Sunday, December 19, 2004

NETS

Nicholas and his companions, Eric, Tony and Sam scuttled along as fast as their legs could carry them. The need for speed was apparent in the movements of those scurrying about them. The peace dove was shot down just a day ago, along with all their hopes of tranquility and cohabitance, and now war loomed like the Grim Reaper, casting a sickle shaped shadow on their miserable heads, preparing to harvest lives like wheat.
As you probably have not guessed by now, the four friends were actually ants, who had known each other since they were pupae. Their actual names require furious antennae work to pronounce correctly, and since neither you nor I possess that ability, we shall call them Nick, Eric (also known as Doom), Tony and Sam.
Approximately three days ago, Sam was scooting along the dank forest floor. His antennae were filled with the glorious aroma of the morning air, fresh and mixed with the sickly sweet smell of slightly damp rotting leaves, copious amounts of which carpeted the forest floor. He paused in the middle of his run. The rising sun was squinting down through the treetops and sam squinted back at it with his compund eyes. Lowering part of his abdomen to the ground, he scribbled in cursive, " Heading is zero, two, niner degrees. E.T.A. to target is ten minutes, as the bluebottle flies." After spending a precious three seconds swivelling his antennae about and smelling the chemical trail he had just left behind to check his spelling, he sped along on his mission.
Before long, his untiring legs had delivered him to his destination. Reaching deep within his memory, he searched for a mental imprint he had taken several days ago, and superimposed it onto the huge object before him. Ah, a perfect match! He nodded his head in satisfaction, a cocky grin forming on his face. Some people had told him that he had a rather overconfident attitude, but he always argued that he was just sure of his abilities, and definitely knew his limits. Besides, he believed that "down to earth" referred to somewhere eighteen feet under (please note that ant feet are measured in microns. Sam was about size ten.)
He gazed up and down the object to admire its majesty. It had HUGE, magnificent buttress roots fanning out as they reached towards the ground, like an old giant's knobbly hand reaching down for a handful of rich soil. Sam's gaze tracked up the thick, solid wooden arm, with its rough bark forming breath-taking canyons and ridges all the way up to the branches, an extensive network of blood vessels, each ending in rich green coloured cells of which the shoulder blade was composed. An unnaturally large one that was, for the crowning glory of the tree spanned three times the area covered by the roots. Every now and again the leaves would rustle collectively, the minute whispers snowballing into rising crescendos, the tempo varying, largo to presto. Together they played as an orchestra the morning symphony, the wind their conductor. Sam listened appreciatively, such good music came only with the stormy seasons. The monsoon winds were known to be skilled composers and passionate conductors. The orchestra was well into the third movement when some of the eyes facing his back prompted Sam to turn about and send that silly grin out of the window. He had detected something moving. Straining his forward eyes, he managed to make out two shapes in the distance, trotting casually up the path he had just come from. They were two fearsome looking leaf cutter ants, striding resolutely to meet him.
All three ants might have been of the same species, but that was no guarantee of affiliation. Sam tried to look friendly and unassuming. He was not very confident of taking them both apart and living to tell his friends about it, but he held his ground, determined to fight if challenged. Now they were within striking distance, and the two aggressors bared their mandibles. Sam, despite himself, took some time to inspect them. The fearsome pairs of serrated scimitars resembled saws, arranged one slightly above the other, like a pair of scissors. Now they were spread wide, inviting him to send his head to the grinder. Near the rather barbaric steak cutting impliments were a set of glands, that would add maximum pain to injury, when their formic acid contents were emptied into freshly carved wounds. Running along the head and thorax was thick, impregnable keratin exoskeleton, probably version 2124.23 beta, developed after millenia of evolution. As if on cue, three pairs of antennae were thrust into the space between them. The trademark Sam grin was back with a vengeance as the three friends antenna-fenced furiously, trading greetings, "HI!! What took you so long?" Eric replied, "This guy lar, whole day late one." "Sorry lar." Countered Nick, staggering about dramatically as if drunk. "At least we are here already, lets go, lets go." "Where's Tony?" "He's with the convoy, got guard duty. The convoy is on standby for our signal," they both replied in phrases, each completing the other's sentence in the event of even the slightest pause. The second and third surveyor had arrived.
Leaf cutter ants, of course, cut leaves. These leaves are then used to construct growing fields of fungi as food. This makes them essentially farmers, and fearsome ones at that. Tony, the fourth ant was not a worker like the other three, but a soldier, but their distinctive personalities made a good friendship. Nick was the first to discover the tree, actually, and progressively dragged his friends along until now all four had seen it and found it a good source of raw leaf. The colony agreed this was a rare opportunity and prepared to move. This was the final recon mission.
The difference this time was that the three would not just stand there and look at the tree but go up to ensure safety et cetera for the rest of the colony when the great move got under way. Slowly, the trio made their way up the endless roads cutting through the bark, en route de-legging a haughty wolf spider that just would not get out of the way. All the while they maintained a lively chat about just about anything amusing under the sun, laughing at jokes and seriously funny nostalgic experiences.
