A fairy tale from a first grade

I tasked a class of first graders, at the school where I worked , to come up with words of things or creatures, that they would want to be a part of a fairy tale. I told them, when giving the task, that the object or creature didn’t need to be of “classical fairy tale origin”, so that they could let their imagination run wild. This is the, translated, story, that I wrote using their words. Each time a word chosen by one of the twenty-two pupils appears in the text, it’s marked in Italic letters.

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a slightly odd knight. Rather than a regular horse, this knight instead rode on a kangaroo, his lance was an old, worn flag-pole, and his sword was a wooden plank. One day, the knight got an insatiable hunger for cake, so he quickly saddled his kangaroo, and left his castle, to go into the nearby town to buy some cake from the bakery store. “Giddy-hop now, my loyal jumper!” and off the knight and the kangaroo went. Shortly after, they reached the shore of a wide, deep river. The town was on the other side, which was a bit of a problem for the knight. Even though there actually was a bridge built where the road would otherwise cross the river, the knight dared not to cross it. The knight had a terrible case of troll-allergy, and as trolls had a bad habit of taking up residence below bridges, the knight fear he would get all scratchy, if he went near a troll. As they had no other option, the kangaroo and the knight jumped straight into the river. However, kangaroos aren’t particular good swimmers, especially not when they have a slightly chubby, cake-happy knight in full armour, so both went straight to the bottom. This wasn’t a problem, however, as mermaids for a long time had been living at the bottom, magically creating a pocket of air. At the bottom, the knight met a single, sad-looking mermaid, he asked her, why she was sad. She told him that everyday, she would come to the surface of the river, looking at the town. She could see the fine dresses worn by the women in town, and she could smell the freshly baked bread from the bakery. But she could never get out of the water, and thus she had no opportunity to try these things for herself. The knight was a kind man, and asked if he could bring her the items she wanted, and the mermaid looked at him with a happy smile. And so the knight rose from the water, on the back of his kangaroo, with a new task for him to do.

Meanwhile, up at the town, the city gates were closed. A large dinosaur was attempting to get in, knocking it’s head against the wooden doors. The knight looked at the dinosaur, and clapped it’s scaled behind slightly. “Well, you’re a big one, aren’t you?” The dinosaur turned around, and for a second, the knight thought the he was done for, but instead the dinosaur began to cry. The knight asked why the dinosaur was crying, and between the large creature’s sobbing, it told that it had been bullied out of it’s lair, by a band of migrating penguins. “Alright, lead the way to your lair, I’ll help you with the penguins.” And so the dinosaur, the knight and the kangaroo took off towards some volcanoes nearby. When they arrived, the knight quickly found the cave, as the dinosaur had said “Wait for a bit out here, then roar as loud as you can.” with that, he went into the cave. Sure enough, inside the cave was more than fifty penguins, enjoying the warmth from the lava flows. The knight politely asked why the penguins had chased the dinosaur out of it’s home. The penguins really didn’t want to be disturbed, and grumbled that “It’s a dinosaur, he’s so big he should have no trouble keeping warm. Where we came from, we had to stand in a big heap to get warmth, and those standing furthest out, would STILL get cold.” The knight had not met penguins before, and did not know how or where they were living, so he couldn’t rightly argue against the penguins. However, all of the sudden, from outside the cave, a thundering roar was heard. The penguins massed up, looking around, their expressions were mostly filled with fear and confusion. “What was that?” They asked the knight. “Well…” The knight scratched his stubbled chin, “From my many years of being a knight, I’d say it’s most likely a dragon.” The penguins didn’t know this term, so the knight had to explain “It’s like… a dinosaur, only with wings and it usually breathes fire.” As another roar was heard, the penguins began to scatter, something that was breathing fire would make the cave even hotter, which the penguins wouldn’t want. After the penguins were gone, the dinosaur returned to his cave again, thanking the knight for his deed, who said “Good, but you have to promise to not enter the town again, you’ll scare the people there.”. The dinosaur promised to stay in his cave from now on. And so, the knight returned to his trusty kangaroo, and headed back to the city.

