Dirty Dancing

Ever heard the idiom, "It takes two to Tango?" Half of heritage, including language, is rooted in sound sense that over generations has been polished into sagacious wisdom mothers pass onto daughters on their marriage day. The other half, some equally 'sagacious', old, geezer came up with on a whim and thought it would be fun trick to make into a rule. At times, I have a hard time telling the halves apart.

Tango, is an intimate dance, sensual, suggestive and playful. In a dance, much like most other forms of collaborative performance art, the performers feed off each other. Each playing a part, anticipating and responding to cues for timing and execution. Is this meant to be an analogy then? Takes two to make a relationship work? Takes co-ordination to get work done? As if we haven't seen relationships in which all of the "dancing" is being done by one person. Is that not Tango? Unfortunately, it still is; Bad Tango(tm). 

Like any good marketing spiel, you're not supposed to read the Fine Print: "no performance guarantees."

So what we're left with is really a bit of a truism, it takes two to Tango, because well...it's a dance made for two. Hell, even the relationship analogy is off, as if most women agree that they should follow the "lead". And without following, you have less Tango and more Tangle.

More than a decade ago, I found someone to Tango with and we danced wonderfully together. But that's another story. Point is, idioms made a lot of sense back then, and why wouldn't they? I was young and assumed that everything I could make sense of was the truth and the rest of it merely fat to be trimmed.  

Do you ever think about past relationships and how they could've/should've/would've worked out? One of the mantras I tried to live by was: Life without Regrets. I was a little naive to know that having a regret isn't simply a matter of perception and self-delusion (the latter of which, I'm rather talented at). Sometimes, life just ends up forcing your hand. I was one card short of a royal flush and lost to pocket aces .

Is there a time-limit for how long you can feel sorry for yourself? Some grand equation which can rationalize grief and loss into a time-frame for us to digest like a spoonful of medicinal wisdom? Time heals Everything? Time doesn't heal, it just makes us forget. It blurs and fuzzes memories until they feel less real and with that comes some amount of solace.

Fine Print: "poor memory highly recommended."

I didn't forget and don't intend to. With enough practice you can Tango with a memory, it takes a different rhythm and some self-delusion (see above) but the results can be impressive. After a while though, dancing alone loses its charm. "I sometimes feel as if I'm in a relationship with two people at the same time." Two for Tango, Three for Salsa. I think some truly bizarre thoughts these days. Some of this is to be expected, given the circumstances.

It's nice to have an out for everything. 

Through the Looking Glass

I feel like I have been sleeping for a decade. A very nice sleep, bordering on dreaming. I wake up and find myself disoriented because the world is very different from when I left it...actually, scratch that it's exactly the same, it's me that's different. Guess, that's what they call perspective looking at the same thing from a different angle can make it look entirely different.

I used to be able to make sense of some of it. The rat race willingly run. The relationships forged with time. The domino effect of choices made. And the objectives we set that would complete life.Yet, now it just seems incredibly random and mostly without point. I remember, people used to share this exact perspective with me a decade ago and I would tell them about the pattern within the randomness. Do we all just justify our perspective on life?

I find myself reverting in some ways, reverting to the me that was. It's not an amusing thought. For too long, I thought I'd built a certain super-structure to life surrounding myself with things I needed. Now, it seems like someone took a foundation stone out and the entire thing is crumbling down to reveal that maybe these structures aren't stable in solitude. Someone once told me: "You're too young to be this self-assured." It was a compliment, I believe. Totally jinxed it.

If life is supposed to be a highway would you call travelling midway, taking a U-turn and visiting old intersections completing the journey? It feels like a matrix moment, but I think all ways are forward. I wish I was depressed, at least that way I could live without this clarity of vision. As things stand, I'm seeing a bit too clearly through the looking glass...and there's me, looking back at myself. The looking glass is a mirror. Great, another thing in life that's over-rated.

