Hi cool people i dont know but i aspire to be alike. I recently felt the need to buy my first music instrument and i decided to buy a keytar or a keyboard. I read about the differences here and here is what i understand 1 the keytar is easier on the hand, atleast more confortable then a keyboard 2 its cooler 3 its a bit harder to see the notes 4 it has cool pitch stuff Before i decided to purchase one, i do want some of my questions to be answeared: 1 can i put it on the table and play it like a keyboard 2 i heard some guys say that you need a keyboard with at least 61 keys and the keytar i found has 37 keys so im wondering if it can still play a bunch even tho it has a small number of keys 3 is it better to get a keyboard for cheaper or just get a keytar cus it looks cooler (keyboard is 100-120 bucks and keytar is 180) 4 can i find a bunch of tutorial for the keytar, to learn to play and then use other insturments tutorials(keyboard tutorials as they have a bunch more tuts) to play other songs( some things i wanna play are songs from singers like mother mother cavetown, other indie pop and rock artists etc) 5 the keytar i found is a vortex wireless 2 6 how do i set it up, what apps do i need and where do i find good( mostly free but i dont mind paying small prices) digital instruments 7 are there any tips on motivation, im a teenager and my mom thinks ill spend my money on a keytar, play it 3 times and then ill get bored but u really want to make this a hoby( i dont want to be an expert, just wanna be able to jam to the music i like)
Sorry if my grammer is not perfect, english is my second language and its also very late when im writting this

I figure it's a common enough wall that people hit for me to vent a little bit about it. I feel like roleplaying has evolved to the point where we kind of feed on our own word-bank; ideas that don't fit the boxes we've drawn just aren't considered anymore.
I like tropes, don't get me wrong. I make ads that are 100% trope dependent. A little academia romance scandal is fun! Leaning into tropes is cool! They're useful for quickly describing a complex idea, and honestly tropes are tropes for a reason, they're usually well liked ideas that are broadly enjoyed by the population that recognizes them. This isn't me bashing on tropes, it's me complaining about people forcing ideas to adhere to a trope they know.
An example. I like historical roleplays. Historical, in the RP world, generally means one of a few eras of time in certain locations from my experience: 1950s America, WWII writ large, 1920s America, Medieval Western Europe. And then kinda sorta pirates and vikings but that's a little more loose. But I try and message folks who advertise wanting a historical roleplay (no time period specified) and I throw out an idea that isn't in any of those categories: 1920s Ireland. What do I get hit with? "Oh that's not what I meant when I said historical, I don't know anything about that period." Like we know anything much about the medieval times either given the literal lack of historical record keeping. Apparently that's just a 'wrong' idea for historical RP.
Or another, one I constantly have issues with. Arranged Marriage. I have an idea I'd love to write about regarding an arranged marriage, but when I start to explain that it isn't an "enemies to lovers" or it isn't "strangers to lovers" but rather, the girl being wed off is excited to be married, it suddenly loses everyone's interest. Don't get me wrong I understand that conflict is necessary for a good RP, and in arranged marriage things, the conflict is usually the couple getting along. I try and replace that conflict with something else, be it political obligations associated to the marriage, or approval from the person they're being wed to, or realizing that the thing that made them excited to get married isn't how they expected it to be, and it turns into a different kind of enemies to lovers, or rather a disappointment to lovers. And I'm happy to play either side of that too!
There's so many. I like having a badass capable woman, but people expect her to be dominant in bed too because she's capable and self sufficient in her tasks. Or god forbid I mention elves or Fae, and suddenly get a crowd insisting on relatively traditional ideas regarding what constitutes elf culture. Great authors made great ideas when writing their books, so much so that their canon has become synonymous with tropes and general story ideas; but in turn, it's made it neigh impossible to try something different.
I just want someone to play an assassin elf queen in a low fantasy historical non-traditional arranged marriage without having my idea be forcefully morphed to fit the common ideas floating around in RP T_T. Saying no to my ideas is totally cool, shoving it into a box isn't
Yeesh, rant over. Happy Friday folks

Ep 27: Marry Your Trees
Recap Masterlist
Your girl's back for more vain hope of enjoyable McElnoise. Hope you all had a good Thanksgiving Christmas New Year's Eve Valentine's Day Easter eclipse May 3rd!
Yeah, so, uh... it's been a minute. I got distracted by a lot of excellent media, by my own writing endeavors, by my work schedule, by vacations, by the many slings and arrows of life, etc. And I just couldn't muster up the energy most days to even think about finishing Petals. But I really miss doing these, and I miss reading people's responses to 'em, so here I am again to blow this joint and move on to a certain kingdom of crystals, where hopefully my attention won't be led further astray.
You Boys Have One More Shot To Make This Arc Worthwhile

• Recap covers Garyl "dying", the one funny joke in the episode (Maarvey's corpse sliding off the wagon), Justin embiggening the motorcycle, and Merle hitting the button. Griffin's a coward for not including the bit where he had Hurley take out multiple enemies at once and then mocked the idea of rolling for it.
• Marzak
• Immediately after the button's been hit, the ram horns on the front of the wagon fold out and the tailpipes rattle, and the whole thing turns into a rocket-propelled arrow. And I must admit to some confusion right away, because we've established since Chapter Six that the big button is supposed to fire a giant harpoon, and that was what was going to catch them up to Sloan. A massive power boost has never been mentioned before. I've gone back over all my relevant recaps for this arc and I can't see a thing about it. Either this is a massive long-term mistake on my part, or we're in retcon town from the jump; we'll see whether the harpoon gets used later and decide. I will quietly sit here and go stir-crazy over it as we wait.
• Regardless, Hurley's wagon catches up to Sloan's winged hovercraft thing, as does Taako's motorcycle. Just in time, too, as the finish line -- and cliff -- are finally in sight! I'm counting my blessings Griff can't toss anything else in here to prolong it, barring Sloan earthbending more cliff into existence. Hurley and Sloan are both laughing maniacally as they grind up against each other (make your own jokes), both too caught up in the fun of the race at this point.
• Travis asks if anyone remembers why they even need to beat Sloan in the first place. This is a great question to hear from one of your players ten hours into your professionally recorded story arc. We're reminded that according to Hurley, beating Sloan in the race will cause her to immediately give up the Gaia Sash after realizing she's not all-powerful, which I would say still seems a little flimsy based on what little we've seen of Sloan's personality, but... feh. It's the least of Petals' problems.
• Unfortunately for them, Sloan's starting to pull ahead again! After we establish that it's still in jumping distance, Taako opts to stow his wand, throw the emergency brake on his giant bike, and pull out... the Wand of Switcheroo. Remember that? It's the wand he got from Fantasy Costco way back in the first shopping segment -- in Episode 9 -- that causes the target to switch places with him. Griffin is delighted that he remembered at all, and since he fucks up Sloan's Constitution saving throw (the first time he's actually had to roll for something Sloan does, natch), it works. Justin takes Sloan's place in the hover-canoe thing, while Sloan gets sent to the halting motorbike and falls rapidly behind.
• You know what? Big props to Griffin for allowing this deviation from a planned solution, even as he seems surprised and confused about how to proceed with the showdown. Let's just hope he doesn't give me reason to rescind the props.
• Griffin: "And that was enough. You, on this sleek battlewagon, are fired through the air like an arrow, through-" Travis: "I jump onto the canoe. I wanna win too." Oh, we know.
• Taako casts Gust of Wind to keep Magnus away, which turns this bit into a wonderful little playground argument as Travis, Justin, and even Clint start suggesting ridiculous back-and-forth blows to win the race. I'm not going to transcribe the whole thing because it's rather long, but it's so refreshing to actually perk up and laugh a little at something in this stretch of episodes.
• And with that... Taako crosses the finish line! Race is over! The great weights lift from my spirit! I know once again what it is to live and love!
• Wuh oh. He is still hurtling toward the cliff at top speed! Griffin explains that he can't find the brake in this battlewagon, and- oh, never mind. He was just doing a bit. Taako's good. Might have been room for some hijinks with a quick escape scene, but I'll let it ride just to get the fuck away from these vehicles.
• Time for what I think might be the first of Griffin's much-ballyhooed self-composed soundtrack! There's a whimsical, Zelda town-esque horn theme playing through Taako's victory celebration. Sounds pretty good.
• Hi it's me, Terthelt, ten seconds later. It is distractingly Zelda-y. I'll try to keep paying attention.
• Our heroes are so absorbed in congratulating Taako (and in Magnus' case, himself) for the win that they almost miss Sloan riding up on the bike, looking deathly ill at her loss. She clutches her chest as giant bolts of lightning erupt from her back, striking the ground and sprouting more of those damn vines as she goes. She drives straight off the cliff -- prompting Griffin to give Hurley an ear-piercing "SLOAN, NO!" -- but a giant gust of wind blows everyone back as they rush to check...
• And Sloan manifests a gigantic tornado a few feet from the cliff's edge, surrounded by thousands of ravens. It's almost like this plan to defeat her made no sense, y'all!
• Travis/Magnus: "I turn to Hurley, uh, s- let me do my voice, ahehehem: 'So uuuh, how's the whole beating her and she'll give us the sash thing going?" MY HERO.
• A despondent Hurley takes off her mask, to the collective gasps of the audience. Magnus follows and takes off his own mask, proudly announcing himself to far fewer gasps. Trav's on a roll this episode, it's been so long since my last listen that I almost forgot how much fun he can be when he plays along.
• Clint: "And I take my mask off and say, 'And I'm Bruce Wayne!'" Griffin: "O-okay. You all hear, uh, 'oh, okay, Mr. Wayne. Cool." Taako: "I'm actually a mongoose. Meow!"
• Hurley straps back into her car, seemingly intent on driving into the tornado to save Sloan, but Magnus hops on and preempts her heroic sacrifice, followed shortly by Taako ("No adventure would be complete without Weasel Man!"). Everyone shares a somber laugh, and then collectively stare awkwardly at Merle until he agrees to get in too.
• We quickly see the wagon's damage repaired, even as the mile-wide tornado is presumably bearing down on everyone, but then it's time for the showdown. At which point Griffin forgets the word "rev" and laboriously tries to describe how Hurley is holding the gas and the brake at the same time to make the cool noises like in the movies. Someone get our baby boy to a home, the fog is already taking him.
• The brake is released, and the car flies forward, straight off the cliff and into the massive birb vortex. Inside waits an enormous pillar of tangled vines, at the top of which waits a partially encased Sloan, fully overtaken by the Gaia Sash. Clint cuts through the drama to make a very lame Wizard of Oz reference, and is then bullied not for the lameness of it, but for daring to reference something so OLD and OBSCURE as THE WIZARD OF OZ.
• Dare I hope for a decent final boss battle here? There hasn't been a really entertaining bit of combat in Balance since Rockport, and even that was arguable compared to the heights of Gerblins. I'd like to remain optimistic, but given the vague bit I know about how this arc is going to wrap up, that's easier said than done.
• Hurley is now screaming in obvious delight at being sucked into a tornado, which feels a bit tone-deaf when she's staring down her horribly brainwashed (ostensible) lover. The four gab a bit about what to do, since she just drove off the cliff with no plan, before settling on using the harpoon to get in close. So I guess I was just wrong about where the harpoon was and what it was for. Nuts.
• Taako makes a ranged attack roll of 18 to blast the harpoon out, and it strikes true and digs in near the top of the vines without impaling the stricken lesbian. After a bit of reeling in, the wagon crashes down just under the platform, and everyone clambers up to confront Sloan. Griffin compares her current state to Gundren Rockseeker after he donned the fire gauntlet, and I'm just... struck, for a moment, at how long it's been since I listened to those episodes. Everything felt so much simpler then. In the podcast, and in my life... And if I'd stuck to my original schedule, I'd have finished all of Balance up long before now...

