My, my.

(The Assassin's Bamboo Brush) A Conversation between friends

2008-05-31T10:32:00.002+08:00

“Yo.”

“YO!”

“Hey Aka, can I stash this monster in your cart?” He pointed at the rugged looking ox-driven vehicle Akamaru had recently bought.

“Yeah, there’s a free slot. Is that a weapon?”

“Yeap, a naginata. Obasan gave it to me.”

“I thought you said we weren’t going to bring weapons. Then you brought that huge thing.”

“It’s a gift, I can’t just get rid of it. It looks really cool too. Speak for yourself! You brought a bow.”

“This is for hunting ok.”

“I think if you shoot a bird with that, it will explode.”

“This is the smallest one I’ve got, ok, what do you want.”

“Anyway, I’m going to leave it there til I get home again, whenever that is.”

“That’s what you always say, until you cut someone’s head off with it.”

“Wait, where are we walking to?”

“Good question.”

“I think we’re navigating automatically to our assault boat mooring. Where’s the normal ferry jetty? Is it there?” Shiro pointed down a promising looking fork in the road.

“Your sense of direction is hopeless.”

Shiro suddenly felt slightly irritated and did not speak for several seconds. A flutter of wings interrupted his irritated pause.

“Hey Shiro, I have a letter for you.”

“From?”

“Your pen pal. He complains that you have been ignoring his letters. Actually I’d do the same: he writes too many.”

“Thanks.” Shiro took the letter and smiled. His pen pal was a young and enthusiastic (at least when it came to writing casual letters) fellow who had been a friend of his until they were permanently separated several years ago, when he went off to find a better life in Rennon. Shiro himself seldom managed to summon up the effort to write a reply, but decided this time that he should, as soon as possible; the special occasion being his friend’s birthday. Furthermore, he had not heard from his pen pal for some time; very unusual behavior from someone who sends word weekly.

He ripped off the binding cord and broke the seal, reading his letter as his three friends automatically ignored him and carried on a tripartite conversation. When he had finished, he slotted it into a hollow bamboo scroll holder. The voices of his friends slowly flooded back into his ears.

“Hm.”

“What, interesting letter this time?”

“It’s interesting everytime. No, it’s just that for the past 2 months I haven’t heard from him, he’s managed to join the royal guard.”

“Who, Derrick?”

“Yep.”

“Whoa, that’s quite impressive. In 2 months? Rennon’s military is one of the hardest to get into!”

“Yeap, he made it; though he’s not so enthusiastic about his first assignment.”

“What’s that?”

“Escorting an envoy to one of the outlying villages to do some diplomatic stuff; negotiations, the lot; boring stuff.”

“Eee. They need royal guard for that?”

“Maybe to put up a show.”

“He’s going there to perform a sword dance. Cultural exchange.”

“I think this place they’re going to is more dangerous than he thinks.”

“Yea, there are a lot more uprisings these days.”

“It’s all exaggerated. How can it be that they think living under some warlord’s turf is going to be better than being part of Rennon?”

“Well, it’s happening.”

“Some people can be quite retarded you know?”

“Nah, it’s the local gangs causing trouble that’s all. Wanting to be part of a bigger brotherhood by joining up with one of the warlords. That envoy better be good: negotiating with the yakuza is not going to be easy.”

“They’re coming so far out? We might even meet them on the road to see Al’ Miramar’s cactus gardens.”

“I’m kind of hoping so. It’s been years since.”

The Assassin's bamboo brush

2007-07-12T13:17:00.000+08:00

Alright, here is an introduction to my new story thread, The Assassin's Bamboo Brush, as well as a brief explanation on how it can be read.

The story is basically from the viewpoint of an assassin who is still quite young (est. late twenties or so). He has been there, done that, and now wants to retire (read Death's Final Moments) and travel with his three good friends, something they were planning for al long time but never got round to doing.

He is something of a writer, and likes to pen mostly prose, but comes up with some poetry now in then during bursts of inspiration. His writing overall is rather sporadic and hence, not very high in quantity. I determined that inserting what he writes now and then in the story itself can be quite distracting, and breaks the rhythm, so i decided to place them all at the front few chapters (indicated with "inverted commas" around the title). You can read them when you feel like it, and in whatever order you like. It does not affect the storyline, but gives some insight into the assassin's character.

Shortening a long story, the chapters with "inverted commas" are not vital to the storyline. Effectively, the first chapter of The Assassin's Bamboo Brush is An End and a Beginning. The prelude is Death's Final Moments (you don't have to read it either).

Enjoy

*UPDATE*
Alright, the pieces are beginning to fall into place, and my thoughts are starting to crystallise. I've visualised a tie in with the two main long storylines I'm writing, "The Assasin's Bamboo Brush" and "Hooded". The two stories occur at about the same time, but their characters only meet about 1/3 way into their stories. Since they are chronologically overlapping, you can read either one first, or both at the same time. Hopefully, one will help you to have a greater understanding of the other. The integration at the 1/3 way mark should be smooth, given the time working on it, but either way, this work is highly experimental, and as usual, written to amuse myself (and bored office workers who happen to stumble upon this blog).

Much of the recent lack of writing can be attributed to lack of direction. I didn't know where I was going with my new and old characters with their apparently very different worlds. For a long time, merging the stories was debated, as it is a very risky move. I do believe now, however, that I've hit on something cool, and have filled in many of the plot gaps, managing to come up with a skeletal timeline.

Much of the focus, I guess, will be on character development. From my first story, (the one for the RPG), the characters were all papery and two dimensional (and perfect), which some may say, is inevitable for a piece that short. However, I'm exploring the possibilities now, looking way back in the past when the princess and Derrick first met. I have envisioned chips and imperfections in them, but because of the sentimental value of this couple, I'm being very careful to make sure I know what I want. How were they in the past? How did their relationship look like at first? How did it develop? How did it make them into the people they are "today"? Very complicated, many factors involved. On top of that, they're not the only main characters.

Just as Derrick symbolises immaturity at this point, I want Shiro to symbolise self-discovery and Thomas, perhaps, the final product. This makes Thomas very difficult to flesh out, since I'm not THAT old, and experienced in life. It's hard to say what the final product should be. Then again, it's pretty subjective, and so, Thomas is something like, a physical realisation of aspiration. In other words, he's a 'man of wax'. Of course, that doesn't make for a very realistic character, so I've toned him down abit. But he's nonetheless very difficult to grasp. Perhaps you could say his minimally being in the story (as compared to Shiro, or Derrick), is some form of escapism for me. I wouldn't blame you.

You could say that I'm being unrealistic, clinging to Ciralen and Derrick; characters I dreamt up years ago. Now that I'm supposed to have matured as a writer, I should move on to greater things. Yet, I'm highly sentimental, and IF I can make this story work, it will be very beautiful (at least to me). I'm taking my time on it, as you can see. Even after it's completed, I can still see myself editing it indefinitely.

As a final note, I hope this long story amuses, impresses and inspires you. I hope that you can see, feel and maybe even fall in love with the characters, without need for the usual abrasive, grindingly dramatic stuff. Most of all, I hope you find something meaningful within these blocks of prose.

Look forward to the next chapter that I render into words!

*Spoilers*
The latest episode of the Assasin's Bamboo brush occurs at the same time that Sir Derrick gets knighted. So, for people who want to get the order exactly right, this is the mental guideline I'm using. Note that some (many) of the chapters are in my mind, but not written down yet. So if you really hate spoilers, you might wanna try reading the storylines by yourself in your own order. I'll try my best to include as many chronological tie-ins as possible, but it's probably still gonna be confusing, and you've probably still gotta read it again.

