Woosh! Have a post!
Coin flip said Badgery-o, so there you go.
Coin flip said Badgery-o, so there you go.
El Taco Taco
Member
Schist happens.
STATUS: 'I know the Goliath Fucking Bird-Eating Spider can't fly because if it could, it would have a different name entirely. We would call it "sir" because it would be the dominant species on the planet.' 8 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 26 days ago
- Old Guild Username: El Taco Taco
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 1221 (0.27 / day)
- VMs: 2
-
Username history
- El Taco Taco 12 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
TheDookieNut,
Cream
Status
Recent Statuses
8 yrs ago
Current
'I know the Goliath Fucking Bird-Eating Spider can't fly because if it could, it would have a different name entirely. We would call it "sir" because it would be the dominant species on the planet.'
7
likes
8 yrs ago
'There is no word in the English language for the feeling someone gets when they suddenly realize they're standing next to an unholy monster impersonating a human. Monstralization, maybe?'
2
likes
8 yrs ago
'If Zoey Ashe had known she was being stalked by a man who intended to kill her and then slowly eat her bones, she would've worried more about that and less about getting her cat off the roof.'
1
like
9 yrs ago
"And watch out for Molly. See if she does anything unusual. There’s something I don’t trust about the way she exploded and then came back from the dead like that."
7
likes
9 yrs ago
"We're talking about a tentacled flying lamp fucker, Dave. What are you prepared to call unlikely?"
2
likes
Bio
"OK, I've just about had my FILL of riddle-asking, quest-assigning, insult-throwing, pun-hurling, hostage-taking, iron-mongering, smart-arsed fools, freaks, and felons that continually test my will, mettle, strength, intelligence, and most of all, patience! If you've got a straight answer ANYWHERE in that bent little head of yours, I want to hear it pretty damn quick or I'm going to take a large blunt object roughly the size of Elminster AND his hat, and stuff it lengthwise into a crevice of your being so seldom seen that even the denizens of the nine hells themselves wouldn't touch it with a twenty-foot rusty halberd! Have I MADE myself perfectly CLEAR?!" - CHARNAME, Baldur's Gate
Most Recent Posts
Two dozen candidates had been shaved down to eighteen after the onslaught of testing. Undoubtedly they were being put to work elsewhere in the proving grounds. Every division needed more hands, more funding. Right now, they were getting it; every day there were helicopters and trains and ships bringing in more people, more materials. It wasn’t like they could only build one Jaeger. The Kaijuu weren’t showing any sides of stopping.
The energy in the gym was practically electric. A large mat dominated the center of the room, machines and weights moved aside, and candidates lingered on the edges. Olivia had spent her meal gathering equipment—bo staves, tonfas, gloves, and all sorts of goodies—at the commands of one of a bright eyed technician. The small army of technicians was joined by men and women in the newly minted uniforms of the Pan Pacific Defence Corps. Their chest candy and rank insignia screamed Big Wigs. Admirals and Generals and Captains from around the world had joined the newest military effort, uniting to save the world..
And they were here to watch candidates spar. It seemed a little excessive.
Olivia sat on a jump box, wrapping her knuckles. Her dark hair had been pulled into a tight bun, a simple grey compression shirt and pink shorts in place of the usual uniform. Johnson had decided now was the time to tell the group at large about his misadventures in Iraq, his hands dancing with the expertise of someone who had told this story a dozen times before. Her lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, brow arching as she looked at the curly haired man.
“So, four of us each grab a limb—and keep in mind, this dude is like, maybe five three—and put him on the wall about three feet off the ground. My buddy just goes in and, pop pop pop pop pop!, tapes him down, his feet fuckin’ kicking, screaming his head off—”
“Candidates,” The Marshall’s voice cut through the room better than any blade. It was amazing how the man could make one word sound so profound. Olivia rose to her feet, arms folding and dark eyes following the man as he walked towards the center of the mat. He appraised them, hands clasped behind his back, spine as rigid as a column. “We are here not only to fight, but to win.”