Terthelt Takes A Break To Eat A Mint Brownie At 11 PM On A Work Night

• Everyone's stuck for ideas, so Magnus asks Hurley what they should do, since she actually knows Sloan. Hurley sadly remarks that she might never have really known her, which is an odd thing to say about someone clearly brainwashed and out of her mind, but alright.
• Clint, beaming: "I cast ZONE OF TRUTH!"
• The madman actually does it. Faced with the ambient truth telling field, Magnus rolls a 12 (failure), Hurley a 17 (success, though I'd sooner shove Griffin in a Zone of Truth myself just to make sure), Taako an undisclosed failed number, and Sloan a 14 (failure). Merle immediately asks Sloan how they can defeat/save her, to which whatever's possessing Sloan (via Griffin's rumbling monster voice filter) yammers out a generic villain monologue about its power being absolute. Magnus: "What about the power of love?" Merle: "What about Jesus?" Taako: "What ABOUT Jesus? Where is that guy?' Magnus: "We haven't seen him in a dog day!" Merle: "We could really use some help right now!"
• Griffin suddenly cuts into the bit to ask the trio to make -- take a shot now -- Dexterity saving throws. Trav rolls 15, Justin 10, and Clint a pitiful 8. On cue, Sloan lashes out a vicious vine and knocks everyone down for 9 HP each -- a blow which Hurley obviously avoids gracefully, without a roll.
• At last, we're rolling initiative! Like this is some kind of D&D game or some shit.
• Taako's up first, but not before Sloan pulls back her vine and sprouts up a giant vine body to do battle. They banter for a bit about why they're standing on vines and how many boss fights in video games take place on floating vine arenas (I guess?); when his head's back in the game, Taako talks with Hurley and confirms that the gang didn't get the chance to rest after the race, so their options are mostly depleted. He casts a basic fireball on the plant colossus, destroying its head and setting it ablaze for a whopping 66 fire damage (33 doubled, since plants are unique among all other life for their hatred of being on fire). And that... might have been his last spell! Oh dear.
• Up next, Merle casts Prayer of Healing to heal the whole party. Nothing fancy, just a smart move he rolls well for.
• Magnus waffles for a minute on what he should do, but ends up making an attempt to pull the malevolent flora open and save Sloan manually. Griffin asks for a Sleight of Hand check just to get a handhold on the vines, and ever the tactical genius roller, Trav gets a 17 the moment Griffin says he needs to beat 15. He follows it up with a 26 (19+7) for Strength, even! AND that counts as a crit for him! I'm at the edge of my seat here, folks. He succeeds in ripping the vines apart and exposing Sloan, and then opts to roll a 23 (16+7) to punch her lights out. After all of that, all he succeeds in doing is making her bleed and laugh.
• The booming voice filter on Sloan is really taking me out of it. Not that I was super in to begin with, but it is mildly irritating whenever Griffin sees the need to do a grand evil cackle.
• Now it's Sloan's turn, and the vines immediately slam shut around Magnus, trapping him in the cavity with Sloan. Engulfed in pitch darkness, our stalwart hero manages to parry the next nebulously-described attack, but still takes 26 points of damage. Outside, the colossus regrows its head and summons a rain cloud to put the fire out, before taking a big spiky swing at Merle and Taako for 18 damage each. Justin says "hachi machi" for the second time this episode. You know, I've always seen people quote that when Justin's knee deep in drama, but I guess I happened to never listen to any MBMBAMs where he does it. This is an astoundingly pointless observation because I can't think of anything more interesting to say about the plant monster, and Clint already beat me to an Audrey II joke.
• Hurley's turn! What shenanigans will the DMPC grace us with this time? She hops right off the edge of the arena (to audible confusion), but floats back up holding the battlewagon's arcane core, and -- with another signature annoying Hurley one-liner ("Ready to do some pruning?") -- smashes it on the ground in front of Taako. From it emerge a swarm of glowing blue flecks, which Taako's staff turns inside out to swallow up, filling him with a surge of never-before-seen power; practically, this just means his spell slots are all filled up again. Sure, alright. It sounds like something that breaks some rule or another, but it gets Taako back in the game, and I'm just grateful she didn't do a flying meteor dropkick into a reverse German suplex for 800 unrolled damage and a free ice cream.
• On cue, Taako's turn. Justin jokes about casting Zone of Truth on himself to guarantee his cries of victory will come true, but decides to just throw out another fireball. He gets a good roll total at 32 (multiplied into 64 damage), only for Griffin to play cute with his description of how powerful Taako feels, urging him to keep rolling D6s as the fireball gets bigger and bigger. Our bewildered wizard proceeds to roll another dozen times and ends up with a combined total of 160 damage when Griffin finally tells him he can stop, gleefully describing what amounts to the sun itself manifesting from Taako's staff and blasting down upon the colossus.
• Yeah, I don't know. It's a cool moment, I guess. It was just handed to Justin on a silver platter without him having to think of anything or make use of his mechanics, but it's narrated colorfully enough. Probably I'm just being a curmudgeon about combat again.
• The sun explosion scorches away almost every vine, exposing Sloan (and Magnus, hi Magnus) before she immediately gets back to it. This time she summons a barrier of black-and-white thorned vines, which Hurley identifies as an infamous plant both venomous and cursed. Hurley urgently calls a huddle at the edge of the platform, gives the gang a big hug, and... blasts them off the arena, activating their safety harnesses. This- this can't be the end of the fight, right? They didn't even finish a second turn! Taako is the only PC who got to move twice!
• As our heroes watch helplessly, Hurley glows with a brilliant white light and charges into the brambles, beautifully radiating the light through the entire vine arena and the tornado itself before the trio black out. And that would seem to be the end of her(ley).
• So... yeah. I guess that's it? I knew a big heroic sacrifice was incoming, but I expected to have... any buildup or impact whatsoever, for how much it gets talked about. I expect I'll have more to say about this in a minute, but I'll let it ride for now.
• Travis: "We did it! And not a life was lost! No cost to ourselves!" Justin: "Another W for the good guys!" Travis: "We're gonna get a plaque for this one for SURE." Clint: "Yay us!"
• Once they're all done commiserating their grief, Griff brings the trio back to consciousness in a pool of water in the Goldcliff city center. Also in the pool is Sloan, now rejuvenated, cradling the sickly Hurley as infection visibly travels up her body. Alright, so at least there's more to it before they get sent off. I truly expected it to just fade back on the two dead.
• Hurley weakly moaning "You're in troublllle!" as the Militia sirens get closer is kind of cute, tbh.
• Sloan/Griffin/Hurley/this dialogue format was a mistake: "'This whole time, I was looking for something more powerful than this FUCKING belt.' Um, and she looks down at Hurley, and she says, 'I'm such a fool.' And Hurley says, 'Yeah.'" Taako: "Don't you have any healing magics? You're a cleric for crying out loud!" Merle: "Me?" Sloan: "The venom of the silverpoint...................... There's nothing to be done." Justin?/Taako?: "Horseshit!"
• Sloan makes a whispered agreement with the dying Hurley, and implores the party to never let something like this happen again with the other artifacts. With that, and another dramatic musical sting, the duo... explode into cherry blossoms and sprout into a giant tree, leaving only vague suggestions of their figures gnarled into the base, and the Gaia Sash resting alongside their racing masks.
• BRB shaking and crying
• ;--;
• Listened to Scissor Sisters' "I Can't Decide" on repeated loop at 1.5x speed, I think I'm all better now
• Griffin Dougie McElroy, you've done it again. You've played with my heartstrings and sent off a legendary heroine with the kind of panache Hollywood wishes they had. I'm going to adopt a ram in Hurley's memory.
• Ahem. With all of that settled, and with the ad break music fading in, Magnus and Taako glance over the tree and elbow each other a little over who's going to pick up the sash. Justin/Taako: "I notice Magnus reaching for Railsplitter and I say, 'Don't even think about it.'"

Ad Break, In Which I Digress On Gay Characters And The Burying Thereof
So. Yes. The lesbians turned into trees. As I said at the top of the arc, I did know this moment would happen in vague terms, I just had no idea what the context or execution would be. This moment stirred up a good bit of controversy over the subject of "Bury Your Gays", probably amplified in specificity by the 2015-2016 controversy over dead lesbians in various recent TV shows, and even now it's still debated whether killing Hurley and Sloan off this way was a good decision.
Bury Your Gays is a real thing, and it is still a broad issue, even as the landscape for representation has gotten much wider since 2015. Major rep is more important than ever, and will be until we no longer face such intense and constant extermination efforts. That said, it's a term best applied to trends, not universally applicable to every time a character on the LGBTQ+ spectrum is killed off or otherwise sent away. Imagine how fucking dull stories with diverse casts would be if queer characters were invincible. I love writing and experiencing diverse stories; I also love writing and experiencing things dark and full of violence and death. Some crossover is to be expected. What matters is that the death in question suits the story and the character, and doesn't feel malicious or denigrating.
To that end, is Hurley and Sloan's treensformation a case of Bury Your Gays? I wouldn't say so, even putting it in context of late 2015 (where there were already way, way, WAY better choices for sapphic rep than a D&D podcast by three cishet guys). Griffin definitely thought this would be a beautiful and poignant sendoff, and contorted the whole arc to build up to it. To the extent that Hurley and Sloan are characters at all, it fits them just fine. I can see a version of it that even rings home emotionally. Fang and Vanille's ending in Final Fantasy XIII -- which I would wager is what Griffin pulled this scene from -- is both more resonant and way more problematic.
My problem with Hurley and Sloan's sendoff is that they weren't a thing. There's hardly a gay relationship here to get upset about ending. Even with my thickest sapphic shipper goggles on, outside of the very first time Hurley talked about Sloan (where there were some innuendos that went right over everyone's heads), almost nothing about the two indicates that they're more than friends. They barely interact before the big pseudo-romantic death scene. Again, even in late 2015 -- mere months after the legalization of gay marriage -- there was substantially better on offer across various mediums. Seeing Hurley and Sloan held up as trailblazers of Real Lesbian Rep rings even falser now that I've seen their story. I feel nothing for these characters.
If Hurley and Sloan meant a lot to you at the time, and if you were invested enough in them to feel hurt by how Griffin sent them off, I don't say this to demean you. I would be genuinely curious to hear your takes. But I went in with low expectations to meet, and I'd be lying if I didn't call this whole thing unreasonably thin gruel for the hype.
Ad Break Finite

• Oh right, this is a D&D podcast I'm writing about.
• As we fade back in, Taako approaches the Gaia Sash, only for the evil voice from earlier (without the filter, so it's just Griff's scratchy little guy voice) to appear in his head with promises of unimaginable power. Taako's into it, but does his good boy job and resists its influence, only to be met with a critical fail roll of 9! And thus is Goldcliff menaced forevermore by the elemental sorcerer-king known only as The Mongoose -- nah, just as he's sliding the sash around his body, Hurley and Sloan's voices pop in and bid him-
• WAIT THEY'RE STILL ALIVE IN THAT TREE? THEY'RE NOT GHOSTS OR FUSED OR ANYTHING, THEY SOUND TOTALLY LUCID AND FINE. THAT WHOLE DIGRESSION WAS FUCKING POINTLESS
• Hurley and Sloan's voices pop in and bid him to be stronger, allowing him another roll with advantage. This time he rolls even worse with a 3. Before Griffin can conjure up a third lesbian in an icicle to cheer him on harder, Magnus rolls 22 to punch Taako in the head and Merle also rolls 22 to steal the sash off his body. Just one more in a long string of consequence negation, but I'll allow it on the basis that it's really funny and I'm taking anything to laugh at in this arc like a drowning woman clinging to chunks of driftwood.
• Gaia Sash: "Oh, a- a nature cleric?! I should've come to you first! Come on man, put me on!" Merle: "Nobody ever thinks of Merle..." Gaia Sash: "There's no vine you'll never be able to not fuck! I'll give you sexual conquest over anything, whether you wanna fuck an onion, or..." Everyone: [laughter] Griffin: "But you've beaten this thing in a- a test of wisdom." Merle: "I don't need your help, pal!" Griffin, gut punched: "Fuckin' an onion?!" Merle: "To have sex with an onion!" If nothing else, I'm glad this arc managed a perfect bookending brick joke.
• With his dominance over nature confirmed, Merle drops the Gaia Sash into his fanny pack and zips it up. Hurley and Sloan congratulate them on solving the problem, and just as the Militia surround the pool, Captain Bane (remember when I thought he was going to be the villain?) shows up and defuses the situation. We cut to Bane's office, where he asks for a rundown of the story and what happened to Hurley (Taako: "Tree now."), as well as inquiring how they've resisted three of these artifacts (they just did).
• With that done and several terrible tree puns made, Bane makes a toast to Hurley, urging the trio to drink with him. Aggressively urging. We only have like six minutes left in this arc, but holy shit, is there still time for my guess -- based entirely on this ridiculously minor character's name -- to be right?
• The gang see through it immediately and Taako casts Charm Person, but while he fails against Bane's 19 roll, it's enough for him to sense that Bane is already being mind controlled. He abruptly glows red(?) and stands up, smashing Merle and Taako's glasses and chugging Magnus', immediately dropping dead as the same silverpoint vine poison that did Hurley in takes effect. Behind him manifests another humanoid figure -- one whose features are completely hidden by a bright red robe. Magnus tries to beat the shit out of it, but it's completely incorporeal. I've been waiting on these guys to show up! All I know is that they're the main antagonistic force, and I think I remember some vague osmosed things to do with Stolen Century, but it's been long enough since I absorbed any discussion that it's all hazy. Excited to see if they're worth a damn.
• In a booming, echoey whisper, the red-robed figure asks repeatedly, "ARE YOU AFRAID?" The trio only have banter and piss-taking in response, up until it extends its arm and holographically projects a series of faces: Gundren Rockseeker, Magic Brian, Jenkins (god how I miss you Jenkins), Sloan, and Bane. It rambles a bit about the true nature of man, and we get our first namedrop of the Hunger being the all-consuming threat (that, as I've said before, I do know about) before vanishing. Everyone small-talks for a solid minute about how spooky it was.
• Taako: "Guys, I think- I think- if I was getting the right message from that, I think we're gonna need to turn our attention to one VERY important question... Do you think there was any prize money for the race, is that something we need to check back in on?"
• Griffin obliges and reveals that Bane had two hitherto-unmentioned briefcases on his desk, labeled 1 and 2, respectively nabbed up by Taako and Merle. Inside, respectively: 3,000 and 1,500 gold pieces! Taako decides to split it three ways for 1,500 gold apiece, which is fair, but so unlike the boot-stealing, silverware-hoarding maniac I fell in love with in arcs prior. Character development?
• Magnus loots Bane's body and takes his badge, and Merle obtains a little black vial of silverpoint poison. And then... the small talk about the Red Robe plays again? The fuck? The entire last three minutes of audio just loops as the progress bar continues, before resuming as normal for the actual end of the episode. I had to check the transcript to make sure I didn't miss anything in that time. Guess the official MaxFun upload just broke in a weird and specific way.
• Speaking of MaxFun, Justin rings us out by celebrating the season's completion and taking jabs at the idea of Kickstarter and Patreon. Make of that finely-aged milk what you will, dear jerkers. I got nothin'. I'm tired. That's all she wrote.

Post-Episode
Mostly about as boring as the past few episodes. I've already said my piece on Sloan and Hurley writ large, but the fight to get to the infamous moment was both mid and ridiculously short (I know, I know: "the food here is terrible, and such small portions"). Miraculously, though, things did pick up significantly in the last ten minutes of the episode. The trio seemed reinvigorated on the banter and improv front once the tree scene was done, and there was more to make me smile and chuckle in that home stretch than in pretty much the whole arc. I even liked the Bane / Red Robe scene as an ominous story beat! It's weird to end a Petals episode feeling generally positive!
Petals to the Metal, In Review
I think the fact that I took a full year to slog through the arc, nearly half of that just being procrastination on the final episode, speaks more to my opinion of Petals than anything scathing I could write.
The tower climb, the heist, the race, the showdown... every individual chunk of this storyline was an endurance test. Griffin really let out the worst of his DMing tendencies here, between the railroading, the fake rolls or complete absence of rolls, the ceaseless rimming of his own special characters to the minimization of the players, etc. And through it all, there were so precious few jokes and bits that actually landed for me.
I thought Rockport had a few serious issues, but it was sterling compared to this mess. All I can really admire about it is the ambition and the fact that the guys all sounded like they were having a good time for most of it.
Comedy Ranking: Rockport > Gerblins > Moonlighting > Petals
Quality Ranking: Gerblins > Rockport > Petals > Moonlighting
Here's to Crystal Kingdom being at least a change of pace, even if from what I hear, it'll be a lot more serious. And here's to me not taking another six months to do the next episode, however busy I am.

