Saturday, July 30, 2011


Firstly, belated happy birthday to Nathanial Reyes, MC of (the unpublished) Civilisation's Cycle written by Maxy.

Chris Baty is leaving OLL D: I'm sad. But good luck, Chris!

And there's lots of work for me this Tuesday...IPT Trial HSC coming up! Wish me luck :) I'm going to die...

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Noldorin Units

Noldorin units cost...
'They generally cost 10% of your payroll, 50 acts of random kindness, a hundred times of honesty, and 2 hundred times of love! (What the...) Spread the love! After all, all of us are children of Eru are we not? Consider these Units as Timeless-Halls sent! :XD:' - My wonderful nephew Ereinion
Therefore! I shall be keeping track of how many acts of random kindness, honesty, love, etc.etc. I do! I will fail epically! ...Who cares. 

Sunday, July 17, 2011

An argument

"I said no already!" Visere whipped around, eyes furious. He shot the girl opposite him a menacing glare. "I told you, I'm not going to die!"

There was a wooden table between the man and the girl, who was on a plush leather chair, and looked a little too comfortable. She sighed and took a breath. "You have to, Vis!"

"Look, Therese, I have everything planned out. I have a whole group of Sorcerers from both kingdoms. I have a huge political influence, more than enough money, and an army at my disposal. Who's going to kill me?"

"You'll get killed before you get the money and army."

"I already have them."

The girl called Therese quickly backtracked. "I mean, before you get to them."

Visere's eyes flashed. "I thought you wanted this," he said accusingly, standing up. His intimidating figure was towering over her. "I thought it was your idea to have a four-way battle! To frame two innocents! Why do you want me dead now, at the crux of things?"

"I don't want you dead!" snapped Therese. "There are certain ... sarcifices ... which need to be made. You'll just have to be one of them."


"Why? For God's sake, Visere! You're evil! You're the villain! Villains have to die!"

"So this is for the sake of the plot?"

"Everything is for the sake of the plot!"


"Stop calling me Therese!" The girl cut across him. "I'm your Authoress! I feel like you're insulting me every time you call me Therese."

"Therese stems from Authoress," Visere explained innocently. "I can't exactly go around calling you Thoress."

"Then explain why it sounds insulting."

Visere smiled playfully. "Obviously I'm degrading your title of Authoress into a name which can be given to any lowly character."

"Obviously." The Authoress smiled painfully. She thought that she should pull this back on track. "But I am the Authoress, and I move the plot. Without the plot, the book is nothing! Nothing, you hear me?"

"Aren't I your favourite?" Visere complained. "Don't I get a chance to live? Can't the evil guys win, for once?"

"Well, I planned that until my Muse came up with another idea," mused the Authoress. "Besides, that wasn't High Fantasy enough. That was running away and Eragon-y."

"I can't believe this," said Visere icily. "You're throwing me away because you have to let your main character win?"

The Authoress gave him a nervous smile. "Yes?"

Visere was silent for a moment. Then his lips curved into a vicious smile. "I understand," he said, turning around. He began marching out of the room. "I understand completely."

"Where are you going?" cried the Authoress. The door from which he entered vanished just before his hands touched it.

"Why Therese," said Visere pleasantly, "haven't you realized already? I'm going to kill your precious main character!" He clicked his fingers, and vanished from the room.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011


Visére wasn't a person with a good sense of justice. He didn't struggle with morality. He never wondered whether his actions were for the greater good. He only ever wondered about a few things, and one of them was himself. The other was how much money he had. The third was how long he was going to survive for.

So even he surprised himself when he volunteered to become a spy. Yes, he would be pleasing his own lure of danger. Yes, there would be enough money for him to spend the rest of his life. But no, he wasn't going to survive very long. Not at all. Definitely not if he was caught.

Persuading a young, naive, arrogant sorcerer to become a spy was the last thing he wanted to do. He couldn't foresee the reaction. If Klyte said no--and he had every reason to say no--then Visére was dead by morning. On the off chance Klyte agreed, Visére could still be killed later. Klyte could double-cross him. He could be killed in battle. He could be assassinated.

On the other hand, if he didn't get killed, he would spend the rest of his life in the palace, servants flocking to do his bidding. He would be in the greatest honour of the king. That is, unless the king backstabbed him. Visére frowned. That was possible. What use would he be when the war was over, when they had won? The king would have no need for a spy; especially someone who was so good at hiding secrets.