And now, it was starting to rain. Multiple anvils of gargantuan Cumulo Nimbus clouds congregated above like a circle of elders, discussing ancient wisdom around their campfire that was the sun. Their first shreds of conversation produced a soft pitter patter, halting and random. Then, as the debate heated up, the forest resonated with the deafening roar of their arguments, occasionally punctuated with ear splitting cracks and booms, when each debator slammed his fist on the ground, apparently out of frustration at another's misunderstanding of fundamental concepts. The disagreements brought more words, each more heated than the next. The three ants now found themselves in a rather undesirable situation. Rivers of dissolved dirt filled any available crevices in the bark. visibility was very low and each had to peer intently into the thick grey falling veil of liquid fury just to see a few paces. "so, the monsoon is finally here," Sam muttered as they trudged along. They were still on one of the buttress roots, and knew that the route along the trunk, where leaf coverage was most generous, would offer better shelter. Each tried to get to shelter as quickly as possible.
Several (human) feet up, four (actually a few hundred) eyes looked down at the struggling cartographers. The two weaver ants to which the eyes belonged exchanged drenched feelers and communed. "What you think?" the first inquired. "Foreign scum." mumbled the second listlessly. "Shall we engage them?" "Nah, the first to commit loses. We don't even know their purpose." "What then? They're leaf cutters. Wait till they slice up our glorious hovel to grow their disgusting fungus?" "Let's wait and see. If they engage us up here they will have a disadvantage, and they know it. Upon seeing our dwelling they should scram and look for easier trees to take. But if they so greatly desire death, then how can we be such ill hosts and refuse their request?" Each flashing an evil grin, the two green minions left their lookout post to notify the others. Meanwhile our three heroes had reached the first layers of leaf and were peering around in a rather amused manner when Eric sensed something amiss. He quickly proposed a scan of the surroundings and the rest, remembering his rather uncanny predictions, just as quickly agreed. At a glance, the tree was an uninhabited sea of green, the branches rocking crazily from the relentlessly pounding raindrops. A closer look revealed a steady stream of green from one of the branches. Tracing the stream to its source, the four beheld a bunch of leaves curiously stuck together. Even closer scrutiny revealed that the leaves were bound together by a sort of white silk thread. This created a rather vast chamber with green walls, swarming with equally green ants, several of which were already en route to investigate their presence. The three were definitely no match for the nearby horde and did not hesitate to turn tail and run. Each slipped, skidded, tumbled and motored his limbs as quickly as possible through the bark, a winding, unforgiving obstacle course with a low coefficient of friction, now adorned with rainwater. At the achieved rapid rate of descent, the three were soon on the ground, running to a safe distance and zig-zagging along the dead leaves on the ground. Huge raindrops were landing everywhere like artillery shells, blasting craters at least two ant lengths wide into the forest floor. The furious firestorm sent "shrapnel" and stray water droplets everwhere, giving the ants a good bath.
Once they were a safe distance away, the three looked back at the once welcoming looking tree. In response, it rustled its leaves into a deafening war cry, and shook its haunted branches defiantly at them. Exhausted and disappointed, the three located each other and sauntered off in search of better things, but not before wiping their eyes, using their forearms like windscreen wipers.
"so, they have chosen peace," said the sentry, glancing at his companion.
"Yes, not so stupid after all." Came the nonchalant reply.
Before long, the four were back in the hive. Having related the rather sad news, they were consoled by swards of comforting feelers, saying "unlucky" and "you've done well anyway". They remained considerably dejected despite the consolations, and expressed it by their long silence as they walked along the fungus fields, spraying it with the antibiotic commonly produced by ants of their species. This ensured uninterrupted crop growth, and was highly necessary because of the abundance of different kinds of pathogens able to destroy the fungus in record time. Tony walked with them, shaking his huge, armoured helmet of a head, although he was not able to tend the crops, but his presence served to lift the tension and soon they were all joking again while doing their farming duties.
