TravelingDreamer
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B7—Chapter 39: Traveling Is All About New Experiences
🕑 Added 2025-11-01 17:12:25 +0000 UTCMy red light was blinking, and I didn’t even need to check to know what I would see.
Level up
+3 to all stats
Wizard Battle Master level 15
With a sigh, I closed the window. Had I succeeded in raising the class tier again to a “free class,” I would have gained a new ability. But alas…
With those morose thoughts, I went looking for answers. I combed through my library, searching for books about the elements—the ones I hadn’t read yet. I did find a few, but even a quick skim showed they only dealt with the four major elements or the many secondary ones. There were a lot of secondary elements, more than I had suspected. But no matter how I tried to force the idea, there was no way they had anything to do with First Tier command. Metal was a subsection of Earth, not the other way around.
A long search in the Archive didn’t yield any answers either. For a moment, I considered writing to ask Lis. He was my sensei, after all, but I ultimately decided against it. After so many years as a Traveler and a Wizard, it was time to stand on my own metaphorical feet. Besides, every time I figured out something on my own, I gained levels and a satisfying sense of accomplishment.
The unsuccessful hunt for answers lasted four days, and I’d had enough of the dark underground city. It was time to meet people again. Looking at the Map, I considered returning to the same town I’d visited before, but decided against it. They were too strange and had an annoying habit of manhandling me. No thank you.
On the other side of the mountain range was another town, farther away than the first, but the distance wasn’t significant. With my flight ability, it meant nothing.
This time, I didn’t layer myself with warm clothes. Of course, I still wore my amazing cloak, but only the cloak. I had to push more mana through the Fire channels and into the one leading to my nose to keep it from freezing, but that was the only hardship. It took me about forty minutes to reach the other town, and it looked almost identical to the first one. Same long log houses with smoke and steam chimneys, same huge round commercial center built from logs, and the same tall people with dreadlocks dressed in furs. The only real differences were that this town was smaller, about thirty houses instead of forty, and they seemed to be preparing for some kind of celebration.
Evergreen wreaths with acorns and blue ribbons decorated the commercial center and the houses, their deep green color standing out against the pale snow. Long wooden tables had been set outside, already covered with cloths that fluttered in the wind. Women hurried between them, their arms full of plates and jugs, arranging food and drinks while calling out instructions to one another. The air smelled of roasted meat and spiced ale, promising a feast. Near the center, five men manned an enormous grill, turning slabs of meat over the fire while an even bigger stack waited beside them. Laughter and chatter filled the air, blending with the crackle of flames and the rhythmic thud of boots on packed snow as more people joined in the preparations.
For a moment, I thought about leaving. It wasn’t my celebration, after all. But then I changed my mind and decided to see how they’d react to my arrival. Besides, even if they couldn’t fully appreciate my progress, I needed to show off to someone—whether they understood the significance or not.
I landed just outside the town on the main road, took off my cloak, and slipped my hands into my pockets for extra flair. I made sure no one could see that stretch of road, turned visible, and started walking toward the celebration. On both sides of me, the snow shot away in high, graceful arcs, parting like a massive highway snowplow clearing the way. Each step left a smooth, gleaming trail behind, and the twin streams of flying snow sparkled in the light like scattered diamonds. I couldn’t help but grin. It looked dramatic as hell, and for once, I truly felt like a badass.
The people in town looked at me almost the same way the last group had. With that mix of shock and disbelief, like they were watching a bear perform ballet in a tutu. But this time, when their eyes shifted to the snow arcs trailing beside me, their expressions changed. The awe gave way to something quieter, more cautious. Not fear exactly, but a wordless acknowledgment that I was stronger than them. I didn’t just see it in their faces; I could feel the emotions rolling off them like ripples in the air. Good. Maybe this time, they wouldn’t grab me or call me cursed.
A tall, smiling girl with blond dreadlocks approached. “Did you come for the wedding?” she asked, her tone light and welcoming.