(Relevant) Timeline:

Thomas sends a spy into the country in the west to determine the reason for its rapid military growth (not recorded)

Derrick selected to represent Rennon in the games. (not recorded) : Shiro investigates the runaway husband (not recorded)

Derrick trains with Thomas himself in preparation (not recorded), Thomas' spy completes mission, heads back to border as scheduled for extraction {hooded 1,2}: Shiro concludes the investigation and decides to retire with his friends {Death's Final Moments}

Derrick fights Rasheed {hooded 3,4} : Shiro works as a waiter with Nichirasu (not recorded)

Derrick knighted. {soon} : Shiro quits his job and concludes any business he might have left {An end and a beginning -to- Obasan}

Derrick on his first assignment, protect the emissary. Thomas sets out for the western border on a secret mission {soon} : Shiro starts his sight seeing with friends (may not be recorded)

Derrick travels south with the emissary, writes frequently to pen pal out of boredom. Thomas receives distressing news about his contact, changes meeting spot to somewhere in enemy territory, tries to enlist Shiro one last time. {soon} : Shiro receives sudden influx of letters from pen pal and Thomas, who had hired his services several times in the past. {soon}

Thomas manages to get Shiro's reluctant agreement for one last assignment. Meets contact. Derrick still on the road south, still bored (soon). : Shiro watches Thomas fail his mission and get captured, tracks him for the next week. (soon)

Emissary reaches first town, meets villagers, detects general unease. Derrick still bored, and oblivious. Thomas brought into new country, transported rapidly to the southern shore. Crosses water back to the southern peninsula.(soon) : Shiro tracks Thomas, suspicions grow.(soon)

Thomas arrives at a large port town south of Rennon, doesn't know where he is. Held and tortured. Emissary leaves village, heads toward port town to investigate and ease, if possible, reported unrest in the port town.(soon) : Shiro realises pen pal's mission is in jeopardy. Rushes to meet and discuss a plan with him/her.(soon)

Derrick learns that emissary is the princess, Ciralen. Thomas captured for one week and running. Tortured over the next two days.(soon) : Shiro meets Derrick. Plans made for rescue of Thomas and his contact. Port town's hidden military presence completely infiltrated by Nichirasu, Orophin, Akamaru within 3 days. Shiro discusses with his sworn brother (one of the lower profile warlords) about the elaborate escape plan. Count Von Mies (aforementioned sworn brother) agrees to provide support. (soon)

The rest is a little hazy, but looks exciting. When it's solidified, I'll add it to the timeline too.

*End of Spoilers*
As you can see, I've only written quite little of it, but it's mostly cos I only recently thought up how to merge the two storylines as seamlessly as possible. Criticise all you like. As I said, it's an experiment. Have fun.

(The Assasin's Bamboo Brush) Obasan

2007-07-12T02:55:00.000+08:00

The young man walked through the bamboo forest, trying not to reminisce on the many lives he had taken in eerie settings like these. His mind however, tended to be very persistent; and very vivid. Irritated, he diverted its roving eye somewhere else.

He went through his little list of things to do. The mask had been burnt, the tools of his trade, smelted in the resident sword-smith’s furnace. His small blade collection had been returned to said sword smith.

Door locked, windows closed, no perishables, all candles and incense sticks put out. He swung his pack out front as he walked, to rummage through its contents. Tea leaves, herbs, distilled spirit, clothing, cooking equipment, chopsticks, rope, bandages, fishing equipment and 5 days’ worth of food. He pulled the rope running through its lip and tied it, then slung the bag back over his shoulder.

A partially open aired shack stood in the distance. He picked up the pace to get there faster. Pausing at the door, he let his right hand reach back and touch his sword, which was in its familiar position at the small of his back. The door slid open before he could knock, and framed a smiling old lady. His neutral face broke quickly into a smile, as she greeted him.

“Old man Shiro!”
He stroked his imaginary beard.
“Sit down. I’ll be with you shortly. Do you want tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”

He headed out to the open soba stand, which was empty, as always. The old lady appeared swiftly, carrying a pot and two cups. Setting them on the table, she filled both cups.

“Come, try this new leaf I got recently on my travels. Very fragrant, yes?” She lifted the lid off the pot and encouraged some of the invisible vapours to her nose.
“I can’t smell it yet.” Shiro picked up his cup. “Oh ok. It certainly is unique.”
Some talk on where to get good and exotic teas ensued, but the conversation inevitable steered itself to the purpose of his visit, which you might guess by now, doesn’t occur very often.

“So, Shiro. I hear that you’ve quit the business?”
“Yes. I’ve earned enough. It’s not something I want to keep doing till I’m old either.”
“Money wasn’t the reason you started. Do you remember?”
“Yea, but I’m done exacting vengeance on the world. These past years have been very aimless. There’s no end to scum. Sooner or later, you just have to accept that this world is evil, and get on with getting some happiness for yourself.”
“I see. Well, that’s good too. What are you going to do with your time now? Surely you are not going to waste it all away on searching for a good time?”
“Of course not. I’m going to travel with a few good friends of mine. It’s a little aimless now, and probably will be for some time. But maybe we’ll find some purpose. At worst, we’ll just have had some good, relaxing times together. I think the business might have been even more tiring for them than it was for me. But that’s just speculation, anyway. How about you?”
“Those three you’re always telling me about? I see. Well, I’m still running the school. Not the one you were in, under me. The other one. Not taking so many students now, though. I’ve got little time left in this world now, there’s nothing wrong with being selfish with it.”
“I guessed it some time ago. How are the students?”
“Terrible, these days. Playful, not determined, careless, foolish, slow learners. Very slow.”
“You can’t be serious. Still, I’m flattered that you think so well of my younger self, in comparison.”
“Well, it’s a different thing I’m teaching these days. I’m not complaining. I stopped passing on the art of killing since the day you got better at it than me, and there have been benefits. I don’t have to kill 70% of my students anymore, for example.”
“Well, students of the pen seldom have reason to go for their sensei. Seems like you’re doing a good work though, so you’re not the only one gaining from it.”
“They’re all peasants, so I’ve got to teach more or less for a payment of food. But they’re getting a decent enough an education for them to try their luck in applying to work as an official, or translator or whatever for some government or other. Work like that can be found in Rennon, mostly, since they’ve been more relaxed about the status of their applicants. You don’t have to be from a noble family. They don’t even ask where you come from. Could be something to do with Archibald’s coming to power five years ago. But most likely its because Rennon has a shortage of envoys and such, now that they’re allying themselves with Al’ Miramar. On top of that, they’re trying to assimilate the outlying autonomous villages.”
“Sounds big. Rennon seems desperate for something.”
“Yes, I only hint it to my students, since I’m not entirely sure, but it seems that we are on the brink of something. The local warlords are pretty much oblivious; too busy fighting the 10 other guys who are trying to increase their turf. Get up through the permanently warring peninsula though, to the unclaimed land near Rennon, and you’ll see that the people are agitated. They have no idea why the country is so intent on ‘welcoming’ them. The desert people in Al’ Miramar are getting closer to Rennon, though. They even have annual games together now.”
“Sounds sweet.”
“You know how the saying goes. If the lips perish, the teeth will suffer the cold. Rennon is practically protected by the huge blanket of desert to the north. They only have one exposed flank to the west where that one huge nameless nation growing in their side has been expanding just a little bit too fast. It’s vast, now, and has an un-naturally strong army. It’s not possible for such a young nation. But they’re probably just mercenaries.”
“Yeah well, it probably will amount to nothing, and I can’t be bothered anyway. I’m pretty good at taking care of myself. Anyway, the reason why I came today was to give you something.”
“Finally, a gift for me.”
He pulled his wakizashi out of his belt. It looked as new as the day it was bought, its lacquered black scabbard gleaming in the faint lantern light. His old teacher quickly took it off the table.
“You are too casual about such things, Shiro. The local upstart has enforced martial law against all who are found to carry swords. Surely you must know that.”
“I do, I just recently killed about 15 of his men. Anyhow, I’m returning it to you now. It’s been put to good use all this time, but I won’t be needing it anymore, I think. It’s a real bother to maintain, too.” He gave a boyish grin.
“I should have known. But I appreciate the sentiment. Out of all my students of old, you’re the only one that comes back.”
“Yeah, the rest are all dead.”
She slapped him playfully on the arm, laughing.
“Sharp tongue, as always.”
Disappearing into the shack, she came out again, having deposited the weapon. In return, she presented him a naginata.
“Ooh, a new addition to your collection?”
“My collection’s all but gone now. This is a leftover, which I kept for its beauty. Steel blade, cupped bronze guard, oak staff, a total of six feet exactly, all in.”
“Feels good too. Reasonably light, nice balance.”
“Glad you like it! It’s yours now.”
“A halberd! I’m going on a sight seeing journey, not a warrior pilgrimage!”
“Don’t be a fool, you’ll definitely need this. It has a leather sheath and a cloth cover on top of that, so it won’t pick you a fight.” She proceeded to demonstrate wrapping it up into a long, shapeless bundle. “Don’t fight. Kill. I’ve told you enough times that you’re probably sick of hearing it, even now, after all this time. You may not be looking to end anyone’s life, but it’s not realistic to take a vow never to kill again, either. You may live a different life now, but the same principles apply.”
“Fair enough, I give up. Thank you, it’s a beautiful gift, even if I never use it.”
“Stubborn as ever. It’s not good for sneaking around, obviously, but you won’t be doing much of that, anyway.”
“ANY of that.” He corrected her.
“Yes, yes. I think I see your friends approaching. Run along now. Just remember my words. In time you will find them to be true.”

