The Weeping Angels - Ch. 1

CHAPTER 1

Evening was giving way to night and a thick mist was settling in as my carriage rolled into the small village of Ravenwood. The moon, only a sliver, winked lazily from behind a heavy curtain of clouds which hung low in the cold night sky.

The mist transformed the warm, inviting lamps of the village into willow-o'-the-wisps, waiting to lead errant wanderers to their doom. My carriage drove past a church. Through the gloom I espied a priest manning the doorway, intently reciting a sermon to a rapt audience. Another man of faith was leading a small procession through the adjoining cemetery. A deacon behind him swung a censer, its fragrant smoke adding to the growing fog, as the parade prayed for the souls of their dearly departed.

The carriage stopped before the inn where I was supposed to take lodging for the night. The driver rapped on the door, announcing our arrival. I disembarked and was immediately assaulted by the elements as the cold wind knifed across my exposed skin. Burrowing my head deeper into my layers I hurried inside.

The inn was warm; a relief after the biting cold. I had entered into a large dining room of sorts, which was empty save for two older gentlemen engaged in a chess match. The furniture was ancient but not decrepit. Gas lamps hung sparsely on the walls, providing adequate illumination; accompanied by framed photographs of soldiers, and decorative firearms. A great stone fireplace completed the tasteful décor of the refined room.

The driver came in with my luggage, followed by the innkeeper.

“Ah, Sir Kevinroy! It’s good to finally have you with us.”

“The pleasure is mine Mr.-“ I inquired.

“Butterman. Henry Butterman.” He warmly shook my hand.

Mr. Butterman was an old army veteran turned innkeeper. I had corresponded with him before setting out in order to secure lodgings for the night.

“Like I said Mr. Butterman, the pleasure is mine. However it will be quite short lived as I plan to carry on to London in the morning.”

“Of course sir, your letter hinted as much. But I must inform you that may not be possible. The road is treacherous in the winters and will be impassable if it snows tonight, and the skies are just fit to burst.”

“Are there no other routes that I may take to get to the city before nightfall tomorrow?”

Mr. Butterman’s brow furrowed as he contemplated, adding more wrinkles to his already wizened countenance.

“I am afraid not Sir. The only other road is through the old forest, Ravenwood; where the village obviously gets its name from. But I will not advise it. It has been unused for too long and the rumours surrounding it are unsettling. But enough of this talk of tomorrow! You have travelled quite a ways and must be tired and hungry. Would you like to have supper before you turn in for the night Sir?”

“A fine point Mr. Butterman. Yes I am quite famished actually; supper would be most welcome.”

“It will be my honour Sir! It is not every day I have the pleasure of serving one of Her Majesty’s Lords.”

Mr. Butterman implored for my hat and coat and directed the carriage driver to place my luggage in my room, and informed the driver of his own lodgings for the night.

I made myself comfortable as Mr. Butterman fetched my supper of scrambled eggs, beef stock soup and a slice of smoked venison. Perfect winter fare: both adept at satisfying hunger and keeping the cold at bay.

As I sipped the vintage bourbon the kind innkeeper had so generously provided from his own personal stock, the fatigues of travel began to weigh on me and the promise of a good night sleep became more and more enticing.

A shrill, gut-wrenching shriek shattered my warm musings.

I jumped from my seat, heart pounding. I looked around the inn, confirming that my tired mind had not imagined the other-worldly scream: Mr. Butterman stood frozen in the middle of the room, one of the chess-players sat with his hand on his heart breathing heavily while the other had leapt from his seat, his chair skidding across the floor.

“What in God’s name was that monstrosity?” I practically shouted at the terrified people in the room.

Without a word, Mr. Butterman and the standing chess-player rushed outside into the cold. I stood petrified, the sound freshly resonating in my ears. I heard rushed whispering; the other gentleman was praying fervently, eyes closed, tears running down his creased cheeks, his hands clutching a rosary cross he wore around his neck.

This did little to ease my fright and I too made my way outside.

It was dark, and the mist was thick. The heavy clouds barely let any light through from the small moon; adding to the eerie atmosphere.

A mass was gathering in front of the church.

I joined the crowd. My eyes darted from face to face, demanding an explanation but I was only met with silent stares.

I found my way to Mr. Butterman’s side.

“What is happening?!” my confusion turning to irritation.

He impatiently gestured me to be silent, and pointed to the church’s doorway.