“Who’s getting married?” I asked, curious despite myself.
“Whispering Wind and Sharp Blade.” Her smile widened.
I shifted my weight, feeling a bit awkward about the whole thing. “No. I didn’t know you were having a wedding. I’m just passing through.”
She glanced over her shoulder at an even taller woman standing a short distance away, the kind who looked like she could lift an ox without breaking a sweat. The two exchanged a brief look, and the taller woman gave a small nod.
The girl turned back to me, her expression brightening again. “It would be our honor if you stayed for the wedding and shared songs with us.”
“Wait, what?” I blinked at her, confused.
Her brow furrowed, mirroring my look. “Songs,” she repeated slowly, as if the word itself should have explained everything.
I almost facepalmed and opened my profile to check. Just as I suspected, my visible class was still set to Bard, the one I had switched to back in Quassior.
Well, it was as good an excuse as any to see a wedding in another world. “I’ll share some songs,” I said.
Her face lit up, and she clapped her hands in delight before dashing off through the snow. “Wind! I found a Bard for you!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “I’m the best sister! You owe me that mirror!”
I couldn’t help but grin. This was already shaping up to be more interesting than I expected.
I found a spot near the edge of the square, half hidden behind a stack of firewood and a few barrels. From there, I had a good view of everything without being in anyone’s way. The air was thick with laughter, chatter, and the rhythmic clatter of dishes being set out. Children ran past with ribbons in their hair, chasing each other between tables while the smell of grilled meat hung heavy in the cold air. Someone was tuning a string instrument nearby, its sharp notes cutting through the noise before blending back into it.
A few villagers noticed me and came over. They still looked a bit bewildered when looking at me, but they also smiled in welcome, which was nice.
“A winter’s welcome to you, Bard,” one said, a broad-shouldered man with frost on his beard. “It’s good luck to have music at a wedding.”
Another woman pressed a wooden mug into my hands. Steam curled from it, carrying that familiar scent. I took a sip and winced at the sour-bitter taste I remembered all too well from the other town. She laughed softly. “Strong, yes? It warms the chest.”
I nodded, forcing a smile as the cider burned its way down. Around me, the village buzzed with life—voices rising and falling, laughter echoing, and the smell of smoke and roasting meat mingling with the crisp winter air. It was chaotic, loud, and strangely comforting. I just sat back and let the world move around me.
While sitting there, I tried to think of what to sing. Their language was too rough and guttural for melody, full of hard consonants and sharp endings, with barely enough vowels to carry a tune. Every word felt like it wanted to be shouted from a mountaintop instead of sung. I hummed softly, testing a few notes, but even that sounded wrong, like trying to turn a hammer strike into a lullaby.
So I stopped forcing it and let my mind wander. Maybe singing was not the way to go. These people didn’t seem like the gentle, harp-listening type. They were broad-shouldered, loud, and proud, their laughter rolling through the square like thunder. The men’s beards were tied with bits of metal and bone, and most of the women had arms strong enough to wrestle a bear. They looked like Vikings. Sort of. The closest sea was thousands of kilometers away, and there was not a ship in sight, but if someone had told me these were Norse warriors on vacation, I would have believed it.
A story, then. Something grand, something with honor and battle and a hall full of feasting warriors. Music could help set the tone, a steady rhythm like marching feet, and illusions to paint the tale in the air. Valhalla came to mind, the warriors’ paradise from Earth’s myths. I combed through my memory for everything I knew: bits from history classes, fragments from old legends I had read back when I was still searching for answers about the Gate, and, admittedly, most of it from the Avengers movies I had watched with Rue. That should do. If nothing else, it would be entertaining.
The wedding started soon after sunset. The bonfires were lit, their light flickering across the snow and the faces gathered around the great circle of tables. Drums began to beat in a steady rhythm, matching the stamping of boots and the clapping of hands. The bride and groom stood in the center, both tall and broad, wrapped in fur and wearing crowns of evergreen and blue ribbons. She had a scar on her cheek that did nothing to hide her beauty, and he had shoulders like a boulder.
