Four Daggers - Chapter 2

~Chapter 2~

  Reynold was still subdued, clearly nervous around Lina.  It was a stark contrast to the man's colorful finery and his earlier flippant attitude.  Case noticed the spellblade wore a rapier at his side rather than something more easily concealed like a dirk or stiletto.  Longer but narrower, the rapier was better employed in dueling; it was flexible but light, capable of devastating slashes and stabs in riposte.  Fights that thieves found themselves in were rarely so refined and well mannered .  Case privately wondered if it reminded Reynold of using a wand, or if the flamboyant motion of flourishes appealed to him more.

  The staircase below the trapdoor quickly descended into pitch black darkness.  He knew from experience that waiting for his eyes to adjust would not matter: true darkness surrounded them as surely as a blindfold.  At the bottom, he paused and turned to his left, certain his new comrades were doing the same.  The barest sound of rustling betrayed that they were not alone.

  "I greet you Charon," they each spoke, barely a whisper, before holding out two coins.  "To pay for my passage."

  Though too dark to see, they could each feel bony fingers taking the coins from the palm of their hands, Old Charon collecting his toll.  A short moment later, a long thin reed was pressed into each hand.  No more was said.

  The exchange with Charon was another security measure; an aged, blind thief, Charon collected coins and hid the reeds that guided thieves through the dark maze.  He was also quite at home in the darkness and more than capable of shanking a few intruders before escaping within the Labyrinth.

  They set out, each only marginally aware of his fellows, and only by the sound of their reeds dragging along the side.  As always, Case held his eyes closed for a moment, then opened them.  In the darkness, he could see no difference.  Well familiar with the path, Case let his reed drag along the ground, lost in his own musings.

  Case's own blade was a short, straight blade that ended in a chisel point.  It had heft without being heavy, and was practical for all sorts of activities an enterprising scoundrel might find himself engaged in, from opening crates to cutting through chain mail.  Case had found it early in his carrier aboard a merchant trader.  The captain had just come back from parts unknown and had carelessly left the blade out in the open in his cabin while negotiating tariffs with the port master.

  It was no longer on display when the captain returned.  The blade marked Case's first big score; the blade, not quite a short sword, not quite a dagger, was forged from some sort of jet black metal he'd never been able to identify.  The guild appraiser hadn't been able to identify it either, and was less certain as to its value.  Case had decided to keep it  in the end, to his good fortune - the blade never dulled, never chipped, and had served him well over the years.

  The first bump against his stick jolted Case from his reverie.  Instinctively, he reached out to the wall, and felt for the carving.  Empty room.  He turned onto the new path.  Although many of the veterans now knew the safe path down to the footstep, persistent rumors that the safe path changed periodically kept every thief honest.  It was the one place none of them dared to take a shortcut - the Labyrinth was merciless.

  Lizard Rock was surrounded by a dense network of branching caves.  Long ago, the Labyrinth and the Thieves' Way had been created, in part to maintain the Guild's secrecy, and in part to test and train new recruits.  Its many meandering paths were littered with traps, pits, and dead ends.  In the total absence of light, a man could easily get lost within - if a trap didn't kill him first.

  Where the wall met the ground, small bumps had been carved to draw a thief's attention through the reed.  Carved upon the wall was a three dimensional symbol of what the path or room contained - spike filled pits, bear traps, spring-loaded blades, poisoned spears, and so forth - or if the proper path continued within.  The cleverness lay in the manner of carving; even a torch would not reveal its presence.  Each symbol looked the same as any other random bit of cave wall; their meaning and presence was revealed by touch, not sight.

  Not that any thief dared bring light into the Labyrinth.  A strict prohibition forbade bringing light into the maze; rumors abounded of dreadful beasts that would be drawn to the light.  Occasionally, when the apprentices went out to clear and reset traps, lanterns and torches could be found.  No corpses had ever been found alongside them.  It was as clear a warning as any apprentice would receive: a thief who broke the Guild's rules ceased to exist.  A thief lived in the shadow, by his wits and his skill.  A thief who wasn't careful was a reminder to others.  A thief welcomed the embrace of shadows.

  Even more mysterious than the denizens of the maze, however, was Lina.  He'd barely caught a glimpse of her blade earlier; the only detail that stuck in his mind was that it had been dark - so dark that it seemed to swallow the light around it, obscuring the blade in a cloud of darkness.  He hadn't even been able to tell the shape of the blade, not with any degree of certainty or detail, and would have chalked it up to being caught off guard - but then he had caught sight of the wielder.

  She was wearing a light leather jerkin and linens, all dyed black; that much he could tell with certainty.  Over the jerkin, she wore a chain shirt, one made of the same mysterious dark metal as her blade.  It too exhibited the same tendency to absorb rather than reflect light, making it difficult for his eyes to focus on it.  Surrounded by a haze of darkness, it was as if she wore a cloak made of shadows, and his eyes seemed to drift away of their own accord.  Yet, when he focused his whole will on seeing her, there was no trace of darkness, as if his own eyes were remonstrating him, "See? I told you there was nothing to see there."

  There was no telling how long they walked on in that silent darkness.  One lost all sense of time and even direction in true darkness.  The sound of rushing water echoing far beneath told Case that they had reached the chasm, and so were near Lizard Rock.  A faint scent of salt water in the air confirmed it.  Originally no more than a smuggler's cove, Lizard Rock soon grew, expanding into a network of caves to provide sanctuary for rogues, thieves, pirates, and right scoundrels of all kinds.  Now it was a fortified town in its own right, with proper docks, and the central base of operations for the Thieves' Guild.