Night had now fallen, and the residual rainclouds gathered above, waiting for round two the next day. They blanketed the area in pitch blackness. Only every once in a while when the moon took a peek at the happenings on earth was there any light at all. On a branch was a predator, perfectly still, perfectly invisible, watching, waiting for opportunity to drop by and say hello. Even during the moon's fickle, fleeting illuminations of the canopy, no one would have seen the silent lurking killer, his spottled and striped camouflage easily defeating the most piercing gazes. With the sky below his eight feet and the ground way over his head, the upside down hunter never lost orientation, his eight eyes swivelling in all conceivable directions. In boring moments like these the old spider would think silently to himself, reliving past glory, plotting new killing moves, or summing up the world as best he could. Presently, he was lamenting to himself about the foolishness of the younger generation these days. Earlier this morning, he had seen the unfortunate demise of a young upstart who challened a trio of leaf cutting ants on the tree trunk. He was an experienced hunter, but there was never anyone to show him the ropes. He managed to find the ropes by himself, but not before being scarred by bites, stings and claws in a dozen uncomfortable places. Those very scars now adorned his armour like medals of honour, mementoes of the wild and vicious prey he had hunted in his long life. The amount of humidity in the air was all wrong. The rain might well have ruined his plans. For weeks he had been watching the colony of weaver ants. One of their leaf hives had been around for a while, and now it was starting to dehydrate and turn yellow. The old wolf knew that the lack of humidity would not allow their larvae to grow properly and that a big move was coming. Thankfully, even the heavy downpour earlier that morning could not save the severely dehydrated nest. Now, his intelligent guess and patience was paying off. The weaver ants were swarming towards a bunch of leaves. The flow of ants was directly below him. Some were carrying larvae which they would use like glue guns, sticking the leaves together with a strong silk. Most of them were already at the construction site, holding the leaves together. The weaving was already under way. Now, one straggler was almost directly below him, struggling with the unweildy larvae-gluegun. using six peripheral eyes to double check that the coast was clear, he aimed his two huge front eyes at the ant, the twin telescopes zeroing on the target with the excellent binocular vision of a jumping spider. His eyes tracked the prey, judging the distance perfectly as if there was a numerical readout of the distance to target. He had his crosshairs on the doomed ant and like a good sniper, he was patient in the wait and quick on the trigger.Now he was counting down, three...... two...... one......fire! In one well practised maneuver, he aimed his spinnerets at the branch he was hanging on and fired a some silk, like a rope tipped with a grappling hook. His escape was now secure. He pivoted 180 degrees about the point where the silk stuck to the branch and let the ant pass him, so that its back was toward him. Now, he coiled those leg muscles and fired them, rotating in mid air and landing, fangs first onto the back of the unfortunate wretch. The twin daggers easily slid through the armoured ant's back, and the ant, with the larva in its jaws, was unable to fight back.
The struggle was brief, if anything more than non-existent. It was turtle soup for the now inverted ant, its insides completely liquified. No one was about to dishonour his innards, however for the spider was not interested in the extremely sour liquid inside the crispy shell. He was trying to pry the larvae from the jaws of the deceased ant, who was presently suffering from severe rigor mortis. Later that evening, the old hand would recline with great satisfaction (as best a spider could) atop the tree canopy, and star gaze, cracking open the can of fresh liquified larvae, which he liked to think, was probably the best drink in the world.
The minor discrepancy in the next morning's head count was brought up to the queen of the weaver ant colony without fail. Her Majesty expressed outrage at the blatant act of aggression. In response, the sovereign demanded an explanation, calling up all the sentries on duty the previous day. It was quickly concluded that this was the work of the leaf cutters, who planned to overrun their colony and monopolise the abundant leaf-resource available. War was now the only option. Her Majesty wisely decided that if the first to strike struck hard enough, he may never have to strike again. Within the hour, five legions of troops began the march south to the leaf cutter nest.
The next morning at daybreak, a single leaf cutter ant's long shadow cast its monstrous self along the leaf litter. The shadow's proud owner, silhouetted against the rising sun, was running as if on pure nitrous oxide. Such haste was uncommon even for the ant, to whom the sluggard should look and be wise. The ant himself would rather slow down and catch his breath (and his legs, which seemed to be coming loose), but he was carrying urgent and disturbing news. The lookout reached the nest just several hours before the approaching army, leaving little time to lose. The nest was alive with emergency messaging and speculation, but this did not slow down the battle preparations, made by determined ants who realised war was inevitable. Soldiers quickly swarmed out of orifices in the ground and rushing to their posts on the perimeter. Tony was assigned to the twig bridge at a crucial river crossing, and was joined by Eric Nick and Sam. The plan was to stay on the opposite shore and engage the enemy. If necessary, they would fall back over the bridge and hold it till the last possible moment. In the worst case scenario, they would snap the bridge so as not to compromise the defence.
Now the four waited in bitter anticipation. Around them were hordes of rather nervous soldiers, letting out the occasional grunt and shaking their immense helmeted heads. As workers, Nick, Eric and Sam were feeling rather out of place, being much smaller than the comrades in their proximity. Once in a while the four would exchange jittery glances and work their pincers, to keep them warm in the cool early morning. The sky was now the colour of liquid oxygen, its cool blue complimenting the fresh breeze which was blowing everyone's antennae hither and tither. The silence was broken by the occasional bird's morning call, carefree and mirthful. Silently, everyone was hoping that the weavers would take a wrong turn and perhaps end up attacking the termites to the northeast, but realised that such hope was in vain, and continued peering into the thin morning fog.
Soon, anticipation mutated with frightening viral like speed into full fledged fear. There was an unmistakable white hue to the grass approaching the river bank. The termites were here! A very unfortunate turn of events. The ants only noticed the weavers later, camouflaged against the green tufts. Surprisingly, both the approaching armies did not seem to notice each other until they had almost joined ranks. Their looks of exclamation clearly expressing their confusion, the leaf cutters took the chance and initiated the charge. What ensued was an ungodly three way royal rumble early in the morning.