Finally he could enter and buy himself that cake, he wanted so badly. But alas, the baker’s daughter was in fact the princess of the city. Her father, the king, had given her away when she was born, because someone told him an omen that a child would one day take his throne. For this reason, the king had banned all children from even entering the castle. When she saw the knight entering the bakery, she pleaded for him to take her to the castle, as she was missing her mother, the queen, a lot. As on his honour, the knight could not say no to a damsel in distress. And so the knight placed the young princess on the back of the kangaroo behind him, and then they all bounced up to the castle. The castle guards tried to stop the knight, but the kangaroo’s hopping was unpredictable, and the knight was too heavy for them to arrest him. All the ruckus caused the king to wake from his beauty-sleep, coming out on the balcony, wearing his royal robes, royal slippers and his crown, “What is all this racket?” As the king yelled, everyone stopped in their place, and out of nowhere, the knight threw a cream cake, that he took from the bakery. With a majestic splat, the cake landed right in the face of the king. The queen had awoken too, and came out to see what was going on. The sight of her husband, covered in cake all over his face, made her burst-out laughing. The princess and the knight then also began to laugh, and mere seconds later, even the guards were laughing. The king had been disgraced, and rather than regaining his composure, he ran out of the castle, out of the town and as far away as he could, to a place where no people would come.

In his stead, the queen were to rule, but instead she let her young daughter, the princess, become queen. This was a wise decision, as the princess turned out to be a wise and fair ruler. She turned to the knight, and despite him being at least twenty years older than her, she asked for him to marry her. however, the knight refused; he had seen the royal robes, they were fitted for a much less chubby man than the knight. Also, as a king, there would be much work to be done, that would mean less time to eat cake in. And the knight still had a promise to fulfill; quickly, he jumped on the kangaroo again and sprinted back to the bakery. There he bought two delicious cakes, one for himself and one for the mermaid, he also got a special dress sewn for the mermaid. At the bottom of the river, the mermaid was patiently waiting, she got very happy that the knight had returned. The knight handed her the dress and the one cake, and was about to leave for his own castle, when the mermaid asked, “Won’t you… eat your cake with me?” In fact, rather than cake or fine garments, all the mermaid really wanted, was a friend. And so, they lived happily ever after, with lots of cake every day. And if you, by chance, should happen upon a man in a fine robe, with slippers and a crown, and cake in his face, it’s likely the old king, who is still to this day, trying to find a place where no-one knows his shame.

Dusk City

A written assignment from 2009

It was the third of November, rain had poured from the sky the whole day, and water covered the streets in ponds. The rain had not stopped it’s grip on the city, until ten in the evening, and shortly afterwards a thick fog spread throughout the city, laying like a carpet. Now and then street lamps could be seen as vague yellow spots floating in the air, and as they were turned off at midnight, to save power, only the tallest buildings peaked up through the fog. At night the grey carpet, turned into a dark, damp mass of cloud that made the streets feel decaying and old. Here and there the people of the night, prepared to do their bidding throughout the city, thugs and scoundrels looking for easy money, hobos trying to find shelter, and adult dancers heading for the shady clubs.