  However, there were no lizards at all for miles, nor any lizard-like rock, both along the coast and within the caves.  Spinning tall tales and spreading rumors about the origins of the name was a favorite past time in the taverns and on the docks.  It was a point of prestige if one's creation began to circulate and enjoyed popularity.

  There was, however, a deep underground chasm protecting Lizard Rock from all comers.  It was the final test.  A narrow land bridge crossing a deep chasm in perfect darkness.  The sound of an underground river rushing far below was the only hint of danger.  The reeds told them how narrow the path was, if they were in any danger of stepping off the bridge into the abyss.  It was incumbent on the thief to be prepared.  To control one's fear.  To maintain one's calm if insects buzzed about unexpectedly.  To remain focused on crossing.

  Invariably, a new recruit or apprentice, having survived to this point, gave in to temptation.  While crossing, they wondered how deep in fact the chasm was.  They would stop, retrieve some small object from their pocket, and toss it over the side.  And then they would lose their balance.  Or they would forget which way they were facing and walk off the bridge.  Or they would lose their reed, or they would become startled, caught off guard by a bug or bat.  Neither trinket nor recruit made a sound in the deep darkness; only the dead knew how deep the chasm went, having paid for the knowledge.

  Case wondered if his companions had crossed yet, assumed they must have.  He hadn't bumped into anyone when the wall ended and the open maw of the chasm began.  He began to cross slowly, wary of bumping into another in front of him.  He held the reed against the side of the bridge to keep aware of where he stepped.  Veteran or neophyte, the labyrinth spared no one who was careless.

  On the other side, the path turned sharply to one side and ended abruptly in a wooden door.  Faint light shone from behind its edges.  Beyond it, Case knew, was the final gate to Lizard Rock.  And just before it, a lit corridor with concealed crossbowmen ready to take down blinded intruders.  He stepped through, closing the door behind him, and walked forward as best as he could manage with hands up and squinting tightly against the sudden light.

  And then he was past, blinking madly beside a Reynold shaped (and colored) blur and a Lina-like shadow.

Four Daggers - Chapter 1

~Chapter 1~

  Case sat alone at his table, nursing the same mug of ale for the past hour.  He'd arrived with some dock workers, but if anyone had found his decision to sit alone odd, they kept it to themselves.  Likely no one had even noticed; Case had a quiet way about him and seemed to just blend into the background wherever he went.  Although he'd only just started working with them, no one could quite seem to remember when he first showed up; it seemed like he'd always been a part of the crews.  He was the sort who always reminded you of someone else you knew, but for the color of his hair or the shabbiness of his clothing.  Nondescript and familiar, he was just like any number of people in all the cities of the kingdom you saw all the time.

  But there was no one quite like Case.

  A bit on the tall side and well muscled, Case had indeed grew up working the docks.  It was hard work for low pay and long hours in the constant stench of sweat and fish and harbor trash.  As a young man, Case had realized two things - day in and day out, lifting cargo and herding livestock worth more than his life to the harbor master, such work would consume him and leave behind nothing but the stench of sweat and garbage in the worn out husk of a man.

  However, he also realized he was beneath their notice.  All of them - the harbor master, the merchants, the servants, the nobles, even the older workers - did not deign to notice him, so long as the work got done.  Or appeared to be getting done.  And so the young Case learned how to avoid notice, how to creep along quietly, learned the lay out of ships, where people like to hide their valuables, and where captains hid their more exotic cargo.  He learned the art of taking things without others noticing, of hiding things on his body or where they may be safely retrieved later.  He learned to be a shadow where none existed.

  Case was a masterful thief.  He'd long since left his dockside academy and had enough riches to live quite well.  But he never strayed far from the docks, wherever he went; it kept him humble and he was afraid of losing his touch.  Just another anonymous shadow in a bad part of town where things went missing and purse strings cut.

  He took a long, satisfying drink.  It wasn't like him to get lost in nostalgia.  But a job had come along, one that would make him as rich as a minor noble.  It was hard not to think of how far he'd come.  Then too, the client had asked for him by name, along with three others.

  Name recognition.  He wasn't sure he liked it.  It felt like a pair of eyes watching him, watching him closely, and following him about.  It was unsettling.  He paid his dues to the Guild, never stood out, never made big waves with his jobs, and never caused trouble.  Perhaps, he thought wryly, that is what makes a thief stand out.

  His eyes roamed about the tavern, casually taking in the evening crowd, yet searching, noting every detail he saw like a wolf resting in the shade of its den - not hunting, but ready to take down any prey it saw.  He'd heard of two of the others, after a fashion, and had arrived early in hopes of scouting out his "coworkers" before meeting with the client's representative.  He saw nothing.  Not surprising of course; in this line of work, those with names and reputations were skilled and careful, or they were dead.  Case finished his ale and headed towards the rooms; it was time to meet the client.

  As it happened, the cheap dockside tavern locals called "The One-Eyed Pelican" had connections to the local thieves guild.  Specifically, it served as a secret entrance, allowing clients (or their representatives) to meet with and hire talent, as well as allowing the less talented to escape when things went poorly.  At a certain door, Case turned the knob.

  Locked.

  He waited two counts, then began turning the knob in a peculiar combination of twists.  Finally, he pulled the lnob outward; with a click, the door opened of its own accord.  A single, disgruntled looking man sat by a lit fireplace, a bowl of stew on the table in front of him.  "Room's occupied, beat it," growled the occupant.

  "One room's the same as any other," replied Case calmly, closing the door behind him.