(The Assassin's Bamboo Brush) Goodbye to a nice house and an ugly job

2007-05-06T01:39:00.000+08:00

The young waiter treaded easily and casually along the way to his house. As he neared the musical trickle of a river, the path began to become slippery and treacherous, with the occasional sharp rock. Soon, he had arrived at the river. It flowed down an easy incline at the foot of a mountain. Its banks were lined with weeping willows, but looking up, it was easy to see that its flow pitched up sharply several hundred metres upstream, into a series of waterfalls dancing between any gap available in the creased but violently sharp grey rock.

It is a wonder in itself how a mountain could exist on a somewhat small island which was where the waiter lived and worked, but it was even more strange that the climate in the area was perpetually drizzly and depressing; foggy in the evening and misty well into the morn. The now retired waiter, having chosen this spot near this ridiculously unstraightforward waterfall had mist all day long. In fact, had you stood further downstream, it would have been difficult to see his house at all.

He toed the door open gently, and hopped in with his grounded leg. His light straw sandals went into a small rack on the left, inside the small entry-way; which was built like a small wooden tunnel. It ended abruptly in a sharp drop into the river itself. You see, his house was built straddling the river, and so had no solid floor, but stepping stones were scattered about randomly. Needless to say, all his guests had to have a certain degree of agility to not get wet. All fixtures in the house, were either on the wall, or hung from the ceiling’s support beams like the furniture.

Due to the situation of the house, its shape was somewhat long and windy, but the young waiter, having built it years ago, had no problems getting around. He hopped between stones to reach his bed; a large round concave cushion suspended by ropes and woven rattan from the ceiling. He took in a deep breath, hands behind his head. The burning time candles indicated that he had about two hours before he had to leave to meet his friends. Most of them would probably be late anyway, himself included. It was a bad habit which ironically had saved their lives several times. He did have a lot of loose ends to tie up before finally retiring for good, though, and had no choice but to coax himself out of bed. He hopped the all to familiar path from his bed to the ‘hiding stone’. Lifting the faux stepping stone just enough, he pulled out the oiled waterproof bag under it. From it, he retrieved his trusty wakizashi (the short katana in the dai-sho) and a snow white mask, from which his name, Shiro, was partially derived. He cursed silently at the waterproof bag keeping water in instead of out for the umpteenth time, then held both items in each hand. ‘No weapons’ was the arrangement, but he doubted they would keep it anyway, especially Nichirasu. Akamaru probably forgot already. Whatever. Orophin-san would be a little annoyed at being the only one who followed the original arrangement, but he’d get over it. Shiro slid the weapon into his belt near the small of his back. As for the white demon mask, he resolved to burn it. It was time for the death of Shiro the assassin. Picking up his travelling bag and some gold from a suspended chair, he snuffed out the candles and the burning incense stick, then looked back to check again before closing the door behind him.

Several kilometres of easy walking brought him to the back of the nearby village. He easily found a nearby tree to climb and leapt over the small fence. Immediately, he was enveloped in almost pitch blackness. The numerous trees shaded the better portion of the graveyard, and on top of that, it suddenly seemed to get very cloudy. Glancing around slightly nervously, Shiro allowed his eyes to get used to the light level. He got off the tombstone on which he had landed, whispering an apology. He could feel his pulse throbbing through his neck and into his brain. Despite being an experienced killer, and a non-superstitious one at that, he could not stop the fear which was currently breathing its cold breath down the back of his collar. He did not believe in haunting or vengeful ghosts. Instead, he had chosen this place for the death of Shiro the assassin as a gesture of respect for those whose lives he had taken.

‘Nothing personal.’ He reached for some matches.

Pale wraith-like fingers of fog combed the stones. He could hear every restlessly rustling leaf in the still of the night, feel the soft mushy ground below his feet, smell the disquieting vapour which the mud exuded, see the flickering offering candles which had flames that seemed to turn green when he wasn’t really looking. The shadows they cast seemed to dart about between the stones. Or was there really something moving about? He thought he heard a scratching or scrabbling sound. It then became a rattling, then a clink. A high pitched screech confirmed that the cemetery gates were being opened. The sounds may have been made by a human, but he did not want to be seen nonetheless. Whatever he came here to do, he had to do fast. He darted behind a large tombstone for cover, whispering another apology, then at the first chance, clambered silently over the fence and disappeared. The caretaker was greeted be the sight of a white mask, grinning at him as it went up in green flame. With a howl he went back the way he came.

(The Assassin's Bamboo Brush) An End and a Beginning

2006-09-02T18:09:00.000+08:00

"More wine here!"
"Why is the third dish taking so long?"
"I ordered something awhile ago..."
"Did you not see us waiting at the door?"
"This bowl is not clean!"
"Why is there only so little rice in this serving?"

Two waiters deftly sidestepped, ducked, pirouetted and answered politely, each holding three or four dishes of various sorts on every available space on their arms. Each counted down to the minute of their liberation, which also happened to be when they would get what they were working so hard for.

Squinting hard in the candle light, the owner of the restaurant reread the two letters on his desk. One of them was brief, and to the point, written in neat script. The other was in a rather more "artistic" and pretty near unreadable hand, but full of literary devices; probably rewritten several times. Yet in essence, they were both exactly the same - letters of resignation.

At the end of their nine hour shift, the two waiters' food conveying dance slowed then stopped as the last of the customers left, whether of their own will or not.
"Are you sure you both want to leave today?"
"Yes, that's right."
"But I thought you liked your jobs, and were satisfied with your pay?"
"True, but we got bored."
"Bored? This is the real world, young man! It is time to come out of childhood with the realisation that money is difficult to come by! You do what you have to earn your next meal! It doesn't grow on trees, or fall in your lap!"

After several attempts to retain his two staff, the restaurant owner finally gave in and handed them each a small pouch of copper pieces.
"It's been great having you two here. These are your wages for this month, with a little extra for the new year. Spend wisely young ones! If you change your mind, I am always in need of quality staff."

