Like a little boy.

Thats me when they announced Diablo 3.

Blood haze on Centre Court

I stared at the other end of the court, glancing at the icy composure of my opponent. He had good reason to be calm. He was two sets up and on his way to winning the third very comfortably. Shoulders slightly hunched, legs apart, he stood ready to return whatever I could throw at him. It was almost like he was challenging me to give him my best shot. I grasped the ball in my sweaty palm, trying to tame my nerves. I was serving to stay in the game, and I knew that I needed to come up with something special to get past the legend that stood before me.

But I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. It never is against him. Three before me had tried and failed spectacularly, every one of them sent home with their tails between their legs. And I wouldn’t even say that I’m particularly good at the game. I was fast becoming one of those Kournikovas. Plenty of potential, but never actually gets there. And it was pissing me off. The thought of what I would read in the tabloids tomorrow made me want to fling my racket at the unsuspecting cameraman that sat at the side of the court. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but he worked in the same newspapers as those nasty writers, and that made them accomplices.

I stared at the sky for a moment, as if hoping for diving intervention. As I leveled my gaze again, I saw it. The one thing that could rile me up like nothing else can. My grip on the ball and racket tightened reflexively, my fingernails digging into my palms. My breathing quickened and my pulse started racing. I didn’t really feel like playing anymore at that point, but I knew that I needed to see the match through. I wanted to throw up on the grass I was standing on. And any moment now, the umpire was going to ask me to get on with the game. Further delay would get me into a lot of trouble.

So I served. But this time, it was different. It was like all the passion and festering frustration that I felt for the figure that now sat in the stands was channeled into the ball. My opponent threw himself across the court, but to no avail. He didn’t have a chance. Ace.

I wasn’t thinking anymore. I just played. Shuffling across the baseline to the other side of the court, I tossed the ball. I could feel the ball bounce cleanly off the strings as my overhead swing made contact. Another screamer, but he was much too good to be aced twice in a row. He was at full stretch as he returned the service. Seeing my chance, I moved forward. The ball came back short and I smashed it into the ground, making sure it would second bounce somewhere in the spectator stands.

Thirty - love. The crowd was stirring a little. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my chest. Without realizing it, I was gritting my teeth. I felt like I had a demon in me and I was having some kind of blood haze. A state that can only be corrected with liberal swathes of blood-letting. Whatever I saw just now was still there, unknowingly baiting me to new levels of aggression.

I didn't like what I was becoming, but I didn't really have a choice. Struggling to keep my composure, I sent another stinging serve across, leaving my opponent dumbfounded. I was back in it.

Now all I needed to do was not to kill him literally. And hope the bloodhaze passes before it causes any lasting damage.

Rumblings of doom.

The grassland was a picture of peace, the rolling hills covered by soft tufts of green. A soft wind blew across the plains, scattering the dandelion seeds into a cloud of yellow. Jackson sighed. "The calm before the storm," he thought to himself. The day almost seemed too perfect to spoil, yet he knew it would be.

He shifted about in his suit of armour. The metal plates had served him well over the years, and despite the shining sheen having disappeared to be replaced by dents and scratches, he still wore them with pride. His shield was equally battered, the metal edges notched my the blows of war axes. Jackson took a deep breath and looked around him. His friends and blood brothers stood beside him, all similarly suited and armed, staring at the space ahead of them. No one said anything. There was no need to. They were all waiting.

A distant rumbling signalled the end of the wait. They all knew what the sound meant. The horde was approching. As they drew closer, the sound of the wardrums being beatenbecame clearer, the bloodcurling screams of their green skinned adverseries growing louder.

It wasn't the first time he found himself facing a sight so terrifying. He had fought battles before, and he knew what would entail this one. And while he had always faced such a situation with the grim determination of a patroit defending his home, it was different this time. The sounds of war were no longer a rallying cry for him. They sounded like a death knell. He could tell, just by hearing the sounds before a battle, if it would be won or lost. And he knew it would take a miracle of sorts for him to come out of this one triumphant.

The signs were there. His instincts had spoken.

And still, he refused to listen.

Don't want to think about it.

