It was a quiet night as Harr and Arianna rested outside under the stars. They had been staying in the village of magic for a few months now, and while they much preferred to sleep with a roof over their head, they found it oddly relaxing to spend some time under the night stars. It was how they had spent most of their time together, seeing as how before the walking storm had arrived they had barely ever even seen each other. They had learned much together, about themselves and one another, that had things not transpired as they had, they may have never learned. That was not to say that they were happy about how things had happened - far from it - but it had in fact happened, and there were oddly a few good things that had come from it.
"Harr?" Arianna asked, her voice quiet not because she was shy or afraid, but because she did not want to disturb the night air. "Do you know much about the stars and the constellations?"
The princess' uncle turned to look at her, lifting himself up onto one elbow. "A little," he replied. "Why do you ask?"
Arianna hadn't turned to look at him - she was still staring up at the night sky, her eyes slightly narrowed as she stared at the stars she was asking about. "I remember, back at the castle, of all the lessons Perman would try to teach me, the stars and constellations were always my favorite. But it's been so long, and I had so few chances back then to actually look at them, that I can't remember any of the names or shapes. I realized it while I was on my own. I would look up at the stars as the fire burned out every night, and I would try to remember what he taught me. But... it's all gone. I can't remember any of it."
"Well, you never were much good at listening to your lessons."
She gave a half smile to that. "No, I wasn't. And I feel bad about it. Perman... Saved me. I'd like to learn what I can about the stars, so that at least those lessons won't have been wasted on me."
"We can work on that. And I'm sure there's someone else in the village who would be happy to help with what I can't."
Arianna finally turned to look at her uncle and smiled. "I'd like that."
Friday, March 31, 2017
Thursday, March 30, 2017
Clones
The room was dark and dank, lit only vaguely by the numerous tubes that filled it, each filled with a luminescent blue liquid, humanoid shapes at different levels of development floating inside. Marcus walked through the area slowly, checking on each body as he passed over them, evaluating their form and progression as they developed. He had begun his experiments several years ago, but it had only been recently that they had truly begun to make any progress in them. However, one day he would assuredly be capable of growing new people, and once the bodies were prepared, he would begin to begin developing the technology necessary to upload and download a person's consciousness both to and from a database and the new bodies.
He had found that excessive amounts of light were damaging to the bodies as they grow, so rather than turn off the lights, he had removed them entirely, so as to prevent any mistakes being made. The luminescence from the tubes provided enough light for him to do his work and keep the area clean, and he had long since taken to recording his findings by voice rather than writing them down. It was cleaner and faster, and while it meant that he had to listen through them any time he wished to review his notes, it also ensured that all information remained in context.
It was not by any means a mass-production thing. The process was slow and costly. It was likely something he would offer only to those he believed worthy, or those who were willing to pay the price for it all. Preferably not the latter, but he would not be one to pass up the funding. He could only maintain at his current pace for so long. Granted, he could steal supplies - it wouldn't be the first time - but he preferred not to take those manner of risks if at all possible. He had nearly been caught more than once. He was a scientist, not a rogue.
He had failed many times over, but one of his latest bodies was soon to be harvested. A month, at most, and it would be prepared. If it managed to survive outside of its tube, than he would be able to test is physical capabilities. Mental was irrelevant - the only use of its brain was to act as a holding cell.
Once he had a body he could work with, the real work could begin.
And then he would be able to create a new human race.
He had found that excessive amounts of light were damaging to the bodies as they grow, so rather than turn off the lights, he had removed them entirely, so as to prevent any mistakes being made. The luminescence from the tubes provided enough light for him to do his work and keep the area clean, and he had long since taken to recording his findings by voice rather than writing them down. It was cleaner and faster, and while it meant that he had to listen through them any time he wished to review his notes, it also ensured that all information remained in context.
It was not by any means a mass-production thing. The process was slow and costly. It was likely something he would offer only to those he believed worthy, or those who were willing to pay the price for it all. Preferably not the latter, but he would not be one to pass up the funding. He could only maintain at his current pace for so long. Granted, he could steal supplies - it wouldn't be the first time - but he preferred not to take those manner of risks if at all possible. He had nearly been caught more than once. He was a scientist, not a rogue.
He had failed many times over, but one of his latest bodies was soon to be harvested. A month, at most, and it would be prepared. If it managed to survive outside of its tube, than he would be able to test is physical capabilities. Mental was irrelevant - the only use of its brain was to act as a holding cell.
Once he had a body he could work with, the real work could begin.
And then he would be able to create a new human race.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Crown
The room fell silent as the would-be king kneeled down in the center, the mish-mashed crowd which had come to observe him pushed against the walls in a circle, all eyes trained on him. He had called for representatives of all people who would rest under his jurisdiction - he was surrounded not only by his own ilk, but towering orcs, impatient dwarves, and disinterested elves as well. They had all gathered together to see whether or not the new king would be accepted by the Truth.
Though they could not make out the words, they could hear the candidate murmuring under his breath as he touched his head to the floor. The words were ancient, spoken in a language that even the elves had forgotten, but they had been passed down for generations in the royal family, even if their original meaning had been lost. But as he spoke them, the would-be king felt as though a warmth were spreading through his body, starting in his core and extending out into every toe and finger. It spread like fire through his blood, and it nearly choked the air out of him, but still he forced out the words.
And then the air was cold. As though ice had rushed through the room, blowing out every torch on the walls, the room grew dark and frigid. Yet still not a word was spoken. This was something that had not been seen in their lifetimes. Though it scared the viewers, man and orc alike, they dared not speak - they could feel the power swirling around them, and were afraid that if they spoke it would strike against them.
Slowly their candidate rose to his knees, his eyes closed and his mouth shut. They could barely make out his outline until they saw his hand rise into the air, and in a brief moment they became suddenly and abruptly able to see. There, above his head, floated a crown of glass, light emitting from within with a bright blue hue. It hovered only inches above him, and slowly lowered itself onto his head.
The new king did not open his eyes until the crown landed upon him, and when he did his eyes were clearly just as surprised as those around him. No one had expected something like this to happen. For generations the ceremony had been little more than pomp and circumstance. But this... This was unheard of.
Perhaps, for the first time, the king had truly been accepted by the Truth.
Though they could not make out the words, they could hear the candidate murmuring under his breath as he touched his head to the floor. The words were ancient, spoken in a language that even the elves had forgotten, but they had been passed down for generations in the royal family, even if their original meaning had been lost. But as he spoke them, the would-be king felt as though a warmth were spreading through his body, starting in his core and extending out into every toe and finger. It spread like fire through his blood, and it nearly choked the air out of him, but still he forced out the words.
And then the air was cold. As though ice had rushed through the room, blowing out every torch on the walls, the room grew dark and frigid. Yet still not a word was spoken. This was something that had not been seen in their lifetimes. Though it scared the viewers, man and orc alike, they dared not speak - they could feel the power swirling around them, and were afraid that if they spoke it would strike against them.
Slowly their candidate rose to his knees, his eyes closed and his mouth shut. They could barely make out his outline until they saw his hand rise into the air, and in a brief moment they became suddenly and abruptly able to see. There, above his head, floated a crown of glass, light emitting from within with a bright blue hue. It hovered only inches above him, and slowly lowered itself onto his head.
The new king did not open his eyes until the crown landed upon him, and when he did his eyes were clearly just as surprised as those around him. No one had expected something like this to happen. For generations the ceremony had been little more than pomp and circumstance. But this... This was unheard of.
Perhaps, for the first time, the king had truly been accepted by the Truth.
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
Creating
I've been spending a lot of time recently focusing less on my writing, and more on physical creation. I've talked about the building and the pyrography, and I've been looking into how I can combine those, expand them, and what other skills I would like to gain and work with them. More mechanical building, more freeform building, wood turning. I've been looking into them a lot, looking for plans and ideas, and getting really excited about the possibilities. At this rate, some day nearly everything I own will be something that I've created, and likely created out of wood. And I'm ok with that.
It feels different from how I've been writing for a while. I have an actual goal as I step into my little workshop area, I have an image in my head of what I want to step out with, and even if I don't quite end up there, I'm at least getting close to that. I can see it. When I write, I step up to my story and I just start filling out words on the paper. I let my characters be in control of the story, frequently not even knowing the end goal, much less the path for how to get there. And I don't necessarily have a problem with that, I enjoy that that's a thing that I can do. It's a very cool experience to be able to go in with nothing and come out with something. But it can also be very intimidating at times, and it can make it very hard to know what steps to take to get through a tough spot.
I'm not sure that I necessarily prefer one to the other. But I have been writing for a very long time, and it's nice to actually be able see what's coming and how to go about it. It's nice, when you hit a snag in the road, to have a clear cut, solid way to be able to get around it. You don't have to go out of your way to make something up. You have a proven way to fix problems.
Of course, in both, sometimes those imperfections and problems are what end up making them beautiful and unique. Not always, obviously - sometimes they destroy the project entirely. But sometimes, when you take a step back from it, you can see it for what it really is and start to build the rest around it, instead of putting all your energy into correcting it.
Although, to be fair, it is much easier to do that when the problem is something you can actually lay your eyes on, rather than picture in your brain.
It feels different from how I've been writing for a while. I have an actual goal as I step into my little workshop area, I have an image in my head of what I want to step out with, and even if I don't quite end up there, I'm at least getting close to that. I can see it. When I write, I step up to my story and I just start filling out words on the paper. I let my characters be in control of the story, frequently not even knowing the end goal, much less the path for how to get there. And I don't necessarily have a problem with that, I enjoy that that's a thing that I can do. It's a very cool experience to be able to go in with nothing and come out with something. But it can also be very intimidating at times, and it can make it very hard to know what steps to take to get through a tough spot.