Of course, we could never hear an ant's footsteps, but to the four, the ground was shaking from the immense stampede. The soldiers were a terrible sight, racing like cavalry into the fray, angrily working jaws clearly stating their intentions. Although the weavers and the termites were already engaged in battle, there was still plenty of resistance to their assault as the two colony's respective flanks turned to face them. If you thought human battles are chaotic, wait till you see an ant war. Upon contact, bodies started flying in all directions in accordance with Newton's three laws of motion. Anything moving that did not smell friendly was sliced and diced. Soldiers could be seen grabbing each other by any available appendage and ripping it off. Soon, legs, heads and other assorted body parts lay everywhere, and fresh troops scurried over them as replacements. The bridge defence force was hopelessly outnumbered, everyone fell back to the opposite shore. Soon, termites and weavers flooded across the bridge, making it look like a white and green candy bar. The last of the leaf cutters rushed across. The four friends led the furious melee, grabbing and throwing as many off the bridge as possible. Those who lost their footing went to sleep with the fishes. Tony was charging across with his mandibles held wide open, like an organic bulldozer, shaking his serrated death dealing array left and right. Nick and Eric was on either side of him while Sam ran along the bottom. Presently, Sam had his jaws deep in the abdomen of a weaver ant, but the thrashing opponents jaws had opened a huge gash in his thorax.
Ants have no blood vessels. Instead, the cells are openly bathed in blood. As such, and open wound is almost always fatal. Sam had lost a lot of blood, and now his vision was starting to fade to black. Soon, he had let go of the bridge and was now falling...... falling, oblivious to the noises of the battle overhead. Soon, all was black, but he could still feel that he was falling. He was now beginning to wonder if he would ever reach the bottom.
Suddenly, he heard a rather loud impact. Then it came some reciprocating impacts, probably of other ants hitting the water. The sound started to get clearer as he regained conciousness. When he opened his eyes, he saw Nick, jabbing at the playstation 2 buttons with great conviction. The DVD-ROM tray seemed to be on fire, smoke emerging from every available gap. Sitting up on the sofa, he realised that the smoke was actually coming from his cup of milo, which Eric's maid had just placed on the glass table. He ruffled his own hair, as he did habitually and glanced about to see Eric bowing furiously on his violin, and recognised the first movement of Vivaldi's violin concerto in E minor. It was Chinese New Year and the four old friends stayed one night at each person's house, conveniently offering oranges to each other's parents, not least for the love of money. Sam was beginning to wonder where Tony was when he emerged victorious from the kitchen, after successfully locating a plate to contain his breakfast.

Saturday, December 18, 2004

Antzz

This is a story idea i drafted several years back. Back then it was just the warning before the battle scene. Without spoiling the story any further, I give you NETS!!
Note that you may not like the ending, its a double sacred cow slaughter (protagonist dies, its a dream). Maybe im juz being rebellious, heh.

Saturday, December 04, 2004

Einstein was absent minded too

Oh yeah, i forgot to tell you. If you have any comments / suggestions / strong opinions after reading any of my fiction, feel free to post them under the comments section of the story in question.

Story #1

Story script for first RPG venture
Hello, and thank you for viewing this. As you know, this is the introduction to the RPG i have made.It may not be interesting to you. You may even find it excessively tedious so I dont mind if you give up reading half way cos i wrote this firstly for fun and secondly to provide myself a solid story for the RPG(so i dont keep changing parts of the game when i feel like it, making the game very sketchy). Anyway I stillhope you will enjoy reading this story and the game.
Chapter 1: Background
People tell of an evil king who once lived in a faraway land. He bred all sorts of vilecreatures and summoned demons into his service as an army unmatched by any single military force in number.They marched throught the continent ruining crops and villages, plundering what they wanted, burning all they didn't. The strong survivors were taken back as slaves to build the weapons and siege engines that facilitate the summoner's campaign to dominate all territory within his reach. The weak were left to the remainder of their pitiful lives. The summoner's army flooded the land like a black tide.
Their victory was total. Almost. One final kingdom, Rennon, led by King Archibald, stood fast, surviving by the wits of their commanders and the courage of their knights. They used hit and fade tactics, ambushing convoys and destroying war factories when the enemy least expected.
The summoner King realised that his army outnumbered Archibald's rag tag force three to one. The onlyreason they hadn't fallen yet was because of their indomitable spirit. All he had to do was to demoralise them...... He realised that it wouldn't be possible to dampen their spirits through casualties or setbacks. He hadto strike at the source; their beloved Princess Ciralen (pronounced Sir-Ellen), that will either make them losetheir morale, or drive them mad.