I think I've just reached a new phase in life. One where I'm willing to let go. Control is nice, but its not always the best thing to try and do. Some situations really are like clay; the harder you grasp, the more of it slips out.

I'm not sure if I know what I'm doing. I don't normally sweep problems under the carpet. Not willingly, anyway. But even as I do that now, I don't really think I care that I'm breaking one of the most sacred of rules that I live by.

If its important enough, I normally grab the problem by the scruff of the neck and try and wrestle it into submission. My current response seems to be to let it be and go have tea while it resolves itself. Naturally, I'd butt in once in a while to steer it along. But I'm almost resigned to the idea that the problem is beyond me and trying is pointless. Its not only pointless, it will only make things worse.

I'm not used to doing this. The sense of helplessness is quite crippling. At least in the past I busied myself with throwing myself against an unmovable stone wall. Even if it didn't achieve anything, it gave me the illusion that I was doing something about the problem.

Now, I shrug at the stone wall, turn around and plant a tree or two. Ultimately, the latter is the more productive, but it sure is harder to do. The offending wall chews at my consciousness everytime I dig a hole or water a sapling.

I don't know what it is. Its not anger or annoyance or depression. Maybe its much worse. Maybe its defeatism.

Random fiction.

The shouting from within the chamber was too much to bear for Snayph. He had to walk out; another minute of that rabble about the most inconsequential things would have snapped his nerve and driven him berserk. And that would have been really ugly. Flexing his considerable muscles, he strode towards the window. Unlatching the lock, he pushed it open, admitting the cool evening breeze. He could see most of the city from where he stood; such was the size and height of the building that he worked from. People feared his organization, and for good reason. They were the true Kings of Alanar, not Cedric III. Their military arm dwarfed the Alanarian defenders. They had superior numbers, better weapons, better training, and most importantly, better intelligence. That would be a given, since his organization started out as the espionage division of the government. Normally, spies content themselves with the trade of information. They uncover and sell secrets, make a nice tidy sum and then move on to the next juicy piece of news.

But Jackson Borelaran wasn't a typical spy. He had big ambitions, and the skill to back them up. With careful manipulation and a generous stroke of luck, Jackson turned the organization from a shadow at the mercy of the King to the shadow that had a dagger at the King's throat. But he remained true to the artform that brought him such power, and declined to take the throne for himself. He contented himself to rule from the behind the curtain, interfering only when he felt he needed to. He did however, surround himself with advisors, his shortcomings in administrative matters quite obvious to him. Those very advisors were bickering in his chamber now, not being able to decide if the city needs to do something about the rat infestation.

Snayph was no politician. In fact, he had a distinct distaste for politicians, believing them to be all talk and no action. He was born into a farm household that observed strict discipline and little room for negotiations. His father had taught him to respect authority, and those lessons served him well when he joined that shadow regime's training academy. He graduated a firm teacher favourite, earning praise and prophecies of greatness from those he had worked with. He quickly made it up the ranks till finally, he sat at the council as Jackson's strong arm.

He didn't know why he had been summoned to the council in the first place. He was only ever summoned when his presence was absolutely necessary. Today, they were talking about a rat problem, hardly the kind of situation that Snayph would consider a security crisis. So, in the confusion of all the shouting in the chamber, he slipped out to the relative quiet of the hall outside.

"You think I wouldn't notice you leave the room, Snayph?" The sudden emergence of a voice from behind him startled Snayph. He spun around to see the dimunitive figure of Jackson standing behind him. He was hunched as always, and walked with a funny gait. He had picked up that habit some years ago to lull his enemies into a false sense of security when facing him. The trickery served him well.

Blink

1. A reflex of your eye to clear out dust particles and irritants that have settled on your cornea. Characterized by rapid opening and closing of eyelids.

2. A metaphor used to describe a very short period of time.

3. A term popularized by Blizzard to denote teleportation over short distances. First appeared in the Night Elf Warden. (I think)

4. A book about the 'power of thinking without thinking'. Provides insight to the human subconscious.

5. Shorthand for a very annoying piece of a Magic deck. Designed as a mostly defensive tool, it became one of the most annoying things that I came up against at the Magic Nationals.