kurosawadaisuke

My dad committed suicide when I was seven or eight. Looking back it surprises me that I don’t remember anyone ever trying to explain to me that suicide was wrong. I was reassured and hugged and told everything would be okay but no one expressed disagreement with his decision. Now that I know the circumstances, I understand why. He was a depressed man who lived alone, regretted his life choices and was soon going to be in a wheelchair. I think I can respect his decision.

I don’t think he took “the coward’s way out” – I don’t think suicide is always that. There are lots of reasons to take your life into your own hands. I think it took that experience of understanding of my dad’s decision to show me that always generalising it as cowardly is just prejudice. People are forced into corners, whether by chance, their own decisions, or others’ decisions. If they don’t see a way out or a way forward, is it cowardly to run away?

I also don’t think it’s glamorous. It’s not the secret of immortality. People are immortalised in suicide because they were immortalised in the first place. Kurt Cobain and Marilyn Monroe – before their deaths, they were already seen as absolute icons. Cobain was hailed as a spokesperson for an entire generation. Suicide may well have summed up his view of life, but it by no means is the only reason he will be remembered for a long time. Bruce Lee, who is still remembered as a legend and an icon of action cinema, martial arts and even sometimes philosophy, who died an innocuous death of a hypersensitivity to muscle relaxant in a painkiller, said:

“The key to immortality is first living a life worth remembering.”

All of the people who have been “immortalised by suicide” have first lived lives worth remembering, even if their suicide just makes it that bit more uncomfortable or controversial.

But is understanding or even respecting their decision enough to endorse or agree with it?  I feel that sometimes a person should choose to keep on through extreme hardship because they know they can help others in some way. Christopher Reeve, famed “Superman” actor, became quadriplegic after a horse-riding accident and instead of resorting to assisted suicide; he chose to use his considerable wealth, fame and influence to help those like him. His hopefulness that was so represented by him in his most famous role and in his own life caused him to strive for a cure. He, however, had the ability to do this. He knew because of his position there was a chance of getting closer to a cure, but for many that’s not the case and no one should contest them wanting to give up their useless bodies. In these cases, assisted suicide and euthanasia clinics should not only be legally unopposed but at least justifiable morally.

The affects on family and friends will always be devastating, for any death, but there is the possibility of a grudge or a feeling of personal anger towards a person who willingly took themselves from your life and I agree wholeheartedly with that. There may be justifications for their own decisions, but there will always be people who will feel cheated, betrayed and angered. It’s up to each person to decide if it’s worth that heartache for their loved ones.

However, usually life is constantly creating and destroying opportunities for happiness. It reminds me of Akira Kurosawa’s “Ikiru” (Japanese for “living” or “to live”) where an old, lonely man finds he has bowel cancer. He runs through the usual motions of overspending, binging on alcohol, professing his life, having spent his whole career saving to better his son’s life instead of searching for his own meaning and his own happiness. In the end he realises that if he does nothing, he will be meaningless. So he uses his own, admittedly little, power and influence in the local council for his area and has a poisonous cesspool turned into a children’s playground. This little act made him happy. Hours before his death he is seen in the film, genuinely happy for the first time that he has accomplished something that gives him meaning and helps others, in a beautiful image of him singing softly and smiling in the swing that he helped make. Maybe if those who consider suicide were faced with their oncoming death as an unfair inevitability rather than a supposedly selfish choice, they would have the determination to accomplish some acts of meaning, kindness and self-worth before they departed.

I had two pieces of clay that I had hoped would become everything I wanted in my right, and in my left, everything I was. I only had to finish the right hand one - which I would call Hadley - and then the testing would begin.

I wasn’t satisfied with the people in the world. It was too chaotic. They were all a mishmash of experiences and scars and unnecessary pride. Maybe because of the chaos, I could never pin down what it was I wanted from a person. Some traits shown through in certain people, but when I sought out those traits specifically, they were never enjoyable.

I then decided there was no one in the world for me. I would have to create the person myself. I collected a team of experts to help me. They supplied the bodies; the blank slates I would be putting everything I am and everything I want onto. They also created the means, but I found that all very tedious. I, instead, worked on the design.

