness’ sakes, man! You have robots and starships! Why not simply nuke your enemies from orbit? Even the sailing-ship idiots of the sixteenth century had cannon, blunderbuss, and…yes…even grenade.
So it was all too likely going to be huts and hovels in the distance…if Aia could find them. Agricultural societies are not especially apt at night-time lighting, you should know. Dip a bundle of rags in animal fat and set the works alight with sparks from two different kinds of stone or rubbing twigs together extra-fast. Slightly more advanced would be taking a length of cotton cloth and surrounding it with…yet again…animal fat. Set that alight, and there is dim but sufficient light for part of the night. It always comes down to burning something, and that something is usually a direct plant or animal product because they are never—not ever—sm art enough to do anything else. And the same goes for those abysmal tales of swords and star-ships. Robots and computers abound, but the heroes still go about with candle in one hand and glowing magi-sword in the other.
And so, Aia was somewhat surprised to see that the glow on the horizon…actually seemed to be ever-so-slightly brighter from some minutes ago. Or centads. Or tallidips. Or whatever the locals use for a time-unit. No, it was not the coming of day. Unless zipping about at speeds approaching that of sound, you will not catch the sunset up. This really and truly was a brightness in the distance.
Her synthetic eyes may be the best of realistic robotics—good enough that Aia could see very, very sharply despite the dim. But they did not have a zoom feature. The girl could not give some kind of mental command to zoom and enhance things in the distance. Aia could have had it. Those fellows seemed quite capable of giving her many features and requests for a custom-made corpus. But robo-zoom eyes were not asked for, and a person in a position of servitude does not receive what is not asked for. (Unless it’s work, of course—and more of it In such case, yet more and more work still is given, granted, bestowed, and betrothed to the servants-in-question. Work is given without being asked for.)
Which leaves more work for Aia to do. Not that it was physically debilitating, no. Even with her previous and decidedly more mortal body, Aia was quite used to long-distance walks and runs. Being born of an age immediately following a world war tends to make physical fitness a pressing matter—especially in Europe and especially in the horrid radiation-strewn times thereof! Physically then, this body could keep going and going. Yet the sheer repetitive repetition and the repetitiveness of the repeating repeats of walking and walking still could do things to her mind.
Then, the novelty of her situation seems to have worn off already. Being on an actual alien planet as being placed here by actual aliens was not the festival of thrills that someone would expect it to be. No doubt, a great many professionals with job descriptions suffixed -ology would donate entire portions of their brains to be in Aia’s situation. (Gene-tweaking, cloning, all the things made legal after your asinine time period, all of that make most all other organs more easily repairable, available, and therefore less in demand.) But Aia had donated her brain in entirety with her mind still in it, and this was still not being anything in the way of dangerous or especially fun.
And this ultimately all means what? It means…nothing! Nothing immediate! Nothing soon enough able to hold her interest. Nary a single friend from school or virtual so-called friend from social media, not even the idiotic stylings of celebrities made popular by the before-mentioned. (Idiotic, indeed—and quite deliberately so! The debate rages on in academic circles, were people of such low intelligence and poor behavior before the internet made such things popular? Thereby encouraging such antics? Or, was the internet only there to bring to light antics of sub-par intellect?) Aia wanted her smartphone. Would be nice to have something to pass the time whilst ambling across this landscape… Nothing to see.
Nothing to see? Really and truly, my dear? Is that your line of thinking? Do you not see what is before you—albeit far?
Stare at an hour hand all you like. Your pitiful human attention spans—as well as a lack of perception—will not see it move in the slightest. Or, so goes the idea. In reality, that hour hand on that timepiece is indeed moving. Or perhaps you are of the sort that has never learned to read time by way of analog devices and would simply consider it just so much balderdash. Certain among your ancestors were those who would watch as pots would boil and crops would sprout. No smartphones back then. And given your continued lack of technological progress beyond smartphones and other some-such pitiful electron-throwing toys, there still is nothing to show for it all. No cybernetics, gene-tweaking, etcetera unto etcetera. We have said this before but it bears stating again and again ad-nauseum until your pitiful excuses for intellect take on just a hint of a spark of inspiration, undo the laws which forbid everything to improve your species, and…perhaps…disembowel each and every single-last elderly preserver of dogma that has maintained such laws in the first place!