I'm not sure that I necessarily prefer one to the other. But I have been writing for a very long time, and it's nice to actually be able see what's coming and how to go about it. It's nice, when you hit a snag in the road, to have a clear cut, solid way to be able to get around it. You don't have to go out of your way to make something up. You have a proven way to fix problems.
Of course, in both, sometimes those imperfections and problems are what end up making them beautiful and unique. Not always, obviously - sometimes they destroy the project entirely. But sometimes, when you take a step back from it, you can see it for what it really is and start to build the rest around it, instead of putting all your energy into correcting it.
Although, to be fair, it is much easier to do that when the problem is something you can actually lay your eyes on, rather than picture in your brain.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
Taking
It was impossible to see. Possibly because there was nothing to see, or possibly because he needed new eyes. When had he replaced them last? Had he? He wasn't sure how long he had been standing there, in the void of a hallway, standing before the door and waiting for it to swing open. His back hurt. And his neck. Pretty much all of him. He was used to it. Though every once in a while it was nice to relieve some of it.
He could hear the door swing open, though he couldn't see it. But what he could see was a man, frozen instantaneously by his appearance. A younger man, whose parts were still working. And best of all, a man with a nose. A bruised nose, from the look of it, but bruised was better than broken and battered, and it was certainly better than hanging by a string. His entire body surged and lurched, throwing his weight onto the man's body. He could see the man trying to flee, but he was too slow. Just like all the ones before him.
His fingers clenched around the fresh nose, digging into flesh and muscle and breaking the bone beneath them. He pulled, strength made by centuries of practice, and could feel the man's face beneath his fingers tearing apart. He pulled harder and harder still, feeling the man attempt to fight him off, though each blow felt more like a gentle pat on the belly than a punch thrown in desperation. He had forgotten if that was because of his strength, or because he had simply experienced far worse already. It hardly mattered.
The cracking and splitting was loud as the nose finally came free, and he looked down at the bloodied and bruised appendage in his hand. It didn't look as fresh as it had on the man's face. Still fresher than his, though. He finished tearing off what little was left of his own nose and pushed the new one against the open wound, feeling the curse pulse through his body anew. Within moments the blue vines were extending from him, grabbing the nose and fusing it to his flesh like a welder fused metal.
The man before him vanished as the door slammed shut, and for a brief moment he could smell the iron of the spilt blood in the room. It was fresh. It was lively. It reminded him of the old days.
And then he set once more to waiting.
He could hear the door swing open, though he couldn't see it. But what he could see was a man, frozen instantaneously by his appearance. A younger man, whose parts were still working. And best of all, a man with a nose. A bruised nose, from the look of it, but bruised was better than broken and battered, and it was certainly better than hanging by a string. His entire body surged and lurched, throwing his weight onto the man's body. He could see the man trying to flee, but he was too slow. Just like all the ones before him.
His fingers clenched around the fresh nose, digging into flesh and muscle and breaking the bone beneath them. He pulled, strength made by centuries of practice, and could feel the man's face beneath his fingers tearing apart. He pulled harder and harder still, feeling the man attempt to fight him off, though each blow felt more like a gentle pat on the belly than a punch thrown in desperation. He had forgotten if that was because of his strength, or because he had simply experienced far worse already. It hardly mattered.
The cracking and splitting was loud as the nose finally came free, and he looked down at the bloodied and bruised appendage in his hand. It didn't look as fresh as it had on the man's face. Still fresher than his, though. He finished tearing off what little was left of his own nose and pushed the new one against the open wound, feeling the curse pulse through his body anew. Within moments the blue vines were extending from him, grabbing the nose and fusing it to his flesh like a welder fused metal.
The man before him vanished as the door slammed shut, and for a brief moment he could smell the iron of the spilt blood in the room. It was fresh. It was lively. It reminded him of the old days.
And then he set once more to waiting.
Monday, March 20, 2017
Burning
So if you didn't know what the title of my post the other day meant, Pyrographer, I recently learned that pyrography is the art of woodburning. Specifically, that mean using fire to draw and write, typically on wood though it can be on other mediums, using varying levels of burn marks to create depth and texture in a piece. Having spent a lot of time recently doing woodworking, looking into building things, and generally trying to create with my own two hands, I love this idea. And having found out that you can get a tool for it for twenty bucks, you're damn right I went and bought one.
Now, I've expressed before that I don't dislike drawing, but I have absolutely no talent for it. I can barely draw a stick figure - much less some of the incredible art that I have found while looking into how pyrography works. But I think this is the first thing that's really made me want to learn. Maybe it's the fact that it's in materials that a lot of people today don't work with as often. Maybe it's just the fact that it's fire. But the more I think about it, the more I want to get good at it. The more I want to do research on how to draw - specifically things like shading, and how to get proportions right, and how to take what's in my head and give it physical shape without looking like a hideous pile of crap.
And I have all kinds of ideas in my head of things that I want to do. Things for me, things for friends, hell, even things for work. I can't think of another project that I've been this excited to work on in a long time. Maybe even since I started this blog. But a lot of the things that I have in mind are things that I know full well I won't be able to just jump into right away. They're complicated, complex, and generally require me to be better at other things that I'm already working on. But they serve as goals. When I'm burning simple straight lines and wondering what I'm doing with my life, I'll remember the things that I'm working towards making. Concrete, solid plans. Not like wanting to write a book - which, don't get me wrong, I still want to do, but that's a lot vaguer than "I want to build a box for someone and burn a picture of them into it."
I don't expect to be able to start doing these things overnight. Even before the tool arrives, I have a lot of research I need to do. What kind of wood works best, where I can get it, how much sanding I should do on it both before and after, what's the best way to preserve it once it's done. And it'll be dangerous - I'm effectively going to be using a pen with a tip that can reach over a thousand degrees fahrenheit.
But god damn if it wouldn't be cool to do.
Now, I've expressed before that I don't dislike drawing, but I have absolutely no talent for it. I can barely draw a stick figure - much less some of the incredible art that I have found while looking into how pyrography works. But I think this is the first thing that's really made me want to learn. Maybe it's the fact that it's in materials that a lot of people today don't work with as often. Maybe it's just the fact that it's fire. But the more I think about it, the more I want to get good at it. The more I want to do research on how to draw - specifically things like shading, and how to get proportions right, and how to take what's in my head and give it physical shape without looking like a hideous pile of crap.
And I have all kinds of ideas in my head of things that I want to do. Things for me, things for friends, hell, even things for work. I can't think of another project that I've been this excited to work on in a long time. Maybe even since I started this blog. But a lot of the things that I have in mind are things that I know full well I won't be able to just jump into right away. They're complicated, complex, and generally require me to be better at other things that I'm already working on. But they serve as goals. When I'm burning simple straight lines and wondering what I'm doing with my life, I'll remember the things that I'm working towards making. Concrete, solid plans. Not like wanting to write a book - which, don't get me wrong, I still want to do, but that's a lot vaguer than "I want to build a box for someone and burn a picture of them into it."
I don't expect to be able to start doing these things overnight. Even before the tool arrives, I have a lot of research I need to do. What kind of wood works best, where I can get it, how much sanding I should do on it both before and after, what's the best way to preserve it once it's done. And it'll be dangerous - I'm effectively going to be using a pen with a tip that can reach over a thousand degrees fahrenheit.
But god damn if it wouldn't be cool to do.
Sunday, March 19, 2017
Falling
Time seemed to come to a stand still as Matthew watched his two friends tumble off the side of the cliff, the snow under their boots giving way and stealing their balance away from them. Jeremiah attempted to correct his balance, feeling his feet tilting forward as the snow broke, and thus threw his weight backwards, unknowingly sending him further from the edge. Drew dove towards Matthew instead, though his feet had nothing to grip and the motion barely moved him. Matthew could see the two so clearly, suspended in air, falling in different positions at different heights, and he knew that he could save only one of them.
His movement would have to be nearly instantaneous. He was the only one with shoes that had actually had spikes in them, so he would be able to maintain solid footing in the remaining ice before the spot where the snow had broken. Jeremiah had been Matthew's friend since childhood. They had been through everything together. Had helped each other through break ups, court cases, every fear and every triumph. They had been the best man at each other's weddings. But Drew was Matthew's wife's brother. He had been the one to talk her into going through with the wedding. He had loaned them the money to pay off their first mortgage, and he had literally saved her life as a child.
He owed so much to them both. He would be broken to lose either of them. In different ways, the death of either one of them would tear his world apart. And yet he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could not save them both. If he tried to give each one a hand, he would only be dragged down with them, and they would all tumble to their dooms. He could support the weight of one. Not the two.
But there was also another factor. A far more important factor. The one that forced his hand into making a choice, whether he liked it or not.
As time crawled back to life, Matthew was already in motion. He dove forward, dug his heels into the ice, and grabbed Drew's arm, trying his best not to look in Jeremiah's direction. He tried not to think about it. But he couldn't.
But he could actually reach Drew.
His movement would have to be nearly instantaneous. He was the only one with shoes that had actually had spikes in them, so he would be able to maintain solid footing in the remaining ice before the spot where the snow had broken. Jeremiah had been Matthew's friend since childhood. They had been through everything together. Had helped each other through break ups, court cases, every fear and every triumph. They had been the best man at each other's weddings. But Drew was Matthew's wife's brother. He had been the one to talk her into going through with the wedding. He had loaned them the money to pay off their first mortgage, and he had literally saved her life as a child.
He owed so much to them both. He would be broken to lose either of them. In different ways, the death of either one of them would tear his world apart. And yet he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could not save them both. If he tried to give each one a hand, he would only be dragged down with them, and they would all tumble to their dooms. He could support the weight of one. Not the two.