He paced slowly; from anyone else, she might have considered this speech pretentious. But the Marshall had the look about him that said he knew war, that he knew sacrifice, and that he thought of nothing else but their survival. Their triumph.
“If we are to win, we must be willing to do whatever it takes, to push ourselves, and each other, beyond our capabilities.” Something like a smirk seemed to touch his lips as he paused. “We need pilots that can fight harder together than they can alone. For the first time in humanity’s history, we’ve managed to band together. And we will uphold that mission here. You will be evaluated on both skill and compatibility to reach the next phase of trials.”
Olivia’s knuckles whitened beneath their tape, shifting her weight across her bare feet. It was time—she’d been waiting for weeks and this was it. The Marshall nodded towards one of the technicians, a thin man with thin glasses, who stepped forward with a small clipboard. He cleared his throat nervously.
“Murphy, Olivia,” in that moment, his accented English sounded like a choir of angels. Olivia nodded, striding to the center of the mat. She rolled a shoulder experimentally, “Davis, Owen. Fights go to five points, not actual strikes. No maiming. You’re free to use whatever style or weapons you feel most comfortable with. We will be evaluating scores with our own criteria.” He paused, and then offered a weak smile. “Good luck, Candidates.”
Olivia briefly considered the weaponry she’d carted in, before deciding against it. If she was going to win this, it’d be with her own flesh and blood. Once centered and prepared, she eyed her opponent, expression calm. The ring was the closest thing to home she’d had since a cockpit. This was where the world made sense, where Olivia finally fit into her own skin. The thrill of a fight surged through her blood, cleared her senses, and she felt truly at ease for the first time in weeks.
She proffered a taped fist to bump as a courtesy. Olivia shifted ever so slightly into her stance, head cocked as she considered Davis, guard low and waiting. He’d have reach, but she was quick, slippery, and patient. All she had to do was find an opening. Or make one; she’d been clawing her way through obstacles her whole life.
“Begin!”
The energy in the gym was practically electric. A large mat dominated the center of the room, machines and weights moved aside, and candidates lingered on the edges. Olivia had spent her meal gathering equipment—bo staves, tonfas, gloves, and all sorts of goodies—at the commands of one of a bright eyed technician. The small army of technicians was joined by men and women in the newly minted uniforms of the Pan Pacific Defence Corps. Their chest candy and rank insignia screamed Big Wigs. Admirals and Generals and Captains from around the world had joined the newest military effort, uniting to save the world..
And they were here to watch candidates spar. It seemed a little excessive.
Olivia sat on a jump box, wrapping her knuckles. Her dark hair had been pulled into a tight bun, a simple grey compression shirt and pink shorts in place of the usual uniform. Johnson had decided now was the time to tell the group at large about his misadventures in Iraq, his hands dancing with the expertise of someone who had told this story a dozen times before. Her lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, brow arching as she looked at the curly haired man.
“So, four of us each grab a limb—and keep in mind, this dude is like, maybe five three—and put him on the wall about three feet off the ground. My buddy just goes in and, pop pop pop pop pop!, tapes him down, his feet fuckin’ kicking, screaming his head off—”
“Candidates,” The Marshall’s voice cut through the room better than any blade. It was amazing how the man could make one word sound so profound. Olivia rose to her feet, arms folding and dark eyes following the man as he walked towards the center of the mat. He appraised them, hands clasped behind his back, spine as rigid as a column. “We are here not only to fight, but to win.”
He paced slowly; from anyone else, she might have considered this speech pretentious. But the Marshall had the look about him that said he knew war, that he knew sacrifice, and that he thought of nothing else but their survival. Their triumph.
“If we are to win, we must be willing to do whatever it takes, to push ourselves, and each other, beyond our capabilities.” Something like a smirk seemed to touch his lips as he paused. “We need pilots that can fight harder together than they can alone. For the first time in humanity’s history, we’ve managed to band together. And we will uphold that mission here. You will be evaluated on both skill and compatibility to reach the next phase of trials.”