Which is also to say, there were new features unto the landscape. Or new to the miserable blot of human-grown think-meat which Aia uses to hold her mind. Which, by the by, could have been enhanced with quanti-collating nano-tressles. But, much like the enhanced cybernetic eyes mentioned, Aia did not think to ask for.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Not knowing what quanti-collating nano-tressles are would be no excuse! Simply asking for a better brain would have been an improvement. But no… No… Aia was far too busy crafting her corpus into that of a fantasy-land dream.
As Aia traversed this questionable landscape, the horizon began its ever-so-slow change. By the by, that new feature became ever-more apparent to her—especially since the glow upon the horizon was now seemingly resolved into a smattering of glowing dots at ground level.
No, not the dots above. Those are stars, galaxies, and other far-away nuclear-powered features of the heavens. Which is also to say that your sun is a massive, unshielded nuclear fusion reactor. So much for your hatred of nuclear power! And whereupon you do decide to disembowel your dogmatists, please do the same for the asinine imbeciles who wished to ban pollution in space. Then, perhaps setting the before-mentioned innards alike whilst they still breathe for good measure. Such dis-incentive toward asinine idiocy should speed humanity along quite well regarding technological progress. Thank you.
Now as for those dots upon approach, they were a set of outdoor lights. Aia fully expected and therefore saw flaming torches of sorts. But that would be her perceptions distorted through pre-established idea and ideals—both of which expected and demanded night-lighting fueled by viscous animal materials. (And never mind the ideals that animals would have in regards to that—especially since animals lack mind enough…to mind such a thing!)
Upon coming closer still, those presumably-wavering fiery flames of flaming fire? They were not so much conical as they were spherical. Which is to say that there was nothing in the way of combustion, actually. The glows were resultant of much more complex processes beyond the mere vigorous combination of oxygen with other chemical elements.
Now, it was just as well that Aia was walking instead of running. It was also just as well that her arrival took place after the major events of the day. While not quite an agricultural society, this is a less-industrial one. None of the endless madcap production-production-production of your industries run amok with consumer goods—not since this world has a population in which people have children in reasonable numbers. Which is to also say that there is more to life other than being treated like pieces of meat to serve the industrial doings of far-off lunatics steeped in wealth!
No, the lunacy is instead closer to home at times. Some of that being a case in point regarding the behavior of certain mercenaries. Indeed, had Aia arrived earlier today, her inhuman beauty would have made a lunatic situation more so.
…
So…what did happen earlier today? And at that small settlement, in particular? Small, indeed—and not making a slighted affront to the highly intelligent dwarf who was its primary proprietor! Small in stature yet grand in intellect, nature may take with one hand while giving with the other. Which, by the way, is more than what can be said for a certain visitor!
No, not referring to Aia. While the girl is not exactly genius material, Aia did…uh, does sufficiently well at her scholarly pursuits to not be forced out. (If one has a de-facto infinite lifespan, one should leave open the idea of possibly doing homework again someday.) The girl also has the additional advantage of having something of a European education prior to becoming a refugee and therefore moving to America.
And so goes a bit of strong medicine for consideration regarding the less-academic among you. In the post-war version of the Earth that Aia hails from, in America, failing too many grades means the end of one’s free education. There are very, very few employers who would consider hiring those so dense as to not be able to finish secondary education. Now, about those villagers…
…
Well, perhaps village is too strong a word. It is a collection of solid-walled one-floor habitations. Five, in total. But for the most part, three of them are occupied not with people but with machinery… And you stop that right now. This is not talk of robotic beings—and especially not of the killer kind. All the machinery is bereft of legs and is used to perform either work for the sake of repairing current contraptions or seeking means of making them somewhat better.
Five minus three, what does that leave you with? Come now! Just because some of you have not finished your primary schooling does not mean that you have forgotten lessons of years’ past. Five with three less… That would be…two! Yes, there you have it! Two structures therefore serve as two homes. Which is to say, one each for the two people who make up this settlement on the plains beyond the city.
What, did you not think there was a city? We said less industrial. We did not say rural. Additionally, Earth has had entire millennia of agricultural societies that have nevertheless been able to support the development of cities. (With more or less sane levels of sanitation, that is.)