  The guild lookout snorted.  "True enough, you pass.  Usually don't get two comin' in t'gether, but the master sent word."  Case whirled, half dropping into a crouch; he hadn't seen anyone come in with him, hadn't seen anyone else in the hallway outside at all, but one of the tavern regulars was standing there behind him, grinning broadly.

  "Oh don't worry mate, just a little bit of magick is all," he said, winking at Case.  "Good on our friend there for seeing through it though!"

  "Cram it Reynold.  You can remember spells, then you can remember the combination and come in yourself next time.  And it's my job to see through your silly tricks."

  Looking past Reynold's maddening grin, Case was startled.  He had seen the man in the tavern earlier.  He was certain of it.  But Reynold was dressed in clean linens, wore a jeweled earring and a fashionable purple half cape over one shoulder.  He did not look at all like any of the tavern regulars, should not only have stood out clearly as an outsider, but also been robbed blind.  But Case knew beyond a doubt that he had seen the man and, whats more, paid him no mind as simply another tavern regular.

  And then suddenly a jet black blade appeared at Reynold's throat.  "And what of my silly tricks?"

  Startled, the lookout swore.  "Balls of the Blood God, Lina! If I could see through your tricks, I'd be making a fortune working for the mages!"

  Lina laughed sweetly.  "If you could see through my tricks, you'd be dead."  Despite the playful banter, Case could see that she had everyone on edge.  Reynold had turned pale and the grin Case would have sworn was a permanent fixture was nowhere to be seen.  The blade disappeared, sheathed as the unknown wielder stepped out of a shadow.

  A shadow which Case was certain had not hidden an assassin a moment ago.

  A shadow which was certainly too small to hide even a child, much less an adult.

  As the lookout quickly moved aside the bed to open the trapdoor, Case considered his fellow thieves.  He wasn't even sure if he'd seen Lina in the main room.  Missed them both.

  As if reading his mind, the lookout muttered to Case as they descended, "G'luck."

  You'll be needing it."

Interludes - Travel

Short trip back to California for a week 6/2 has preoccupied me; as well as my backpack finally breaking (8 solid years of daily use as a student bag and an EDC).  I've had to do a lot of footwork (physically and online) to find something I liked at a reasonable price.  Then too, a lot of preparatory buying of things for the trip.  Making lists of what to take back, what to bring back (there's always something you forget).

On the teaching side, I've been making targeted translation quizzes for my ESL students - it's a better way of testing both grammar and vocabulary because sheer memorization wont help you, especially when combined with the need to use proper grammar - simple word/meaning substitution often wont do.

Of course, this is somewhat limited by my own Chinese language skills, which do not even approach my students'.  We seem to make do.  I've also been analyzing the "New TOEIC" (now with 30% less calories, 45% more vitamins, and all natural ingredients!) exam.  One of my students, a middle schooler whose parent's thought he was somewhat a lost cause, has been emboldened by exceeding their expectations on the GEPT.  He's decided to take on the TOEIC (which is surprisingly, much like a business-vocab focused GEPT) even though he is, perhaps, too young.  I think he'll do fine though.

I'm starting to run out of read-along books though.  And movies (at least, for younger students; come on pixar, churn out some more stuff).

For my creative writing student - I've been trying to find books and authors that can help in our lessons.  It's one thing to talk about exposition and active scenes and so forth - it's another entirely to see how it goes so right you forget you're even reading, or goes so wrong you might as well forget reading.  As with many types of art, imitation can be instructional.  And then there's also grammar - rules, conventions, common errors, and so forth.  A painter needs to know many things besides how to convey an object; he also needs to know how not to mess up his paints and brushes.  And writing is painting with words.

It's been busy.

In the meantime, my mind has been absorbed with a high middle (well look, it's not low) fantasy story - probably due in part to Skyrim, and part in due to playing Ascension and Lords of Waterdeep.  Go figure.  Something, anyway, has been inspiring me to tell a tale of betrayal and a job gone wrong.  Between ~24 hrs in the air (11 leaving, 13 returning) and lots of nothing to do in Cali (except drive my beloved car and eat), I should be able to get a good amount of writing done.

Presenting: The Naucine (part 1)

   "Their Council membership is a continuing stain on the Milieu!" howled Wol'arr, his mien indicating moderate anger per com-main's universal emotional context indication.  "The Arr'yoo call upon the noble Naucine to support our petition to censure and revoke Xylanthan membership!" Sincere respect.

   It was, for former ambassador to the Milieu Aperiodic Tesselation, the same drama on a different day.  After three centuries' tenure as the Naucine representative on the Milieu's Coordinating Council, 'Aper' had become quite accustomed to the various cries of outrage, demands, mortal grievances, and false appeals to nobility and enlightenment various exo-species engaged in to achieve their ends.  What had been surprising was that the tedious litany had mysteriously continued, even increased in volume, since his resignation.

  Quite perplexing.

  Fortunately, private life had freed him from the constraints of formality and political language - he was free to speak his mind, and had told Wol'arr, on no less than three separate occasions, that the CHO-main Canidus was an overdramatic lout.  The fourth was fast approaching.

  It was all a game, no less so than the game Seq they had gathered for, and one that Aper could not seem to escape from.  "I'm afraid the naucine position on the subject of Xylanthan membership is unchanged."  Mild regret, ambivalence.  "They are the natural, evolutionary result of a unique conflux of circumstances.  While we find the duplicitous circumstances surrounding their arrangement with the CHO-main Locus of their world, it cannot be ignored that they chose nnot to obliterate their aggressors."  Minor apology.

