It is impossible for me to hold still.
No, seriously. It is literally unpossible.
No, seriously. It is literally unpossible.
The Weathered Cot: Sway A While And Listen
Belpha has been biding his time. Quietly lurking. Waiting
*shoves 3 more kites into Finn's branches before fading into the shadows again*
*shoves 3 more kites into Finn's branches before fading into the shadows again*
<snickers>
Oh this is good! This is GOOD!
<Hands Ketiron a potion>
Give this to the tree. It'll make 'em stand still.
Oh this is good! This is GOOD!
<Hands Ketiron a potion>
Give this to the tree. It'll make 'em stand still.
*sniffs the potion* This is rocket fuel. If anything, it'll make him run around more!
*looks at the owl wearing a flimsily made white coat. The owl looks very unhappy with its wings pinioned inside the garment*
Look. I need you to fix this kite infection. It's getting out of control. Do you know how ridiculous it looks to have kites stuck in your branches all day? And the squirrels are no help!
*glares moodily at the squirrels, their fur missing patches due to stress*
So, what say you, Doctor? How do I cure this infection?
*the owl hoots*
You woodland creatures are useless!
Look. I need you to fix this kite infection. It's getting out of control. Do you know how ridiculous it looks to have kites stuck in your branches all day? And the squirrels are no help!
*glares moodily at the squirrels, their fur missing patches due to stress*
So, what say you, Doctor? How do I cure this infection?
*the owl hoots*
You woodland creatures are useless!
Dr Hooter. PhD.
Not quite as advertised.
Not quite as advertised.
So I've always been a fan of Atlus games, mostly for their art style, and Dragons Crown was on my list for a while.
Very rewarding. Satisfying play. Reminds me of the arcade at York Beach.
But the one thing that won me over?
A plate class whose AoE attack doesn't involve spinning around like an idiot, arms flailing.
I'm serious.
Part of the reason I don't really warrior anymore is because Bladestorm looks so retarded. Whirlwind in D3, that spinning attack from Wildstar. Why does melee AoE always have to involve pirouetting around like the studios most pretty ballerina?
Dragons Crown does it right. The fighter lurches in place, his sword and arm blurring around him in masterful sweeps, too fast to be seen. Proving we can cater both to gameplay and aesthetic, without leaving either category wanting.
Very rewarding. Satisfying play. Reminds me of the arcade at York Beach.
But the one thing that won me over?
A plate class whose AoE attack doesn't involve spinning around like an idiot, arms flailing.
I'm serious.
Part of the reason I don't really warrior anymore is because Bladestorm looks so retarded. Whirlwind in D3, that spinning attack from Wildstar. Why does melee AoE always have to involve pirouetting around like the studios most pretty ballerina?
Dragons Crown does it right. The fighter lurches in place, his sword and arm blurring around him in masterful sweeps, too fast to be seen. Proving we can cater both to gameplay and aesthetic, without leaving either category wanting.
But I like it when my men er... fighters spin like tops!
You'll twirl and you'll like it!
Soulcatcher#1130
Come at me with rp some time. I've been neglecting it.
Come at me with rp some time. I've been neglecting it.
Is that...Liore's B id? :3
One perfectly manicured fingernail traced the edge of the identification card.
"So...the one who demanded I sing desires another audience?" She murmured softly to herself as she glanced at her desk and the ledgers that were in need of attention.
"Mmm...it would probably be so much more interesting than paperwork."
"So...the one who demanded I sing desires another audience?" She murmured softly to herself as she glanced at her desk and the ledgers that were in need of attention.
"Mmm...it would probably be so much more interesting than paperwork."
Ravens congregated in the steepled corners of the dining room, perching atop the skull-adorned chandelier or bobbing impishly across the tattered carpet floor. Dancing candle-light flickered eerily from the hollowed eyes of those overhead skulls; the flight of the sleek black birds cast feathered shadows like silent dice down the long, notched table. A pair of Guttersnipes, rough and unpleasent looking dead chaps in leathers and belts, cursed artfully and threw silverware but the ravens were not impressed.
He sat in a lopsided fauteuil, spine straight and shoulders square. The dip and press of fork and knife sliced a perfect square of ham from his plate. Though accompanied thus, by ravens and sell-swords, he ate alone. He always ate alone. The Forsaken had no need for food, nor the sense of poetry to pretend. Occasionally, Cutter or Choir or Buck would humor him and play social. This was no such time. His dearest agents were afield, waging private wars, recovering valueless artifacts, or forging necessary if unsavory alliances.
