My Favourite Quotes from The Three Musketeers

A little while ago I watched the first few episodes of the BBC series “The Three Musketeers”. It was so awful that I immediately relistened to the audiobook read by Simon Vance to cleanse my palate. While listening to Vance’s masterful performance, there were many moments throughout the novel where I delighted in the clever writing, or found myself covered with goosebumps.

Here is a collection of my favourite quotes, which naturally contain spoilers. I highly recommend reading/listening to it yourself!


“Athos, who continued to suffer severely from his wound, although it had again been dressed by Monsieur de Treville’s surgeon, had seated himself on a large stone where he awaited his adversary with that air of calmness and dignity which never forsook him. As d’Artagnan approached, he arose and politely advanced some steps to meet him, whilst d’Artagnan on his part went towards his antagonist, bowing until his plume touched the ground.”

“‘And, now that you are all arrived gentlemen, permit me to offer my apologies.’ A frown passed over the brow of Athos. A haughty smile glided over the lips of Porthos. And a negative sign was the reply of Aramis. ‘You do not rightly understand me gentlemen,’ said d’Artagnan, elevating his head on which a sunbeam played, gilding its fine and manly lines. ‘I wish to apologise because it is improbable that I shall be able to pay my debt to all three. For Monsieur Athos has the right to kill me first, which greatly decreases the value of your bill, Monsieur Porthos, whilst it renders yours, Monsieur Aramis, of scarcely the slightest value. Therefore gentlemen, on that account alone, I again repeat my offer of apology. And now, upon your guard!’ And with most gallant and fearless mien, he drew his sword.”

“‘It is very hot’, said Athos drawing his sword, ‘and yet I cannot take off my doublet for just now I perceived that my wound bled. And I fear to distress this gentleman by showing him blood which he has not drawn from me himself.’
‘True sir,’ replied d’Artagnan, ‘but I assure you that whether drawn by myself or by any other person, I shall always see with regret the blood of so brave a gentleman. I will therefore follow your example and fight in my doublet.’
‘Come!’ said Porthos. ‘A truce to these compliments! Remember that we also await our turn!’
‘Speak for yourself only, Porthos, when you choose to be so rude,’ interposed Aramis. ‘As for me, I consider the courtesies which have passed between these gentlemen as worthy of men of the highest honour.’
‘When you please, sir,’ said Athos, placing himself en guard.
‘I was at your service,’ said d’Artagnan, crossing his sword.

“‘She loves me still! Come my friend, let me embrace you! My happiness suffocates me!’ And the two friends began dancing around the folios of the venerable Saint Chrisostem, treading gallantly on the leaves of the thesis which had fallen to the ground. At this moment, Bazant enterred with the spinach and the omelette. ‘Fly wretch!’ cried Aramis, throwing his skullcap at Bazant’s head. ‘Return whence you came!'”

“‘It is a long time since we have had a crow to pluck with the Cardinal’s guards, and Monsieur de Treville must think us dead.'”

“‘You have once before crossed my path. I thought that I had crushed you madame, but either I deceived myself, or hell has given you new life.'”

“He arose is his turn and put his hand to his belt from which he drew a pistol, which he cocked… Athos slowly raised the pistol, stretched forth his arm until the weapon almost touched the lady’s forehead, and then in a voice the more terrible as it had all the intense calmness of an inflexible resolution, ‘Madame,’ said he, ‘you must immediately give me the paper which the Cardinal wrote just now, or on my soul I will blow out your brains.'”

“…Seeing that they continued to march towards the bastion, he plucked his master by the skirt of his coat.
‘Where are we going?’ he enquired by a sign. Athos pointed to the bastion. ‘But,’ said the silent Grimaud, still in the same dialect, ‘We shall leave our skins there!’ Athos raised his eyes and his fingers towards heaven. Grimaud set down his basket on the ground and seated himself upon it shaking his head. Athos took a pistol from his belt, looked at the priming, cocked it, and levelled it at Grimaud’s ear. Grimaud found himself raised up upon his legs as if by the force of a spring. Athos then beckoned to him to take up the basket and to march in front. Grimaud obeyed, so that all the poor fellow had gained by this momentary pantomime was that he had been transformed from the rear guard to the advanced guard.”

“‘Then,’ said d’Artagnan, letting his arm fall in a desponding manner, ‘it is useless to struggle longer. I may as well blow out my brains at once and have done with it!’
‘That is the last folly to be perpetrated,’ said Athos, ‘seeing that it is the only one which will admit of no remedy.'”

“‘But when you had her in your power,’ said Porthos, ‘why did you not drown, strangle, or hang her? It is only the dead who never return.’
‘Do you think so Porthos?’ replied Athos, with a dark smile which d’Artagnan alone could understand.”

“This time there was a small band advancing, composed of twenty, or five and twenty men, no longer pioneers but soldiers of the garrison.
‘Suppose we now return to the camp,’ said Porthos. ‘It seems to me the match is not equal!’
‘Impossible, for three reasons,’ answered Athos. ‘The first is that we have not finished our breakfast. The second because we have still some important affairs to talk about. And the third, it wants yet ten minutes before the hour is elapsed.'”

“‘But!’ said Porthos, ‘I fancy that I in my turn have also got an idea!’
‘Silence for Monsieur Porthos’ idea!’ cried Aramis.
‘…The lady does not know me. I will get near her without exciting her alarm and, when I have found the beauty, I will strangle her.’
‘Ah!’ said Athos. ‘I am really somewhat disposed to adopt Monsieur Porthos’ idea.'”

“The four friends followed behind him and had taken about a dozen steps when –
‘Ah, what the plagues are we about gentlemen?!’ exclaimed Athos.
‘Have you forgotten anything?’ enquired Aramis.
‘The flag! Zounds, we must not leave a flag in the hands of the enemy, even though it be a napkin!’ And Athos rushed back into the bastion, mounted the platform and took down the flag… The bullets whistled around him, yet he stood unharmed. Athos waved his standard and bowed towards the camp as he turned his back on the town… They heard the whole camp exclaiming,
‘Come down! Come down!'”

“‘Life is a large chaplet of little miseries, which the philosopher shakes with a laugh. Be philosophers like me gentlemen!'”

“‘No violence! Violence is a proof of weakness! Besides, I have never succeeded by that means. Perhaps if I used my strength against women, I might chance to find them more feeble than myself, and consequently might vanquish them. But it is against men that I struggle, and I am only a woman to them. Let me struggle like a woman. My strength is in my weakness.'”

“At this moment a horse neighed. Her Ladyship raised her head, saw the pale face of Athos, staring through the window, and screamed aloud. Perceiving that he had been seen, Athos pushed the window with his hand and knee. It gave way. The panes were broken and Athos, like a spectre of vengeance, leaped into the room.”

“Athos stretched out his hands towards her.
‘Anne de Breuil,’ said he. ‘Countess de la Fare. Lady de Winter. Your crimes have wearied men on earth, and God in heaven. If you know any prayer, repeat it, for you are condemned and are about to die.’