I looked through my vast library of media, noting down all the media I have experienced in my life. I collected them all into categories of hatred, love, dislike, like and indifference. I then added reasons, sometimes simplistic, sometimes complex. Then I had several psychologists take extensive notes of my behaviour, mannerisms and personality. When they were finished, I physically couldn’t believe some of the things they listed, so I edited them out. This piece of clay would be me, but not in perfect symmetry.

Into Hadley I put everything I desired, unencumbered by the utterly tedious facets of human behaviour. We would not have to be similar for me to enjoy her company; she had everything I wanted from her behaviour alone.

The testing I decided on would not be rigorous or strenuous, but natural. Under the pretence of an innocent social experiment, we had recruited several young adults for my two creations to interact with. One group would be an assortment of average people, collected from the street – they seemed to glue together and enjoy each other’s company immediately, so I chose Hadley to enter that group. While my replica, whom had been named Lyta by a scientist working on the project would be assigned the more distrustful group. A mirror of me would be more at home in a conflicting environment.

Yet, when I was finished, and they were both assigned to their groups, I realised I had made a mistake. Lyta bonded with every member of hers. She brought out similar characteristics in them. She united them. No! That is not what I would have done. I couldn’t understand it. In a conflict, I would side with one and defeat the other.

Hadley was even more confusing. The woman I had designed to be caring and compassionate had broken her group down. Within an hour, she had passed through the room, breeding distrust and insecurity within the room. Simple, confused queries like “Do you think he’s looking at you strangely?” immediately caused unrest.

I decided I needed to speak with them. I questioned Lyta first: why had she not taken one side or the other? Why had she cared about these people enough to unite them? Her answer continued to confuse me:

“Oh, I don’t know. At first, there was a little nagging doubt in my mind, telling me I hated these people. I didn’t really see any reason to believe it though. I mean, how could I hate people I had just met, right? After I began to speak to them, I realized that doubt in my mind was just scared. I’m not sure what it was scared of, really. But when I did talk to these people, I soon felt how uneasy they were being in conflict. I think I could handle conflict, I think I could be at home in it, but I couldn’t feel easy in a room like that. I had to bring them together. It was easy, too. The right words, suggestions, and subtle hints were all it took. I have to say, I think it was fun just being able to manipulate people so easily.” She said all this with a robotic ease. I had thought a replica of me would copy my speech, but she seemed quite offhand and casual, but without reason.

Hadley’s answer to why she had broken up her group let the complete picture fall into place: “I just had to see if I could do it. Sure, I saw some promising things from each person, but I couldn’t have them operating so easily together. I don’t really have a reason why, I just saw an opportunity within them and a skill within me. I had to do it.”

After this, and a little thought, the answers were obvious to me. Lyta had behaved the way she had because I had taken out my flaws from her. She was only half a person. She still had a love of conflict, but without any true hatred of people – which was revealed to me to be fear, a much more powerful fear in me than in her – she couldn’t revel in that conflict without stopping it with equality. Her statement about manipulation had been confusing until I compared it with Hadley’s response, which seemed much more human to me, if almost evil.

I couldn’t build a person without them having that same urge, with a person, a group, a city or country. I manipulated them into being and so they manipulated others. I may have given them knowledge and likes and dislikes, designed them by hand, but the only thing they had ever experienced was manipulation.

Square Enix Take a Disastrous Step Backward

With the current hot topic being the release of Final Fantasy XV on the DS due to the state of the XIII sales, I’m worried about Square’s executives.

I don’t say this from a technical standpoint. Right now, I am enjoying a relaxing, leisurely playthrough of Final Fantasy IV for the DS and it is really pushing the boundaries of the DS’ longterm RPG gameplay, so I don’t question Square’s ability to make a fan-pleasing game for that system.

I’m worried about the motives. Square excel, with very few black marks to their record, in making a game which does push boundaries, and does evolve on its predecessors, so why this? Well, as is always the case, money. This distresses me. I understand businesses have to make money, but it’s not the console’s fault that XIII sales were not satisfactory. I don’t blame my fridge when I forget to stock up on my favourite sandwich fillings.

