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===Extra 1 - Switched Perspectives===
===Prologue - The Worldwalkers' Treatise / A Matter of Faith===


(This scene takes place towards the end of volume 1 between chapters 13 and 14)
The signs were ominous.


Kaede shut the massive tome and and lifted it with both hands. Carefully straining to maintain balance in her upper body, she reached over to deposit it on the bedside counter.
All along the snowy coasts of the Skagen Peninsula, the wintry winds could only be felt blowing north. Low clouds tinged by icy blue followed in the wake of crying gales, shedding soft flakes across the horizon for cover as they made a hasty retreat to the sea.


It always felt odd that something so simple in her previous body -- an act she could accomplish one-handedly without thought -- now required care and concentration.
Even the weather could sense the turning tides of war.


Since arriving at Hyperion, Kaede did consider putting herself on a physical training regime beyond just her archery exercise. It was a hassle to find oneself so weak that even daily tasks proved difficult at times.
Though despite the cold front of general withdraw, a single line streaked south across the shrouded skies. The oppressive veil of lower clouds concealed the sight to all but a few faithful, yet none hesitated before bowing down in reverence and prayer for their moment of deliverance.


However...
A miracle... to save their people -- the proud Hyperboreans who sought nothing more than upholding their dignity in the ancient, promised lands.


'Athletic' didn't quite define her. Other than archery, Kaede had only found sports and martial arts fun when friends dragged ''him'' in, when ''he'' felt like part of a team.
Thousands of paces above ground, the pressurized bubble of ether and air blew apart yet another airy cloud. Leaving behind shockwaves of an expanding sonic boom, the figure within continued his journey forth at speeds beyond the fragility of mortal men.


...Even if it was just beating each other up with bamboo sticks and laughing about it afterwards.
But on this day, prayers of intervention were not meant to be.


But in the Königsfeld Academy, not only did Kaede lack workout buddies, she also attracted odd stares and whispers wherever she went.
"<u>Where do you think you're going?</u>" a tranquil, feminine voice laced with holy serenity pierced straight into the turbulent mind of the ''Stormlord''.


For the first time in her life, she had felt genuine sympathy and understanding for hikikomoris -- NEETs suffering from acute social withdraw.
The breakneck flyer instantly banked into a spiraling ascent. The brutish figure climbed through the icy air as he decelerated from his godly speed. Clad in hard leather and unwavering chainmail, his bulging arms effortlessly spun the static-charged greathammer into a readying stance.


So while Kaede holed up in Pascal's room pouring over encyclopedias of the new world, she made herself one excuse after another for why she wasn't jogging circles outside.
The warrior had yet to see the speaker who interrupted him, but even without it he could identify the immaculate voice that entered his thoughts.


--The weather was too windy.
"YOU!" his thunderous boom burst outwards with enough pressure to shatter air.


--The morning was already late and cadets had began their outdoor classes.
"SHOW YOURSELF!"


--Her body felt sluggish from sleeping too few hours last night.
The highest clouds parted to let forth a beam of the purest light. Descending from the heavens was a woman of not mere beauty but unearthly grace. Loose fabrics hanging from white robes of silk and long strands of silver hair billowed all around her thin figure, as though a sacred spirit untouchable to the soaring winds.


--And most recently, her loathsome period.
"Yes, me," she spoke calmly as her hand raised its only 'armament' -- a willow branch no longer than a single pace.


But most of all, Kaede questioned if it even helped for her to exercise.
"It's been four hundred years, Sigurd. Not even a kind greeting for a once companion of the battlefield?"


Without the testosterone levels of male bodies, bodybuilding was not just slow but also limited in effect. Given her low initial strength, spending hours per week in addition to her meditative archery for a five or ten percent boost just didn't seem a worthwhile investment of time.
"You have too many names," the man identified as Sigurd scoffed back through his thick, bushy beard. "How am I supposed to remember which one to use?"