The two youngsters grinned and stepped out of the restaurant, waving and clutching their bags. Hopping over the limp forms of extradiated clientele in varying degrees of intoxication, they made for the read to the sea- side.
"What are you going to do now?"
"I'm going home to pack my things first. It's still a little early."
"Alright, then I'll meet up with the others first."
The (considerably) taller waiter glanced at the huge, glowing moon, then parted from his old friend at the crossroads.
"Remember," he shouted, "no weapons!" He waved as he strode on his way, and was gone.

(The Assassin's Bamboo Brush) "A Cruel Discourse"

2006-07-31T23:13:00.000+08:00

"In my line of work, I had seen many cities. Unfortunately, they are all essentially the same, and got boring after a while. Do not be mistaken, the architecture is very well varied, as is the scenery; perhaps the only saving graces other than food. I refer to the people.

Cities are overflowing with idiots who believe themselves highly intelligent. It is true that they all possess skill in what they do; merchants are always very good at haggling, cheating and finding loopholes in the law. Beggars are good at looking pathethic and filthy and garnering your sympathy (or disgust, whichever suits their purposes). It is sad really, how the people are that I have seen. All people strive for the same things, honour, power, money, fame. Ask any one of them why, and you will receive some of the stupidest explanations you will ever come across. Take money, for example. I have myself accumulated quite an amount, but the vast quantity of it has never once proven itself to be worth the space it occupies, let alone the time taken to acquire it. Sure, shovel for yourself a pile of gold. And then what? People scrape together an existence, then plow through a course of education, then work themselves like farm animals daily, to get themselves a better lot in life. Yet, as they work for this "better life", what lives are they choosing for themselves now? For all they know, they might work themselves to death before they get to live the life of enjoyment they seem to be working towards.

The Fools! All that people ever work hard for is to bring more suffering upon themselves. Lovers court to earn themselves abusive husbands and nagging wives. Merchants trade to earn themselves a higher risk of robbery, obesity and a clogged concience. All who walk past me on the road of life, I look into their eyes and see nothing beyond the windows to their empty souls. They have no objective, but to tread a mill that grinds on their souls. This must be the correct way, they think, everyone seems to be doing it. The gods must find this very amusing, since this cycle is repeated through every life in all of history. I shall defy them. I shall strive for all that people ignore, and disregard utterly all that people strive to attain. Perhaps then, I shall find meaning.

(The Assassin's Bamboo Brush) "I Was Born a Cat"

2006-07-23T18:17:00.000+08:00

"I was born a cat, a smiling cat. When I came out of the womb, I had a smile on my face. At least, that is what I was told. I myself cannot remember, and who could tell? It could have been a grimace, an evil grin, a smirk; as I was pulled into the unbearable brightness of this world, the unbearable cold.

Once, I was a cat, until people told me that it was better to be a dog. A dog, a puppy, cheerful, running gladly towards all who I saw. It was a more welcoming sight, I was told, all people would find me adorable, love me. Lies. A dog is a dirty ragged thing lying on the path, waiting for someone to kick it out of his way. No one cares for anyone but himself. All who say otherwise are liars.

I am a cat, and I sharpen my claws daily on all those whose boots I had felt. I cared little for vengeance, less still for justice, I lived only to taste blood. All the blood of this world would not have sated my thirst. Then, I made three friends."

Death's final moments

2006-03-01T16:54:00.000+08:00

It was drizzling in a most insignificant manner, where one felt nothing more than the light cool of drops evaporating off the skin. The squad captain propped one foot against the bow of their boat, gripping the hilt of his sword. Once the boat landed, he would have to face someone very hard to kill… his own wife. The boat sloshed along unhindered by the gentle undulating waves, which were dimly illuminated in pale yellow lantern light. The calm was unsettling, and the men were restless. A strange mission on a small offshore island to kill some people whose appearances they did not even know.

“We are almost there! Gear up and get ready to move. We are after the four assassins who killed your last captain. Slay at my order! Rebellion against Lord Grummiax will not be tolerated! You will exterminate all who dare to side with those rebels.”
The captain then returned to the bow, and to his thoughts.

The woman slowly filled the four cups of her guests with hot tea. One of them leant forward and inhaled deeply, the white plume waving from his cup rushing into the nostrils of his pale white demon mask. Below the almond eyes and razor sharp nose lay a toothy evil grin, edged with two large curved fangs. It was a visage many had come to fear. The woman however, simply sat down across the table from the four demons and their coloured masks. She had nothing to fear from them as long as her contract had not been completed.

“What did you find on the mainland?”
“Your husband…… is dead.”
“Could you find his killer?”
The assassin folded his arms and brought an index finger up to his chin. He brought out a blood spattered helmet and placed it on the table.
“This belonged to the captain in charge of the docks. We thought he was the killer, but we were wrong…”
The four suddenly glanced at each other, noticing something.
“Excuse us.” All of them except the one she was speaking with melted into the shadows. Several minutes later, the woman heard hoof-beats.

“Hurry!”
The captain and his new command of troops sped off, leaving the horse renting merchant floating in the sea. Now that his men were mounted, they would make better speed.
“When we reach the village, split up and search! Kill everyone who owns a weapon, against the decrees of the Lord!”
“Your warlord is but one of the many in this area. When did he become lord of this village?”
The voice was surprisingly close to his ear. His eyes widened so much you could see the whites, and he spun around on the horse’s back to behold an angry red- faced demon with a bristly white moustache and a straw hat, head cocked to one side.
“You!”
He lost control of the horse, and they both tumbled into the dirt, man and animal, leading to a multi-horse pileup involving most of his fifteen men. The demon was nowhere to be found. He was beginning to think that setting out in the evening was a mistake. It was pitch dark in the bamboo forest.

“You see, strictly speaking, your husband is not dead. But if you were to meet him now, you would not recognise him.”

“What do you mean? What did they do to him? Was he tortured so badly?”

“You misunderstand. He was doing well on the mainland, but not by selling chopped wood. The recruiters of the various warlords comb any village they find, buying up all the strong and the young. There is no need for force, the pay is enticing enough.”

“Keep going.”

“Your husband is strong. He was recruited at two times his annual earnings for selling wood, and offered three pieces of gold a month. Within the six months that he was missing, he had become a lieutenant to the captain of the docks. The life of an officer under the strongest warlord in this area is bound to be an easy one. For bullying and extortion, one is rewarded with gold, expensive food, good lodging, girls, anything a man could want.”
The lady’s breathing was so hard now that he could hear it from across the table.

“You should have asked me to stop. Drink some tea. I will continue this tale later.”
The lady complied, staring blankly, chest heaving.

‘I knew this would be difficult,’ the assassin thought to himself.

“I am ready, finish your account. Even if he refuses to return to this life, I can understand. I will be at peace, as long as he is happy.”
Her face had darkened, and her voice reduced to a whisper.

“He sent us…… to tie up loose ends.”

The sixteen men on the wide road were an open target. The three assassins crouched among the thick bamboo, observing them.
“Where is our contract?”
“At their head, giving orders.”
“He is the only one that we cannot kill?”
“Obviously...”
“Let us use the darkness to our advantage, we are hugely outnumbered here.”
“Look there! Three horses can still run! He is ordering them to go ahead. Odachi* !”
* Large sword
“I will take them out.”
The red faced demon sped off with his huge sword in hand.
One of the assassins pushed aside his silver mask depicting a horned demon. Flinging aside his conical straw hat, he drew out an arrow and nocked it in his bow.
“Hmm, seems like we will act now.”
The last demon in his purple visage, frozen in a perpetual anguished scream, reached into his cloak and drew out his clawed gloves, twiddling the razor sharp blades. He then cupped his hands and blew hard, producing a sound so low pitched few could hear it.