Quickly he devised a plan. If Archibald didn't fall fast, he may start to be a real threat. A task force consisting of a wyvern and several dark knights was to fly them to the princess' private garden when she went there for her daily gardening activities, and bring her back alive. She only hadone bodyguard, his spies reported. He should be a breeze to dispatch for the elite task force. According to the spies, the guard was as young as the princess and had never seen any action in combat. He grinned.....The wyvern would fly low so the lookouts wouldn't spot them. This was a new tactic, Archibald wouldn't see itcoming. He couldn't wait to see the faces of Archibald's troops when he hung Ciralen's mangled body from hisbattlements. The task force would prepare for three days, then they would strike.....
Chapter 2: Action!
Sir Derrick opened his eyes and rolled them towards the window on the left of his bed. He had awoken before the break of dawn, as was his usual practice. As he sat up in his bed, a chill wind came in through thewindow. His intuition warned him of looming disaster. Most would have brushed away the thought, but his intuition was always accurate. Stretching his limbs, he warmed up for his daily weapons practise.
At 19 years of age he was the youngest knight in King Archibald's service. Gifted with razor sharp wits,nimble intelligence and deep wisdom, he came from a bloodline of swordfighters, who, though not widelyacclaimed, used an ancient technique passed down for generations. Unsurprisingly, he had never lost a duel.Derrick reached for the weapon stand where his dual blades stood docilely in their intricately carved sheaths. He drew the first sword respectfully as was the start of his routine. The smooth silky metallic sound resonatedoff his room wall, unmingled with the sound of daily hustle and bustle. The steel reflected two cool, placiddark brown eyes with double eyelids. As he drew the blade, he slowly dropped into a low, war stance, weight shifted forwards for speed. Once fully in his stance, he whipped the rest of the blade out of its place of peace and the air vibrated with the sudden energy, ringing like a bell. He worked slowly through his routine of parries, cuts and evasive moves. He had learnt the ancient techniques perfectly. He progressed through theroutines, single sword, two swords, linked swords. The ability to use two swords joined at the hilt is powerfulbut difficult, but never acknowledged by the other knights who teased him as the only one who had no shieldand hence no coat of arms. The moves were vigorous, having to harness the gyroscopic effect of linking two swords, the family heirlooms. The dual twirling blades whistled as they cut the air and flashed when they reflected the candle light. Breathing hard and sweaty at the end of his practise, he sheathed the swords andwent to the bath. He thought of the day's duties as he soaked in the freezing cold water.
The princess would not be up and about for another hour. He smiled as he thought of her. He was verymuch in love with her. They first met when he was assigned to be her bodyguard four years ago. She always spoke to him as she tended her little garden in the mornings and as he followed her through the day'sactivities. He was her age and she often confided in him. Of course he never forgot he was on duty and knewwhere to draw the line. Though he never said much, she seemed to know a lot about him, his likes and dislikes.He glanced at the vase of blue flowers from her garden and grinned. Though she was royalty, she was alwaystreating him like a friend. But then he reminded himself that it had to end some day, and winced. She may never have taken her royalty too seriously, but he was sure that her parents did. Ciralen was sure to marry a prince of some sort, a low ranking knight like him did not have a chance. Finishing off the last of his brushing, he dried himself and began to put on his ceremonial armour. Leather boots with steel shin guards,leggings polished to perfection the previous night, a solid breastplate, leather gloves backed with steel,a polished leather belt and finally, a steel helmet topped with red horse hair and with a retractable faceplate. He then clipped the swords to his belt, did a double check on his appearance to make sure he acedthose unannounced inspections and marched to the princess' quarters.
He had been standing at attention outside her room doors for about fifteen minutes before he heard movement on the inside. From the sounds emitted he could picture the goings on, Ciralen brushing off her blanket, the maid's excessively tedious rendition of 'good morning'. The clatter of silver indicating the serving of breakfast, all lasting, as always, a total of ten minutes. Then came the maid's polite dismissal,the nervous, hasty pitter patter of the maid's feet on the marble floor and the creak of the door opening.Derrick quickly pressed his back against the wall so that the rushing servant wouldn't get a concussion from slamming into his solid steel shoulder plate. Shaking his head and smiling, he responded to Ciralen's callfrom inside to join her.
She motioned for him to sit down at the quaint little tea table as she poured him some tea in a little teacup. He closed the door behind him and proceeded to lean his swords and helmet against the wall.He seated himself and grinned at the cup of tea and then the light blue night gown garbed Ciralen. Sugar andextra milk, as his tastebuds soon found out, as he liked it. Impressive, she seemed to know him more everyday. "So, havent converted to the bow?" she inquired playfully, looking at her spread. "Nope, swords are still the only 'arme blanche", he replied. He had the library to thank for his self taught eloquence. "Forgive me if I don't say much," said the princess eyeing him coyly, "but i'm starving. We can havea tete a tete later in the garden."
He smiled and sipped his tea. Watching her from the corner of his eye, he waited till she seemedcompletely absorbed in her eggs then began to peruse her face. Her light brown hair was messy from the night's sleep, the long straight strands extending down to her shoulders, framing her face. Her thin eyebrows complimented her wide brown eyes matching his and exquisite long eyelashes. All the while in his heart was an intense burning sensation. Fiery passion matched with a nerve wracking anticipation that she would catchhim in the act. He fought internally, his subconcious ringing every alarm bell, telling him to stop staring or get caught, his will fighting to keep his eyes on her face. The battle was so intense that everything else including his breathing seemed to stop.