But there was also another factor. A far more important factor. The one that forced his hand into making a choice, whether he liked it or not.
As time crawled back to life, Matthew was already in motion. He dove forward, dug his heels into the ice, and grabbed Drew's arm, trying his best not to look in Jeremiah's direction. He tried not to think about it. But he couldn't.
But he could actually reach Drew.
Saturday, March 18, 2017
Peace
Michael removed the helmet from his head as the silence dragged on over the field. Somehow, miraculously, he had made it through the battle. The field around him was covered with scattered corpses, leaking blood, and discarded weaponry, and yet he was still alive. He had no reason to be - he was nothing special. He had not been a skilled fighter, he had not been blessed with horse and armor by his family name, he had barely even had any training. He hadn't rushed into the battle - the battle had rushed into him. Bodies had clashed all around him, and it was a dead man's blade that he had picked up to defend himself with.
Most of the battle itself was now a blur in his mind. A blur of steel and blood and flesh flying in every direction. He had no idea how many men he had actually fought, if he had fought any. He remembered swinging his blade, and feeling the vibrations shaking it as it struck against something, but he wasn't sure if it had actually been a person that he had ever managed to hit, much less whether or not it was ever a killing blow. There was blood all over him, but if it was his own or from any strike he had made, he really had no way of knowing.
The quiet of the post-battle was oddly calming, and while he felt his knees quivering below him, he didn't feel as though he would fall. He was simply there. The wind was beginning to pick up, and while it did nothing to remove the stench of iron from his nose, it was cool and refreshing on his skin. He wasn't sure how long he had just been standing there. He was fairly certain that if he tried to move anywhere he would collapse, and he wasn't sure that that was something he would ever get back up again from.
It was the butterfly that finally caught his attention. A single, beautiful butterfly that floated down in front of him to land on the helmet he had discarded. It was almost as if it were looking up at him, watching him, telling him that he was still alive and that it was time for him to move on.
Somehow, Michael had been in the right place at the right time to be the witness for the first step towards peace. A brutal, hateful, death wrought peace, but a peace all the same. It was ugly. It smelled terrible. He was fairly sure he was about to vomit.
But it was calm.
Most of the battle itself was now a blur in his mind. A blur of steel and blood and flesh flying in every direction. He had no idea how many men he had actually fought, if he had fought any. He remembered swinging his blade, and feeling the vibrations shaking it as it struck against something, but he wasn't sure if it had actually been a person that he had ever managed to hit, much less whether or not it was ever a killing blow. There was blood all over him, but if it was his own or from any strike he had made, he really had no way of knowing.
The quiet of the post-battle was oddly calming, and while he felt his knees quivering below him, he didn't feel as though he would fall. He was simply there. The wind was beginning to pick up, and while it did nothing to remove the stench of iron from his nose, it was cool and refreshing on his skin. He wasn't sure how long he had just been standing there. He was fairly certain that if he tried to move anywhere he would collapse, and he wasn't sure that that was something he would ever get back up again from.
It was the butterfly that finally caught his attention. A single, beautiful butterfly that floated down in front of him to land on the helmet he had discarded. It was almost as if it were looking up at him, watching him, telling him that he was still alive and that it was time for him to move on.
Somehow, Michael had been in the right place at the right time to be the witness for the first step towards peace. A brutal, hateful, death wrought peace, but a peace all the same. It was ugly. It smelled terrible. He was fairly sure he was about to vomit.
But it was calm.
Friday, March 17, 2017
Faint
My dog's teeth sunk hard into my hand as he bit me, trying to force his way to the front door where he knew people were about to come in from. It wasn't the first time. It hurt like a bitch, but I knew that I just needed to clean it up and throw a band aid or two on top and power through the pain. Unfortunately the band aids had evidently moved on me, and I had to go on a short hunt to find them. By the time I found them I had had to wash my hand a couple of times because of the blood, and it was becoming evident that something was wrong.
As I was putting the bandages on, struggling to actually open them because of the pain in the one hand as I tried to grip the wrapping, my vision abruptly started to fade. My vision sometimes likes to flip out on me, temporarily disappearing for a few moments after I stand up, and sometimes doing so on a delay, so at first I thought it was that. But it had been much too long since I had last stood up, and the fading lasted much loner than usual. I tried to push through it, but the more it faded, the more it became apparent I needed to get out of the bathroom. I made it to the hallway before my vision was entirely gone, and I tried to blindly stumble my way to the couch, but not being able to see where I was going made me afraid of running into something. All the while, the house cleaners were making their way into the house and preparing to set to work.
When my hand touched wall I knew I had gone too far. I've never been a good judge for distance. I didn't trust myself, and by that point I was literally stumbling, my stomach was weak, and I didn't know if I could do much of anything. I let myself fall into a seated position on the ground, and within moments I heard one of the cleaner's voices asking if I was alright. I considered lying. There wasn't much point by then. My vision started to come back as she rushed to call 911, and finally able to see I finished putting on the bandage. Sitting had helped, so I laid down on the floor, which helped even more.
It took much shorter than I expected for medics to arrive. Perhaps they had been conveniently nearby. I was feeling better already just from laying down, though as it turned out I could barely sit up, much less stand, so it was probably for the best that they came. I found out later I was pale as a ghost for some time after that, though by the time an actual ambulance had arrived I was getting better. But I was still shaking like crazy, and felt dizzy while standing, and my knees were weak. I don't think I would have made it into the ambulance if I hadn't had someone helping me.
I'm still not sure exactly what happened. I'm assuming it was some form of shock, though why it was triggered is unclear. But I do know I'd rather not go through it again.
As I was putting the bandages on, struggling to actually open them because of the pain in the one hand as I tried to grip the wrapping, my vision abruptly started to fade. My vision sometimes likes to flip out on me, temporarily disappearing for a few moments after I stand up, and sometimes doing so on a delay, so at first I thought it was that. But it had been much too long since I had last stood up, and the fading lasted much loner than usual. I tried to push through it, but the more it faded, the more it became apparent I needed to get out of the bathroom. I made it to the hallway before my vision was entirely gone, and I tried to blindly stumble my way to the couch, but not being able to see where I was going made me afraid of running into something. All the while, the house cleaners were making their way into the house and preparing to set to work.
When my hand touched wall I knew I had gone too far. I've never been a good judge for distance. I didn't trust myself, and by that point I was literally stumbling, my stomach was weak, and I didn't know if I could do much of anything. I let myself fall into a seated position on the ground, and within moments I heard one of the cleaner's voices asking if I was alright. I considered lying. There wasn't much point by then. My vision started to come back as she rushed to call 911, and finally able to see I finished putting on the bandage. Sitting had helped, so I laid down on the floor, which helped even more.
It took much shorter than I expected for medics to arrive. Perhaps they had been conveniently nearby. I was feeling better already just from laying down, though as it turned out I could barely sit up, much less stand, so it was probably for the best that they came. I found out later I was pale as a ghost for some time after that, though by the time an actual ambulance had arrived I was getting better. But I was still shaking like crazy, and felt dizzy while standing, and my knees were weak. I don't think I would have made it into the ambulance if I hadn't had someone helping me.
I'm still not sure exactly what happened. I'm assuming it was some form of shock, though why it was triggered is unclear. But I do know I'd rather not go through it again.
Thursday, March 16, 2017
Stealth
I'm a big fan of the idea of stealth based gameplay, but I have yet to play a game where it actually felt fun to execute. I love the idea of sneaking up on enemies and taking them out silently, slowly clearing the area until you could run at full sprint with metal boots on through it without fear of being found. Dealing bonus damage for hitting an enemy from behind, or without them noticing you. These are all fantastic concepts that I am always excited to see are an option in any game I play.
The problem is that, most games I've seen handle stealth in two different ways, neither of which I enjoy. Either the game will set you back to an earlier point and make you replay all of what you just failed at, or it will allow you to continue but make you miss out on rewards or the "good ending." Is it my fault that I failed the stealth section? Most of the time, yes, absolutely. Sometimes, no, not at all. Sometimes the person I'm following decides to turn around and run back ten feet for no reason and with no warning, twenty feet from the end of the section, and I'm forced to restart entirely because of something entirely out of my control.
I might be a little salty.
But so far I have found very few games where I actually enjoyed the stealth gameplay. One of the only particular instances I can think of was in Skyrim, which is unfortunate, because for the most part I didn't enjoy the rest of that game. But it allowed you to sneak into areas, snipe or backstab enemies for bonus damage, and if your plans fell apart, you could always switch over to a heavier weapon and armor to fight them head on. I love that idea. Providing options and incentives to take them, rather than punishing you for not playing the way that the game wanted you to.
I feel like that's something that games should do more in general. Encourage, rather than punish. And I have played games that do that. Let you go to overpowered areas and get equipment from much later in the game, get more experience if you can survive the fights there, and in a few rare cases, even change the order of events of the story, or get extra scenes you may have otherwise missed. It's exciting to get to play games in new, unique ways. To get a different experience, even though you're still going through the same story.
Like in a stealthy manner, for instance.
The problem is that, most games I've seen handle stealth in two different ways, neither of which I enjoy. Either the game will set you back to an earlier point and make you replay all of what you just failed at, or it will allow you to continue but make you miss out on rewards or the "good ending." Is it my fault that I failed the stealth section? Most of the time, yes, absolutely. Sometimes, no, not at all. Sometimes the person I'm following decides to turn around and run back ten feet for no reason and with no warning, twenty feet from the end of the section, and I'm forced to restart entirely because of something entirely out of my control.
I might be a little salty.
But so far I have found very few games where I actually enjoyed the stealth gameplay. One of the only particular instances I can think of was in Skyrim, which is unfortunate, because for the most part I didn't enjoy the rest of that game. But it allowed you to sneak into areas, snipe or backstab enemies for bonus damage, and if your plans fell apart, you could always switch over to a heavier weapon and armor to fight them head on. I love that idea. Providing options and incentives to take them, rather than punishing you for not playing the way that the game wanted you to.