Hello, I'm South African, and I have a very controversial question.
Okay so we all know that Youtube is a breeding ground for Keyboard Warriors.
Case in point,Last night I was watching a video of a black American woman, the video was titled, 'The Ancient Egyptians Were Black'. Of course in the Current climate, the video had a lot of racists in the comment section.
Most of them were from Arabs, you could tell from the usernames. I am well aware of racism in the Arab world from first hand experience when I was muslim., so it didn't bother me, I was accustomedto this. Some were from Europeans, okay, that one I have also experienced it, there are racist Afrikaners here in South Africa.
But I clicked one of the racist comments which said:
'You don't have to be jealous just because your history isn't as cool as ours.'
It had over 400 replies. Most were racist as well.
There were replies from other black users impuding it. But as I was scrolling I came across another response that sorta broke me, I'm still thinking about it right now, and I'm really stressed out, cause I take this topic really seriously.
The comment was by a user by the name of Aho, it was that name, followed by four number, 85...something, and the comment read something like.
'Awww, Are you mad because your people never did anything and have no history besides being slaves, and before you use the race card, I am Ethiopian, so that won't work on me'
Now to give more context Ethiopia is a nation I look up to with tremendous respect, more so than even my own nation, because of it's rich ancient and recent history. I find the nation inspiring as an African.
I have been researching a lot about Ethiopia, especially it's history and the history of it's languages, particularly the Ethio-Semitic languages. I have been learning about Geez and the Sabaean languages, and the other three South Arabian languages (Qatabanic, Hadhramitic, Manean) that are connected to it. I read about Aksum and the Kingdom of (𐩵𐩲𐩣𐩩) D'MT and it was all so fascinating to me. I even began learning the language from books I found on it. I practically became a fanboy over it.
I write fanfiction, and I was planning on writting a fanfiction based on this.
So when I cam across this dude, a lot of things began to change in my mind. Perhaps I was overreacting, but I truly never saw this coming. I never thought I would come across a racist Ethiopian, that never even crossed my mind.
Because I like to be fair, and I don't like having double standards. I have a question.
How many Ethiopians are like that dude? Is that dude's mentality and view a minority view among the Ethiopian populous, particularly the Habesha?
I don't wanna stereotype and say 'They are all like this' which is why I feel like it is much more appropriate to just ask Ethiopians directly, so that I may know where I stand. Also I feel like it my help me get over my sleepless night.
Thanks for reading.

Recently i decided to give far cry 6 another chance because i couldn't get into it the first time, so i finished all the activities on the map (barring collectibles) and after that i decided to whip out far cry 5 and do the same because i got fond memories of 5.
The difference is absolute night and day.
just for reference, i have played every far cry except primal and new dawn.
Far cry 5 does everything better than 6 except maybe for map size and amount of weapons in the game. Far cry 6 has very little interaction with the main villain and the missions feel extremely bland. it has maybe a handful of actually interesting missions and that's about it, the rest feels like busy work.
Also i absolutely love Giancarlo Esposito in everything he does but his acting can't save a game that is just not fun and he fell victim to the writing of the developer because the seed family in fc5 is writting and interacted with so well throughout the game. I really think that they could have given Diego a bigger role and adding more story interactions with him that could then go either way based off of player choices, like either turn Diego to be more like his father or convince him to be more on libertads side and adding fitting missions to that.
Even in the first few hours of fc5 you instantly notice:
-Way better sound effects, especially guns
-More interesting villain setup in the opening of the game
-More diverse side quests and companions to unlock
-Peggies being a serious threat on hard difficulty compared to AP bullet stomping everything in FC6
-Absolutely beautiful world design of hope county
-Great fitting soundtrack that brings solid immersion
-A more packed world with activities (bigger isn't always better)
The peak of fc6 to me was the montero faction with it's likeable and interesting people and the mckay assasination mission because it had some cool scripted scenes and a nice flow of the mission, the rest felt quite stale to me.
Honorable mention to the FC6 stranger things missions because that was really well done in my opinion.
Of course this is my opinion so feel free to share yours.

Hi all, I had to repost because I wrote a piece of information wrong in the header — Man-istusu is the son of deified Emperor Sargon of Akkad, and not his brother as I had stated. Since Sargon is also Sarru, my question mostly centers on whether Manishtushu can be reduced to Manu.
Another of Sargon’s children is Ibarum — Wiki directs you to the Patriarch Abraham as a related link, so the idea is there.
So, a core Bible claim is that Jesus has Davidic lineage on one side and Divine lineage on the other.
This means that looking at how regnal names are constructed at empire level in the Semetic-speaking Ancient Near East might be important?
Manu as a regnal name is revived with Galilee’s long-time Queen Phaesel’s family in Edessa, the Nabataean Abgarids. (Phaesalis was Herod Antipas‘ first wife per Josephus the First Century Jewish historian, and her inscriptions have been found. The fact that King Herod’s wife has a daughter who is not his, substantiates that there was a first marriage, too.)
The Abgarid branch of Nabataeans lose their theophorics because they have left the South where they are used. The Abgarids establish a kingdom in Mesopotamia adjacent Manishtushu’s family’s temple site at Harran. This is the sister site to their primary temple site at Ur of the Chaldees.
Of course, the Kingdom of Edessa is most famous in academic literature for being the first to consider nationalizing Christianity.
In this hypothesis that I have a question for, Manishtushu wouldn’t be the ancestor of the Davidic side as a king of tribal chiefs, in the same way that the NT’s Book of Hebrews says that Jesus’ priestly authority is not from Aaron, but from Melchizedek. The Bible loves its lineages.
Extraordinary claims require extraordinary info-dumping:
Can we take it back to Abraham? Patriarch Abraham seems to be a nomadic tribal ruler traveling the entire ancient near east and settling in colonial Canaan. Please correct me if I’m wrong on any detail, that’s how I improve my manu-script.
Abraham tithes 10% to Melchizedek, a theocratic king-of -kings (also called a Great King in the ANE.) The top of the vassal king chain would be the “God-Emperor” of Sargon of Akkad’s lineage, which for the Patriarchal Age ballpark would be the ‘God-Emperors of Larsa?

1. They introduce divine kingship to Aramaea, the first being Sumuel (the u vowel accent is classically Nabataean and Akkadian.)
   
2. There is Manishtushu statue nabbing
   
3. The Larsa ‘God-Emperors’ who compete with other emperors, claim longest lineage, back to Sargon of Akkad.
   
4. Larsa God-Emperors precede and cover the period of Salitus (possibly Joseph, the Salit) to Yaqub-Har (possibly Jacob) to Isoker-Har (possibly Issacher).
   

The Nabataean Abgarids, by using the regnal name Manu and siting their kingdom adjacent Sargon’s family temple, seem to be essentially be claiming to have restored the Semetic-speaking confederacy that liked to conquer Babylon every once in a while. An Eastern empire theocracy of travelers with a merchant route from Puteoli (the Puteoli where Paul finds a pre-existing Christian community) to trade with India. It also reminds of how Essenes were written to have a network where food, money and a fresh change of clothing were waiting wherever they traveled.
Convention would drop the El theophorics of Canaan, like the names Gamaliel, Phaesalis and Rabbel Soter have. Nor would they have a reason to use the Ah theophoric of the Amorites and their southern branch, the Arameans.
There’s also many examples of theophorics swapping out — it’s why archaeologists consider Yaqub-Har to be the same king Yaak-Baal, just in a different territory, just translated into the local dialect and word for ‘Supreme God’. It’s why Amenhotep IV and Akhenaten are considered to be the same person (change of theophorics). Sargon of Akkad’s son Ibarim also had the name of Shu-Enlil. Perhaps relatedly, Shuah (Shu-Ah) is the son of Abraham with his new “ah” addition.
And there’s academically-accepted syncretic theophorics in the Bible — Elijah is one. They can even loop on themselves, for example in the pastoralist district outside Mari, there’s the divinized Yakrub-Yakrub-El. Note that these hyphens are an archaeologist’s tool — it runs together as one word in the original, the same as Yahweh Elohim or Ptah-Soker-Osiris.
With Egyptian self-deified ‘God-Pharoahs’ at empire level, it’s clear that the have a royal household god and also a Supreme God attached to an inherited name.
That non-Yahweh theophorics in the Bible for Jewish kings exist is academically accepted. The introductions of the Tetragrammaton and henotheism or monolatry are also academically accepted to be introduced with Moses, so the idea of theophorics of other gods embedded in Jewish names isn’t new — it’s consensus that King Solomon’s name is theophoric to the original god of Jerusalem, Shalem.
Iah/Yah/Jah/Aah are all variants of a well-attested Semetic lunar god whose inscriptions begin to appear millennia before the four-letter Tetragramaton appears.
As a theophoric, it’s a full three letters in Aramaea’s King Yahdul — that means “servant of Yah”, like Abdul means “Servant of the Father”. The representation of this god is the crescent moon or the bull as their horns form a crescent and represent pastoralism, and this ANE motif is called the”lunar bull”. Think Exodus 32:1-10.
Yah/Iah/Ah/Jah/jˁḥ in the Semetic languages can also be reduced to Y‘, I‘, and A‘. The best example there is Ahmose I/Amose I, meaning “Iah the moon god is born”.
In a consonantal abjad, the trailing a would be dropped. And in Egyptian translations in general, the h can be dropped too — making a single letter represent an entire name. A good example of this being Josephus discussing Amenhotep III’s divinized scribe as Papis (P Apis.)
The lunar god is the Supreme God of Sargon of Akkad’s line. They’re Semitic-speakers but use the Sumerian-derived theophoric Sin as non-native rulers of Babylonia.
Narram-Sin, meaning “Beloved of the Moon God”, is Sargon of Akkad’s grandson and Manishtushu’s son. He is the first to declare himself a Living God, but he post-humously deified both Sargon of Akkad and his dad as an ancestor cult.
Many leaders declared gods living and posthumously follow, including the Hyksos as the “Living Horus”, “Living Seth,” etc. and the circa First Century Obodas the God ancestor cult found in what’s now Ein Avdat, Israel.
The Creator epithet is what seems closest to the modern concept of God.
So, Sargon of Akkad built two temples in Ur and Harran, matching Abraham’s two anchoring points in travel. Writing existing for ~6,000 years, there’s a chance this Biblical figure is real.
8th BCE Isaiah 20:1 has subjecting to Sargon II being the correct choice per God, and Isaiah walking around in a loincloth to illustrate the fallacy of the Egyptian choice
6th C BCE
Deutero-Isaiah. The replacement of the Midianite dynasty with Nabataeans at Sela is fulfilled by Nabonidus. Sargon’s lunar god temples are restored by the Aramean (Semetic) King Nabonidus of (not Semetic) Babylon. He also restores self-deification. He joins pastoralists in a major way, leaving the kingdom for ten years to forge a merchant route to Gaza.
Ancient pastoralists just seem to rep the lunar god. The connection is said to be because travel with big herds in the desert took place in the cool night, by the moon. After the Hyksos exile, Egyptians no longer call it the Semetic name but a role, Khonsu the Traveler. Settled agriculturalists have a lot of Sun Gods instead, for obvious reasons. They eventually intermarry and those descendants have both lines.
I’d say the gaps in the research so far are:
•confirming that Manishtushu can be constructed Manu like his father Sarru, or translated into Nabataean Aramaic with its hallmark -u suffixes for syllables. (For example, Chuza in the New Testament is considered by academics to be a classically Nabataean name.)
•John the Baptist’s movement — The last Akkadian cuneiform tablet written to be discovered so far is a First Century* Mandaean Gnostic tablet safekeeped in Arabian Sheba. I mean, he was wearing a 🐪 🧥.
The symbol writ large is perhaps the April 3, 33 lunar eclipse of a crescent moon. If we were to look at naturalistic explanations, that could accompany the earthquakes and dust clouds of undermining, tunnel warfare is first depicted with Sargon of Akkad.

Assyrian carvings show engineering units belonging to Sargon of Akkad (reigned 2334-2279 BCE) undermining the walls of enemy cities.

Ancient Babylonia used their ability to predict eclipses to exercise political control as omens. By the First Century, this ability exists in highly-developed areas like Greece, Nicaea and Saba, but the people in First Century Judaea did not have the technology to predict a lunar eclipse. It was developed in the mileu of Semetic Babylonians shepherding the near-featureless desert by the moon and stars. The shepherd bat signal.
To wrap up, I think it helps to repeat that learning about this history gives me a lot of good feeling. I’ll add it to the weight of evidence for the existence of benevolent guidance. There.
I’m often in awe at how well the Bible does in preserving history, and that simultaneously, a non-literate, aniconic Canaan may have had some interesting takes on it.
But someone with access to the knowledge gained by the cuneiform tablets in Nabonidus’s daughter Ennigaldi-Nanna’s museum could correct them.
Thank you in advance for your answer!