Olivia’s knuckles whitened beneath their tape, shifting her weight across her bare feet. It was time—she’d been waiting for weeks and this was it. The Marshall nodded towards one of the technicians, a thin man with thin glasses, who stepped forward with a small clipboard. He cleared his throat nervously.
“Murphy, Olivia,” in that moment, his accented English sounded like a choir of angels. Olivia nodded, striding to the center of the mat. She rolled a shoulder experimentally, “Davis, Owen. Fights go to five points, not actual strikes. No maiming. You’re free to use whatever style or weapons you feel most comfortable with. We will be evaluating scores with our own criteria.” He paused, and then offered a weak smile. “Good luck, Candidates.”
Olivia briefly considered the weaponry she’d carted in, before deciding against it. If she was going to win this, it’d be with her own flesh and blood. Once centered and prepared, she eyed her opponent, expression calm. The ring was the closest thing to home she’d had since a cockpit. This was where the world made sense, where Olivia finally fit into her own skin. The thrill of a fight surged through her blood, cleared her senses, and she felt truly at ease for the first time in weeks.
She proffered a taped fist to bump as a courtesy. Olivia shifted ever so slightly into her stance, head cocked as she considered Davis, guard low and waiting. He’d have reach, but she was quick, slippery, and patient. All she had to do was find an opening. Or make one; she’d been clawing her way through obstacles her whole life.
“Begin!”
Because we are the best ;D
Sarein didn’t think she’d ever been happier. Joy had been a rare thing to come by in the Alienage. Their celebrations were few and sparse—Wintersend, Summerday, and the occasional wedding—and more often than not spoiled by shem. It wasn’t as if guards or Templars would come to the aid of elves. The shems did as they liked, spilling blood and stealing their women. Assholes.
The past four years had been better. Givrail kept her busy; teaching her to read, how to fight, and putting her skills to good use when tracking down recruits. They often met with other Wardens in their travels, sharing warm meals and swapping tales. It was a hard life, but better than anything she’d known before.
But nothing in her twenty two years compared to this moment. Sarein stole as many glances as she could, watching the griffons as they preened and played. The little ones were so dear, almost fragile. She wanted nothing more than to reach out and run a scarred hand down their feathered heads. It was only Givrail’s stories of their ferocity and pride that kept her hand at bay.
Her footsteps were silent as she gathered the shed feathers, basket balanced against a hip. She’d fletch a thousand arrows if it meant she could be here again.
Someone was calling out. It took Sarein a moment to realise she was being addressed, golden eyes watching a griffon at rest. She glanced up, her long ears flattening alongside her head, eyebrows knitting together in irritation. Rising to her feet as they approached, she shifted instinctively, turning her vitals away. She’d had too many daggers in the belly over the years, and even armored she was reluctant to give anyone the opportunity. They were fellow Wardens, of course, but Sarein knew better than to place her trust blindly in others.
“I never received those orders,” she spoke in a thick, Orlesian accent, regarding the elf and human warily. That they were unknown to Sarein was not unusual—she had not been with the Wardens long, and she had never been to Weisshaupt. “I arrived a few hours ago—some human put me to work fletching arrows.” She tilted the basket of feathers pointedly, her eyes narrowing. “And I know better than to touch.”
Arching an eyebrow, Sarein tilted her head. “So, if I am to report to Samson or Dougek, it would be helpful if you could tell me where to find them.”
The past four years had been better. Givrail kept her busy; teaching her to read, how to fight, and putting her skills to good use when tracking down recruits. They often met with other Wardens in their travels, sharing warm meals and swapping tales. It was a hard life, but better than anything she’d known before.
But nothing in her twenty two years compared to this moment. Sarein stole as many glances as she could, watching the griffons as they preened and played. The little ones were so dear, almost fragile. She wanted nothing more than to reach out and run a scarred hand down their feathered heads. It was only Givrail’s stories of their ferocity and pride that kept her hand at bay.