The night was quiet, a dog barked as someone came to close, only to be silenced as the person left again. The shops all barricaded for the night, no windows to light up street level. On the corner of Cannon and Friday, a shady looking figure was leaning against a street lamp. A closer look revealed the man wearing a black trench-coat, down past his knees and well up over his neck. A small orange glow was seen as the man lit a cigarette, and inhaled shortly. Suddenly a horrifying scream got the man’s attention, it sounded like it was pretty close. Without warning, the man began running in the direction of the scream. The fog quickly took his breath away, his cigarette was left in a puddle. His path took him down Friday, across Queen Victoria and towards the river by Huggin Hill. He stopped, to regain his breath, on the corner of Little Trinity and Skinners, scouting for signs of life, he looked over his shoulder, but even if someone was following, there was no way he could see them, the fog didn’t allow much in terms of visibility. The mist was even thicker the closer he got to the river, and it didn’t exactly help making Skinners Lane more inviting. Known for it’s fish shops and butcher stalls, Skinners Lane wasn’t a place many people would want stay during the night. The man quickly crossed the empty street, his pace slower and more cautious, pressing himself up against a ply wood fence, that shielded the street from a construction site. It was slightly safer here, at least there were no small alleys that people could jump out from. Skinners Lane turned into College Lane, but despite leaving the butcher stalls behind, the man stayed by fence.

Up ahead, on Downgate Hill, the sound of a car engine scattered through the gloomy night. As the man crossed College Lane, another car roared closely by him at high speed. For a few seconds, the man could see another person as the headlights made way through the fog. A young woman, it was almost impossible to tell the age more accurately, she was wearing a hoodie. She didn’t see the man, as she started moving up Downgate Hill. Suddenly she stopped to look down, she picked something up from the street, but the man was too far away to see what it was. The woman threw the item away on the sidewalk and continued up the street. The man found the item, a mostly eaten burger in a wrapper, a nearly dry blood-splatter was on the wrapper. The noticed what the woman was following, a blood trail on the ground, it was just barely visible in the fog. The man looked up again, the woman was heading towards Cannon Street Tube Station. At this time, Cannon Street Station, along with many others, was closed off with a set of heavy iron bars. The man could see the woman carrying something in the front pocket of her, but with her back to him at all time, he couldn’t tell what the object was. By a tight alleyway, the woman stopped to look behind her, the man quickly pressed himself against the wall of a building. She didn’t see him, and so she turned and went into the alley.

She was following the blood trail, mostly out of curiosity. It lead into a ventilation shaft by the ground, the grate had been beaten off and was bent badly. The vent was big enough for her to crawl through, but it was pitch black inside. The blood trail smeared against her leggings, as she couldn’t go around it within the vent. A flickering light ahead, the vent ended in a room with some metal boxes in it; a maintenance room to the Tube. She dropped down, her sneakers making a soft thud as they made contact with the concrete. The blood trail ended here, by the body of a man, a construction worker judging by his florescent vest. He was laying in a large pool of blood, and his head had been cut off. The cut was uneven, several deep chopping wounds were in the man’s shoulders. Trying not to look at the man’s still bleeding neck, she started searching the man’s pockets, a simple silver ring was placed on his finger, swiftly, she slipped it off of him and into her own pocket. The man didn’t have any other treasures on him, so she left him there, making sure not to step too much in the blood. A trail of bloody foot prints lead out from the room, and into a part of the tube used for repairing and cleaning. The lights here weren’t working, and as she had just been in a bright room, everything was suddenly even darker.

Back in the alley, the first man took out a clipboard and used his lighter to read on it. He couldn’t enter the vent just yet, as that would surely be heard. The description of the criminal gave him chills down his spine, how could anyone do things like that? If that was the guy on the loose, the woman would be in serious danger, but if he went in too quickly, she might scatter off and the criminal would get away. After having read what he felt was enough, he crawled into the vent, he was bigger than the woman and could only barely squeeze through. He almost landed on the corpse, the sight making him gag. He had seen corpses before, but the way that this one had been desecrated, made his stomach turn and clench. He reached into his jacket, and planted a small tracing device on the corpse. Holding a gloved hand in front of his mouth, he continued, happy to get out of the room. The man reached in under his jacket for something, grabbing a hold of it, without drawing it out.