It wouldn't even help her stamina much. Her Samaran body's rapid tissue recovery already gave her more physical endurance than most people needed.
"Are you no different? Siegfried? Perun? Taranis? Perkūnas? Thor?"


...Or perhaps that was yet another excuse.
Despite her challenging words, the white lady revealed no more than warm eyes and a calming smile as she gently propped her willow branch against the other arm.


After forgetting to pull her comforter back up, Kaede shivered as she felt yet another breeze blow in from the window.  
"A name means little to those of us who travel worlds," her voice flowed on, crisp as the gentle mountain stream. "Only Peter remained steadfast in holding onto his mortal identity."


She had opened it after Pascal's departure to help ventilate the room. Another 'side effect' of being a girl was that she found male odors... a little too obvious.
"I'll settle for I can actually pronounce then, ''Kannon''," Sigurd growled back, never letting down his guard for one second.


Pulling off the bedcovers to stand beside the bed, Kaede stepped forth in her thin legs. Her exposed arms and thighs could feel the chill as she walked over to the window. The self-heating magical undergarments might keep her body temperature warm, but that didn't stop the tingling on her skin from the late autumn air.
"Did the others send you to stop me?"


Kaede reached out with her small hands and pulled the window closed before seizing up in one last tremble. Her delicate arms wrapped themselves around her chest again as she made her way back to the enticing warmth of her... well, Pascal's bed.
"No," Kannon's gaze held unwavering as she offered her sincere words. "I am here on my own accord, ''Vanguard'' Sigurd. Patience had never been your virtue. But you must halt, before your own hand set forth a most terrible and regretful act that would surely trigger disaster."


There was once a time when Kaede wondered if small and cute girls ever felt as fragile as they looked.
"''Halt''?" came the scornful reply. "By you and which army, ''Grand Strategist''?"


In her current experience, the answer was a resounding yes.
"I may not be able to defeat you in single combat, but I could certainly stalemate you long enough." The casual statement came without an inkling of tension.


Her wrists didn't just ''look'' thin. They even felt like they might break if she tried to apply too much force.
Before her opponent could even consider calling a bluff, Kannon's spring-green eyes cast a cursory glance toward the southern horizon:


Her bare shoulders always felt chilly and desired the embrace of warmth. Her small feet wanted precise, dainty steps to uphold the same steady balance. Even her slim fingers would examine items with a delicate touch before attempting to pick them up.
"Besides, there is the army down there..."


Every simple act left a different sensation from the 'apply strength to everything' approach that came naturally to men.
"--You wouldn't ''dare''!" Sigurd snapped to cut her off. "Your intervention would be just as illegal as mine!"


Not every girl was petite and small. But with such feelings in mind, Kaede could certainly understand why the aspiration for ''protection'' was so prevalent among feminine desire.
"Ohhh? So you do realize the grievous offence you are about to commit -- that you do not have the Right of Armed Intervention until your homeland, the Fimbulmark Isles, have fallen under direct assault. Then why...?"


The yearning for safety, for security -- mingled in among the feminine culture of romanticism and love.
Lightning crackled and surged across his hammerhead as Sigurd's simmering wrath boiled into his ether veins.


Of course, to seek shelter from danger was a trait shared by all biological species. But since the macho-oriented culture that governed 'acceptable' male behavior considered it a 'weakness', men rarely yearned for such thoughts and feelings.
"Why? ''WHY''?"


...Not on a conscious level, at least.
His leather-clad fist swung south with a directed finger:


'Safety' was unmanly. A true man would strive for ambition and adventurous thrill.
"I have twenty thousand kinsmen down there! Twenty ''thousand'' more, after thirty thousand already lost before my eyes ''this year''! WHY NOT!?"


To seek fame like Achilles, to journey the unknown like Odysseus. To forge dreams into reality like the great kings of old.
"We've watched millions die in the course of lifetimes," Kannon spoke, her gaze calm as a meadow in the gentle breeze. "Unpleasant it may be, it is a necessary step in the great cycle of life--"


So for Kaede, casting a spotlight on such emotions was rather an experience -- one she wasn't exactly opposed to either, to her curiosity and surprise.
"Oh frack your self-delusional fantasies of reincarnation!" Sigurd interrupted once more as a dry thunderclap resounded from his hammer.  