So, a decade later, none the wiser? Not quite. We invent the greater purpose for life? Mostly true, in some cases it invents us. It's better to have loved and lost? Affirmative, on a split decision. Don't burn bridges? I call shenanigans, hindsight is 20/20. God loves you? Maybe, we're just not on talking terms at the moment, I'm sure He understands. And finally, the big whammy: Life goes on? It does. But much like perspective, this revelation might bring no joy with it.

te extrano, chants.

The Joke of Democracy

This might seem like a rant but in reality it is my political idealogy which has been crafted after much thought. At it's essence is a simple statement.

PEOPLE ARE STUPID

Let me clarify, when I say people I am referring to the masses of Pakistan. Amongst these people surely we will find intellectuals of towering potential but the averaging out effect that democracy brings into play results in the net voting intelligence of the fearsome common man. In other words, the law of averages reduces all of us to the lowest common denominator.

From here we make a small leap of faith to next statement.

STUPIDITY LIKES COMPANY

This in of itself, is not entirely a revolutionary statement. After all, we all identify with people similar to us. No, the depth here is lent by the previous statement hinting that the collective stupidity of the masses gravitates *collectively* towards making stupid decisions.

Why the emphasis? Because simply stating that stupid people make stupid decisions is a truism. What i'm saying is that in the presence of stupid people, the intelligent too make stupid decisions. e.g. Not voting only decreases the already marginal influence of the intelligent vote.

THERE IS NO SPOON

The intelligent vote, is a conceptual idea, in which a voter considers the actual platform on which a candidate or a party stands and uses it to cast his vote in favor of views he believes in. Without platforms, candidate differentiation is done on some in accordance to some arcane ritual which I can't rightly identify.

Conventional wisdom would have it that our choices are prejudiced by historical performance of these candidates. History proves otherwise. Which means, that either people don't remember or they have no choice. Which leads us to.

BEWARE OF STUPID PEOPLE

Or to be exact, a system which caters to the masses is built for failure.

This post is intentionally devoid of factual matter, i'm trying to abstract the details to present the heart of the matter (as I see it).

Blue Dolphins, Green Spring

If you saw the sun rise over ultramarine waters of Grue, you’d think residents of the humble fishing village to be the richest in the world, such was the diamond glare produced by the reflection of light on the horizon.

To the younger inhabitants, this natural wonder inevitably became etched in their minds as a sign of hope, of divinity. But the elder masheras of Grue were immune to such beauty; their life had been hard-lived, a constant struggle to live off of the bare produce of the Illarean Ocean.

Travelers to Grue, as few as they were, would’ve thought it wise to find other sources of sustenance, like foraging the Sporaggi, the lush forest which bordered the beach. Yet the travelers did not know that the Grues considered the forest to be veyran, a simple word meaning abandoned, yet hinting at a loss in translation.

The Sporaggi served as winter home for the Grues when the tide and gale winds made it impossible to live on the beach, it was for this reason that the settlement looked perpetually young, always in a constant stage of rebirth. Every winter end, the Grues would return and start the slow process of rebuilding their beach homes. Most would be washed away, the ocean making driftwood and flotsam of homes built with sweat and toil. And those few left standing, would be mere husks of their prior existence. The Grues would only rebuild as much as necessary, recognizing the inevitability of seasonal change that would make them immigrants once again.

All the wooden huts sparsely separated along the beach line and its denizens milling about in the midday sun made Grue resemble an ant colony, hustling and bustling in frenzied activity. The men would bring in the morning catch; the younger women would clean it out, preserving some with liberal amounts of ambaki salt and seasoning the rest for afternoon meal. The work was efficient even without any hierarchy amongst the masheras, with most important decisions being deferred to the elderly more as a sign of respect than need for guidance.

This was a community that depended on each other for survival, everyone was bound together by cords stronger than family, they were bound by need. Everyone knew each other practically since birth, because if travelers were a rarity in Grue then outsiders who settled were an anomaly. Little surprise then that is what the Grues came to refer to her as Anomalia.

Though they were careful to call her Lia in person, lest she actually understand their tongue, a mash-up between the local Silian and some foreign language she could not decipher.