Visére made up his mind, and nodded to himself. Oh, he would play along being a spy for now. But when the time came, he will take his own section of the army, hopefully allied with Klyte's sorcerers, and forge a new empire for himself.

Oh yes, and then Klyte would have to die.

Saturday, July 9, 2011


They were kids once, too. Playing in the park, drawing in the dirt with sticks, shrieking with laughter as the swing brought them one step closer to heaven.

Klyte lifted his head and looked up at the pouring sky. The dark clouds rumbled overhead; it was probably time to go inside. He took a breath and walked forward, away from the house he had lived in for sixteen years. Every step leant him the courage to walk further, and eventually there was nothing but a trail of muddy footprints leading from the silent house.

His feet led him in a straight line, just walking. His tousled hair stuck to his scalp, his muddy shirt was drenched. He kept walking, until the remnants of civilisation gradually started to appear. He kept walking, dark eyes cold and silent, acknowledging and accepting the curious stares that came his way. He nodded towards a child who ran for his mother. He tossed a coin to the homeless man lying in the street. And always, he kept walking.

He walked to the castle gate and gazed at the towers he had once lived in. It was still raining. There were dozens of soldiers on the battlements, and every single arrow was trained on him. Klyte allowed them to take his interest for a few seconds, then stepped forward once more. The bridge of the moat came down silently.

He walked through the courtyard, through corridors of gold and silver. The incredulous soldiers moved out of the way as he slowly but surely walked into the throne room.

He looked up at the newly coronated king.

"Hello, Klyte."

Klyte nodded, as a vague greeting.

"I said hello, Klyte," the king said forcefully.

The boy's eyes showed no sign of interest.

"Not going to greet your king?"

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then spoke. "I already have."

"That nod was not a greeting."

"It was greeting enough."

"I am the king!" thundered the man on the throne. "I will have the respect I deserve. I know you are here on a mission to assassinate me, Klyte. I want to know why you simply walked into the castle, in plain sight."

"You let me."

"I made your job easier because I did not want to humiliate you."

Klyte reached into his bag and pulled out a dagger. "This is what I'm supposed to assassinate you with."

The king chuckled. "Well, aren't you going to do it?"

His cold eyes glinted with new-found interest. "Of course."

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Ranting about work

"It's not fair!" said a teenage girl, sulking in the corner of her room which she had deemed the 'Emo CornerTM'. One would only retreat to the Emo CornerTM when one was feeling quite emo, except this girl didn't quite know what emo meant apart from cutting yourself, wearing all black and looking sad all day. As she fulfilled one of these criteria (looking sad), she decided it was enough for her to retreat to said corner.

"It's not fair!" she said again, pouting. "Holidays means holidays! A break from s...sch...sch...the S word! It doesn't mean do more work! If they wanted us to do more work they wouldn't give us holidays! And giving us tests in the 2nd week back means we have to study in the holidays or fail, which undermines the point of the holidays!"

She took a breath and began writing down an essay on why work should be banned from holidays. She tried using as many big words as she could, but it didn't work.

Holidays is defined as 'a period of relaxation away from the dreaded school' and should be exactly as stated by the Dictionary Of Awesome, which means that all activities created by, made by, invented by, distributed by or intensified by school should be banned, shreded, burnt and thrown into the depths of the sea never to be seen by anyone again, except maybe a fish or two. This means that activities such as homework, essays, assignments, study, thinking, writing or mathematics should cease in the time of holidays and should not be allowed to continue lest the subject breaks down from stress, anxiety, depression, tension or more stress.

Happy with her essay, she smiled and photocopied fifty copies, then began mailing them to all the schools in her area.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Fire [Alex Rider]

Julius fanfiction again.
It was a remarkable sight, to see sixteen boys lying on their stomachs, eyes screwed up in deep concentration, aiming their sniper guns at a red and white target. It would have been less remarkable if these boys did not move as one, think as one, look as one and act as one. In their eyes—and in the eyes of their father—they were one.

The same one. They were all Hugo Grief, carbon copied sixteen times.

Sixteen shots ran out simultaneously, cracking the air like a whip of electricity. Fifteen bullets hit the bullseye of the target. The last bullet hit half an inch to the right.