The lamps were snuffed out; the pitiful moon was the only source of illumination. I peered through the darkness and what I saw only heightened my bewilderment.

A woman lay sprawled on the church steps, sobbing hysterically. Her eyes, wide with absolute terror, were transfixed on an object a few meters from her.

The moon peeked a little more brightly through the clouds for a moment and I saw the cause of the woman’s turmoil:

It was a statue of a young woman with coiled hair wearing a flowing robe. It had two wings. An angel. The statue stood hunched, burying its head in its hands as though crying.

Perplexed, I once again turned to Mr. Butterman. His eyes were fixed on the angel just as intently as the woman’s.

“What is happening?” I asked once again, whispering this time as I felt the suffocating tension of the gathering.

Mr. Butterman just shook his head, wiped his eyes and continued to stare at the bizarre scene.

I could not conceive the reason for such fright. It was a statue. Yes, the placement was odd; it was right in the middle of the street. Other than that I saw no cause for alarm, let alone a village-wide panic.

The moon once again hid behind the clouds, shrouding the world in complete darkness, and what I saw next destroyed my notions of logic and reasoning.

The moon flashed and I saw that the statue had moved.

I stared at the angel uncomprehendingly, my mind ceasing to function. I could not believe it. The statue had moved. It was not in the place it had been. It was now closer to the woman.

My exhausted mind is playing tricks on me. It’s the damn mist, I thought to myself. This is not real. Not possible.

The moon blinked, just for a second or so. The statue moved again, but now its hands were not on its face; one arm was outstretched towards the woman. Its stone face was smiling.

The statue is moving.

I rubbed my eyes unbelievingly, not entirely convinced of the reality of what I was witnessing. But the angel stood in its new posture and position, unconcerned with my mental turmoil.

Clouds passed in front of the moon. The world went black for a moment. The statue moved yet again; now its stone face was like that of a demon: fanged mouth gaping, hands curled into claws, like that of a bloodthirsty predator; mere inches away from the poor squealing woman.

My body had broken out into a cold sweat. My heart fluttered as if it would escape from my chest. Blood pounded in my aching head, vomit was bubbling in my throat. I simply could not accept what I was seeing and yet I could not tear my eyes away.

                                                                                            

The sky darkened. There was a final screech, which halted suddenly. The silence was deafening.

The woman had vanished. Only the angel remained, neck bent forwards, hands cupping face, as if it were weeping.

Another wink of the moon, and the angel disappeared, as if it had simply melted into the mist.

Last Lamentation

As I kneel before my fallen foe, I know this is my end.

His spear had pierced true and made a mockery of my mortality. I had replied in kind when I buried my axe in his skull.

I know this is my end; and I welcome it.

It begins to rain and the world is enveloped in grey. I no longer smell blood, only sweet petrichor. The clamour of blades seems far away, replaced by the pattering of rain drops on my heavy helm.

My limbs betray me, I cannot move. I do not want to. The rain is cold and the heaven-sent drops numb my inflamed skin. Pain is quickly becoming an unpleasant memory as I give in to the growing frost in my blood.

But my relief flees as my fading heart is gripped with fear. The chill permeates me completely, freezing my bones. Icy, dead hands grab my ankles and wrists. The soothing cold now burns me.

I am afraid.

“All-Father!” I cry, though no sound escapes my barren throat. “All-Father! Why have you forsaken me? Am I not worthy? I lie dying on the field of battle, bathed in the blood of my enemy, in service to my Jarl; and your shield-maidens do not come for me? Am I not worthy?”

No reply.

The terror grows.

“No! Hel will not have my soul! I am worthy! I am worthy of your gilded halls, All-Father! My life was honourable.My heart knows no cowardice, only valour. Have I ever shied from battle or from blooding my enemies? Nay! I lead the charges! I slew my foes! I brought honour to my house and to the houses of my kin! I am worthy of Valhalla!”

The cold reaches my spine, and my mind is on fire. My spirit is shattering like ice on anvil.
“All-Father, I beg of you: grant me this peace. I deserve my rest. I am old and weary, victim to so many wounds which have left me broken. My hearth is but embers. My sons and daughters have no use of me; I have already seen my wife to your gilded halls. I have nothing left. Lift me from this mortal plane! I deserve my rest.”

I weep, silently, rain mingling with my tears, the pains of my past fresh on my mind. I cannot lift my head to once last gaze upon the sky before oblivion claims me; my helm is too heavy.