‘Was it precaution against outside ears, that two such distinct languages have been blended together?’ Lia mused. If so they had done well, for it all but veiled their minds to her. A faint guffaw escaped her throat at that thought. As if, their thoughts would be of much use to a person whose own thoughts were strangers?

In some oddly reflective way, she could see what they thought off her. Always speaking in hushed tones when she was around, smiling warily when it made her uncomfortable and yet doing all they could to meet her base needs; food, shelter and privacy. She felt as if she was a guest who had overstayed her welcome with a host of bare means.

“Bono oitre reiro, Lia sahiba!” exclaimed an innocent yet energetic voice.

And then of course there was the boy, who had singly-handedly undertaken the responsibility to make her feel at home. She watched him spring into the sparse hut carrying several large mushrooms, undoubtedly uprooted from the forest, in his arms and a big smile on his face.

He stopped himself a respectful distance away from her, waited to be given permission, then came closer and laid down his burden on the floor. The mushrooms were peculiar indeed; various shades of brown with a foot long stem and an equally proportionate cap. She felt their skin with her fingers, letting the texture talk to her, softly tearing the flesh and sniffing the scent.

“Edible.” she declared at last, pleased with herself, her body still remembered what her mind had blurred. She smiled at the boy who took great pleasure at having pleased her. She liked the obedience and adulation; she faintly recalled being used to it.


----------------------------------


The great mushroom forest spread out on all sides beneath him, vast and forbidding to most Grues. But to Phino Juegos, it was sacred; in a way that only family could be. For this was where he had laid her to rest, deep within Muerten Blanco. The White Death, he found it a strangely dark name for a place which, if Tani was right, had been home to Grue’s ancestors. Tani…he hadn’t thought about her for some time, consciously at least, and it made his eyes moist.

‘Women cry for the men life gives them, then by what right men do the same.’

Repeating the old crone’s words made him feel better, as it oft did. He continued along the stone-path which led deeper into the ruins of the cliff city. It was a sinuous trail, winding and cutting its way up the marble and granite face of the mountain, eerily called Muertes Caminor, lest there be some mistake about the mountains association with the city. The Grue were thoroughly morose people at times. He smiled at that thought.

‘Morose? Bah! Fools, who would sooner kill their children at birth than tell of glory lost.’

The path was well-maintained despite centuries of neglect, alternating slabs of white and brown marble creating some kind of giant staircase to the Gods. It seemed to agree, with what he had been told of these people. Powerful and majestic with the necessary pride that always accompanied those two qualities.

‘Evil likes company, the more the merrier. Not much like good, always needing individual strength before it will share its own.’

The air was thinner up here, dryer and colder, Phin squeezed his cloak tightly around him to stop the shivers. It was almost high-tide now, far below the masheras would be securing their boats and rafts, while the women prepared the last meal of the day. It had taken him all morning to cross the Sporaggi and most of the dwindling had passed during his ascent.

Finally, he was near the end of his fortnightly toil, little blessing for his aching legs. The city was truly a marvel, carved my artisans, constructed by engineers and dreamt by a seer, such was its mystique and aura. The city itself was nestled within the mountain, hollowed out by ungodly power to be sure.

The city was laid out in concentric half-rings, each ring taking the seeker into a different aspect of life with the Caminor bisecting each ring, in its journey to the heart of the city. Phin could envision it, if only because Tani had described it so often, the outer ring mounted as a fortress in defense of the city.

Then, through the inner gates, the market ring thriving with commerce and thick with aromas of spice and sea mingled with sweeter fragrances of fruit and exotic sweets. Carvings etched in the marble floor separated the market into sectors, dividing the necessity merchants from the purveyors of luxury goods.

Finally the Caminor paved its way into the Ascencilla Prima and it is here that the spell that Tani had cast over him in those childhood stories broke, too real was the scarred marble resonating crimson, as if bleeding even now at some deep lament.

‘Imagination always grand, actions always brave but truth at end, always infallible.’

It had been four journeys into the Sporaggi since Tani had not joined them. Four journeys, since he had laid her to rest in this cursed city. And since then, every half-moon, he had honored her wishes.