I feel like that's something that games should do more in general. Encourage, rather than punish. And I have played games that do that. Let you go to overpowered areas and get equipment from much later in the game, get more experience if you can survive the fights there, and in a few rare cases, even change the order of events of the story, or get extra scenes you may have otherwise missed. It's exciting to get to play games in new, unique ways. To get a different experience, even though you're still going through the same story.
Like in a stealthy manner, for instance.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Pyrographer
Simon sat at his desk, the finely carved and prepared slab of mahogany resting on the work space in front of him. He wasn't much of a woodworker, and so many of his pieces were commissioned in advance - it was more costly than if he could do it himself, but he was still able to push a profit from his work, so he didn't much mind. Besides, he'd much rather have the material reflect the beauty of what he made. He wasn't a fan of the idea that a skilled worker could make something beautiful out of something boring. It may have been true, but why limit one's self in such a manner when it wasn't necessary?
The flame sparked to life at the tip of his finger as he envisioned the design he was to burn into the wood. Within moments, flames covered the entirety of the wood, some of them lasting for only a mere moment before going out while others burned longer. Simon watched over it, ensuring that the flames never actually sat on the flammable surface, only floating just above its surface so that the heat would sear it. He watched as the flames extinguished themselves, piece by piece, leaving a smoking black stain in their place which made the form of a woman.
The flame at the tip of his finger remained, and he began to work on the finer details. Sweeping and stabbing with his flaming finger, he etched in the finer details of the woman, giving her more definition and realism. He made her eyes shine, her hair shimmer, he smoothed out her skin and gave her lips volume. He made the wood hold onto her very soul and essence, as though her image had been trapped within it. He had no need of a reference image - her very image had been seared into his memory, just as he had seared it into the wood.
The finer details took the better part of an hour, though the initial burning had taken only a matter of minutes. The flame on his finger never extinguished until it was done entirely. He sat back and admired the work for a long moment before standing up from his chair and lifting the large wood slab, moving it to a stack that he had sitting by the door.
The market would be opening in a few days, and he still had many more pieces to make. But it made for a fine living.
He had always said that he could live a peaceful life, even with the flame.
The flame sparked to life at the tip of his finger as he envisioned the design he was to burn into the wood. Within moments, flames covered the entirety of the wood, some of them lasting for only a mere moment before going out while others burned longer. Simon watched over it, ensuring that the flames never actually sat on the flammable surface, only floating just above its surface so that the heat would sear it. He watched as the flames extinguished themselves, piece by piece, leaving a smoking black stain in their place which made the form of a woman.
The flame at the tip of his finger remained, and he began to work on the finer details. Sweeping and stabbing with his flaming finger, he etched in the finer details of the woman, giving her more definition and realism. He made her eyes shine, her hair shimmer, he smoothed out her skin and gave her lips volume. He made the wood hold onto her very soul and essence, as though her image had been trapped within it. He had no need of a reference image - her very image had been seared into his memory, just as he had seared it into the wood.
The finer details took the better part of an hour, though the initial burning had taken only a matter of minutes. The flame on his finger never extinguished until it was done entirely. He sat back and admired the work for a long moment before standing up from his chair and lifting the large wood slab, moving it to a stack that he had sitting by the door.
The market would be opening in a few days, and he still had many more pieces to make. But it made for a fine living.
He had always said that he could live a peaceful life, even with the flame.
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
Breathless
Nero observed the building from a distance, quickly memorizing the layout from the outside in case he needed to make an emergency exit. He wouldn't, obviously, but it never hurt to have a back up plan, and the more he was aware of, the easier it made his job. He had already memorized the internal layout, and particularly where the defense systems were. The biggest concerns were cameras - most other security systems were hardly even an obstacle, but cameras were what could give him away. It wasn't like the movies. It wasn't that easy to create a video loop. Especially not one that wouldn't be quickly caught.
Fortunately, most of the security in this particular building would be infrared and fingerprint scanners, both of which were easy to get around. For him, at least. He had already begun his preparations some time earlier - his skin was frigid cold to the touch, thanks to the lack of blood flow, which would make him invisible to the infrared. The fingerprints scanners had a consistent fail safe installed - if they sensed a finger pressed to the interface but could not get a proper scan, after three failed attempts would go into a lockdown. The lockdown could be overridden with a passcode, which Nero just so happened to know. Any failure overridden that quickly was overlooked as technical failure for the time being, for all users whose fingerprints were in the database also knew the passcode. It would be looked into at a later date - long after Nero was gone.
He strolled through the main doors very casually, waving at the receptionist as he passed. That was a talent anyone could learn - if you looked confident enough in what you were doing, no one would question you. As far as anyone in the building was concerned, he was a client who had come in more than once, and entering the public elevator in the rear was nothing to glance twice at. And the moment he was alone, he could begin taking alternate paths through the building.
The sensors didn't so much as blink as he walked by them. No blood meant no body temperature - no body temperature made him invisible. The failsafes on the fingerprint scanners worked flawlessly, and no one came to check on him. Each obstacle was but a pause in his step as he pushed further into the building.
The body wouldn't be found for hours. His murder wouldn't be a question - who had done it on the other hand would be impossible to find out. No fingerprints. No DNA. No footage. No blips on the radar.
It was like Nero had never even been there.
Fortunately, most of the security in this particular building would be infrared and fingerprint scanners, both of which were easy to get around. For him, at least. He had already begun his preparations some time earlier - his skin was frigid cold to the touch, thanks to the lack of blood flow, which would make him invisible to the infrared. The fingerprints scanners had a consistent fail safe installed - if they sensed a finger pressed to the interface but could not get a proper scan, after three failed attempts would go into a lockdown. The lockdown could be overridden with a passcode, which Nero just so happened to know. Any failure overridden that quickly was overlooked as technical failure for the time being, for all users whose fingerprints were in the database also knew the passcode. It would be looked into at a later date - long after Nero was gone.
He strolled through the main doors very casually, waving at the receptionist as he passed. That was a talent anyone could learn - if you looked confident enough in what you were doing, no one would question you. As far as anyone in the building was concerned, he was a client who had come in more than once, and entering the public elevator in the rear was nothing to glance twice at. And the moment he was alone, he could begin taking alternate paths through the building.
The sensors didn't so much as blink as he walked by them. No blood meant no body temperature - no body temperature made him invisible. The failsafes on the fingerprint scanners worked flawlessly, and no one came to check on him. Each obstacle was but a pause in his step as he pushed further into the building.
The body wouldn't be found for hours. His murder wouldn't be a question - who had done it on the other hand would be impossible to find out. No fingerprints. No DNA. No footage. No blips on the radar.
It was like Nero had never even been there.
Woodworking
The more I've been doing woodworking lately, learning more about what I'm doing and how to do different things and what tool works best for me in different situations, the more I've been enjoying it. I'm not exactly sure what it is about it that I like so much - I suppose it's the fact that I can visibly see the difference in what it is I'm making. The better I get at it, the faster the shape that I'm making takes form, and the smoother my lines become as I am carving out those shapes. I've always been better with my hands than most other things, and as much as I love writing, having something like this that actually utilizes that skill and memory is fantastic, and especially when I consistently improve in the process.
It's not even necessarily the finished project that I enjoy so much. I just like the actual process of working on it. I like getting my hands dirty, slowly plowing away at the shape of an object until it fits what I want it to be. Being able to actually create something that is useful, not only to me but to anyone. I'm not sure it would ever take the place of writing for me, being able to create worlds and people and stories, but I would love to be able to use it as a supplement. I want to dabble in making statues and woodburned carvings, to create visual representations of some of the things that I write. I don't know how good I would ever be at it, seeing as it's never really been a specialty of mine, but the more I do this woodworking, the more it makes me want to try.
Granted, there's only so much I can actually learn by just doing it myself. If I really want to gain more experience and knowledge of the craft, it would be best to find a kind of class for it. And I'm pretty sure the place where I'll be taking my blacksmithing classes offers woodworking classes as well, so if things turn out well there, I'll have other options to work on. Ways to continue to advance my learning and my skills. What exactly will I do with those learned skills? Well, I'm not entirely sure. But I'd like to learn them all the same. If for no other reason than my own advancement and enjoyment.
Maybe one day I'll even be able to make my own furniture. I mean, probably not. But it could happen.
It's not even necessarily the finished project that I enjoy so much. I just like the actual process of working on it. I like getting my hands dirty, slowly plowing away at the shape of an object until it fits what I want it to be. Being able to actually create something that is useful, not only to me but to anyone. I'm not sure it would ever take the place of writing for me, being able to create worlds and people and stories, but I would love to be able to use it as a supplement. I want to dabble in making statues and woodburned carvings, to create visual representations of some of the things that I write. I don't know how good I would ever be at it, seeing as it's never really been a specialty of mine, but the more I do this woodworking, the more it makes me want to try.
Granted, there's only so much I can actually learn by just doing it myself. If I really want to gain more experience and knowledge of the craft, it would be best to find a kind of class for it. And I'm pretty sure the place where I'll be taking my blacksmithing classes offers woodworking classes as well, so if things turn out well there, I'll have other options to work on. Ways to continue to advance my learning and my skills. What exactly will I do with those learned skills? Well, I'm not entirely sure. But I'd like to learn them all the same. If for no other reason than my own advancement and enjoyment.
Maybe one day I'll even be able to make my own furniture. I mean, probably not. But it could happen.