“Adolf!” barked a man who was standing to the side, watching with cold, dark eyes. Even from his position on the opposite side of the field, he could tell that the bullet had missed its mark.

“I know you have joined us later than your brothers,” Hugo Grief said icily, “but that does not mean you will be exempt from punishment. I expect you to be at whatever level everyone else is, even if it means training more in your spare time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father,” said Adolf Grief.

Hugo strode over to his son and, raising his cane, brought it down three times onto his back. Adolf winced, but bit his tongue and made no sound.

“Again!” Hugo shouted. He walked back to his place on the sidelines, watching as another sixteen bullets shot out from the guns. This time, all sixteen hit their mark. They reloaded simultaneously, they all aimed at the same time, and their hands pressed the trigger with the same motion. Except one.

One of the boys had missed the invisible cue, had fired it a millisecond after all his brothers. Hugo noticed, and scowled.

“You fired late, Julius.”

Julius Grief looked up at his father and bit his lip. “I’m sorry, father. I was distracted.”

“I do not want you to be distracted!” Hugo snapped. “In an assassination, distraction means failure. Fire at the time you planned, no matter what happens. If someone shouts, fire anyway. If someone enters the room, fire anyway. If someone points a gun at your head, fire the damn bullet!”

Julius nodded, and remembered those words until the day he didn’t heed them.

He received three strokes of the cane, gasping in pain but refusing to make another sound. He and his brothers reloaded once more, and fired, and this time they were perfect. Like they should be.


“We all know which country I’m referring to...”

Britain! Britain! Say the word, woman! Say it!

There were no distractions this time. He was completely focused, his body filled with adrenaline, his fingers shaking as he waited for that fateful word.

Then someone shouted, and entered the room, and pointed a gun at him.

Everything he had ever learnt was thrown out the window at the most crucial time. Julius swung around. He fired, missed, reloaded, and then aimed once more, ready to kill the person who had ruined his life.

I’m sorry, father. Revenge is too sweet.


Just entertaining an idea. If it works, I might do it for Camp NaNoWriMo

"Come one, come all! Come see the boy magician!"

The cry came from a man with a megaphone, standing in the middle of a large crowd of people. As he shouted, some passersby curiously joined the crowd, some residents poked their heads out of their windows, craning their necks to have a look at this phenomenon. The crowd grew larger, and the man kept shouting. He had a rather round, red face and a squashed nose, and tufts of hair which made him resemble a tomato.

The crowd was gathered around a small boy, short for his age of seven and a half. He was juggling four rubber balls, and every so often the crowd would toss another one for him to juggle. When the ball count reached ten or so, the boy would toss them up high into the air and clap three times. The balls would vanish in a flash, the crowd would cheer, and the cycle would begin again.

Eventually they tired of this trick, and went on to the next one. The young boy jumped up, did a flip in the air, and the ground beneath his feet suddenly turned a different colour, as if a large blob of paint had been thrown against it. He flicked something in the air, and a circle of blue materialised twenty feet from where he was standing. He blew a kiss towards a girl in the crowd, and her clothes turned a stunning shade of pink.

The crowd cheered. It was Sunday afternoon, and the markets were packed. They needed some good entertainment, and this kid could certainly do that.

"Make way! Make way for the princess!"

Apparently it wasn't only the peasants who wanted entertainment. The crowd quickly shuffled out of the way as an elaborate horse-drawn carriage came into view. The chauffeur, clad in all black with a top hat and a whip, pulled on the reins. The two horses came to a stop. The man slid down gracefully and opened the carriage door, pulling down a flight of stairs as he did so. One dainty slipper appeared, then another, and then the body of a small girl no older than eight, with her dark hair braided and clipped to keep it out of her eyes.

"That's him, your highness," said the chauffeur, bowing low.

The princess eyed the young magician up and down, before scoffing. "He's dirty. And he's ugly. You brought me all the way out here to see him?"

"Oh, but your highness," replied the chauffeur stiffly, "he can do amazing tricks with his magic." He turned towards the boy and nodded quickly. "Show the princess! Go on!"

The magician stood there, bright eyes phrasing an unasked question. The princess rolled her eyes. "He's a mute. He can't say or do anything. He's useless. Come on, we're going back. Besides, I don't believe in magic. I'll have you fired for this."