So there you have it, a settlement for two with three structures dedicated to the running of machinery. Much of it can run itself—much to the horror of those among you who claim to hate technology. But much still needs to be done by people, which is why people must still work. And think. And develop skills enough to use machines to have work done. Then there are those who enjoy thinking up ways to use and develop machinery that they make and partake of entire professions to the same.
Which brings us to the before-mentioned dwarf—the proprietor, lord, and master of this small settlement. Numbered among his subjects were a great many self-grown computing crystals and one young human whose mind was still growing itself. Learning and working, which is to say that the young man is an apprentice. Who was off fixing something else at the moment and—perhaps hopefully—not flummox his work.
Which ultimately leaves the genius dwarf to attempt using a modicum of his intellect…in helping a frequent customer lacking the latter. As in, lacking much in the way of the mind. Also as in, helping the before-mentioned avoiding an act which may result in injury or death. As to why such a phrase sounds so very much familiar, it is because you will find it on a great many potentially dangerous appliances, vehicles, and other some-such products. But in all likelihood, you will move on ahead with doing something absolutely asinine and equally as stupid. And then—to compound matters—likely craft a video recording of you in the act to post on social media. It is just as well—given how you may not be around to show the record yourselves.
Now, this is a world lacking in electronic-video entertainment. Moreover, there is not a single smartphone to be found. (Oh, the horror!) News is instead spread by printed and spoken word. Go to a tavern and have yourself a gab session. Now that’s social media. But some people are fond of asinine antics—computerised social shenanigans or none—and Jhort is one of them.
Who is Jhort? Why, that would be the rather dashing grand lad astride a korth. Dark of hair and lean of face because adventuring sort of men tend to have dark hair. (And for a moment, you thought we were describing the korth, were you not?) Yes! Dark of hair! Among men, light-colored heads of hair seem to be easy fodder for arrows…given how they are easily spotted from afar. So, let evolution take place otherwise. Oh, and he is muscle-bound but not overly so. Just weighty enough to effectively swing a sword or fire a crossbow and to wear his trusty chest-armor. (No helmets, given how they tend to be knocked away.)
And in the meanwhile, a great many of you are demanding to know something else. What’s a korth? Imagine a six-legged horse but with a row of thick plate-scales along the back of its neck. Now add fur and lots of it. Now take away the horse bit of description because a korth is clearly not a horse. Not even a mammal because a korth can be warm- or cold-blooded as the need arises. Given the intermittent availability of foodstuffs, it is just as well. Oh, and they are fast and strong and can deal with a great deal of punishment—including the sort which involves taking a trouble-seeking mercenary from one quest to another.
Which also answers the question as to what Jhort is. In addition to being a human lad, he is also a mercenary. It’s how he pays for the dwarf’s services regarding the repair of weapons and machinery. (Yes! His name is Jhort! Names cannot be translated! Be thankful it is not a dashed collection of syllables and vowels beyond your capabilities of tongue and brain—as severely limited as the latter would be…)
What, did you actually think that a mercenary has time enough to stop long enough to consider anything technical? Anything involving a craft? Why, that sounds suspiciously like labor, and a mercenary does not labor! Rescuing abducted merchants, escorting nobles in their travels, perhaps rescuing nobles after they have unsuccessfully attempted to rescue abducted merchants, then being paid by all parties involved, that sort of thing.
Lawmen tend to be of the city, and roaming the plains sounds suspiciously like adventure. Adventures are most always dirty, dangerous things involving a lot of dirty, dangerous people. Enough of that in the city, thank you very much.
Which brings us back…in a roundabout manner… to the current conversation at hand. Master Fromm the crystal-craftsman (among other things) trying to craft some wisdom for the mercenary. At this point, it involved a lot of use of the word no. (Or rather, this world’s equivalent thereof. As promised, the translation will remain in place.)
“No!” shouted Master Fromm through his beard, a short but very broadly muscular dwarf. Inevitably muscular, and always inevitably bearded.
(Some say that dwarves wear beards as so not to be mistaken for children, but male dwarves grow face-mops from birth. That, along with a great deal of wisdom and intelligence. Facial hair and wisdom, one needs to get a head-start on both if one wants to make it as a dwarf in this world.)