Sunday, March 12, 2017
Atheist monk
Elric was getting ever tired of the insistent teachings of the monastery, constantly telling him how to think and what to do with his life, how important their lessons were and that he follow their every teaching. Not to say that there was no value in their teachings, for he had learned much of how to control his body and will, but he did not believe that they had all of the answers which they advertised. To say that gods controlled every action of the earth, and that individual people had no say in the matter, while having never left the monastery to actually see anything that the world actually had to offer or how things transpired... Such teachings were pointless. There was no logic to them. No foundation.
In the last few years, he had not kept his feelings a secret. He continuously questioned the monks teachings in the middle of their lessons and challenged their thinking in nearly every subject. The more he questioned, the more he realized that to assume there were gods was folly. Why should he believe in gods when he could question them? If they were as all powerful and all knowing as he had been taught, than they should have no problem making him believe in them. And in one hundred and fifty years, he had never seen a single shred of evidence of their existence. The monks prayed and called minor conveniences great miracles brought about by the gods. He had even orchestrated some himself, and they had given credit to the gods.
For some time he had not dared say that he did not believe anymore, for he knew the consequences. But as time went on, he knew that he could not continue to live such a life of lies. There was much he wished to learn, and he was never going to be able to do so within the confines of the monastery. He would need to travel the world if he ever wished to learn the answers he sought.
The moment the words escaped his lips he was being ordered to pack his belongings - though it was unnecessary, seeing as he already had. He was unceremoniously removed from the monastery, without a word of goodbye - most of the friends he had had in his early days had long since disassociated themselves from him. He ad no regrets as he left the safety of its walls.
But moving on, he would continue to carry two lessons with him of the monks. The first was the importance of body, to maintain and prevail through the use of one's own body and power. And the second was the non-necessities of material wealth. He had no use for weapons or armors when his body already served as both.
In the last few years, he had not kept his feelings a secret. He continuously questioned the monks teachings in the middle of their lessons and challenged their thinking in nearly every subject. The more he questioned, the more he realized that to assume there were gods was folly. Why should he believe in gods when he could question them? If they were as all powerful and all knowing as he had been taught, than they should have no problem making him believe in them. And in one hundred and fifty years, he had never seen a single shred of evidence of their existence. The monks prayed and called minor conveniences great miracles brought about by the gods. He had even orchestrated some himself, and they had given credit to the gods.
For some time he had not dared say that he did not believe anymore, for he knew the consequences. But as time went on, he knew that he could not continue to live such a life of lies. There was much he wished to learn, and he was never going to be able to do so within the confines of the monastery. He would need to travel the world if he ever wished to learn the answers he sought.
The moment the words escaped his lips he was being ordered to pack his belongings - though it was unnecessary, seeing as he already had. He was unceremoniously removed from the monastery, without a word of goodbye - most of the friends he had had in his early days had long since disassociated themselves from him. He ad no regrets as he left the safety of its walls.
But moving on, he would continue to carry two lessons with him of the monks. The first was the importance of body, to maintain and prevail through the use of one's own body and power. And the second was the non-necessities of material wealth. He had no use for weapons or armors when his body already served as both.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Cute
Juan awoke early the morning after, feeling well rested and happier than he had been in some time. He could still feel Fern curled up into him, her skin pressed against his, her chest slowly rising and falling against his. His arms were curled tightly around him, and with her head just under his chin the scent of her hair was wafting into his nostrils. If he could have stayed there for the rest of the house, he couldn't think of a better way to spend his days.
He ran a hand slowly through her hair, feeling its softness and the way it rolled smoothly over his fingers. The motion brought a soft purr from her lips as she wiggled into him, starting to wake up from her night's sleep. Juan knew that she wouldn't want to deal with the sprites climbing on top of them first thing in the morning, and he quickly cast the privacy spell which she had taught him the night before. The sprites that had already entered the room were cast out, and there was a calm silence brought in to join them instead.
Fern grumbled as she ran her hands along Juan's chest, nuzzling into him as she tried to fight off her waking. "Good morning," Juan whispered, planting a soft kiss on the top of her head. All he got was another grumble in response, but the way she pushed herself more into him told him all he needed to know. He ran a hand gently up and down her back, feeling the goosebumps appear under his fingertips. She shivered ever so slightly, burrowing harder into his chest in the process.
"It's quiet," she finally whispered, raising her chin so she could look up at her lover.
He smiled and nodded. "I cast your spell again," he said, plopping another feather kiss on her forehead. "I know how much you dislike them in the morning, so I gave you some space to wake up to."
"...You're being a suck up again."
Juan chuckled. "Hard not to be with someone like you."
Her face flared and she tried to pout up at him, but she was too adorable for it. It just made Juan laugh more before he kissed her gently. She couldn't resist him at all.
After a long moment, she gently pulled back, still flush but no longer pouting. "...Is this how couples are?" she asked quietly.
"It can be."
"...Good."
He ran a hand slowly through her hair, feeling its softness and the way it rolled smoothly over his fingers. The motion brought a soft purr from her lips as she wiggled into him, starting to wake up from her night's sleep. Juan knew that she wouldn't want to deal with the sprites climbing on top of them first thing in the morning, and he quickly cast the privacy spell which she had taught him the night before. The sprites that had already entered the room were cast out, and there was a calm silence brought in to join them instead.
Fern grumbled as she ran her hands along Juan's chest, nuzzling into him as she tried to fight off her waking. "Good morning," Juan whispered, planting a soft kiss on the top of her head. All he got was another grumble in response, but the way she pushed herself more into him told him all he needed to know. He ran a hand gently up and down her back, feeling the goosebumps appear under his fingertips. She shivered ever so slightly, burrowing harder into his chest in the process.
"It's quiet," she finally whispered, raising her chin so she could look up at her lover.
He smiled and nodded. "I cast your spell again," he said, plopping another feather kiss on her forehead. "I know how much you dislike them in the morning, so I gave you some space to wake up to."
"...You're being a suck up again."
Juan chuckled. "Hard not to be with someone like you."
Her face flared and she tried to pout up at him, but she was too adorable for it. It just made Juan laugh more before he kissed her gently. She couldn't resist him at all.
After a long moment, she gently pulled back, still flush but no longer pouting. "...Is this how couples are?" she asked quietly.
"It can be."
"...Good."
Friday, March 10, 2017
Momentum
"Wait, so, explain this to me one more time."
Mike sighed and pointed at the rock they were standing in front of. Perhaps rock was the wrong word - boulder might have been more accurate, given that the two of them could easily both sit atop it. They had rolled it towards the edge of a cliff, stopping just moments before it would have began to roll down the hill. "The magic uncle taught us?" he asked his brother. Joe nodded. "About stopping an object's time?" Another nod. "So we're going to freeze this rock, hit it a bunch so it builds momentum, and then before the spell breaks we're going to jump up on it and ride it."
"Are you sure that that's safe, though? That seems like a pretty good way to hurt ourselves."
"Look, Joe, all we have to do is jump off before it hits the ground. We've already learned a soft landing spell, and we know that that works. This could be the next great way to travel. We could create an entire business off of this! Shooting people great distances and giving them a soft landing."
"As far as I know, soft landing only helps to cease vertical momentum, Mike," Joe said, concern still evident on his face. "And with something like this, the bigger concern is going to be horizontal momentum. Even if we do cast soft landing and don't hit the ground hard, we'll still be carried forward and stumble into the ground and go tumbling. We can't even really predict where we're going to land. We could land in the middle of a lake and be unable to get to the shore safely."
Mike sighed again and rested one hand on the boulder. "You're worrying too much about this, Joe. We're wizards. More than that, we're wizard scientists. Isn't this what we said we were going to do? To try new things with our magic, and see what kinds of advancements we can make?"
"Well, yeah, but I wasn't really anticipating hurting myself in the process. I was thinking more along the lines of combining spells and such..."
"No pain, no gain, right?"
"I really don't think this is how that phrase is supposed to be used."
Mike sighed and pointed at the rock they were standing in front of. Perhaps rock was the wrong word - boulder might have been more accurate, given that the two of them could easily both sit atop it. They had rolled it towards the edge of a cliff, stopping just moments before it would have began to roll down the hill. "The magic uncle taught us?" he asked his brother. Joe nodded. "About stopping an object's time?" Another nod. "So we're going to freeze this rock, hit it a bunch so it builds momentum, and then before the spell breaks we're going to jump up on it and ride it."
"Are you sure that that's safe, though? That seems like a pretty good way to hurt ourselves."
"Look, Joe, all we have to do is jump off before it hits the ground. We've already learned a soft landing spell, and we know that that works. This could be the next great way to travel. We could create an entire business off of this! Shooting people great distances and giving them a soft landing."
"As far as I know, soft landing only helps to cease vertical momentum, Mike," Joe said, concern still evident on his face. "And with something like this, the bigger concern is going to be horizontal momentum. Even if we do cast soft landing and don't hit the ground hard, we'll still be carried forward and stumble into the ground and go tumbling. We can't even really predict where we're going to land. We could land in the middle of a lake and be unable to get to the shore safely."
Mike sighed again and rested one hand on the boulder. "You're worrying too much about this, Joe. We're wizards. More than that, we're wizard scientists. Isn't this what we said we were going to do? To try new things with our magic, and see what kinds of advancements we can make?"
"Well, yeah, but I wasn't really anticipating hurting myself in the process. I was thinking more along the lines of combining spells and such..."
"No pain, no gain, right?"
"I really don't think this is how that phrase is supposed to be used."
Thursday, March 9, 2017
Styles
I find it fascinating at times to think about the comparisons between art and writing. Most people consider writing to be an art form, after all, and yet it is so vividly different from a visual medium. One of the few things that they share is that in each, people have their own unique styles in which they do their work - however, I would argue that in writing that is a much more limited and structured thing than it is in art. It is much easier to emulate a writer's style than an artist's, because you can see and replicate the patterns and decisions they make much more consistently.
