Don’t boil me! I’m still alive!

Iraq lobster!

I’m starting to think that the random titles I stick on these entries bring more google traffic to my cave than just about any other means. It must be crushingly disappointing, to be searching for ‘that thing’ only to find … this … instead. Some of the search terms that have brought people to my neck of the woods have been … bizarre, to say the least.

The internet really is full of a lot of old shit.

Kinda like this!

The Skyrim Diaries

Day 4

Dear diary, today is one of the first mornings in Skyrim that I have not woken up with a crushing headache. I do feel like I have been beaten with blunt objects in the night however and my back is absolutely killing me from having this pile of junk on it all night. I’m not sure it’s much of an improvement. I struggled out from beneath my extensive haul and managed to coax my abused body into a semblance of life. This was mostly achieved by falling in the river while attempting to wash the worst of the dungeon crap off me. It’s something that makes the bandit lifestyle deeply unappealing.

That and the fact that wandering wood elves like shooting arrows into them.

Anyway, I had rewards to collect, so still dripping and shivering and chewing on a slightly soggy piece of beef I shambled into the store to present the owner with his missing claw. He was (and this is a first since arriving in this miserable place) overjoyed at my return and promptly handed over a huge bag of coins. He then said he would return his precious claw to its proper place and plonked it down on the counter.

Really?

That does not seem very safe to me. Not the sort of place you want to be leaving a solid gold heirloom. Right where unscrupulous types could make off with it. Like they did!

I then emptied my bag of swag on to the counter and he paid me a fairly tasty sum for that old junk too!

Suddenly I am a wealthy elf! Upwardly mobile!

The shopkeeper’s sister was just as overjoyed at my return and said that it was good to have such a ‘strapping young man around the place’. I couldn’t tell whether she was genuinely coming on to me (GET IN!) or being subtly sarcastic, since just about every Nord I’ve met is about twice my stature in terms of height and muscle. Such a shame they all appear to be intellectual midgets otherwise they could be the master race.

She didn’t seem inclined toward any further amorous advances so, slightly disappointed, I headed back toward Whiterun with the limp of a three-legged man.

No guards challenged me this time, so either the dragon crisis has passed or they have really good memories.

I trooped into the Jarl’s place and found the crusty old mage deep in conversation with a shady-looking woman who kept making veiled references to her ‘employer’. She might as well have worn a sign around her neck that said ‘Dodgy’. The wizard claimed that she was the one that managed to work out that the stone was in the dungeon I had so unfortunately found myself in. So she managed to work all that out but couldn’t be arsed to go in and look for the thing herself. I can’t decide whether she’s extremely sensible (doubtful given that she is a Nord and choosing to hang out with this old quack) or extremely lazy (more likely, she was decked out in plenty of finery, probably too rich to do real work).

Both of them remarked that I was much better than the usual thugs that the Jarl sends them. While it was nice to be told that I am a cut above the average Nord, I’m not sure I like the implication that I am in some way a thug. Fuck you Hawkwind!

Funnily enough he didn’t have my reward either and said I would have to go and claim it from the Jarl. Somebody better pay me something, otherwise I’m having the damn stone back!

It was at about this point that the angry guard woman burst in claiming that a dragon had attacked nearby and that we should all go talk to the Jarl. While ‘we’ and ‘all’ would not normally have figured into any of my plans (particularly if dragons are involved), the Jarl owed me, so I followed them up where there was a lot of chest thumping and promises about fighting winged beasts. Dumbasses. The Jarl then said that I should go with them since I had the most experience with dragons. That was exactly why I had no intention of going with them. At all.

I let them go and then harassed the Jarl about the stone. He said in thanks for my service I could now buy property in the town. Well … cheers. I have no intention of buying a house in your town. Partly because it’s a little backwater in the middle of Skyrim, but mostly because it sounds as if it is about to develop a severe case of dragon.

Then he handed me some magical bracers from his personal armoury. That was more like it! Except they were crap.

Cheers Jarl. Remind me not to do you any more favours. Even by accident.

One of the guards was having a panic attack as I was on my way out, which I found pretty funny given how ‘prepared’ they were all claiming to be a couple of days ago. Real big guys now huh …

As I ambled through town it seemed as though the whole place had gone completely mental. There was some mad old goat ranting about how we are all the chosen of Talos and how we should all embrace him and hug him and other such nonsense. It seemed to be kind of a big deal to the Nords, but I’ve never had much use for Gods. You can’t eat them, drink them or spend them and they won’t keep you warm at night. Seems like a waste of time to me. Someone else was mumbling something about Azura, and how the he/she/it is a nice daedric prince.

Just like the one I heard about that kicked the old Emperor’s palace down. Uh huh.

What was about a million times better was the discovery of another tavern and better still, it was being run by a wood elf! I am no longer alone in this sea of imbecility called Whiterun! He seemed genuinely pleased to see me, so I spent some of my hard earned cash on a brace of new arrows, a skin of wine and some new clothes to replace the leathery old rags I’d been putting up with. Suddenly feel much more civilised. Of course this is Skyrim, so it is a relative term.

Some old woman came in babbling about how her son was missing and that folk kept telling her he was dead but that she was sure he was still alive. For some reason I looked like a sympathetic ear and she asked me to come to her home where she could tell me the full story. Weird. A little intrigued I followed her back (I suppose it’s a good job I’m not some kind of thief or other miscreant!) She was just about to start the (no doubt incredibly dull) lecture when a massive lunatic with a giant axe burst in and started raving about spies. Fortunately the old dear managed to calm him down and they droned on for ages about how one of their family had been helping out the Stormcloaks (those nice chaps who helped me out of the whole ‘beheading’ incident) but had never come back.

They were pretty sure that the Imperials had him banged up somewhere and were just fobbing them off with the whole ‘dead’ thing.

Sounds like the Imperials.

I didn’t mention that they were probably chopping his head off for no good reason even as we spoke …

They wanted proof that he was alive so that they could expose the Imperial villains … and also to get him back. They told me I should snoop around the house of a local family to look for clues. Sounded safe enough …

It was dark by the time I went mooching, but the house was unlocked and there didn’t seem to be anybody about.

I was proven wrong on that account when some old bint rushed out and started shouting at me to leave . I didn’t want any trouble, so obviously I tried to leave, but before I’d taken three steps she started screaming for the guards! Then the crazy old bitch pulled a knife on me and went berserk!

I sprinted out of the house also screaming for the guards! It’s one thing to stick sharp sticks into bandits that want my coins, but quite another to stick them into senile old women! I’ve heard folks tend to take a dim view of that sort of behaviour!

We chased around the houses for a bit until I managed to find a burly Nord guard to restrain Stabbing Mama.

Only he didn’t. He didn’t seem to care even slightly that I was being chased by a crazed grandmother with a penchant for elf blood.

Useless mother-fucking Nords! No wonder your country is filled with fuck-tons of bandits!

Fortunately for me she seemed to get bored after our third lap of the town and stomped off back to her hovel telling me that I ‘obviously had no stomach for the fight’.

Shit just got personal!

I waited for a good few hours until I guessed she would be asleep and tip-toed back into her house. I’m getting pretty good at this creeping thing. Broke into her personal little office right next to where she was sleeping and found a note about how some elves have got the boy locked up in a castle somewhere up north and that it was probably best if he was just forgotten.

Huh, I bet you wish that had happened to me too eh?

Imperials are cocks.

I took the note and ‘liberated’ all of the gold, silver and other valuables for my troubles. Let that be a lesson to them! Should cover the cost of replacing my fancy new shirt that she cut up! And maybe a little extra …

Ambled on back to the old woman’s house feeling smug to give her the good news that her son was not dead, just imprisoned in the far north, probably being tortured in cruel and unusual ways.

Humm … maybe not deliver the news that way …

Anyway, I entered the house to an … unusual … scene.

I had no idea Skyrim was such an open society, I have a worrying feeling that these ‘good friends’ are brothers though …

I woke the big guy (and made no comments) and handed over the note. He seemed real pleased that his brother was still alive, but was pretty pissed that the Imperials had him locked up in a castle. He decided to round up a bunch of guys and go kick the hell out of them and wanted me to help, something I thought was a little drastic. Instead I said I would go and negotiate for him. After all, they have no reason to hold the guy and the truth is out now. The game up, so to speak, so I figured that nobody had to get all stabby and there could be drinks and money all round.

I’m such a great guy.

It was pretty late by the time I emerged and decided to go and bed down at the newly-discovered elf-friendly tavern!

On the way I came across some guys being harassed by the (useless) guards. They had apparently misplaced a woman of some importance and were willing to pay me for any information on her whereabouts. Good times! After all, how hard can it be to spot a Redguard among a bunch of Nords? Like looking for coal in the snow!

I wandered into the tavern and curled up comfortably by the fire with a leg venison and a flagon of ale. Doesn’t get much better than that!

For a place that looks so much like a pub, it apparently isn’t. Who knew …

I did discover however that things could be considerably worse when the irate shop owner arrived in the small hours to find me asleep on his floor. As he was pitching me into the street I tried to ask him why he’d styled the shop like a tavern and called it ‘The Drunken Huntsmen’, but he didn’t seem too inclined to answer as I sailed through the air.

Arsehole!

I made my morning ablutions by his back door (not a euphemism!) and left town quickly.

All I knew was that I needed to head north if I was going to find this castle, and the easiest route seemed to be to follow the road west before heading around the mountains. I figured that all the stupidity with the dragon would have blown over by now and the guards would have been good and eaten. Maybe once the rest of the Jarl’s men come looking for them they will understand the valuable lesson of not poking the dragon!

This is what happens when you decide to piss off giant, primordial lizards! Whatever happened here, it looks like I missed it …

I was about to move on from the scene of carnage and devastation when the Jarl’s hench-woman and all her guard buddies came charging past and straight toward the tower. That didn’t seem right!

The last time I saw her she was charging around mustering the men intent on a swift rescue of the tower! That can’t have taken all night!

Still, at least the dragon was long gone.

It was at this point that a charred survivor ran from the ruins screaming about how it hadn’t left and that his two mates had just tried to make a run for it and got eaten.

And then the sun went out as the massive shadow zoomed overhead.