“And in case you have forgotten the very last thing I told you about it, I shall remind you again! And again! The answer completely and absolutely resembles the word no! If there was more than one language spoken on this roundish rock we call a world, I would gladly supply you with more of the same!”
All this, because this frequent customer is inclined to flights of fancy at times and dangerous fancy at that, such requires a bit of doing. Jhort often finds himself facing the word no under other circumstances, and such circumstances often involve members of the opposite sex along with open-handed blows to his cheeks. Both cheeks, given how female-folk will see one reddened side of a lewd man’s face and make affairs symmetrical.
But with no such blow forthcoming, Jhort asked again. (Not that such a non-lethal attack discouraged him in future pursuits otherwise, however…) Asking what? As we said before, asking to do something quite asinine. Quite dangerous. Quite destructive to one’s health. As in, of all sorts of negative, negative, negative things regarding one’s physical well being! But not that such a thing ever stopped the idiots among you from such pursuits. And we are speaking of humans, so there is no shortage of idiocy to be had.
Oh, all right… Let’s listen in on what this mercenary-lunatic wants to do. Not that you could ever hope to do so yourself—not at your civilisation’s level of technology—but here we have it nevertheless.
“A weapon! We are talking about a weapon! What’s the purpose of having it simply lying about without the caress of a warrior’s touch?” asked Jhort.
“As you just said! We are talking about a weapon!” went Master Fromm, his beard shaking in resonance with his agitated syllables. “Mayhaps with a bit less carousing about, you would stop thinking most exclusively in terms of love and war!”
“But there you have it, master machine- and crystal-smith!” responded Jhort. “I am but a creature of love and war both. They have profited me greatly.”
“With so very much of said profit going to any number of bedroom boondoggles and entertainment in liquid form!” countered Master Fromm. “Speaking of liquid, your previous and therefore last encounter with Arcfire left you steeped in vasi for a week. You lost most all the skin of your female-enthralling chest. And had you decided to heed my warning from the beginning…instead of manipulating my unworldly apprentice…your wench-hypnotising locks would have been longer still!”
Oh, must you ask what vasi is for? Context clues, children! If someone is injured and most likely from doing something quite inadvisable, then someone may be steeped in it. Such leads to a full bodily recovery. Which is also to say, the city in this world does not require an over-burdening medical system. What, just a glamourised health-spa with thick kegs of the all-healing substance. Works on humans, animals, and idiots alike. One would also wish to say that it works on that sub-species of creature known as politicians, but not all the vasi in the world can cure that level of stupidity. Not that Jhort was a member of government—elected or otherwise—but his dull judgement would have otherwise assured him a preferred place among the unintelligent rank and file.
Which is also to say that Jhort continued to say… “The old child-tale’s saying, One bite, still alive. I live to bite and feast again at danger’s edge. Again, a weapon. It is not supposed to be a museum-piece of infinite study for apprentices full of trepidation.” Lowering his voice. “And their similar masters.”
Master Fromm stomped a booted foot. “And yet I need not the services of vasi for my-y-y ventures! Ventures of the mind, you see!” Agitatingly tapping the side of his anatomy holding his brain. “Certainly more rewarding and also less consumptive of vasi! The greatest of armor is that of wisdom, for it keeps away the sharps of blades and arrow-heads alike!”
Then came the quintuple cadence of another korth ambling over. Much like your terrestrial equivalents and their pathetically low number of legs, not all of a korth’s hooves are in contact with the ground whilst the beast in motion. Better still, more hooves down means more load for bearing armored fools.
Somewhat less a fool is the quite comely female mercenary upon that other animal. Fully clad in boots, breeches, and armor, yes. There was nevertheless no clear or obvious advantage to all of the before-mentioned being form-fitting or providing…ah, ventilation along the sides. Nor is it common for warriors to go about with their long, long hair unbound.
And before dangerous ideas are afoot, bear in mind that the huntress is part of Jhort’s band of mercenaries. But when he pays for her services, they are not those services.
That the huntress was here amidst his antics meant that (somewhat) more serious business was of import elsewhere. “Very well then, master machine-smith.”