Further into the tube, the only light was from the commercials dotting the walls of the station. The flickering light from behind the panels had once been white, but a bulb had not been switched, and was now in a dim creamy-yellow colour instead. Her shadow was cast against the white painted concrete walls, her step almost silent. A sudden sound caught her attention, a low, almost inaudible sniffling. It was impossible, with the echo from the round tube tunnels, to tell where the sound was coming from. The girl stopped, making sure to make as little sound as she possibly could. Realising that her shadow could give away her position, she pressed herself up against the concrete. she climbed up on the platform next to the track. The white marbled walkways were more open and more comfortable, now that her eyes had gotten used to the darkness. A steel door into a cleaning cupboard was ajar, and from the small crack between door and frame, a light beamed out. Steadily, she inched herself closer to the door, but stopped as she thought she heard a sound coming from behind her, in the tube where she was a few minutes ago. A different sound caught her attention back to the door again, the low sniffling she had heard earlier. It sounded to come from inside the room behind the steel door. The crack wasn’t big enough an opening to allow her view into the room, but it was large enough for her fingers to slide in. She began to pull, and though it took some strength, eventually the door began to sing out towards her. It was now open enough for her to peek in, she made sure that the door didn’t open further, so that she wouldn’t compromise herself. She felt something sticky on her hand as she retracted it from the door, in the light she could see the crimson, almost black smudge on her hand, there was no doubt; it was blood. Wiping her hand off in her pants, she slowly titled her head in through the door opening.

The sight was gruesome, in the middle of the room, was an odd figure kneeling over something, which wasn’t to be seen from the girl’s angle, all that she could see was the figure, a blood trail and orange hard hat laying upside-down. But it was clear that the figure was eating something, the slobbering and crunching noises weren’t mistakable from this range. Finally it dawned on her, the figure was eating a head, that was the part that was missing from the body in the maintenance room. The realiasation caused her to let out a slight squeak, and to her horror, the figure turned his head towards her. His chin and cheeks were covered in blood, his brown eyes had lost all signs of reason, instead the madness shined back at the girl. The figure snarled and surprisingly quick got up, grabbing a bloody hatchet, lunging himself towards her. She only just reached to slam the door, as he reached it, but the door couldn’t be closed completely, as the lock had been busted. The girl began to run, stumbling to gain her footing. Behind her the door slammed open, the obstacle had only worked to madden the man even further. Snarling angrily and hungrily, the man quickly gained on her, the thought of double the prey seemed to fuel him. Closer and closer, he could almost taste her succulent flesh already. She was on the track now, a little further. A final leap, he plunged through the silent air in the tube, landing himself in full force on her back, knocking her over, quickly he were on top of her, licking around his mouth as he held her pinned. Why did they always have to wiggle and twirl? Raising his axe above her, his next meal was right here… And it was fresh and warm too. But just as he was about to strike the girl’s throat, a bright orange and white flash exploded in the tunnel, it was as if his arms wouldn’t move, his entire body felt heavy. He felt blood in his mouth, tasting it proved to be his own. With a gurgle, he looked down at himself, and perhaps the red splotch in his chest was the last thing he saw, as the madness drained from his eyes, and his limp body slumped off of the girl.

You were there – a poem to my father (who have had multiple sclerosis for the past ten years)

When I was little, you were there

When I was afraid, you were there

When I was alone, you were there

When I was in doubt, you were there

When I needed advice, you were there

When I opened myself to you, you were there

When mom got hurt, you were there

When I made mistakes, you were there

When I moved out, you were there

You’ve always been there

And now, dear father, I am the one who is here

Where you were for me

I am now here for you

And you are there

Still

Rise of the Phoenix

On her scorching back, her wings of fire
Feathers alight as she leaps from the pyre
Into the sky, her skin in a flame
Burning the night, people know her name

Ashes of the fallen, the embers of the dead
As the kindle spark, she rise in it’s stead
The gleam of her claws, so sharp, so cold
Pride befalls her, her power unfold

Swooping down towards her prey
Young ones to feed ‘fore the end of the day
Everything she purges, young or old
Those that will hinder, she turns into coal