Not that one minor detail like this meant she was agreeing with Pascal.
"We all met the Maker, the Enlightened, the Holy Father, the One God, ''whatever it is'' you want to call him! He was there, the leader of the Celestials, his greatest warriors fighting right alongside us and the noble Dragonlords!"


Perhaps she was meant to be a girl? Yeah right. Perfectly male or female personalities were the exception rather than the rule. Most people belonged somewhere in between.
Heated breath rushed from Sigurd's nostrils as his beliefs plowed on:


It simply took introspective self-reflection for one to recognize their other self -- which unfortunately, women did far better than men.
"You may have all walked away with a different opinion of just what he is, how he shapes the universe, and what virtues he uphold. But you cannot, ''cannot'' deny his one desire: that the bravery of souls is the single most strategic resource in fuelling his Archon armies in their eternal and unwinnable battle against the Demonkind from the Infinite Abyss!"


After all, examining oneself for weaknesses was 'unmanly'. The macho creed was to claim invincibility and shift all imperfections away, right?
"Evil always is and always will be, but that does not prove that your conclusion is superior to our own," rebuffed the white goddess -- bodhisattva, in her own terms.


The side-effect of too much testosterone was outright idiocy.
"Karma through the Eightfold Path is enough to oppose the tides of sin. That is my conclusion, and it is no less proven than your own," Kannon sternly marked an end to the tangential debate before moving on. "Regardless, none of this changes our agreement that the mortal realms shall have peace -- to which, I remind you, you gave your oath!"


Though it would be far-fetched to declare that Kaede was happy inhabiting a girl's body. Sure, she did not miss the alpha contests of male expectations. But the bladed whispers of women as they stabbed their way up the social pecking order was just as painful.
Sigurd could no longer contain himself as he barked a derisive laugh.


Lifting the comforter once more, Kaede pulled her legs back under the soothing warmth of soft fabrics.
"Peace? You call this peace? Oh sure, ''your'' homeland certainly has peace! Your one intervention for the Grand Republic of Samara gave them everlasting military might! But what of ''my'' kinsmen? Are they just pigs to be butchered under the endless onslaught of Peter's zealots?"


A gentle smile spread across her lips as she felt her silky skin rubbing against smooth charmeuse once more.
This time, it was Kannon who finally closed her eyes in a faint sigh:


Apart from the obvious physical changes, like how tall she was or how she expelled liquids, there were also a bunch of unseen nuances that came with both its good and bad.
"Would you rather witness the loss of twenty thousand, or the death of twenty million? If we Worldwalkers all ripped the treaty asunder and freely imposed our conflicting views on the world through martial might, just ''what'' do you suppose will happen?"


For example, her skin.
The 1st Generation Worldwalkers once fought alongside the Dragonlords in the Dragon-Demon War. They partook in the Archons' Grand Coalition Offensive which had cut deep into the Abyssal Realms. Even the least gifted survivor among them could rend armies and cleave mountains. Those most able -- like Kannon the ''Grand Strategist'', the ''Wishgiver'', the ''Thousand Arms'', et cetera -- could harness enough power to alter the fabric of reality across an entire plane of existence.


It was soft, smooth, and delicate; translucent like perfect porcelain, flawless to behold and touch.
Far from satisfied by mere ''logic'', Sigurd spat open his mouth to retort. But the white lady was not yet finished, and she soon enforced his silence with unnerving composure.


Even she couldn't help but admire it.
"Your head isn't there just to call lightning and smash hammers, ''Vanguard''," Kannon berated him just like the old days. "Your kin may not win against Peter's followers on the continent, but there are better path to victory than stubborn resistance."