What I have admired about Square even since playing my first two Final Fantasy games is the evolution, the ability to grow beyond the last in every way. This does include technology; the DS is simply not capable of producing the type of game we are accustomed to from Square in this day and age.

They stated that the special cartridge used will allow better graphics, animation and more voice acting, as opposed to the cited successes of KH 358/2 Days which had very few. Square are missing the point. I’m enjoying the DS remake of Final Fantasy IV because of its new qualities, yes, but it’s still the same classic story. The voice acting, the full 3D, those are fantastic and well done, but they aren’t the game.

Similarly, any fault the mass public had with Final Fantasy XIII is not a failure out with Square. It is their fault. The series has always been about story and should continue to be. But the other thing universally loved by Final Fantasy fans is its continual growth and its bold moves in business. Moving from the partnership of Nintendo to better accommodate Final Fantasy VII’s needs was a risky move, but it was ultimately one of their most popular games. They needed that extra disc-space to tell the story they wanted to tell. It was as simple as that.

The original Final Fantasy’s bold storytelling was to have a story, and even then the graphics and gameplay were incredible. From there the next big advancement was Final Fantasy IV which took a number of great technical steps all in aid of telling an again much larger story. The same can be said for VII which supplied 3D characters capable of more realistic emotion. Then Final Fantasy X and XII approached a near-realistic quality to their characters, their emotions, and their ability to tell a compelling story.

Continuing this evolution by limiting their technical choices will not aid their next epic, and as such, I would be surprised if this matched the most meagre successes of their games. It shows weakness.

If Final Fantasy XIII marks the end of powerful storytelling aided by the ever-growing technology and not vice versa, then I will be happy with that. If they can’t deliver a memorable tale on the high end, why should they be able to on the low?

"So," she said, grasping at conversational straws, "got any life goals?"

"Never thought about it. What's the point of a goal anyway?"

"I dunno. To make you happy?"

"Oh yeah, definitely. I have things I wanna do to make me happy." He looked at her quizzically. "Why? What're yours?"

She picked up a flat smooth rock and skimmed it across the water in front of them, the reflection of the beautiful, darkening sky obscured by the ripples.

"I want to leave here."

"Where would you go?"

"Anywhere. Anywhere that I can enjoy myself that isn't here."

"You've got nowhere in mind, nowhere at all?" He mimicked her, picked up a rock and tried to skim it over the water. It plopped pathetically into the calm little pool. He didn't look displeased at all. The reflection of the sky that was gently reforming was disturbed again.

She giggled at his misfortune. "No, just anywhere. I don't even care. Do you want to go anywhere?"

"Go anywhere? Sure. I wanna go to the sky."

"Ha ha. How're you going to do that?" She could see the reflection of the moon now, the water darker than ever around it.

"Does it matter? I'm gunna try." He threw another rock. Didn't even try to skim, just launched it at the moon's reflection. "I don't really like looking at the reflection of things that I can't reach," he said at her surprised look, "it's bad enough looking at the real thing."

"...right. Well, you could always learn to fly a plane, or go sky-diving or something. You can have the sky for a few minutes at a time."

"Have it?" he laughed. "Yeah that would be wonderful." He picked up another rock and eyed the pool of water again. He changed his mind and dropped the pebble. "What about you, anything other than wanting to go somewhere else? Become an actress, have kids, get married?"

"I wanna do things, meet people."

"What things, what people? You're so full of details today."

"If I pick something definite, what if I become obsessed? All I'm obsessed with is leaving here, then I can try caring about something else."

"What if you leave here and then you look back and every day you spent here was ten times as rewarding as any other day after that?"

"Then I'll regret it. But I'll enjoy leaving."

The boy was about to speak again, but a loud whistling sound cut him off. A single weak firework puffed into sparks and light above them, unceremoniously. "You know what I hate about fireworks?" he asked smiling. She shook her head. "The disappointment. Every time I hear that whistling I think 'oh yes, an explosion', you know like a movie explosion, like something really dramatic. But it's always the same, it's always the 'fairy-dust', children's toy sparkly pathetic explosion."

She laughed. "Yeah, I guess it is." She looked up as more whistled overhead. "Do you think something's happening?"