Style is how we do the things that we do, but it is also the end result of what we do. They're inseparable from each other, though most people will only see half of that. This is much easier to notice in art than writing - even when emulating another artist's style, your own style will distinctively remain within the art, because of the way in which you create. Even if your goal is to replicate something, if you are not following the manner in which it was created, the texture and life of your product won't match up.
This is still true of writing, but it is much easier to fudge the creation process. After all, it's not a matter of pencils versus crayons versus watercolor versus oil paint. It's all words - whether they are written or typed is irrelevant in the end. The process for a writer has more to do with the order in which things are written, what happens during the editing process, and how you think about your characters and their actions and thoughts. But chances are that the more you write, the more you will start to retread old ground, and the more the patterns of your writing will become evident, which is the part of it that is emulated. You can see the kinds of words a writer uses, the kinds of characters they write, what they prioritize in each scene. Those are things that can be copied much more easily than the shine and soul in a drawing's body - there is much less technique to it.
Which always makes it interesting to me when people talk about a writer's style, because in my mind it doesn't mean as much as an artist's does. There are absolutely writers with their own unique style, that's not what I'm arguing - read a single sentence of a Stephen King novel and you know exactly who wrote it. But to say that you can see a person's style in their writing, especially when they are new to writing and are still getting the hang of things - that is fascinating. I don't entirely understand how it happens. And I'm not saying it doesn't - I'm just saying that it is an utterly fascinating phenomenon.
Style is how we do the things that we do, but it is also the end result of what we do. They're inseparable from each other, though most people will only see half of that. This is much easier to notice in art than writing - even when emulating another artist's style, your own style will distinctively remain within the art, because of the way in which you create. Even if your goal is to replicate something, if you are not following the manner in which it was created, the texture and life of your product won't match up.
This is still true of writing, but it is much easier to fudge the creation process. After all, it's not a matter of pencils versus crayons versus watercolor versus oil paint. It's all words - whether they are written or typed is irrelevant in the end. The process for a writer has more to do with the order in which things are written, what happens during the editing process, and how you think about your characters and their actions and thoughts. But chances are that the more you write, the more you will start to retread old ground, and the more the patterns of your writing will become evident, which is the part of it that is emulated. You can see the kinds of words a writer uses, the kinds of characters they write, what they prioritize in each scene. Those are things that can be copied much more easily than the shine and soul in a drawing's body - there is much less technique to it.
Which always makes it interesting to me when people talk about a writer's style, because in my mind it doesn't mean as much as an artist's does. There are absolutely writers with their own unique style, that's not what I'm arguing - read a single sentence of a Stephen King novel and you know exactly who wrote it. But to say that you can see a person's style in their writing, especially when they are new to writing and are still getting the hang of things - that is fascinating. I don't entirely understand how it happens. And I'm not saying it doesn't - I'm just saying that it is an utterly fascinating phenomenon.
Free Write 22
I've never been much of one for fashion, which I think I've mentioned before, and while I would argue that I'm still not, I have begun to learn the value of nice clothing. I'm not overly concerned with my appearance, though I have started putting some level of effort into it, but rather I'm concerned with comfort. I never had a problem being comfortable with the clothes that I have worn in the past, but one I found ones that were more comfortable, it was hard to go back. It works out - I need to get new clothes anyway - it's just been kind of a different experience for me.
And it's funny how little I worry about my clothing in the real world, because in video games it's very important to me. I will intentionally elect to wear armor with less value if it looks better than other, better stated armor. I will spend ages collecting materials to get good looking clothing, spend all of my money to make it a good color, and force myself to get better at the game to accommodate for wearing worse off armor. It's funny, too - there are terms for that, depending on the game. Fashion Hunters in Monster Hunter, Fashion Souls in Dark Souls... And I will unquestionably join those ranks.
To be honest, I don't know why that train of thought doesn't cross over into the real world. I guess maybe because I'm not doing crazy cool stunts and running across fields and mountains? After all, part of what makes fashion hunting so much fun is seeing your character in extravagant, beautiful clothing flipping through the air to stab a sword in their opponents throat. Or something equally as crazy and badass.
And then there's probably also the fact that I usually play girls in games. Always have. Never really thought about why - just prefer it that way. There's the age old line of "If I have to look at a character's ass for forty hours, I want it to be a girl's," which I suppose is true, but I think there's something else to it. And I've never really desired to be a girl in real life, so I don't think it's some kind of buried secret desire or something. I've thought about it, sure, though I think most guys have, and usually in the context of wanting to play with themselves or get free drinks or something equally silly.
Though, to be fair, I am considering buying myself a skirt. So I suppose I'm not exactly one to be talking.
And it's funny how little I worry about my clothing in the real world, because in video games it's very important to me. I will intentionally elect to wear armor with less value if it looks better than other, better stated armor. I will spend ages collecting materials to get good looking clothing, spend all of my money to make it a good color, and force myself to get better at the game to accommodate for wearing worse off armor. It's funny, too - there are terms for that, depending on the game. Fashion Hunters in Monster Hunter, Fashion Souls in Dark Souls... And I will unquestionably join those ranks.
To be honest, I don't know why that train of thought doesn't cross over into the real world. I guess maybe because I'm not doing crazy cool stunts and running across fields and mountains? After all, part of what makes fashion hunting so much fun is seeing your character in extravagant, beautiful clothing flipping through the air to stab a sword in their opponents throat. Or something equally as crazy and badass.
And then there's probably also the fact that I usually play girls in games. Always have. Never really thought about why - just prefer it that way. There's the age old line of "If I have to look at a character's ass for forty hours, I want it to be a girl's," which I suppose is true, but I think there's something else to it. And I've never really desired to be a girl in real life, so I don't think it's some kind of buried secret desire or something. I've thought about it, sure, though I think most guys have, and usually in the context of wanting to play with themselves or get free drinks or something equally silly.
Though, to be fair, I am considering buying myself a skirt. So I suppose I'm not exactly one to be talking.
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Human love
Juan had known for quite some time how he had felt about Fern - there had been some interest since the first time he had seen her, but despite how she had treated him, the face she had put on, and all of the mysteries he had learned about her over time, his feelings had only deepened. He'd never mentioned it to her - he'd hinted here and there, but she wasn't one to let on - mostly because as he had learned, over the centuries that she had been alive she had been broken. He imagined that at one time she had held compassion in people, and trusted them, but that trust had been betrayed again and again until she had reached her current state of constantly hiding herself away and wanting nothing to do with the humans who were part of her domain.
But things were different now. Technically speaking, he no longer was human - although what exactly that made him, he honestly wasn't entirely sure. But he had managed to make his way into her life, and she was beginning to depend on him and become comfortable with him. He had given up much in his life so that he could be with her - she didn't realize how much she had had to do with that decision. She knew that he had decided to help her - she didn't realize that it was also because he had fallen truly and madly in love with her.
The look of frustration on her face was apparent and heavy - something that he was all to used to seeing. "I don't understand you," she said roughly, the pout on her face oddly cute. "Why do you keep trying to interfere with my affairs? Why must you always butt in? I am working here. I do not need your help with this. Why must you insist in persisting?"
He could see the glow around her person as clear as day. It was around most things now - a visible guide as to the amount of life and energy that was in any living being. The plants, animals, people. It was everywhere. It had taken some getting used to. Hers was one of the only ones around that was faded - she worked so hard to keep everything else alive and well that she didn't have time to focus on herself. "I can't let you do this, Fern," Juan said firmly.
"I have done this for thousands of years without you," she responded angrily. "Why should now be any different?"
"You can hear the spirits, too, I know you can. They've told me how much you have expanded your work. How much you put into everything. I won't let you hurt yourself like this."
"And what concern of it is yours?"
"I can not watch you hurt yourself. I physically can not."
"And why not?"
"Because I can feel my heart breaking when you do."
The anger on her face broke and she staggered back, blushing slightly and looking confused, as though the words themselves had physically hit her. "W-what...?"
But things were different now. Technically speaking, he no longer was human - although what exactly that made him, he honestly wasn't entirely sure. But he had managed to make his way into her life, and she was beginning to depend on him and become comfortable with him. He had given up much in his life so that he could be with her - she didn't realize how much she had had to do with that decision. She knew that he had decided to help her - she didn't realize that it was also because he had fallen truly and madly in love with her.
The look of frustration on her face was apparent and heavy - something that he was all to used to seeing. "I don't understand you," she said roughly, the pout on her face oddly cute. "Why do you keep trying to interfere with my affairs? Why must you always butt in? I am working here. I do not need your help with this. Why must you insist in persisting?"
He could see the glow around her person as clear as day. It was around most things now - a visible guide as to the amount of life and energy that was in any living being. The plants, animals, people. It was everywhere. It had taken some getting used to. Hers was one of the only ones around that was faded - she worked so hard to keep everything else alive and well that she didn't have time to focus on herself. "I can't let you do this, Fern," Juan said firmly.
"I have done this for thousands of years without you," she responded angrily. "Why should now be any different?"
"You can hear the spirits, too, I know you can. They've told me how much you have expanded your work. How much you put into everything. I won't let you hurt yourself like this."
"And what concern of it is yours?"
"I can not watch you hurt yourself. I physically can not."
"And why not?"
"Because I can feel my heart breaking when you do."
The anger on her face broke and she staggered back, blushing slightly and looking confused, as though the words themselves had physically hit her. "W-what...?"
Monday, March 6, 2017
Station
She looked out the window of the station, seeing the planet thousands of miles below them, remembering the time she had just recently spent there. There was a distinct gap between her final moments on that planet and when she had awoken back on the station - she remembered dying as clear as day, but her min had been uploaded at the very last possible moment back to the station, and she had been reuploaded into a new body. It wasn't the first time it had happened, and it very likely wouldn't be the last - that was the life of being a combat unit.