For a girl back on Earth to have such skin, Kaede would have to wonder how much daily effort was spent on lotions, moisturizers, and even baby oil.
For a dozen seconds Sigurd's sky-blue gaze seethed on without answer. Then, as though the voltage of his thunder finally struck his brain into overdrive, the huge warrior's eyes finally cleared in foresight.


But those same attributes also made it really sensitive.
"Really..." Kannon whispered as she gently shook her head with a faint smile. "It's a shame Admiral Winter couldn't transcend mortality in time. For most of his life Vintersvend ''knew'' the future of Hyperborean society lay in the New World, the Frontier. It's about time you caught up to your visionary junior."


This... was actually a problem.
"Let Peter rejoice in his followers' victory, for it will be his last against you."


Being an aristocrat, Pascal's mostly-cotton bedsheets were probably as good as the modern ones Kaede used to sleep on. He apparently found it the right balance between comfort and firmness, at any rate.


But for her, it felt coarse.
----- * * * -----


It wasn't sandpaper, but it felt like... bare skin against the carpet, or something like that. The scraping felt a hint itchy.


First World Problems, sure. It didn't even bother her unless she moved. Except she did, a lot, since trying to sleep with everything on her mind was hard.
"So which world are you off to save this time?"


But what could she do? Ask for him to switch to silk sheets?
As the conversations cooled, Sigurd thought one last question aloud before he departed his old comrade, unlikely to meet again for centuries to come.


Kaede had no doubt Pascal would offer plenty of wisecracks about that one.
"I'll be staying around for a while, actually," the blessed voice replied.


So during the first week she did the easiest thing.
"What, you don't trust me?"


The long gloves and stockings of her undergarment set were charmeuse -- satin-weave -- and covered most of her arms and legs, particularly the parts that did the most rubbing. Kaede had never admired girls for their fabrics before. But these... they were unfair.
Kannon turned about one last time to give him a knowing look:


Well, lingerie were meant to be sleepwear. However embarrassing wearing pure white 'bridal lingerie' was, they were also her only undergarments.
"You're impetuous, but not an outright idiot. Otherwise I'd have never recommended you back then."


Plus, they were blissfully comfortable.
The ''Stormlord'' sent his annoyed face, brows twitching and static charged for unleashing from his eyes. But the ''Grand Strategist'' -- or perhaps ''Wishgiver'' was more appropriate in this meeting -- simply smiled back:


As Kaede considered herself a pragmatic person, the choice was obvious.
"I'm hanging around to advise Gwendolyn when she comes back, since this is her first time..."


She would never have imagined herself sleeping in opera gloves, thighhigh stockings, and a sleeveless, backless leotard with a semi-translucent chiffon miniskirt. But then, just the 'herself' part was already beyond belief even a month ago.
It took Sigurd a moment to remember the name: Gwendolyn was a 3rd Generation Worldwalker, a 'youngling' not even half a millennium old who went by the nicknames ''Arbor Sanctum'' and ''Faerie Sword''.


Slowly taking off one glove with the help of her lips, Kaede gently ran her fingers across the exposed top of her thigh. The gliding touch felt halfway between a caress and a tickle, its comforting sensation soon tugging at the edge of her lips.
"--Unlike your homeland, it shall not be long before her birthplace bears witness to the carnage of invasion and war."
 
No wonder why girls enjoyed skinship so much. Who wouldn't like touching and snuggling, with feelings like these?
 
...Certainly aeons better than the touch of coarse, hairy limbs from men.
 
Yet at that same moment, Kaede noticed that something was... off.
 
She had been in Hyperion for weeks already. Yet her legs remained as bare as a newborn babe. Forget exposed hair, there wasn't even a hair follicle in sight.
 
Some men might like to pretend that a girl's body was self-maintaining, but Kaede knew better. She had not shaved her legs or anywhere else for the weeks she spent in that body, yet...
 
There wasn't any sign of hair in her armpits either.
 
In fact, now that she thought about it, Kaede was sure she was completely bald beneath her neck.
 
Just what was going on?
 