Last year i found my grandfathers old journals, he was always a private man and when he passed I discovered his notes. Here is the first section of his diary.
Fear found me for the first time in a while as I clung to the steel railing of the ferry, so aptly named the Calm Waters. The spray from the choppy ocean covered my face as I tried to hold in the last remnants of my lunch inside my ever-expanding stomach. The skipper, or ferryman, had assured me that the ride from the mainland would be short and easy-going, but that was before the wind picked up and hammered the side of the small, barely seaworthy vessel, knocking it to and fro with God's tempestuous will. The rocky outline of the shore, only a hundred paces away, gave me a sick reminder of the danger I faced and my inability to control the elements.
The unyielding rocks of the shoreline formed what, at first sight, appeared to be an island with an empty and bleak coastline, a barren landscape with an equally empty disposition to the world, as if calling to no one and expecting no one to arrive. If you stayed around long enough, into the month when the waters around the island receded, you would see an impassable bridge of stone connecting Dent Island to the mainland. The only way to Dent was via ship and only during certain times of the year when the water was high enough to cross over the bridge and into a secluded bay, hidden from the terrors of society. Protected by the elements, it was a perfect place to waste away and never return.
"Mr. Lewis," the skipper of the ferry called down to me over the spray and concussion of the ocean as we fought our way through tight channels of pointed and toothy rocks hiding just below the rolling waves like enemies waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
"I expect us to land within a few minutes or so. Get away from the railing before you end up overboard," the grizzled and dirty skipper of the Calm Waters called out to my back as I lay over the rusted steel railing of the ferry, praying for relief as I stared deeply into the deep blue and green of the waters parting for the hull of our ship, almost as if they were guiding us towards safety with their tumultuous movement.
As I didn't answer, the captain left me to my own devices. Boats, even at the calmest of times, made me seasick, reminding me of the war and the sickness reminding me of my father and his drinking. My father used to have a glass of brandy after a long day, not a large one, but also not a small one. It was his ritual, and to him, it was the small moments that made him feel alive. For me, it was the results, the feeling of completion. My time in the army had taught me everything my father had forgotten.
Things such as drinking, gambling, and even the odd cigar disagreed with me. When I was a young man, I discovered that these things did very little for me, while others around me flocked to them with the passion of those who are demented. An empty existence is found in such vices. A pure life is the only way to happiness.
The ferry fell off a large swell of water, and I felt my stomach convulse and surrender the last of my lunch to the churning swell of the ocean below. I wiped my mouth, straightened my jacket and tie, then turned back towards the skipper and the seat I had purchased to cross to Dent Island only a short time ago. I gripped the small metal bench with both hands and stared out over the horizon.
The town of Dent came into steady, if unreliable, view. From my research, this island was as treacherous as they come. Its coastline was dotted with ship sinkers that hid below the writhing water, and only the most experienced or most foolhardy captains dared to traverse its waters.
I wondered which type I was as I watched the captain hoot and holler as he spun the wheel of his barge in time with the waves. Truly an individual, I thought, as I closed my eyes and thought of the Valkyries of the ancients, unafraid and stalwart as they forged onward for Odin, earning their place among his trusted in Valhalla.
The town of Dent sat squat on the landscape, but at least it had some structure. Solid ground would be agreeable to me, no matter the desolation of its contents or its inhabitants.
The ferry came in to dock just as the rain hit. It came in a curtain of fury that shocked me as it pierced through my clothes, soaking me through.
No one greeted us in the rain at the dock, and when we bumped into shore, I jumped to the dock and secured our mooring line with a simple knot. The skipper joined me and pointed with his gnarled, brown finger to a large building at the far end of town.
"I will be back in two weeks, Mr. Lewis. I won't be able to return until then, when the water is high enough for me to cross," the skipper said as he took the wad of bills I handed him.
"I shall await your return with the vigor of a younger man," I said through the rain.
I grabbed my duffel and headed inland, already feeling better on the solid ground of Dent. The village of Dent was held together by a small goat fence and only contained two or so dozen shacks with fishing supplies covering their yards. The rain vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me with a wet disposition and a sour feeling in my stomach.
Now that the rain had come to ruin my already depraved mood, I noticed the town of Dent had a strange odor about it: fish, dung, and what I could only hope was cows and not the people of Dent.
I examined this tiny, insignificant village as if it were a particularly disgusting thing I found on the bottom of my boot, and had the displeasure of scraping off with a rock or stick, all the while cursing my bad luck for stepping into it without looking.
Looking at Dent, I surmised their main dish would be fish, which was my least favorite food. The smell, the taste—I would have to find a decent place with supplies, as I brought some supplies but not enough for two weeks. I needed to find the Manor and get to work. The sooner I accomplish what I was paid for, the sooner I can return to civilization and enjoy a nice steak at the Humidor's Club. A hotel with a pool would make my night right about now, but I resolved to head to the building on the hill the skipper had pointed to. It was the only building in the village that looked as though it held more than one room, shaped in an interesting way, almost like a barn. It held an ember light that shone through the cracks of the closed windows and door. As I approached the building, I heard the dull din of many conversations overlapping each other. I shouldered my duffel and went in.
The doors opened into a loud room full of shoddy wooden tables and chairs that looked on the verge of collapse, and from what I could see, so did the residents of the chairs. I felt like a ghastly figure standing in the doorway, dressed all in black.
"Mainlander," a few of the people muttered as I held my kerchief up to my nose in a polite way of avoiding the initial wave of the room's smell. Everyone in the room was filthy, and they smelled of fish. I was not particularly fond of dirt and grime, so I carefully picked my way through the room, avoiding people's stares. I'm sure I was quite the oddity, as I wore only the newest styles from the mainland, and my current outfit, even if wet, was finely cut and dyed a deep black. My shirt was formal white, and my tie was the pièce de résistance, a slightly darker black than ever seen before. This piece was dyed for days, allowing it to almost shine with black.
I approached the bar and used my kerchief to dust off one of the grimy stools, but then decided against sitting and used my boot to push the dingy item to the left while I filled in on the right.
An ancient-looking man, who reeked of beer and fish, actually slept face down on the bar in a puddle of what I could only assume was spilled ale.
"What's your drink, governor?" the barkeep said as he cleaned a filthy glass with an even filthier rag. The man seemed to be examining me and my slicked-back hair and proper manners as if I were a disgusting parasite who had hopped onto his bar, but he would still probably serve.
"Nothing for me tonight; I simply ask for directions," I stated over the chatter in the room, having to strain my voice to be heard.
"Directions to where? You're in the only place 'round here that matters, at least," the barkeep said as he set the glass down on the bar.
"I'm looking for Mistwood Manor; I hear it's somewhere near here," I said, raising my voice again.
The room fell silent behind me, and even the man who was sleeping on the bar sat up and looked around wildly before toppling backward off his stool, where he promptly slipped back into unconsciousness. His limp hand landed on my boot, and I moved slightly out of the way, thinking about how I had to get new boots now that these were soiled.
The room was deathly silent, and I wondered what had happened. Everyone was staring at me in a shocked manner, as if I had just told them all I was the king of the new world.
"I have a writ here from the mainland, from my benefactor. My name is Mr. Jack Lewis; I've come to deal with the property for the recent purchaser, to document the need for repairs and refurbishment. I expect to be in town for a few weeks; I humbly ask for your cooperation," I said, knowing my role and the way to sway a room quite expertly.
To my surprise, the room stayed quiet. No one said a word, and many people started returning to conversation, which I considered for a moment to be quite odd and untoward of them.
I turned back to the bar and the barkeep and said to him, "Maybe I will have to order something. I'd take milk if you have it."
The barkeep grunted slightly at me and pulled a pitcher from under the bar. My eyes bulged as I noticed the milk hadn't been kept cool, more than likely spoiled. I reached my hand out to block the barkeep from filling the glass, but he snatched it up and poured a fair measure of it into the dirty glass he had been cleaning.
"Ah, cheers then," I said dumbly as I grabbed the glass but didn't drink out of it. Why had I ordered this? It's disgustingly unhygienic, and I won't abide by it. It may touch my hand, but not my lips. My stomach and body would be tainted by the foul liquid. I had some clean water and rations in my bag; now I just needed to leave.
"I can give you directions there, Mr. Fancy," a voice said behind me, giving me an excuse to put a dollar down beside the milk and turn to the person speaking.
It was a man with a large, red bushy beard. Foam from his beer still stained his beard, but he looked hardened. He looked like a man who wasn't afraid of business or throwing a punch.
"I'll give you directions, directions off this island, and trust me, it would be doing you a favor. None of us go near the manor; word is it's unnatural. They say that the dead are seen within its walls, and you best not tread there, or the gates of hell will open up to swallow you down," the ginger-bearded man said with a straight face.
"Is this some kind of joke? A ghost story? If you would please just tell me how to get to Mistwood Manor, I would be much obliged," I said, trying to steer the conversation towards something more civil, grounded in reality, and not in small-town superstition.
"Mainlander," some of the people muttered as I spoke. None met my eye but the ginger-bearded man.
"You know not what you seek, but I won't stop you, mainlander. There is a trail behind here. Follow it, and it will take you to the Manor. You'll know by the large wrought iron gate. Don't say I didn't warn you."
I left the bar without another word or thought to anyone, leaving the milk glass full in my haste, but I paid no heed. These people were satanic bigots. The further away from these superstitious fisherfolk, the better.
I found the trail the man had spoken of and hefted my duffel bag onto my back. To my luck, the trail sloped downwards, and my feet flew down the trail without much effort. As I walked, the trees gave way to empty fields of grass, almost as if the world had ended its painting at the tree line and instead gave birth to a more empty and dinghy kind of life. After a slight turn around a hillock, a large manor came into view, bars of iron enclosing the property, some bent or missing completely. A small stone fence lay before it but had fallen to disarray, pieces strewn to and fro in my path.
A large iron gate, bent inward slightly by something, lay connecting the road to Mistwood Manor. A small mailbox made of painted redwood lay just outside the gate. The true prize was what lay beyond. Mistwood Manor was spectacular, a large modern mansion with beautiful stonework, a beautiful cobblestone road leading up to the front door of the house. On the main floor, the manor had large arching windows covered with wooden shutters, locked tight as if keeping the beauty of the world inside where none could reach it. The house was dark brown with black accents, the stonework and pillars all made of the same black stone. Truly masterful work, as the entrance to the building portrayed what looked like a demon's mouth, sharp stone spikes encircling it in a majestic way.
Although the place had been abandoned for years, it was still in good repair, almost shockingly so considering the area was known for storms and such. As I examined the windows, I dug in my pocket for the key to the building. My employer had made sure that I had the key before leaving; it was the only way into the house.
I approached the door to Mistwood Manor and stuck the key in the hole. It seemed to stick ever so slightly as I went to turn it, and I removed the key before trying again.
No luck. I bent down to examine the keyhole and could see the light shining through into a dark room with a white tiled floor.
I stood and jingled the key around the lock while pushing on the door. With a sudden pop, the door opened, and I went spilling into the manor.
I stumbled into the foyer of Mistwood Manor, catching myself before falling completely to the ground. The air inside was stale, carrying a musty odor that hinted at years of neglect. Dust particles danced in the dim light that filtered through the boarded-up windows. Despite the dilapidated state of the entrance, the grandeur of the mansion's interior was evident.
The foyer stretched out before me, adorned with intricately carved wooden furniture covered in dust sheets. A grand staircase curved gracefully to the upper floors, its banister polished to a dull sheen by the passage of time. Paintings adorned the walls, their once vibrant colors now faded and peeling.
I took a moment to collect myself, my eyes scanning the room for any signs of life or movement. Satisfied that I was alone, I retrieved a flashlight from my duffel bag and switched it on, casting a beam of light into the darkness.
With cautious steps, I began to explore the manor, each creak of the floorboards echoing through the empty halls. Rooms lay dormant, their furnishings covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. It was clear that no one had set foot in Mistwood Manor for quite some time.
As I ventured deeper into the mansion, the atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive. Shadows danced on the walls, playing tricks on my mind and causing my heart to race. Despite my rational nature, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease that permeated the air.
Eventually, I reached what appeared to be the main living quarters of the manor. The rooms here were more lavish than those below, with ornate furnishings and elaborate decorations. Yet, even amidst the opulence, there was an undeniable sense of decay.
I made my way to the master bedroom, the door groaning in protest as I pushed it open. Inside, the room was shrouded in darkness, the only illumination coming from the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.
I felt as though this room exuded the darkest of energies. It was well past dark, and I needed to find a suitable room for the night. I closed the door to the master bedroom with a click, allowing the room to sink back into the isolation it craved.
I retreated through the house to the bottom floor. As I made my way down the main staircase, the boards creaked in protest and seemed to flex under my feet. I made a mental note for replacement and inspection.
Towards the back of the house, around the staircase, I found what looked like a servant's kitchen. The furniture and supplies, covered in layers of dust, still looked well-maintained, albeit simple in design. A large ornate door led out the back, but I opted for a smaller wooden door that led into a modest sleeping quarters with two small beds and a solid-looking fireplace. I placed my duffel on the bed farthest from the door and began vigorously removing all dirt and dust from the room. In one corner, I found a broom and duster, which I put to good use. I had to exit through the back door to unlock the wooden shutters of the kitchen and my new sleeping quarters. The old wood reacted stiffly, as if disturbed from its long hibernation, but submitted as I secured them against the hooks set in the stonework of the house.
I managed to open both windows easily and began dusting and sweeping all the dirt and grime out of the two rooms. After a few hours of sweaty work, I was satisfied with the portion of the house I had claimed and the cleanliness of that area.
I tried to turn the tap to use some water to wash off some plates and cups for myself to use while here, but the pipes only groaned and banged like a ghost locked in chains below. Not a drop fell from the tap, and I sighed in frustration. The stove was a simple wood-burning one, but I decided to leave such attempts for the morning. I left the kitchen window open but retreated to my new room and closed the door with a click; the latch fell into place, and I made myself busy removing the items from my duffel. I had enough clean drinking water and food for about three days, maybe four if I stretched it. I also had some fresh batteries for my flashlight, a pack of matches, a few fresh articles of clothing, and my notebook in which I would record my findings of the house. Mistwood Manor had electricity, and I could see the switches on the walls, but none of them actually worked. I wondered if the old building ran on a generator.
As I lay down in the bed closest to the open window and turned my flashlight off, a clock somewhere in the house chimed ten times. I checked my own watch and found the clock off by almost one minute. Odd, but I pushed it from my mind and settled down to sleep after a long day.
I fell asleep rather quickly, which was odd for me. I always had trouble sleeping in strange or unfamiliar places. Tonight, however, as if the manor sang me the quietest of melodies, I fell into a deep, deep sleep.
I woke quite suddenly, thinking someone was beside me. My eyes opened, and I forgot where I was for a moment. No light shone through the window now, and my room had been plunged into semi-darkness. In the corner by the door and fireplace, my heart dropped as I saw someone standing, enveloped in shadows. My hands trembled as I reached for my forgotten flashlight on the bedside table. I fumbled with the light, and it dropped to the floor before I grabbed it and shone the beam into the offending corner. I jumped as the beam lit up the room, revealing that I was quite alone. Nothing was in the corner; it was bare and empty, just stone and mortar.
As I swept the beam around the room, a sound made me jump in panic. Footsteps echoed above me, seeming to move across the squealing wooden floorboards. I kept the beam trained upwards, my hands shaking, making the light jump around the room as another of the boards creaked in protest. A small hole in the floor caught my eye, and I shone the beam into it while standing on the spare bed in the room. The ceiling was low, and I was able to stick my eye right up to the hole. The room above was filled with empty shadows that flickered as my flashlight shone through the gaps in the wood.
I removed my eye from the hole, chalking it up to an old house that was just settling. I'm not sure if I believed it or not, but I went and sat on my bed, wrapping myself in the thin blanket. I kept an eye on the hole in the floor, with my back leaning against the stone.
A small creak sounded directly above me, and I flicked the light to the spot. Something was directly above me; I could see the shadow it cast through the cracks. There was no way that this was the house; there must be some squatter living in the top part of the house.
My eyes jumped back to the hole, and my heart stopped for a few beats as a single red-rimmed eye glanced back at me for a moment before disappearing.
"Aha," I yelled to the floor as the creaking above resumed, as if they were running.
The sounds moved from the room into the kitchen, and I tore the door open, following the footsteps into the main hall. I ran as fast as I could to the bottom of the stairs, but the creaking wood changed direction before I got there. I shone the beam from my flashlight up the stairs and dashed up the regal wooden staircase. The weak boards groaned and flexed as I made my way, but held firm as I dashed up the stairs, preparing to evict whoever had moved into this property. My army training took over, and my initial fear disappeared; this was nothing supernatural, but something much more mundane: a tramp or thief who had taken refuge in my boss's newest purchase, a target to be removed.
As I made my way into the lavish living quarters at the back of the house, a door slammed forcefully, making the house echo and shudder. I now had the intruder cornered; the only way he could escape now was if he jumped from the upper-story windows.
As I made my way down the hallways, decorated with thick carpets and antique side tables, I saw the door. It was like a warm invitation, golden and regal, looking like the bedroom of someone quite fond of themselves. As I approached the door, in the shadows of an alcove, a loud grandfather clock donged in my ear twelve times. I almost dropped my flashlight but kept steady.
"Burst my bloody eardrums," I thought as I tried the handle to the door.
Locked, of course. No force or luck would get me through this door. I had left the house key in my room; it was worth a try to open this door. I made my way back to my room through a series of hallways that confused me; they seemed to keep moving around. I swore that the stairs were through a certain direction, but maybe I had been panicked. As I descended the stairs, they groaned in protest. The seventh stair down cracked slightly as my foot touched it, and I made a mental note to skip that one from now on.
I made it to my room to retrieve the house key and searched in my duffel for the last item I had packed and didn't think I would need.
My M1911 pistol from my days in the army felt good in my shaking hands. Never before had I used this outside of active duty, but tonight it seemed like a sound idea. I made my way through the kitchen when I heard it again, the floor above me creaking loudly. I took off through the kitchen, crashing through the door to the stairs. In moments, I was at the bottom of the stairs; in a rush, I made my way up the stairs, making sure to skip the seventh. As my boot landed on the eighth stair, it cracked loudly. I stumbled, and my 1911 and the key fell from my hands. They both tumbled down the stairs, and my legs were trapped. I could feel empty space below as I kicked and tried my best to pull myself up and out of danger.
My chest kept slipping through the hole I had made in my haste, and I clung desperately to the ninth stair. In my horror, I heard the floorboards once again, this time moving towards me, coming down the hall slowly, emerging from the deadly darkness that now plagued me. My flashlight had fallen down the hole when I first fell, and my eyes slowly adjusted to the suffocating darkness.
"Hello?" I called out into the air, but the footsteps never paused, never faltered; it sounded like the hooves of Satan as he marched down the hall. Boom! They crashed louder and louder. I could hear glass breaking and wood splintering; something came flying from the dark and went crashing over the bannister to the floor below. Just as the noise peaked, and I watched in panic as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the sounds stopped just as they reached the junction between myself and the hallway.
All I could hear was my own breathing, my heartbeat thudding away as I tried to understand what was going on. I was surely losing my mind.
"Relax, Jack, this is all in your head," I thought to myself as I began slowly pulling myself free from the stairs. I managed to wiggle free a small amount thanks to the sturdiness of the ninth stair. A loud creak sounded on the stairs above me; with a shocked look, I glanced upwards, but nothing was there. Then the next stair creaked, and I could see dimly through the darkness that it bent as if a great weight was upon it.
Creak went the next stair, and the next, as I struggled to pull myself free. In a surge of adrenaline, I managed to pull myself to my feet, but now I stood in front of whatever invisible entity stood in front of me.
The creaking stopped, and I felt out with my hand as if trying to feel something that wasn't there.
"GET OUT!" A demonic voice screamed in my ear, and for a moment, I saw a ghastly visage of a woman covered in blood and wearing a large white dress with dead, decaying flowers in one hand. Her face was pressed so close to mine I stepped backward in habit when my foot found nothing but air. I fell backward, and my back met the rest of the wooden stairs; the sudden impact broke them all, and I fell through into the darkness. My back slammed again into a wooden platform, and I crashed hard against the final stone flooring of a cellar. My vision went dark as my head thumped callously against the stone, and I slipped into nothingness.

