Robeatics said
Nice hat, nerd.
The mage helmets in DA:O are literally the worst thing ever. I'm actually surprised none of the developers stopped and said, "You know what guys, maybe we should like...use something less stupid."
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The mage helmets in DA:O are literally the worst thing ever. I'm actually surprised none of the developers stopped and said, "You know what guys, maybe we should like...use something less stupid."
Chose not to pick up the $170 box set so I could buy appropriate Russian Winter Wear (even though I live in Louisiana).
My wallet is wrecked enough.
My wallet is wrecked enough.
I think we've talked to all of our companions, got their relationship points, and picked up any available quests.
Also, Enchantment.
Uhh, all these beast-races hugging are just...
*gags*
*gags*
Just locked myself in a small room in the library for almost two hours. Caught up with most of my work. Soon, I shall finally catch up, then get ahead.
And then? The world.
And then? The world.
Cairomaru said
...FOR SENPAI!!!!!
Any problem or difficulty can be overcome with just one badass training montage.
I'm really tempted to order the $170 Super-SPecial Edition, with the trunk, tarot cards, maps, and other stuff.
They squabbled like children. Each one of them intent that their idea was the correct one, and that the rest were foolish to dare not share it. For the Eight’s sake, Valsiore had seen children work together better than this.
The Argonian, fabled prison-gladiator, spoke with an eagerness to take the fight to the Dwemer. The Altmer expected nothing less of what looked like it amounted to a pile of muscle and scale. Still, the beast was large and excessively threatening, and would be a hell of a hand to have if they ran into a dwarven patrol. It would be best to stay on his good side, especially if he was so consumed with fighting the Dwemer that he could make the perfect decoy if the High Elf needed to run.
“There is no offensive!”
Valsiore’s head snapped to the Orc, who jumped forward so quickly that his hood had fallen from his head. He was angry, and insulted the Argonian and insisted instead that they begin a search for Zhaveed, one complete with bloody interrogations of captured dwarves.
From the conversations he had heard during the journey across Hammerfell, Valsiore assumed it was the same Khajiit that was one of the revered Heroes. It wouldn’t surprise him, this lot looked like they had seen the gates of Oblivion, and if they were survivors of the Hammerfell Insurgency, well, it would make explain why they weren’t being currently being carved apart by Dwemer interrogators.
Another orc spoke up, Orzath perhaps, or something similar. The orc names were crude and inelegant, and Valsiore had long had troubled committing them to memory. ““Falkreath is too temporary. Windhelm would offer the best protection and it’s got access to the sea, but it’s far off.”
The Altmer met the eyes of one of the few men in the room. They had had little communication during their time together, but the man, Francis, seemed to know how to hold his own in combat and had not immediately accused Valsiore of being a Thalmor agent. Coupled with the fact Francis didn’t seem ready to throw himself onto the staffs of the dwarves, he was somewhere at the top of Valsiore’s list for favorite member of this group.
Then Marassa spoke again. The mage who had fought her way through the scorpions to meet Ehsan and Valsiore when they were swarmed by the arachnids. She spoke slowly, logically, giving each of their qualms with a level-headed answer. For the giant mass of scale and meat, she had something far sharper. A witty comment here or there, ones that would go far above the lizard’s head, showed that she was a clever thing, cat or no.
Hell, compared with the rest of the group, Valsiore was in love with her.
Blade replied with a far less amusing retort, but it became apparent that he had no interest in taking orders from her. No matter how long a few of this group had fought alongside each other, there was no clear power structure. They’d be fighting over who would get the first bowl of stew as surely as they would their destination.
The Altmer placed his hands upon his knees and pushed himself up. “Well then it is agreed, Falkreath.” He dug his bowl out of his satchel and scrolled to the fire, immediately ladling a hearty bit of stew into it. “It’s a long enough journey, but the going should be easier upon us now that we have crossed the border. Hammerfell is a harsher land to journey across, in my opinion.”
“I’ve made my way across the Nord’s homeland for years, I’ve even called it my home at one time. The land is rough, but we can survive here provided we are not foolish. Those of us with an eye for plants can find food, and I doubt there any jarls left who would care if we poach their game. The ground isn’t tamed, so it’ll be simple enough to lose any Dwemer patrols we find it we’re smart about where we choose to travel.”