 
 
...
 
 
 
"Hey Pascal," Kaede asked the minute he returned from afternoon training. "Why is it that I don't grow any hair belong my neck?"
 
"Magic," an amused grin stretched across his lips as he surveyed the small girl still sitting in his bed.
 
Kaede swore he answered that way just to irritate her. The obvious pleasure in his eyes as he took in her sight didn't help one bit.
 
She hardly even noticed when her cheeks began to pout under narrowing eyes.
 
"Do you shave my legs while I'm asleep or something?"
 
"Just what kind of pervert do you take me for?"
 
''...The kind that summoned me in bridal lingerie.''
 
Kaede barely managed to avoid saying it out loud. The last time she retorted with those last two words, he ended up making her far more embarrassed than he was.
 
Pascal was someone who had no problems admitting anything he chose to do in the first place. Trying to shame him into a disadvantage almost never worked, especially when his skin was several crocodiles thicker than her own.
 
With a shallow sigh from his lopsided smirk, Pascal soon began to explain in his drawling fashion:
 
"Shaving is an uncouth method best left to commoners. We nobles have far more efficient means of tackling such trite inconveniences..."
 
Kaede felt her lips twisting as she listened. Although now that she considered it, she had never seen Pascal trim his hair or even shave his beard. Sure, he was barely a man in age, but there should still be ''something'' there.
 
"--Those undergarments have enchantments built in that nullifies hair growth across your body," he continued with his head held high in a proud, 'you-should-be-thanking-me' pose. "You never need to worry about removing any hair below your chin as they are kept from growing in the first place."
 
"After all, problems should be tackled at its source, not by suppressing its after-effects," Pascal lectured on.
 
"Too bad you couldn't take the same wisdom to periods then" Kaede cut him off with her first thought. "Stop it altogether, instead of just absorbing the blood."
 
"I am not really a medical expert," the reply came under furrowed brows. "But I have read that the menstrual period is an important aspect of the reproductive cycle, although the bleeding is more a byproduct than intended function. As for the cramps -- like we discussed the other day -- it would be inappropriate to trust a mere enchanted item to interfere in the function of primary nerves."
 
Despite her scowl, Kaede slowly nodded back. She certainly agreed that automation -- magical or not -- should only go so far when taking care of biological functions.
 
...As unpleasant as menstrual periods were.
 
"There is a lengthy medical research article in the library about it if you have time to read up more on the topic," Pascal noted. "Although I warn you that the terminology is rather too specialized for ease of understanding."
 
''Does that mean...'' Kaede blinked as she paused for a moment. ''He looked it up the other day to see if he could help?''
 
Even though Pascal's know-it-all attitude often annoyed her to no end, she had to appreciate that same desire to understand and help at times like these.
 
The silence between them lingered as a gentle smile made its way to her lips.
 
...Although it came far too soon, and not for the first time:
 
"By the way, the same set of enchantments on your undergarments also provide skin care, assuming you take care of yourself and not do something like lay under a blistering sun all afternoon."
 
Then, with his lopsided smirk returning once more:
 
"Try to keep yourself in pristine condition for my enjoyment, alright?"
 
The only response Pascal received this time was a pillow tossed into his face.
 
 
 
<noinclude>
{| border="1" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" style="margin: 1em 1em 1em 0; background: #f9f9f9; border: 1px #aaaaaa solid; padding: 0.2em; border-collapse: collapse;"
|-
| Back to [[Daybreak:Volume_1_Chapter_14|Chapter 14]]
| Return to [[Daybreak_on_Hyperion|Main Page]]
| Forward to [[Daybreak:Volume_2_Chapter_1|Volume 2]]
|-
|}
</noinclude>

Revision as of 17:19, 26 May 2015

Prologue - The Worldwalkers' Treatise / A Matter of Faith

The signs were ominous.

All along the snowy coasts of the Skagen Peninsula, the wintry winds could only be felt blowing north. Low clouds tinged by icy blue followed in the wake of crying gales, shedding soft flakes across the horizon for cover as they made a hasty retreat to the sea.