He then reached for a small woven res-grass money-pouch at his waist. Because, what mercenary does not carry money about? Now the pouch, not that it was Jhort’s primary means of porting coinage and crystal-bits, mind you. It was just that he intended to give Master Fromm the money and had counted it out before-hand. Holding it up.
Then tossing it by the glow of oncoming dawn. Well then, it really is sun-rise rather than sun-set after all. And while Master Fromm was nothing in the way of a professional athlete, most every adult is strong of body and quick of hand. No other way to remain alive overly long actually, given the presence of bandits, cut-purses, and the like. Which is all to say that Master Fromm was able to catch the cash.
And also softened a bit. “You need not give money to retain my services, Jhort. I do honest work for honest customers.” Then squinting, but not because of the sunrise. “So long as you remain more on the side of justice and good.”
“What? And become as much a lech as his Lordship? The cash is also a suggestion that your apprentice take more to a contemporary style of clothing,” went Jhort, then whirling his korth about to be on his way with his female companion.
The quintuple-cadence hoofbeats of the six-legged beasts now marked the sound of Jhort’s departure. It was just as well. Speaking ill of the man who holds reign over this land is not a healthy habit. For all your fairy-tale dreams and fantasies of glorious, well-dressed, and educated rulership, actual fascism is a much more oppressive political monstrosity. Those of you who live within democracy and its freedom of words should appreciate it. Not being able to speak one’s mind leaves the political powers-that-be to be quite asinine. As much so as the lord and master of this land.
But there are certain saving graces which prevent fascism from becoming as murderously stifling as it is in your world. Fascism, your beloved tales of kings and dragons are tales of fascism—a strong-brutal ruler compounded within a kingdom using capitalism. A king is just another brand of fascist, and this has nothing to do with the distortions brought about by social-media manipulations. (How interesting and savagely ironic, human adolescents calling their opponents fascists whilst using fascist strong-arm oppressive fascist tactics themselves!) However, lords and rulers are so very physically far away, and there are no networks of wires cris-crossing the land to carry signals of observation and control to each and every corner of the empire. Neither smartphones nor security cameras to eye-spy on the everyday doings of every citizen.
This, though this land does have its share of self-growing crystalline computers…of sorts. But more on that later. How much later? That depends upon how well you will behave for the rest of this tale.
On with it, then. Master Fromm turned to walk back to one of the machinist work-houses and also to address his apprentice in hiding. Saying aloud, “Jhort is not a murderous lunatic, you know!”
A thin young man—also much taller than Master Fromm—peeked from around a corner of the nearest structure. He only spoke up when Master Fromm was in comfortable speaking distance. “He has dueled before and suggested that I…try it sometime.”
And here was Master Fromm dealing with two extremes. Jakk the Machine-Smith Apprentice (senior rank) preferred caution as a means to long life and a comfortable one at that. Jhort the Mercenary (among certain other titles, some of them less glamourous) preferred danger and cared not for an overly long life. Jakk was tall and lean whilst Jhort had muscular width about him. Jakk and Jhort, the two of them troubled. If only there was some being or entity in between…
Which would be eminently boring, granted. Much like combining an acid and a base of equal strengths, the result would be rather bland. (After the initial reaction, of course.) But bland would mean playing it safe, which would also mean leaning toward Jakk.
But enough of that. If Master Fromm’s successor in the trade was to be a wilted stalk of rez-grass, so be it. So long as there was a successor at all, that was important. Meanwhile, there are korths to ride, skyfall artifacts to find amidst the deceptively named plains, and bored nobles heavy of purse willing to pay for the questionable enjoyment of both. Compared to productive tradecraft, there is quick coin to be earned with the quick hooves of beasts! Questing and adventuring and what-so-ever else… Goodness knows how many of the young sort are led away to live lives of the Jhort sort.
“There is reason in what you say,” admitted Master Fromm. Now came a bit of the usual litany. Most every day’s duties passed much of the same way. There was only slightly more variety to be had with regards to Jakk’s duties. Can’t have him trying to do everything at the same time. “Now, have you prepared the six-hand trays of prophet crystal sheddings?”