The vast table stretched nearly wall to wall, lined with black linens and crooked old chairs enough to seat several dozen. No seat was the same; to the Guttersnipe Brigade, organization and thoroughness were things that happened to other, less inventive souls. The instruction to fill the table with guest seats did not dictate the seats be uniform. At least the chair Liore had selected for himself seemed the least unbalanced.
Sweeping a balloon of young wine to his lips, he chewed thoughtfully and spoke before sipping. "Have you come to join me?"
The forsaken thought his approach silent; a long haired man thin as a knife, of whom not even the ravens had taken any note. The shadows parted from him, depositing him behind his leige at a kneel. His fleshless chin dipped respectfully into his chest. "No Dread Lord. Flavor is wasted on we who cannot remember its taste."
"You've news then, Mister..."
"Wightfoot, Dread Lord."
"Mister Wightfoot," Liore repeated, giving his wine an expert swirl. When he glimpsed the roiling contents, unhappy eyes stared back, blue and dark as the ocean by night.
"In the matter of delivering marks of invitation and identification, the task is completed."
Liore chewed silently, daubbed his mouth with a crumpled black napkin. "Well done. Surely it would do this place good, to be gazed upon by more sociable eyes." One of the Snipes missed his mark and instead impaled a small pastry fork into the eyeball of one of the cathedral's grand portraits. He and his companion made faces and skittered away beneath the screaming jeer of the untouched ravens. The Dread Lord took in the emptiness of the vast hall with a dreary sigh, and found his appetite had left him.
"Wight."
"Yes, Dread Lord."
"Spread word that we may soon have -actual- people visiting. They are our guests, and not to be eaten or flatulated upon or whatever other ritual you boys have affected. For every courtesy shown, there will be reward."
Wightfoot peered at the back of Liore's seat through his veil of black hair. Every Guttersnipe got hot at the mention of 'reward'. Usually meant field duty. Now and then, the most behaved of the group got to cast lots over who joined the Lord in one of his brutal excursions. Passing out invitations held no stock in Wightfoots mind, but a shot at actual -ranging.- That'd be worth a tip of the hat and a 'yessir yesmarm' here and there.
"As you command," he drawled, again lowering his gaze.
Liore sighed with satisfaction, frowning up into the dark corners of the hall. The ravens got real quiet.
Hm. If we're to open the doors to my peers, something will have to be done with -you- lot.
I wonder what Taz'jiin can do with a few hundred black feathers.
He sat in a lopsided fauteuil, spine straight and shoulders square. The dip and press of fork and knife sliced a perfect square of ham from his plate. Though accompanied thus, by ravens and sell-swords, he ate alone. He always ate alone. The Forsaken had no need for food, nor the sense of poetry to pretend. Occasionally, Cutter or Choir or Buck would humor him and play social. This was no such time. His dearest agents were afield, waging private wars, recovering valueless artifacts, or forging necessary if unsavory alliances.
The vast table stretched nearly wall to wall, lined with black linens and crooked old chairs enough to seat several dozen. No seat was the same; to the Guttersnipe Brigade, organization and thoroughness were things that happened to other, less inventive souls. The instruction to fill the table with guest seats did not dictate the seats be uniform. At least the chair Liore had selected for himself seemed the least unbalanced.
Sweeping a balloon of young wine to his lips, he chewed thoughtfully and spoke before sipping. "Have you come to join me?"
The forsaken thought his approach silent; a long haired man thin as a knife, of whom not even the ravens had taken any note. The shadows parted from him, depositing him behind his leige at a kneel. His fleshless chin dipped respectfully into his chest. "No Dread Lord. Flavor is wasted on we who cannot remember its taste."
"You've news then, Mister..."
"Wightfoot, Dread Lord."
"Mister Wightfoot," Liore repeated, giving his wine an expert swirl. When he glimpsed the roiling contents, unhappy eyes stared back, blue and dark as the ocean by night.
"In the matter of delivering marks of invitation and identification, the task is completed."