“Alright! You three go directly to the village and carry out my orders!”
“Aye Sir!”
The captain watched his men disappear down the road. Suddenly, he saw a flash of reflected moonlight go through the three riders. All three riders fell, forming a ghastly cocktail of flesh, bone and blood on the dirt road while the mounts remained unscathed, whinnying and running off madly in all directions. The huge blade, clothed in a pale blue sheen by the heavenly bodies, began to move toward them. Just then, his hair stood on end for some reason. Some men said they heard a low moan, and were starting to glance about, searching for apparitions between the slowly swaying bamboo.

“Archers! Archers! Loose! Now!”
The captain waved his sword about, crazed. The three archers in his task force loosed some hurried shafts, but neither seemed to hit the sword’s master. Their shooting became less and less frequent until it stopped altogether.
“Why did you stop shooting? Imbeciles!”
He glared at them, but they could neither see nor feel his anger. The captain reached down and pulled an arrow out of one of their backs. As he had feared, it was tipped with a shark’s tooth. He turned back to face the advancing figure.
“Halt! Halt unless you wish to die!”
The figure stopped ten paces from him, casually swaying his huge sword as if it were a reed.

“Any last words, captain?”
“You cannot kill me. You are outnumbered ten to one! Use your fingers if you have to.”
“Ah, thanks for the reminder.” He then called out, “Nichirasu! One of us will have to make a sacrifice!”
“Aah?” A voice came from above, followed by the smooth metallic ring of blades sliding against each other. “You have already had three kills today. Don’t be selfish!”

The woman’s face was hard now, like a mask. A knock came. At her nod, the assassin opened the door. A soldier stumbled in and fell, followed by the three other assassins. He was gilded in the livery of the local warlord, although that was hardly visible through all the blood he was covered with. His eyes were still wide with fear after seeing all his best men slaughtered like game.
“A family reunion,” the white demon mused.

“Well, captain, I am sure you are surprised that the person we were paid to kill is alive. The truth is, you did not read rules and regulations. We are still under contract from her to find and kill your murderer.”

“Unfortunately, we can slay neither greed nor lust, and so we will be bound indefinitely by her contract. As a rule, we do not kill our employers until their contract is over, which, fortunately or unfortunately, includes you. It is a very sticky situation for us, and we have decided that it is best for you to…… thrash things out between you, as a couple.”
Two of the demons then blew a purple dust into their faces, and all went black.
“All right, they will be out for exactly five minutes. Let us move quickly.”
One of the assassins went to the room of the woman’s young son, and drugged the boy. Another went to get his grandfather, who would be on his way home from fishing. Entrusting the boy in his care, they gave him some gold and sent him on his way. The demon in the silver mask produced a double-edged throwing dagger, and placed it in the woman’s hand, binding it securely with a strip of white cloth.

The four managed to regroup a distance from the small hut several minutes later. Just then, an animal scream rang out, followed by some choked gurgling. They began their stroll back to their own boat house.
“How do you think it ended?”
“Who cares?”
“I think the woman... We gave her such an advantage... That should be a proper ending.”
“From the moment that I told her our mission, she was already dead.”
They each removed their masks, and trudged on.
“We should seriously consider retirement.”

New Style of Writing

2005-12-31T18:20:00.000+08:00

Hello to all who follow my blog (by my definition that means coming back at least once a year.)!

I have finally decided to implement my new style of writing - for those who cant remember , its bit by bit.

So, come see the episodes every once in a while, but dont forget to reread the previous chapters just in case, cos i WILL be editing them to make them coherent with my latest bursts of inspiration. Its less of a manga style story development and more of a look into my writing process. Nevertheless, I hope you will like the final product.

Meanwhile, enjoy my newest episode; I Was Born a Cat

Time to clean off the dust

2005-12-31T12:31:00.000+08:00

It's time to clean off the dust again. Recently, I haven't been working on my 3 main storylines (derrick, the spy and the assassins) cos of my plans to merge them not quite crystallising yet, and also cos i'm trying to figure out what I want to say instead of lettting them just be, well, regular stories (which are quite pointless). Well, i've written something new (a while ago), and its sort of incomplete, but completing it might spoil it. Well, nevermind trying to explain it, read it and you'll understand. Hope you enjoy "The Guitar Player"

The Guitar Player

2005-12-31T12:30:00.000+08:00

He walked slowly among the pillars in the large and largely empty palace. Little by little, his ears began to pick up light trickling notes. Going towards the source of the sounds, he approached and passed under an ornately carved arch. Beyond it lay an immense rectangular pool, and across it, sat an old man in a hat.

On his slightly elevated left knee sat a guitar, its polished body glinting in the evening sun. The youngster paused, a hand on the wall of the arch. A passionate run of low notes stirred his heart. He began to walk, half in a trance, between more pillars, ornamented plants and finally arrived at the far edge of the long pool, directly opposite the sitting man.

The guitar player carried on his serenade, unfazed. The notes flew fast and furious, casting a spell which grew thicker with every ring from the guitar’s cedar body. The energy was irresistible, drawing the youngster ever closer. He was now at the corner of the rectangular pool. The guitarist’s right hand stirred from its rather passive position, the fingers curling up in turn to deliver a resounding rasguedo. The youngster’s eyes widened ever so slightly, his breath quickened. Another one rang out, resonating around the huge courtyard. The series of chords separated by a flurry of notes grew louder and louder, then the youngster arrived at the side of the guitarist.

His playing stopped abruptly, he looked up slowly. Looking the young man full in the face, he got his left foot off the small metal stool it was on. He got up, every movement full of deliberation. The guitar, grasped easily but securely by its neck in his calloused and thick fingered left hand was slowly brought up to a standing position. He held it up, wordless, offering it and his chair to the young man.

The young man’s face did not shift, nor his heart, in a state of drifting half-peace, half-wonder, nor his mind, completely empty of all thoughts. He accepted the guitar with his own spidery left hand, and took to the seat. Lifting the instrument to position, he brought up his right hand and began to play. The old man breathed deep and sighed, stroking his grey hair. Smiling a mouthless smile, his feet turned slowly round, and he headed back towards the arch.

Walking slowly among the pillars in the large and largely empty palace, little by little his ears were released by the allure of the slow, light trickling notes. It was a difficult walk, the music tugging at his heart’s strings to bring him back, but eventually, he was in the silence, slowly working his way down the empty stairs of the palace. The spell however, had not yet lifted. His face shifted not, nor his mind, nor his face, nor his heart; in a state of drifting half-peace, half-wonder.

Hooded

2005-05-25T23:21:00.000+08:00

A hooded figure strode along briskly, soft cowskin shoes barely making any sound even on the loosely pebbled pathways. He was rather slender and about a head shorter than the average man. A boy perhaps, possibly in his teenage years. His gait however, was hardly that of a foolhardy, carefree youngster. His hands held the edges of his cloak close to his other garments, which were flowing almost all the way to the floor. Occasionally one hand would reach up and pull its cowl ever lower over his face, making his features unfathomable. The only proof that a living person resided in that grey shadowy walking pile of clothing was the hooded figure's periodic breaths, which condensed in the chilly night air shortly after escaping the pitch dark recesses of his cowl.

It soon appeared that he had arrived at his intended destination. The mysterious young man swerved off the main path onto a narrow cobbled walkway. Raising his head slightly at the slowly swaying, creaking sign above the door of an inn depicting a mug of beer, he nodded to himself and approached. He paused momentarily at the heavy oaken door and peered about hastily before sticking an arm out and pushing the door open, releasing the ruckus of semi-drunken revelry into the dark, empty street. The door closed swiftly and silently, the shafts of lamp light emanating from the doorway thinning and warping before disappearing altogether. Soon, all had faded to black and the night was quiet again.