It was about this point that I decided that the rubble of the tower looked extremely inviting after all and huddled within its meagre defences as sounds of roaring, slashing and people getting messily dismembered raged outside. It seemed to go on for a long time, Nords must be surprisingly chewy. I waited for ten minutes or so once everything had gone quiet only to emerge and discover that the captain and a couple of her friends were not only still alive, but had killed the beast.

Well done! Well done you!

I went over and gave it carcass a good kick in the head for good measure.

Dragons, surprisingly flammable!

Curiously, as soon as I got within ten feet of the thing it burst into flames and sprayed me with weird mist (not a euphemism!). It was all tingly in a not unpleasant way, but then one of the guards started babbling that I must be Dragonborn or some shit. I wasn’t aware that he’d met my mother! He then told me that I should try shouting, because only the Dragonborn could do it without training. I pointed out that I had shouted on several occasions and in fact did it on a fairly regular basis (in fact I’d been doing it about ten minutes ago while running for the ruins …).

The Jarl’s woman told him to hush his noise but he kept insisting I have a good old shout.

So I did.

I’m not sure where the guards went, but they certainly went ‘away’.

The woman (who was still there) said I should go and chat to the Jarl about my new-found loudness, but the Jarl is full of stupid ideas so I let her go on her merry way before heading in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, all this running around with dragons had wasted the morning ad I still had miles (and miles and miles and miles … if only I’d known …) to go.

Well if that doesn’t say ‘Welcome to Skyrim you fucking southerner’ I don’t know what does!

Instead of following the road I turned north, toward the Gap of Rohan pass that loomed obviously in the distance. I mean it’s got to be shorter, faster and simpler than the long way around right?

Right?

It was about the time that the snow was swilling around my ankles and buckets more of the stuff pouring from the heavens that I decided that perhaps the long way around might actually have been preferable.

Who built this shit? And why? We’re about a million feet up and it’s so cold I can’t feel my nethers!

Somebody had (at some point) decided that it would be a really good idea to build a fort up here and then abandon it. And then let it get infested with face-eating trolls. Bollocks!

I decided to dispense with creeping since I’ve been lead to believe that trolls can smell fear and instead opted for a flat out sprint. Fortunately trolls only have little legs so I was able to leave them eating my dust (snow … ). Down in the next valley I discovered a new town called Morthal. Then I discovered it was as boring as sin and full of people whose sole occupation appeared to be bitching about the fact that they live in Morthal. I took an hour to thaw out in the tavern and drink some restorative ale before heading further north.

It’s freezing all the damn time now, but somehow the land managed to become even more unpleasant by turning into a swamp. I managed to skirt the worst of it, but my boots were decidedly squelchy by the time I got to the other side. I even discovered another fort, but since it appeared to be guarded by skeletons I figured it was not the one I was looking for (unless the Imperials have taken up an incredibly strict weight loss regime …).

Pushing even further north I crossed a river and found a farm, the first sign of civilisation since Morthal. Happily for me one of the chaps there knew where Northwatch Fort was a pointed me in the right direction. Sadly, that direction was even further north.

So, footsore and beginning to think that maybe I should have just stayed in Whiterun and looked for Redguards, I pressed onward. As I trudged through the snow I was unpleasantly surprised by a lizardman in black who had an unhealthy obsession with sticking knives into me. I stuck arrows in him before he got the chance and then went through his pockets to find a note that claimed that he worked for the Dark Brotherhood.

And that they’d been hired to kill me.

What the fuck?!

Who the hell have I managed to piss off so much that they’re hiring professional assassins (ok, this guy was fairly incompetent, but still … ) to do me in?

Who do I know that can even afford it?!

Balls!

I pushed on, now slightly concerned that shadowy figures were going to leap from the woods and cut my throat.

I was just beginning to despair of ever finding the place before I lost the light (and I did not want to get stuck on a freezing mountain-top over night!) when I ran out of land.

I seem to have come to the edge of the world!

At the base of the cliff at what I can only imagine is the very edge of known creation was a crappy little fortress. Why the hell have the Imperials dragged this poor sod all the way out here? It seems like a hell of a lot of effort.

Freezing, utterly sick of walking and with almost all my boot leather worn through and night rapidly closing I approached the gate. The high elf at the gate told me to piss off in no uncertain terms, even when I pointed out that I knew they had someone locked up in there that should really be released. Fucking jaundiced-looking, toffee-nosed arseholes the lot of them!

I hate high elves!

I walked around the corner and rooted through my bag until I found one of the potions the alchemist ‘paid’ me with the other day.

Invisibility. Score!

I chugged the lot and then feeling slightly tingly and mostly invisible strolled into the castle and through the main gate.

Fuck you high elves!

Things were less simple once I got inside and progress was largely made by distracting the stupid guards or shooting them in the back of the head while they were sipping a pint.

She’s only sleeping!

Of course this also allowed me to loot one of their sets of pretty armour, but since I’m not the colour of piss there was no way I was going to be able to pass myself off as one of them. I also helped myself to their gold, weapons and just about anything else that wasn’t nailed down. Maybe this will teach them a lesson in humility.

Things went well until I encountered a nasty-looking interrogator chap who I lead in a merry chase. He seemed pretty confident right up to the point when an arrow went through his eye. HAH!

Inside his chamber of horrors was the Nord I’d been looking for. He looked a little rough but grabbed a knife and seemed pretty keen to get the hell out. Can’t say I blame him. I released all the other prisoners, working on the idea that they could all grab weapons and in the chaos of the breakout we could get away. It was a great plan with no obvious flaws, except that once I opened the cells and cheered that everyone was free they just sort of sat there.

They were still bitching about needing to escape and grumbling about freedom when I left.

Some people are too stupid to be allowed freedom.

Once we got outside it became all about the running as they high elves seemed fairly pissed off that I’d broken into their castle, freed the prisoners and killed a load of their mates. After a short sprint though they seemed to get bored a drift away. I guess they were not so keen after all. If only they had been so understanding on the way in!

The fellow I’d rescued seemed genuinely grateful a told me to give his dear old mum a message, since he couldn’t go back to Whiterun. I said I’d pass it on (and hopefully get paid for this epic jaunt … ).

I was feeling smug that not only had I managed to stick it to the Imperials but also had a healthy reward ahead.

Then I realised that not only was I mortally tired, but that I also had one hell of a walk back to Whiterun …

And you will know My name is the lord, when I lay My vengeance upon thee!

That quote has absolutely nothing to do with this post, it was simply the first thing that occurred to me upon seeing the empty title bar.

Weird.

The norse prayer from ’13th Warrior’ would have been more appropriate but … huh … there you go. I blame subliminal Christianity.

Probably best not to consider that possibility for too long. So, without further ado …

The Skyrim Diary

Day 3

I awoke to find myself in a vegetable basket, half buried in carrots and assorted leafy things. It felt like someone had smashed me in the head with a rock and it was at this point that I decided that Nordic mead is best avoided at all times. So, with my mouth still feeling like the inside of a boot, I dragged myself out of the inn and into the fresh morning air. For the first time in living memory the Skyrim day was clear, bright and fresh. It still felt like someone was banging nails into my eyes, but the freakish weather tinged the experience with optimism.

The Jarl’s massive abode pretty much screams ‘Dragon fodder’ to me, but that’s ok, because they have guards …

I had a vague memory of some kid whinging about a dying tree and how some old biddy spent all her time moping around, wishing someone would help her. It was a slim lead, but with a blinding headache, nothing better to do and about two coins to my name it seemed about the best offer I was likely to get.

The old dear was exactly where the kid had said (though I wonder why there is a massive, dead tree in the middle of the town at all. This seems vaguely reminiscent of somewhere else … ) so I asked her what the deal was. Apparently it isn’t dead, just ‘sleeping’. I was about to tell the mad old cow where to stick it when she said that if I went and got her some sap from the biggest tree in the world she would be in my debt. I was slightly suspicious that ‘in her debt’ might mean ‘paid in twigs’ since that seems to be how the Nords do things, but it also sounded like easy work.

Apparently I also needed a special knife to do it though and a bunch of old hags have borrowed it and not given it back.

So essentially the job was to go and bully some pensioners and cut up a tree …

I suppose it could be worse (At least that’s what I thought at the time … if only I’d known …)

I needed to head to the innocuously named ‘Orphan Rock’ in the south, so off I went with a spring in my step and hope in my heart (actually that’s bollocks, it was more with pounding skull and grumbling belly.)

I stopped off at the curiously named ‘War-maidens’ to spend my last few coins on arrows in case the bandit and/or wolf infestation has got any worse over night. I fear that one day the two will merge to create a hybrid race of wolf-bandits that will rob farmers blind before making off with the live-stock. Perhaps if the guards ever stop moaning about their knees they’ll do something about it …

The huge, beardy, burly chap in the shop was very defensive about the name of the store and assured me that he still had plenty of ‘hard, manly steel’ for the discerning gentleman. Because that doesn’t sound very gay at all. Not that I have a problem with that, the Valenwood is an open society.

So, having stocked up on pointy objects I set off back toward Riverwood.

By the time I was half way there it had clouded over again and was threatening rain. That’s the Skyrim I’ve come to know and loath!

Some way past the village I came across a bunch of weird stones. Someone had cut graffiti into them (the Nord youth of today no doubt …). One had a beardy old man and another a butch, hulking warrior. The last one had a picture of a guy running away and that sort of appealed to me, but when I touched it it started to glow and went all tingly and shit. I ran away in case it exploded or something. If it turns out to be a national land-mark I’ll blame Sven, it seems to be the done thing.

I soon came to realise that I was heading back toward Helgan (or whatever it was called) where they tried to cut my head off and we had the little ‘dragon incident’. The gates were closed (which was a bit mad, the guys inside had seemed pretty keen to get away last time I was here … ) but it was all quiet, so I tip-toed my way around the walls and moved on.

It’s fucking freezing up in the mountains (and I thought it was bad down in the valley!) and I was just thinking about giving this bullshit up when a couple of old women emerged from the woods. I figured that they must be the ones who had pinched the knife and so, despite being the same height as them, put on my most threatening face.

Then they started shooting shit at me! Bollocks!