It was technically silent, but she could hear the door to her room sliding open, shifting into the ceiling to allow entry. He walked into the room, looking as he had when she had first met him, despite the horrific end he had faced during their encounter - he, too, had been reuploaded. "Greetings," he spoke plainly. "I have been assigned to your maintenance coming out of your last mission. Have you noticed any immediate problems with your new body?"
She shook her head. "Thank you for backing me up," she told him. "If it weren't for you, I may not have returned from that mission."
The look of confusion was evident on his face. "Did I do that?" he asked. "I apologize. My memory of the events on the surface are gone - there must have been problems uploading my own memory. The last thing I remember occurred immediately before the mission began. I have been informed that it was a rough mission - I am glad that I was able to assist you, if only in this minimal manner."
There was a pang in the depth of her chest at his words. It was against protocol, but she felt a sense of anger and frustration at what had happened. He had sacrificed everything to save her, and she had been unable to save him, and now their experience together was gone for him. She remembered events that to him had simply never happened. And as a scout, he was far more concerned with what he could find than with what he could feel. She could never speak to him about those events - he would dismiss them entirely.
"It is best that you lay down as I complete your maintenance," he said, his voice still calm. "It will only take a short time."
Without a word she nodded and laid down on her bunk, closing her eyes beneath the fold as she felt the seal on her chest cracking open to allow him access to her vitals.
It was technically silent, but she could hear the door to her room sliding open, shifting into the ceiling to allow entry. He walked into the room, looking as he had when she had first met him, despite the horrific end he had faced during their encounter - he, too, had been reuploaded. "Greetings," he spoke plainly. "I have been assigned to your maintenance coming out of your last mission. Have you noticed any immediate problems with your new body?"
She shook her head. "Thank you for backing me up," she told him. "If it weren't for you, I may not have returned from that mission."
The look of confusion was evident on his face. "Did I do that?" he asked. "I apologize. My memory of the events on the surface are gone - there must have been problems uploading my own memory. The last thing I remember occurred immediately before the mission began. I have been informed that it was a rough mission - I am glad that I was able to assist you, if only in this minimal manner."
There was a pang in the depth of her chest at his words. It was against protocol, but she felt a sense of anger and frustration at what had happened. He had sacrificed everything to save her, and she had been unable to save him, and now their experience together was gone for him. She remembered events that to him had simply never happened. And as a scout, he was far more concerned with what he could find than with what he could feel. She could never speak to him about those events - he would dismiss them entirely.
"It is best that you lay down as I complete your maintenance," he said, his voice still calm. "It will only take a short time."
Without a word she nodded and laid down on her bunk, closing her eyes beneath the fold as she felt the seal on her chest cracking open to allow him access to her vitals.
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Spirits
Jaun looked down at the stump, seeing all of the spirits that surrounded him and it, bouncing around, chattering, pointing him in the direction. They wanted him to do this - to stay with them, to move away from everything he had known about his life and how he existed, and take on a new existence with a new purpose. He didn't quite fully understand it - he wasn't sure he would even after going through with it - but he had already made up his mind. He couldn't allow things to continue on as they were.
It was difficult to make out their instructions, but he could tell that the stump was important, and that in some way he needed to make contact with it. He rested a hand on it hesitantly, and the surge of power that ran through his body was immediate. A cold burning, shaking him to his core, both trying to be a part of him and trying to escape from him at the same time. It was more than his body could handle, but his stubborn will held him together. But the power was still too much for him, and he staggered backwards, nearly falling were it not for the strong hand that gripped his arm and held him in place.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The voice was familiar - rash and crude, with ice and fury on clear display. But he had seen better - a kindness in the witch's soul that she tried hard to hide, but that he could see as plain as day. "I thought I told you not to listen to the spirits. If you do this, you'll be throwing your humanity away."
Jaun looked at the girl - Fern, she was called - and could see the weakness in her body and in her eyes. She was the only force maintaining the nature and magic in the area - she was pushing herself well beyond her capabilities. He had seen her on many occasions lose consciousness from the efforts of her commitment, and he was tired of it. If he allowed her to continue on like this, not only would she suffer, but so would the rest of the world for lack of her efforts from there on.
"I've already made up my mind," he told her, soft but firm. "I'm going to help you, and you can't stop me. The greatest thing that has come from my humanity was the discovery that I was living my life wrong, and that there was more out there. To come out here and live among kind people and nature. Humanity hasn't been some gift to me that can't be replaced. But this... This has. And if I can help this to continue..."
Fern was taken aback by his words, and he could see it in her face. Her grip loosened, just enough for him to pull away and turn to face the stump once more. "...If you are sure," her voice came once more, much softer this time. "Then lay on it."
He could feel the power rushing through him as he laid on the stump, but it was somehow lesser this time. Within moments the world was fading away, and there was a woman before him, her form ethereal, and her face beautiful. "Well, you're an interesting one, aren't you?" she said with a smile.
It was difficult to make out their instructions, but he could tell that the stump was important, and that in some way he needed to make contact with it. He rested a hand on it hesitantly, and the surge of power that ran through his body was immediate. A cold burning, shaking him to his core, both trying to be a part of him and trying to escape from him at the same time. It was more than his body could handle, but his stubborn will held him together. But the power was still too much for him, and he staggered backwards, nearly falling were it not for the strong hand that gripped his arm and held him in place.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The voice was familiar - rash and crude, with ice and fury on clear display. But he had seen better - a kindness in the witch's soul that she tried hard to hide, but that he could see as plain as day. "I thought I told you not to listen to the spirits. If you do this, you'll be throwing your humanity away."
Jaun looked at the girl - Fern, she was called - and could see the weakness in her body and in her eyes. She was the only force maintaining the nature and magic in the area - she was pushing herself well beyond her capabilities. He had seen her on many occasions lose consciousness from the efforts of her commitment, and he was tired of it. If he allowed her to continue on like this, not only would she suffer, but so would the rest of the world for lack of her efforts from there on.
"I've already made up my mind," he told her, soft but firm. "I'm going to help you, and you can't stop me. The greatest thing that has come from my humanity was the discovery that I was living my life wrong, and that there was more out there. To come out here and live among kind people and nature. Humanity hasn't been some gift to me that can't be replaced. But this... This has. And if I can help this to continue..."
Fern was taken aback by his words, and he could see it in her face. Her grip loosened, just enough for him to pull away and turn to face the stump once more. "...If you are sure," her voice came once more, much softer this time. "Then lay on it."
He could feel the power rushing through him as he laid on the stump, but it was somehow lesser this time. Within moments the world was fading away, and there was a woman before him, her form ethereal, and her face beautiful. "Well, you're an interesting one, aren't you?" she said with a smile.
Free Write 21
I think I've talked about this before, but I tend not to like things that are popular. It's not a conscious decision, but often times I simply disagree with the popular decision. From new things that are coming out each day, to the big classics that help define their genre moving forward, I simply seem to view things differently from how most others do. Perhaps it is simply a measure of preference, a difference in values. Hard to say. But it's usually a safe bet that if most people enjoy something, I probably won't.
Most recently this has been true with the newest Zelda game. It has been receiving perfect scores across the board, and people have been calling it the best game in the series in years. And yet I was frustrated trying to play it nearly from the moment the game began, and the more I played it the less I was satisfied with the way the game had been designed. It is incredibly difficult in nearly unfair ways, the world is empty and movement is slow, inventory space is ridiculously small, and weapons break in moments - weapon durability is perhaps my most hated game mechanic of anything that I have ever experienced. The ways in which you can explore the world and interact with it are fantastic - but who cares when you can't stay alive long enough to get anywhere?
It probably doesn't help that I have been absolutely adoring Horizon Zero Dawn, which is a very similar game in concept, but better in virtually every way. With a very clear end goal, tight controls, balanced difficulty, incredible writing, and straight up fun combat with a resource management system that is tight but manageable, trying to switch from it to Zelda was a very distinct down grade. And yet I have not seen a single person who does not love Zelda, outside of a personal friend. I feel like I'm playing the game wrong - but it's an open world game that touts being free in your playing, so why should I feel so constantly restricted? Does that not defeat the purpose?
It's frustrating. In instances like these, I want to be able to enjoy that which is popular - I've been waiting for this game for years, just like everyone else, and I have been extremely excited for it, having ordered my copy before the game was even released. I want to be able to share the experience that other people are having. But I just don't find the game fun, and I don't feel a draw to go back to it when there are other games that are so much more fun to play.
Most recently this has been true with the newest Zelda game. It has been receiving perfect scores across the board, and people have been calling it the best game in the series in years. And yet I was frustrated trying to play it nearly from the moment the game began, and the more I played it the less I was satisfied with the way the game had been designed. It is incredibly difficult in nearly unfair ways, the world is empty and movement is slow, inventory space is ridiculously small, and weapons break in moments - weapon durability is perhaps my most hated game mechanic of anything that I have ever experienced. The ways in which you can explore the world and interact with it are fantastic - but who cares when you can't stay alive long enough to get anywhere?
It probably doesn't help that I have been absolutely adoring Horizon Zero Dawn, which is a very similar game in concept, but better in virtually every way. With a very clear end goal, tight controls, balanced difficulty, incredible writing, and straight up fun combat with a resource management system that is tight but manageable, trying to switch from it to Zelda was a very distinct down grade. And yet I have not seen a single person who does not love Zelda, outside of a personal friend. I feel like I'm playing the game wrong - but it's an open world game that touts being free in your playing, so why should I feel so constantly restricted? Does that not defeat the purpose?