When the vows ended, the crowd erupted in cheers. People surged forward to congratulate the pair, offering gifts of food, carved trinkets, and furs. The newlyweds laughed, hugged, and shouted to everyone around them.
Then, through the noise, I spotted the same blond girl from before, standing on a table and waving her arms for attention. “See? I told you I found a Bard!” she yelled proudly, pointing at me. “Best wedding gift ever!” Her grin could have lit up the entire square.
When she pulled the couple toward me, I took out a barrel of whiskey. “A gift,” I said, setting it down with a solid thud. “Strong stuff. Drink carefully.”
The groom’s eyes widened, and a murmur went through the crowd. Then came the back slaps—one after another, each harder than the last. I barely stayed on my feet, swaying under the enthusiastic gratitude of men who clearly thought affection and blunt force were the same thing.
“Good man! You honor the wedding!” one roared.
“Bard with strong gifts and strong shoulders!” another laughed.
When they finally let me breathe again, someone handed me a cup of that sour cider, and I decided it was as good a moment as any to earn my keep. I sat on a barrel, tuned my guitar, and strummed a few warm-up chords. The sound drew a hush over the square, the crackle of fire and the pop of embers filling the quiet that followed.
I began softly, letting the melody set the tone. Then, with a faint shimmer of light, the air above the flames shifted. An image took form: warriors sitting around a long wooden table, golden cups in hand, laughter echoing through a grand hall.
“Where warriors feast after their final battle,” I said, letting my voice carry with the music. The crowd leaned in, wide-eyed.
I played faster, and the illusion changed. Warriors clashed with monsters in frozen fields, their shields shining in the cold light. The flames flickered higher as the hall reappeared, now filled with roaring cheer and endless mead.
When I reached the part about the gates of Valhalla opening, a bright shimmer flared above the firepit. The crowd gasped, and someone shouted, “The Hall of the Fallen!” The bride laughed and threw her arms around her husband, and the groom raised his cup toward the illusion as if to toast it.
The music swelled, then slowed, the last notes fading into the night. The flames returned to normal, the images gone. For a long moment, there was only silence, broken by the sound of wind through the trees. Then the cheering began. They stomped their feet, clapped, and shouted my name, calling for more stories. I smiled, bowed a little, and took another sip of that awful cider.
Under the crowd’s pressure, I gave in and told another story. This time, an abbreviated version of the movie Thor. Since I was in another world, Marvel couldn’t exactly sue me for theft.
I started with thunder rumbling above the bonfires, the illusion lights shifting into storm clouds. A hammer spun through the air, glowing with streaks of lightning, and a tall figure appeared, golden-haired and smug enough to make even the groom snort in recognition.
“This is Thor,” I said, keeping the tone light. “He likes hitting things. A lot.”
Laughter rippled through the square. When the illusion showed Thor getting knocked down by his father’s magic and banished to Earth, the villagers booed, shouting protests at the sky. I almost lost my rhythm laughing.
Then I shifted the tune, a slower melody for his lessons among mortals. When I showed Thor trying to lift his hammer and failing, the entire crowd groaned as one. The bride shouted, “Fool! Too proud!” and the groom raised his cup in agreement.
Finally, the hammer flew back into Thor’s hand amid flashes of lightning, and the crowd erupted in cheers. When the last spark faded and the music died down, someone yelled, “Tell another one, Bard!”
“Maybe later,” I said. “Even storytellers need to breathe.”
That earned me another round of laughter, a few friendly shoves, and yet another cup of that wretched cider.
During the evening, I somehow earned myself two groupies who stuck to me like glue and glared daggers at every girl who tried to get close. Both looked about twenty to twenty-five years old, dressed in fur-trimmed tunics that smelled faintly of smoke and pine. The one with light brown dreadlocks and freckles was the culprit behind the awful cider, but I didn’t hold it against her. She meant well, and her grin was infectious. The other, taller and quieter, had sharp gray eyes and hair the color of wet sand. She watched everything around her like a hawk, especially me.