"Probably."

"Do you think we should check it out?"

"I would love to go and walk toward the source of pathetic explosions with you."

We’ve all sat entranced by some powerful cinematic opus, later realizing its hidden depths. But compared to the written word so many cry out that the medium of film could never compete. I argue for those of us who desire a perfect looking glass into the dreaming man’s mind, rather than a description that only the masters of prose could hope to evoke such images as that in the exquisitely filmed. I argue that film triumphs over the narrative prose.

The great Stanley Kubrick said, “If it can be written, or thought, it can be filmed.” Not only do I believe this to be true, but I believe that if it can be written or thought, it can be conveyed with much more power and presence on screen. When watching Akira Kurosawa’s feudal epic, Kagemusha (lit. the Shadow Warrior, a Japanese colloquialism for an impersonator), the story of a man who takes on duties as a body double of a dead samurai warlord, I was astounded at the visual poetry of the title character’s nightmare: He stands atop a tiny Japan, with mountains and seas all about him, the clouds forming a dome above him, haunting in their vivid colours. All noise is dampened to the point of near-silence. He sees the dead warlord he was chosen to impersonate and in a fit of fear of the man’s quiet rage he runs over the small miles of this dreamscape, all noise of his escape almost inaudible, until! The film’s sound rushes back with Kagemusha stampeding into the tiny ocean, the water cascading about him.

This method is not only exclusive to a visual medium, with its use of sound and very distinct setting, but it also conveys the message of his dream in an exhilaratingly succinct two-to-three minute sequence. It clearly shows Kagemusha’s resentment and fear of failure of the role given to him, but also experiments, to great effect, with the cliché of nightmares in film. We know by this point that this can only be a dream, yet it still evokes such powerful fear. A nightmare is usually forbidden from a climax due to its inevitable waking, but the lack of sound builds undeniable tension, till breaking point where the soundscape can no longer be held back, it resumes, even more powerful than before, providing a climax to the scene and giving us a very welcome relief to know it was all a dream, rather than the usual resentment of the anticlimax.

Kurosawa exquisitely demonstrates what has been deemed impossible or ugly in film – seeing into a character’s thoughts. Not only does he do this beautifully but also provides an example that requires no words whatsoever. Books can only state the emotions of a character in a finite number of ways, but in abstract imagery the choices – score, sound effects, special effects, sets, lighting and acting – are endless in their combinations. For a film that meshes all of these principles there can be no contest with a novel. I am reminded of the argument that prose conveys more ideas through its constant narration but to that I point to Stanley Kubrick’s “2001: A Space Odyssey.” Possibly the only film to ever have the accompanying book written along side the creation of the film, with the director and writer working together to form the plot (Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke respectively). Though they were written together, they both chose different routes to the same end. Kubrick chose to have his film to have a huge forty minutes of screen time with no dialogue, whereas throughout this section of the plot in Clarke’s opus is narrated by explanations on each section, instead of simply stating each action and letting the reader contemplate why these things happen. The film audiences and critics at the time cried out that the film was too ambiguous, but it is now considered "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant" by the United States Library of Congress. I believe this is due to its ever-unfolding visual events. Lack of explanation fueled the fire that is human curiousity (a theme actually dealt with somewhat in the story) and so they sought to understand it on every level. It made the film a much more rewarding piece to examine than the counterpart book.

Films can even put purely philosophical works of literature into an equally meaningful and entertaining work of filmmaking. Plato’s Allegory of the Cave shows how man is like a race of people kept prisoner in a cave. They don’t understand that they are being kept there. The cave is their entire world, apart from the fire-projected shadows on the wall that appear as a hint to life outside their world. When they finally free themselves they learn that these shadows are only representative of life outside, in fact outer life is so different that they must change their entire view of reality. This was translated to film by the Wachowski brothers in their 1999 film “The Matrix,” which told the story of the human race trapped inside an invisible prison, a prison of their mind, where one man is freed and is told that the outside world is so vastly different that he must change every illusion of reality that he had previously been under. His vision so drastically altered that when he reenters the Matrix to free more minds he finds he has powers over it to the point of godhood. This shows that (at least) an action film can exist on as many levels as a purely speculative text, a kung fu film, and science fiction/special effect extravaganza.

