Hi, new blog! A term into this mess and I'm really needing somewhere to vent. There's only so much helmet hair a girl can take.
So, I'm Malina, thought I should mention that. I should also explain that I'm currently in my first year of mythical warrior training school. Sounds impressive right? I thought so, too, when I begged my parents to let me go for three whole years before they finally gave in. It's really not all it sounds, I have now discovered.
It's not too bad. I've made good friends and everything, but it turns out that I'm not exactly... very good at this whole “mythical warrior”...thing.
Yeah, that sounds bad, considering how long I nagged mum and dad to let me go. But what was I supposed to do? I mean, it was “The Mythical Warrior Training Academy”! What kid doesn't want to learn how to ride unicorns and fight dragons? (Well, my brother, but still.) The school brochure promised “challenge, adventure and thrill”, and it was just what I wanted out of life, you know? A little action, a little excitement. Well, I've found the challenge, but I have no idea where the stupid Academy has hidden the adventure and thrill.
The first half of term was just theory, theory, theory, on topics like “when did the blah-de-blah species of gnome go extinct and what were the main causes of its extinction?”. Beyond over-hunting by humans and change in environment, as is normally the case, there's really not much else you can say, which makes writing a thousand words on the topic problematic (if not boring). That was all okay. Boring, but okay. But that was before the practicals started.
Now, we weren't exactly going to be diving straight into battling dragons. Instead we started with handling spark-lizards and stuff, but it wasn't long before they set us on something bigger.
Maybe bigger is an understatement.
We'd also been training in sword fighting, in between all the mythological theory things, learning techniques for fighting different creatures, etcetera. Now, that's all very well in practice, but when faced with the real thing, it's a completely different matter. The real thing being a fully grown male fridge tiger.
Oh, a fridge tiger is literally that. A tiger that lives in a fridge. Or more than one tiger, in some cases. Okay, thinking about it, that sounds odd. They don't technically live in the fridge. You know wardrobes go to Narnia? Well fridges work in the same way, except the places they lead to aren't so nice. Ever had those days where you keep wandering into the kitchen and staring into the fridge, not seeing anything you want to eat, and walking out again? Nine times out of ten it will be because of fridge tigers' annoying habit of eating the food you like. Just be glad you didn't open the fridge when the tiger was still there.
So, first time facing one. The aim of this task was to make the tiger feel threatened enough to back off, so you can then reseal the back of the fridge to prevent it from returning.
The whole class was standing behind me, watching as I approach the fridge. A dull growling emanated from inside. Trying to keep as far away from the white block of terror before me, I nudged the door open. Peering through the shelves of food was a monster of a cat. I swear I could see right past it glinting, horrible yellow eyes into its soul. And it's soul-self was licking its lips. I held out my sword, which suddenly felt much heavier in my hand. Then everything went wrong.
It wasn't all my fault. It was just one little problem which had unfortunate consequences.
My hand shook as I inched the sword between two shelves, its tip angled straight between the tiger's eyes, and knocked a bottle of Tabasco sauce slightly, which rocked once, twice, and seemingly in slow motion as all things with disastrous consequences do, fell.
See, if the top had been put on properly, it would have been okay. A small slip, but nothing drastic. But, Murphy's Laws were in play, and nothing was going to go my way.
If you've never seen a tiger get a spicy condiment in its eyes, I would say it is spectacular to behold. It was probably that way for my spectators, but for me, it was downright terrifying.
If the creature could have screamed, it would have. Instead, it yowled, rearing back, and swiping a large, clawed paw through the shelves towards me. Naturally, I leapt back, avoiding certain death, and tripped over a classmate who had unknowingly inched forward, fixated on the events that were unfolding. The cat continued to howl and thrash, destroying the shelves which had previously been the only thing between us and a hundred kilograms of angry kitty. The sudden scramble for the door, in retrospect, makes me think of what people say about only having to run faster than at least one other person to survive. It was like a thrill-seeker's version of “What's the time, Mister Wolf”.
So there it is. One of the most basic tasks for a mythical warrior, and I failed it in what can possibly be called the most spectacular way possible. I'm going to go, now. I have a bath waiting for me. A bath filled with self pity.