I hid behind a rock until they came to me before shooting the stupid bitches in the face. When did the elderly become so aggressive?!

A bit further up I discovered the ‘Orphan Rock’ was surrounded by severed heads, exploding stones and even more mental old folks. One old dear took a particular dislike to me and insisted on lobbing huge, exploding balls of death at me, even after I shot her full of arrows. I decided to cheese it at about the same time as she set my boots on fire.

Fuck. This.

Woman can get her own bloody knife back!

I trudged my scorched arse back down the mountainside missing a lot of arrows and certainly no richer for the experience.

By the time I dragged my carcass into Riverwood it was past midnight (I could tell because there was nobody around ranting about Sven …). I’d barely had anything to eat all day, I was singed, tired and frankly pissed off, so I shoved all the damn cheeses off the table and bedded down there for the night. If the inn-keeper doesn’t like it I might just glass him …

Woke up late the next morning, sore and still penniless. The inn-keeper was nowhere to be seen so I bailed before he could say anything about me sleeping on his table. And all the cheese on the floor.

It was traditional ‘Skyrim grey’ outside, but kids were still playing in the street (and talking about strapping twigs to a dog so that people would think it was a spider. Having seen how bright some of these folks are, that would probably work. And then they would beat it to death.) They also mentioned that the store had been broken into and that the owner was looking for the thieves.

As far as I’m concerned thieves are just quieter bandits. Right?

I’ve already killed a bunch of bandits, so maybe this will be the job for me?

The guy in the shop said that the thieves had only been after one thing, a claw made of solid gold. Personally I’d keep a solid gold claw locked up somewhere safer than my slightly shoddy house but then … Nords … He also said that he would pay handsomely for its return. Now that’s what I’m talking about! His sister is also a bit tasty and seemed only too pleased to escort me to the edge of town and point me in the right direction. I wouldn’t have minded pointing her in the right direction, but then she seemed pretty fixated on this whole claw business.

Then she said that the thieves had probably run off to hide in a dungeon.

The same dungeon the mental old wizard wanted me to go looking for his tablet of ambiguous existence.

Bugger.

I’d said I’d go look though and the girl was stood right there, blathering about all the traps, trolls and sharp objects that would inevitably be inflicted on anybody who went inside.

Bollocks.

I assured her I’d go and take a look. The outside is probably safe after all, though it did mean trekking all the way up another bastard mountain. Ankle-deep snow this time. What unmitigated joy …

Half way up there was a ruined old tower full of … even more bandits. Bastards must breed like rabbits!

That was unfortunate. Hilarious, but unfortunate.

I think I’m getting the hang of this bandit busting thing. Maybe I could convince the guards to pay me to teach them how to do it!

I made them all dead anyway (at least these ones had the decency to shout about robbing me (not that it would have done them a lot of good) instead of pretending to be miners) and had a mooch around their tower.

I can see the pub from here!

There were more bloody bandits outside the dungeon but they were just as useless as the rest. A couple of them did have some coins though, so at least I was no longer flat broke. Of course none of the bandits had the sodding golden claw that I said I would retrieve, which means the morons must have decided to hide inside the place.

I thought about it for a long time and eventually decided that it probably wouldn’t do any harm to have a quick peak inside, as long as I was really quiet. As soon as it looked like it was all going pear-shaped I was going to bail.

It was pretty damn bleak just inside the doorway and there was an impressive collection of dead dogs all over the place. I’ve no idea why that was but decided that it probably wasn’t a good sign. There were a couple more bandits sitting around a fire discussing ‘dividing the booty’ though I’m not too sure whose booty they wanted to divide. Possibly the shop keeper’s sister …

Two arrows later and they were added to the dog corpse collection. Neither of them had the claw either!

I tip-toed further in (and rooted through a few burial urns for coins. What? Dead people don’t need money! Don’t judge me, fuckers!) and turned a corner in time to see a bandit pull the ‘death lever’ and get shot with about a hundred arrows. I decided not to touch the switch . Arrows are bad for you. I should know.

After about four seconds I realised that actually it was the Nord version of a puzzle and rotated the three ‘Worm/fish/birdy’ stones so that they matched the diagram on the wall. That does not strike me as very secure. Surely if you didn’t want people getting in you would put the solution somewhere other than carved into massive stone pillars right above the door?

It was dusty as hell on the other side and none of the cobwebs had been disturbed, so the thieves couldn’t have come this way. Unless they can fly. Or the spiders work really fast. Neither of those two things seemed like they would be good.

I was just about to give this crap up and head out when the BIGGEST FUCKING SPIDER IN THE KNOWN UNIVERSE descended from the ceiling and starting gobbing crap at me. Understandably, I ran away as fast as humanly (elfanly … ?) possible. When massive fangs and/or web goo failed to assault my fleeing behind I turned to discover that the fat bastard had got wedged between two pillars! HAH!

I casually strolled up and shot it in the face.

That’s what you get!

It then became clear that I still was not alone. One of the entangled … things … in the room was shouting about wanting to be let out and how he would reward me. Turns out that the last of the claw thieves got himself caught by a spider. What a dumbass! I told him to hand over the claw before I let him down (he was a thief after all) but he claimed he couldn’t reach it, being all tangled up and stuff. I didn’t fancy rooting through spider-goo and his pants to retrieve it so I let him out.

He immediately ran away.

Bollocks!

I mean really?!

He was laughing and shouting about digging up the hidden power of this place (though I think the only ‘hidden power’ here is its powerful smell) right up to the point that a bunch of dead guys came back to life and clawed him to death. ‘Arvel the Swift’ he was not after that. Fortunately the dead seem just as vulnerable to fast-moving pointy objects as the living … which is a bit weird …

While he may have been lacerated to bits and parts that should stay on the inside were outside, I figured an arrow to the neck, just to be sure, was in order.

Arvel the dumb (finally … ) had the claw I’d been looking for. The cash reward for this better be considerable! I immediately started back, only to find that the wooden staircase had collapsed, probably as a result of it being a million years old and having just been subjected to a ferocious elf chase.

Balls and arse!

I really hoped that there was some other way out of this hole!

Also gripped by a powerful need to piss. Something you never hear these Nords sing about when they’re recounting the deeds of legend ‘And then, having slain the beast, Ulfgar Toothbruiser was filled with a desperate urge to wee, which he did, long and noisily into the ear of the monster’s carcass’.

I totally bet that happens. All the time.

I relieved myself into a convenient nook (which may have been a burial slab, hard to tell) and moved on.

Quickly discovered that the walking dead are not very bright when one of them randomly blundered into a mass of swinging blades and got hacked to bits. Also, why swinging blades? This looks a lot more like a catacomb, it seems like a fairly extreme measure to protect a few coins and some dusty armour?

I also discovered that the best way to deal with the crusty buggers was to put an arrow into every corpse before it had the chance to move. I’m not too sure how the Nords would feel about me gleefully sticking sharp things into their ancestors, but then what they don’t know and all that. Besides, I doubt anybody else will be mental enough to come down here …

The corridors headed relentlessly down, despite my overwhelming desire to head up, and eventually terminated in a massive stone door with a bunch of spinning wheels. Arvel the dead had said something about the claw being the key to this place so I took a good look at it. It was another animal puzzle, only this time the solution was written on the key.

Ok, so the claw is the key, and the key has the solution to the puzzle on it, but you still need the key in order to open the door … so why bother to have a puzzle?

Bloody Nords … honestly …

That certainly is a big fucking chair!

The cave on the other side was home to the biggest seat in all creation. I’m glad its owner was not around. When I went and had a closer look though a bunch of glowing blue words came shooting out and hit me in the face! What the actual fuck?!

It gave me a killer headache, and to make things worse it seemed to wake up a really pissed off dead guy who then chased me all over, yelling like I’d done it on purpose!

He lost interest once I shot him full of arrows, which was a blessing.

He also had the stone tablet the old mage had been babbling about. Who’d have thought it. Now if only I could find a way out again I could claim two lots of reward.

There was a back door right behind the throne.

Well it would have been massively helpful to know that earlier! Admittedly it was half way up a cliff, but it’s the principal of the thing! I hadn’t even wanted to be down there in the first place!

I’ve no idea how long I was down in that hole, but it was the middle of the night by the time I finally dragged my knackered, sorry self (again) into Riverwood. This time though I had a huge bag of looted goods to sell and rewards to claim.

But not right at that moment.

I stumbled into the tavern and fell face down beside the fire.

Unfortunately my bag of swag landed directly on top of me, and since it was at least half full of armour I found I couldn’t get up again.

Still, at least it was warm.

I’ll be off! Azeroth! Catch you later Hyrule! I’ll be gone! Albion! I’m no longer your fool!

The adventure of my life in the land of Skyriiiiiiiim!

Or … at least a way of passing the time and putting my blog to use anyway.

It’s providing a refreshing, if slow moving, break from the soul-crushing hardcore experience that is Dark Souls. Anyway, without further ado …

The Skyrim Diaries!

Day 2

Having had a little sleep on the table of the meadery I fully expected to awake to either an angry barkeep rolling me onto the floor, or the grass beneath my face as I was tossed outside. Possibly both. Weirdly I woke up to find myself still at the table and with a coaster drool-glued to my face. Not an attractive sight. I gave the barkeep my most winning smile and, feeling slightly better for the rest (and the fact that it wasn’t raining any more) headed back out into the countryside.

It looked like it was late in the afternoon, so I’d slept the better part of the day away, but then that’s the life of a wood elf, free and easy!

There were a whole bunch of burly guards on the road to Whiterun, one of which claimed that the town was nothing like Helghast/Helgan/Whatever, and that they were ready for any stinking dragon if it came around their way giving them any lip. Considering he was wearing leather armour and carrying nothing more than a sword and small, wooden shield I doubt he actually has any idea what a dragon is. I look forward to it chewing his face off if and when it arrives.

So I strolled up the hill the Whiterun.

Then I strode around the hill that Whiterun was sitting on.

I was still strolling around that fucking hill when the sun set and the stars came out! Where the hell did these stupid Nords put the sodding door?!

How incredibly defensible! Now, if only I was in there, instead of out here freezing my arse off!