Jakk opened his mouth to give the usual sort of answer. Makes a sort of sense, given how apprentices have been answering to their teachers for as long as the first craft landed people on this world. Technology had not progressed much. Therefore, neither had the apprentices’ answers to inquiries. But somehow, Jakk was throwing a block into the works and was not speaking. Generations of apprentices unto trade-masters, and he was verbally holding up progress.
Leading Master Fromm to the usual bit of irritation. “What is it now, youngster? Grass on your tongue? In which case, spit it out! Because our minds are of meat instead of crystal, we must use words to communicate.”
But there were no words forthcoming. Jakk was instead looking past Master Fromm. Looking past Master Fromm? Not hard to do, given Master Fromm’s lack of height.
Again, lacking in height but not lacking in wits. In case it was danger or something worse, and there can be that distinction if you think about it, Master Fromm turned to look. And was just about as lock-mouthed as the apprentice.
However, unlike his (much) younger charge, Master Fromm’s days of optimal fertility (and therefore urges) were long since behind him. Even so, there is a level of appeal which can even draw the likes of an aged dwarf. Wisdom, age, neither can do away absolutely with mortal desires.
Oh, and what desire there was to behold. It was a case of having not just to look but to stare, just to assure that the vision is real.
So very, very well formed. Though clearly small of stature, much of her height still was in those elegant legs. Exquisitely formed and with just a hint of curve to the thighs, thighs flowing into surprisingly wide hips unto a narrow waist. A lean torso being host to that most feminine of dual anatomy. Also, quite effectively outline by the silken sheet just barely held to her body with lithe arms. Lithe was quite the word to use for her, as well as her unusually long and exquisite neck. A neck just long enough to border on freakish. Yet a bit of freakishness is what drives males especially. Exotic, as it is called. After all, variety truly is the spice of life. And that thing thereabouts is quite spicy, indeed! Topping off the works with a delicate huge-eyed face, her scalp radiating… No, flowing with an over-abundance of moonsilk-blonde hair. Which is to say, no color at all and could not perhaps be called blonde because blonde is a color. Even from afar, they could see that her ears, also…freakish.
And then Jakk had to go ahead and ruin the moment. Don’t be too harsh. The lad is young yet, and he needs assurance regarding things which he is not sure about.
“Master Fromm? Could tarrying about certain types of prophet-crystals cause me to see visions of impossibility?”
“You’d best believe what you see, lad!” declared Master Fromm, still staring off at that distance. That wonderful, wonderful distance. “Recall your earliest of lessons regarding the checking of errata. If you check your sums and works twice, and further have them observed by another, and the same conclusion is reached?”
Hanging that question in the air, he did. Yes, much as those oh-so-long pale tresses of the girl fluttered about the breezes…as much as they fluttered about the hearts’ desires of those who witness her.
“Then sums and works are correct as far as nearest living minds can tell,” recited Jakk the Apprentice. “Do you mean to say…?”
“Yes, lad! I intend to say, much as I intend to resolve this sudden appearance of a being which should have fallen out of existence at the beginning of civilisation upon this world!” declared Master Fromm.
Jakk made a start forward. Such was arrested with a raised hand from Master Fromm. When a teacher and a teacher of machine-arts especially says or signals for an apprentice to stop, it is viciously necessary to do so. Not obeying could result in machinery running amok. A dangerous unleashing of motion or energies.
Which left the girl of lithesome and impossible beauty approaching these two from afar. For those who have not guessed already, it is Faela—princesse-daughter of Queen Mab!
No, you insipid intellects! It is Aia. The girl has stepped quite far in bare feet and quite nearly bare of body. If not for the before-mentioned corpus being synthetic, the girl could have very well fallen faint among the dry hots of the landscape. Not so much as due to a loss of fluids but due to the savagery of rough hard-scrub plants. Again, bare feet.
Not covered by the silken sheet. Nevertheless, even with such a thing over her torso, it revealed much more than it concealed. If you must have details, then let it be known that the details of her anatomy were…ahem, quite well outlined and…ah, doubly pointed out. Indeed, the fellows were only playing the part of raunchy male humans in their earlier antics. But from the design of the sheet, they seem to have played it quite well.
Then Aia greeted them. (No, not in English—nor any language spoken on your pitiful excuse of a world.) And then came the all-too-quick desire to set things to rights with the girl. Only the heights of lunacy would drive apprentice and master both to refuse her.