Mainlander אסטרוט
Fear found me for the first time in a while as I clung to the steel railing of the ferry, so aptly named the Calm Waters. The spray from the choppy ocean covered my face as I tried to hold in the last remnants of my lunch inside my ever-expanding stomach. The skipper, or ferryman, had assured me that the ride from the mainland would be short and easy-going, but that was before the wind picked up and hammered the side of the small, barely seaworthy vessel, knocking it to and fro with God's tempestuous will. The rocky outline of the shore, only a hundred paces away, gave me a sick reminder of the danger I faced and my inability to control the elements.
The unyielding rocks of the shoreline formed what, at first sight, appeared to be an island with an empty and bleak coastline, a barren landscape with an equally empty disposition to the world, as if calling to no one and expecting no one to arrive. If you stayed around long enough, into the month when the waters around the island receded, you would see an impassable bridge of stone connecting Dent Island to the mainland. The only way to Dent was via ship and only during certain times of the year when the water was high enough to cross over the bridge and into a secluded bay, hidden from the terrors of society. Protected by the elements, it was a perfect place to waste away and never return.
"Mr. Lewis," the skipper of the ferry called down to me over the spray and concussion of the ocean as we fought our way through tight channels of pointed and toothy rocks hiding just below the rolling waves like enemies waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
"I expect us to land within a few minutes or so. Get away from the railing before you end up overboard," the grizzled and dirty skipper of the Calm Waters called out to my back as I lay over the rusted steel railing of the ferry, praying for relief as I stared deeply into the deep blue and green of the waters parting for the hull of our ship, almost as if they were guiding us towards safety with their tumultuous movement.
As I didn't answer, the captain left me to my own devices. Boats, even at the calmest of times, made me seasick, reminding me of the war and the sickness reminding me of my father and his drinking. My father used to have a glass of brandy after a long day, not a large one, but also not a small one. It was his ritual, and to him, it was the small moments that made him feel alive. For me, it was the results, the feeling of completion. My time in the army had taught me everything my father had forgotten.
Things such as drinking, gambling, and even the odd cigar disagreed with me. When I was a young man, I discovered that these things did very little for me, while others around me flocked to them with the passion of those who are demented. An empty existence is found in such vices. A pure life is the only way to happiness.
The ferry fell off a large swell of water, and I felt my stomach convulse and surrender the last of my lunch to the churning swell of the ocean below. I wiped my mouth, straightened my jacket and tie, then turned back towards the skipper and the seat I had purchased to cross to Dent Island only a short time ago. I gripped the small metal bench with both hands and stared out over the horizon.
The town of Dent came into steady, if unreliable, view. From my research, this island was as treacherous as they come. Its coastline was dotted with ship sinkers that hid below the writhing water, and only the most experienced or most foolhardy captains dared to traverse its waters.
I wondered which type I was as I watched the captain hoot and holler as he spun the wheel of his barge in time with the waves. Truly an individual, I thought, as I closed my eyes and thought of the Valkyries of the ancients, unafraid and stalwart as they forged onward for Odin, earning their place among his trusted in Valhalla.
The town of Dent sat squat on the landscape, but at least it had some structure. Solid ground would be agreeable to me, no matter the desolation of its contents or its inhabitants.
The ferry came in to dock just as the rain hit. It came in a curtain of fury that shocked me as it pierced through my clothes, soaking me through.
No one greeted us in the rain at the dock, and when we bumped into shore, I jumped to the dock and secured our mooring line with a simple knot. The skipper joined me and pointed with his gnarled, brown finger to a large building at the far end of town.
"I will be back in two weeks, Mr. Lewis. I won't be able to return until then, when the water is high enough for me to cross," the skipper said as he took the wad of bills I handed him.
"I shall await your return with the vigor of a younger man," I said through the rain.
I grabbed my duffel and headed inland, already feeling better on the solid ground of Dent. The village of Dent was held together by a small goat fence and only contained two or so dozen shacks with fishing supplies covering their yards. The rain vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me with a wet disposition and a sour feeling in my stomach.
Now that the rain had come to ruin my already depraved mood, I noticed the town of Dent had a strange odor about it: fish, dung, and what I could only hope was cows and not the people of Dent.
I examined this tiny, insignificant village as if it were a particularly disgusting thing I found on the bottom of my boot, and had the displeasure of scraping off with a rock or stick, all the while cursing my bad luck for stepping into it without looking.
Looking at Dent, I surmised their main dish would be fish, which was my least favorite food. The smell, the taste—I would have to find a decent place with supplies, as I brought some supplies but not enough for two weeks. I needed to find the Manor and get to work. The sooner I accomplish what I was paid for, the sooner I can return to civilization and enjoy a nice steak at the Humidor's Club. A hotel with a pool would make my night right about now, but I resolved to head to the building on the hill the skipper had pointed to. It was the only building in the village that looked as though it held more than one room, shaped in an interesting way, almost like a barn. It held an ember light that shone through the cracks of the closed windows and door. As I approached the building, I heard the dull din of many conversations overlapping each other. I shouldered my duffel and went in.
The doors opened into a loud room full of shoddy wooden tables and chairs that looked on the verge of collapse, and from what I could see, so did the residents of the chairs. I felt like a ghastly figure standing in the doorway, dressed all in black.
"Mainlander," a few of the people muttered as I held my kerchief up to my nose in a polite way of avoiding the initial wave of the room's smell. Everyone in the room was filthy, and they smelled of fish. I was not particularly fond of dirt and grime, so I carefully picked my way through the room, avoiding people's stares. I'm sure I was quite the oddity, as I wore only the newest styles from the mainland, and my current outfit, even if wet, was finely cut and dyed a deep black. My shirt was formal white, and my tie was the pièce de résistance, a slightly darker black than ever seen before. This piece was dyed for days, allowing it to almost shine with black.
I approached the bar and used my kerchief to dust off one of the grimy stools, but then decided against sitting and used my boot to push the dingy item to the left while I filled in on the right.
An ancient-looking man, who reeked of beer and fish, actually slept face down on the bar in a puddle of what I could only assume was spilled ale.
"What's your drink, governor?" the barkeep said as he cleaned a filthy glass with an even filthier rag. The man seemed to be examining me and my slicked-back hair and proper manners as if I were a disgusting parasite who had hopped onto his bar, but he would still probably serve.
"Nothing for me tonight; I simply ask for directions," I stated over the chatter in the room, having to strain my voice to be heard.
"Directions to where? You're in the only place 'round here that matters, at least," the barkeep said as he set the glass down on the bar.
"I'm looking for Mistwood Manor; I hear it's somewhere near here," I said, raising my voice again.
The room fell silent behind me, and even the man who was sleeping on the bar sat up and looked around wildly before toppling backward off his stool, where he promptly slipped back into unconsciousness. His limp hand landed on my boot, and I moved slightly out of the way, thinking about how I had to get new boots now that these were soiled.
The room was deathly silent, and I wondered what had happened. Everyone was staring at me in a shocked manner, as if I had just told them all I was the king of the new world.
"I have a writ here from the mainland, from my benefactor. My name is Mr. Jack Lewis; I've come to deal with the property for the recent purchaser, to document the need for repairs and refurbishment. I expect to be in town for a few weeks; I humbly ask for your cooperation," I said, knowing my role and the way to sway a room quite expertly.
To my surprise, the room stayed quiet. No one said a word, and many people started returning to conversation, which I considered for a moment to be quite odd and untoward of them.
I turned back to the bar and the barkeep and said to him, "Maybe I will have to order something. I'd take milk if you have it."
The barkeep grunted slightly at me and pulled a pitcher from under the bar. My eyes bulged as I noticed the milk hadn't been kept cool, more than likely spoiled. I reached my hand out to block the barkeep from filling the glass, but he snatched it up and poured a fair measure of it into the dirty glass he had been cleaning.
"Ah, cheers then," I said dumbly as I grabbed the glass but didn't drink out of it. Why had I ordered this? It's disgustingly unhygienic, and I won't abide by it. It may touch my hand, but not my lips. My stomach and body would be tainted by the foul liquid. I had some clean water and rations in my bag; now I just needed to leave.
"I can give you directions there, Mr. Fancy," a voice said behind me, giving me an excuse to put a dollar down beside the milk and turn to the person speaking.
It was a man with a large, red bushy beard. Foam from his beer still stained his beard, but he looked hardened. He looked like a man who wasn't afraid of business or throwing a punch.
"I'll give you directions, directions off this island, and trust me, it would be doing you a favor. None of us go near the manor; word is it's unnatural. They say that the dead are seen within its walls, and you best not tread there, or the gates of hell will open up to swallow you down," the ginger-bearded man said with a straight face.
"Is this some kind of joke? A ghost story? If you would please just tell me how to get to Mistwood Manor, I would be much obliged," I said, trying to steer the conversation towards something more civil, grounded in reality, and not in small-town superstition.
"Mainlander," some of the people muttered as I spoke. None met my eye but the ginger-bearded man.
"You know not what you seek, but I won't stop you, mainlander. There is a trail behind here. Follow it, and it will take you to the Manor. You'll know by the large wrought iron gate. Don't say I didn't warn you."
I left the bar without another word or thought to anyone, leaving the milk glass full in my haste, but I paid no heed. These people were satanic bigots. The further away from these superstitious fisherfolk, the better.
I found the trail the man had spoken of and hefted my duffel bag onto my back. To my luck, the trail sloped downwards, and my feet flew down the trail without much effort. As I walked, the trees gave way to empty fields of grass, almost as if the world had ended its painting at the tree line and instead gave birth to a more empty and dinghy kind of life. After a slight turn around a hillock, a large manor came into view, bars of iron enclosing the property, some bent or missing completely. A small stone fence lay before it but had fallen to disarray, pieces strewn to and fro in my path.
A large iron gate, bent inward slightly by something, lay connecting the road to Mistwood Manor. A small mailbox made of painted redwood lay just outside the gate. The true prize was what lay beyond. Mistwood Manor was spectacular, a large modern mansion with beautiful stonework, a beautiful cobblestone road leading up to the front door of the house. On the main floor, the manor had large arching windows covered with wooden shutters, locked tight as if keeping the beauty of the world inside where none could reach it. The house was dark brown with black accents, the stonework and pillars all made of the same black stone. Truly masterful work, as the entrance to the building portrayed what looked like a demon's mouth, sharp stone spikes encircling it in a majestic way.
Although the place had been abandoned for years, it was still in good repair, almost shockingly so considering the area was known for storms and such. As I examined the windows, I dug in my pocket for the key to the building. My employer had made sure that I had the key before leaving; it was the only way into the house.
I approached the door to Mistwood Manor and stuck the key in the hole. It seemed to stick ever so slightly as I went to turn it, and I removed the key before trying again.
No luck. I bent down to examine the keyhole and could see the light shining through into a dark room with a white tiled floor.
I stood and jingled the key around the lock while pushing on the door. With a sudden pop, the door opened, and I went spilling into the manor.
I stumbled into the foyer of Mistwood Manor, catching myself before falling completely to the ground. The air inside was stale, carrying a musty odor that hinted at years of neglect. Dust particles danced in the dim light that filtered through the boarded-up windows. Despite the dilapidated state of the entrance, the grandeur of the mansion's interior was evident.
The foyer stretched out before me, adorned with intricately carved wooden furniture covered in dust sheets. A grand staircase curved gracefully to the upper floors, its banister polished to a dull sheen by the passage of time. Paintings adorned the walls, their once vibrant colors now faded and peeling.
I took a moment to collect myself, my eyes scanning the room for any signs of life or movement. Satisfied that I was alone, I retrieved a flashlight from my duffel bag and switched it on, casting a beam of light into the darkness.
With cautious steps, I began to explore the manor, each creak of the floorboards echoing through the empty halls. Rooms lay dormant, their furnishings covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. It was clear that no one had set foot in Mistwood Manor for quite some time.
As I ventured deeper into the mansion, the atmosphere grew increasingly oppressive. Shadows danced on the walls, playing tricks on my mind and causing my heart to race. Despite my rational nature, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease that permeated the air.
Eventually, I reached what appeared to be the main living quarters of the manor. The rooms here were more lavish than those below, with ornate furnishings and elaborate decorations. Yet, even amidst the opulence, there was an undeniable sense of decay.
I made my way to the master bedroom, the door groaning in protest as I pushed it open. Inside, the room was shrouded in darkness, the only illumination coming from the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.
I felt as though this room exuded the darkest of energies. It was well past dark, and I needed to find a suitable room for the night. I closed the door to the master bedroom with a click, allowing the room to sink back into the isolation it craved.
I retreated through the house to the bottom floor. As I made my way down the main staircase, the boards creaked in protest and seemed to flex under my feet. I made a mental note for replacement and inspection.
Towards the back of the house, around the staircase, I found what looked like a servant's kitchen. The furniture and supplies, covered in layers of dust, still looked well-maintained, albeit simple in design. A large ornate door led out the back, but I opted for a smaller wooden door that led into a modest sleeping quarters with two small beds and a solid-looking fireplace. I placed my duffel on the bed farthest from the door and began vigorously removing all dirt and dust from the room. In one corner, I found a broom and duster, which I put to good use. I had to exit through the back door to unlock the wooden shutters of the kitchen and my new sleeping quarters. The old wood reacted stiffly, as if disturbed from its long hibernation, but submitted as I secured them against the hooks set in the stonework of the house.
I managed to open both windows easily and began dusting and sweeping all the dirt and grime out of the two rooms. After a few hours of sweaty work, I was satisfied with the portion of the house I had claimed and the cleanliness of that area.
I tried to turn the tap to use some water to wash off some plates and cups for myself to use while here, but the pipes only groaned and banged like a ghost locked in chains below. Not a drop fell from the tap, and I sighed in frustration. The stove was a simple wood-burning one, but I decided to leave such attempts for the morning. I left the kitchen window open but retreated to my new room and closed the door with a click; the latch fell into place, and I made myself busy removing the items from my duffel. I had enough clean drinking water and food for about three days, maybe four if I stretched it. I also had some fresh batteries for my flashlight, a pack of matches, a few fresh articles of clothing, and my notebook in which I would record my findings of the house. Mistwood Manor had electricity, and I could see the switches on the walls, but none of them actually worked. I wondered if the old building ran on a generator.
As I lay down in the bed closest to the open window and turned my flashlight off, a clock somewhere in the house chimed ten times. I checked my own watch and found the clock off by almost one minute. Odd, but I pushed it from my mind and settled down to sleep after a long day.
I fell asleep rather quickly, which was odd for me. I always had trouble sleeping in strange or unfamiliar places. Tonight, however, as if the manor sang me the quietest of melodies, I fell into a deep, deep sleep.
I woke quite suddenly, thinking someone was beside me. My eyes opened, and I forgot where I was for a moment. No light shone through the window now, and my room had been plunged into semi-darkness. In the corner by the door and fireplace, my heart dropped as I saw someone standing, enveloped in shadows. My hands trembled as I reached for my forgotten flashlight on the bedside table. I fumbled with the light, and it dropped to the floor before I grabbed it and shone the beam into the offending corner. I jumped as the beam lit up the room, revealing that I was quite alone. Nothing was in the corner; it was bare and empty, just stone and mortar.
As I swept the beam around the room, a sound made me jump in panic. Footsteps echoed above me, seeming to move across the squealing wooden floorboards. I kept the beam trained upwards, my hands shaking, making the light jump around the room as another of the boards creaked in protest. A small hole in the floor caught my eye, and I shone the beam into it while standing on the spare bed in the room. The ceiling was low, and I was able to stick my eye right up to the hole. The room above was filled with empty shadows that flickered as my flashlight shone through the gaps in the wood.
I removed my eye from the hole, chalking it up to an old house that was just settling. I'm not sure if I believed it or not, but I went and sat on my bed, wrapping myself in the thin blanket. I kept an eye on the hole in the floor, with my back leaning against the stone.
A small creak sounded directly above me, and I flicked the light to the spot. Something was directly above me; I could see the shadow it cast through the cracks. There was no way that this was the house; there must be some squatter living in the top part of the house.
My eyes jumped back to the hole, and my heart stopped for a few beats as a single red-rimmed eye glanced back at me for a moment before disappearing.
"Aha," I yelled to the floor as the creaking above resumed, as if they were running.
The sounds moved from the room into the kitchen, and I tore the door open, following the footsteps into the main hall. I ran as fast as I could to the bottom of the stairs, but the creaking wood changed direction before I got there. I shone the beam from my flashlight up the stairs and dashed up the regal wooden staircase. The weak boards groaned and flexed as I made my way, but held firm as I dashed up the stairs, preparing to evict whoever had moved into this property. My army training took over, and my initial fear disappeared; this was nothing supernatural, but something much more mundane: a tramp or thief who had taken refuge in my boss's newest purchase, a target to be removed.
As I made my way into the lavish living quarters at the back of the house, a door slammed forcefully, making the house echo and shudder. I now had the intruder cornered; the only way he could escape now was if he jumped from the upper-story windows.
As I made my way down the hallways, decorated with thick carpets and antique side tables, I saw the door. It was like a warm invitation, golden and regal, looking like the bedroom of someone quite fond of themselves. As I approached the door, in the shadows of an alcove, a loud grandfather clock donged in my ear twelve times. I almost dropped my flashlight but kept steady.
"Burst my bloody eardrums," I thought as I tried the handle to the door.
Locked, of course. No force or luck would get me through this door. I had left the house key in my room; it was worth a try to open this door. I made my way back to my room through a series of hallways that confused me; they seemed to keep moving around. I swore that the stairs were through a certain direction, but maybe I had been panicked. As I descended the stairs, they groaned in protest. The seventh stair down cracked slightly as my foot touched it, and I made a mental note to skip that one from now on.
I made it to my room to retrieve the house key and searched in my duffel for the last item I had packed and didn't think I would need.
My M1911 pistol from my days in the army felt good in my shaking hands. Never before had I used this outside of active duty, but tonight it seemed like a sound idea. I made my way through the kitchen when I heard it again, the floor above me creaking loudly. I took off through the kitchen, crashing through the door to the stairs. In moments, I was at the bottom of the stairs; in a rush, I made my way up the stairs, making sure to skip the seventh. As my boot landed on the eighth stair, it cracked loudly. I stumbled, and my 1911 and the key fell from my hands. They both tumbled down the stairs, and my legs were trapped. I could feel empty space below as I kicked and tried my best to pull myself up and out of danger.
My chest kept slipping through the hole I had made in my haste, and I clung desperately to the ninth stair. In my horror, I heard the floorboards once again, this time moving towards me, coming down the hall slowly, emerging from the deadly darkness that now plagued me. My flashlight had fallen down the hole when I first fell, and my eyes slowly adjusted to the suffocating darkness.
"Hello?" I called out into the air, but the footsteps never paused, never faltered; it sounded like the hooves of Satan as he marched down the hall. Boom! They crashed louder and louder. I could hear glass breaking and wood splintering; something came flying from the dark and went crashing over the bannister to the floor below. Just as the noise peaked, and I watched in panic as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the sounds stopped just as they reached the junction between myself and the hallway.
All I could hear was my own breathing, my heartbeat thudding away as I tried to understand what was going on. I was surely losing my mind.
"Relax, Jack, this is all in your head," I thought to myself as I began slowly pulling myself free from the stairs. I managed to wiggle free a small amount thanks to the sturdiness of the ninth stair. A loud creak sounded on the stairs above me; with a shocked look, I glanced upwards, but nothing was there. Then the next stair creaked, and I could see dimly through the darkness that it bent as if a great weight was upon it.
Creak went the next stair, and the next, as I struggled to pull myself free. In a surge of adrenaline, I managed to pull myself to my feet, but now I stood in front of whatever invisible entity stood in front of me.
The creaking stopped, and I felt out with my hand as if trying to feel something that wasn't there.
"GET OUT!" A demonic voice screamed in my ear, and for a moment, I saw a ghastly visage of a woman covered in blood and wearing a large white dress with dead, decaying flowers in one hand. Her face was pressed so close to mine I stepped backward in habit when my foot found nothing but air. I fell backward, and my back met the rest of the wooden stairs; the sudden impact broke them all, and I fell through into the darkness. My back slammed again into a wooden platform, and I crashed hard against the final stone flooring of a cellar. My vision went dark as my head thumped callously against the stone, and I slipped into nothingness.
Chapter 2
Darkness enveloped me, a void unlike any other I'd known. It lacked reason and feeling, an abyss that consumed all. To exist here, in this darkness, felt like fear itself had manifested to block my very being, completing the world in its own twisted emptiness, filled with despair and destruction. It was as if my soul had abandoned my body, leaving behind a trembling shell, defiant yet futile.
I awoke in a haze, my eyes functioning but my body refusing to respond. Pain pulsed through my left leg as I was dragged down a dim, filthy hallway. Each jerk sent my head crashing unceremoniously against the ground.
I lay helpless as something dragged me, its form elusive. A hefty man, clad in a stained white shirt, flickered in and out of existence before me. His head bore a festering wound, grotesque yet somehow mortal. Half of his skull caved in, yet he moved and muttered, lost in his own world.
Step, step, shuffle. His feet echoed as I screamed inwardly. My mind screamed commands, but my body remained inert, arms flailing dead above me as I was dragged deeper into the earth. Roots and rocks littered the soil around me, a testament to our descent far below the surface.
"No, Mother, I found this one. He lay dead in the cellar, among the fancy wine barrels and rats," the man muttered to himself, oblivious to my presence.
"Yes, Mother, quickly. Then back to work," he responded to an unseen inquiry, his voice ragged and distant.
Step, step, shuffle. The rhythm of his movements echoed in my mind, a relentless march towards an unknown fate. Firelight danced ahead, casting eerie shadows in the chamber where we arrived. A precipice awaited me, a pile of bones and decayed corpses greeted my gaze below.
As I fell, darkness reclaimed me. Loose dirt cascaded down, suffocating me, covering me completly in fractions of a minute it ignited a panic unlike any other. I fought against the encroaching darkness, but it was futile. My lungs burned, craving air, while the edges of my vision dimmed, tempting me with warmth and oblivion.
"Don't give up," a child's voice whispered behind me, a fleeting reminder of hope.
With a surge of strength, I clawed through the earth, gasping for air as I broke the surface. Horror seized me as my fingers brushed against decaying dead bodies i was surrounded by death in a burial pit.
In an instant, the firelight vanished, leaving me in total darkness. Fear gripped me anew, my every move haunted by the touch of cold bones and the stench of decay on me.
With trembling limbs, I pulled myself from the pit, the stench of death clinging to me like a shroud. I knew I had to cleanse myself of this filth, to rid my body of the grime and decay that threatened to consume me.
The chamber had descended into an impenetrable darkness, devoid of even the faintest glimmer of light. I reached out, feeling for any sign of escape, my fingers finding purchase on rough stone as dirt rained down upon me.
A lump formed on the back of my skull, a painful reminder of the journey I'd endured. Ignoring the pain, I pressed onward, driven by a primal instinct to survive.
My mind raced with thoughts of escape, of fleeing this house of horrors and finding sanctuary in the world above. I traced the walls of the tunnel, searching for a passage, any passage, that would lead me back to the surface.
Step by agonizing step, I moved forward, my injured leg protesting with every movement. The tunnel seemed endless, its walls closing in around me, threatening to crush me beneath their oppressive force.
Memories of my time in the army flooded my mind, reminding me of us moving through the trenches at night, hand on shoulder to the man before us so we could find our way through.
Now, I did very much the same; in my mind, I could feel the men in front of me in the darkness. It gave me a renewed will, and I descended further into the maddening dark.
A cellar greeted me with a small amount of light from the hole above where I had fallen. My weary body examined the gash in the wood of the manor that I had made, and my foot clinked against something metallic and solid.
With joy, I grabbed my flashlight and flicked the switch, illuminating the evil of this manor and providing much-needed solace. I aimed my dented savior around the room and marveled at how something as simple as a light could drive away all my impure thoughts. All the things that I feared mere moments ago were gone.
My beam swept over the exit up a pair of rickety-looking stairs. To my hesitation, I didn't want to trust another set of stairs, but I needed to be free of this place. The tunnel I had come from looked like the gates of hell, like a demon had torn its way free from the earth. Large unnecessary gouges torn at the stone of the cellar like a great hand had reached through to grab an empty vessel such as myself.
In a dusty, cobweb-filled corner, my light shined off something metal. The flickering metal caught my eye, and I dug into the boxes, removing an old silver box with ornamental legs and intricate designs on the lid and side. It was a beautiful piece, and the lid opened easily on unseen hinges.
Inside, resting upon a velvet bed of purple fabric, was a small black book with the letter A embossed on the cover. I slipped it into my pocket and closed the lid. With little ceremony, I dropped the beautiful silver antique into the junk-filled boxes.
When I turned back to the stairs, something in the room was wrong. I couldn't place my finger on it, but something was wrong. My chest felt tight, my mind fuzzy and full of doubt.
Torchlight came from the tunnel, the demon mouth now looked as though it would spew flames into the very room I now stood.
The light was bright now, and I knew the grave digger had returned seeking me. I fled up the wooden stairs two at a time, caution thrown to the wind as I slammed my shoulder into the wooden door. The knob was old and stuck tight.
It wouldn't turn; over my shoulder, the light grew brighter and brighter until it seemed as though the demon itself had come. I heard the step-step shuffle of his gait as he came closer and closer to the end of the tunnel.
Until the light disappeared altogether, it vanished as if nothing was there to begin with. The cellar fell into sad darkness, heavy with woe and emptiness as if devoid of reason.
The door still wouldn't budge, and my flashlight kept a solemn vigil to my back as I worked at loosening the ancient doorway.
That's when I heard it behind me. Step step shuffle, step step shuffle. Moving closer and closer through the room. My flashlight showed me nothing as I glanced around behind me. I almost dropped it in fear as I banged against the cellar door as hard as I could. Throwing my weight into it.
Step step shuffle, then the step of a foot on the wood. A large boot mark burned into the wood leaving it black and smelling of cinder. As the ghostly figure approached closer, I threw myself against the door, praying with all my might for salvation. Step step up the stairs, the invisible grave digger came stalking up behind me.
With one final crash, I slammed through the cellar door. The door frame breaking as I burst from the door into the main floor of Mistwood Manor. I turned and felt something breathing heavily behind me.
A ghostly figure stood a few steps into the cellar, a deep head wound caved in the left half of his face. A grimy blood-stained shovel rested on his shoulder. His other hand reaching out to grab my leg.
I slammed the door in his face unceremoniously and began pushing a large armoire in front of the section of the wall that held the cellar door.
The wooden frame banged and surged with the grave digger's attempts to break through. With luck, the hallway was just small enough for me to place my feet across to the other wall and brace the armoire with all of my strength.
Somewhere in the manor, the grandfather clock chimed six times, very sadly almost as if remiss. Like it was calling to a lost lover that promised it would return.
"6 a.m.," I thought to myself, as the final chime rung.
As if on cue, the rattling behind the door stopped dead. Sunlight began to shine through the shutters on the windows, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the night had officially ended and Mistwood Manor fell silent for the first time in hours.