Her footsteps were silent as she gathered the shed feathers, basket balanced against a hip. She’d fletch a thousand arrows if it meant she could be here again.
Someone was calling out. It took Sarein a moment to realise she was being addressed, golden eyes watching a griffon at rest. She glanced up, her long ears flattening alongside her head, eyebrows knitting together in irritation. Rising to her feet as they approached, she shifted instinctively, turning her vitals away. She’d had too many daggers in the belly over the years, and even armored she was reluctant to give anyone the opportunity. They were fellow Wardens, of course, but Sarein knew better than to place her trust blindly in others.
“I never received those orders,” she spoke in a thick, Orlesian accent, regarding the elf and human warily. That they were unknown to Sarein was not unusual—she had not been with the Wardens long, and she had never been to Weisshaupt. “I arrived a few hours ago—some human put me to work fletching arrows.” She tilted the basket of feathers pointedly, her eyes narrowing. “And I know better than to touch.”
Arching an eyebrow, Sarein tilted her head. “So, if I am to report to Samson or Dougek, it would be helpful if you could tell me where to find them.”
George was enthusing about a race. Sadie perked up, and while lunch sounded fabulous, her curiosity demanded she agree. Quidditch meant broomsticks, and though Sadie wasn’t particularly fond of heights, she wanted desperately to see people in flight. Broomsticks were such a staple in the muggle view of witches and wizards. It amused her that actual witches and wizards did use them. How much of her storybooks were true?
“Alright then,” she agreed, quickening her pace so as not to be left behind by the boys. Seine grinned as George asked about the tapestry, bringing a finger to his dark temple.
“Yeah, it’s Barnabas the Barmy and his trolls,” he commented lightly, as if that sentence made any sense. Sadie didn’t question it. Inevitably she’d figure it out, and she was anxious to get to this race. If it was the Quidditch teams participating, she realized suddenly, Brennan would be there. He wouldn’t want her there, she mused a little sadly, but as a professional Younger Sister, she felt it was her duty to cheer for him.
They stopped in the Great Hall, wrapping up sandwiches in scarlet napkins. Even the sandwiches seemed extravagantly made, and Sadie wondered who had time to make so much food for so many students. Seine chattered away, and she forced herself back into the moment, bantering brightly as they followed a crowd down to the grounds.
The grounds were lush and marvelous, rolling hills and the black lake glittering in the distance. The Forbidden Forrest loomed, its trees still and shadowed, and she wondered why a forrest needed to be off limits.
“There’s loads of dangerous creatures in there,” Seine remarked when she posed the question. “Acromantula and thestrals, for one. My dad says there’s a giant in there, and the centaurs of course.”
“Centaurs,” Sadie repeated a little skeptically. She caught herself with a faint laugh, “Of course.”
The throng of students seemed to be settling in on the grass. The three first years found a spot (Sadie waved to Gail and Tasia, who returned the greeting) in among the other students. Standing with vaguely familiar faces, Sadie caught sight of her brother. He looked surprisingly happy, chatting with a tall girl with a massive French braid. Ooh, that was suspicious. Sadie filed the information away for later, lips curving into a mischievous grin.
“Alright then,” she agreed, quickening her pace so as not to be left behind by the boys. Seine grinned as George asked about the tapestry, bringing a finger to his dark temple.
“Yeah, it’s Barnabas the Barmy and his trolls,” he commented lightly, as if that sentence made any sense. Sadie didn’t question it. Inevitably she’d figure it out, and she was anxious to get to this race. If it was the Quidditch teams participating, she realized suddenly, Brennan would be there. He wouldn’t want her there, she mused a little sadly, but as a professional Younger Sister, she felt it was her duty to cheer for him.
They stopped in the Great Hall, wrapping up sandwiches in scarlet napkins. Even the sandwiches seemed extravagantly made, and Sadie wondered who had time to make so much food for so many students. Seine chattered away, and she forced herself back into the moment, bantering brightly as they followed a crowd down to the grounds.