"You're looking at me again," she said as she carved a piece out of her scrambled eggs and speared it neatly with her fork, not looking up. He breathed in deeply at the sudden release of tension. His cheeks burning, he took a long sip of the pale white drink that burned its way down his throat, warming his cold empty stomach. He then stared blankly at his drink, breathing its mild fragrance of milk and tea, not catching the slight smile on Ciralen'sface. He chided himself for getting caught for the second time this week as she finished her breakfast. He kept his back to her bedside as she got dressed, and quickly grabbed his weapons and helmet as she left the room, following a half step behind her.
It was still rather early in the morning as they crossed the marble paved courtyard,passing the white fountain which serves as a dial (the courtyard is a giant sundial), the sky was still darkblue and all was quiet except for their footsteps on the stone pavement of the castle. They then followed a colourful stone path shaded by trees. Once outside and out of sight, the princess fell back to walk side by side with him, stepping playfully and describing the absolute feeling of clumsiness during the previous day'sfencing lesson. He had seen it all of course, from his post beside the door. He always pulled down his face plate during her various lessons, mostly because he could not help laughing (especially during the fencing).
She always told him that she learned more about fencing from him than from the teacher who was alwaysover emphatic about the technical aspects rather than the actual art. Sure, he had given a few pointers, butit was an obvious exeggeration, so he thought. Her conversation flitted from language to books to plants, herspeech ever lively, like a girl who had not a care in the world. All this while he kept silent vigil beside her. She paused from her preening of a rose bush as the sun peeked over the mountainous horizon, painting the sky blood red. They say that when a red sun rises, there was a bloodbath the night before.She must be worried sick about her father in his latest sortie. After a few minutes, Derrick's keen ears caught a faint whisper from Ciralen and knelt on one knee beside her. When he caught her glance, her eyes were brimming with tears. She could say nothing, but her eyes revealed all. He looked down. In all hiseloquence he found no words to say.
Then from the corner of his right eye he saw the sun go out then come back again. He sprung to his feet, and the princess drew a thin rapier from her flowing gown. She had seen it and suspected something too. He raised his eyebrows. These were times of war, but he didn't expect this from her. They stood back toback in the garden, hearts pounding. He had drawn both his swords ready to defend her to the death. He knew how adept (or inept rather) she was with the rapier. She was no match for an assasin. What he didn't know wasthat they wanted her alive, at least for now. They just wanted HIM out of the way. The princess' dress billowedfrom a gust to the north. Intuitively, he turned to face it. After a few minutes of waiting, nothing had happened......
Perhaps it was just a bird, he thought as he put away his swords, surprised to find a rose tied to the scabbard. At that moment neither he nor the princess, relieved that it was a false alarm, saw the shape rising out of the northern conifer forest. Derrick heard a loud flap, followed by an increasingly loud whistle. He automatically recoiled as a crossbow bolt ripped through the air, tearing off his faceplate and pinning it to a tree. An unearthly shreik pierced the air and he did a nimble backward roll miliseconds before two huge clawed feet raked through the flower bed and impaled a tree, ripping it out by its roots.The princess was alsoon the ground beside him as the creature spun around, forming a whirlwind that spun the vast number of assortedpetals upwards in the shape of a ring, dictating the area of engagement. The wyvern surged forward and threedark knights jumped off its back. One of them was the shooter of the crossbow and lifted his weapon again, drawing a bead on Derrick's head. The bolt tore through the gap between predator and prey, threatening to add Derrick's skewered head to the dark knight's collection of ghastly trophies. In one fluid motion, Derrick drew his left handed sword and bisected the bolt in midflight, either piece hitting a tree each and quivering.Disgusted, the black knight threw down his crossbow and signalled a charge. Derrick grinned "arme blanche".
The most fleet footed knight reached his position only to have Derrick's right handed sword drawn and shoved under his visor. He used his left sword to parry the next knight's feeble horizontal swing and drew his right sword from under the visor to give this second combatant a split personality. His swords rung as he spunthem a full circle and brought them back up in a defensive position. When his two slain assailants sank to theground, he looked about for the next one and saw him trying to disarm the desperately slashing princess. He ran, the last few petals brushing his face as they fell, the air a myriad of blue, pink and red.His feet lightly tapping the ground despite his heavy boots, towards the princess. Using the time he had,he locked both swords at the hilt forming a dual bladed weapon. The princess' glance gave away any chance he had of a back stab and the knight turned to face him, gripping his long sword, but not beforegiving Ciralen a bash with his shield, sending her flying. The dark knight's eyes widened behind his visor as he saw Derrick come charging, a circle of whirling blades on his right. Even as the captain of the task force,the most adept of the three, all he could do was hold up his shield and sword and flinch. A metallic whine filled the air as Derrick's fury matched the ancient technique of his fathers. Within seconds, all that wasleft of the shield rather resembled a pile of toothpicks. Derrick dropped into a quick crouch slashing atthe knight's legs and decimating his shin guards. As the knight lost control of his legs and was dropping into a kneeling position, Derrick spun one round to the right. Drawing his strength from the earth, as he wastaught, he pressed his left foot into the ground let the energy flow up his leg and torso and into his left arm. Holding his weapon like a staff, Derrick pushed with his left arm and pulled with his right, slamming the blade into the captain's thick mithril breastplate with an upward sweep. The tons of pressure easily sliced through the breastplate, the back piece exploding in a shower of flying metal as thecaptain's knees hit the ground. Derrick stopped his cut just as the blade was parallel to the ground so as to avoid splitting the man completely in two. Withdrawing the weapon, he realised the wyvern was long gone. Thoughit was thirsty for blood, its pilot bugged out, realising the mission could not be accomplished. Just then,the last flower petal hit the ground. The fight was over.