One aspect of films prevalent in “the Matrix”, which cannot be debated, is visuals, especially the flow of motion. Prose excels in the flow of emotion, something that is especially effective in film, but much harder to produce. Books however struggle with intense action, the visuals of fighting, running and physical conflict. In a favourite example of mine, the author of the novel “The Princess Bride,” William Goldman, stated that for his famous fencing sequence he researched as fully as possible to make his fight as realistic as it could be. I think it could easily be read as clunky and over-specific, whereas in the translation from prose to film this provided the fight choreography and director a chance to show us as viewers exactly what this fight would look like, performed by professionals (or at least actors with the height of crash-course training). This made the flow of motion jump off the screen, as opposed to the written word, which could be read as bogged down in details.

In film it is not the filmmaker’s job to please the audience, but to inspire the emotions necessary for them to be caught up in the moment – this being true of all art – but at times we must simply be told information the characters are unaware of. And even more rare are the times at which film can tell us something that a book is completely incapable of. The first act of the film adaptation of “Fight Club” is almost a scene-by-scene replica of the first act of the novel, apart from one detail. The character explains through means of narration to us how his life is, and this spirals upward in desperation until his encounter with Tyler Durden. However the film’s storytelling device renders the book’s opening powerless. Throughout the main character’s thoughts and musings, there are near-subliminal flashes of a tall laid-back man in the scene, unbeknownst to the narrator, which we later discover to be Tyler. This shows the fragmented state of the character’s thoughts even more piercingly than his words, without giving away some major plot points. It also provides subtle foreshadowing the book could never produce.

When we dream, we are fully immersed a world made of sometimes abstract and sometimes completely down-to-earth imagery, but surrounded by lights and sounds – a completely visceral and realistic experience. Filmmakers are the true dreamers, those who can imagine these great worlds and then bring their vision to us in all its glory. They do not rely on mere word to inspire the correct images; they provide them – beautifully and with perfection.

Mar and I sat on horses and stared back into beautifully constructed city. The impartial city surely took sides on beauty and ugliness.

Over the last day, I visited the tailor and had my clothes fixed. I had him make me a gray cloak, black boots, and spare garments for everyday use. Fortunately, I was given the money I needed and money enough for the journey and the food.

‘In the last day and night I have been too excited to ask you where we are going.’ Mar said, breaking me from my thoughts.

‘Ah yes. We’re looking for a woman. But first I must find a man, who will do me a favour.’ Turning my horse and cantering away from the city, I look back and smile at her.

‘A woman, who is she?’ she asked, following on beside me.

‘Oh, telling you her name is not my decision, but she is a childhood friend.’

‘She comes from your homeland?’

‘Oh yes, she was… very influential there. As was I.’

‘What was it like?’ Now she was truly curious.

‘We are only two riders, two horses and food, we do not need to take so long to move.’ I spurred my horse on into a gallop. She smirks, and takes a second to process my evasion but responds by speeding her horse on, following mine.

We come to a halt hours later, as the sky darkens and the air freezes further. We had set out at midday, and made good progress.

‘Why are you stopping? We can make a lot more ground before the day is out.’

‘You might not know this, but it’s difficult to keep a map of an entire half of a planet in your mind. We will eat, we will sleep, and tomorrow I will know which direction we should go.’

I watch her dismount her horse deftly. Yes, she will be good at fencing—Fencing! I had forgotten. I even forgot to bring practice weapons. We will begin training when we reach him then.

‘What food do you have?’

‘I have enough for a stew.’

‘Do you have firewood and kindling?’

Ah! I may have forgotten the fencing but I remember the other things I promised to teach.

‘I have firewood, but let me ask, what have you learned from your study of magic?’ I ask, dismounting from my horse and retrieving the firewood.

‘Only healing. My father has forbidden all violence and harmful work from me.’

‘Pity. In a dangerous world people need to be armed with everything.’ I sit on the grass and place the firewood in front of me. ‘Come, sit. I will teach you the art of fire. You’ll never need kindling again.’