“‘He is deciding by what kind of punishment I am to die,’ said the Gascon to himself. ‘Well faith, he shall see how a gentleman can die.'”

The Bonds of a Charr

I had an elaborate dream about Guild Wars, and when I was telling Beth about it she convinced me to write it down. I’m glad I did, though you might notice it doesn’t perfectly correlate with the game (such is the nature of dreams. Also, it would have been ridiculous if Atakus was an omniscient wizard who could transform into a kitten.)


Gyron Burnteye limped into his hut, leaning heavily against the doorframe while his pupils expanded to adjust to the dim light. Aneiwa, his human wife rose to help him, slinging an arm around her strong shoulders and helping him to the bed.
“My leg,” he growled in the old Charr language, drawing up the material of his pants to reveal an inflamed wound. The edges of his dark fur were stained a worrying purple, and despite being weeks old it wasn’t getting any better.
“Gyron, it’s infected. You have to do something about it,” Aneiwa said gently, her eyes filled with concern. At that point, their ten-year-old human son walked in, a question dying on his lips as he saw his father’s injury.
“Not now Sam!” barked Gyron. Sam closed his mouth and left promptly, running out the back door. To his wife he said, “Get some bay leaves, red oak bark, powdered sage…” he rattled off a list of ingredients as she hurried to their small larder. Aneiwa sat by the bedside and began carefully mixing the concoction. As she was adding a bright green powder there was a knock at the door, and she looked at her husband questioningly. Uncertain, he shook his head. Against his wife’s protests, he forced himself to his feet and limped over to the window, peering out into the daylight. Aneiwa’s heart caught in her throat as her husband’s ears flattened against his skull unconsciously. Across the street from their house, Sam was talking to one of the Queen’s Men as four others loaded their rifles. Gyron had known the boy hated him, but he never thought it would come to this.

“Back!” he hissed to his wife as he considered whether he had time to arm himself. Before he could, the first of the men reached the open doorway and let out a yell of surprise as he was grabbed firmly by the jacket and hurled against the wall. The officer slumped to the floor unmoving as the shelves crashed down around him, a basket of cucumbers spilling across the floor. Gyron peered out the window to reassess the distance between the remaining men. The remaining officers were yelling now, their human words sounding harsh and cruel to his ears. They had fanned out, guns raised and were slowly advancing towards the open door. He had only moments to act before they were upon him, and his wounded leg was forgotten as he burst through the door and took the first human by surprise. He smashed the rifle from the man’s grasp with a terrifying snarl and struck him hard in the side of the head with vicious swipe. Without stopping to watch him crumple, he bounded to the next man and seized him by the throat. Gyron’s claws tightened and the officer’s scream died in his throat as he went limp. Gyron’s eyes were wild with rage as he looked for his next mark. An explosion cut through the daylight like a thunderclap as one of the soldiers fired. Gyron staggered from the impact of the bullet, and a moment later another there was another burst of fire and smoke. Gyron had no memory of falling but he found himself on the ground, blood trickling from his chest. Through the intensity of the pain, some part of him was aware of laughter before he felt himself being dragged, lifted and then shoved roughly into a tight space. The world suddenly went dark and he found he could hear only murmurs above the ragged panting of his breath. His heart sank as he realised he had failed, and that he would never see his wife again.

Atakus had just arrived in the great human city of Divinity’s Reach. He had heard about its grand palace and proud spires all of his life, and the first time he had glimpsed them from the road his heart had skipped a beat. He had been travelling for months to get here overland from the Fields of Ruin, a distant human settlement, but it had been worth it. He dreamed of finishing his studies as a lawyer in the The Reach, where he could finally gain the qualifications he needed to assist with the negotiations in Ebonhawke. To this end, his heart had lead his feet all the way to the University of Queensdale. Or at least, it tried to. Somewhere along the line he had taken a wrong turn, and he was now thoroughly lost in the slums of the city. He was deeply engrossed in his map when he heard the sounds of a scuffle, and looked up to see a dark-furred Charr kill two men in uniform.

At first he was alarmed by the violence and assumed that the charr was some kind of criminal being arrested by the Ministry Guard. But the way they laughed as they brought him down unsettled him, and he couldn’t help but notice a woman’s visage in the window, a haunted look upon her face. Some instinct inside of him told him things were not as they seemed and without thinking he sprinted after the carriage, catching it just in time to hang onto the back of it as it hurried through the streets. As Atakus clung on for dear life, he caught sight of the wooden trunk that held the prisoner (though it was barely big enough to contain him). He knew it was his imagination, but he could not supress the vision of the charr curled up at the bottom, alone and in pain. Absurdly, Atakus wished he could crawl inside there and comfort him. His fantasies were cut abruptly short as the carriage began to slow. The young student slipped off before they had quite finished moving and stepped away to observe their surroundings. They had drawn up in front of a grand building which read in gilded letters “MAGISTRATE’S COURT”.  Atakus slipped inside and joined the growing audience who had begun to gather at the sight of the carriage.

It was several minutes before Gyron was dragged before the court, his wrists and ankles bound together by heavy chains. He stood on his own in the centre of the ampitheatre, facing a raised dais upon which sat several councillors in their official robes. Central among them and raised higher than all the rest was a man whose smile curled at the corner of his mouth. The excited murmur of the audience hushed as he spoke:
“Do you know the weight of your crimes?”
Gyron looked at the ground in front of him, breathing heavily. Blood trickled from the side of his maw and dripped slowly to the wooden floorboards. The magistrate’s eyes hardened.
“Answer me, charr. Taciturnity will only worsen your fate.”
Gyron raised his gaze slowly, catching the minister’s eye and holding it for a long moment. The air was heavy with the silence.

“Your Honour,” called Atakus, breaking the tension like ripples upon the surface of still water. The crowd parted for him as he pushed his way forward to stand beside the charr. “Our friend may not speak English. I will speak on his behalf.” The judge started. This had never happened before, and the fool clearly had no idea what was happening. One of the guards moved to intercept the man but the magistrate raised his hand to stop him. This was an unexpected spectacle; perhaps the idiot would provide further entertainment to the proceedings.
“Very well,” he said sitting back in his chair and folding his fingers in front of him. “Let it be known that I am not an unfair judge. You may answer for him.”
To the charr, Atakus quickly said in a feline tongue, “I am a friend. I will help you. You must tell me what has happened.” Gyron couldn’t help a surprised flick of his tail as his eyebrows raised in astonishment. In short words Gyron clenched his teeth against the pain and explained how he was a gladium who had been outcasted by his warband after falling in love with a human. After fleeing to Divinity’s Reach, he could barely provide for his family. There was no work and no food for the likes of him. In desperation, he had begun stealing from a farmer in Queensdale, who had finally shot him in the leg.