He left the Caminor now, following a branch eastwards, where the crimson glow became less pronounced with each passing minute. The branch road gradually dwindled in width until it was just wide enough for two people to walk abreast.

As always, he heard the Ascenjar before he saw it. Faint voices, gentle yet surreal, greeted his approach. He closed his eyes and followed the voices wherever they lead him.
“The lost prince returns…”
“…to a kingdom lost…”
“…in a time forgotten…”

Each verse recited by a different voice then echoed by the rest, with changing inflection and tone. Each voice, angrier then the last until Phin could sense the thinly veiled malice.

“…the Throne usurped…”
“…by the False King of Blood…”
“…in timeless patience we bind ourselves…”
“…you test us with unfulfilled promise…”

The voices finally fell silent, as he arrived at their source. And after an eternity, a single voice broke the silence. A familiar voice. Tani’s voice.

‘Nothing left here, but blood and ashes.’


--------------------------------


The memories surged within him once again.

He had been crying profusely when he had carried her into the voices. She had smiled at him and then overcome, hugged him with all her might.

“What do you cry for, young dolphin? There’s nothing left in this world for me. I lived to find you, and then I lived to prepare you. And at the end, all that’s left for me, indeed all that’s left for anyone in this world…is blood and ashes.”

“Don’t say that, Tani! I’m still left here…I’ll be so al…”

“No you won’t. For some time, yes but not for long. I promise you that. And in return you must promise me, never to falter in what I ask of you now.”

“Anything Tani, I’ll do anything. Just don’t go!”

----------------------------------


‘I am yet left, blood and bones. The promise will be kept.”

With that, he opened his eyes and all around him was dull green. Tiny grass shoots were now surfacing in a once dead garden. Some of the tree husks now had creepers struggling to reach their summit. The ambience was a stark contrast to the rest of the district, and it took a while for his eyes to adjust to the different hue before he could make out her final resting place, what had once been a mound of dirt and was now something very different.

He took off his sandals, and approached respectfully. Slowly he drew out the jute pouch which had been reason for his journey. The pouch contained a thick herbal mixture, herbs, flora and fungi mixed together in precise quality and form. Every visit, Phin was afraid that he had not prepared the mixture correctly, a fear that would not subside until the next visit when he would be able to see the dramatic effect the mixture had.

He could scarcely believe the results; a single seed planted into the mound had grown into a shoot of silver-hued bamboo. Each visit Phin had been surprised how eagerly the shoot had grown even in such desolate environs. Four journeys into the Sporaggi later, the silver cane towered over Phin and so he had named it, Pratani, Tani’s Silver.

Several other Pratani canes had sprung up by now, surrounding the first. The canes had in turn sprouted golden leaves, which gave the Ascenjar the look of something he vaguely remembered out of Tani’s bed-time stories. The leaves emanated a soft glow which intensified and dampened periodically, as if the cane was breathing. There were visits on which Phin would go to sleep in that glow. But this was not such a visit.

He loved all the stories that Tani had told him, but until her dying moments he had not considered that there was any truth to them but Lia’s arrival had changed all that. He grabbed hold of a cane, three-quarters his height, with both his hands and then instinctively, twisted and pulled.

Dominos

So many divergent paths, how is it that we knew which ones to take? Did you ever wonder where they all lead? Or do we scarce have time to think when these crossroads reveal themselves? I feel we live our lives by instinct and there is no such thing as a wrong path, because each person’s instincts are a guide to who they are.

Our vices are as much a part of us as our virtues; we are the sum of all our parts. The us with our family, the us alone, the us with friends and the us with her; we are the sum of ourselves. Our instincts unlocking the door for each, presenting the best of us to those we love and the worst of us to our enemies…or is it the other way around, I forget at times.

If we flew up real high, could we see these paths with clarity? All the crossroads and our journey through them, like some elaborate game of connecting the dots. My mother’s miscarriage guaranteeing my existence. My sister’s early marriage changing my home. A friend falling sick and shifting the date forward by one fateful day.