Even the weather could sense the turning tides of war.

Though despite the cold front of general withdraw, a single line streaked south across the shrouded skies. The oppressive veil of lower clouds concealed the sight to all but a few faithful, yet none hesitated before bowing down in reverence and prayer for their moment of deliverance.

A miracle... to save their people -- the proud Hyperboreans who sought nothing more than upholding their dignity in the ancient, promised lands.

Thousands of paces above ground, the pressurized bubble of ether and air blew apart yet another airy cloud. Leaving behind shockwaves of an expanding sonic boom, the figure within continued his journey forth at speeds beyond the fragility of mortal men.

But on this day, prayers of intervention were not meant to be.

"Where do you think you're going?" a tranquil, feminine voice laced with holy serenity pierced straight into the turbulent mind of the Stormlord.

The breakneck flyer instantly banked into a spiraling ascent. The brutish figure climbed through the icy air as he decelerated from his godly speed. Clad in hard leather and unwavering chainmail, his bulging arms effortlessly spun the static-charged greathammer into a readying stance.

The warrior had yet to see the speaker who interrupted him, but even without it he could identify the immaculate voice that entered his thoughts.

"YOU!" his thunderous boom burst outwards with enough pressure to shatter air.

"SHOW YOURSELF!"

The highest clouds parted to let forth a beam of the purest light. Descending from the heavens was a woman of not mere beauty but unearthly grace. Loose fabrics hanging from white robes of silk and long strands of silver hair billowed all around her thin figure, as though a sacred spirit untouchable to the soaring winds.

"Yes, me," she spoke calmly as her hand raised its only 'armament' -- a willow branch no longer than a single pace.

"It's been four hundred years, Sigurd. Not even a kind greeting for a once companion of the battlefield?"

"You have too many names," the man identified as Sigurd scoffed back through his thick, bushy beard. "How am I supposed to remember which one to use?"

"Are you no different? Siegfried? Perun? Taranis? Perkūnas? Thor?"

Despite her challenging words, the white lady revealed no more than warm eyes and a calming smile as she gently propped her willow branch against the other arm.

"A name means little to those of us who travel worlds," her voice flowed on, crisp as the gentle mountain stream. "Only Peter remained steadfast in holding onto his mortal identity."

"I'll settle for I can actually pronounce then, Kannon," Sigurd growled back, never letting down his guard for one second.

"Did the others send you to stop me?"

"No," Kannon's gaze held unwavering as she offered her sincere words. "I am here on my own accord, Vanguard Sigurd. Patience had never been your virtue. But you must halt, before your own hand set forth a most terrible and regretful act that would surely trigger disaster."

"Halt?" came the scornful reply. "By you and which army, Grand Strategist?"

"I may not be able to defeat you in single combat, but I could certainly stalemate you long enough." The casual statement came without an inkling of tension.

Before her opponent could even consider calling a bluff, Kannon's spring-green eyes cast a cursory glance toward the southern horizon:

"Besides, there is the army down there..."

"--You wouldn't dare!" Sigurd snapped to cut her off. "Your intervention would be just as illegal as mine!"

"Ohhh? So you do realize the grievous offence you are about to commit -- that you do not have the Right of Armed Intervention until your homeland, the Fimbulmark Isles, have fallen under direct assault. Then why...?"

Lightning crackled and surged across his hammerhead as Sigurd's simmering wrath boiled into his ether veins.

"Why? WHY?"

His leather-clad fist swung south with a directed finger:

"I have twenty thousand kinsmen down there! Twenty thousand more, after thirty thousand already lost before my eyes this year! WHY NOT!?"

"We've watched millions die in the course of lifetimes," Kannon spoke, her gaze calm as a meadow in the gentle breeze. "Unpleasant it may be, it is a necessary step in the great cycle of life--"

"Oh frack your self-delusional fantasies of reincarnation!" Sigurd interrupted once more as a dry thunderclap resounded from his hammer.