‘What do I have to do?’

‘What have you been taught? What is your process for healing?’

‘All I have to do is be able to feel the warmth, the energy, the power of life inside me and let it free into whoever I want to heal.’ She said that with no great vigour, no feel for the art, and no passion for healing. I wonder if she is resentful of her father. I know of her passion for action, but that was instinct.

‘You don’t sound very pleased that that is your way.’

‘I’ve never felt a need to heal anyone. No one I have cared for has been hurt.’

‘Ah! Then this should come more naturally to you. I am teaching you fire, so please, burn within yourself.’ It takes weeks and months to learn to do any magic, but after that stage the mountain has been defeated and everything should come easier. ‘Feel a passion for anger, and let a hatred rise in you.’

‘What should I direct my anger at?’

‘Wrong. Direct it at nothing.’

She thinks solemnly for a second, as if insulted by my correction. ‘What fuels the fire?’

‘Ah yes. The fire is fueled by the wood.’ How ironic! ‘If you can burn the wood the fire within you will dissolve and die, and the fire without will be strong and nurtured by your new-found calmness. Stretch your arms over the wood. Feel a great urge to destroy it, and hold back. Feel a great passion to have it disappear, and ignore it. Anything you need to do to make your anger burn greater, do it. Now release it.’

Mar’s body had been tense up until I commanded her to finish. Her posture slumped but her hands stayed perfectly still, and a brilliant, dazzling fire ignited.

‘Haha! Bravo!’

I quickly set up the food. She looked tired. The first time you perform a type of magic is the hardest, in my experience.

‘You can control the fire now. If the fire inside you has died, then the outward flames will respond to your calm state. You are tired though. You should try after your finished with your food.’

Ah! Winter. Snow on every building and nice, dangerous ice on the streets. The sun is just gleaming off everything. The architecture is wonderful, combining practicality and art. Marvelous.

Enough admiring, I have to get to a University. These Genehhan cities are not very advanced, but each one of them has a University with professors of mostly every study posted in each. There should be at least three people able to treat me here. Apparently – this is what I have learned from my studies in my homeland – long ago these Universities were set up. And today they continue. Each major city was built around these buildings; they are the hubs of knowledge.

 I run through the city, attracting odd looks. No stopping to explain my rush, or avoid my embarrassment, the pain is getting worse and I have no distraction from it now. In my learning years I studied the mind and its workings, I studied the blade and its uses, but never medicine. Why not, with a little a foresight I could have seen the uses for it.

Why did I study the blade? It is useful now, but I did not realize I would need it. It was to satisfy my curiousity only; there is little violence in my homeland.

I keep saying that, where I come from is hardly a land.

Ah! I see it. It’s only at the end of another treacherously icy street – with me exhausted no less – but I think I can make it.

Ah! Warmth, a fire ablaze and people happily tending it, no one even looks to the opened door.

‘Help’ I croak, ‘help!’

A woman rushes over, eyes like emeralds, she almost whispers in fright of my gaunt appearance. I can’t hear her from my fatigue and my ears have never been too keen so I take her rest and place her hand on my wounded shoulder. She flinches from the feeling of the blade beneath the continually damaged but healing flesh.

The last thing I remember are her bright emerald eyes.

I sit up, roaring in pain. I look round to see an old, bearded man. He pushes me back down into bed with surprisingly strong hands, careful not to touch my conspicuous wound.

‘Stay calm.’ His voice strong with a touch of impatience he could not hide – not from me. I may be hard of hearing, but what I do hear I understand perfectly.

‘Old man… are you the professor of medicine here?’

‘I am. You no longer have any metal lodged in your shoulder.’

I stretched my fingers close to the wound to check if it was bandaged or if my awakening had disturbed his work. It was secure.

‘You can move,’ he spoke softly, but I could make it could make it out. ‘Your wound is safe and healing. Just be calm and safe. Walk with me.’ He walked to the door of the spacious room. ‘I will wait outside for you to dress.’

I quickly dress and meet him outside.

‘Where are my old clothes?’

‘Being washed, they have also suffered damaged. There is a very good tailor to the west of the city that could sew it as if it were new.’