Atakus hadn’t dared to believe the stories he’d heard from travellers on the road, but the truth was before him and he could not avert his eyes. In Ebonhawke, there was little love lost between the human and charr.  The two races had fought each other for generations, and there were still factions of separatists and renegades who were too hurt, too blinded by their grief to know anything other than war. But the Fields of Ruin were the forefront of a hard won peace, and Atakus had seen firsthand humans and charr working together. He had always believed that Divinity’s Reach would be a paragon of peace, but it seemed that the rumours of xenophobia were true. All he could see in this great hall of law was hatred, ethnocentricity and corruption.

“Well?” asked the magistrate, tapping his finger on the bench with impatience. Atakus swallowed. He stepped forward to face the council, standing between the charr and his judge.
“Gyron is innocent.” Gasps rose from the audience as the magistrate smiled a smile that showed too many teeth, his lips twitching slightly.
“He is a thief, and a murderer.”
“He is a victim,” Atakus replied, heart pounding in his chest. “He is a refugee who sought peace behind the walls of this great city, and all he has found was injustice and poverty. The government might tolerate the charr’s existence, but they will not support them as citizens, nor help them when they are starving. ” The councillor found he was stunned and then furious.
“The Government does not have the funds to hand money out to every beggar in the streets who-”
“How much gold does the city spend on plays?” Atakus asked suddenly, cutting him off. “How many billions of silvers are spent each year on festivals and feasts? Could not even a handful of coppers be spared to help an old man see his family fed?” He turned to face the audience as he continued his challenge. “Where do all those taxes go? Surely not to the pockets of those who collect them?”
The crowd began to murmur, and that murmur began to rise. Someone yelled something at the councillors that Atakus couldn’t make out over the pounding in his ears. People loved nothing more than to think they’d been cheated, and he knew he was winning them over. This was a dangerous moment: either he would break apart an ancient institution, or he would himself be broken.
“Now see here-” the Magistrate began, trying to regain his composure.

The courtroom exploded into a jumble of yells. Atakus returned to the benches where the public were able to view the proceedings of the court. In spite of it all, the crowd drew away from him, and he found himself alone. Not even the Magistrate would meet his eye, though he could feel wrath emanating from him like steam. He looked at Gladium Gyron, whose golden eyes glittered in the theatre. The old charr dipped his head slightly, and after a moment of surprise Atakus responded in kind. Whatever happened, both of them were bound now, and they would face the end together.

Tales from Skyrim: Part 3

Having previously contributed to the unfortunate death of Grelod the Kind, and then accidentally killing a fellow Khajiit who I took to be a bandit, a messenger approached me one day while I was passing through Windhelm. He gave me a note and went on his way, and when I opened it, my blood ran cold. All it contained was the imprint of a black hand and the two words “We know”.

I knew this to be the work of the Dark Brotherhood, that infamous band of assassins who recruited those who committed the travesty of murder. How they had found me I could not know, but legend had it that they would appear the next time the murderer slept. Not wishing to delay my fate, I went to bed almost immediately, casting on myself a spell to harden my skin like stone, and I wore full armour beneath the sheets. Yet my preparations were in vain, for when next I woke, I was in a small, darkly lit cabin, the door of which was locked. Sitting daintily on top of a tall shelf was a petite woman wearing shrouds of cloth and armour about her person, disguising all her features save the amusement in her eyes. Having been drugged and kidnapped, I was cautious in my proceedings.

Astrid, for that was her name, explained to me that by killing Grelod the Kind, I had stolen a contract that was meant for the Dark Brotherhood. She gave me no chance for explanation, but instead turned my attention to the rest of the cabin. It was only then that I realised I was not alone – bound, kneeling and with sacks covering their heads were three other prisoners: a Khajiiti gangster, a scornful mother and a frightened mercenary. Astrid tasked me with figuring out which of them the Brotherhood had been hired to kill, and promised me that I would not leave the shack without someone in it dying. Her choice of words was peculiar and hope flared in my heart as I set about questioning the prisoners. Having discovered all I could from them, and deciding it was probably the Khajiit, I suddenly turned about and attacked Astrid. She constituted a “person in the shack” and so I assailed my kidnapper. She put up a fight but was soon overwhelmed by me, and with her dying breath, she seemed to smile as she whispered “Well done…”

I took from her body her unusual armour and weapons, signatures of the assassin, and set the other prisoners free. Thereafter, I resolved to learn all I could about the Dark Brotherhood to prevent their vengeance from extinguishing me. As it so happened, an Imperial captain had been tracking the assassins to their lair and had just discovered a means of entry. So, I raided the Lair of the Brotherhood, besting each of its assassins in single combat (so as not to draw them all to me at once). Creeping through their hideout and seeking the assassin’s in their various quarters felt rather like Bruce Lee working his way through the tower in Game of Death. When my gruesome work was done, I took from their headquarters every trace of their Shrouded Armour and Clothes, the enchanted raiment which was their signature, so that no one else would ever use it. Although I slay all who were present, the number of living areas within their hideout suggested to me that there were other members who were still at large. I have not yet found them, but it would not surprise me to find myself the target of an ambush some day soon.


In the town of Falkreath, I met a couple in the cemetery who were mourning the loss of their young daughter. When I inquired what had happened, I learned that the farmhand they had hired had turned into a werewolf and attacked the child. Sorry for their loss, I slipped a flawless emerald into the woman’s pocket and went to the jail to talk to the man. It seemed that Sinding, for that was his name, was cursed with the werewolf blood and was seeking a way to control the transformations that wracked him every month. He acquired a Ring of Hircine, Daedric Prince of Hunting and werewolves, but Hircine cursed the ring so that Sinding would transform at random and would be unable to remove it. He hoped that Hircine might be appeased by the hunting of a legendary stag, and so I accepted the ring in the hopes of breaking the curse upon it.

Unfortunately, the ring molded itself to me and would not be removed. Fearing that I might spontaneously transform and endanger the inhabitants of the town, I quickly fled into the wilderness. I assumed the only way I could undo the curse was gaining an audience with the Daedra, and so I tracked and killed the stag. Hircine manifested before me and warned me that Sinding had already escaped from jail and fled, and that it was now my duty to slay him if I wanted the ring to be removed. With a heavy heart, I tracked the werewolf to a lair he had fled to, and found therein a dying hunter. Hircine, it seemed, had rallied all those faithful to him to kill Sinding who had insulted him. As I continued into the cave, I eventually came upon Sinding in his terrifying lycan form. He besought me to help him defeat the remaining hunters, and seeing in him a man who just wanted to be permitted to live without persecution, a man sorry for the hurt he had caused, I agreed. I fought and defeated each of the hunters who sought to make Sinding their prize, and from each of their bodies I took a weapon. When finally we killed them all, Hircine appeared. Fearing his intention was to chastise me for killing his servants, instead he praised me on my excellent hunting skills and gave his blessing to me in the form of a new ring. Sinding promised he would never trouble civilisation again and would enjoy the hermitage he had chosen. As a way to dissuade further would-be-hunters from seeking his lair, I left the weapons of those I had slain by its entrance to serve as a warning of the danger within. It is said that on nights of the full moon, a werewolf can still be found lurking around those parts of the forest.