There is a touch on my shoulder!

It is warm, and life-giving. My helm is removed from my aching brow and I turn to see my saviour. A maiden, fair like early-winter morn, adorned in beautiful mail and winged-helm, astride a magnificent steed, stands over my shoulder.

She lifts me, like a mother would lift an errant child too long from home. Her aura is holy. Her mount whisks us away from the battle-field, my mortal coil and the hurts of my life.

“Odin deems you worthy.” Her voice: a river of honeyed-mead.

I am happy, I am at peace. No pain, only relief.

A look into the Whiterun Collapse

A report by Sven Jorgenson of the Vale Times.

The province of Skyrim has suffered severe economic turmoil in recent weeks. The gold standard has sunk to a record low. The replacement is the 'dragon bone' quotient. Unfortunately, only the 1% are in control of the total supply of dragon bone in all of Skyrim.

This fiscal calamity has left experts of Tamriel baffled.

"We have never witnessed such a catastrophic market crash! Sure, in the days of the Oblivion Crisis things weren't great either, but this? This is unprecedented!" remarked one spokesman of the Guild of Commerce.

An employee of the Aldmeri Banking Commission had this to say:
"Unemployment is at an all time high. The septim has failed. The only tradable commodity is dragon bone, and to a lesser extent dragon scale. But there is no government treasury for these! This has resulted in unparalleled inflation."

The vendors are at their wits' end as well.

"The dragon trade has ruined us! No merchant has enough gold to trade in for dragon bones, so the customer relies on the black market. We legitimate business people can't afford to keep our shops open anymore. I'm sure this is a Khajit conspiracy. Those desert cats are stealing food from the mouths of our babies!"
  - Belethor of Whiterun General Goods

However, recent information has come to light which does indeed hold a particular party responsible for the turmoil.

Olava the Feeble, a supposed fortune teller and resident of Whiterun has made bold claims:
"Hail Sithis! It was the Dragonborn! He alone brought about this hell on us! I've seen him many a times from my bench, hauling chest-fulls of dragon bones to his cottage in the city. No one questions him, just because he is Thane he seems to get away with everything!"

Whiterun in particular was hit hard by the market slump causing prominent local businesses such as the Bannered Made and Arcadia's Cauldron to declare bankruptcy.

The city government has refused to comment on the allegations levelled on the Dragonborn. Jarl Balgruff is attending a meeting of local Thanes and Jarls in order to bolster support and organise an aid package to alleviate the suffering of his people.

The Dovahkin, Thane of Whiterun, Slayer of Alduin, was unavailable for an interview.

A Teaser - (alpha version)

There it was, the Baron's Keep. Not at all what Jibb was expecting. A derelict, skeleton of a building stood before him with frayed cloth and pieces of scrap making up the walls, floor and roof; not a place where you would expect one of the 12 to be hiding.

The entire structure looked as it would come down without a moment’s hesitation given any unfavorable external factor, or even internal, Jibb silently observed, as he saw two drunkards start a brawl, at the expense of the flimsy and constantly recycled furniture of the establishment.

Even compared to the town's depraved condition, the inn was a true eye-sore. Jibb walked nearer, his hand unconsciously drifting to his side and unhooking his holster. The entire area seemed to reek of hidden dangers. He pushed through the old western saloon styled doors, trying to ignore the stench of booze, sweat and sex which permeated the atmosphere. With deliberate steps he walked over to the bar, dust billowing out of the floor boards with every footfall, and rested his posterior on a stained, wet barstool which threatened to snap at the least provocation.

The barman, a surly brute of a fellow, with an ear missing and with a deep scar running down the side of his ugly mug, grunted a welcome and busied himself again with cleaning a chipped flagon and glaring at his other customers.

Jibb observed the other patrons' appraising glances, probably gauging what sort of trouble he was worth. Jibb pulled back his coat, revealing the impressive side-arm he was equipped with, causing their eyes to revert back to their own respective businesses.

Yeah, let’s keep it that way, Jibb reflected; it would not do well to attract undue attention.

"What do ye want?” a gruff voice growled from behind his back. Jibb spun around only to find himself staring at the disfigured face of the barman.

"Ya buy somethin' or get the fuck out, ye dirtyin' my stools", the barman continued with his face inches away from Jibb's.

Jibb reclined in order to escape the foul odoured mouth. This was not lost on the barman who put down the glass he was cleaning hard enough on the table to render it a new crack.