This is the tale of the firey bird
Listen, and praise every burning word
The Phoenix has risen, this is her reign
And if she shall die, she’ll live once again

A Dream of Flight

A cloud’s lining, way deep below me
The sparrows take home in the stars

I lift my arms, but I have no wings
Slowly, I drift in the breeze

The autumn-coloured carpet
Of the forest and the leaves

I see a girl, with hair like a ruby
Her silver gown is tattered and torn

She’s too far and fast for me to reach her
The wind taking my voice away

It’s quiet up here, the night is calm
I stop and reach for the moon

Like a tiny and lonely satelite
My body limb, but in control

The shadows of space embraces me
Chilling into my bones and into my soul

I grow my feathers, grey and black
And end my flight on this November night

Run_LifeRestart.Exe

Click!
Clock in, and run the timer
Run.
Don’t break, don’t mend
Move on, away and up
Tear it all down
Wear it all out
Click, click the keys faster
Click, click to avoid disaster
Click, but not too long
Let fall
And stand tall
Rise above
Rain, sun, wind
Keep going
Gotta endure
Need to survive
And click, click it in again
Passivity in peace
Or stressed out by a sound
Spin the world
Spin yourself
Around, always spinning
If you stop
You break
You end
You pause
You restart
You stop
You
Click in!
Keep clicking
More clicks needed
But there’s still work to do
Clock out
Keep clicking
Go home
Keep clicking
Fall apart
But
Keep
On
Clicking it in.

Visual Novel review: The Grisaia Series

Finally, I got to conclude the trilogy that is the main stories of the Grisaia series. And boy, was it a ride.

To understand the series, you have to, obviously, start at the beginning; the Fruit of Grisaia (FoG) and take it from there. Yes, the characters are tropés at first (and stay as such, largely, through all three games), but as soon as you get under the skin of each of the main five girls, you quickly realise that the character writing (as in how the characters are “created”) is at a really high level of quality. So high that you start to feel WITH the characters, you groan at Michiru, you sigh with Yumiko or you look at Sachi’s twisted principles from the perspective of the potential victims. Even though Yuuji is the protagonist in FoG, you don’t really get that much under HIS skin, it is very heavily hinted at that his story, before coming to Mihama Academy, is cause for interest. The classic “harem”-tropé where you don’t really know a whole lot about the main character (the “you” in the narrative) is thus in place.

However, Yuuji remains largely untouched in FoG. FoG also provided ten possible endings, which until Labyrinth of Grisaia (LoG) were impossible tell what was cannon and what wasn’t. LoG picks off at a slightly odd point; where NONE of the endings are cannon, but all of them (the “good endings” for each girl) have mounts of truth to them. LoG focuses on Yuuji’s story, and provides the insight into his mind and sight, also because, as we follow his story, so do the girls he live with at Mihama Academy. LoG also gives a very detailed look into the life of Asako; the first person other than his sister, that Yuuji loves (or even likes), which was very heavily mentioned in FoG in pretty much every single flashback from Yuuji’s perspective, so it’s really nice to get that information. LoG also provides five AFTER stories, which does the same as the “main” story of LoG; takes of from a point where none of the FoG endings where truth, but still had grains of cannon lore. These stories tell, what I guess, WOULD have been cannon, had Yuuji actually chosen anyone in FoG (you “choose” for him, but as of LoG, it’s clear that it is not a choice he’d make on his own). LoG also provides a large amount of small extra stories, typically funny skits and shorts that may/may not have been intended as part of the story, but found unfit when it was put together. Kind of like the bloopers to a Jackie Chan movie. LoG’s main story ended abruptly on a cliffhanger, so it was natural for me, that when the final main story branch, Eden of Grisaia (EoG), was published, I was quick to get it.