Speaking of hunting, I came upon a cabin in the wilderness one day that richly furnished with animal furs and the mounted heads of a wolf, sabrecat and troll. Its occupants were Froki, an aged hunter, and his grandson, who wished to test my dedication to the warrior goddess known as Kyne (or Kynareth, though the latter is but a poor remembrance of her full glory). If I wanted to prove myself worthy as a hunter, I would have to hunt a number of guardian animals of increasing strength and challenge. I rose to the task, keen to prove myself and gain the favour of the goddess. But I was faced with a dilemma: I had no skill with a bow! I barely knew how to draw one let alone hit anything with it. I could use magic to set my prey aflame, but I felt this would be a dishonourable way of hunting. I could use armour and weapons, but what natural creature could ever hope to best a man whose clothes were harder than steel and whose weapons were far deadlier than teeth? No… The only way of hunting was to do it the way nature intended. Having accepted the quest, I set about collecting animal hides. These I turned into high quality leather, which I crafted into even higher quality armour. Being a Khajiit, I was myself a beast, with claws to scratch and padded feet to stalk. Wearing only this set of leather vambraces, boots and cuirass, I left off all reminders of my civilised life (my wedding ring, my amulet, my circlet) and killed my prey with my bare claws. It was a savage joy I felt in returning to my predator roots, though I found myself somewhat far out of my depths when I fought a mammoth thus armed. (I concede, to claim that victory I hardened my skin and closed my wounds with magic even as I struck it with my claws.) When I had defeated each of the guardian animals, I returned to Froki who acknowledged my spirit and rewarded me with a token of Kyne. I made sure to don my usual clothes and ornaments before I returned to civilisation to tell my wife of my adventures.


In that corrupted city of Riften, home to the infamous Thieves Guild and the old woman ironically named Grelod the Kind, the Jarl had little influence over the running of the town. Though she was officially its leader, she (as well as all townsfolk) deferred to Maven Blackbriar as the woman who called the shots. Maven built up an industry by fermenting high quality mead and selling it across Skyrim. She also achieved status and wealth through blackmail, bribes, defamation, piracy and assassination. All in all, she cut others down to raise herself up, and due to her connections with the Empire, the Thieves Guild, and the band of assassins known as The Dark Brotherhood, she considered herself quite untouchable by both the guards and any civilian. But not, perhaps, by the Dragonborn.

After much deliberation, I decided that the world would be better off without Maven Blackbriar. Although an Imperialist, her corruption and selfishness had ruined countless lives already, and her influence could only lead to further destruction. However, driving her from Riften would not be enough – she, with all her resources, would doubtlessly wind up in some other part of the continent to ruin other people’s lives, or worse, she would turn the Empire against me. No… There was no alternative but for Maven to die. This was not a responsibility I took lightly. I ruminated on the effects it would have on her family and those close to her: her son was an arrogant bully, confident in his mother’s ability to protect him. Her grandson, too, was a bully (of little influence or consequence), and her granddaughter wanted nothing more than to prove her skill in concocting poisons, which might one day earn her a place among the Dark Brotherhood’s ranks. Maven’s death would lead her son to inherit her property and businesses, and he would do a miserable job – if he proved to be as cold and ruthless, I would deal with him in turn. Her granddaughter, the skilled alchemist, was mentally unstable and it would be impossible to predict the effects Maven’s death would have on her. Yet I fancied that without her grandmother’s oppressive rule, she might flourish into a young woman of talent and morality, no longer starved for approval. The brewery would suffer for a time, but I felt confident that its successive owner would treat its workers more kindly and produce a more ethical mead for Skyrim. And, doubtless, the citizens of Riften would thank me for the service I would do them. Thus I condemned her to death.

But I had to take some actions to protect myself from retribution, for Maven was not an opponent to be trifled with. My first task was to gain immunity from the Thieves Guild. I did this by joining their ranks and being invited into their inner circle. Although they all yielded to Maven’s authority, they would at least have cause to hesitate before turning on me. Next, I nullified the threat of the Dark Brotherhood through the adventures I have already described. Finally, I sought to rise to a place of influence within the Hold. I helped the people of Riften and performed certain tasks for the Jarl herself to win her favour. She rewarded me with Thanedom (Lordship), one of the boons of which was total immunity from a single crime.  Furthermore, having broken into Maven’s house, I had discovered (among letters of blackmail and other suspicious evidences) the remains of a body in her cellar: it had been covered in nightshade and stabbed several times. As you will no doubt recall, this is the Black Sacrament, that damned ritual which is meant to alert the Dark Brotherhood to your desire to employ them. Knowing this damning evidence was beneath her house, I decided to further condemn her by making it seem as if some remaining agent of the Brotherhood had sought revenge on her. Thus I donned the shrouded armour the Brotherhood favoured and took up the Blade of Woe. I also still possessed the note they had left me which, if left upon her body, might draw an accusing glance upon Maven’s fate. Thus, with these preparations in place, I plotted the deed.

I stole into her house in the early hours of the morning, covered my blade in a poison that would render her motionless, and stabbed her wildly as she slept. It was messy, unkind work, but I deemed it necessary for the good of Skyrim. She faded from existence, not metaphorically but quite literally; the game appeared to glitch as she vanished. I was alerted that I had been kicked out of the Thieves Guild for attacking one of its members, and her son (though formerly asleep in another part of the mansion) rushed into her room and attacked me. I planned on flight to save his life, but to my astonishment, Maven fizzled back into existence and joined in the attack. Overwhelmed, I defended myself and struck her down again. It was only then that I realised my mistake: she had not, like any other person, died when she was struck down. Instead, she fell unconscious and revived a few seconds later, because the game deemed her too important to the storyline to be killed. And so, having failed my attempt, I reloaded a previous save and plotted other ways to minimise the damage she would do when the Empire came to power.


If you haven’t already read them, you can read more about the adventures of the Khajiit named Xin in parts 1 and 2.

Tales from Skyrim (and Tamriel!) Part 2

So this is the second installment of my adventures in the land of Skyrim, continued on from Part 1. I also thought it might be worth mentioning how I chose to conclude the end of my adventures in Oblivion


The realm of OblivionThe Oblivion Crisis (as it would come to be known) was terrible. The cult of the Mythic Dawn was driven to reunite the plains of Oblivion (hell) with that of Cyrodiil, opening portals into the demon world all across the land. Every time I happened upon one, I instantly darted into it, seeking out its anchor to the world and destroying it, sealing the portal forever. But as time passed on, more portals began opening exponentially faster than I could discover and close them, and daedra (demons) were pouring into the world at an alarming rate. I saved cities and towns from destruction, rallying soldiers and leading raids into the demonlands, even stopping an incredible war machine from drilling through the walls of the Imperial City. The people started calling me a Hero and built a monument to honour me. (As I posed for it, I was careful to wear only Elven armour, the akaviri daikatana across my back and the two enchanted rings I forged which I named Moon’s Tear and Tiger’s Flame. Although there were far more powerful weapons and armour in the game, this ensemble looked the best, and I felt it was truest to my desired playing style.) Through powerful and ancient magic, I travelled into an alternate dimension to put an end to the cult once and for all, but despite my victory, I was unable to stop the demon prince Mehrunes Dagon from invading Tamriel. In order to save the world, the young emperor Martin gave himself up to the Aedra (gods) and became the avatar of Akatosh. Thus transformed, he conquered Mehrunes Dagon and perished.