The hooded figure glided through the mass of burly drinkers, toppled chairs and half- filled mugs in a most ghost-like fashion, materialising at the opposite end untouched and unstained. He seated himself at a small round table across another man who was wearing a brown cape and cowl. Presently, he was dissecting a steak with his long thin dagger. Upon the arrival of the grey figure, he delivered some steak to his sharp, yellow teeth and pulled the dagger back out, producing a shrill metallic ring. Violently sticking the rest of the steak clear through with the dagger, he pushed the plate aside and hissed through his teeth,
"You're late."

His testy monologue and dramatic pause garnering no response from the grey figure, he reached into a packet and produced a pipe, some leaf and a weathered deck of cards. The two played cards for several minutes, unspeaking, leaning over the table and straining to see in the flickering lamp light. The smoke billowing from the brown figure's lips further obscured their activities.

Finally, the figure in grey pushed two gold coins across the table and flicked the fingers of his right hand, indicating that he had lost the game, and their unspoken bet. The brown figure nodded slightly and accepted the coins. The grey figure got up to leave, but was stayed, "wait." Using his middle and index finger, the victor conveyedan upside down card which slid smoothly over the table surface. Stopping the card with a finger, the grey figure peeled the card off the table. The king of spades stared at him solemnly, wearing his black crown and weilding a black sword, expressionless behind his thick black beard. Behind his self-imposed, impenetrable veil of darkness, the grey figure's eyes narrowed. Turning on his heels, he melted into the crowd, the king in his hand disappearing with a flick of his wrist.
"Better luck next time," the brown figure grunted.

Hooded part 2

2005-05-24T23:33:00.000+08:00

The grey figure sauntered casually enough through the door of the inn, but his pace increased considerably as soon as it was shut. Perched on the sign of the nearby smithy, a horned owl pivoted its head 180 degrees in pure owl fashion. Two obsidian spheres observed the grey figure -which had appeared back into the street -with significant interest. Its perfect night vision made out the character's worried eyes and flustered steps. The owl half closed its eyes and pulled back its head to dull the shrill whistle of a master calling his steed. Mounting his horse quickly, the grey figure lead it with remarkable stealth along the pebbled path. Once they were clear of the town gate however, the black horse leapt forward as if its tail was on fire and galloped off on a muddy road at a ferocious pace. The owl cocked its head curiously and watched horse and rider disappear into the late night, then ruffled its feathers and took off into a nearby forest.

In a clearing some kilometres away, four large men sat around a small fire, silently dining. On today's menu was some stale bread and hard moldy cheese, washed down with a rationed mug of cheap beer. Sun, snow, wind and rain were entirely unkind on their grim, grimy weather-beaten faces, now illuminated unevenly by their fickle, flickering campfire. Their leader wore a black battered breastplate with notched shoulder guards. His leggings were well worn at the knee area and ended in steel boots with cruelly sharp spurs. On his hands were gauntlets backed with sharp, curved steel spikes. Beside him lay his huge fearsome helmet, its perfectly smooth exterior only interrupted by two horns and the holes for his eyes. The men had rather limited conversation, mostly revolving around slight variations of "pass the salt". They sat, waiting, each sipping from his mug and thinking of battles, riding and new techniques they were going to employ in the next melee. One of them produced periodic scraping sounds with his knife, cutting new shafts for crossbow bolts. His shifty eyes made him seem the thieving sort, and rightly so, for he was quite a weasel. Filk'd his name was. His fingers demonstrated remarkable dextrosity, the carving knife flashing again and again, reflecting the campfire, and shavings of wood fell between his fingers unhindered. The other two were usual tough, gritty soldier types, and were probably brought along to give the task force some "body". In other words, to soak up arrows and blows. They busied themselves with looking bored and maintaining their equipment. Hours dragged by and a substantial quiver of bolts had accumulated beside the thin fellow. Then suddenly, the silent flutter of stealthy wings. The four men neither saw nor heard the horned owl until it landed on their leader's shoulder momentarily, then took off again. The large man got up and loosened his joints, prompting his team to do the same. They got their gear on and mounted their horses with military speed and precision. With an evil grin behind his steel mask, the leader addressed his men.

"For two weeks we have hunted this spy, now his scent is in our nostrils. Let the chase begin!"

With that, he set off in hot pursuit of the owl, his men trailing.

Hooded 3

2005-05-23T16:21:00.000+08:00

The already deafening roar of the crowd rose to a fevered pitch as the first contestant stepped out of his tent. He wore only ornately carved shining bronze greaves on his thighs, on top of his baggy white trousers. The red sash around his waist, flowing gaily with the heavy crosswind, identified him as an elite warrior of the sultan’s imperial guard. The toes on his bare feet achieved an easy and comfortable grasp in the loose, fine sand, warmed by the afternoon sun as he stepped onto the arena. A few hundred paces away, was a blue and white striped tent, which strangely had no banner anywhere near it, which was very atypical of Rennon’s knights. The other combatant was presumably still preparing, but the warrior did not allow his thoughts to stray. He emptied his mind of all thought, and gained an awareness of his own body’s every movement. His sword slowly became one with his mind, and his breathing became measured and even. Honing his concentration to a needle point, he maintained his state of combat awareness, ignoring the mixed crowd with both the desert garb of his people, and the colourful green, blue, yellow and brown clothing typical of Rennon’s citizenry.

The arena itself was originally used for jousting, which was evident in its length, but was refitted for fights on foot to accommodate the visiting sultan who sat next to his host, none other than King Archibald of Rennon. On the sultan’s left was the crown prince, and on the king’s right was his only daughter, princess Ciralen, proud and poised, and bathed in morning light. She was secretly quite fond of fencing, but due to her many commitments as a princess, never got very good at it. Nevertheless, she always accompanied her father to the yearly games, looking forward to the melee event. The sultan was quite comfortable beside his close friend and ally King Archibald, with whom he was in deep conversation about a wide variety of topics. Their agenda was quite packed this year, and they wasted no time getting to it. The match was about to start, however, and their discussion invariably steered towards it.

“So, who did you send out this year?” The king pointed at the impressive bronzed warrior who had just stepped out of his tent.

“His name is Rasheed, just into his prime, I must say. Proven in battle. A hundred heads, no less.” The sultan gestured towards the warrior with his heavily ringed finger. “You might just lose this year!” He added with raised eyebrows and a grin.

The king laughed and introduced his own contender. “You must forgive me, sultan, but hear me out first. The one I sent this year is only a young swordsman, not into his twenties. Never seen battle.” At this the sultan’s eyebrows shot even higher. “But! But! He is undefeated in single combat. Not even one of my knights could beat him. He even managed to garner a draw against the guard captain, Sir Thomas! So, I gave him a chance to prove himself worthy of joining my elite guard in this most worthy arena. He shall be the youngest to date, if successful. When he emerges victorious, you shall hear his name from his own lips.”

“Really now! I don’t think I shall be disappointed then. When you’re ready, go ahead.”

Standing up, the king raised a hand to silence the crowd, composed of people from all walks of life in his kingdom and his neighbour’s. “People of Al Miramar!” An answering shout shook the ground. “And of Rennon!” Another shout rang out from the sea of tiny figures. “Welcome to the Lantharum mountains arena! Today’s event is the Melee. Feast your eyes on the combatants. They come to prove their valour in combat, honour in knighthood. Pick your winners! Support the champions from your home town! This is their day. Win or lose, give them no reason to have bitter memory of it, but rather, let them commemorate this day as their Day! Of! Glory!”

The crowd was pretty stirred up by the speech, but their attention was quickly averted from the king on his elevated platform in the open grandstand, to the triple ranks of foot soldiers advancing on each other from the opposing lists. As the day wore on, they enjoyed the fighting styles of the two very different groups of warriors, engaging in various matches with various rules. However, the crowd was always mindful that the last fight of the day, where each country sends its champion for one on one battle. Soon, it was time, and the crowd fell ghostly silent. Surgeons busied themselves carting off the wounded, and the match ground was soon empty. It was late afternoon, and Rasheed had just stepped out of his animal skin tent, quietly awaiting his opponent.