‘Ah, thank you.’ I wonder if that same tailor could make me new clothes in a style of my choosing…

We walk through an archway between the depths of the upper floors and the staircase to the bottom. The artistry in this place is amazing; the paintings that hang on the walls are all masterpieces in their own right, not to mention the woodwork on the banisters and the subtle designs on each door.

‘What is your name?’ the old man asked.

I stop and turn to him – where I come from telling someone your name is an important procedure to be done completely face to face. ‘Skirr. And you?’

‘You have no family or home name?’

‘I do come from a house, but I doubt I would be considered one of their kin anymore. Nor would you know the house’s name so it’s pointless. And your name is?’

‘Garanty of the impartial city, Opartisk.’

‘Ah.’ I smile and nod, and as the tradition is finished I walk on.

‘Wait, how do you heal so fast? Where are you from?’

‘We can talk outside if the roads are not too dangerous for you, this building is becoming claustrophobic for me.’

Soon I had a coat, warm boots and gloves to protect me from the harsh weather – as a precaution only, I have experienced much greater winters than this.

We stride through the snow a few streets away from the University, away from educated ears. Still amazed by the genius of these buildings I am distracted from Garanty.

‘Do you feel less uncomfortable?’

‘Yes thank you, I am ill-suited for buildings.’ It was true, I am never fully comfortable in an enclosed space, but I wanted away from those who might know of my people. Prying eyes and clever minds could work out my origins.

‘Where I come from we all heal quickly. It is nothing unusual, do not let it worry you.’

‘Where is that?’ It was a strain to hear him now, the wind had picked up again and the snow was falling heavily.

In answer I look to the heavens, but I do not think he understands as he prompts my response.

‘You would not know of it.’

‘A name would satisfy me.’

‘Oh it has many, but my favourite has always been Empyrea.’ He was not lying; he did not even look curious as to what that is. I like that, a man of his word. ‘If this concludes your questions, tell me, who was the woman with the green eyes? I saw a vibrancy in those eyes, I doubt she will be satisfied by a long life of education.’

‘You have keen eyes. Her name—‘

‘Do not tell me. It is a person’s right to whom they tell their name.’

‘Very well. Her father was a great warrior. He lived in the city of beauty but it is said he came from somewhere just as mysterious as you.’

‘Ah. May I speak to her?’

He nods and we set back to the University, where I choose to reside in a large dining area against Garanty’s wishes of me returning to rest.

The hot soup warms me and from my corner seat and I look round for gleaming emerald eyes.

I approach the girl. And she is only a girl, a slight figure with auburn hair and a deceivingly gentle face – I knew what she could be capable of. Eyes never lie.

I bow and smile at her. ‘May I tell you my name?’

For a second she seems unsure, but after seeing my genuine eyes she replies ‘you may.’

‘I am Skirr of… unknown lands it seems.’

‘My name is Mar.’

‘Thank you, Mar. I hope I can speak to you again when you are finished your meal.’ I walked back to my seat and continued my meal.

When the meal was over, the University staff collected plates and bowls and people emptied out back to their rooms. I watched this procession still sitting and soon I gained the reward for my patience.

I watch Mar walk over to me, her body small and powerful, her eyes clear and bright but her face completely unreadable.

She sits opposite me.

‘You’re the girl that got me to Garanty when I collapsed, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let me thank you then.’ I give her a warm smile. She only stood there. ‘Hm. I will be leaving here soon. May I ask what it is your study here?’

The Universities operate with a professor of each study, and people apply to become students of these professors. From what I have learned, each professor may only have up to five students. As in all things, if you are rich, well connected or greatly liked by all, you may study under more than one professor, but for the commoners they may only apply for one.

‘Why?’

‘I would like to see if I can further any of your learning.’

‘Further them?’

‘Yes. If you are to leave here, I will not have your education cease.’

‘Leave here… how do you know what I was thinking?’ She smirks to herself, almost invisibly.

‘Haha, the eyes are the windows to the soul. Don’t they teach the basics here?’

‘What do you see in mine?’

‘I see a fierceness, a power, a longing for… adventure. To go somewhere! To do something! All the things a young, powerful mind cries out for.’