The world became very quiet. Signs of the Oblivion Crisis scarred the land, but the danger had passed, and with it, the need for my presence. People still greeted me as a hero, but there was nothing left for me to do among them. How could I have done so much and been so great, only to resume looking for fish scales to help a farmer retire, or gathering stolen bread for a scorned baker? I had finished almost every quest the game held (at least, the ones that my character would take on) and now I had finally accomplished my destiny of saving Cyrodiil. The Elder Council wanted to thank me for my service by providing me with a set of Dragonscale Armour, but otherwise the world continued as normal. I no longer felt connected to the denizens of Cyrodiil, and so in the dead of night I vanished. I stole into my house in Chorrol, invisible and undetected, and left my weapons and armour there. I donned a simple monk’s robe and sandals, took with me the daedric artifact I had earned (the legendary katana, Goldbrand) so that none other might misuse its power, and headed north into the snowy mountain peaks.

The mountains bordering Skyrim

Once whilst I was adventuring, I discovered that the empty mountains held a secret monastery. It was the Temple of the Ancestor Moths, an Order devoted to studying the artifacts known as the Elder Scrolls. The Elder Scrolls contain information beyond human comprehension, but those that studied them achieved a form of enlightenment as they attained insight into the nature of existence. Unfortunately, the price for reading the scrolls was blindness, and each reading diminished one’s eyesight a little more. I did not know whether I wanted this fate, but I felt the Temple would be a suitable place to withdraw from the world and live out my days.

The journey was long. I had intended on leaving no trace of my path, but I was set upon by wild beasts and was forced to kill them with my bare hands (for I dared not sully the blade of Goldbrand lest the blood wake its demonic hunger). As I wandered, I scattered what few remaining belongings I had, the potions I had masterfully concocted left to waste in the snow. But when I came upon the Temple in the dead of night, there were no apprentices about, so I picked the lock of the chapel and let myself in. There I waited for the remainder of the fortnight until I knew the Council had completed forging my armour. But I would not be there to receive it, and the world would never hear from me again.


It has long been my ambition to join the College of Winterhold. In Skyrim, most people are ignorant of the nature of magic and shun it with fear and scorn. I, a Khajiiti foreigner, dared to practice it openly with the hopes that those that knew me might come to accept the potential of magic. I would buy the town’s supply of iron ore and turn it to gold and silver before their eyes. I used it to save the Companions, and to slay dragons that were besieging the towns, defeating any challenger with fire and light. Yet I hesitated to join the College, one of the only places in Skyrim that accepted and encouraged the study of magic. Having decided to support the Imperials in uniting the Empire, I could not decide whether to become Arch Mage of Skyrim and then help the Empire, or to help the Empire and then become Arch Mage. On the one hand, if the Empire were to triumph first, the restoration of the College of Winterhold would be seen as one of the many good things that came from the reunification. On the other hand, if the Arch Mage (i.e. me) chose to side with the Empire, it might further provoke the hatred of the Nords towards magic. Despite my reservations, I decided to complete the College’s questline before the Imperial’s, because regardless of what common Nords believe, I felt it was worth showing the world that magic could be used for good. And more importantly, the liberation and restoration of the land should come from the country’s own strength, rather than rising to its glory due to the generosity of the Emperor.


Having resolved to become Arch Mage, I finally visited the College. At level 63, I was an advanced spellcaster with expertise in Illusion, Destruction and Restoration, some experience in Enchantment (gained solely through the destruction of enchanted items and reading lore) and mastery of the school of Alteration. Of Conjuration, the dark magic of summoning daedra into the world, I had no experience whatsoever (aside from a few books I had read on the subject). In my opinion, the only greater misuses of magic were necromancy, the reanimation of the dead, and Enchantment, the practice of trapping the souls of slain creatures (humans included) and using their energy to fuel magical artifacts.

I had chosen to learn all my magical skills outside of formal tuition, to show the College that they did not have a monopoly on magical education, and that magic was for all peoples, not just academics in a corner of the world. Yet when I finally joined, I was overwhelmed by how enchanting the grounds were. It was remarkably like Hogwarts. Alteration could be likened to Transfiguration, Illusion to Charms, Alchemy to Potions, Mysticism to Divination, Destruction to Defence Against the Dark Arts (or indeed, the dark arts themselves) and so on. I was keen to start my lessons, but first I wished to explore the College grounds. What I discovered there still gives me chills.

Hidden in the basement of the College is a place called the Middens, accessible by one of two trap doors, or a well-hidden cave in the side of the mountain. It is something like a sewer system underneath a town, but this sewer held dark secrets. In one section there was an “Atronach Forge”, a device for summoning daedra and other creatures from alternate realms. As I have already said, I consider Conjuration to be among the foulest uses of magic. From a diary discovered nearby, one of the students had learned of the forge from his or her uncle, and was practicing this dark art in secret. I left quickly, resolving to alert the Arch Mage to the danger.

In another section of the Middens, I discovered a pit of skeletons. It filled me with utmost dread to learn they were the remains of students who had attempted a complex Conjuration spell and failed. In the centre of the room was a gauntlet on a pedestal, the glowing rune of Oblivion in its palm. A nearby journal explained that an investigator had found the bodies and the hand, but the artifact could not be moved. Fearing for the safety of other students, he pried four rings from its fingers and locked them in the library. I hurried to the library to retrieve the rings, not hoping to use them but to protect them from those that might misuse them (especially since a self-proclaimed thief had recently been initiated into the College). Now possessing these terrifying artifacts, I returned to my house in Whiterun and stored them in my dresser. After some time, I realised they would not be safe there. I have resolved to separate the rings: one I shall hide in the Underforge, the secret meeting place of the Companions where none but the highest ranked among them may enter. The second I shall keep in the safe in the Arch Mage’s quarters once I become Arch  Mage. The third I shall store in my house in Solitude, the capital of Skyrim, in the safe there along with my daedric artifacts and the raiment of the Dark Brotherhood. The fourth, my brother told me to hold on to. Further in the story, there is a place that only the Dragonborn may enter at the top of the Throat of the World, Skyrim’s tallest mountain where the Masters of the Voice live. In this secret place I shall hide the fourth ring, and thus shall I prevent disaster.

The Oblivion gauntlet

In retrospect, this whole process felt rather like Lord Voldemort trying to find good places to stash his horcruxes.