For context: making my own head cannon faction for shits and giggles and trying to figure out how they would fit into the Imperium and not be purged. They are technically the Foederati Sabbatical, human client states that pay very high tithes in exchange for as much autonomy as possible. As I learn about things I realize the best way to describe them as in the same ballpark of Rouge Traders. But this makes it very hard for them to tithe out manufactured goods because ev en if the Mechanicum can't touch them for tech heresy, writs of the Emperor and all that, the Mechanicum would pitch a fit if the Foederati sent the Navy ships that had no machine spirits. The Foederati hate and fear anything that could be connected to the Warp and wouldn't even make STC patterns for export.
But apperently Rouge Trader Fleets can and are often contracted to act as troop transports. And I was thinking, to make sure there's minimal contact between the Foederati crews and the IG, they'd put the troops into long term storage pods for the trip. Power is usually not the thing that's in short supply on a 40k ship.
Now I was thinking if there's an imetmediate level between time freezing stasis pods and cyrogenic regular freezing pods, like the water pod things from Event Horizon, whether or not that movie is canon, but the concept of being semi-asleep for the jouney. If they could do that then they could provide an added benefit of acting as medical unit both during the voyage and as a convolesence hospital ship in the campaigns themselves. Basically, clean out latent cancers, reset hormone levels, stress and otherwise, turbo charge the repairative effects of sleep, balance out any nutritional deficets in the IG en route.
In theory, this would be a great way to transport IG units from Hive Worlds who are just filled with industrial pollutants and probably have loads of physchological trauma to their hormone and limbic systems (and yes emotional trauma has real physical effects like this). It would make them a lot easier to control as it would lessen neurodivergent and post traumatic stress symtoms, at least until the life of a gaurdsman erased all the gains.
But aside from this most preferred option, I was wondering if the Imperium has any other form of stasis pods I should be aware of. The relic stasis boxes aren't important for this purpose. And I was thinking something the size of a an Imperial destroyer, if packed to the gills with stasis pods and not needing extra bunks, food or sanitary systems could maybe ship 250,000 IG as a time? Or is that low balling it from existing sources? Of note hear, the Foederati ships are at least as automated as the Bucephalus, which I'm thinking would make something the size of a Cobra Destroyer need a crew of less than 1,000, verus a Cobra which needs 15,000. And that frees up a fuckton of support space.
And I do know the verse runs way more on rule of cool than anything else. But I at least want to try and make the attmept to keep my thing in plausible ranges.