It's frustrating. In instances like these, I want to be able to enjoy that which is popular - I've been waiting for this game for years, just like everyone else, and I have been extremely excited for it, having ordered my copy before the game was even released. I want to be able to share the experience that other people are having. But I just don't find the game fun, and I don't feel a draw to go back to it when there are other games that are so much more fun to play.
Friday, March 3, 2017
Visual
As I get more into doing woodworking and blacksmithing and other similar things, and I try to find more ways to incorporate into the other things I am trying to get into and things that I already enjoy, I wish more and more that I had an artistic bone in my body. I have these ideas that I would love to act out upon, but I lack the artistic fine motor skills to actually act upon them. Things like trying to carve statues of characters, or burn them into wood that I am using to create other things. This would be especially good in starting to play D&D - to create items for the different players at the end of a campaign with designs that symbolize their characters and what they went through.
If I knew some way that I could learn to do these things, I would love to do so. More likely than not it will come from me taking extra pieces I have at the end of a project and doodling around with them until I slowly start to learn more about what I'm doing. Which isn't necessarily a bad way to go about it, it just means that I'm starting from a very low point without much guidance on how to proceed. It definitely sounds like a fun challenge, and if I could ever somehow miraculously get to a point where I could actually create wooden figures of characters that I have written, I couldn't imagine a much more satisfying thing I could possibly do. To physically surround myself with the characters from my own mind that I have fallen in love with - I'm not sure I could ask for much more.
But that's a long road to travel to get there. I have friends who are very artistic, and I would love to try and turn to them for help and guidance. I'm good at finishing out the small details - with woodworking, that means doing the sanding to smooth things out, to slowly and meticulously correct angles, surfaces, and other minor mistakes. But when it comes to the bigger picture, and creating the majority from which to do those corrections? Well, that's another story entirely. It may sound weird when you read it that way, but believe me - on wood, I'm much better at fixing the small stuff than making the big stuff.
Right now I'm just working off of kits and premade instructions, but eventually I'd like to expand. To make my own creations. To understand what it is that I'm actually doing, rather than just following what others tell me. I guess that's how I should really be approaching life, while I'm at it. But I think that's a conversation that's going a bit too deep for what I'm looking at tonight.
If I knew some way that I could learn to do these things, I would love to do so. More likely than not it will come from me taking extra pieces I have at the end of a project and doodling around with them until I slowly start to learn more about what I'm doing. Which isn't necessarily a bad way to go about it, it just means that I'm starting from a very low point without much guidance on how to proceed. It definitely sounds like a fun challenge, and if I could ever somehow miraculously get to a point where I could actually create wooden figures of characters that I have written, I couldn't imagine a much more satisfying thing I could possibly do. To physically surround myself with the characters from my own mind that I have fallen in love with - I'm not sure I could ask for much more.
But that's a long road to travel to get there. I have friends who are very artistic, and I would love to try and turn to them for help and guidance. I'm good at finishing out the small details - with woodworking, that means doing the sanding to smooth things out, to slowly and meticulously correct angles, surfaces, and other minor mistakes. But when it comes to the bigger picture, and creating the majority from which to do those corrections? Well, that's another story entirely. It may sound weird when you read it that way, but believe me - on wood, I'm much better at fixing the small stuff than making the big stuff.
Right now I'm just working off of kits and premade instructions, but eventually I'd like to expand. To make my own creations. To understand what it is that I'm actually doing, rather than just following what others tell me. I guess that's how I should really be approaching life, while I'm at it. But I think that's a conversation that's going a bit too deep for what I'm looking at tonight.
Rip-off
I wrote a long time ago about originality, and how much it is valued in today's world despite how nearly impossible it is to have any. The opinions that I held at that time haven't overly changed, though looking back I feel that my thoughts on the topic have evolved, and how I expressed it back then was somewhat poor. I don't know that what I have to say now will be much better, but I'd like to take a second shot at it.
I have played a lot of games, read a lot of books, and watched a lot of movies that were described to me as rip-offs of others in their media. And while many times I agreed with those sentiments and disliked them, there have been many other times that I actually enjoyed that "rip-off" more than what it was supposedly ripping off. There is certainly something to be said for lifting elements from something to use as your own, but it's a balancing act, like most other things in writing. It's not about what you take - it's about how you use it.
Some of my favorite games lift all kinds of aspects from each other, but they use them in unique and exciting ways, and they consistently feel fun when you put a fresh coat of paint on them. I have read dozens of books - mostly young adult - which follow the same basic story, with the same basic premise, and each of them is fascinating because of the individual characters, how they act, how they think, and how they react to the world around them. It's not the overarching story that creates something wonderful - it's each of the individual moving pieces, weaving a tapestry with the same materials in their own ways, creating beautiful and unique pieces of art.
But people will point at each of those individual pieces, saying that that one piece is clearly lifted from something else, and therefore the piece as a whole is bad. Making massive leaps without seeing the other pieces, and how they work together to build upon each other and make advancements that each piece could not have done on their own.
It's a shame to throw something aside without seeing all that it has to offer, simply because one piece of it is not to your liking. I won't pretend like I haven't been subject to this, of course, but I try to at least understand. With time, I have tried many things that I did not like, and many things that I did not think I would like, and I have been surprised many times over - and that's a pattern I plan to continue in to the future. Because I don't want to shut things down for being rip-offs before they even come out - which is something I see all too often.
I have played a lot of games, read a lot of books, and watched a lot of movies that were described to me as rip-offs of others in their media. And while many times I agreed with those sentiments and disliked them, there have been many other times that I actually enjoyed that "rip-off" more than what it was supposedly ripping off. There is certainly something to be said for lifting elements from something to use as your own, but it's a balancing act, like most other things in writing. It's not about what you take - it's about how you use it.
Some of my favorite games lift all kinds of aspects from each other, but they use them in unique and exciting ways, and they consistently feel fun when you put a fresh coat of paint on them. I have read dozens of books - mostly young adult - which follow the same basic story, with the same basic premise, and each of them is fascinating because of the individual characters, how they act, how they think, and how they react to the world around them. It's not the overarching story that creates something wonderful - it's each of the individual moving pieces, weaving a tapestry with the same materials in their own ways, creating beautiful and unique pieces of art.
But people will point at each of those individual pieces, saying that that one piece is clearly lifted from something else, and therefore the piece as a whole is bad. Making massive leaps without seeing the other pieces, and how they work together to build upon each other and make advancements that each piece could not have done on their own.
It's a shame to throw something aside without seeing all that it has to offer, simply because one piece of it is not to your liking. I won't pretend like I haven't been subject to this, of course, but I try to at least understand. With time, I have tried many things that I did not like, and many things that I did not think I would like, and I have been surprised many times over - and that's a pattern I plan to continue in to the future. Because I don't want to shut things down for being rip-offs before they even come out - which is something I see all too often.
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Free Write 20
I finished up playing Nioh, which was a fantastic game - made even better by the realization that it is extremely based in history. Much like Assassins Creed, all characters were real people, really alive when the game took place, and the events were based around their real timeline, meaning that anyone you kill, you do so when they would have actually died. Hell, even the player character was a real person - the first known Western samurai. How cool is that?
And then to go from that to Horizon Zero Dawn, which takes place in future of our world so far that our present is considered ancient history. And that's not an assumption - you can literally find scatter remains of the distance, destroyed past, and it makes direct reference to America, Boston, and advancements that we today talk about trying to make in the near future. It takes a fascinating mixture of Native American culture and advanced robotics. You hunt massive robot animals using bow and arrows crafted from their corpses. You find ancient technology, forbidden for having gone against the gods, that lets you create holographic projections that analyze your foes and shows you their weaknesses. The world and the characters within are incredibly interesting and well written, which is not something that can be said of games incredibly often.
And on top of that, it's just fun. The controls are tight, the mechanics are just forgiving enough to not be frustrating, and every kill feels satisfying. You are given a mass amount of freedom once you step outside the boundaries of the beginning area, and the walls that are normally created by story can be passed by merely exploring and playing the game. And the more I play the game, the better it gets - I don't even know how it pulls that off when I was completely sold on it from the moment the game began.
I have two more games I want coming out within the next week, and I expect to pick them both up on the day they come out, though I'm not sure when I'll get around to them with this game in my possession. I don't want to drop this game, because I have a feeling it will be hard to come back to - most games are for me. And some times I'm ok with that, though admittedly not often. But this game is too good not to play all the way through. But good lord, are the options coming out this early in the year good.
And then to go from that to Horizon Zero Dawn, which takes place in future of our world so far that our present is considered ancient history. And that's not an assumption - you can literally find scatter remains of the distance, destroyed past, and it makes direct reference to America, Boston, and advancements that we today talk about trying to make in the near future. It takes a fascinating mixture of Native American culture and advanced robotics. You hunt massive robot animals using bow and arrows crafted from their corpses. You find ancient technology, forbidden for having gone against the gods, that lets you create holographic projections that analyze your foes and shows you their weaknesses. The world and the characters within are incredibly interesting and well written, which is not something that can be said of games incredibly often.
And on top of that, it's just fun. The controls are tight, the mechanics are just forgiving enough to not be frustrating, and every kill feels satisfying. You are given a mass amount of freedom once you step outside the boundaries of the beginning area, and the walls that are normally created by story can be passed by merely exploring and playing the game. And the more I play the game, the better it gets - I don't even know how it pulls that off when I was completely sold on it from the moment the game began.
I have two more games I want coming out within the next week, and I expect to pick them both up on the day they come out, though I'm not sure when I'll get around to them with this game in my possession. I don't want to drop this game, because I have a feeling it will be hard to come back to - most games are for me. And some times I'm ok with that, though admittedly not often. But this game is too good not to play all the way through. But good lord, are the options coming out this early in the year good.
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