Are our lives an elaborate jigsaw puzzle, just waiting to be put into place? Are we all just waiting to be solved? Or are instincts much like inertia through dominos, an invisible guiding force to which we are bound. With only fractions of time to decide our future, we ebb and flow from moment to moment and it is only when we stop to breathe do we find ourselves in a different place.

They say it’s not the destination but the journey that counts, but I’ve always found that it’s the dots, those reflective crossroads where I could stop and think back on the journey, and not the lines connecting them that make me into me. Only when I learn where my instinct seeks to lead me, by looking back at where it has taken me do I learn who I am.

Is learning all that I can do, is there no way to change where I am being lead? There is a concept of the stream of time in fantasy literature that I am quite fond of. That even if we could travel back in time, we couldn’t change our actions because consequences rarely have a unique and distinct source that once changed would ripple through reality and change our future. Indeed, any moment in the past is a convergence of many different paths which collectively reinforce each other, we are mere pebbles thrown into a river with its own set course.

But every river ends, and every end is a new beginning. Learning what we are today is the most important part of changing what we can become tomorrow. Unless alchemy has been rediscovered rock cannot be turned into gold, we cannot make ourselves anew; at least not instantly. Which is fine by me, after all what is that they say about all that glitters?

Kafirs of Dhuun

The Mist hung thick like cobwebs over the Forest of Dhuun. Even if the people of Vayhm hadn't been as superstitious as a Dvadi merchant they would've sworn that the mist had hands, damp and vaporous, that were stifling their very breath.

But the people of Vayhm were the most superstitious of Heaven's Kingdom, still believing in children's tales of the Undying Prophet and the return of God's Mercy. The taste of that air, would poison their soul...just as it had poisoned theirs. So even as their lungs burned with lack of oxygen, their mouths remained shut, firmly sealed with fear of the unknown. Never had the 3rd Company of Vayhm been more reluctant pursuers, as the night they crossed into the mists chasing their worst nightmare, waiting breathlessly to be woken from it.

And if they were uneasy, the dark rider did nothing to soothe their fears. Blackblood they called him, and with good reason too, for he carried within him their dark blood, ripe with unholy power, tongue black with the speaking of qalams. Three officers rode with the company of forty and seven. And even though he was the least of the three, he inspired the most fear, every cavalryman would've have sworn on the Rites of Abandon, that Blackblood was taking them to their deaths.

"These daft fools are going to drown themselves if they don't start breathing properly!" Commander Bravarion cursed looking back on his line of infantry disappearing into the mist, ten paces behind him, but he spoke in parts, taking a lungful of damp air in with each short phrase.

In the Vayhmian Cavalry, the rule of command was thus. Only the cavalrymen one designation below the speaker could 'hear' his words. Through strict discipline this had been enforced for time immemorial. Yet the second-in-command rode on, perfectly silent...he knew who the words for meant for.

And in time, the answer came: "They believe in old things, some men die for their beliefs." Blackblood's High Tongue was thickly accented, much like the words he oft spoke. A deep, steady voice unaffected by his surroundings, well-suited to a dark man. There was a significant pause and silence waited in anticipation: "What do you believe in, Commander?"

“I believe…I believe that I don’t have the time to play at words with you.” Bravarion responded with more impatience than he would have liked. Indeed, it had been the only criticism aligned against his appointment, the youngest of any cavalry commander since the Founding.

He resisted the easier thought, that the others were jealous of his rise in just three score years. Too young, too rash...too Brave, his reputation mostly preceded him. But he wasn’t young any longer, the greying was just beginning to show its presence, a sign of wisdom. No, definitely not young and brashness was a luxury he could scarce afford.

“I would know your mind, dhuunvaasi. You were once of them, tell me what they are thinking, tell me what they plan. I am sure I need not remind you of the importance of our mission."

Bravarion turned back in his saddle hoping to see his barb draw blood, but if Blackblood was discomfited by the words he showed no signs. Damn you! I hold your life in my hands and you pretend as if you care not! If all of Dhuun was this stubborn then there was little wonder that the Kingdom's ambitions were so well-checked. Within the mist valley of Dhuun, protected by its cursed tribesmen lay the future of the Kingdom, the future secured by its divine blood-line. 'My blood holds this secret too.' the thought brought a smile to his face.