"No! Wait, princess!" cried the poor chauffeur, but she had already boarded the carriage. With a resigned sigh, he gave the young magician a small smile and climbed up into his seat, and whipped the horses into movement.

The carriage turned and began moving off. The confused magician, still standing there, watched it move for a few seconds, then clapped his hands twice. The horse-drawn carriage vanished without a sound. The princess shrieked as she fell backwards onto the unpaved road, then got up, dusted herself, and began to sniff quite pitifully.

"Your highness!" gasped the chauffeur, who was more than surprised at this turn of events. "Are you quite alright?"

"What happened?" demanded the princess. "Where's the carriage? Where are my horses? Who did this?" She turned around and caught the smallest of smile tugging at the magician's mouth. "You!" she shrieked, pointing a finger in a most unladylike fashion. " you're hired! You're my personal magician now! Okay? Now come on, come back to the castle with me."

The young magician frowned.

The princess clicked her tongue impatiently. "Is he deaf, too?" she asked her chauffeur, who shrugged helplessly.

"Ah, princess," said the tomato-faced man who had been shouting earlier. "The boy's not deaf, your highness. Perhaps he has some questions he would like to ask."

"Go on then," she said. "Ask!"

The boy made a series of hand signs. The man translated. "What right do you have to order everyone around?"

The princess looked furious. "I'm the princess!"

"Why are you the princess?"

"What do you mean why? I'm the daughter of the king and queen!"

The magician made another few signs. "Why is the king the king?" translated the man, feeling as if he was about to be beheaded very soon.

"Because ... because ... his father was king!" the girl spluttered. "And his father's father was the king! And so was his father! And his, and his, and his!"

"How did the first king start, then?"

"Well, well..." The eight-year-old princess struggled for an answer. "The king was a leader!" she said triumphantly. "Someone who was a good ruler. He was chosen by everyone!"

"Then why aren't the other kings chosen by everyone as well?"

"Because the other kings were good rulers too!"

The young magician made another few hand signals. The translator stared at him in shock, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, your highness, I cannot translate."

"Don't you understand what he's saying?" asked the princess.

"Of course I do. It's just ... a little ... I do not want to die, princess."

"Translate!" the girl ordered.

The man paled. "Very well, your highness. He says that you would not become a very good ruler, if you were going to be queen." But the magician didn't stop there, he kept going. "He also says that he doesn't like you, and that you have a wonderful servant and should treat him better, and that if he were king, all servants in the land would be set free."

"Beheaded!" cried the chauffeur. "This boy is to be beheaded at sundown tomorrow!"

"No!" snapped the princess. She turned to the boy. "Come to the palace. If you have any more questions, my father will answer them. He is the king; he knows everything! And you," she added to the translator. "You come too."

She made to walk off, but then suddenly stopped. "Where is my carriage, boy?"

The magician smiled, and waved a careless hand. The carriage, together with the horses, materialised in front of him. He stepped up onto the stairs and disappeared into the carriage.

"What!" spluttered the princess. "That's my carriage! You can't ride in it! It's only for the princess!"

The boy poked his head out of the window and smiled at her, then the horses began to move.

The chauffeur's mouth dropped open. "But those horses are specifically trained to only listen to royal chauffeurs! He cannot make them move!"

The horses picked up speed, trotting right past the princess and her servant. The boy stuck his hand out of the window, and flicked at the air. Colourful paint splattered onto the wall of a nearby house. The horses sprang into a gallop, and carried the boy towards the castle.

The princess, the chauffeur and the translator could only gape after him. The translator walked over to the paint-splattered wall, and read the sentence that was written there.

I am a magician. I can do anything.

Sunday, July 3, 2011


This is to make up for yesterday xDDD

Manwë was not a happy Vala.

Now, one could think of a whole lot of adjectives to describe the Lord of the Breath of Arda, but 'unhappy' was not usually included in those lists. Those lists usually include holy, magnificent, merciful, great, kind, and good-singing-voice (of course, these lists were also usually made by the Vanyar). Manwë rather liked being praised. But not today. Today, he was unhappy.

He had woken up in the morning and did all his usual morning activities, and then noticed something. Lucky hat, check. Shirt, check. Pants, check. Shoes, check. Socks, uncheck, not that he could uncheck something that was never checked in the first place.

"Manwë, dear,  you look different today," said Varda Elentári, when he came down to breakfast that very morning. She looked him up and down, and frowned. "You're not wearing socks!"