After a couple of hours and almost a full circuit of the damn hill I finally found the door hidden amongst the rocks. Cheers you useless northern bastards, it’s nearly midnight and I’m still only wearing this dead guy’s clothes! I’ll be able to snap my ears off at this rate!

I was about to make my way in when another of those burly guards stopped me and told me that ‘The city is closed because of all this dragon chaos, official business only!’

How terribly officious! Tell me Mr. Guard, you think closing the city is going to make one sodding bit of difference when the huge, fire-breathing bastard of a monster lizard shows up? It can fly you cock! It’s not going to stroll up to the front door and ask politely if it can come in and devour your virgins! How does closing the city achieve anything at all in the way of draconic defence beyond its ability to piss me off?!

Instead of pointing out his obvious mental issues or kicking him in the balls I instead struck a dramatic pose and announced ‘Riverwood calls for aid!’

Which is … a bit true I suppose. The woman who runs the mill in Riverwood calls for aid anyway …

He let me in immediately.

Sucker.

Apparently I should go see the Jarl who lives in Dragonsreach on top of the hill. Of course he does. He couldn’t possibly live in the nice warm tavern right next to the gate could he. Bollocks.

Despite it being the middle of the night there were plenty of people about who were very, very keen to share all manner of random facts with me! There was a house for sale if I fancied Whiterun, the potions shop had a new batch in and I should check it out, the market trader woman has a daughter to feed and that’s all she gives a damn about. What a diverse load of old crap. Still, it’s marginally better than being told I shouldn’t talk to Sven (I still don’t know who that guy is … )

On my way up the hill I came to realise that Nords have a very peculiar design sense.

Why are there steps into this pool? The water is cold enough to freeze the cock off a mammoth and it’s a public place, so it can’t be a bath …

As I made my final approach to the Jarl’s big house, one of his guards randomly remarked that ‘I used to be an adventurer like you, then I took an arrow to the knee.’

Right. Firstly, what the hell makes you think I’m an adventurer? Is that even a profession? Do I have “Adventurer” written all over me? I would have thought I have “Desperation” written all over me having just escaped almost certain beheading and/or horrible burning and wearing a corpses shirt and breeches!

Secondly, an arrow to the knee? The implication I’m getting from this is that your mobility is somehow impaired and that adventurers need to be light on their feet. Ok, but you’re a guard. To my mind the adventurer life-style is kinda casual, go where you want, when you want and do what you like. That’s not too bad. So you gave that up for a profession that involves chasing criminals half the time and walking patrol the rest of the time, or at the very least spending all day on  your feet?

Mr. Nord Guard … you’re a fucking moron.

And I can think of much worse places to be hit by an arrow. I mean your knee is basically bone right? So there’s not much for it to stick into. Now if you’d said ‘I used to be an adventurer like you, then I took an arrow to the barse!’ I would have a little more sympathy. Of course I can scarcely imagine how such a scenario could possible occur, but the thought of it makes me wince.

Inside, a large, angry looking dark elf woman unsheathed her sword and informed me that the Jarl was not receiving visitors. Well it’s one o’clock in the fucking morning, so I’m not too surprised. Also, I have a bow, if you are a guard and you wanted to stop me hurting the Jarl you’re doing it wrong. He’s about ten feet away and I have arrows.

I spun her my dramatic line about Riverwood and she bought it, just like the guy at the gate.

Nords are dumb.

The Jarl (despite being half asleep in his throne) got all excited that I had seen the dragon, but when I mentioned I’d had a real good view of it from the chopping block he said that I was very ‘forthright’ about my ‘criminal past’.

Well fuck you Jarl Ball-gruff, or whatever your name is, I’m the victim here! I was perfectly happy to go back to Valenwood, but no, your mental Stormcloaks had to drag me into their bullshit. Judgemental cock.

He also seemed very impressed that I had ‘sought him out on my own initiative’. HAH! No. I sought him out because a woman in Riverwood told me too, because I was bored and because Riverwood is a tiny little village full of nothing at all. But yeah, whatever. Then he ‘rewarded me’ for my service with a piece of crappy leather armour, the same sort I’d pilfered off the Imperials and sold to the smith. Cheers Jarl …

He then insisted on introducing me to his ‘wizard’ who had a name so completely mad I’ve forgotten it. The old coot is working on a ‘Dragon Project’ that he thinks I can help him with for some reason. I actually want nothing else to do with dragons for the rest of my life, having been nearly killed by one, but he was very keen that I venture into an incredibly dangerous hole in the ground in search of a stone tablet that may or may not exist. Well, um, that sounds like a rubbish idea actually.

While I ‘considered’ the idea he gave me a bag of ‘frost salts’ (does frost have salt?) and asked me to take it to a woman called Arcadia because such a menial rask was much better suited to ‘someone like me’ rather than him. Cheeky bitch!

I’m assuming by ‘someone like him’ he means ‘old, senile and probably incontinent’. Arsehole.

Allegedly there would be a reward though, and the woman lives in the town, so it’s money for old rope.

Having received about as many insults as I cared to receive for one evening I retired to the tavern (which was as dead as a necromancers bedroom at 3am), chowed down on the local delicacy of ‘goat steaks’ and fell asleep on one of the benches.

I woke up fairly early, despite my late night, because the goat steaks had been waging a war with my digestive tract and having conquered my stomach were advancing with unseemly haste through my bowels. I advanced with unseemly haste out of the tavern and into one of the freezing pools before my pants suffered the kind of damage even a smith could not repair. I’m sure the Nords won’t notice the slight discolouration of their water-feature.

After this regrettable episode I made my way to Arcadia’s funny-smelling herb shop and gave her the ‘Frost Salt’. Apparently it is the ingredient for a special love potion. That dirty old wizard! Rather than getting paid in gold for my troubles though, Arcadia rewarded me with an array of potions. They smell strange, but she assures me that they are beneficial. I asked if any of them could counter the effect of goat steak, but apparently they only work on stab wounds. Huh.

After that I was at a bit of a loose end, so I decided to have a wander around the hill in daylight, to see if there was anything worth my time near Whiterun.

These stealthy bandits managed to build their fort about ten feet away from Whiterun without anybody noticing! Surely they have the skills!

I was intrigued by the fort just behind the town and so gleefully ambled toward it, only to be peppered with arrows by angry bandits arrayed on the walls. Seriously, what the fuck? How did they manage to build their base so close to the town? Have all the guards taken arrows to the knees?

I ran like hell only to turn around and find a bunch of elves burning the place to the ground along with all the villains still inside. HAH!

I’ll chalk that up as a win.

I shambled back and emptied the place of goods (which included a gratifying amount of wine and some nice, warm, furry leathers) before exploring the cave in the back which had a sign in front advertising it as a ‘mine’.

Despite singing a jolly song and hacking at the wall with a pick-axe this guy totally wasn’t a miner.

The mine turned out to be full of bandits, rather miners, which was something of a surprise, since the bandits were still actually working hard with tools and picks. I thought the point of becoming a bandit was so that you didn’t have to do a legitimate days work and avoid back-breaking labour? These guys were clearly doing it wrong. Of course I only discovered they were not miners when I went to introduce myself and the first one tried to put a pick-axe through my skull. I put an arrow through his mouth and he sort of lost interest after that.

The encounters that followed were much briefer, since I assumed that everybody else in the cave was also a bandit and this shot them in the back of the head before they’d even had a chance to grab for something pointy. It was fairly amusing to see an orc wandering about with an arrow shaft wobbling from the back of his skull trying to work out if the noise he’d just heard was the wind. I’d have thought that one of his buddies would have pointed it out, but the apparently their isn’t honour among thieves, despite the saying.

They had stashed lots of booze around that cave, along with a fair bit of gold. I figured they wouldn’t be needing it any more and helped myself.

Back outside I pushed a little further afield and discovered that this exploration lark really is hazardous!

The ruins that seemed so innocuous from afar also turned out to be a bandit haven! Is there no law enforcement in Skyrim? Have all the damn guards been shot in the knees? The crime-rate is astronomical!

“I used to be bandit like my buddies, but then I took an arrow to the face” That’s what you get, fucker!

Having had my fill of being shot at, coupled with the fact that it had started to rain, and was getting dark, I decided to head back to Whiterun. I’d hoped that the guards, or indeed anybody, would care that I sorted (reluctantly) a bit of their bandit problem out, but nobody seemed to give a damn, ungrateful bunch of twats they are.

Thus, as the night closed in I retired once again to the tavern.

It must be a Friday, the tavern is bangin’!

The bards only seem to know the same songs, all about fighting and mead, but I had my own body weight in booze I’d ‘liberated’ from the bandit camp, and maybe in the morning I can find a job that is reasonably safe and pays real, actual money, rather than potions. I’ve avoided the goat steak and tried some vegetables instead. Hopefully the combination of leaks and mead does not prove to be explosive.

These benches are pretty comfy.

And there’s no cheese on them.

As if by magic …

… a Giant Zrk appeared!

My Blog is dusty. I blame you. It has not been loved for more than a month, poor thing. Mostly that’s because I haven’t had anything except the same old games-related anger to post, so just assume that I’ve written several updates about how gaming is going down the toilet. Add a couple of pithy comments attached to random pictures I dug up from google image searches and you will have an accurate simulation of what my thoughts have been over the last six weeks.

That is looking back however, and I’m here to look to the future! WELCOME TO THE WOOOOOOOOOOORLD OF TOMORROW!

A while ago I started the face-gratingly painful challenge of playing through Dark Souls. About a week after that somebody mentioned that it would be really funny if I’d kept a ‘Dark Souls Diary’. Yes, it probably would have done, but I’d already started by then and the whole thing would have been a bit half-arsed. Assume each day reads “I died a lot.”

This idea is not without merit however and will instead be applied to a game that I couldn’t be bothered with.

Until now.

Welcome to …

THE SKYRIM DIARIES!

Dear diary, today I was arrested by Imperial soldiers while trying to cross the southern border. Bollocks.

I’d been hanging out with a bunch of decent chaps who called themselves the ‘Stormcloaks’ which is a bit weird. They seemed a good bunch though and they were heading in the same direction as me. Safety in numbers and all that, what with all the random bandits and angry wolves that seem to hang out in Skyrim province. Anyway, big mistake as it turned out, one of them apparently shouted a child to death and is wanted for murder.