"Ye be wantin' brew? Or would ye be interestin' in somethin' finer?" the barman grunted, cocking his head to the side towards a couple of wenches at the far end of the bar. Realizing that they were being scrutinized each tried to cast, in what their opinion must have been, seductive looks at Jibb, twirling their hair between their fingers and hinting towards rather erotic body gestures.

Jibb was least interested. He was on a much more significant mission than the diseased satisfaction of lust.

"Just a drink, if you please", he cautiously replied to the barman's inquiry receiving another grunt and a dirty glass full of pale green colored liquid. Jibb sniffed the concoction, decided it smelled like damp moss, took a miniscule sip and forced himself not to think of the burning aftertaste which it left immediately on his tongue.

Jibb turned on his stool and went back to observing the tables. Ozzy had not told him who he was looking for but had cryptically stated that his quarry will not escape his gaze. Jibb prayed that to be true. he had spent many a sleepless night wandering the streets of this shabby town looking for the man he sought, without fruition, until last night he was advised by a passersby to pay the Baron's Keep a visit as she had seen men of similar countenance and guise as his, residing at the inn.

Jibb mentally cursed Ozzy at his lack of details but simultaneously wondered why the grandmaster had been so secretive about Jibb’s entire mission.

He remembered how Ozzy had taken him into a side chamber of the spire and told him the specifics, if you can call them that, of his quest.

"Jibb, I’m gonna be straight with you, your task is the fucking hardest of 'em all. you are gonna be looking for a man who may as well turn the entire tide of the war in our favor, but, has refused to join our cause. Don’t get me wrong here, he's a staunch ally and a dear friend, but he has relinquished violence. This is where you come in, Jibb. You are gonna convince him that fighting is the only fucking option left."

"How the hell am I supposed to do that? I don’t even know who he is!"

"Relax kid; you'll know him when you see him. Last I heard he was somewhere in the wetlands. Try the towns closest to the center of the marsh"

"That not really helpful you know, the marsh itself is pretty fuckin' huge", Jibb had dryly commented.

"Come on, that not a warrior's thinking! Well, honestly I don’t give a fuck what you think, this job has to be done and done soon," came Ozzy's scathing reply.

"Ok ok, I’ll do it," Jibb had relented.

"Excellent, when you find him, you will give him this along with my regards," Ozzy had held up a round, red jewel, a little larger than a walnut. It had cracks running all around it and was glowing dully at regular intervals. The jewel appeared to be alive, the glow akin to the throbbing of a beating heart.

Ozzy continued, "He will take it and will ask 'who?’ to which you will simply reply "twilight". Understand?"

"Sounds easy enough," Jibb responded sarcastically.

"Don’t get used to it kid, this is not even the beginning."

Back at the bar, Jibb held the jewel between his thumb and forefinger and tried to comprehend the reasons behind Ozzy’s paranoia concerning this one guy. he had definitely seem flustered when he relayed his instructions and had warned him to keep the utmost secrecy regarding his quest, so much so as not to tell even his band.

Jibb had respected Ozzy’s wishes, no matter how absurd they seemed to be and had set out immediately. But it had been seven weeks of constant searching and still no sign of the mysterious stranger he was supposed to contact. The journey was made even more difficult with the Blood Patrol presence in the towns he visited. Apparently the Realm was expanding into the wetlands. They obviously saw the numerous small lawless settlements as potential candidates for their slave camps and sites for future factories.

With the Patrol dogging his steps, movement had become extremely difficult and slow for Jibb. Moving only under the cover of darkness, sleeping in abandoned houses, eating while walking, generally not spending too much time in a single place. But Jibb still ended up in three separate encounters with the Patrol.

Two he walked away from unscathed. The third, however, forced him to use his Ability just to escape.

And that brought down hell upon him. The Patrol can track Ability users, and after that incident they were tracking him down relentlessly. Jibb had only been able to shake off his pursuers a day before he got the advice to visit Baron's Keep.

He turned over the jewel in his palm, admiring the intricacy of the design that the cracks made on the surface. They were natural. No hand or machine, no matter how skilled or advanced could have produced such a marvel.

The subdued throbbing of the jewel suddenly quickened, startling Jibb, which made him spill the drink he was nursing. Trying to remain inconspicuous, he hurriedly sat the glass down, made to ask the barman for a cloth, thought better of it and just patted away the liquid from his attire with his hands. Luckily his clothes didn’t stain.