  He led his hirsute guest towards the game room.  Aper was playing host to officials and liasions for the Arr'yoo, Ixion, and the Forged.  It was only natural that Wol'arr would attempt to canvass for support; indeed it was almost required.  The Arr'yoo were not yet advanced enough to be seriously considered for a council seat without sponsorship; even with sponsorship, it would be an uphill battle.  They had only recently begun terraforming efforts to colonize their system, to make use of the gravitational intra-system transport network they were fortunate enough to have, to overturn an economic system premised on scarcity by mining asteroids for resources.  They were generally considered too technologically undeveloped for sponsorship or mentoring; yet first contact had been made in an effort to stave off Nihil incursions.

  However, Wol'arr's entreaty was doomed to failure from the outset.  The Ixion were too busy as the literal workhorse of the Milieu to take on mentoring a pre-interstellar species or to take on more conflict.  The Forged were still coming to terms with their comparatively recent and sudden ascension into galactic civilization.  The Naucine were generally loathe to interfere at any level, and despite the friendship Aper shared with Wol'arr, the Naucine had been opposed to contact in the absence of any evidence of an impending Nihil experiment.

  "Moreover, they are the sovereign power of their world, by their own means.  Whatever else may be true, this we must respect, or else there is no cause to respect the authority of any species anywhere, let alone that of the Milieu."  This they all knew; it had been the final argument that sealed Xylanthan membership.  There was no justification in opposing the Nihil Cooperative if the Ascendant Milieu did the same, whatever their good intentions may be.

  "Forgive my outburst; it is a frustrating situation," Wol'arr growled.

  "Overdramatic lout."

  Wol'arr laughed heartily as he did every time.  Despite the circumstances, the Arr'yoo had a vivaciousness of spirit that naucine admired and appreciated.  He had also been a quick study at Seq, though predictable at times.  The game room was one of the perks of private life; besides having a private vessel at his disposal, he maintained spacious quarters at the Milieu Core, including a large anti-grav room for Seq, and no shortage of interesting players.

  Seq had surprisingly become a cultural export of the Naucine.  In its original incarnation, Seq was a board game, originally played on an ocean floor or convenient coral reef, and later on moulded sand and dirt.  Bits of bone, shell, teeth, scales, twigs, feathers, and so forth served as pieces, generally representing the creatures they came from.  The game play represented interactions between ecosystems and evolution as animals competed for territory, resources, and survival.  It was a game they did not play to win, but one in which both players strove to achieve elegance and beauty in their play.

  It was a runaway hit on the galactic stage.  Once crews aboard ships had picked up how to play, the game had spread like wildfire.  Among the CHO-main Varietas especially Seq enjoyed wild popularity, leading to public game spaces and portable technology for holographically rendering terrain and pieces.  And then slowly, the game changed.

  In CHO-main hands (paws, grippers, etc.) new pieces were introduced.  Rather than animals, they were various sentients, military and civilian units that interacted.  No longer did gameplay represent ecologies and evolution, but various racial civilizations and their interactions and development.

  The Naucine were honored beyond belief.  For their game of evolution to itself evolve into something greater through contact with others was a purity of form like unto art.  Seq saw renewed interest among the Naucine as new pieces, sets, and stages were available.  At its highest levels, Seq represented differing ideologies engaging in discourse and debate.

  The game space projected a variety of biomes - although his game space was capable of nanot construction, he had employed holographic representations out of respect for the Forged liasion - from verdant forests, complete with simulated wildlife, to unforgiving tundra.

  Aper bowed to his guests who were already seated.  "Welcome friends."  Joy, gratitude.  "I present to you, Wol'arr, representative of the Arr'yoo."  He gestured around the room, first to the quadruped centauroid, "Krellin, officer of the Ix embassy," then to the shiny, ambiguous CHO-main, "Teodore, junior ambassador of the Forged," and finally to another naucine, "Concentric Tangents, my... nephew I suppose."  Greetings were exchanged as the holographic displays to select pieces appeared before each player.  "Conc was hatched several generations after me from the same creche.  We have hopes that he will take up the position of ambassador one day," Aper explained conversationally.  His conversation with Wol'arr had given him inspiration for this round of Seq; his selection was entirely of an identical type.

  "If you have any discretion in the matter Conc," Krellin's bass rumbled, "I suggest joining the explorer's corps.  More interesting sights, fewer repeated complaints."  They all chuckled.

  Teodore's ambiguous frame pulsed amorphously as he moved his arm, making his decisions quickly and decisively.  "Sometimes the complaints are interesting in their own right though," he offered.

  Aper glanced at his nephew with one of his lateral eyes.  Conc had gestured his good natured amusement, but seemed deeply engaged in making his selections, considering units from numerous and varied sets.  "However I may best serve the people," had been his demurred reply as he finished his selection.

Save me GOOGLE-JEEBUS

having a LOT of problems with the blogger app on ipad lately - once ad sense went in, the whole thing kaputted on ipad.  It showed the blog as having no posts, despite repeated updates, logging out and signing back in.

A week of troubleshooting later, it came down to reinstalling the app.  Which seemed to work great.

Except now, it is not showing posts SINCE being reinstalled - drafts and posts from after reinstall are missing from the ipad app.

This is substantially impairing my writing speed - I go somewhere with the intent to write, bringing the bare minimum (because a laptop is heavy, requires anoutlet because firefox and windows use up ALLLLLL the cpus, and free wifi is a unicorn).

This is substantially the problem here; draft posts are missing.  has anyone else run into this problem before? Fortunately, everything is fine via laptop and android tablet (although the android version of the app could be better, particularly in the area of text editing [such as underlining])

This post is intended to be a bit of a troubleshooter, to see what happens when i post from this app, despite deficient listings.