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‎"Is this a dream?" Ji Wuye mumbled in surprise, eyes widening and mouth agape. He stared blankly at the stunning, towering mountain before him, its majestic peaks piercing the azure sky.
‎ The sun, high above, bathed his vision in warm, penetrating rays of golden light. It filled him with a profound sense of familiarity, both from seeing the familiar faces of these people and from witnessing the intense dedication of disciples in training.
‎ He could feel the cool mountain breeze gently brushing against his face, the wisps of air carrying the rich, earthy fragrances of the surrounding forestry, confirming that this was not merely a dream but a visceral reality.
‎ The disciples wore loose, ankle-length garments cinched at the waist, their turquoise stripes rippling in the breeze as they squatted in perfect form on the white marble surface of the expansive training ground. Beads of sweat glistened on their furrowed brows.
‎ "Kunlun..." Ji Wuye muttered under his breath, lips curving into a faint smile of recognition. He had joined the renowned Kunlun Sect, a prestigious sect that focused on the mastery of sword-based martial arts.
‎ In his line of sight, a massive plaque adorned with ancient Chinese characters carved into the stone facade read 'Cultivate Swords for Enlightenment,' indicating the Kunlun Sect's fundamental martial arts technique and philosophy.
‎ Looking around again, he noticed no signs of desperation etched into the people's faces, unlike those who had entered the Tower of the Gods. This meant....that the Tower had not yet appeared.
‎ His heartbeat, which had been pounding hard against his ribcage, became increasingly audible in his ears, causing his entire body to burn with a mixture of excitement and disbelief.
‎ THUD-!
‎ But suddenly, the strength that had been sustaining his body dissipated, causing his vision to shake violently as his legs buckled beneath him, and he fell heavily to the ground with a dull thud.
‎ "H…a…h…a" He panted roughly, chest heaving as his eyes widened in astonishment, staring up at the endless azure expanse overhead. Only after falling did he experience a sharp, twitching agony lancing through his legs, the muscles spasming in protest.
‎ "This dream is..." he began, words trailing off as a shadow swept overhead, obstructing his eyesight. Instinctively, his gaze narrowed into a murderous glare, muscles tensing in anticipation.
‎ However, what appeared before him was a young man wearing the same martial robe as the others, but with darker blue stripes denoting his superior rank. He stared down at Ji Wuye with a gloomy, disapproving expression etched into his sharp features.
‎ "Outer Disciple Ji Wuye! You're slacking off again!" The man bellowed loudly, droplets of saliva flying from his mouth to hit Ji Wuye's face, the sheer volume of his voice unnecessary for the short distance between them.
‎ Ji Wuye remained silent, responding only with a shocked, bewildered expression as he recognized the man towering over him.
‎ "Senior Brother Wu Gao?" Ji Wuye blurted out as soon as the realization struck him, his eyes widening further in a mixture of confusion and trepidation.
‎ Wu Gao, noticing Ji Wuye's strange, dazed attitude, began to frown deeply, the creases in his brow deepening as his lips curled into a sneer of disdain. "Good, it seems your brain is still functional enough to recognize me. But you have the audacity to ignore me!"
‎ In response, a long, slender cane made from a hollow bamboo stem came into view, gripped tightly in Wu Gao's calloused hand.
‎ Ji Wuye's pupils dilated upon seeing the implement of discipline, and his body reflexively tensed in anticipation of the impending trauma as the cane mercilessly struck his trembling legs with a series of sharp cracks.
‎ SLAP-!
‎ SLAP-!
‎ SLAP-!
‎ Loud slapping sounds echoed across the training ground, causing other disciples, who had been intensely focused on maintaining their grueling squat stances, to turn and stare uneasily at Ji Wuye's now bleeding, crimson legs.
‎ No one dared to laugh or even crack a smile, instead persevering through the burning ache in their thighs, sweat rolling down their ashen faces as their legs shook uncontrollably, on the verge of faltering.
‎ "Stop, Senior Brother," Ji Wuye exclaimed, abruptly awakening from what he had thought was a mere dream, his eyes snapping open wide as realization dawned upon him.
‎ "Huh? You still haven't realized your mistakes? Then don't blame me!" Wu Gao's voice was laced with disdain as the sweeping bamboo cane rose once more, poised to strike Ji Wuye's prone form.
‎ This time, Ji Wuye had enough of his fantasies and daydreams. Despite the throbbing pain pulsing through his legs and the warm trickle of blood seeping from the fresh welts, Ji Wuye managed to dodge the bamboo cane with a small, deft leap, followed by a swift evasion of the strike aimed at his unprotected back.
‎ With the momentum from his earlier fall still propelling him, he quickly regained his feet, completely evading the punishing hit. He swiftly elevated his body, lowered his head in a show of deference, and cupped his palms together in a gesture of apology and respect.
‎ "This Junior has realized his mistakes; please forgive me, Senior Brother!" Ji Wuye shouted loudly, his voice ringing out across the training grounds with sincerity.
‎ Wu Gao and the other disciples who had taken a brief respite to gawk at the spectacle were taken aback by Ji Wuye's sudden acrobatics and agility, their eyes widening in surprise.
‎ Ji Wuye's legs trembled visibly beneath him as he scanned the intense atmosphere and the many curious gazes fixed upon him, a multitude of eyes watching his every move with a mixture of amusement and disdain.
‎ 'This familiar situation... those familiar stares filled with mockery... I'm truly back in my younger days!' The realization washed over him like a crashing wave, leaving him momentarily breathless.
‎ They regained their senses a brief moment later, casting odd, sideways stares at him, silently questioning his strange behavior.
‎ "Very well, as punishment for failing the morning exercise, do 500 push-ups!" Wu Gao barked, his tone laced with contempt.
‎ "Thank you so much, Senior Brother!" Ji Wuye replied loudly, his tone earnest and sincere, as if eagerly anticipating the grueling punishment that awaited him.
‎ "Hmph, it seems this cane is more useful right now," Wu Gao muttered under his breath before turning and leaving Ji Wuye, who immediately dropped into a push-up stance.
‎
...
‎
A few hours later, most of the disciples lay sprawled across the marble floor in various states of exhaustion, their chests rising and falling rapidly with labored breaths.
‎
Only Ji Wuye continued his relentless push-ups, his body drenched in a sheen of sweat that formed a slick puddle on the polished marble beneath him.
‎
"Four hundred and ninety-nine..." He grunted out the count of his final push-up and slumped down, his entire frame trembling violently from the exertion.
‎
His skin had turned a deep, flushed crimson, and his eyelids twitched spasmodically, but a broad smile spread across his features as he found delight in feeling the familiar, searing burn of muscle strain once again.
‎
"Ji Wuye~"
‎
"Junior Ji~"
‎
"Are you alright~?"
‎
Sweet, lilting voices and the delicate scents of plums and jasmine surrounded him as numerous maidens gathered around, peering down at him with concern and anxiety etched into their delicate features.
‎
Their long black hair cascaded around him, nearly obscuring his vision from all sides, evoking a tumult of long-buried emotions.
‎
'Ah... the reason I depended on my talent... because...'
‎
As he caught sight of the blushing young women circling around him, he remembered that he was the only disciple with exceptional qualities that drew the envious looks and resentment from both Senior and Junior Brothers alike.
‎
'Just to enjoy this peaceful life...'
‎
But then, his smile hardened amidst the tangle of black locks obstructing his view, his gaze settling on a particular lady standing apart from the others.
‎
She stared back at him with unveiled disgust and contempt writ large across her delicate features, seemingly unconcerned about his disheveled appearance or the grueling training he had just endured.
‎ ‎
...
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎
A/N
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎
\ Kunlun is one of the most prestigious wuxia sects that commonly appears in martial arts fiction stories. Said to be founded in remote Kunlun Mountains along the Silk Road in northwest China over 1,500 years ago.*
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I bought the game YEEEEAARS ago, was complete garbage at those types of game and uninstalled at Berial.
Fast foward to last week when i started DMC HD collection and fell in love with it. I did 1, 2 and 3 just earlier today.
Naturally, i go for 4, immediatly have fun with it and go to Berial. Sorry but, what a fucking shitty boss. He is cool as fuck but the fight sucks dicks.
The dodge is fucking weird, im getting hit when to me it looks like it should have dodged especially after the 3 other games. His AOE seems undodgable but my biggest issue is how un clear the timing is. I just don't get it. The stun and grab thing is cool as fuck though.
Ngl i don't even want to continue for today after that, that's why im writting this, trying go blow some steam off and go back. I'm really scared for what the bosses will be like.
And lastly but unrelated, i'm not feeling Nero right now, he just come off as a Dante copy/paste tbh. Dante is still cool, though i don't really like his new design and beard i prefered his other visuals but that's just me or maybe it's just too new for me right now lol, i grew attached to Dante really quick over the last 3 games.