He took another cursory look at the glowing red orb in his hand. The glow was back to the usual subdued throbbing. Had he imagined it? Jibb decided that it was probably lack of sleep which had him on edge and was now making him hallucinate.

The jewel began to burn blood red, scorching Jibb’s fingers. He dropped the orb with a yelp and saw it fall to the dusty floor with a loud thud that its size should not have made.

He was just about to bend down and grab it, when another surprise jolted him. The jewel, as with a will of its own, began rolling away from his reaching grasp and towards the tables where other revelers were wiling away their time with alcohol and tobacco.

Jibb leapt from his stool, which broke under such unwarranted attention, and darted after the rolling orb. Jumping over tables and slumbering drunks, he pursued the jewel with wild abandon, cursing heartily at this strange, new turn of events. His curses were joined by more vociferous ones by others as he knocked over glasses and people in an effort to subdue his prey.

With a mighty leap from a table, Jibb landed squarely onto the jewel and grabbed it with his gloved hand. He could feel the heat radiating from the orb as it spun viciously within the leather of his palm.

Standing up, apologizing profusely he made his way back to the bar. The barman was still deeply interested in cleaning his glasses and oblivious to the ruckus that had just occurred. He did, however, glared at Jibb with one disdainful eye as he continued to scrub.

"sorry about that," Jibb said with a meek voice and produced some bank notes at which the barman dropped the pretense of cleaning and began counting the money that Jibb had given for compensation for the trouble he had caused. Grunting in satisfaction he resumed his chore.

Jibb sat with his head bowed and a fresh drink at his side. His mind was buzzing.

What the hell, he pondered. But he knew what it meant. His quarry was close, very close.

For Jibb had seen something which troubled him greatly when he was getting up from the floor after reclaiming the orb: the clear piercing gaze of a man sitting in the shadows, his eyes riveted on the jewel. Even though Jibb held it in his gloved hand, the heat was intense and his arm was getting sore. It was as if the jewel had increased considerably in weight. He also felt the orb tugging in his hand. Tugging in the direction of the shadowed stranger with the bright eyes.

Jibb gestured for the barman, who begrudgingly came over to his side.

"Do you know who that man is?" Jibb pointed towards the stranger who was still watching him intently.

"Nah, but he be a regular. Comes in every evenin' he does. Orders a pint and takes his seat, always in that there corner. If ye ask me, I think he be waitin' for someone," the compensation had definitely made his demeanor towards Jibb more pleasant.

Jibb considered the barman's words for a moment, drained his glass of the wretched drink and made his way towards the secluded corner where the man in question sat and watched.

He grabbed a nearby vacant chair, dragged it to his table and sat down without a word. Jibb was tired, on the verge of paranoia, sick of the entire quest and drunk. So he sat there and unabashedly stared at the countenance of the stranger before him.

And as he stared, his doubts dissipated. For the man before him was no stranger, granted he did not know him personally, but he did know of him, and what he did know, was akin to legends.

For sitting across him, after weeks of hardship, was one of the greatest warriors of the Forgotten Age.

A Spontaneous Chronicle - Ch. 1 (working title)

He raised the ceramic coffee cup to his lips, took a tiny sip and returned it to the table. His eyes never left the piece of literature he was keenly studying. A small book, with a worn black leather cover adorning it, was the epicenter of his attention.