Exhausted, Derrick stumbled over to the princess. She was leaning against a huge pine tree, her notched rapier on the floor beside her. She was still panting after her violent exertion and the shield bash but looked fine, thankful she hadn't been killed, or worse, taken hostage to be tortured to death slowly in the summonerking's secret dungeons. Relieved that she was otherwise unhurt, Derrick leaned his shoulder wearily againstthe tree and slumped to the ground, removing his all but destroyed helmet and throwing it aside.
"Some bodyguard you are." Ciralen wheezed. They both grinned. They were so shocked they felt nothing, and just sat there leaning on the same treebeside each other, her head on his shoulder, his head on hers, eyes closed. That was exactly how the guards, alerted by the sounds of a battle, found them.
Chapter 3: It's WAR!!
News of the audacious attempt at kidnapping Ciralen and the smooth annihilation of the elite task force by Sir Derrick soon reached Archibald's ears. It threw him and his army into a feral rage all right,but this worked against the summoner king when they launched the most relentless offensive he had ever seen.Within a month all but his strongest fortress had fallen to Archibald's hurricane. During the final siegehe escaped through a secret sally gate and rode off in the night with his chief general, never to be seen again.
Chapter 4: Resolution
King Archibald returned victorious to his home, his army in tow, the citizens throwing petals like confetti. When all the banqueting was over, Archibald embarked on a massive reconstruction project whichhe personally supervised, so as to get the country, mainly farmers, back on their feet. The princess had since somewhat recovered from the traumatic incident and was back at her lessonsand gardening, talking, lively as ever, to Derrick as she breezed through each day. Derrick himself was awarded half a dozen new titles, most unofficial, but coined affectionately by people from all walks of life. He was also given a beautiful new helm (retractable visor, of course) by theking himself to replace his wrecked one. Even his swords were renamed, "the blades that won the war" and"the steel whirlwind" among others. Allegedly the king liked one of the names and planned to place them, with Derrick's permission, in the Hall of Rennon's Kings with the title, embossed in gold, on the marble pedestal.The King denies all allegations with a curious smile, saying he was quoted out of context.
Chapter 5: A Nightmare Come True
On a lazy saturday morning, after their usual secret breakfast together (he is supposed to stand beside the door), Ciralen was summoned to the king's prescence by the ever hasty maidservant. Derrick wonderedif it had anything to do with the four horsemen who came early in the evening the previous day, seeking theking's audience. Fortunately his visor kept a straight face for him, but inside he had a premonition of impending doom, and his expression could not help showing it.
The two of them casually made their way down the hundred metre long corridor leading to the throne room, the moderate tapping of Ciralen's feet on the tiles accompanying the dull thud of his leather boots with each slow stride. Ciralen paused outside the door, Derrick a half step behind her. She stepped back inher usual dainty fashion and placed a hand on his shoulder. His head bowed conspicuously. He had already guessed the meaning of this early meeting with the King. He had seen this coming. It wasn't a surprise. Yetthe feeling of dissapointment weighed on him like a ton of bricks. With his left hand he slid the visor fullyover his face and felt the locking mechanism click shut. The intricately carved steel would be his visage whenhis face was twisted with anguish and flooded with tears.
In an instant, memories of their friendship flashed before his eyes. He imagined what the future would be, the princess would go away with her groom to live in his castle. But she would be happy there, and thatwas good enough. She was sure to miss him, but he had to show himself strong, so she could leave with her husband without the guilt and a niggling memory of a scruffy young knight whom she once knew and whose heart she once broke.
He straightened, and reminded himself, he was a knight, under the service of the princess. Just another servant, just another subject. Ciralen had given him her friendship despite the status gap. It was more thanhe deserved, he could ask nothing more. It was just a dream, and it was about to end. He would retire, and live a simple life as a farmer, immersed in life's simple joys, far from the rank and file propriety of the castle.