Presenting the Xylanth

Dlain ran.  In his thirty-some years of life, he could not recall ever exerting himself so hard.  It was an odd thought to have cross his oxygen-starved mind.  Is this my life flashing before me?  It was getting harder to see, harder to avoid the thick roots that meandered across the forest floor, harder to pick a path around the large trees that seemed to unaccountably spring up in front of him.  It was getting harder to hear too; between the sound of his labored breathing and the staccato pulse of his heat beat, Dlain was barely aware of Nelston, somewhere in the murky fringe of his periphery, madly scrambling for his life as well.

Dlain's entire being burned with agony; his muscles ached and threatened to tear apart under the strain to run faster and faster.  For the past fifteen years, he'd worked in the ore mines; dangerous, back-breaking labor day in and day out.  He was young, strong, and fit, due to a combination of xylanthan chemicals and rigorous labor.  His lungs had never burned for air as they did now.  For fifteen years he'd been a proper, obedient, dirt-shoveling, Darmok-fearing slave to the meat-fucking plants.  Then he'd met Nelston.  And now he was running for his life.

Dlain twisted, pushed out with his arm at the last moment to avoid colliding with a tree, nearly fell anyway, and scrambled to keep running.  How long had he been running now?  Had they gotten away? Just how fast could those plants move anyway? He didn't dare stop to look.  The future didn't lay behind him.  He had to keep running after it.

All his life, he'd played by the rules.  He knew his place in the universe and kept his head down; born a slave, he'd live a slave's life, and then he'd die a slave.  His spirit would find rest in Darmok's wide arms; his mortal remains would continue to be a slave, a puppet for some newly sprouted Xylanth.  This was the circle of life as all on Sylv knew it.

Then he'd met Nelston.  An immigrant from Skrom, he'd moved across the border to settle in Farling's fiefdom.  Under Xylanthan rule, the three human kingdoms, their various nobility, and assorted landowners were all irrelevant.  All belonged to the plants, and the humans kept what they had by the graces of the Xylanth.  But there was no mistake that all were subject equally to The Green Law; nobles and lords were slaves too, just better dressed than most.

But the humans did hold onto one thing, one thing even the Puppeteers could not take away except in death: their hatred for one another.  The undying hatred the three kingdoms held for one another had not fallen to the Xylanthan forces and lived on, nurtured by distrust and differences.  It was a hatred that ran deep and and took root like an ancient oak.

So Nelston, a stranger from another land, had not even received what little welcome there remained to give.  He was treated poorly, when he wasn't totally ignored, and would probably have continued to be an outcast had he not met Dlain.  Ever practical, Dlain had decided to give the foreigner a fair shake - and they'd become fast friends.  Not long after, Dlain discovered Nelston was in the business of bootlegging liqour, a contraband substance that had led to his quick exit from his previous home; that, and a misunderstanding concerning the local prefect's daughter.

Nelston was considerably more welcome in town soon after.  It was foul, it was flavorless, and it was illegal under The Green Law, but nothing took the edge off a life of slavery in the mines like hard liquor.  That it constituted a minor rebellion was an additional bonus.  Alcohol was forbidden due to the deleterious effect it had on the condition of a body.  As was nearly always the case under The Green Law the punishment was death.  However, it was usually possible to bribe quisling enforcers to look the other way; love of alcohol and corruption hadn't been forgotten under Xylanthan rule either.

Deep in their cups, Nelston had spun a tale of an island far to the south-east, an island nation of humans untouched by the Xylanthan dominion.  An island where humans still lived free.  Everyone knew of it; no one believed it.  The island did exist, as did the human nation - records of its existence, as well as maps, remained in libraries and archives.  Their ancestors had known of the islanders, but thought it a waste of time to conquer.  But no one truly believed  that the islanders remained, or retained their sovereignty.

It had led to talk of poaching.  Capturing wildlife or seed before the Xylanth did whatever it was that made them healthier and addictive.  To cultivate and grow food so that one day, the children of man might reclaim their sovereign right to personhood - this was the unspoken dream of every human in the three kingdoms.  Poaching  was a capital crime, punishable by summary death and implantation.

And now he ran for his life, Nelston somewhere alongside him, chased by a Xylanthan ranger.  Their attempt at poaching had met with little success all morning; it had been impossible to find game or fruit bearing plants.  They'd finally spotted a rock hopper when Dlain had caught a curious scent in the air: sickly sweet with a hint of fiery spice.

Xylanthan pherotongue.  He'd never learned enough to understand it, didn't have a head for scents, but it'd struck him that something was angry.  In the end, it didn't really matter: they'd been found out, trespassing deep in a forbidden forest, attempting to poach.

They ran.

No amount of talking or bribing would save them; only the fleetness of foot and wit could now.

And without warning, Dlain heard Nelston cry out, and the sound of rough impacts.  The fool had tripped.  That will slow down pursuit, Dlain thought as he kept running.  A moment later though, he was skidding to a stop and scrabbling back towards Nelston, prone on the ground, arm outstretched, calling for help.

"Up fool, up!" Dlain could barely get the words out.  "It'll be on us any mo-"

There was nothing behind them.  No sound of chase, no mysteriously moving foliage.  Only the sound silence marred by heavy breathing.

"Balls of the blood god, I thought I was done for!" Nelston wheezed.  "Do you think we lost it?"

Dlain shook his head, unable to speak.  At long last he looked around - in their mad dash, they'd gone even deeper into the forest, and he had no idea where they were.  More fool me for listening to you and stopping to save you! he cursed in his mind.  But he couldn't smell that distinctive scent of rotten flesh that heralded the presence of a Xylanth.  "We should get out of here," he managed at last.