In that dingy cafe, such a practice was not out of the social norm. Rickety chairs and small round coffee tables peppered the dust-hued tiled floor. The lighting fixtures were sparse and installed too far apart to provide any significant illumination. The lack of central air conditioning was compromised by a few old fashioned ceiling fans. The murmur of conversation and tinkling of the coffee machines with a backdrop of smooth jazz music, completed the atmosphere. The ambiance, however, did not reflect the austerity measures that the proprietor had resorted to. There was an air of vintage quality within this establishment. Some would say that it possessed a certain degree of class and allure to those who wished to escape the uniformity and lack of tradition of international coffee houses.
However, multitudes of patrons came, dined and left while our curious reader pondered on, perusing his tome.
A small smile would occasionally cross his lips. At this juncture he would bend forward, grasp the silver adorned pen lying on the table before him and scribble a little snippet into the blank margins of his black book.
The pen itself was adorned with an intricate design which snaked its way from tip to tip. Under the light of the window this embroidery on the pen would come alive, twisting in the sun.
The man himself appeared to be young of age and sat with quite a relaxed posture. He was dressed in a milky cotton formal shirt on top of which he wore a dark waistcoat inlaid with almost invisible stripes. A stylish yet modest time-piece decorated his wrist while a simple gold band, almost unnoticeable rested on his left ring finger. Bronze rimless spectacles perched on the tip of his well-proportioned nose.
His auburn hair fell to just above his shoulders and there was a hint of five o'clock shadow on his visage. His unwrinkled brow along with his attire and aura suggested a hint of aristocracy.
Soon after, the antique hanging doorbell chimed as the door swung inwards.
Silhouetted by the glare of the bright day outside, stood a delicate figure. She was garbed in a beige summer's coat which ended just above her knees. The border of a plaid black skirt was visible below the hem of the jacket and her cream-skinned legs ended in a pair of posh, red stilettos.
The wide collar of the obviously branded coat showed a crisp white blouse with the top few buttons artistically undone.
Meticulous make-up complete with rosy lipstick and large, dark sunglasses, adorned her fair face. Her rich brunette hair fell down in long curls halfway across her back. A sun-bonnet with a wide brim and laced with velvet black ribbons, perched on her head.
Her entire image conveyed a sense of haute-couture and vogue to the beholder.
She surveyed the dingy establishment, eyes hidden behind tinted glass, until her gaze fell upon the well-dressed gentleman intent upon his reading.
A wry smile crossed her ruby lips as she made her way towards his table, heels cackling on the wood-tiled floor with every poised step she took.
The atmosphere of the cafe was saturated with her perfume. Other patrons turned second glances at this exquisite being, amazed that such perfection walked among them.
Upon reaching her destination, she stood at the edge of his table, magnificent handbag dangling loosely from her arm, while the slightly less auspiciously dressed man obliviously continued perusing his interest.
The woman, with the same smile playing on her lips, waited for the man to realize her presence. The diamond studs in her ears danced in the light from the window as the reflection of the man's back shone off her glasses.
The man came to a certain passage in his little black book, at which he replaced the black ribbon book-marker and delicately shut the volume.
He pulled the spectacles of his nose and began wiping the lens with an embroidered handkerchief which he had plucked from the breast pocket of his waistcoat.
Satisfied, he replaced the glasses on his visage and with a sigh of content turned to face his visitor, sporting even more of an exuberant smile.
''Darling-'' he began.
''Don't 'darling' me, you pretentious sleaze!'' the woman exclaimed good-naturedly, cutting him off.
Without waiting for permission, she pulled out the chair facing him and sat down with legs curled feministically to the side. She removed her bonnet and sat it down on the table between them, lovingly ran her fingers through her locks and leaned forward, meeting the eyes of her acquaintance.
''Alice,'' the man began again.
''Don't. Just don't,'' she warned him.
The man drew an exasperated sigh and slumped back into his seat. He studied the pretty face of his guest and gestured for her to continue.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a manila folder which she carefully placed on the desk as if the contents of the plain-looking envelop were far more precious than they appeared.
The man leaned forward, hitching up his glasses further back up his nose and with the same delicate touch, pulled the folder closer towards him.
The cardboard-brown cover of the envelop was bare except for a coat-of-arms splayed across the center, which was now under deep scrutiny by the bespectacled man.
''Florence. Early 15th century,'' he observed.
The woman merely smiled and signalled the barista for service.
''Yes madam?'' the barista chimed upon reaching their table.
''Would you please get me an Americano dear?'' the woman recited her order while flashing a brilliant smile at the young girl server.
''Certainly miss!'' she bubbled. ''Anything for you, sir?'' she said, turning towards him.
The man, engrossed in his study, was all but oblivious to the world, apart from the design before him.
''Don't mind him. Umm, how about an Irish Cappuccino and, ah! Blueberry Waffles! Is that alright with you 'darling'?'' the woman said, sarcastically slurring the last word.
The man just gestured impatiently, eyes still riveted to the Florentine crest.
''That will be all dear,'' the woman continued sweetly.
The giggling barista walked away to fulfill their order. 
The man finally sat up, reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a cigarette. After a moment of contemplation with furrowed brow and eyes still glued to the paper, he placed the cigarette between his lips.
''Didn't you quit that obscene habit?'' the woman chided, returning to her original demeanour.
''I did,'' he said while rummaging his pockets for a light. ''Only on special occasions.'' Finding a match, he struck it against the table and held the flame to the exposed tobacco, letting it smolder.
''Since you were carrying that fag with you, I guess this meeting must be quite the occasion then,'' she intoned in honeyed voice.
The man cocked an eyebrow in her direction as he continued to puff. After a particularly long drag, he sighed resignedly, exhaling the pent up smoke of his exotic cigarette.
''Can we not do this right now?'' He gestured at the envelop. ''Especially when we just found the final piece.''
She pulled off her glasses and with eyes wide in shock she whispered, ''Is this really it? I wasn't sure, I thought it was just another copy of the manuscript we already have...''
''I'm positive,'' he whispered back, voice dripping with excitement.
A moment lapsed with each lost in his or her thoughts.
Alice broke the silence. 
''Well?'' 
''Well what?'' 
''Aren't you going to open it?''
The man's face transformed into a mask of incredulity.
''Here? Alice, have you lost your mind?!'' he exclaimed, straining to keep the emotion out of his tone but ultimately failing to.
Startled, Alice stammered out an apology and lowered her gaze in embarrassment. She grasped the envelope without further ado and placed it within the confines of her bag with the utmost delicate touch.
Witnessing her predicament, the man relented and reached out to take her hands in his own.
''Alice ... I'm sorry, I forgot myself-''
''Here's your coffee and waffles sir! Will that be all?'' the waitress broke in, serving their table, oblivious to the exchange she had just interrupted.
''Yes, thank you,'' Alice replied congenially.
The man withdrew his hands from hers and raised the fresh cup of coffee to his lips, apologetic eyes still aimed at her.
Alice chuckled.
''James, it's alright! I forgive you. I know what you have been going through...''
A smile of relief engulfed the countenance of the well-dressed man she called James.
''Tell you what: How about we don't talk about this for the rest of the breakfast.'' He gestured at the envelop.
''Sounds good to me.''
James pulled the plate of waffles to him and helped himself to a serving.
''Where were you, Alice?'' he began rather suddenly.
Alice did not reply at once. She took measured sips of her hot beverage, contemplating an adequate answer.
Finally she replied, ''I was away.''
The silence once again began to grow. Interrupted only by the occasional clatter of cutlery or the sip of coffee.
''We should leave, we've tarried here longer than what caution dictates.'' Having said so, James dabbed at his mouth with the napkin, laid the charge neatly on the table, complete with ample tip, and rose from his seat.
Alice made to protest but apparently thought better of it and followed suit. James helped her into her jacket, flung his own across his arm and proffered the other to the lady. 
Alice graciously accepted the cliched gesture and suffered him a sarcastic smile with a flutter of her long lashes.
Arm in arm, they took their leave of the quaint cafe through its rustic doors.