Okay not all but in general karmic retribution usually tends to be directed towards the villains you know. They the big bad who cause trouble and whatnot to the heroes and all...
However these past few times i realise that in lots of works the author however forget that characters that arent villains can be just as if not more deserving of having their face cave in and they character brought down a peg.
Its more frustrating since we as the audience are automatically wired to see the villains do bad things making it more satisfying when they failed and get their karmic debt.
However in many many cases. Authors seems to understimated the patience pf audience and their tolérance for shit characters put others through( especially if its the MC as they usually are the connection to us so we tend to feel more easy for them when shit happens to them). And unlike villains, those gray or other non designated villains characters... well they tend to get off lightly despite not having earned it or receiving even remotely close to retribution.
And when it does... well suffice to say thats am easy way to make a character be completely despise by the fanbase as retribution is a very deep feeling in many and having them off the hook so lightly will PISS off the fans of the work regardeless if the character is not meant to be hated or is suppose to be sympathic or likable.
Its a rather common thing in so so many harem and other things with double standards . You know when the female character punch the ml constantly, or the girls constantly gives him grief or insult him or blame him for anything. In very demeaning way that just insult the MC in a shitty way and most of all makes any relationship feel unhearned. People patience tend to evaporate like lightning when it happens. Its actually why the Tsundere archetype is lossing steam, as its seen in a less positive light and too many works use it without properly accounting her behavior.
Though unfortunately, thats japan shit humor i guess at work.
I mean for exemple Bakugo from MHA. He a very divise character understandebly. Bullying deku to such a degree(side note i think many authors forget to limit themselves when it comes to jackass characters if they want them to be liked) that to this day. Even after the apology and the whole death and rebirth they were soured forever since he got off too lightly without enough Karma.
And yes. There is a thing such as a lack of adequate karma to those characters depending on how shit they were.
Lack of catharsis factor(as tvtropes put it) if not done quickly or properly held characters that are accountable just build up rage and anger within fans that never goes away especially of the characters in the work keep appearing but never receives their dues or gets off lightly. We gets tired and frustrated and when he hope some characters will get it and they never do it can significantly destroy our enjoyment of the work. Especially if the authors themselves that they suppose to be sympathic or gray or likable. But they fails to properly understand their audience feeling and réaction.
Lets take Vegeta from DBZ. He contrast bakugo in that he was made to be evil so we weren't suppose to like at first. Though we could love to hate him or find him cool as he was pretty much a villain. He did lots of awful things. However as tfs once put it what makes vegeta( canon and tfs) not become unbearable was that they are allowed to make him such a total prick bevause they know the audience will look forward to his inevitable karmic beatdown which is sweet.
And he gets wrecked a lot usually after dking something vile. And since its DBZ its quite graphic so its leaves us quite satisfying And Vegeta is still popular why? Cause he got his karma so now the tension and urge of retribution in our hearts is spent so we can continue watching the story without been bothered.
Alas i feel so many works these days then to forget that. Karma isn't strictly relative to villains. But to everyone of any alignement. Wether they be annoying, obnoxious, a female lead who cause grief to the ML. Hell even mentors characters who tends to not say any shit to MC for reasons. Whether its viciously physical or pain fully verbal
One of the worst cases of Karma houdini ( those who escape poetic punishment or retribution, author have the powers to do so so do it!) Is in our last crusade. Unsuprisingly if you follow me.
Were the maid drugs and kidnap the ml on neutral ground. Calls him Dog, never calls him by name, insults him constantly and blame him for anything. Oh and tries to kill him while he was bounded. With zero change in character for over 15. Volumes. Despite the ml saving her worthless live in vol 3 were all the above shit happens. And tries to stab him constantly later on and its suppose to be funny and the ML just acts without a spine.
I wanted her to die. I wanted her to get her eyes gouge out. And any sort of horrible things. Sure she gets hit by 2 sonic wave and is bloody in vol 3 fight. But that doesn't even come close to all the Bullshit she did in the vol ti even satisfy me or a sizable portion of the fandom. What she did was degrading, humiliating, nasty, dirty, despicable in every way to the ml. Destroy any sense of him maintain a character dignity( by that i mean just think how Yamcha dead by saibaman destroyed his standing in the fandom) all that entails. And we know that there a difference in causing characters to struggles/suffer in meaningful/acceptable(from a writting point of view) compare to trashing them( think of the way luke was treated in the sequels of star wars, or all those other icons being mocked or downgraded that everyone hates how its done)
Yeah. And in that case the author never lets the ML himself inflict karma or retribution on her he never punches the shit out of her. Calls her a bitch or something. No no no no. He just never even reacted or display real signs of resentment or anger that the audience clearly feels towards that bitch. To shut her up and put his foot on the ground. No hes spineless and in that particular case its cause im 100% sure thats it cause the author doesn't wsnt his shitty waifu to get hurt or get condamned. Double standards at its finest/worst.
The FL too as she helped with it and the narrative whitewash her shitty actions. To date she has never apologizes for that shit nor did she grow as a person. For someone we are meant to like. That was crossing a line( there are lines authors have to be really careful when they consider it) and she never got say... also kidnapp in a shitty way to have her receive fitting karma. No. She never experience a similar humiliating experience that truly mirrors what she did to the ML. A Mary sue total. And consider the words likes to tell us they are equals... no. Not after that. Make her maid fucking gets her eyes sliced. And the FL gets reduce too to a damsel in distress to suffer a similar experience then we talk about equality.
Cause she has never received any true satisfying karma for that shit. No. Her troubles are always a slap on the wrist compare to the ML. And were she and her maid cause him shit. He has never does. Hell the MC gets his agency always stripped and suffers visible wounds while she has the exact opposite. Urgh fuck that series.
The trails series by Falcom is also quite guilty of this but in a surprising way towards its villains instead. Not gonna go on details but go on the Falcom subreddit and search " villains" " punishment" " Forgiveness" and youll understand why. They all deserve a really big beatdown for all their shits. Not a casual talk of they not bad and meant to be sympathic and they just teleported.
I should maybe add RWBY to this too...
I miss Jojo the beatdowns were satisfying on a primal level.
TL; DR: Karma and retribution should be equally spent between villains and gray characters or even good guys who fuck up.

So.
This is primarily going to be a Fallout discussion on my part, as this has been something that has bothered me for years regarding games like Fallout 3 and New Vegas, and the online discourse surrounding not only those games but others like Fallout 2,Cyberpunk 2077, Fallout 76, 4, Starfield, and Skyrim.
Very specifically about how the Internet at large seems to turn around on a dime regarding the opinions of the games on release, and how over the years all of the good and bad gets washed away into a sea of "New Vegas was always the best game, Todd just hates it", "Fallout 3's story is trash and it's worldbuilding sucks", "Cyberpunk 2077 was always good", "Starfield is a bad game with nothing good in it", and my personal favorite "Skyrim's combat and perk system are trash and needs to be modded to be enjoyable."
It always makes me think that . . .well people are getting their opinions from other people and that Gamers TM have memories of a metaphorical Gold-Fish.
What exactly do I mean with this? Well below the break I'll get into my major examples:
-][-
1) Fallout New Vegas on launch: Fallout New Vegas on launch was a horrifically crash happy game where on console (Xbox 360 in my case) and PC both it barely functioned more then 3 hours of game time. It would crash, your saves would corrupt, using Vats would crash the game, infinite loading screens, and many quests just being literally uncompletable because they bugged out or the NPCs would just be GONE.
And while this would largely be fixed by the end of it's life on the Console, it's the only Fallout/Obsidian/Bethesda game I ever had to walk away from so that it could be fixed before I beat it the first time, it's still a mess on PC even to this day. To the point of everyone telling you to install mods and fixes before even trying to load it up (the most important being NVTF and 4GB Memory Patch if I remember correctly), and even then you are not safe from game breaking bugs.
And it's just kind of baffling to me that all of that has been more or less completely forgotten in the entire discourse between New Vegas and the other games, I love New Vegas, but that should still be a talking point about it when recommending it to other people and when comparing it to the other games.
2) Skyrim Needs to be modded to be enjoyable: Vanilla Skyrim is still a 8/10 game with enjoyable gameplay where the perks can completely change how you enjoy the game in a wide variety of builds. It does not need mods to be enjoyable, it is a great game, and it's weird to me how much that opinion of "Bethesda games are only good with mods, mod everything before you touch it for the first time" has grown and grown over time. My favorite Builds are Conjuration and Destruction Mage (Spellblades!), and the Shield and Axe combo (The Shield Perk tree is very overlooked and very very powerful).
3) Cyberpunk 2077 was always a great game: . . . Cyberpunk 2077 was New Vegas writ larger and so broken it got removed from the playstation store, had refunds issued out, broken integral systems, and BRICKED several peoples consoles. I don't care how great the gameplay is, it does not ERASE what it was at launch just because a cool anime came out or that a Expansion came out and fixed almost all of those issues. Yes I see you, even some of the developers on twitter, calling the Expansion Cyberpunk's first actual release.
4) Fallout 76 was always good/terrible: Fallout 76 on Launch was a mess, regardless of the lack of NPCs, it was unstable, buggy, and it's playerbase was far from the super friendly and welcoming one it is now. That said it WAS also a fun game that made it's own debatable improvements on the Perk and Vats systems and has improved massively over time.
5)Starfield is Bethesda's worse game with no creative writing or decisions: Starfield is a good game but not a great one, and it's ultimate crime is that it is just good and just safe. No Sapient Aliens (other then the Terrormorphs), The Factions were better then the Main Story, and it felt like so many quests ended at what felt like the cusp of a greater climax.
But they did innovate with the Ship Building system and the genuinely fun and gripping Space Combat, they did make a BOLD Choice to kill off the player's favorite companion in the Main story, and ultimately felt like they had ideas they wanted to explore, but no direct answers to what it wanted to explore.
I think a good comparison point to make might be with The Outer Worlds. The Outer Worlds had one idea it wanted to explore "Capatalism is bad/very flawed" but had no real interest in giving us an answer TO capatalism by introducing or exploring other Economic systems within it's setting.
Starfield had a lot of ideas it wanted to explore and play around with (The Role of the Player within a Narrative, Corruption, Free Will vs Determinism) but ultimately had no real answer on those themes and left it wholly up to the player.
Fallout 2 is the best game ever: Fallout 2 was released very controversially after Fallout 1 for being much goofier then Fallout 1 and for being too Built-Up compared to the grimer, darker, Post-Apocalyptic setting of Fallout 1. It was only years after it's release and the release of Fallout 3 that it became so lionized and idealized. -][-
So ultimately, yes here is your TLDR, I feel that historical revisionism is a bad thing when it comes to discussing games in general, and that both the good and bad and the history OF those goods and bads should be remembered whenever a game is discussed or recommended online.
And that I am very very very very tired of simplistic opinions saying things that never were true because they liked one game better then another.
But that's just me, what about the rest of y'all?

Hi, I'm writting my own show and it's a fairly small project that I hope will turn big someday. I have many friends who are good at voice acting willing to help out for free. Now, I want to pay them eventually if this show gets big and I start making money off of it, but I don't know what's a reasonable rate or payment. I don't want to farm free labor from my friends, but I also don't want to just throw all my money at them if I do make money (I kinda like money, it's pretty cool). The goal for the show is to be a long term series, I'm planning on making a pilot, posting it on YouTube, and going from there. I don't really have any money on me right now, I'm still in school and I won't have time (or energy) for a job until summer. I just wanted to come here to ask if I should go by a percentage rate, save up for a certain amount of money to just give them all at once, or if I should do something else I'm not thinking of. I know they're only really thinking of this being a hobby/a way to help out a friend, but I want it to eventually pay off for them because they really are a huge help.

Hi, I'm really in need of some help with this situation to add context let's start from the beginning. In 2021 I (24F) moved out of my exs apartment (27F) and moved into my own space. I would be living alone so I decided to invest in a security system because ya know, single women problems. This said system said they could send out equipment for me and it's easy enough I could install it myself. Long story short they sent a door bell set up that I couldn't use, of course I'm renting so that wasn't an option. I called the company plenty of times to get different equipment to no answer, or hang ups when I did get an answer or 5 hour wait times that ended in being hung up on. This continued until in 2022 I gotten fed up enough to call and cancel everything, of course through a prompt because again they do not answer calls or emails. I had in total "canceled" my account 3 times. Still being charged the monthly fee with no help. I decided enough was enough and changed my card, after changing then their phone started to work and was met with berating, and treating of sending me to collections because I refused to pay for a system I was never given in the first place. Well you guessed it they sent me to collections. Now living with my wife (23F) the debt collectors contacted me Feb 23, of 2023. I was told I would have to pay $1500 or $700 to settle it that day. I said no and I would have to call back after speaking to my lawyer(my mother) about the situation. Side note my mother isn't a lawyer I just need to get her advice before doing or agreeing to anything. I called back after getting information from her and made the statement of I would need more information I can't agree to something like this without proof I was then met with "we already sent proof of collecting a debt to your address, we can agree to a payment of $700 today or you will be agreeing to the $1500" I said "I do not agree to paying $700 and I will not agree to paying $1500 for something I need more information on" on that note he hung up on me. I cooled myself down and called back to find his voice-mail. I left my updated information of where I live, phone number and email for quicker route for information and made sure to note i will not agree to these payment and would need more information regarding the matter, and I will no longer accept phone call contact and only contact in writing. This was all done February 23,2023. I received two more phone calls one last month in March and another one recently that I let both go to voice-mail. I did not receive any contact by writting until this past week 04-09-2024 of a notice of settlement offer. It was taken off my credit after I sent two complaints to credit karma and BBC. My question is what do I do next I told them in 2023 to contact me in writting which was never done, i still recieved phone calls and i never recieved any more information i needed. Any input or any advice would be greatly appreciated because this has really done on me stress wise. Thank you from a person who should of done research on BBC complaints before going with a company known to do their customers wrong!