The grounds were lush and marvelous, rolling hills and the black lake glittering in the distance. The Forbidden Forrest loomed, its trees still and shadowed, and she wondered why a forrest needed to be off limits.
“There’s loads of dangerous creatures in there,” Seine remarked when she posed the question. “Acromantula and thestrals, for one. My dad says there’s a giant in there, and the centaurs of course.”
“Centaurs,” Sadie repeated a little skeptically. She caught herself with a faint laugh, “Of course.”
The throng of students seemed to be settling in on the grass. The three first years found a spot (Sadie waved to Gail and Tasia, who returned the greeting) in among the other students. Standing with vaguely familiar faces, Sadie caught sight of her brother. He looked surprisingly happy, chatting with a tall girl with a massive French braid. Ooh, that was suspicious. Sadie filed the information away for later, lips curving into a mischievous grin.
Looks like we're staying, but I'm not trusting shit until we have hard orders. -pout-
Playing Borderlands 2 and The Pre-Sequel is pretty important to understand stuff. 1 isn't so necessary-- 2 explains everything that happened really well, and the gameplay of 1 is just so bleh. I played it after 2 and I don't feel like it was really worth it.
Husbandito and I are planning on getting the Handsome Collection after PAX.
Playing Borderlands 2 and The Pre-Sequel is pretty important to understand stuff. 1 isn't so necessary-- 2 explains everything that happened really well, and the gameplay of 1 is just so bleh. I played it after 2 and I don't feel like it was really worth it.
Husbandito and I are planning on getting the Handsome Collection after PAX.
In a lot of other forums I belong to, fancy templates for posts are the norm. DOHTML allows for some really slick templates: hover enabled information, embedded music, and sections for important information (word count, tags, outfits, ooc chatter, etc). Implementing pretty code can be a lot of fun. I frequently colour code their character's dialogue, thoughts, and other character's dialogue because it's the norm there. I never colour code dialogue or thoughts here, mostly because none of my partners do it.
Colour and decor are fun, and add a lot of visual interest to a post. And that's important! It's a huge reason why we use paragraph breaks; the brain pays more attention to the first and last lines in a paragraph. Colour does the same thing.
Writing traditionally is not a bad thing, but I think @Jig has a really good point; we don't have the restrictions of traditional authors. I think loads of authors would have utilised colour had they the opportunity. Novelists and poets alike play with structure all the time.
There are rules to the presentation, and they are useful, but part of being creative is knowing how to break the rules effectively.
Colour and decor are fun, and add a lot of visual interest to a post. And that's important! It's a huge reason why we use paragraph breaks; the brain pays more attention to the first and last lines in a paragraph. Colour does the same thing.
Writing traditionally is not a bad thing, but I think @Jig has a really good point; we don't have the restrictions of traditional authors. I think loads of authors would have utilised colour had they the opportunity. Novelists and poets alike play with structure all the time.
There are rules to the presentation, and they are useful, but part of being creative is knowing how to break the rules effectively.
I read like crazy. Not only is it fun, it's a huge source of inspiration for games and world building. #Books5ever
No worries! I am a patient Taco. I will post when I work through my backlog. :)
@Rosalind! I am so sorry for the delay on this post. I ended up rewriting this a few times, then scouring through a small mountain of fanfiction and rewatching Thor 1 and 2 again to try and get a better sense for how to write Thor. I really wanted to get this right. I'm not sure if I have, BUT I at least feel like I'm going in the right direction.
Please pardon the little touch of godmode at the end-- I figure Sif and Heimdall were well overdue for a chat. If you'd like me to change it, don't hesitate to tell me. c:
I'm still 100000% excited with this game and, again, I'm really sorry for making you wait. >.<
Please pardon the little touch of godmode at the end-- I figure Sif and Heimdall were well overdue for a chat. If you'd like me to change it, don't hesitate to tell me. c:
I'm still 100000% excited with this game and, again, I'm really sorry for making you wait. >.<
© 2007-2026