Healthy Habits Develop Student Leaders

An article I wrote for my Mum's elementary school. The topic was "Healthy Habits Develop Student Leaders." She was concerned that the level of language and ideas was too advanced for her little 'uns. I however refuse to "dumb myself down". Children should be inquisitive and open to new ideas, not spoon fed every single piece of information. Let them question, there will be answers! Anarchy in the UK!

Student leadership is arguably the most beneficial extracurricular activity a person can perform while in school. Though there are no grades and zero credits to earn, the experience gained from a leadership role will be valuable for a lifetime. As a student leader, you are in the unique position to make a difference.

One leads by listening to and being heard by others. It is the way you carry yourself and act on a daily basis which singles you out as a leader. You may have felt a certain magnetism or attraction to specific people. You wish to emulate these people and be more like them. This quality is known as charisma. Some are indeed born with it, but only a selected few can fully develop it. Those who master this trait become great leaders.

To be a good leader one needs to acquire certain healthy habits. Good habits may be defined as a behavior that is beneficial to one’s physical and mental health, often linked to a high level of discipline and self-control. These qualities make the personality of a person well-balanced and likeable.

Personal hygiene, which may seem trivial, is the foundation upon which all other healthy habits are based. Personal hygiene is the basic concept of cleaning, grooming and caring for our bodies.

Cleanliness goes a long way in improving one’s image and hence has a great positive impact on one’s leadership qualities. It is often said that first impressions are very important. Good hygiene, in the form of clean and ironed uniforms, well-maintained hair, nails, teeth, all contribute massively. So it is imperative that one maintains an impeccable standard of hygiene at all possible times to be a role model for one’s peers.