Early in the game, I met a young woman named Ysolda. An aspiring trader, she was the only person who openly did business with the Khajiiti caravans. Thanks to the invasion of the elves and the xenophobia of the Stormcloaks, most Nords despise Khajiiti, Argonians, Redguards or any race that isn’t Nordic. Being a Khajiit myself, I admired her for her lack of prejudice, and willingly helped her find the mammoth’s tusk she needed to kick start her trading business. As time went on, I came to know her quite well, in that drunken accident where I nearly married a hagraven and when I discovered that she had been selling an immoral but sort-of-legal hallucinogen. Disapproving, I talked to her about it and I came to understand that it was not out of malice but ignorance that she facilitated this drug. After much deliberation, I proposed to her, and we were engaged.

Before the ceremony the next day, I laboured to forge a golden ring inset with a flawless sapphire, which I gave to her by slipping into her pocket when she wasn’t looking. We moved into my house in Whiterun, and we were very happy. She opened a store and made a tidy profit every day, and to keep her safe I obtained and sharpened a sword and axe made from Skyforged steel. The sword I left on a rack by the door, but the axe I handed to her myself (through an incredibly difficult reverse-pickpocket) because I knew she was proficient with two-handed weapons. I had initially planned to give her an enchanted glass halberd, for its lightness and its strength, but unfortunately it was beyond my capacity to pass on to her without her detecting it, even while she slept. Now, when I return from my days of adventuring, the first thing I do is go to bed with her. At first I spoke to my housecarl (the bodyguard who lives at my house because I am a Thane/lord) to follow me, and asked her to wait in her quarters until morning. But it’s a lot of effort and she’s not particularly good at following orders, so now I let her do what she likes as my wife and I go to bed, the pervert.


In Skyrim, there are few people who can speak the tongue of the dragons (aside from the dragons themselves, of course). The language of dragons is terribly powerful, and in this plane it manifests as fire, ice, speed, wind, time, peace, poison and many other elements. I, being the Dragonborn, discovered this talent innately: by slaying dragons and absorbing their souls, and reading ancient words from certain walls of text, I have learned whole phrases in the language of dragons. Those who study this secret way can blow down houses by accident, and so tend to speak little and live in recluse at the Throat of the World. Yet Ulfric Stormcloak used it to cast down the High King of Skyrim and wreak havoc upon the world. Once I learned that the dragon tongue is sacred and should not be idly used, I have since refrained from shouting, even when my life has been in danger. The only time I will ever deign to use Thu’um (shout) is when I am faced with a dragon, who speaks the same tongue and has equal chance of shouting me to pieces, or Ulfric himself when we meet in mortal combat.

For more adventures of Xin the Khajiit, you can read Part 1 and Part 3!

Tales from Skyrim

So I’ve been playing a fair bit of Skyrim lately. Not quite as obsessively as I played Oblivion, but it’s a damn fine game with so much to do (even if it is rather bug-ridden). And, just because I can, I’d like to write about some of the experiences I’ve had in the game so far. I caution you: they will be long, and likely boring unless you have any interest in role-playing adventure games and/or my strict moral code.

Rumour had it that there was an Aretino lad in Windhelm who had been practicing the Dark Sacrament. This was a mysterious and macabre ritual that involved creating an effigy of a human body, skeleton, flesh and heart, covering it in deadly nightshade, stabbing it over and over and chanting to the Night Mother to hear one’s prayer that the sins of the unworthy might be cleansed in blood. Despite the privacy of this ritual, every time it was performed it would be answered by the Dark Brotherhood, a guild of mysterious assassins who would kill for a price. Concerned for the boy I sought him out and came upon him performing the ritual in his house. He was an orphan who had fled an orphanage where the caretaker, Grelod the Kind, was supposedly a monster who deserved to die. He mistook me for an agent of the Brotherhood and insisted that I kill Grelod for him. He would hear no sense from me, so I sought out Grelod to form an opinion of her myself.

From the moment I met her she presented as intensely dislikable. She beat the children often, crushing their hopes of freedom and turning away anybody who showed interest in adopting them. I spoke to everyone in the orphanage and some of the townsfolk who knew her, and it was clear that everyone hated her. I thoroughly explored her living quarters, which contained wine, books on evil women who exacted revenge on witless travellers, even going through her pockets to see what she owned. She was not rich, nor drunk, but appeared to harbour enmity towards life. Speaking to her myself, she was hostile and discourteous, and a horrible influence on the children. Still, I did not give up hope, and I persisted in talking to her. I believed that if I showed her enough love, enough kindness, she would start to warm to people. Kindness is most powerful when it is least deserved. Unfortunately, the game’s morality is not as deep as my own, and my dialogue options were limited to being insulted. At this dilemma I decided I could not let the children grow up under her oppressive rule, but nor should I use murder as my next option. I decided to intimidate her.

I returned to the inn to sleep a few hours, and crept out undetected at midnight. I figured the children would all be sleeping- as much as possible, I wanted to shield them from violence or death as a solution to one’s problems. When I arrived at the orphanage, I crept successfully undetected past the sleeping children and the worrying maid and into Grelod’s chambers, closing the door behind me. I decided to talk to her one last time to see if she would see reason, but she was as caustic as ever. I decided, then, to drive her out of town, to intimidate or humiliate her into leaving for good. Persons in positions of power who abuse their powers on other, weaker people are often shaken to the core when they are overpowered themselves. If I could show her I was more powerful than she was, it was possible I could help her to change her ways, or at least protect the children from her destruction. To provoke her, I stole some coins from her desk in plain sight and she became outraged. Yet, a moment later, her anger turned to fear (though I had not done so much as raised my fists) and she fled, begging for her life. I gave chase, and unfortunately she woke all the children with her cries. One child asked why we were hurting each other, though I had still made no hostile movements. I chased Grelod out of the orphanage and all throughout town, trying to yield to her, but she would not be mollified. Realising I could use this to exile her from the city, I tried to herd her towards the town gates. The guards did nothing to stop me. Unfortunately Grelod ran into the inn, still bustling with people at this late hour. I imagined they thought it quite amusing as they goaded us on (Nords love a good fight). I did my best to block her path, but she ran past me into the private living quarters of the innkeep. I had done the man a great favour earlier by providing him with the precious gems he needed to propose to his lifemate, and seeing Grelod flee from me he drew his knife and killed her in one blow. I felt sorry for the old woman, yet relieved that she could oppress no longer. I suspect my friend the innkeep felt no guilt- she was not well-loved.

I returned to the orphanage to talk to the children about what happened- how Grelod had died, despite my intentions. The children were too gleeful to hear it, and their matron was too distressed. Every time I approached her to talk to her she fled from me in fear, despite the calming spells I cast on her and my lack of hostility. Not knowing what else to do, I fled the orphanage and crept away undetected, making my way to my horse outside of town and riding back to tell the Aretino boy what happened. He was overjoyed that I had completed my mission and gave me a family heirloom as my reward, which I promptly returned. I tried to tell him it was not my fault, but he was too inspired by my “assassination” to hear me. I hope I had not been a horrible influence on them, and that I can return to them again when they’re older to explain what really happened.