I mean I know that young people today could use a little discipline, but to shout a kid to death?

That takes some doing. I’m not even sure how you’d achieve that …

The Imperials seemed pretty sure though.

Anyway, they took all my stuff, made me dress in sack-cloth and stuck me on a cart. They also roped a thief into the bargain and he whined the whole way across the province. I got bored half way and fell asleep.

So, this is me, wearing my sack-cloth. The scars are from an accident with a mace and a wheel of cheese. Funny story for another day though.

When I woke up, Blondie Stormcloak said we were in some place called Helghast or something. I always thought that was somewhere else, but there you go. They bundled us all out of the cart and sort of … took the register of the accused, though they didn’t try to pronounce my name. Probably for the best. The thief tried to run away, but for some reason didn’t think to try weaving as he ran and got shot in the back. The Captain asked if anybody else would like to give it a shot. I wanted to, but my legs inexplicably refused to obey me. The nice chap with the list of the accused pointed out to the Captain that I wasn’t on the list. I pointed out that was probably because I was not from Skyrim and just happened to be there at the time. She said that they would execute me anyway.

What a bitch! If I ever get out of this, she’ll get hers!

Anyway, they started rambling on about Gods a blessings when one of the Stormcloak fellows volunteered for a beheading! What a star!

Nobody seemed that bothered by the deafening roars that kept echoing around the mountains, but then these Imperials don’t seem too bright, so it’s hardly surprising.

After they’d chopped the Stormcloaks head off (which everybody seemed very pleased with, including his friends!), they said I had to go next!

Seriously, what the fuck?!

I wasn’t even on the list, and some guy next to me can literally shout people to death! I was hardly the high-value prisoner!

Instead of making a break for it I dutifully marched up and put my head on the block. The Imperials didn’t even have the decency to clear away the mangled bits of Nord, so I had to sort of mount the cooling corpse which would have been a somewhat undignified way to go. Fortunately I was spared from my demise (and presumably the executioner was spared from having to get a step-ladder to make the final kill at the top of the pile of bodies) by a massive dragon (no doubt the source of all that roaring the Imperials had been dutifully ignoring. Twats).

My saviour than set about burning the entire place to the ground along with everybody who happened to be there. Bit of a double-edged sword that.

Fortunately Blondie Stormcloak decided that it was a good time to be leaving, so we bailed and left the soldiers to get on with the business of getting burned to death. He wondered if the dragon was ‘like the ones in the legends’, but Shouty Stormcloak said that legends didn’t burn down villages.

What if the legend was about a village burning down?

After that there was lots of running and screaming. An Imperial soldier tried to get me to go with him at one point, but I’d already enjoyed their ‘hospitality’ and I wasn’t too keen on the idea of any more. Also, Nords can’t fly. Or at least one of their archers couldn’t! HAH!

I managed to catch up with Blondie and he finally cut the ropes the Imperials had tied me up with. Cheers! He also told me to take his dead friends stuff, since he wouldn’t be needing it any more. It was much warmer than the sack-cloth but a bit … weird. I’m wearing a dead guys clothes. I also took his axe, which turned out to be a good thing since the bitch-queen Captain turned up with one of her guards just as we were starting to wonder how the hell we were going to get out.

Hilariously, Blondie Stormcloak smashed her face with his hatchet! He almost took her head off! Sweet irony!

That’s what you get!

I stripped all her armour and stuffed it in my sack. It’s way too heavy for me to wear, but I might be able to sell it for a few coins, and I like the indignity of leaving her dead in her underpants.

You’re dead, and I’m not! That’s what you get for being a cow-bag!

In all honesty, I’m a bit shit with this axe, but the Nords seem to like it. Fortunately we found a few more of Blondies buddies on the way out and they battered a few more Imperials. One of them had a bow, something I’m much more useful with, though I didn’t take up the offer of ‘shooting the sleeping bear to see what would happen’. We’d get a pissed off bear, that’s what would have happened. Somebody had dragged a hand cart down to the bear-lair and abandoned it there with their coin purse. I decided to … look after it until I could find the owner. Also to ask them why they had dragged a cart down into a bear cave.

Awhile later the sounds of dragony destruction faded and we emerged from a cave. Freedom!

This is what freedom looks like. Cold, with a 70% chance of rain. To be honest, it has looked better.

Blondie said we should split up to throw off pursuers (assuming that everybody left behind hadn’t been horribly burned to death and were still concerned about a wood elf that was NOT on the execution list who had done NOTHING AT ALL! Stupid Imperials!) but then waited for me to follow him down the road, claiming that his sister would give me a hand.

I’ve no idea why this would be, I did absolutely nothing except follow the Stormcloak chaps out of the burning buildings and stuff armour in a sack as I ran!

Still, his gratitude is … warming … and he seems a decent sort.

We encountered a lone bandit on the road on the way who decided to try and give us a kicking, despite being outnumbered two to one. Blondie bashed him with his axe and then I shot him in the ear. He stopped bothering us after that. He had a skin of wine on him! Score! I also feel like I’ve earned a bit of gratitude now … maybe … just a bit.

We arrived in Riverwood a short while later. I know this because some friendly souls said “Welcome to Riverwood!” Which was nice. Then another total stranger told me to stay away from Sven! Considering I’d only been in town about two seconds this warning felt a little … odd. I don’t even know who Sven is! Another guy then wanted to know if Sven had been drinking on the job!

Why would I know! Who the fuck is this guy?! I’m not even a Nord!

Anyway, Blondie’s sister was grateful that I’d saved his life(!?) which I, uh, graciously accepted and then she gave me the key to her house and a metric ton of food and booze. I should save lives more often! As long as it involves doing nothing and getting paid in random bits of jewellery, snacks and ale then I’m well in!

She also wanted me to go a talk to some guy in a place called Whiterun and pointed me north. I’d had enough of travelling for one day though and had worked up quite a thirst. The town smith paid handsomely for all the armour I’d looted off the Imperials (HAH!) but I decided to keep the Captain’s helmet. Looking at it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. The tavern opposite was fairly rough and ready, and the couple that own it are clearly having ‘issues’ but their ale was cheap. The barkeep was keen to tell me all about how some kid in a place called Windhelm (Huh … helm!) has been trying to talk to the Dark Brotherhood.

What a dumbass.

He also told me about a bandit that needs hunting down and offered a bounty for his head! Sounds bloody dangerous to me, and I only just escaped from almost-certain beheading and nasty, burning death!

The answer, obviously, was beer!

The bard was a bit of a tool, but nobody told me I was short all night, not that I can remember anyway.

I remember passing out into a pile of cheeses.

Dawn would be more attractive without the hangover. Stupid northern ales!

Not quite sure how I got onto the rock in the middle of the river. Feel like crap. Blegh …

Decided this little town has nothing good going on, so I might as well walk to Whiterun. I thought maybe it would make me feel better, except that there were WOLVES!

I fucking hate wolves!

After I’d shot them full of arrows things got worse – it started raining.

It was still ridiculously early so I ran to the nearest building which turned out to be a meadery. I don’t want more booze, but I need to make the barkeep think I’m not a tramp, so I’m writing this. Now I think I’m going to have a little sleep again.

ZZZzzz…

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words!

But one word can tell you more about a person than the finest rendition!

So … I’ve been pondering stuff today, mostly brought about by the post-Mass Effect 3 fallout and my ruminations have concluded thus -

The definition of art : The expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically, but not exclusively in a visual form.

By this definition then, video-games are undeniably a form of art. There are plenty of people who would scoff at that assertion, but working on the basis described above (which to my mind is pretty accurate) then it is entirely true. Lets face it, there are people who would glue cornflakes to a stuffed dog, mount it on a pedestal and dub it art, so I think we should cut games a little slack.

The uproar raging around Bioware’s latest creation is, in part, calling for the finale to be rewritten. A statement from the developers has made it clear that they will not be doing any retcon, but will probably add to it in order to placate a modicum of the fury. In that regard I actually applaud them – to stand by your creation in the face of almost overwhelming criticism.

So where, and indeed when, did things start to go so wrong?

Without focusing on Mass Effect 3, there is a general feeling among certain quarters that gaming is … not what it once was, both in terms of writing and quality. I’ll happily confess to being among the gaming generation that remembers the ‘golden’ years, and while it is easy to point out that nostalgia has a tendency to colour ones perceptions the view is not without merit. I’ve delved into thoughts of yesteryears gaming before, but solely with the purpose of examining content, but now let me take you on a journey through time and space to a different age …

*Wibbly wobbly techno-vortex*

3-D Bomb Alley on the BBC Micro, circa 1984!

The first ever game I can clearly remember playing. Check out the dazzling array of colours and HD picture! This was allegedly based on San Carlos Bay during the Falklands War. The likeness is astonishing! Anyway, you shot down planes and ships that were gradually creeping closer to your keyboard bastion, chalking up points for every foe you managed to smite before eventually getting overwhelmed by a legion of pixelated Argentinians.

And that was it.

It was nothing legendary, but it was hellish fun for half an hour before returning to the distractions of Lego Technic  and Transformers.

Back then gaming was little more than an amusing novelty. It was a novelty that was destined to grow into greater things however!

Repton, a man-lizard with a hunger for diamonds.

Repton, Exile, Elite, Nevryon, Spellbinder, Sabre Wolf, the list goes on. Superior Software presents CITADEL! The BBC Micro taught me the meaning of the word ‘Ballistic’ because I didn’t understand the title of a game. I must have been about eight or nine and the title of a video-game made me curious enough turn up ‘The science of mechanics that deals with flight, behaviour and effects of projectiles’. Lesson never forgotten.

Digression aside, these games had no depth to them, no story to speak of, they simply had to be fun and challenging for a little while. Repton was fucking hard though …

Fast forward …

Shadow of the Beast on the Amiga 500, circa 1989

The Amiga 500! The holy grail of gaming during my primary school years! My bestest friend got one for his birthday and we played the hell out of it like fanatics for weeks at a time. Xenon 2, Gods, Shadow of the Beast, Unreal (the ORIGINAL one … not this modern, pale pretender!). The themes to at least three of these games have become so ingrained into my psyche I can cheerfully hum them more than two decades later. Troofax!