EoG provides a closure, and it does so with gusto and bravour. Even though shorter than both FoG and LoG (main story), it is the one with most action, often leaving you at the edge of your seat, picking many of the problems from LoG up and dealing with them. However, it also gives Yuuji much more feeling as this gives something that surprises even our all’s male tsundere agent. As LoG’s main story did not have choices, and FoG gave me roughly 30 HOURS of reading before the first choice, I was genuinely surprised when EoG threw not one but TWO choices in my face. It’s an amazing conclusion to this massive trilogy, that I ended up spending +100 hours in. +100 hours VERY well spent, I might add. EoG also added a prequel; how DID the girls at Mihama Academy meet, what was the school like before Yuuji’s arrival in FoG? An amazing little story that fills surprisingly many holes.

If I were to pin the stories, FoG, LoG and EoG up against each other, which I find kind of silly as they really are one long story altogether, I would say that.

Fruit of Grisaia: 9.5/10
Labyrinth of Grisaia: 7/10
Eden of Grisaia: 9/10

My reasoning for this score is that Fruit of Grisaia had so much more “meat” to it’s story, it took it’s time describing details in environments, in characters, in the mood. Especially in Labyrinth, the story felt a bit rushed at times. The fact that it also “denies” the endings of FoG also is a bit of a bitter pill to swallow (though I’ll admit it works much better for trilogy as a whole). Eden of Grisaia is very close to reaching Fruit of Grisaia’s level, the action filled adventure is much more intense than Fruit of Grisaia is, and even though it keeps a steady pace in it’s story-telling throughout it’s entire story, it is still coming up a little short, simply due to it’s length.

But I’d actually like for you to ignore the scores for each of them separately, and instead take the trilogy as a whole, thus I will score it as a whole story.

The Grisaia Series: 10/10

I’ve already explained pretty much my stance and how much I love this universe and in particular, the characters, so there really is no need for further explanations. If you are into VNs (as I am), The Grisaia Series is excellent in terms of art and Voice Acting, but especially the character writing and the overall writing is amazing. Even if you DON’T fancy VNs, I would still recommend this series to you; it IS a bit heavy to get started with, but pays off in the end.

(Underneath) Wings of Destruction

As paths collide, out mental whiskers connect

We both fled the angels and the doom in their wake

With nowhere to hide, nowhere to run

Our differences aside, we can’t help moving forward

Slowly we drift towards each other, we share our fears

We face the other, eyes locked in their equal

Meanwhile the angels leave trails of ash

Closing in, ever circling, they’ll reach us

With wings of our own, we could escape

The forests engulfed by the fire from above

No storm ends their searching flight

But we both decided, to peel our wings off

There are those who guide the angels

Those who dare not take the skies themselves

And in the moment, the heavens are open

We have only ourselves and the little path we stand

As the crowds cheer for more angels to fly

The flames by our feet cannot match the heat in our hearts

Character backstory and stats: Khodrin Emberhelm

Khodrin Emberhelm is a Mountain Dwarf fighter, that I’ve created for a DnD e5 campaign. In a group of mostly mages and rogues, as a fighter, Khodrin’s job is to withstand damage in close combat, and hopefully deal some damage out himself.

Outfitted in a full chainmail, and donning a shield and a warhammer, Khodrin’s a force to be reckoned with, once he gets close. He keeps a light crossbow for ranged combat.

Starting stats (level 3):
Strength: 16
Dexterity: 8
Constitution: 17
Intelligence: 10
Wisdom: 13
Charisma: 12
Hit points: 28
Armor class: 18
Initiative: -1
Speed: 25
Allignment: Lawful good