"Yes," said Manwë, who wasn't pleased nor proud of this fact. "Indeed. Have you seen my socks, dear?"

"I saw several pairs yesterday," Varda replied. "Are you sure you don't have a single pair?"

Manwë shook his head. "Not one."

"Well, I'm sure Vairë could knit another pair for you, if you're lost them all."

"I haven't lost them!" protested Manwë.

"I'm sure Vairë could knit another pair for you, if you can't find any," Varda rephrased.

Manwë nodded, and went to find Vairë.


The Halls of Mandos were just as dark, dangerous and threatening as they were a few hundred years ago, when Manwë had last visited. He tried to avoid the place as much as possible, of course. The last time he had come was a curious case of a beautiful Elf who wanted to become mortal, which was strange. Something about her beloved husband, a wolf, and a Silmaril. (Manwë was really only paying attention to the Silmaril part of it).

The Valar pushed open the door and almost immediately crashed into an unfortunate fëa who was trying to escape.

"Ow!" said Manwë, who couldn't feel anything due to the fëa being...well, a fëa. He thought he'd better say 'ow' so that the fëa would feel better, as if he had a real body.

"Ow!" said the fëa, who had crashed right into Manwë and unfortunately couldn't go through due to the Vala being...well, a Vala.

"Are you alright?" asked Manwë kindly.

"I just crashed into the brother of the Vala who stole my most prized posessions," snapped the fëa, who was Fëanor. "Of course I'm not alright! Now, if you'd kindly move aside to show how sorry you are, I may forgive you for this act."

"Oh," said Manwë. "Well, have you seen my socks?"

"No, I have not seen your Eru-forsaken socks-- I mean, if you will move to the side and give me enough space to just squeeze through this door, I will be able to tell you where your socks are, O Holy Great Magnificent Merciful Kind Lord of Arda."

Manwë quite liked the sound of that title, so he shuffled aside to let Fëanor pass. But the fëa shot through as soon as there was enough space and flew off, cackling, into Valinor.

In an even worse mood than before, Manwë shut the door behind him and went to find Mandos.


"There is a problem, Mandos."

The Doomsman sighed. "Who has escaped now, Manwë?"

"Oh, actually." Manwë swallowed. He had just been about to tell Mandos about his socks, but he supposed that an escaped Fëanor was more of a problem. "It is Fëanor."


"I, uh, opened the door and he escaped. Why couldn't he open the door by himself?"

"The door could only be opened by Vala."




"Has someone else escaped with him? Curufin, perhaps?"

"Oh, no. It's just." Manwë wondered whether or not to tell Mandos about his socks. Perhaps he should just go ask Vairë directly. But he had no idea where she was.



"Why are you not wearing socks?"


Elwing looks up at the night sky, and sees the Star of Hope.

She is sitting on the beach in Alqualondë, the soft sand beneath her toes, her hair trailing behind her. She sighs, and lies down, and now her hair fans out like a beautiful shell, and she herself looks like a crab of swirling colours.

She blinks, taking her time, and then settles her attention on the Star once more. It twinkles down at her--only her, after all, it is meant for her--and she can imagine her husband aboard that ship, looking down at Arda with a fond smile on his face. As if he was no longer part of the world. As if he did not mind.

She smoothes out her flowing dress, and draws a star in the sand. She knows that he can see it, even if no one else can. But her hands keep moving, and there is not only one star, but people too. And houses, and weapons, and fire climbing up the ships, and furious Elves and sharp, bright spears. And two children. Her two beloved children who she had to leave behind.

Elwing stares at the picture she has drawn, then the tide comes in and takes it away. She closes her eyes to hide her tears, but she knows. She knows that he can see them, too.


It's strange, because I dislike Elwing.

Friday, July 1, 2011

To-do list this holidays

This is a personal note just for me :)

- Finish Alex Rider and KttK fanfiction
- Learn Elvish (Quenya, for anyone who's interested)
- Study for trials (goddamn trials.) AHHHHHHHHHHH
- Edit novel? ...idk
- Watch Harry Potter; Kung Fu Panda 2 [TICK]; Transformers 3 (possibly) [TICK]; Cars 2 (possibly)
- Read some books, lol.
- Decide whether or not you're going to SMASH [TICK]
- Go shopping
- Work experience