"You have only to ask." The reply was measured, and delayed. A characteristic, annoyance of speech amongst the Dhuuns.

Just like the resistant, dhuunvaasi. Never volunteering, always resisting. Acting as if he had just been snatched, while weaning, from his mother's teat and not well over a decade ago. If only he did not serve his purpose so well.

"How many of your brothers were in the raid ?"

"I suspect a single pack of dhuunvasi." responded Black. He waited, then elaborated, gauging that Bravarion wanted more: "five brothers with one sister for support and healing."

"Healing sister? I am sure she sings and dances better than most tavern wenches." Bravarion played to the crowd.

Cavalrymen in earshot stifled laughter, they knew the Rhovan Code, and they knew when exceptions would be allowed.

"Where are your brothers headed? do they hasten due to our chase ?"

"Water quells thirst, but a debt to fire accrues, they head to Aatishgah to burn the bodies of the fallen. They will make haste, the wind shows them the fastest way."

"Then we are blessed, for we have a wind-reader, amongst our ranks as well." Bravarion smiled, like he always did when he realized that attaching himself to Blackblood despite all its challenges and reprecussions had been the right thing to do. That only left one question...

Suddenly then, a bird's call echoed through the woods, shrill and piercing, impossibly near. It spooked the horses and it took all the years of cavalry training for the riders to stay in their mounts. The infantry already out of breath, were the first to begin dissent.

"We best be turnin' back milord, these not be woods for huntin', lest ye becomin' prey yerself."

"These woods be cursed...cursed...Lola...I should have never left." someone whimpered.

"Foolery, we chase demons with demons carrying the scent, it be a trap as sure as..."

Voices chased each other, each statement joining the next. Another wave of resistance broke against this ill-begotten chase. Voices chased each other, each statement joining the next. Bravarion had fully expected this, he was lead them against their beliefs, and these were men who held their beliefs closer than their wives. But something was different, for the infantry to protest was one thing, but this time his well-trained cavalry, the pride of his unit was chiming in as well.

"The mists have not shown us the way, we trespass upon evil without the light's permission."

"We have gone deeper than any sane man dare, don't forget Logan's end, there would be no shame to turn back now."

Bravarion watched the seeds of chaos begin to catch fire around him and took a deep breath. Fools! did no one realize what was at stake here!

"Gerrard, the horses are yours, I'm going to mind the cattle." Bravarion spurred his stallion towards the infantry.

It was a simple enough job, but Bravarion thought twice about handing it to his second-in-command. It wasn't quite that Gerrard was incompetent, on the contrary he was a decorated commander in his own right, and accepting this demotion had meant a giving up some privileges. No, Gerrard's problem was his manner of command: Too methodical, too rehearsed...and too predictable. A liability for a Cavalryman. Cavalry tactics had to be more fluid, feinting, harrying, flanking were bread and butter; but one had to know when to be dynamic and opt for the charge, to end a battle with the decisive stroke. Gerrard lacked all of that, still he was only in momentary command, the foot needed Bravarion's presence for the moral boost. He would be the good shepherd, this once.

Gerrard watched Bravarion leave, less than five spaces away, he was lost in the mist. He his mount around, kicking it profusely to establish command. The Rhovan whinnied in protest. "Form rank! three wide, four strong!" barked Gerrard and the cavalry acquiesced. There, that was better able to counter the limited sight. Still not...

"Still not much use with the low visibilty." Blackblood watched the commander draw in breath, caught by surprise. "..was that not what you were going to say, Second?"

Gerrard could hear Blackbeard but amongst the many similar silhouettes not distinguish his position. His voice seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once.

"The commander would have known my thoughts on what the dhuunvaasi plan, so I would share them. We number in five times ten, seeking to hunt but a pack. But their mists are strange friends, garbed in their color you would be hidden too well, till too late."

Another shrill call echoed from the woods. Gerrard could feel himself getting unnerved, this was most unlike Black, this man did not volunteer as much as a aye or a nay without protocol. Something was amiss, yet he could not figure out what had brought this change about him.