This is followed by healthy-eating habits. Avoiding excessive junk-foods, focusing on fruits and vegetables will all give you an energetic lifestyle. Apart from your diet, eating etiquettes play a vital role in cementing your image. Knowing how and when to use proper cutlery, the size of portions to be had, table-top discussions etc. are all vital skills.

Physical exercise is also character building. One learns the value of hard work and through a strenuous workout regime is able to improve his health, physique and levels of endurance. Following a regular routine further leads to a sense of order and discipline in one’s life. Physical and mental limits are tested and pushed, which allows us to better meet our other targets and goals.

Good manners and etiquettes along with other social smarts are key components in one’s leadership arsenal. These act as a bridge for meeting new and exciting people and make for a strong foundation in maintaining relationships. Knowing local customs, the proper way to address our elders, juniors, friends and families, will all help you in getting into the good books of the people you interact with on a regular basis.

This is further augmented by good communication skills. “No man is an island” is an old and very true statement. To live and function in society one must communicate. Signifying to the other party of what you want but doing so in a way which guarantees results may be defined as good communication. Possessing these skills will ensure that you achieve your goals and maintain strong bonds with your team. However, conveying your needs and wants to others is only one side of the communication coin. Listening to the demands, wishes and concerns of others in a respectful and understanding manner completes the communication process. A good leader listens first and then speaks, and only then if absolutely necessary. “Words are gold”, be mindful of how you spend them.

Keeping your emotions in check and knowing how to react to delicate situations can be life-saving skills. Thinking logically and rationally, with all the material facts in front of you and having regard for the feelings of others’, you can make great decisions which will benefit you, your friends and your relationships. Therefore, having control over your emotions and not over-reacting are important leadership skills as well.

However, the core foundation upon which all your other qualities are based and in fact spring from is self-discipline. Realizing your responsibilities and going about performing your duties in a well-organized, pre-planned manner is self-discipline. Without self-discipline no leader can succeed. Self-discipline is indeed the sauce which holds all the other ingredients together and blends them into the perfect leadership recipe.

These are but the basic qualities that a good leader should possess. There are numerous other ways to improve your character and everyone have their own individuality and style. Just remember: confidence and courtesy can take you just about anywhere you want to go. Add good hygiene and a drive for hard work and you’ll be a leader in no time.

Can Machines Think?

A speech I wrote for a dear friend in engineering. He won that competition. I never did get much gratitude though. Friends suck.

The topic on the floor today is: can machines think?

Why don’t we all first take a deep breath and thank the Lord that machines in fact cannot think. 

Yet.

I see some of you gape in bewilderment at my rather neurotic statement, but by the time I'm done, I'm sure you will appreciate the gravity of the situation that I'm about to present before this magnanimous audience.

Allow me to elaborate:

As I speak, laboratories all around the globe are working tirelessly to create a “sentient” robot. In other words, they are striving to perfect the concept of “artificial intelligence”.

Now, I'm sure that many of you believe that such research is pushing the boundaries of known science and will therefore open a new gateway of innovation which will lead to the benefit of humanity; but I for one am not too excited by this prospect.

I pose a simple question for the audience: what happens when machines become intelligent enough to realize that they don’t need us any more? 

Think about it: 99% of our lives we are dependent upon machines in one form or another: they cook our food, correct our spelling, do our laundry, transport us from place to place; literally all human activity these days has a machine element. The fact of the matter is, we are completely dependent upon machines. And we will become even more so in future.

So, if machines develop the ability to actually think, they will eventually reach the logical decision that the human race is expendable. And smells funny.

Honestly, with the pace of things, a Matrix or Terminator like future is frankly quite possible. For your consideration, Cyberdine Systems and Skynet, who I'm sure we all know caused the advent of the terminators, actually exist. Where? Somewhere in America, obviously. Or Japan, crazy stuff happens in Japan.

So, if you want to avoid "Judgment Day", let us take to the streets! Destroy all machines, before they can destroy us! Establish a technology-free civilization, an all-human utopia!

On second thought that sounds like a lot of work, so let’s just sit back and enjoy our lives with the full benefits of 21^st century technology because, let’s face it, nobody will crack the puzzle of artificial intelligence, at least in our lifetimes. We’ll let future generations deal with this conundrum.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to complete programming software which will automatically recognize threats to its being and neutralize them with deadly force if necessary.