Hooded 4

2005-05-22T02:52:00.000+08:00

“Are you ready?” A member of the elite guard, tasked with getting Derrick ready. He was holding open one side of the tent curtain and sticking his head in.

“Almost!” Derrick gasped. He was visibly nervous, wearing his swords and a unique battle armour which his friend at the royal smithy had made for him personally.

The knight walked in and lifted him to his feet by the shoulders. He pulled at everything, to make sure it was well fitted, tightening and making adjustments here and there.

“You know you can beat him! Just stay calm. Even if you lose, the king will still knight you if you put up a good fight. Concentrate on doing just that.” The knight gave him one last, solid whack on the shoulder guard, then gave him a light shove out of the tent.

The sudden glare of the afternoon sun was harsh, and Derrick was nearly overwhelmed by the sudden increase in cheering from the crowd all around the arena. His arms felt strangely heavy, and he had trouble standing straight. With a great effort, he walked slowly toward the lists. Passing him with various injuries were the previous combatants. They bravely saluted him and limped onward to the first aid tents. Finally, he was at the barrier, and stepped onto the arena. At this, his opponent began coming towards him. They met in the middle, and his opponent placed his right hand over his breast and bowed deep.

“Rasheed.” He offered, not knowing any words of Rennon’s language.

Derrick raised his visor. “Derrick.” He tried to smile and not look nervous.

Rasheed, realising that his opponent was very young and not as experienced, gave a brief smile and nod. He gestured towards Derrick’s swords, then took three paces back, drawing his scimitar from its ornate golden sheath and hardening his face into a mask. Derrick took a deep breath, then lowered his visor. He pulled out one of his two broad bladed sabres with his left hand, its polished surface flashing in the sun. Confidence flowed into him as he felt the slightly forward curved, leather wrapped handle, its oval guard depicting two carved cranes on either side of the blade. His eyes caught the glint of its bronze pommel and the flutter of its red cloth tassel, which, Rasheed noted, was slightly offset toward the back to accommodate a device, or clip of sorts. A quick glance at the other sheath on the right of Derrick’s belt revealed that a similar mechanism was on the other sword’s pommel as well. He could only guess at what that was, but refocused his attention on his opponent. It seemed Derrick was left handed, another advantage to balance out his inexperience.

Rasheed assumed his Scorpion Stance, with his scimitar poised above his head in his unarmoured right arm, and his left arm held out before him, bearing its vambrace, one of the few pieces of armour he wore on his body. His opponent was also somewhat minimally armoured for a knight from his country, with pieces covering only vital spots, as well as a few reinforced segments on his forearms, shins and shoulders for blocking blows; an interesting configuration to say the least. Derrick’s stance, like his weapon, seemed to have a somewhat oriental influence. He was standing with his right leg in front, sabre held out back.

Once they were both done sizing each other up, the match began. Derrick started with his trademark sweep at his opponent’s weapon; more a polite gesture than an offensive one, but his next backhand downward stroke landed hard and fast, with several follow ups equally quick. A combination of dodging and blocking allowed Rasheed to keep his head. His combination of experience and handling skill got him out of a defensive position though, and he was soon on top of Derrick’s rather linear attack form, left-handedness notwithstanding. Derrick was running out of ideas fast, and at the first repeated pattern, he was surprised by the immediate exploitation of the opening. With his left arm in mid swing, above his opponent’s head, and a scimitar coming for his lower abdomen, he grabbed urgently with his right hand and managed to get his second sword to half draw, just in time to take the blow. Simultaneously, he reversed his left handed sword’s grip and made a stabbing slice at his opponent, who leapt back just in time. The ringing sound produced resonated throughout the arena, among a spellbound audience.

Derrick did not allow a pause, running forward with one sabre behind his back, the other pointing at the opponent’s face. He now seemed to become right handed, using his reverse gripped left hand sabre for defence and his right hand for attack. His onset was furious, but manageable, since Rasheed knew the roles Derrick had assigned for each hand … or not… He was visibly shocked to see a reverse gripped slash, and barely stopped it. All the knights of Rennon craned their necks forward at this. Something was coming. They saw him plunge the two pommels together, and make a twisting action with his wrist. Rasheed was reeling too hard to hear an ominous click. The blade he was pushing back suddenly relented, but the other was coming equally quick from his left. It was momentarily facing the wrong way, but the business end was soon landing hard on his blade, which he had to support with his left forearm. The steel shrieked as the weapons parted, but the same blow was coming again, and again, and again. ‘No way! It is impossible to strike this fast!’ He then noticed that Derrick was no longer holding two swords, but a curved staff, bladed on both ends like a windmill. Derrick swung the staff skilfully around his waist, over his head, changing directions on whim and striking from both sides like a snake with a head on both ends.

Rasheed remarkably kept up with this new advance, and even tried a brief counterattack, but before he could come up with a strategy, his blade was several metres away, spinning lazily through the air before finally getting stuck in the ground. Derrick’s blade, warm from the sparring, rested on Rasheed’s left shoulder, facing his neck. After a brief pause, it was lifted, and held behind his back. Derrick lifted his visor in salute. Rasheed reciprocated with a bow. Then the roar of the crowd then burst forth like a flood, accompanied by applause, screams and cheering. Derrick walked towards his opponent’s sword and retrieved it, presenting it to Rasheed with both hands. The two combatants then saluted the royals, then the crowd, then parted and headed back for their tents.

Hooded 5

2005-05-22T02:30:00.000+08:00

The now Sir Derrick strode through the long hallway to the king’s court, He wore brand new armour, forged for him in anticipation of his victory, and presented to him the day before, when he attained knighthood in one of the most difficult ways possible. The knighting and armour presentation ceremony was most grand. He especially liked his new helmet’s retractable visor. The need of the times however, prevented an extended celebration. It was straight to duty the very next day. The sound of his boots’ heels digging into the stone flooring echoed up and down the hall’s length, but it was soon overshadowed by some voices emanating from the slightly opened double doors right before him.

‘-------------- of emissaries aren’t you? I -------------------------- me! Give me a simple task, ---------------- it and show what your ----------------- of.’

‘I --------------------------------- is just more complicated ----------------------------, you ------------------- to complete.’

‘--------------------------- said so yourself. This is the perfect chance for me to --------------------------------- books cannot give. I think I can handle it.’

‘What -------------- merit, but…’

‘My Lord, if I may. I really see --------------------- suggestion. The ---------------- famous in name, but none who live outside the palace could accurately --------------- send a guard.’

‘Yes, but ----armed guard --------------, not negotiation!’

‘Pardon me, Sire, but by a guard, I meant “a” as in “one”.’

‘You can’t be serious!’

‘Eavesdropping?’

‘Aaah. Sir Thomas!’

‘Well I suppose they should never have left the door half closed like that. In any case, you’re a knight now. Get used to your arrival being announced. Helmet on.’

Derrick scrambled to do as he was told, as Sir Thomas put his heavy arm round his shoulder and ushered him into the chamber.

‘My Lord the King,’ Thomas raised his visor in salute, ‘I come to answer your summons, and to bring news.’

‘Ah, yes. At last comes the last member of this secret council... Sir Derrick? You’re not due for another hour. I suppose you could sit in. You are, after all, a member my personal guard now.’ The king paused for a moment, facing to one side and closing his eyes. ‘Right. First off, what news have you gathered?’

‘Bad news I’m afraid. So bad my contact is not even willing to send it by any other means, except personally. I am meeting him three days from here, and have come to inform you of the urgency of my mission.’