"Their brothers' blood was spilt, a water debt. Their brothers must be returned to the earth, they will be buried at Zameengah. Dhuunvaasi are specific in their tradition. Har Karz Adah. Every debt must be paid."

Gerrard strained hard to understand, but he was beginning to panic. Get a hold of yourself, old man. He spins children's tales. But...

"But...you said they make all haste to Aatishgah ?" blubbered Gerrard.

"They do, but the fire debt is still unpaid. None have fallen to burn, blood must be spilt first...Our blood."

"Well I'd like to see them bloody try, little knives and magic brews don't scar armor much." Gerrard declared, laughing nervously and hastily looked for support from his riders. None was to come, Blackblood had stolen their attention. "How will they manage to accomplish this feat, I've beaten twice their number with half the riders. You place too much faith in your traditions, dhuunvaasi. Hiding in these mists like you are they, well that's one thing you rats have in common." Gerrard blustered, in between increasingly heavy, damp breaths. Forced, nervous laughter escaped from the other riders.

Blackblood's rhovan mount materialized, darker than the gloom, with eyes glittering like a raven’s. Rider and horse stood still some paces away from the cavalry line, intently absorbing the surroundings. The tall, coffee-toned man held his lavish beard in his fist as his head tipped upwards, eyes closed, trying to sense a scent through a solid weight of air. "They have drawn us deep into the woods, we're already past Logan's End. The mist has hidden time well, and night gives it strength more-so." His speech was different, dramatic, almost theatrical. "I cannot see my own hand, the mist has grown so. Our speed of mount, avails us naught in these close quarters. Using our numbers they would ensue panic, killing one, marking another for death. Poisons in our lungs, slowing our reactions...their shorter blades able to bring death, before one could discern friend or foe. Panic to disorder, and the battle lost before it truly be joined. The fire debt paid as our drugged body is burnt to a slow roast. Do you know, how it feels to burn, Second? It's not very pleasant."

Deathly silence prevailed for a moment. Bravarion had finally managed to calm the infantry it seemed. But the cavalry, his strength needed him now. Gerrard had lost his voice...managed barely a croak: "Past...Logan's...How? Then...then what are they waiting for?"

"A signal."

A shrill bird cry echoed from right off the trail they followed. A response came, all too human. A cry of death. Shouting. Another scream. A Qalam whispered and then the very mist came alive with hot-searing, living, flame. The flame spread into the 3rd company's ranks, igniting cloth, charring flesh and smelting metal. The mist took human form, seemingly everywhere at once. Darting in from behind, sound muffled, throat slit with effortless grace.

Gerrard called the Cavalry into battle, there was still time if he could find Bravarion and establish formation. He drew his blade just in time to deflect the dagger aimed for his throat. Eyes widened to adjust to the dim light, the enemy was spotted, clad all in grey nearly blended into the mist but off-balance. Gerrard decided to press the advantage and called his mount to a charge. Leant over to one-side to reach the crouched assailant, Gerrard slashed in a wide down-arc.

In the midst of battle, with blades flashing in close quarters a dodge would be suicide. So the assailant planted his feet in the moist earth and met the slash with a defensive parry. Steel clashed with steel; the outcome instant, decisive. The dhuunvaasi though exceptionally nimble and fast had missed his chance, caught off-balance his dagger flew out of his hand barely managing to deflect Gerrard's blow enough to make it non-fatal.

Gerrard relished this dance. The cursed demons had led a strong attack and his troops were in disarray, but he would still claim blood. The Rhovan cut a short circle and went into a hasty, half-charge to finish the wounded dhuunvaasi off. And as if fate had truly turned with him the mist began to lessen. He was half amused that his adversary made no attempt to flee. Foolish bravado on a day ripe for dying.

Five paces. Gerrard readied his killing blow, a cross-slash to decapitate, he was fond of trophies.

Two paces. An obsidian blade landed with a audible thud right infront of the dhuunvaasi. Gerrard recongnized the blade...that traitor would pay for this futile help.