A bite of stew, “As Marassa has said,” by the Eight he hoped he had gotten her name right, admittedly it was easier to remember then that Uzgoeth, “we’ll have to work together. Our band will be suspicious enough with how it is made up, and we do not want to attract any attention from the Dwemer government unless we have to. I believe we’ll do best if we can avoid any squabbling until we’ve arrived at Falkreath, once there and after we have a bit of rest, I suggest we have at each other.”
Another bite. “Ah yes, one last thing.” He held up the wooden bowl, a bit of steam rising from its contents. “My compliments to the chef.”
The Argonian, fabled prison-gladiator, spoke with an eagerness to take the fight to the Dwemer. The Altmer expected nothing less of what looked like it amounted to a pile of muscle and scale. Still, the beast was large and excessively threatening, and would be a hell of a hand to have if they ran into a dwarven patrol. It would be best to stay on his good side, especially if he was so consumed with fighting the Dwemer that he could make the perfect decoy if the High Elf needed to run.
“There is no offensive!”
Valsiore’s head snapped to the Orc, who jumped forward so quickly that his hood had fallen from his head. He was angry, and insulted the Argonian and insisted instead that they begin a search for Zhaveed, one complete with bloody interrogations of captured dwarves.
From the conversations he had heard during the journey across Hammerfell, Valsiore assumed it was the same Khajiit that was one of the revered Heroes. It wouldn’t surprise him, this lot looked like they had seen the gates of Oblivion, and if they were survivors of the Hammerfell Insurgency, well, it would make explain why they weren’t being currently being carved apart by Dwemer interrogators.
Another orc spoke up, Orzath perhaps, or something similar. The orc names were crude and inelegant, and Valsiore had long had troubled committing them to memory. ““Falkreath is too temporary. Windhelm would offer the best protection and it’s got access to the sea, but it’s far off.”
The Altmer met the eyes of one of the few men in the room. They had had little communication during their time together, but the man, Francis, seemed to know how to hold his own in combat and had not immediately accused Valsiore of being a Thalmor agent. Coupled with the fact Francis didn’t seem ready to throw himself onto the staffs of the dwarves, he was somewhere at the top of Valsiore’s list for favorite member of this group.
Then Marassa spoke again. The mage who had fought her way through the scorpions to meet Ehsan and Valsiore when they were swarmed by the arachnids. She spoke slowly, logically, giving each of their qualms with a level-headed answer. For the giant mass of scale and meat, she had something far sharper. A witty comment here or there, ones that would go far above the lizard’s head, showed that she was a clever thing, cat or no.
Hell, compared with the rest of the group, Valsiore was in love with her.
Blade replied with a far less amusing retort, but it became apparent that he had no interest in taking orders from her. No matter how long a few of this group had fought alongside each other, there was no clear power structure. They’d be fighting over who would get the first bowl of stew as surely as they would their destination.
The Altmer placed his hands upon his knees and pushed himself up. “Well then it is agreed, Falkreath.” He dug his bowl out of his satchel and scrolled to the fire, immediately ladling a hearty bit of stew into it. “It’s a long enough journey, but the going should be easier upon us now that we have crossed the border. Hammerfell is a harsher land to journey across, in my opinion.”
“I’ve made my way across the Nord’s homeland for years, I’ve even called it my home at one time. The land is rough, but we can survive here provided we are not foolish. Those of us with an eye for plants can find food, and I doubt there any jarls left who would care if we poach their game. The ground isn’t tamed, so it’ll be simple enough to lose any Dwemer patrols we find it we’re smart about where we choose to travel.”
A bite of stew, “As Marassa has said,” by the Eight he hoped he had gotten her name right, admittedly it was easier to remember then that Uzgoeth, “we’ll have to work together. Our band will be suspicious enough with how it is made up, and we do not want to attract any attention from the Dwemer government unless we have to. I believe we’ll do best if we can avoid any squabbling until we’ve arrived at Falkreath, once there and after we have a bit of rest, I suggest we have at each other.”
Another bite. “Ah yes, one last thing.” He held up the wooden bowl, a bit of steam rising from its contents. “My compliments to the chef.”
Whoa, all those posts. Could've sworn I just checked recently and I wasn't behind.
TO THE WORD DOCUMENT!!!
TO THE WORD DOCUMENT!!!
I watched V for Vendetta with friends, skipped homework, started watching the Dark Knight and fell asleep on my friend's floor.
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