Life in a Dwarven stronghold isn’t particular flashy for a young Dwarf, you work, you eat, you work some more, and then you likely eat again. But to most Dwarves this is just fine. Ask a Dwarf if his work is dull, and you’ll find a Dwarf considering you as the lazy and unproductive type.
Born into a clan of mine-workers and prospectors, Khodrin’s upbringing was pretty common. It wasn’t glorious as it would be for higher class Dwarves, but with the Dwarven communities through work, no-one was ever truly “low-class”.
At the age of 50, Dwarves are “mature”, this is normally marked with a feast for the entire stronghold. Roast pig, mead and ale in un-measurable amounts. Of course, Dwarven tradition and laws are rather strict, so it’s not exactly unusual that fines or other punishments are handed down after such a feast. Despite Dwarves normally being keen on keeping rules, alcohol (and especially Dwarven ale in large quantities) can alter that in a Dwarf. Alcohol also lifts the filters that keep you from calling someone something that you normally wouldn’t utter out loud.
Unfortunately, Khodrin’s boss, a wealthy prospector from a high-ranking family within the stronghold, was quite the tyrant. Miners having their pay withheld for vague reasons, work-hours being beyond reason (even for the hardy and strong Dwarves). Many of Khodrin’s workmates used the boss’ name as means of swearing, under their breath of course. During a toast, Khodrin proclaimed that “He was proud, despite working for a dirt-digging sleaze-bag.” Considering the miners normal work of picking through stone and minerals for ore and gemstones, dirt was one of the most degrading terms, as it served no purpose to a mountain Dwarf. Even worse, of course his boss eventually caught wind of Khodrin’s mishap.
One fateful day, Khodrin, now aged 72, was called to see his boss, his own clan-leaders were there as well. No words where spoken, the clan-leaders just shook their heads and pointed towards the door. Khodrin had to leave the stronghold behind, having brought shame onto his clan. Bitter he quickly packed his belongings. As if the news had spread through every single tunnel, every holding, every home of the stronghold, no-one uttered a goodbye, even tried to get eye-contact.
As the large iron gate shut behind him, Khodrin had his first encounter with the outside world. The light of the sun was harsh the first couple of days, day and night cyclus, something not at all present within the mountains. Following the simple and mostly unnused trade road leading out of the mountains, through winding passes and down into steep gorges, Khodrin made flat land within a couple of days of marching. The soft soil of the hillsides, wet and muddy, made him uneasy. Here the path up into the mountains molded with a larger trade road. With no idea where to go, Khodrin decided on waiting. And so he did for several days in fact. Until a trade caravan came through, stopping and asking Khodrin, if he wanted hire as a guard, despite not really having any combat experience, he shrugged, nodded and hopped on the back of a wagon.
For several years, Khodrin was known as “The Silent Dwarf”, as he hardly ever spoke. A nod here, a grunt there, that was the extent of conversation the merchants and the other guards had with him. Even compared to other Dwarves that the caravan occasionally met, Khodrin remained as silent as the mountain he was born under. Khodrin worked double, guard while the caravan was moving (and when needed in towns and villages) and smith while in a town. While the tools were lacking, to a Dwarf’s standards, his ancestral skill of metal and stone had him level with most town smithies.
One night, on route for Athlin, the wagons were ambushed, on the outskirts of the Silver Oak Forest. Three guards and two of the merchants were taken out by arrows, before anyone could even react. In the darkness, Khodrin’s Dwarven eyes allowed him to see a sight of horrors; the Undead, several zombies and a few skeleton archers was closing in on the remaining wagons. In the distant, under the moonlit shades of the trees, a hooded figure with an eerie looking staff. With a crooked finger the figure directed the corpses. Something within Khodrin told him to stay still, and to say nothing. A coward’s choice perhaps, but neither the zombies nor skeletons seemed to notice. To Khodrin’s luck, the hooded figure didn’t really seem to care, or it thought everyone to be dead.
In order to ensure no-one was near, Khodrin waited until the first glimpse of sunlight broke through the trees. While none of the merchants or any of the guards where particular close, it was still some kind of family. And Khodrin had done nothing to even attempt to save the others, he just froze, which, in hindsight, probably saved his life. Leaving the wagons behind, Khodrin walked the road towards Athlin, where he arrived three days later, carrying only his clothes, rations and his smithing gear. Through grunts and sign-language, Khodrin managed to secure himself a job at Amduhr’s Armory. Silently, of course, he woved to never freeze up like that again, to protect those around him, if at all possible.