One pace, Gerrard slashed...and then his world was engulfed in darkness so impenetrable, that even sound could not pierce its confines. In those last moments of his life, Gerrard knew fear. He cried out but his voice was drowned in blood.

"Retreat! Retreat!" a man with Bravarion’s voice was calling out, once as a plea and then just an echo. In time the trees muffled even these cries, and the ground swallowed up the lost, with only the crackle of flames remaining.

The lone dhuunvaasi spoke: "Will you stay, this time ?" A feminine voice.

"Not yet, Logan's debt to us is still unpaid. Har Karz Adah."

He brought his raven to a gallop, and never looked back.

Cloak and Dagger

I've not written in too long, often due to lack of inspiration but mostly due to lack of motivation. It's one of the new pearls of wisdom I have picked up at work, inspiration is good whereas, motivation is necessary. This post, for example comes not out of inspiration, as many a better idea have rotted enroute to the this reading space. It comes out of the motivation to share what I learned at my first 6 months of work. So, without further adieu I bring you...

The Reason for Brutus

Month 1: Enjoy the 'shiny' new-ness of being a professional. Learning new stuff, being productive, meeting new people with the cherry on top, your first salary. Yes, life is good. Your manager likes your sharpness, your colleagues swoon over your sense of humour, indeed opposing teams are jealous of your the 'brilliant and dedicated' (see: new and confused) professional that the new expiremental research team got their hands on.

Month 2: Your good at what you do, not realizing that everyone else ALSO was once good at what they did, before they hit the Red Brick Wall (tm). Your working hard, cutting edge technology has you impressed...you don't intially even notice the bleeding. Your contributing in meetings! This idea being so foreign to team-leads that they don't know what to think...so they do what all management does when they are told stuff they don't really comprehend; Smile and Nod. Yes sir, life couldn't be better.

Month 3: What do you mean I have to sit late hours? God damn, no one here is a professional! But I can change that, I will be. Realize that working on a self-dubbed expiremental research team is not a good thing. Higher management IS as incompetent as you thought they were..and no they really aren't playing at being oblivious, it comes naturally. A lot of smiling and nodding later, the team-lead hasn't implemented any of your ideas. You are beginning to suspect he might be slow. Something is approaching, from a distance...you get the feeling you are not going to like it.

Month 4: RED BRICK WALL!!! Yes, that emphasis was necessary. It's a wall because it impedes progress, made of brick because it is quintisentially unbreakable with your bare hands. And red...well, its red because all that doesn't stop you from trying. This is your Team-Lead, because not only is he an egoist, he is ignorant, unprofessional and might just be the mysterious Mister Loony Tunes who escaped from the instituition last year. Worst of all, he is such a nice guy! You bang against this RBW again and again, wailing in frustration and realizing your soul being sucked into the idea of a normal work life which yields no satisfaction and only pain. You are now a corporate drone, you find their jokes funny. You even like the idea of having a big ol' corporate family, and kissing up to Senior Management is quickly rising amonsgt your favourite past times.

STOP! RETHINK! EXPLETIVE EXTREME!

Month 5: Enter, the most hated guy at office, and yes...you will love him! First you start dropping hints at senior management as to the fact that your having doubts about your projects success. Then, vice-versa with your team-lead. I think this company is very unprofessional, glad you agree. You know, he was saying this company is very unprofessional...yeah I know. The real problem is our project lacks technical grounding. The nerve, team we-hate-you-because-you-get-more-glory was actually dissing us, saying that we have no technical grounding! Are we going to take this from them Kill him! Justice! Slaughter! Blood...and Execution.

"I never knew you could be this ruthless."
"You know, I didn't either."

Month 6: The smoke clears. Your project is scrapped. You are on the new 'It' team. This time, lets not throw the cloak and dagger away.

Moral of the Story: It may be work, but its more analagous to a battle-field. Know which battles to lose, keep your focus on the war. Make friends, but don't get too close. And most importantly remember this: Brutus really did love Ceasar.

One day as you stand with that blood-stained dagger, you too will wonder: "Did I do the right thing?"

You didn't....

...I know, feels great doesn't it.