What amuses us and other ideas
I hadn’t slept well in days. I may not have slept at all but it’s hard to say when you’ve had as much coffee as I have. I think they called it ‘Black Blood of the Earth’. An homage to mystical rituals and sorcerous habits. While it came in concentrate, intended to be thinned out and rationed over days or weeks, I had taken to drinking it straight.
The kheldian inhabiting my body had woken and it was seething with anger. Betrayal and Outrage were the order of the day.
Comments closedWe’d been on colony support for several weeks. And while it wasn’t dangerous work it was arduous. Ferrying crews and equipment throughout the quadrant, rushing to meet deadlines and rigorous environmental analysis.
We were relieved from our routine, given a much desired break and left to pursue our primary mission: Exploration. It was nice to sit back and just spend some time stargazing for a change. To turn our sensors at the twinkling of distant stars and glide quietly among the wispy strands of nebula.
It’s these quiet times I look back to when we’re deep in the trenches of chaos and war.
Comments closedSometimes I’m taken aback by the beauty in a thing.
Conflict with the Hur’q pushed us into the Gamma Quadrant, through the wormhole. It was inspiring to see such glamour while we pursued darker secrets.
Comments closedOr Hawks. Whatever, this thing was huge.
Very, very big.
Comments closedShocklord was born one sleepy morning in ’06 when concept met opportunity. A blaster then he went through the normal character cycles of adventure and development until a series of ugly encounters pummeled hope and ransomed my dreams.
I had trashed the character then, given up the name to a friend who had a great deal more success than I did. Now on Homecoming I’m back in the saddle and while I’ve revisited some of my old ‘blaster curse’ it’s not as bad as it was. For one, I’ve had a fair bit more success than before.
We were running down some plans for a giant robot when I stopped to admire the beauty on Striga Isle.
I’m what the FBSA classifies a Sentinel:
“The Sentinel is a powerful ranged combatant with moderate protective powers and protection against control powers. Sturdier than a Blaster, it also has the ability to distract enemies to avoid being overwhelmed.“
The clinical declaration of Blaster frailty is understated in my mind.
Comments closedVos was a cute town. The houses were neatly arranged, the tavern had ample variety in drink to keep one amused and the local magistrate wasn’t completely unreasonable. Or so I thought.
She’d sent goons to collect me, her Mouth, who I didn’t immediately find offensive, and some well armored guards. I complied, if only because I had yet to work up to burning down another village. Yet.
Dratha was everything you would expect of a Telvanni. An air of superiority, well-dressed, ample living quarters. What surprised me was her detached management of the village. Something about ‘treating people like adults’ or some such. I could really grow to like it here.
It remained to be seen just how insane Dratha was. A close brush with death had set her determination in achieving Immortality.
This is normally where I bow out of conversations. I’ll pay my tab, pack my bags and leave, promptly. Quests for immortality usually involve a lot of blood and a great deal of screaming. I would have done just that and left but guards at the door didn’t have the look of complacency and visions of a nice safe bed hundreds of miles away vanished as quickly as it arrived.
So I listened. Something about Daedric ruins, a handful of magic stones and a dark prince. Yup. I should never have left Murkmire. At least the locals were more rational.
I never advise bargains with Daedra. In the book of bad ideas, all chapters start or stop with Daedra. And I was being asked to fetch some magic rocks all so some witch could wrangle madness long enough to stave off her twilight years.
I plundered a number of ruins, some more ruined than others. I was shocked to see a handful of very reasonable cultists and scholars gathered in Ramimilk. My sense of foreboding went off the proverbial charts so I grabbed what I needed and left. But not before stealing a look at the flow of lava within a stones throw of the chamber.
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Vos was quaint. Little more than two houses and a sad excuse for a tavern. Sadly, I was lost and waiting for daylight only encouraged the local problems from harassing me.
Half a dozen brigands later I was still a touch lost. A local, ever thankful for my help, directed me to a nearby tower. Not even on the path, or in the town. More like it was looming over the village from just around the corner.
Seems the local magistrate had problems of their own and I was ‘instructed’ how I could help. I was beginning to hate Morrowind. Small people with small problems.
Comments closedEverywhere I turn trouble abounds. Plague, daedra, war. I can’t think of the last village that had nothing wrong and were just happy to see a traveller.
Vos was looking no different. An Argonian on the road approaching town told me of how one magister was ill and another was a tyrant.
Comments closed“See, I told you it would be beautiful.” Mondas remarked to the daedra standing beside him.
Stormhold was a familiar site as I rode into town. The swamp had neither consumed the meager docks nor allowed them to expand beyond their limited numbers. The townsfolk walked by on their way to push back enough swamp to keep the vines from overtaking the village walls yet not far enough to encourage more people to take resident.
I think that’s why I liked it here. Not enough shelter to allow for complacence or comfort. When the rains came, you could seek shelter in the Inn, drown your misery while the skies tried to drown the village. Or you could suffer through the deluge.
But when the rains clear you’re often greeted by the gentle glow of sunlight cutting through swampy gloom.
A gentle cough rolled into heavy wracking. “Mondas, you old fool.. this swamp will be the death of you..” I chided myself.
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