"We all met the Maker, the Enlightened, the Holy Father, the One God, whatever it is you want to call him! He was there, the leader of the Celestials, his greatest warriors fighting right alongside us and the noble Dragonlords!"

Heated breath rushed from Sigurd's nostrils as his beliefs plowed on:

"You may have all walked away with a different opinion of just what he is, how he shapes the universe, and what virtues he uphold. But you cannot, cannot deny his one desire: that the bravery of souls is the single most strategic resource in fuelling his Archon armies in their eternal and unwinnable battle against the Demonkind from the Infinite Abyss!"

"Evil always is and always will be, but that does not prove that your conclusion is superior to our own," rebuffed the white goddess -- bodhisattva, in her own terms.

"Karma through the Eightfold Path is enough to oppose the tides of sin. That is my conclusion, and it is no less proven than your own," Kannon sternly marked an end to the tangential debate before moving on. "Regardless, none of this changes our agreement that the mortal realms shall have peace -- to which, I remind you, you gave your oath!"

Sigurd could no longer contain himself as he barked a derisive laugh.

"Peace? You call this peace? Oh sure, your homeland certainly has peace! Your one intervention for the Grand Republic of Samara gave them everlasting military might! But what of my kinsmen? Are they just pigs to be butchered under the endless onslaught of Peter's zealots?"

This time, it was Kannon who finally closed her eyes in a faint sigh:

"Would you rather witness the loss of twenty thousand, or the death of twenty million? If we Worldwalkers all ripped the treaty asunder and freely imposed our conflicting views on the world through martial might, just what do you suppose will happen?"

The 1st Generation Worldwalkers once fought alongside the Dragonlords in the Dragon-Demon War. They partook in the Archons' Grand Coalition Offensive which had cut deep into the Abyssal Realms. Even the least gifted survivor among them could rend armies and cleave mountains. Those most able -- like Kannon the Grand Strategist, the Wishgiver, the Thousand Arms, et cetera -- could harness enough power to alter the fabric of reality across an entire plane of existence.

Far from satisfied by mere logic, Sigurd spat open his mouth to retort. But the white lady was not yet finished, and she soon enforced his silence with unnerving composure.

"Your head isn't there just to call lightning and smash hammers, Vanguard," Kannon berated him just like the old days. "Your kin may not win against Peter's followers on the continent, but there are better path to victory than stubborn resistance."

For a dozen seconds Sigurd's sky-blue gaze seethed on without answer. Then, as though the voltage of his thunder finally struck his brain into overdrive, the huge warrior's eyes finally cleared in foresight.

"Really..." Kannon whispered as she gently shook her head with a faint smile. "It's a shame Admiral Winter couldn't transcend mortality in time. For most of his life Vintersvend knew the future of Hyperborean society lay in the New World, the Frontier. It's about time you caught up to your visionary junior."

"Let Peter rejoice in his followers' victory, for it will be his last against you."


* * * -----


"So which world are you off to save this time?"

As the conversations cooled, Sigurd thought one last question aloud before he departed his old comrade, unlikely to meet again for centuries to come.

"I'll be staying around for a while, actually," the blessed voice replied.

"What, you don't trust me?"

Kannon turned about one last time to give him a knowing look:

"You're impetuous, but not an outright idiot. Otherwise I'd have never recommended you back then."

The Stormlord sent his annoyed face, brows twitching and static charged for unleashing from his eyes. But the Grand Strategist -- or perhaps Wishgiver was more appropriate in this meeting -- simply smiled back:

"I'm hanging around to advise Gwendolyn when she comes back, since this is her first time..."

It took Sigurd a moment to remember the name: Gwendolyn was a 3rd Generation Worldwalker, a 'youngling' not even half a millennium old who went by the nicknames Arbor Sanctum and Faerie Sword.

"--Unlike your homeland, it shall not be long before her birthplace bears witness to the carnage of invasion and war."

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