Liore chewed silently, daubbed his mouth with a crumpled black napkin. "Well done. Surely it would do this place good, to be gazed upon by more sociable eyes." One of the Snipes missed his mark and instead impaled a small pastry fork into the eyeball of one of the cathedral's grand portraits. He and his companion made faces and skittered away beneath the screaming jeer of the untouched ravens. The Dread Lord took in the emptiness of the vast hall with a dreary sigh, and found his appetite had left him.
"Wight."
"Yes, Dread Lord."
"Spread word that we may soon have -actual- people visiting. They are our guests, and not to be eaten or flatulated upon or whatever other ritual you boys have affected. For every courtesy shown, there will be reward."
Wightfoot peered at the back of Liore's seat through his veil of black hair. Every Guttersnipe got hot at the mention of 'reward'. Usually meant field duty. Now and then, the most behaved of the group got to cast lots over who joined the Lord in one of his brutal excursions. Passing out invitations held no stock in Wightfoots mind, but a shot at actual -ranging.- That'd be worth a tip of the hat and a 'yessir yesmarm' here and there.
"As you command," he drawled, again lowering his gaze.
Liore sighed with satisfaction, frowning up into the dark corners of the hall. The ravens got real quiet.
Hm. If we're to open the doors to my peers, something will have to be done with -you- lot.
I wonder what Taz'jiin can do with a few hundred black feathers.
TLDR
Can I haz ur stuff?
Can I haz ur stuff?
So many good word stuffs. So...so many.
http://www.heroicstrike.org/
A post goes up on the AAMS Bulletin Board:
A BOLO has been issued for:
Liore Bloodwing
aka Mr. Loomy
aka Eeyore Fattywings
An delivery has been issued for the subject. Please alert all active couriers if spotted.
-DK
Zulalam has spent some time away and has only recently been seen out and about again. During the time away he was studying other druids. Trying to learn from them. So that he could be better than them.
There was one particular sequence of a druid in action that he viewed through various means over and over again. The sequence is of a female Night Elf running through a forest. At one point she dives forward with no regard for how she could possibly land on her feet. In the blink of an eye she transforms into a beautiful nightsaber and continues running at an even faster pace than before.
Zulalam feels he is ready to take his shifting to the next level. He believes he too can achieve these moments of beauty that show great mastery and power.
He starts running through the forest. Dodging around trees, ducking under branches, and jumping over surprised woodland creatures. He starts descending a hill towards a clearing where some of his guild mates are gathered.
"Dis will show dem, " he thinks to himself, "dis will show dem just how amazing I be. Specially that other druid, the tree one."
Zulalam leaps out of the tree line into the open air of the clearing. He suddenly balloons into his Moonkin form. The Moonkin form of course has short and stubby little legs. It is rather rotund. And really the exact opposite of the sleek and agile cat form that female Night Elf from before used. When Zulalam lands he realizes his stubby little legs cannot even begin to keep up his momentum and he pitches forward, beak first. His weird wing/arm things are definitely not enough to catch himself with. But his face is okay because his rotund belly hits first. Causing him to bounce a little bit. Then he hits the ground again and rolls and tumbles many more times before sliding to a stop.
There was one particular sequence of a druid in action that he viewed through various means over and over again. The sequence is of a female Night Elf running through a forest. At one point she dives forward with no regard for how she could possibly land on her feet. In the blink of an eye she transforms into a beautiful nightsaber and continues running at an even faster pace than before.
Zulalam feels he is ready to take his shifting to the next level. He believes he too can achieve these moments of beauty that show great mastery and power.
He starts running through the forest. Dodging around trees, ducking under branches, and jumping over surprised woodland creatures. He starts descending a hill towards a clearing where some of his guild mates are gathered.
"Dis will show dem, " he thinks to himself, "dis will show dem just how amazing I be. Specially that other druid, the tree one."
Zulalam leaps out of the tree line into the open air of the clearing. He suddenly balloons into his Moonkin form. The Moonkin form of course has short and stubby little legs. It is rather rotund. And really the exact opposite of the sleek and agile cat form that female Night Elf from before used. When Zulalam lands he realizes his stubby little legs cannot even begin to keep up his momentum and he pitches forward, beak first. His weird wing/arm things are definitely not enough to catch himself with. But his face is okay because his rotund belly hits first. Causing him to bounce a little bit. Then he hits the ground again and rolls and tumbles many more times before sliding to a stop.
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