When the wedding finally wound down, the drums softened, and laughter rolled through the square like a warm tide. Then, with a sudden cheer, the crowd surged forward. Dozens of hands lifted the bride and groom into the air, carrying them shoulder-high amid a storm of snow and laughter. The newlyweds shouted with joy as the crowd swept them away toward one of the longhouses, singing and clapping in rhythm.
My two shadows lingered behind, watching until the last of the group disappeared through the doorway. They exchanged a quick, knowing glance, then looked around to make sure no one else remained in sight. Satisfied, they grinned like conspirators caught in the act.
“Come. You stay with us,” the freckled one said as both of them grabbed one of my hands and half-dragged me through the snow.
They led me to one of the long log houses near the edge of the settlement. The door creaked open to a wave of warm, smoky air that smelled of pine resin and lingering firewood. Inside, the hall stretched ahead, dimly lit by oil lamps set along the walls, with doors on both sides. The sound of the celebration outside faded behind us, replaced by the soft crackle of a hearth somewhere deeper in the house.
The girls half-dragged, half-carried me inside. I tried to stand and walk on my own, but they didn’t seem to notice, still holding me firmly by the arms as if afraid I might escape. We passed rows of drying furs that brushed my shoulders. The warmth deepened as they led me deeper into the hall, until we reached a smaller chamber tucked near the end.
The room was simple but cozy, with a low fire burning in a stone pit at the center, and thick pelts covering a raised wooden platform that passed for a bed. A few carved stools stood against the wall, and a pair of clay mugs rested on a shelf near a small window sealed with oiled parchment.
The freckled girl pushed me back on the bed with a grin, her laughter mingling with the faint crackle of the fire. She jumped on me, and her friend followed, moving with surprising gentleness for someone her size. I tried to remember their names but came up blank. They hadn’t bothered sharing them, and I didn’t ask. I shrugged mentally and went with the flow.
Well, the flow was a lot of fun. Heat and laughter mixed with the scent of pine and smoke, the firelight painting shifting shadows on the walls. It was a novel experience for me in more ways than one. The first time with two girls, the first time with women so much bigger than me physically—both taller than me by two heads with breasts bigger than my head—and definitely the first time I needed two of Al’s “endurance” potions just to keep up.
In the morning, a thunderous pounding on the door jolted me awake. The wall shook, and for a second I thought the roof might come down. The freckled girl sat up instantly, eyes wide, her hair a wild halo in the firelight. Her friend froze for half a heartbeat, then hissed something sharp in their language that didn’t sound friendly.
“Father,” the taller one whispered, pale now. “And brothers.”
Before I could even sit up properly, they were both moving. The freckled girl shoved my clothes into my hands and yanked me by the arm while the other grabbed my shoulder with surprising strength.
“Out. Now,” the gray-eyed one said under her breath, already pulling me toward the small window at the back of the room.
“Wait, what—” I started, but they didn’t wait.
The freckled girl unlatched the shutter, pushed it open, and a gust of icy air rushed in. The next thing I knew, they were both hauling me toward it.
“Go!” she whispered urgently, her voice tight with panic. “They kill you if they catch you!”
And then, with far less care than I would’ve liked, they shoved me through the opening.
I hit a snowdrift head-first, and the cold introduced itself to every square centimeter of my body as the window slammed shut above me. For a moment, I just lay there, snow melting against my back, staring up at the pale morning sky while muffled shouting echoed from inside.
Well, traveling was all about new experiences. Apparently, that included being thrown out of a window naked. At least that’s what I told myself while I hurried to pull my clothes on in the freezing cold before flying back toward the underground city.
Comments
barak zabari
it's good he goth is fire control high :)
Lou
The cool down was brutal 😅