"Trees thin out a bit over that way," pointed Nelston.  "Might be the edge of the forest.  Could make a run for the nearest town, hide out. What do you think?"

I think it sounds familiar, thought Dlain.  Still, it was their best, only, option at the moment.  He nodded, stood up and helped Nelston to his feet. Their was a vague sense of disquiet in the back of his mind as they walked, trying to regain their strength.  He brushed it off as paranoia; the whole day had been terrible enough to spoil any good luck they now found.

And then they saw the Xylanth in front of them, no more than 20 meters away, at the edge of the wood.  Dlain whirled around as Nelston took another shocked step forwarded.  There were more behind them.  He couldn't tell if their original pursuer was among them; they all looked alike to him.  He cursed his lax guard, even as he sniffed the air.  How did I miss them? How did I miss this overwhelming stench?  All at once, the stench of death and rot hit him, and with it understanding.

He'd been too exhausted.  Starved for air, his body reacted naturally for more air once he had relaxed.  Damnit! I've been breathing through my mouth this whole time! No wonder I couldn't smell anything! He took another breath, nearly retched.  The scent was too overpowering to be caused by a handful of Xylanth.  Had they stumbled upon a vineyard? Were these Xylanth protecting a creche of seedlings, rows of newly implanted growing and feeding on scarecrow-like corpses?

It was too much to process, too overwhelming.  It didn't really matter anyway, as his fate, their fates, calmly strode forward.  A pulse of rapidly shifting scents seemed to swirl about them.  They are discussing something.  Is there still hope? He'd never bothered to learn the Xylanth pherotongue.  Few did.  But many could speak, after fashion, the body - signing language the Xylanth also used, particularly with humans.  Dlain was not such a one.  He resolved to learn as much pherotongue as the local administrator would teach him, and vine language, if he survived.  He took a step back towards Nelston.  Survival was all that mattered now.

"I'm sorry Nelston," he whispered.  "But this is all your fault."  In a single motion, Dlain shook free the knife he'd had on his wrist and stabbed Nelston in the chest.  The knife was heavy, but blunt from use.  Nearly everyone carried one to cut dried meat, fruits and bread, cloth and twine.  He hadn't been sure it would cut Nelston's throat.

The motion had turned Nelston to face Dlain, shock and confusion playing across his face as blood seeped from the wound and his mouth; Dlain had missed the heart and punctured a lung.  It was not the quick death he'd hoped to deal. He stabbed again, aiming at the side of the neck.  "Just die damn you!" he shouted, all the fear and fury he'd felt bursting out at once.  He grabbed Nelston by the shoulder, turned him to face the Xylanth, and kicked him to the ground.  Blood quickly began to pool beneath the twitching body, coloring the ground.  Dlain dropped his knife, dropped to one knee, bowing parallel to the ground with arms outstretched in either direction.  It was the only body sign, the only vine language, he knew.

Submission.

The Xylanth had stopped moving, had watched the curious human drama play out before them, and now seemed to be debating its meaning.  "Please!" Dlain begged.  "It was his idea! He's the one you want! I am loyal, I have seen nothing, done nothing! Please take him and let me go!"  He knew the plants understood the human tongue.  He continued to kneel in submission; he didn't dare look up.

The silence seemed to drag on interminably.  Still, he couldn't risk looking up, risk communicating defiance.  He knew it wouldn't matter anyway; he couldn't read their movements, and there would be nothing else to see.

At long last he heard the lone xylanth in front of him pick up Nelston's corpse, heard it dragging it towards the clearing.  He dropped his head and arms in relief; or rather, would have.  It was then he felt the vines wrapped around his tense being, keeping him in submission.  With a strength he could no believe plants could, he felt himself hauled upright and carried forward.  Fear washed over like a frozen wave, sapping him of energy and resolve.  He couldn't cry, couldn't shout in protest.

He soon found himself beside an empty scarecrow, a metal frame that would support his corpse while a seedling grew, tunneling through his remains and wrapping itself around his bones.  A quisling stood beside it, though he couldn't see Nelston anywhere.  The quisling, one of the humans who worked with the Xylanth, seemed to understand and explained helpfully, "You ruined his body, so they can't use it for a new crop.  Still useful though - makes a great fertilizer for the new thing they are growing."

The quisling glanced at him askance to see if he was listening.  "It's actually quite exciting you know! For what it's worth, you and your friend will be working together.  In a way, as it were."  They were strapping Dlain into the scarecrow; he found he had no energy to resist, was glad that he would be dead soon, before the seed was implanted.  "They're growing some kind of giant vine, bigger than we've seen, one that will reach beyond the sky into the heavens!  Well, they call it 'space'.  That's what the fertilizer is for, some gigantic tree and vine."  The quisling continued amiably, oblivious to Dlan being bent over backward to expose his face and throat to the sky.  "They wanted me to tell you.  You'll be among the first Xylanth to head up there! Imagine that," he said with awe.  "Isn't that exciting?"

Dlain found his view of the sky eclipsed by a dark figure - the xylanth was preparing to implant him! Wait! I'm not dead yet! he tried to shout, found that he couldn't even though his mouth was held open.  He tried to struggle to show that he was alive and found that he couldn't move a muscle. Suddenly he understood - the scarecrow.  A small blade was part of its design and severed the spinal column, ensuring the corpse was dead.

Dlain was dead; he just hadn't died yet.