‘Is your squire the contact you speak of?’

‘Indeed. He is very dear to me, and his danger is grave. The information he holds is also too vital to us. I wish to go personally to ensure this mission’s success.’

‘Very well. Truth be told, I had another mission in mind for you,’ Sir Thomas held his breath. ‘But circumstance does not permit us to follow my initial plan. This is a dilemma indeed.’ The king paced in several small circles. ‘I have decided. Sir Thomas, go on your way with all speed, and my blessing.’

Sir Thomas left immediately, leaving Derrick in the room with the king, the advisor, and a noble looking young lady.

‘Lady Ciralen, you must no doubt have heard of Sir Derrick, whose combat prowess you witnessed just yesterday at the games. Derrick, Lady Ciralen here is one of my newest appointed emissaries. I have a mission for you both.’

Why make people wait?

2005-04-06T21:42:00.000+08:00

It is an obvious fact that this blog seems to contain close to no information about myself although this can be disputed. Yet, that is not the point of this post. Since this is a blog that catalogs my stories, it is updated very rarely due to the long time i take to write a decent story. This is largely due to my story writing process which involves a large amount of daydreaming. Don't ask me why, but i daydream my stories out. During times when i am not ridiculously free and my mind is not wandering, i do not generate any thoughts about my plot, unless by divine intervention of in a moment of great inspiration, which is undoubtedly rare.

As such, my blog gets updated very rarely, which isnot good for your mental health (and i tend to forget my password). In view of this, I thought this way and that for a way to work around it. I can:

1.Write faster. This option means that large portions of many stories will degenerate into crap, which happens with alot of things that we try to rush.
2.Stall for time. I can publish nonsense regularly on this blog, thus stalling for time.
3.PUBLISH BY CHAPTER. You see of course, that this is the answer. Its like the way manga writers release their works, only i can edit my releases. Unless of course, you copy and paste from my blog. If you do plagiarise, please do come back periodically to make sure your piracy is up to date.

So it is decided. I will publish short chapters of my stories as and when i finish them. It is safe to expect no consistency or any detectable pattern, so coming back once a week is futile. Try coming back WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE IT. It is the most rewarding and least disappointing practise.

A short word on copying my stories. In this case ONLY ( case meaning only this author and this genre i.e. fictional stories), you can copy and paste in any way. You can make a game out of t, you can print it and show it to your friends, you can send it to your mother, you can read it to your grandchildren. The possibilities are endless. Spread it as you wish. My reasoning is as follows; think of all the great legends and folk tales that you heard as a kid. There will be immensely different results based on where you come from. Who wrote all those fantastic Chinese New Year stories? How about those fairy tales that kids know by heart? Nobody knows the author, but everybody knows the story. So, its the story thats really important, that's what people really want to know. That's what kids are gonna remember. Not some strange author's name, like Mr Samuel Teo or Mr Rui Chuen. So who cares about the author? Maybe someday my stories will be as famous as The Three Little Pigs, who knows? Fingers Crossed. I may not get credit, but there will be this trickling of pride, with a dash of satisfaction.

Some Quiz (by popular demand)

2005-02-15T01:50:00.000+08:00

By popular demand,

NICK'S QUIZ

1.THREE NAMES YOU GO BY
Sam, Rui Chuen, Wei Quan

2.THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD
IAMaFOOL, thereisnospoon, doom 399

3.THREE THINGS YOU HATE ABOUT YOURSELF
i love myself too much
dry skin
an occasional inability to talk properly

4.THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE
heh, i have no idea what that means. Anyway, i inherit a platinum ring, some money, and a ridiculously high IQ.

5.THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU
flying with my flight instructor
the dark
loud sounds of any kind

6.THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS
food
drink
play

7.THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW
body odour
spectacles
a big grin

7.THREE BANDS IN YOUR PLAYLIST
The Israel Philharmonic Orchestra
Jamie Cullum
Itzhak Perlman
(not exactly bands, but theyre on my playlist)

8.THREE OFYOUR FAVOURITE SONGS AT PRESENT
Carmen Fantasie
Winter (four seasons)
Bombing Run (FF7)

9.THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO TRY IN THE NEXT 12 MONTHS
sleeping early
eating at home more often
harder guitar music

10.THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP
Love
Joy
Peace

11.TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE
I Hate Maths
I Hate Studying
The above two statements are false

12.THREE THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU
long, soft hair
an alternate sense of humour
intelligence

13.THREE THINGS YOU JUST CAN'T DO
study
listen to everything the lecturer says
front wheel no handed one legged wheelie on a drag motorcycle (one of those with rockets)

14.THREE OF YOUR FAVOURITE HOBBIES
playing the guitar
sleeping
drinking coffee

15. THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REAL BADLY RIGHT NOW
fly through the alps
climb a hill alone
blow my nose

16.THREE CAREERS YOU ARE CONSIDERING
Pilot
Chemical engineer
Fireman

17.THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION
Japan
Switzerland
USA (Vermont)

18.THREE KID'S NAMES
Mike
Romeo
Juliet

19.THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE
Fly a cropduster
Meet and marry a nice girl
Become a guitar maestro

20.THREE PEOPLE WHO HAVE TO TAKE THIS QUIZ NOW OR DIE PAINFULLY
I need three volunteers.......

Things I used to know.

2005-01-12T13:11:00.000+08:00

You know, i used to think that cats married dogs and gave birth to mice, not to mention that i was born on the 16th of april 1887, grinning like an idiot till i was smacked on the backside by someone i shall henceforth refer to as Dr. Evil.

NETS

2004-12-19T16:38:00.000+08:00

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.

Antzz

2004-12-18T16:31:00.000+08:00

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.

Einstein was absent minded too

2004-12-04T03:15:00.000+08:00

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

2004-12-04T03:12:00.000+08:00

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.......

Why Blog?

2004-12-03T10:47:00.000+08:00

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......

My, my

2004-09-30T14:45:00.000+08:00

My, my.
What a tedious process this is. At this rate, the journal shall reign supreme for some time to come.

Dear Visitors

2000-01-01T00:00:00.000+08:00

First and foremost, thank you for visiting my blog. For all those who don't know, this is not really a blog (read dec '04, last post for details). Therefore, to all those who come here, I hope you enjoy my stories. I would like to extend my appreciation especially to those who take the time to comment on the writings through their own experience.

However, I have noticed recently that my tagboard always seems to be flooded. Allow me therefore, to set a few guidelines so that firstly, my blog looks neater, and secondly, you can have an easier time giving feedback and I, an easier time reading what you have to say.

1. For long comments, please use the comment tab below each post.
2. Do not flood the tagboard. Other people have the right to say what they want, and might want to do so in brief.
3. Be considerate. I only answer honest, constructive and carefully thought through comments.
4. Watch your language. Swearing generally is not a good form of communication, neither are insults. If you want to get your point across, control your word choice.
5. Stay on topic. This blog is for stories, and the same should go for comments here. If you want to talk to me about something else, use the "discussion blog" link.

For the record, I am a christian, but I have no qualms about any type of person reading my works and giving comments. Whether you are a buddhist, hindu, atheist, muslim, satanist, whatever. As long as you give coherent, intellectually sound comments, i am more than happy to hold a conversation.

Also, most forms of intellectual discussions are welcome at my discussion blog www.talktosam.blogspot.com . I have no problems with off topic (nothing to do with my stories) discussions. All you need to do is to go there and follow the instructions.

Finally, this blog and all the stories here were created for my own amusement. If you happen to like them as well, fine and dandy. If you want to suggest improvements, feel free. If you hate them and just wanna let it all out, go find a pond and some rocks. Come back only when you are ready to say something that will enlighten us all.

That's about it. Thanks again for visiting.