This is the one book in the series that engenders the most divergent opinions. Some like the first half and not the second. Some like the second half and not the first. The following chapter comes from well into the second half:
Chapter Seventy-eight
Scaling the last of the prismatic steps, the Olympian deities finally arrive at their stark new homeland in the stratosphere.
The razor-thin dome of atmosphere hovering above this bleak domain of Asgard provides a striking contrast to the palpable blue skies they observed at so many earlier levels. However, with each higher step, the pastel layers of heaven evaporated one by one. By the time the remaining eleven gods and goddesses reach the cutting edge of this lofty precipice, almost no soothing color remains.
The billowy white cumulus clouds especially, and even the thin wisps of cirrus ice crystals strung higher up, have since dropped off so that only glimmering stars and twinkling planets pierce the invasive gloom of a world languishing up here in perpetual twilight. Those prickly and bright beams of the nearby universe create an enormous fabric of sparkling patterns and spirals that unfold above the dark landscape of Asgard. The tiny lights of universal nightfall then trail out along the neighboring arm of our galaxy like a shawl.
In addition to the remote stars, local sheets of shimmering color, the shifting northern lights that hang lucent up near the pole, undulate and quiver just beneath this frosty region of Asgard. It is as if a cosmic breeze were blowing these crystalline curtains about on a frigid winter's evening because someone has carelessly left a window open to the cold.
Signal fires illuminate several surface routes laid out before them as if this were a country perpetually at war and in need of a permanent and rapid means of communication.
The main road at their feet, and a grand hall in the distance, seem to reflect the starry skies overhead with the mirroring quality of a precious metal like silver or a fashionable material such as shiny chrome.
"It could be worse, I suppose," Hestia finally determines, glancing about crestfallen because so little strong light brightens this elevated landscape.
"No wonder much of what Odin was purported to have done here in Asgard was sit and brood," Hades suggests.
"Only your shadowy Underworld is a more cheerless place than this," Athena teases. Then she soberly reconsiders her flippant observation after sampling the thin air, "The stench of impending death also permeates this place."
"I, more than any of you, know exactly what fresh death smells like, Athena," Ares confesses. "It bothers me not in the least, and it should not bother any of you. Let us reconnoiter that great hall ahead of us. Perhaps we shall find it well stocked of weapons with which to defend ourselves."
Scaling the last of the prismatic steps, the Olympian deities finally arrive at their stark new homeland in the stratosphere.
The razor-thin dome of atmosphere hovering above this bleak domain of Asgard provides a striking contrast to the palpable blue skies they observed at so many earlier levels. However, with each higher step, the pastel layers of heaven evaporated one by one. By the time the remaining eleven gods and goddesses reach the cutting edge of this lofty precipice, almost no soothing color remains.
The billowy white cumulus clouds especially, and even the thin wisps of cirrus ice crystals strung higher up, have since dropped off so that only glimmering stars and twinkling planets pierce the invasive gloom of a world languishing up here in perpetual twilight. Those prickly and bright beams of the nearby universe create an enormous fabric of sparkling patterns and spirals that unfold above the dark landscape of Asgard. The tiny lights of universal nightfall then trail out along the neighboring arm of our galaxy like a shawl.
In addition to the remote stars, local sheets of shimmering color, the shifting northern lights that hang lucent up near the pole, undulate and quiver just beneath this frosty region of Asgard. It is as if a cosmic breeze were blowing these crystalline curtains about on a frigid winter's evening because someone has carelessly left a window open to the cold.
Signal fires illuminate several surface routes laid out before them as if this were a country perpetually at war and in need of a permanent and rapid means of communication.
The main road at their feet, and a grand hall in the distance, seem to reflect the starry skies overhead with the mirroring quality of a precious metal like silver or a fashionable material such as shiny chrome.
"It could be worse, I suppose," Hestia finally determines, glancing about crestfallen because so little strong light brightens this elevated landscape.
"No wonder much of what Odin was purported to have done here in Asgard was sit and brood," Hades suggests.
"Only your shadowy Underworld is a more cheerless place than this," Athena teases. Then she soberly reconsiders her flippant observation after sampling the thin air, "The stench of impending death also permeates this place."
"I, more than any of you, know exactly what fresh death smells like, Athena," Ares confesses. "It bothers me not in the least, and it should not bother any of you. Let us reconnoiter that great hall ahead of us. Perhaps we shall find it well stocked of weapons with which to defend ourselves."
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