Resolute, he snapped to attention and stepped smartly forwards, his breath slowly escaping his lips ashe pushed the heavy door open for Ciralen. He waited till she was inside before moving in and closing the door and waiting on her beside her seat. Inside was a long oak table, with two men on either side, richly decorated nobles. Their entry was greeted by frantic murmuring as the four men rose, waiting for the princessto take her seat at the near end of the table. King Archibald was seated at the far end on a tall chair of polished cedar wood. One of the nobles dismissed Derrick with a disdainful flick of his hand, and Derrick turned to leave.
'He is my advisor and bodyguard, and shall stay throughout the proceedings.' came the familiar honeyedged voice. He turned again smartly, with raised eyebrows behind his impenetrable visage. Four other rather surprised pairs of eyes glanced at the princess and the king in turn, but the king nodded and he stayed anyway.The following conversations dragged over lunch and dinner, with the men introducing themselves, bragging abouttheir exploits in the wars of their faraway lands. Derrick stood beside the princess' chair through it allas they held their conversations over four days. Always he had his eyes closed, breathing deeply, hands resting on the hilt of his right handed sword, listening for any kind of trouble. Every once in a while heconsidered making one of the arrogant suitors swallow a sword but kept so perfectly still that the king later told him that he resembled a decorative suit of armour.
Each of the four suitors had had a day to boast and now on the fifth day came the moment of truth.Derrick's eyes were closed as usual, the king, princess and suitors were once again at the oak table in the king's hall. The usual greetings and formalities. Derrick could picture the scene in the room during the longpause, even with his eyes closed. He could hear the flicker of multiple torches gracing the wall, the soft slither of clothing against the chairs' cushions as each prince leant forward intently and Ciralen's light pacing.
"Each of you have presented yourselves in turn and I have weighed your individual personalities." Shebegan as she continued pacing. "I must say first of all, that you are all perfectly fine gentlemen, but Ican unfortunately only marry one of you." Slight laughter around the table. "Having said that, here is my decision. Of all of you here to win my heart, I am most taken by thefirst to present himself." An excited murmur from the first gentleman. Derrick could almost see his gaudyexpression. "You have shown yourself a courageous warrior, a wise advisor and a loyal friend." Derrick frowned,a loyal friend!?!? She had just met them! Something was up. "Congratulations, you have been chosen to be my groom. As for the rest of you, leave in peace and may you find your love in due time."
The whole room went silent. After thirty seconds, Derrick couldn't stand the suspense. The lucky guyhadn't even said a thing! His eyes shot open and he jumped backwards startled at the sudden sight of a handholding a flower to his face. Its owner was grinning and shaking her head. The king, still on his wooden perch started applauding frantically while the four others stared at each other in disbelief. To the end of his days Derrick could always picture Ciralen at that moment, in her loose fitting white gown, holding a blue flower and the musical chime of her laugh.
At the end of it all, after the guests had left, the king was walking down the corridor with an armaround the shoulders of a somewhat bewildered Derrick, Ciralen beside them unable to stop smiling. "Well, my man, it appears we were all fooled. Meaning you no harm but i never knew of any romance between you two. It is the right age for her to marry you know? So I sent out an invitation and picked out thefour finest gentlemen, not the best i've ever seen, but they would have done fine," said Archibald, wildly gesticulating with his free hand, "My, my, never did I guess that she had taken a liking to the noblest of my knights!......"
It appeared the king had no end of words to say, neither could Ciralen stop grinning, nor could Derrickstop scratching his head (helm rather). So it was that they were married and spent endless days at Ciralen's garden and Derrick's new vegetable patch, tending to each other's plants. In the library they studied and discussed literature and books, among other things they did. Derrick politely declined the life of a prince, but remained Ciralen's bodyguard, advisor and friend, a servant husband, so to speak. When Ciralen's brother Arthur succeeded Archibald to the throne, they requested that they retire from palace life to live in a village, enjoying a simple life together. And so they were given governance ofa small farming village in a continent to the north, where they and their generations thereafter governedand protected the livelihoods of the simple folk.......

Friday, December 03, 2004

Why Blog?

According to most people's definitions, a blog is an online diary, open for everyone to peek into your interesting life, or read your nonsensical rants, but after its all said and done, why?
Diaries are very secret documents which no one really wants you to read unless told otherwise (as i found out the hard way after reading someone's journal back in primary school, many years ago.) Furthermore, the really interesting bits are the secretive stuff. Therefore, by logical deduction, the stuff in blogs are the non/semi-interesting stuff which people wont really bother to read in large quantities, unless you lead a travelling/nomadic/fate tempting/dangerous life. Who REALLY wants to read other people's complaints anyway?
Anyway, thats just some ranting of my own, which you probably skimmed through/did not bother to read, yet it is because of the present conditions of most blogs that I would strive or at least make a tangible effort to make my blog a little different, just for the very bored individual or the even more bored casual net surfer.
As such, instead of just stating my daily occurences, i'll add in some stories i wrote, so that you may feel compelled to visit my blog just to read those. even if we have never met. Oh yeah, I sincerely hope your mouse has a scroll wheel......