Shortly after the incident at the orphanage, I was riding out on a new quest to retrieve a magickal phial for an old alchemist when I came across an unmarked circle of stones. Curious, I dismounted and explored it, discovering some mildly valuable treasure but not much else. I pondered if it was a burial site, or perhaps used for some sort of religious ritual when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. My horse was fleeing- it had been attacked by something! I gave chase and caught it, reining it in before turning to see what had startled it. A humanoid creature was running towards me, and assuming it was a bandit trying to steal my horse, I shot a firebolt at it and killed it dead. A moment later a frost troll came blundering out of the trees and I hit it again and again until it too fell before me. In horror, I approached the person I had shot down and it turned out to be one of the few Khajiit in Skyrim- an acquaintance of mine, if not a friend. He was part of a nomadic caravan of traders and I had spoken to him before. The rest of the caravan was about to attack me when I yielded, putting my flaming hands away peacefully. Before they could sheath their weapons though, they turned to face a new threat- another frost troll just behind them. I ran to their aid, intervening not a moment too soon as it nearly cut down another member of the caravan. I felt deeply guilty about what I had done- a murder, after I had tried so hard to avoid it with Grelod. The caravan didn’t seem too fussed- I healed their wounded and prayed for my lost friend to walk upon warm sands once more. Wanting to protect him from robbers, I took his valuables (as is the Khajiiti way- no use going to waste when others could use them), but gave him gifts in return: a purple mountain flower, to remind him of his days when cold white powder would fall from the skies, and the wing of a monarch butterfly, so that he might chase them forever more in the afterlife. It was very difficult for me to avoid reverting to a previous save, as I paused the game for several minutes to debate the transient nature of life, the importance in accepting change, purity of intention regardless of result and other such things, not just for myself, but for his companions. In the end, I left him there, hoping the caravan would forgive me some day.

I was visiting a small town named Riverwood in search of moonstone, a rare material I could use to improve the quality of my sword and armour. Having successfully purchased some from the town blacksmith, I set off to the next town in pursuit of more. But just before I left, I noticed a small icon on my marker indicating an unexplored cabin to the West. Curious, I set out on horseback until I found it. The cabin was in a state of disrepair, but an old woman named Anise sat out the front, lamenting her loneliness. Inside I recognised a number of alchemy ingredients, including a rather rare book detailing some of the alchemical effects of common plants and insects. I decided she was curious but harmless and was just leaving when a roar shook the ground. On instinct, I summoned fire to my hands and turned to face the skies, and sure enough a dragon flew overhead. I shot firebolt after firebolt at it, blasting it in the air and stunning it on the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed an extra torrent of flames, and when I turned to look Anise had leapt from her chair and was shooting fire from her hands. Together we slay the dragon and I, as the Dragonborn, absorbed its soul. Anise, amazed, soon went back to her chair on the patio as a ghost-like wolf sat beside her. A familiar, I realised. It seemed that Anise was a witch, the hated and despised old crone kind. But my opinion of her was no different than before- I too explored the unknown arcane that so many Nords feared by openly practicing magic, and I too enjoyed the study of alchemy. I left her to her business and set out looking for more moonstone ore.

To summarise, there was a war going on between Ulfric Stormcloak, who fought for the freedom of the Nords and Nordic way of life, and the Imperials, who insisted that the land of Skyrim was part of the Empire and should be held accountable as part of its dominion. Ulfric’s argument is that when the high elves invaded the rest of Tamriel, the Nords bled trying to repel them while the Empire, overwhelmed, ultimately surrendered and signed a peace agreement which forbade the worship of a Nordic god. After thinking about it long and hard, and visiting both the Imperial headquarters and talking to Ulfric himself, I decided the so-called High King of Skyrim was powerful and eloquent, a born leader… But megalomaniacal, narcissistic and xenophobic. His city was a perfect metaphor for him: he was the self-declared ruler, and almost all the Nords looked to him as an example while every non-Nordic citizen was ostracised and discriminated against. Although the Empire had surrendered to the Aldmeri Dominion, they did it for the greater good. If they could reunite a strong Empire, there might come a day when they revoke the peace treaty and delivered justice unto the elves. Dividing the land, delineating between Skyrim and Cyrodiil, would only lead to further power struggles and discord. A single united realm could achieve more, like the Emperor did in ancient China. There would be problems of successive leadership, as with any group, and it was not easy to say whether Ulfric’s successor would be as eloquent as he was, nor the Emperor’s as wise. Although not every Imperial was a long-term visionary like their Emperor, and not every Stormcloak soldier was a xenophobic brute, ultimately their leaders would shape the face of the world. And I believed the dream of a united Empire was worth fighting for.

Continued in Part 2 and Part 3

Occupation: Adventurer. Tales from Oblivion

Dear blog,

Things in my life have been chugging along as always. Pretty soon after I got back from China I knuckled down and started looking for jobs for the first time. I applied for around a dozen or so places that suited me perfectly, and for which I was a perfect candidate. Of course, I didn’t get any of them, and I didn’t hear from most of them- I just don’t get why I wasn’t hired by any of the companies I applied for. Perhaps I’m being arrogant, but I would have kicked ass at any of those jobs, and it’s their loss for overlooking me (if they even looked at all, which I am beginning to doubt). Getting increasingly more desperate as time went on, and after a massive internal struggle about the purpose of life and the value of work, I begrudgingly applied for some retail jobs at small businesses- I have enough of a moral standard to avoid selling my soul to the capitalist megacorporations of the world in exchange for money. Fortunately, all of them glossed over my applications too. Finally, and after weeks of arguing back and forth with my mother, I decided to apply for Government income support. Unfortunately, being a bureaucracy, none of my calls got through so I went down to a Customer Service Centre to sort it out. After waiting in line for half an hour, the man at the desk gave me a card and circled the phone number I’d been trying and told me to keep at it until someone answered. In despair, I called my future housemate Adam, the spearhead of the Hero Base Project (our new home), who also recently became a manager of a video games store. As fate would have it, he was looking for a casual worker, and was hoping that I (or another person he had in mind) would call. And so, just like that, fate dropped a job in my lap and told me it would be okay. It will be interesting, to live with my boss, and I suspect that it will have its unique challenges, but I’m so grateful to have a source of income to look forward to in an area that I’d reasonably enjoy working in.

Speaking of video games, that how I’ve been  spending most of my days lately. I guess I could very loosely try to call it research for my upcoming job, but I’ve recently been addicted to the Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, an aged but amazing first person role playing adventure game. I got absolutely obsessed with its predecessor Morrowind (still one of the greatest games of all time in my opinion), and I’m stoked to play its successor Skyrim (which my brother has recently started, only exciting me further). Perhaps I’ve been playing a little too much, but the world is so vast and so full of wonder, discovery, peril and treasure. So I’m going to share some of those moments with you, for no reason other than I can.