Shivers down my spine!

Here, for the first time were games that had the merest trappings of a story, but only as an excuse for the protagonist to make with the adventuring. There was a beginning, and probably an end, but this era of gaming did not lend itself well to completionist behaviour on account of the fact that ninety-five percent of the games were hard enough to kill Wolverine.

I never got an Amiga 500, or even an Atari ST (which was never as good!), much to my eternal frustration. I was a fucking 3-D Bomb Alley ninja at this point though and had finished Castle Quest. Rock on! I did have some awesome Mask toys and a killer collection of tanks from a Matchbox military collection though …

Fast forward …

Phantasy Star on the Sega Master System, circa 1991

The Sega Master System, my first console, how it warms the cockles of my heart. Hold on though (I hear the aged among you cry) the Master System was out way before that, that’s Mega Drive era! Why yes! Yes it is! But I could not lay my hands on a console for many years and had to be content with a succession of BBC systems (finally ending with the venerable BBC Master). Then my buddy got himself a shiny new Mega Drive and I inherited his old Master System. Joy! Frabjous day! Phantasy Star, Ys, Ultima IV, Golvellius, Black Belt, Shinobi! Some of the titles were trailblazers for the RPG genre of today and I look upon them with fondness for their vision.

For the first time I was experiencing games that were driven by a story that involved characters that were more than just a collection of pixels, but people with lives and stories of their own (in the loosest possible sense).

At some point during this era we also inherited our first home PC that finally displaced our ailing BBC collection, though my interest in it fluctuated on account of it being in ‘Dad’s office’ and thus restricted access.

Fast forward …

Shining Force 2 on the Sega Mega Drive, circa 1995

I inherited his Mega Drive too, when he defected to the SNES side! Good times! Shining Force 1 and 2, the Sonic the Hedgehogs, Subterrainia, Eternal Champions, Altered Beast, E-SWAT and … Gunstar Heroes. This is what I consider to be the golden era of gaming. The 90′s were a time of legend, when the Sega and Nintendo giants stood astride the globe like immortal warriors locked forever in a battle for supremacy (Supremacy, also a good game, Atari ST, I don’t hold that against it though ). How little we knew. How short that time would be.

Some distilled nuggets of gaming wizardry came out of this age and there is a reason I have a copy of the Sega Megadrive Collection for the PS3. There is also a reason I have Gunstar Heroes on the PS3 hard-drive. Put simply, many of this titles are concentrated playability. They are gaming in its purest form. I have finished Gunstar Heroes more times than I can count, and I know it will still be as much fun as the first time I picked it up back in ’94.

The 90′s also saw me buy my very first new console!

Super Probotector on the SNES, circa 1993

I came late to the SNES, but it was still packed with great titles like UN Squadron, Super Probotector, F-Zero and Starfox. It also featured Street Fighter 2, a game that until this point I had spent a small fortune on in arcade form down at the local swimming pool. It was played, almost literally, to destruction.

Another tune that will stay with me forever …

The PC gaming experience also gathered speed, finally culminating late in the decade with a game called Baldur’s Gate, developed by some Canadian chaps and their firm BioWare. RPG gaming finally had a champion. That in no way diminishes what had come before, but evolution had simply reached a milestone. A fucking good one.

Then …

The world of consoles began a slow, but inexorable descent into the stagnation we have today.

The Sega Saturn failed to set the world on fire and the Sega Dreamcast was way ahead of its time, poorly advertised and hobbled itself with broken promises and technology that was still only in its infancy. It was the death of what had been a giant. Nintendo turned to the N64 which, while have some excellent titles, failed to make its mark against the gargantuan new interloper.

The Sony Playstation.

Don’t misunderstand me, the Playstation and original Xbox both had some excellent quality titles (including some brilliant RPGs), but it was the first, real, mass market console. Suddenly there was a Playstation in every home and video-games went from just being popular to being a fixture. There was a huge amount of money to be made out of the console arms race, a race that would be won by the developer who could produce games that would appeal to the most people.

Big games cost big money and are therefore required to appeal to the broadest audience possible.

The casualty is quality.

Games are no longer made to appeal to single genre audiences, they are made for maximum accessibility and what’s worse is that some of these next generation titles are only successful because they are standing on the shoulders of giants.

I don’t say that to demean the grand works of the developers of today because it isn’t their fault, they have to cater to the demands of their consumers and the nature of their consumers is many leagues distant from what they were twenty years ago.

Playability.

Plot.

Characterisation.

Originality.

These are the sacrifices bleeding on the altar of success.

It’s sad, and it’s not their fault, but it is the way it is.

From this incredibly rambling post  it would be easy to believe that I have no time for the games of today … but we all know that’s not true … because there are rare flashes of brilliance interspersed with the vast tracts of mediocrity. You just have to look real hard for them and have the patience to want to try.

And on that note … hit the music!

By Grabthar’s Hammer … What a Savings!

There is a danger that this will come out as … ugh … more of a serious post than usual. Disgusting I know, but I can’t promise it won’t be free of my usual brand of disgruntlement, lets see how it goes!

If you’ve been paying attention to video-game news recently then you might be aware that the GAME Group are in a spot of bother. The same way the Titanic was in a spot of bother. I feel for the guys on the front line, the poor folk who are actually customer-facing, because not only will they be taking the flak from customers, they will be kept in the dark as much as possible by the upper management. You know, the guys who can largely be blamed for the whole mess. Let’s not get into that …

Don’t worry guys, it’s all just business as usual! Conference call in the morning?

On the flip side of this, I have absolutely no love for the company at all. I have no trouble admitting that having worked for the GAME group that they are … ahem … less than pleasurable to deal with.

See? See how good I was there? Keeping it objective instead of abusive.

There are a whole host of reasons why, both personal and professional, but they should probably be saved for another day, or when I’m in a really bad mood. It is a rant the likes of which could shake the heavens.

Anyway …

Those issues aside and looking around places like MCV and other industry sources I am struck at how short-sighted people are and how many of them singularly fail to appreciate how difficult it is to run a high-street business in this day and age (not to mention crippling economic climate).

Sometimes the staffing isn’t great, but that is true of every retail chain everywhere. Most of the people I have worked with over the years have been perfectly pleasant! The problems are caused further up the chain by tie-wearing desk-jockeys with no real grasp of what it is actually like to work in a shop and deal with a real human-being on a sales floor. I’m sure that sounds like a common complaint and it isn’t true of all companies (in fact some are very good at knowing exactly how to manage their sales floors), but having experienced it first hand for many, many years it seems to be almost endemic to video-game retail.

There are also no simple solutions. You have to create an atmosphere that is motivating and enjoyable to work in while maintaining a modicum of professionalism. In the modern mega-corporate world that balance is almost always heavily weighted in one direction. I’ll give you a clue – it’s not the one that features the word ‘enjoyable’.

I was brainstorming for ideas, when suddenly I struck upon a great source of inspiration!

So stuff like this does not help at all. Really, it doesn’t. If you’re middle management for a corporate retail giant and you’re reading this, get yourself into a store and experience the reality of your ‘inspiration’ for a few weeks. Then I might be inclined to listen.

However!

It’s not all their fault. Evolution has had a hand in this (and continues to do so) in the form of killer supermarket chains and online dealers. The forums and comment pages are littered with self-righteous pomposity surrounding the price of games on the high-street and how if GAME and HMV and others did not charge ‘rip-off’ prices then they wouldn’t be in this mess. I can only imagine that these people are simply eager young web-warriors with no actual grasp or experience of business, profit margins and overheads. Either that or they’re just pig-headed idiots. Some are probably both.

Supermarkets have nothing like the range of games available that a specialist retailer can offer. It’s all well and good if you just want to buy the latest new release, but if you’re looking for a back-catalogue title, that becomes a more difficult proposition. The mega-chains sell their games at a loss, that’s how they are able to put things like ‘Call of Duty’ at half the price of specialists. That is a plain fact, because I know what the cost prices of the games are.

Why would they do this?

Because they can make back their game losses on the sales of bread, and cereal and beer and everything else your average Tesco or ASDA puts out. They make a killing on their mainstay goods and those ‘extras’ you pick up while shopping for your cheap games. They make that money back in a heartbeat, they can afford to operate that way.

The same is true of online.

You can run an online business from a shed in east London with Dodgy Dave and ‘Fingers’ Steve for a tiny fraction of the cost required to open and run a single store on the high-street. So an online business can then put its goods out at a lower price because they don’t need to make as much profit to stay in business.

Economics 101 kids – The money coming in needs to be more than the money going out otherwise your business model is … well … a bit fucked.

Some of the funniest comments are from (what I can only assume) publishers, criticising the trade in pre-owned games and how it is ‘pure greed’ that they see none of the profit from pre-owned sales. Pre-owned sales are where the vast majority of video-games retailers make their money as the difference in profit between a new product and a used one is astronomical. By the time new games arrive on a store’s shelves the publishers have already been paid for their products, the fact that they will be sold alongside used versions of that product is immaterial. If anything it is the publishers that are guilty of the greed accusations that they like to level at retailers because they are not getting a slice of the pie.

They already have their pie … they just want more! But there is only so much pie to go around!

The pre-owned pie might look big, but look at all those publishers waiting to eat it! Hungry retailers need that to stay alive!

Software piracy is also rife, most often perpetrated by the web-warriors eager to claim that retailers charge ‘rip-off- prices and that ‘If they were reasonably priced then there would be no piracy’. I’m not going to apologise here my electron-gobbling friends but that is just plain bollocks. I refer you to my earlier post about SOPA and the self-entitled nature of our modern society.

I am externalising my blame! Piracy is the fault of the industry rather than an excuse for my overblown sense of entitlement!

Head, wedged firmly in arse.

The end result of all these factors is the ultimate death of high-street video-game retailing, something I’m sure a whole bunch of these people don’t give a shit about since (as one memorable user said) “I get all my games from Amazon because they’re better quality.”

Better quality?

Are they presented to you contained within a Faberge Egg? Flecked with gold leaf and hand-crafted by maidens who then had their eyes put out so that they may never witness such beauty again?