‘I am in the study of Garanty of medicine and the Grand of magic.’

‘I apologize. I am not familiar with medicine. I can however continue your training of magic, even if my own powers are exhausted. I will be able to teach your swordplay also, if you wish.’

‘My father forbade swordplay, but I have watched the swordsmaster here many times as a matter of curiousity and I doubt you could best him in teaching or technique.’

I laugh at this, a chance to prove my worth to her. No challenge at all.

‘Keep in mind I have not yet agreed to come with you. Even though it is tempting.’

‘If I can best the swordsmaster in a duel, will you accompany me?’

She thinks for a moment and then nods.

I hold a wooden straight sword in my two hands. Gripping firmly but not tightly. He stands opposite holding a similar weapon horizontally across his side. His center of balance low, his agility high, he is a master. But that does not mean this will be difficult.

He shuffles forward, and I step back. I keep my body upright to show confidence in my abilities. If I perceived him as more of a threat I would lower myself also. I can see in his eyes he feels I am just a pretender, a useless distraction.

He moves forward again and slashes at up me, I side step the practice sword and he shuffles back again.

I lunge forward, he blocks perfectly, but I am far too fast. I spin round and plant my foot in his stomach sending him back a few feet.

We agreed a killing blow would finish the match, but that was to show him my speed.

I change stance, putting my left leg out, with my right back as a support, the wooden sword out in front of me, still gripping it with both hands.

He regains his posture and waits for me to attack. His eyes are wary now, he knows, to some extent, what I can do to him.

I carefully move forward a step and he moves back another. I run at him, slicing down upon him, he blocks but he is not strong enough, his sword is batted off to the side. I kick his feet from under him and as he crashes to the floor I point the edge of my blade at throat – beaten.

The rest of the room reappears to my eyes, my attention less on the match; I can see everything once more.

He looks distraught for a second but quickly stands up and congratulates me.

Mar runs over looking astonished. ‘I have never seen anyone move so fast.’

Turning to her, ‘I will be able to teach you fencing if you accompany me.’

The swordsmaster turns to Mar also, ‘you should go with him, but not tonight, the weather is treacherous and—‘

‘And not tomorrow, I have arrangements to make tomorrow. In two days we leave.’

It feels so strange. It’s like culture shock -- from flying high to underground low. Why did I come to a sewer, I hate bad smells. I was hunted, like a bird, now I’m underground, like a rat.

I haven’t been on Genehha long, but I’m sure there sewer ends in a couple of miles, coming out into a city I’m sure. I guess I’ll just limp along pounding my fist into this dank horrid wall until I find an exit. The mind has a defense mechanism to deal with pain, I may have a large chunk of metal stuck in my shoulder but I won’t feel it as long as I keep pounding into my hand; the brain only deals with one source of pain at a time.

It’s so dank and horrid down here. I know I was being chased, but surely I could have stolen a horse or something! I hate bad smells.

I could have tried to take out this blade from my shoulder but I thought… well, I’ve never been stabbed before. I realize now that I should have taken it out, I should have studied medicine too, but I never thought ahead. I’ll need to remember to think ahead in the future. The skin has almost healed over the wound (I was only stabbed a day ago, but my kind heal faster than these Genehhans) so extracting it would mean even more pain, and I do not want to slow my journey. The nearing city will have professor of medicine anyway.

Who built these sewers! They empty all the dirty water out of the major cities of Genehha into a deep underwater reservoir. This is the really interesting part. There’s an underground city called Abaddon, it cleanses, purifies and pumps the water back up to the surface. Was it the Abaddons? Did they build it? Did they honestly send huge almost armies of men to the surface to dig out a sewer line that spans at least half the planet? It seems unlikely.

Why do they even do it? Is the underground so boring they have to help people they’ve never even met? Where I come from people greet people, and from there decide on what action to take with that person. Everything is a careful arrangement of conversations, debates and discussions. It is a slow system, but an intimate one. We become friends or enemies and act accordingly. I don’t think the same can be said for Abaddon and their people.

Ah! I see light. Hopefully an exit, or at least a breath of fresh air!