The Beauty of the English Language (and the people speaking it)

So, because I’m a funny (and slightly perverted) fellow, I often make silly gags on profile texts and the likes of it on social media and in games.

One of my profile texts goes as follows: “You can’t spell assassin without saying ass.” Twice, even. That’s witty, it’s true, and it makes you say “ass” in a very clean and rather innocent context.

So, as you’re probably well aware, some people on the internet are a bit, let’s say, stock up their sleeves, right, they don’t like it when people talk about genitalia, or poop, or sex, and the list goes on. Now, normally, one of these kinds of persons are, without making a general statement of a larger group of people, from the US. So, it was to my surprise when a person, claiming themselves to be a UK citizen (with the profile text “The Queen of Chalsea” yes, you read the right, the famous part of the capital of the UK, Londan, Chalsea), in an inbox message wrote: “Asazesin”.

Now, I am used to getting saucy, raunchy and, often, poorly-written messages, but out of context I simply replied “What?”, because that was pretty much my initial reaction. This, presumed, British person then goes on to explain how you can say “Assassin” without saying “ass”, at which point, I’m intrigued. Because… That is how you spell the word “Ass-ass-in”, there is literally no other way to spell that word, it’s hard to even pronounce it without saying ass. Just because I’m also a nice guy, I decide to correct a potential misunderstanding, so I point out, in a friendly and simplified matter, that “Ass-ass-in” is how the word is WRITTEN DOWN in various dictionaries, even in Urban Dictionary, which sometimes takes a liberal twist on the spelling of a word.

Instead of this Queen of Chalsea realising my point, I instead get a stream of inbox messages, not a single LONG text, no many small ones, with my initial thoughts in parenthesis and italic:

“I mean Asazsin in a different way u see it but sounds the same without ass” (oh… kay?)

“How’s that?” (it’s… well, it’s not Asazesin, that’s for sure, still not spelled right though.)

“Im using as instead on ass” (OH THAT’S WHAT YOU DID, honestly, I thought it was the ze/z thing that you had going for you, my bad.)

“Of ass” (Good, you corrected a typo. Shame that you missed the other one, it’s going to get lonely now, “Im” sure.)

“hmm we can’t say nothing can’t be made in a dictionary as a short new term for it think about it” (Technically, you are correct, but that is just not how dictionaries work, “covfefe” haven’t been added to any, real, dictionary yet, even though it was/is a popular term.)

“if u think about it though” (Hmm… No, I’m pretty sure that if I think further about it, I’m only more certain that the only way, as of today, to spell “assassin”, is by using “ass” twice.)

“There’s many letters that can take up sounds buy adding an make up words that’s possible to put in a dictionary for something” (Yes, there are many letters, and yes, you CAN put them together to make sounds, and if written down, they may SEEM like actual words. It’s just unfortunate that a sound only rarely qualifies as a word. Random letters thrown together to, somewhat, resemble a word, is not making a word.)

“I mean adding letters to make simple letter sound the same” (I er… what? No. Still not how you make a word.)

“Plus what if it’s some idk Arabic or African name for somebody in real life” (Ah, well a name isn’t technically a word either, also I’m not exactly certain you know what you’re talking about anymore.)

“Asazsin” (Yes, you’ve said that once, and it seems you’re very proud of your creation. That still doesn’t make a word though.)

A few minutes pass, where I don’t know if I should respond to this further, clearly, we’re so far down the rabbit-hole, oh I’m sorry the repped-huel, that I do not believe it’s possible for me to make this person see reason. Just as I was about to just let it be, I get a final message, the true icing on the cake, if you like:

“who blieves in dictonarys anyways? theyre just old words in books” (Well, there we have it; I think we have discovered the root of the problem.)

I’d really wish that I could help this Queen of Chalsea, but at age 28 (supposedly), I am just not sure how to motivate a person like into learning basic spelling.