I will happily pay a few extra quid to get games from a shop rather than the internet because, quite honestly, I’m an impatient sod and if I decide I want a game I don’t want to have to wait for it to be delivered to my home. When I’ll inevitably not be home. So it will be returned to the Royal Mail Depot located somewhere in the North Sea. That’s only open every other Thursday. On months beginning with the letter N.

And then when I do finally get it, I find that at some point during its journey it was used by the All-Blacks to practise drop-goals. And then I have to package it back up and fuck about with the return process and request a replacement.

And I don’t trust the internet.

This Royal Mail Depot is easier to find than most. It is in the middle of the desert, but at least it’s on land. If you miss a package and you live near Slough it goes back to the branch attached the Mir Space Station.

And I suppose there is the difference.

I’m happy to pay a few quid to deal with a person and get what I want right away and other people are not.

That’s fine, but it seems to me that people are expecting something for nothing more and more, and when they don’t get it are all too ready to bitch and moan at great length without ever pausing to consider why things are the way they are.

But then that would require thought – a rare commodity in this day and age.

Because sometimes, special characters are not that great …

The Angelus Cruor

Sergeant Ebenezer sat in his cell and polished his armour. The room was spartan to the point of austerity, brushed metal walls, a threadbare mat for meditation and a tiny cabinet that contained his meagre possessions. The Sergeant had always believed in the philosophy that less was more. He used ammunition sparingly, refused his squad the use of unconventional weapons and had few words of praise, even to brothers of exemplary performance.

Ebenezer sat in silence, working a rough cloth over the sculpted surfaces of his armour with a tiny amount of lapping powder. There was no excuse for ill-maintained war-gear, and he was ever-ready with a sharp word for those who shamed the good name of Squad Ebonmar. A great many things could shame the squad in his eyes and he watched for violations like a hawk.

A small chime interrupted the measured ticks of his chron, informing him that he had a visitor. The sergeant scowled. ‘Enter.’ He growled, and the hatch slid open to reveal the diminutive form of his attendant, Layman Cratchit.

‘Yes?’ The sergeant rumbled as the Layman stood, cap in hand.

‘My lord.’ The little man started nervously. Ebenezer shot him a frigid glare and the human flinched.

‘Spit it out man.’ He snarled.

‘My lord, it is zero nine nine four four five six.’ Not for the first time Cratchit wondered if there was not an easier way to mark the relative solar date.

‘Your point being?’ The Sergeant replied irritably.

‘It is the eve of battle lord, the brothers of Ebonmar were hoping that since you go to battle the foul xenos … ‘ He paused, evidently discomfited.

‘Yes?’ Ebenezer prompted.

‘They wondered if you might give them special weapon dispensation from the armoury? Forge-Master Zillion has a particularly impressive lascannon on display.’

‘Special dispensation? Xenos?’ Ebenezer sneered. ‘Excuses for the weak of faith and frail of spirit. I should have them hauled before the Chaplaincy for such deviancy.’

‘But noble lord.’ Cratchit protested. ‘It is traditional that the brothers be permitted the freedom of the arsenal before battle, it’s … ‘

‘Tradition? Tradition? When I was a neophyte you made do with a blade and your own strong hands and you were grateful for it. This “tradition” is nothing but laxity and an almost heretical dependence on technology and I won’t have it, not in my squad. Now away with you and let me hear no more of this bleating about tradition.’

The layman hesitated miserably, but a second barked command sent him scurrying away. The door hissed shut behind him, once again leaving the Sergeant to the silence of his own musings.

‘Warp-spawned rot and damnation on a warrior that cannot kill the enemy with his own fists.’ He had already refused an invitation to dine with the Captain and turned away two other battle-brothers who had come in search of spare magazines for their special operations and he was quite sick of all the preparations.

‘It is enough to make a warrior believe they have never seen war before.’

He finished polishing his pauldrons and set them aside before settling down on to the meditation mat. Even if he did believe in any of the ridiculous pre-battle traditions he believed in being well-rested before battle. He closed his eyes and settled his mind, allowing his conscious thoughts to focus on the repeated litanies of the creed.

Time passed and despite the stillness of his psyche and the quiet solitude of his cell Ebenezer sensed a presence had intruded upon his meditation.

‘Whoever you are, you are interrupting my preparations for battle and I will have strong words with … ‘

‘Sergeant Ebenezer.’ A sepulchral voice intoned. It was accompanied by the clinking of metal and the dry smell of old parchment.

The sergeant opened his eyes, surfacing from his trance to find a sable-armoured ghost looming above him. It was draped with votive chains and bound in yellowed litany papers. Hollow eyes stared from a mask of bone fixed in a rictus grin, an incarnation of death that few had ever seen behind.

‘Chaplain Lemartes.’ Ebenezer said in mild surprise. ‘I would have thought you would be busy leading the neophytes in prayer.’

The hulking Chaplain turned his pitiless gaze on Ebenezer and shook his head. ‘No Sergeant, they have been sent to their arming chambers to prepare and make their personal devotions to the Emperor. I thought to find you with your squad, but word reaches me that you have refused them the benefit of the artificers.’

‘Pah!’ Ebenezer exclaimed irritably. ‘If they were half the Astartes they claim to be … ‘

‘Adeptus Astartes.’ Lemartes cut in.

‘Indeed, Adeptus Astartes, then they would only need their faith and sturdy bolters.’

‘Faith and sturdy bolters?’ The Chaplain echoed.

‘Faith and sturdy bolters!’ The Sergeant asserted again.

Lemartes shook his head again and shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘It is also written that a warrior should employ every weapon at his disposal in the prosecution of the enemy.’

‘Humnid!’ Ebenezer snorted.

Lemartes paused for a long time before speaking again. ‘Have you heard the legends of those visited by the Primogenitor on the eve of battle? That a specter of our Primarch appears to those whose faith is lacking and delivers them from doubt?’

Sergeant Ebenezer had never heard of anything so absurd.

‘Beware of your pride and bitterness, lest the Primarch find you wanting.’

Ebenezer had nothing to say to that and Lemartes left him to his silent meditation.

The Sergeant allowed his mind to drift again, dismissing the ramblings of the Chaplain as the empty sermonising of an old man. The only warriors the Primarch visited where those who were taken to the company of the lost, but then they also licked the insides of the helmets and ate grass, so that didn’t really mean anything.

His thoughts were interrupted again by a soft, golden glow that pierced his consciousness with languid warmth. He had not heard the cell door open so he assumed that the lume-globe was malfunctioning in some way, until he opened his eyes.

A figure clad in ornate armour of pure aurum hung in the air before him, an ethereal breeze plucking at the reams of purity seals dripping from every surface. A pair of beautiful ceramite wings spread from its back, framing a perfectly sculpted mask of golden, youthful vitality. An argent halo played about its brow, scattering brilliant reflections around the tiny cell.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Ebenezer growled, angered by the intrusion and the obvious joke at his expense.

‘I am the Ghost of Sanguinius Past.’ The brilliant warrior intoned.

‘If that is true, then I must be the Lion, no wait, Guilliman. Take that helmet off Impetus and return that equipment to the Guard immediately or Astaroth will pop a lung. I assume you have been talking to Lemartes?’

‘Dear Ebenezer, I have come to show you that which you have forgotten, and a man who forgets his past is destined for a poor future.’ The golden angel said sadly.

‘Now look here … ‘ The Sergeant started to protest but a the gentle light enveloped him, cushioning his senses and tugging him away from the hard reality of his cell.

When he opened his eyes again he found that he was no longer in the familiar surrounding of his chamber. The scents of ink, parchment and machine oil hung thickly in the air and the only sound that disturbed the stifling silence was occasional rustle of papers. Ebenezer looked around to find serried ranks of desks loaded with primers, maps and copies of the Codex. Shaven-scalped neophytes sat behind the workstations, diligently absorbing the prodigious quantity of information while a hatchet-faced officer watched over them.

‘The neophyte scholarium!’ The sergeant exclaimed.

‘Indeed.’ The effulgent apparition replied from beside him. ‘And look.’ He pointed a gilt digit at a boy seated at the far end of the room.

‘But, but that cannot be, that looks exactly like … ‘

‘You? Of course it does Ebenezer, that would be because it is you, as you were at the beginning of your long and illustrious career.’

‘Then that would mean … ‘ The Sergeant turned to look at the overseer pacing at the end of the hall. He was a mean-eyed, scarred veteran who looked like he had tried to tackle a Carnifex with his head at some point in the past.

‘Scout-Sergeant Thumpaeon!’

A chime sounded from near the door and the fledgling warriors immediately stood and made their way to the front of the chamber where they deposited their tactical studies for inspection. Thumpaeon then sent them on their way with a nod or a sneer based on his observation of their work. The young Neophyte Ebenezer was last in line and proudly presented his strategic analysis for assessment. The Scout-Sergeant stared at the work for a few moments before looking up at the eager young man.

‘Heavy weapon support Ebenezer? Flanking assaults from cover?’

‘I do not want to see this.’ The older Ebenezer said from beside the golden ghost. ‘Not again.’

‘Yes sir.’ Young Ebenezer was forging enthusiastically ahead. ‘My studies show that the best way to confront a numerically superior force is to use the terrain to maximum effect and … ‘

‘Your studies? YOUR STUDIES!?’ Thumpaeon roared. ‘Barely a year into your elevation and you believe that you can second guess the masters that have come before you?’

‘No sir I … ‘

‘Faith boy! Faith and your own two hands is all that you need to see you through any scenario. Maybe a bolter if the situation is extremely dire.’

‘But sir … ‘

‘NO BUTS! You are dismissed Ebenezer, report to the solitarium so that you can contemplate your foolishness.’

Young Ebenezer hung his head and shuffled from the hall, his hopes crushed.

‘I never did understand why they let him train the recruits.’ The ghost pondered. ‘Thumpaeon should have been referred to the Death Company years before this.’

‘All my work, for nothing.’ Ebenezer lamented. Then he straightened. ‘Still, the lessons of Thumpaeon are what made me the warrior I am today, and that is something to be proud of.’

The golden spirit gazed at him levelly and shook his head. ‘No.’ The apparition replied coolly. ‘It is not.’

‘Then why torment me with this vision of my past, this defining moment when I can do no more to change it than I can pluck the stars from the sky?’