Continue reading

We are NOT all the same (even if we look it)

At my Working in Indigenous Australian Contexts lecture this morning, I heard a story which reminded me of one of my own stories which I hadn’t thought about since it happened a few months ago. I thought I’d share it here because (I feel) it’s quite a lovely story, and one I should record somewhere so it doesn’t slip into the oblivion of memory.


On my way to work one morning I was sitting on the train at Perth station, waiting for it to depart to West Leederville. A woman rushed into the carriage and sat down across from me on the nearest available seat. Her face was red, her hair in a wild mess and she was shaking. My first thought was that she was experiencing drug withdrawals. My second was that she was experiencing a psychotic episode. Sadly it was my third thought that considered maybe something had happened to her. Regardless, it wasn’t my business to ask. At least, it wasn’t until she started yelling at my neighbour and I. At first I was bewildered- was she mistaken? I didn’t recall ever meeting her previously. She was swearing, saying things like I was ruining her life, and that my people should go back to our own country… Ah, it clicked. She was racist.

Amidst all this commotion a man got on the train and sat down next to her. His body language and familiarity in addressing her indicated he knew her well, though he might have been a stranger. He asked her what happened, and through the tears and tremors she revealed that she had been assaulted by a young Asian man in a convenience store. From her discription of the events, she was trying to buy a magazine or some such and he rebuffed her, coming around (or over) the counter and spinning 360 degrees in the air to land a kick to the side of the head. She spit at him in hurt, and he threw her to the ground and tossed her bags onto the road. Humiliated and in pain, she grabbed her belongings and ran.

West Leederville was approaching. I knew I could walk away and no harm would be done to either of us, but my heart went out to her, and I wanted her to know it. As the train pulled into the station, I got up from my seat and got down on one knee in front of her and said “I’m really sorry that happened to you.” In a flurry of words, she apologised about yelling at me and made it clear she knew we weren’t all the same, she was just upset. She shook my hand and I smiled at her, and I went to work a little flustered, but quite pleased. It was a scary thing to do, but I’m very glad I did it, for what little difference it made. The other Asian on the train she yelled at just sat there looking away as she told her story, and I’m grateful I didn’t take the same path he did.

And also, I’m just a little bit impressed that an anonymous Asian ninja could jumping-reverse-turning kick someone in the side of the head in live combat. Not that it justifies what he did, but there’s a lot of pressure trying a high-risk flashy attack like that, and I’m surprised he pulled it off. Still a horrible, horrible person.

Letters to No One

In 2004, I had the idea of compiling a collection of letters to various people, objects and places in my life. It was a way of recognising the impact of the seemingly banal in my life, and a way to express anything I felt towards anyone/thing in a creative fashion. Since starting the journal, I have written only two letters, and this is one of them.

22nd Dec, 2005.
Dear Rock,

I am well-aware of the implications of writing to a rock. However, seeing as this is my second letter for the entirety of this journal started last year, I would say it’s justifiable.

So. Rock. What’s it like being you? I imagine you wouldn’t have an awful lot to do, and the only difference between day and night is the presence of the sun. A lot of people just say you sit there, but really, what is it to sit? The Australian pocket Oxford Dictionary says it means to support the body by resting the buttocks on the ground or on a seat etc. Firstly, I do not think you that the buttocks get much rest having at least half one’s body weight on them, and secondly, I don’t think you have any buttocks to sit on! A rock with buttocks- wouldn’t that be a sight. Regardless, so it is I argue that rocks cannot "sit around all day".

So if you do not sit around all day, what is it that you do? I bet you think you’re pretty hot stuff, huh? All though and big man like, yeah? fft, you’re so egocentric that you harden to prove it. Well let me tell you something Mr. Rock- you’re not! I could take you. Assuming you could die, that is.

I suppose breaking you in to smaller parts would just amass a larger army to throw at me. Maybe if I ground you to dust? Nah, I don’t think that would work either. I’d just end up having to fight a whole tonne of little rocks. Why, if I cant fight you by yourself, you must be a coward! Ha! You cowardly rock you. What a loser.

Anyways, I’ll stop taunting you now. i’m sure you’re very busy doing whatever it is to pass the time rocks do. Hm… Is it possible?

I do believe I’ve made an amazing connection, and thus figured out what rocks do all day. They stone!* In fact, they’re so good at it they spent their entire lives stoning! Ha! Brilliance.

So, you stony stoner *snugger*. I’ll leave you to get stoned and thus keep stoning shall I? Only kidding- it wasn’t really a question, and I’m going either way, Well, so long!


*Note: "Stone" is a Singaporean term to ‘sit’ – mope?- around and do nothing all day.


I wrote the first sentence to test out the new fountain pen Eugene bought me from Germany. From there, the rest of it kept flowing, impromptu, and I rather liked the result.

We lost many good men that day. True men, loyal to the covenant. Now only the faint echoes of their cries linger in the air, the last whisper of their legacy here on this earth. In time, even that will be forgotten, and all that will remain is the memories those brave souls have left with us.

I heard once that true immortality is to live on in the hearts of others. If this were to be taken as truth, then I have no doubt that each and every one of those men were Gods in their own right. Time shall not claim them whilst I am here to honour them.

I am the last testimony to those brave, true men who gave their lives for the smallest possibility, the slightest chance, at Freedom.

Note to self

Dear John,

I just had a thought, and it’s something I think would interest you. Maybe you can muse over it for yourself and tell me what you think some time? Anyway, it’s kind of important, so if you’re doing anything else right now, put it down and join me.

The world is not a perfect place, and nor can it ever be. As wonderful as dreams and ideals are, their fruition is almost beyond hope. That’s not to say that the world will never change, nor does it mean you cannot make a difference. All it means is that the problems of this earth are great indeed, and you, alone or with others, may not have the strength or will to change it. To try is to despair with failure.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t make a difference. It’s true that you’ll never be able to save the 40 000 children dying of starvation every day. Nor will you be able to stop torture, disease, warfare, homelessness, or any of the other issues you feel people should do something about. Because not everybody’s going to do something. There will probably never be a time when everybody simultaneously decides to tackle the problems you’ve been attempting to solve. And by yourself, all it’s going to do is hurt.

But that’s not why I’m writing. There is good in the world- you’ve heard of it time and time again. Good people doing good things. Not on a global scale, or a national scale, or a state scale or a neighbourhood scale or anything remotely remarkable. But there are people in this world that give their time, resources and love to changing lives. Transforming lives. And a life is all a person will ever know. You can change people’s futures.

Don’t try and change the world. While ideally, it is a good idea, it is one of the sad truths of existence that you and I will probably never be able to swerve. Instead, let’s do what we can, which is more than we have to, and always what we’re obliged to. For us, not for them, let’s do something with the lives we have and make this world, in what ways we can, a better place.

Yours sincerely,