As the xylanth bent over him, his sense of vision blurred.  He could feel its vine tendrils burrowing deeper and deeper into his throat, felt the seedling latch onto the end of his trachea and begin to send tiny tendrils through his veins and arteries.  The pain was unbearable.  A small, distant part of his mind wondered if his spinal cord had not been fully severed, or if certain nerves still communicated with the portion leading to his brain.

Mostly his mind screamed in pain.

He could feel the tendrils pushing out from behind his eyes, trying to push them free of their sockets.

Death couldn't come quickly enough.

Lord of the Things

Greetings!

Yes I know; stories do not begin in this way, but letters often do.  As it turns out, this week's posting(s) will be late for a variety of reasons (explanations but not excuses).  I've outlined Presenting: The Naucine, and begun Introducing: The Ra'u - the latter of which feels quite important to me as they are the planned major player in my story - and then immediately shivved with writer's block.  As well, I do a lot of my writing in cafes, and the last had a large group of giggling teens constantly falling over their tables.

I have no idea what they had in mind when they decided to go, as a gaggle (which, like a murder of crows, is the correct group-counter for an unspecified otherwise-herd of teens), to a cafe.

I may also have been playing the shit out of Hearthstone.  But, as it did with Naucine physiology, video game playing often serves for me as a source of inspiration and problem solving.  Though really, this was just lollygagging.

I thought, however, that I would write briefly (which is to say, a lot) on the subject of education and, if I happen to reach it, language.  I've been busy on the teaching side of things.

This past week I assigned to a student William Golding's, Lord of the Flies. (wow, I remember proper citation format.... I think.)  I felt rather guilty about this because I had read this book when I was in middle/high school.

But I should clarify - my student is of middle school age and is unschooled (blog).  Personally, I thought the book would be right up his alley - it is, after all, a dark, violent, even at times crazy, story about a bunch of british boarding school kids who get stranded on an island and immediately proceed to go bonkers.  I had to read it again since it'd been so many years, but I finished the book in 3 or 4 nights - it's not terribly long.  When I think about it, that book should be a great read for any male adolescent.  Was Survivor NOT a national phenomenon in the US?

But as I recall, few enjoyed it in school.  Most any book you care to name that was read in school will generally be associated with vague, negative thoughts.  Mostly forgotten, walled off negative memories that largely center around the words "bullshit" and "pain in the ass", a reading assignment over the course of weeks (!), capped off with a graded writing assignment and/or test.

I think any educational system that engenders in its children a strong dislike, for years and years, of reading and, in particular, classics of literature, needs to be strongly reevaluated.  Reading and writing, indeed language itself, is the very cornerstone of civilization... and thus education itself.

The educational system in general, when it comes to literature, has spawned an entire industry (and that is no small thing mind you) of crib-books/horn books - short(er) books that highlight the key plot points, characters, allegory and metaphors, subtext of a work.  The entire purpose, despite weak disclaimers to the contrary, is to prepare a student for discussion without having read the necessary text.

What's more, isn't it the TEACHER'S job to point those things out? To lead a discussion on those topics, rather than have students regurgitate memorized factoids like a parrot?  Where is the comprehension that marks true education?  We seek only the "right" answer - the means became an end unto itself.

The right answer, the right answer... we are conditioned to always seek the right answer.  This stifles innovation, creativity, learning.  We should learn to value the right answer, how to recognize it, but we should not ignore (or worse, penalize) the journey to reach it.  Insert cliche story about Edison and the light bulb.

There is a hypothesis that the current educational system is a relic of the Industrial Revolution:

-The next generation of workers are being trained at a young age to accept spending hours at a time (literally) in a small room, doing what they are told, with the same people.

-They all do the same work, all on the same thing - such as a work sheet, a work book, a diorama (what is this supposed to teach me?), a paper mache puppet (again, what is the true, educational content of this project?), a tooth pick structure, a Jell-O model of a cell, a dissection (you would think this is an educational activity, I assure you it is not... both as a student and later as an assistant), running around a field (this is... education? No, it is exercise, calling it "physical education" does not impart any educational value to it whatsoever), learning the rules to badminton.

-Future workers are taught to accept localized authority, to respond to the sound of a bell signalling a shift in location and/or task, to listen to announcements made over a PA loudspeaker system.

-Future workers get up early in the morning, eat lunch (of a sort), and go home late in the afternoon.  Why?  Do the hours truly matter so much? Need they occur at approximately the same time as rush hour? Wouldn't it make more sense to stagger the school rush and work commute, for safety if not traffic?

-Future workers get the whole of summer off - a relic of needing hands in the field for harvest (an example of the backseat education takes and concessions it must make to the influence of the economic machine)

-Future workers are penalized for failing to show up, on time, without authorization.  There must be a proper accounting, in alphabetical order, or who is present at the start of each shift.  Seating arrangements are often assigned in this manner (in their perfect rows and columns).  Is taking attendance important?  It's true you have to be physically present to learn in a classroom, but this seems a matter of discipline and responsibility.  In any event, how this relates to the grading one's "performance" makes no sense in an educational context - if you didn't learn because you weren't there, you'll already be penalized appropriately on the test.

-Regular performance evaluations.  Which, frequently, don't test comprehension, but instead ask for regurgitation of memorized information.  The teacher does not evaluate a student's comprehension (in most cases), but simply 'quality assures' by checking answers against a 'key'.  If a student's comprehension or interpretation exceeds a teacher's (as can, and indeed we should hope ought happen frequently) it is wrong.  We teach and seek conformity, not individuality.  This is the primary problem of emphasizing the right answer over learning.  There is also something to be said for conditioning people to be afraid to make mistakes.

-Conformity over individuality is also the key feature of the social aspects of our educational system.

We never bother to question or seek to understand how a student interprets information such that they come to the 'wrong answer.'  We seek only conformity to the right answer above all.  Where is the 'teaching' then?  But of course, this is incompatible with the large scale classroom system.  It is also inconsistent with the complete of oversight into the quality of educators.  We expect educators to match answers, not to teach; we expect them to stop gunmen, not to understand evolution.

Our priorities are completely wrong - they are fully subservient to (in some cases, archaic) economic systems.  The gun industry.  The Political machine.  Capitalism.  Marketing.  Sports and entertainment.  Copyright and intellectual property.  DRM and quick-buck technologists (everyone trying to pawn off shitty tablets onto schools... remember the iMac?).

Imparting comprehension, what we call education, has always been a 1 on 1 or 1 on small number matter.  In any skills-based group learning, the instructor MUST take time to check on everyone (such as in martial arts, to check posture, form, and mechanics, or painting for much the same).  Sauces and baked goods must be tasted.  Technique must be watched, evaluated, the source of mistakes pinpointed and corrected.

Case in point, do grades matter for your occupation? In the overwhelming majority of cases, no they do not.  When have we ever examined the grades of a candidate for political office?  We care more about the birth certificate of the president, the job in the US, than we do about his grades.  We check for grades in going to higher education, and we check for GPA (not grades) for some first-time-employments.  But that's about it.

Do we prepare students for higher education?  No, not really.  That's why there are scores of books on vocabulary ALONE for entrance exams.  And an entire test prep industry.  And even that is not education - what student, who has ever memorized vocabulary for a test, has ever remembered or even used those words thereafter?

A different student of mine expressed a desire to learn "English conversation skills."  I almost laughed, because I'll be frank here: there is no such thing as "English" conversation skills.  There are only "conversation skills."  The term "English conversation skills" is a defense mechanism, a lie like many others we tell oureselves so that we don't feel bad about making mistakes.  Mistakes which our school system teaches us to fear and avoid above all else.  Absolutely anything you can say on the subject of making conversation in one language applies to every single other language past, present, and future.

The grammatical differences between chinese and english, as pertains to conversation, conveyed in layman terms, are:

1.  It is possible to make a grammatically correct and complete sentence in chinese without a subject (true, even requisite, in most asian languages)

2.  It is possible to make a grammatically correct and complete sentence in chinese without a verb of any kind

3.  It is possible to make a grammatically correct and complete sentence in chinese without both a subject and a verb.

And that is it.  Because of these differences, it is common for native chinese speakers to answer questions without designating a subject (I, me, you, they, etc.) or using a verb (frequently using instead either infinitives [to + verb] or gerunds/participles [verb-ing]) - what, in english, we call a sentence fragment.  Conversely, ABCs such as myself tend to be more verbose, emphasizing particles (a, an, the - also missing in chinese) and subjects (specificially I and You) more than is actually needed.

As an aside, if you think about it, when speaking... I is obvious, it's the speaker.  And You [is] obvious as well, that's the listener.  Or, more politely, you would address the person specifically by name or title.  Going about all the time saying I and You is, if you think about it (outside the native language context), a bit bombastic and rude.  In japanese, the acceptable term for 'you' is お前 (o-mae), which even carries the honoriffic o-prefix, which literally means 'in front (of me)'.  A more roundabout way to say it would be 目の前に (me no mae ni), meaning "that which is before my eyes."

'You' indeed... *ahem*

So the whole of what might be termed "english" conversation skills can actually be covered in about 30 seconds.  The remainder is a question of vocabulary and usage - but if you naturally speak in such a way where you attempt to provide more information (where you are going, how you feel, your opinions, in short - conversing) and pre-emptively answer logical questions (Did you eat yet? Yes.  When? an hour ago.  Did you eat a lot? No.  So are you hungry now? No.  What did you eat? A dead pigeon.  Do you need to go to the hospital? Yes.  Is someone taking you? No.  Do you want me to take you? Yes.) then that is usage... there is no teaching that.  That is a matter of personal habit.  You need to practice speaking and giving out relevant information.  There is no teaching of that, because it is a matter of how your brain is wired.  And as you naturally speak and attempt to convey information, you will become frustrated that your vocabulary is lacking - you will seek out more terms, relevant ones, and use them, and thus increase your vocabulary.

Memorized teaches you shit.  There, I said it.  It teaches you to recognize information taken out of context.  You don't learn words; you learn to regurgitate a contextless definition (which does not demonstrate comprehension) upon visually recognizing the word.  That's why everyone "forgets" things they "studied" (aka memorized) for a test - the brain was conditioned to respond in a given manner (spit out the definition) when it sees the trigger (the word).

You haven't learned anything.  You haven't learned how to use it, how to adapt it or make it your own.  You've learned "when A happens, do B.  Repeat."

You've learned how to be a part of an assembly line.

For all this, I don't know what the proper solution is.  Apprenticeships, tutoring, small scale teaching... these things would cripple the economic system that we have.  But I know what we have isn't the right answer.  Even mice learn not to shock themselves - that's not the path to the right answer.  As I said to my student's father in my interview, "I'm not sure homeschooling is the right answer, but I admire you for acknowledging what the wrong answer is and casting about for a solution."

Actually, I might have paraphrased that a bit.  Whatever, I was the one that said it.  I can change it.  Shut up. 

The next book I have assigned is George Orwell's, Animal Farm: A Fairy Tale.  It's another book I read in high school.  It's also rather enjoyable for it's sheer ridiculousness and clear political message.  Although these days, you might question which government is being satirized.

Stories to come later this week!