‘Because you must be better Ebenezer, you must become the warrior others expect you to be.’

Ebenezer snorted. ‘Pah, to hell with what others want me to be.’

The spirit did not reply, it simply shook its head sadly. Then the light of its halo grew dazzling once again and the Sergeant found himself once more upon the meditation mat of his cell. The ghost was nowhere to be seen and Ebenezer blinked as his eyes swiftly readjusted to the absence of its brilliance.

‘What rot.’ The Sergeant muttered to himself. ‘If this is what it is like to be a librarian than it is no wonder Lord Mephiston is as mad as a sack of badgers.’

He closed his eyes and settled back into a trace but almost immediately felt a hand upon his shoulder.

‘I swear by the Emperor Impetus, Coitus, if that is one of you then you will be reporting to the apothacarion in five seconds if you do not get out of my cell.’

‘On the contrary.’ A cheerful voice intoned. ‘Your brothers are training in readiness for the battle to come!’

Ebenezer opened his eyes to find the golden specter had returned and was sat beside him, reclining casually against the Sergeant’s personal cabinet. It had a red cloak draped over its expansive wingspan and looked as though it had drawn a black moustache and beard onto its mask in wax pencil.

‘I am the Ghost of Sanguinius Present!’ The apparition gleefully announced. ‘And I am here to show … ‘

‘Why have you drawn facial hair onto your mask?’ Ebenezer asked.

‘Drawn?’ The ghost seemed puzzled. ‘Oh you mean the other guy? No, he was a completely different ghost, this is how I look all the time.’

Ebenezer did not look convinced.

‘Anyway, I have come to show you the meaning of battle for your brothers, how the spirit of them Emperor lives in them every minute of every day and … ‘

‘Uh huh, make with the revealing.’ Ebenezer cut him off.

The Sergeant found himself dragged through a series of bewildering scenes around the fortress monastery. Priests toasted to success in the battle to come with gilt goblets brimming with sanctified blood, librarians meditated upon the works of the Primarch and battle-brothers waited in line for all many of dazzling weapons.

‘Such frivolity.’ Ebenezer sneered. ‘If their faith was strong they would need nothing more than … ‘

‘I know, I know, faith, hands, bolter. Boring.’ The ghost yawned. At least the Sergeant thought he yawned, it was difficult to tell from the expressionless mask.

‘Are you sure you are not the same guy?’

The spirit nodded vigorously. ‘Totally.’ It assured him.

‘So what is the point of showing me all this … ‘ The Sergeant waggled his fingers at the surroundings. ‘Stuff.’

‘This is what it means to be a warrior of the Emperor. Not just your dry faith and stoicism. If you were an Imperial Fist then maybe, but look!’

The scene blurred and Ebenezer found himself in the Ebonmar arming chamber. Nine battle-brothers were seated around the room checking wargear, swapping stories and affixing purity seals. There was an atmosphere of anticipation and an energy that Ebenezer had never known.

‘They seem so … ‘ He struggled to find the right word. ‘Different.’

‘Different to when you are barking orders at them and telling them to march in step and save ammunition? Not to mention when you are yelling at them to keep their armour clean. I particularly liked your tirade about cleanliness during the campaign on Muddius Filthensis. Uplifting.’

‘Do not mock me spirit!’ Ebenezer grumbled.

The doorway of the arming chamber slid open and Layman Cratchit ambled in, his hood up and eyes downcast. The battle-brothers gathered around and looked at the little man expectantly.

‘So?’ One eventually asked when it was obvious Cratchit was not going to volunteer and information.

‘So you do not have dispensation to draw heavy or special weapons from the armoury and will only be permitted a single spare clip of ammunition and regulation grenades.’

‘What?’ Impetus sounded outraged. ‘You did point out that we are going into battle with the foul xenos right?’

‘I did, it made no difference.’

‘But what about Timon?’ Impetus raged, pointing to a battle-brother still seated. The warrior was tending to a clunky bionic leg that had clearly seen better days.

‘If we have to fall back from a numerically superior foe and have no heavy weapon support then Timon will not be able to keep up! We cannot leave a brother in the field!’

‘He never even let me get to that part.’ Cratchit replied miserably.

Watching from the corner, Ebenezer turned to the spirit and shook his head. ‘Faith. Faith and … ‘

‘I know.’ The ghost cut in. ‘But you begin to understand now, yes?’

The Sergeant did not reply as the golden glow enveloped him and once again returned him to his empty cell.

The meditative trance would not come now as Sergeant Ebenezer sat on his mat. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will the calm upon his soul, but it would not come. He was troubled by the things the spirits had shown him, his mind in turmoil.

‘Foolishness and rot.’ He muttered to himself as he finally abandoned his quest for peace. He opened his eyes to find yet another presence looming over him, this time shrouded in a black robe with its hood drawn up. The shadowy folds would have hidden the features of a mere mortal, but did nothing to hide the golden mask beneath and the badly drawn skull upon its surface.

‘Ok, you are definitely the same guy as last time. Putting on Mephiston’s dressing-gown is the worst disguise I have ever seen.’

‘No it is not!’ The spirit snapped. Then it clapped an armoured hand over its sculpted mouth.

‘I mean … ahem … NO, IT IS NOT!’

‘Trying to talk like Lemartes will not help either. I am guessing that you must be what? The Ghost of Sanguinius Yet to Come? What are you going to show me now, perhaps my good self as an incredibly ill-tempered Chapter-master that everybody hates? Maybe only a Captain that all the others look down upon?’

The spirit did not reply, it simply pulled its robes dramatically about its gilt face. Golden light bled from within the folds of the fabric and Ebenezer was once again consumed.

This time he was surprised to find himself still within the confines of his cell, only three battle-brothers were also present. Ebenezer recognised the armour of Impetus, Coitus and Hiatus.

‘Good to know my squad is still with me in the future yet to … hey what are they doing? Get out of there!’

The trio had opened his personal cabinet and were rummaging through the meager contents.

‘A single box of shells!’ Coitus exclaimed. ‘Who only carries a single box of shells? You can’t even fill a sickle mag with that?’

‘Well, might as well have them.’ Impetus replied. ‘I cannot imagine he will be needing them anymore.’

The three of them laughed and they went on to turn out the rest of the few objects Ebenezer called his own.

‘What about that old mat?’ Hiatus asked.

‘I suppose we could use it to line the neophyte’s latrines!’ Coitus said and they all laughed again.

‘Why do I no longer need my possessions spirit? Why have I gone from this place?’

The ghost did not reply.

‘Is it perhaps because I now occupy the Chapter-master’s quarters and have moved beyond this simple walls?’

Again, stony silence.

‘Well.’ Impetus was saying. ‘At least we can safely bet nobody will miss the miserable old sod.’

‘Spirit?!’

The specter took Ebenezer by the shoulder and turned him around. Where he had expected to find the bare wall of his cell he instead found himself looking down one of the halls of honour. Thousands of obsidian markers lined the walls, each stone etched with a name picked out in gold. Purity seals, votive chains and words of remembrance adorned many of the glossy black tablets, the work of close battle-brothers who had once served with the deceased. One was conspicuously devoid of honours.

‘Why would you show me this place you daemon?’ The Sergeant raged.

The specter said nothing, but pointed instead to the name etched on the naked marker. The gold was peeling from the letters, untended by any battle-brother, but Ebenezer could still clearly make out the name inscribed upon its surface.

‘No.’ Ebenezer denied. ‘You cannot mean to tell me that not a single brother cares for me?’

The ghost maintained its silence.

‘For me to have fallen in battle and for not a single warrior of the chapter to look kindly upon my grave!’

The Sergeant paced up and down, armoured boots ringing on the cold stone of the floor.

‘At least … at least grant me the knowledge that I died well, or that my end meant something to the squad I lead! What of Timon? I must have fallen buying them enough time to fall back from a numerically superior foe! That must be it!’

The specter drew him aside and once again Ebenezer found himself within the Ebonmar arming chamber. Eight warriors sat around, their armour heavily scarred and damaged from battle. Hiatus cradled the broken, sparking remains of a shattered bionic limb in his arms.

‘No!’ Ebenezer breathed in horror. ‘Not Timon, not him!’

‘If only he could have fallen back faster.’ Impetus said softly.

‘If only there had been heavy weapon support.’ Coitus groaned.

‘If only we had been prepared for a numerically superior foe.’ Hiatus sighed.

‘Enough spirit! Enough! I understand! Let it end! Let it end!!’ Ebenezer turned on the black-clad figure to beat his fists against it, but instead found himself falling into the lambent golden light.

He awoke with a start and found himself still seated upon his meditation mat within the familiar confines of his cell. There was nobody to be seen. Ebenezer jumped to his feet and spun around but everything appeared to be exactly as it should be. He flung open the cabinet to find everything in its place and his possessions unplundered.

‘There might still be time!’ He whispered to himself and hurried to the door.

He flung it open and almost crushed a Serf hurrying past with an armful of combat blades.

‘You there! What day is it?’

‘My lord?’ The Surf cringed in surprise at the sudden attention.

‘The day, quickly boy, what day is it today?’

‘It’s zero nine nine five four five six lord.’ The young man replied.

Ebenezer let out a barking laugh. ‘He, did it all in one night!’ He roared with laughter. ‘The spirit did it all in one night!’

‘Should I fetch Chaplain Lemartes sir?’ The Serf replied, starting to edge away from the slightly maniacal Sergeant.

‘No boy, not at all. Tell me, does the Master of the Forge still have that lascannon available for requisition?’

‘The massive one lord? With the sculpted golden muzzle?’

‘That would be the one!’

‘Go there and fetch it immediately for deployment with squad Ebonmar on the order of Sergeant Ebenezer!’

The Serf hurried away at the Sergeant’s behest but Ebenezer called after him. ‘If you can manage it within the hour there will be a commendation to the Chapter-master for you!’

He didn’t know if the servant heard him but he smiled at the thought anyway. With the important task done he hastened down the halls to the arming chambers where his squad would be preparing for to board their Thunderhawk. The door opened just as he reached it to reveal a flustered looking Layman Cratchit.

‘Layman Cratchit.’ Sergeant Ebenezer rumbled dangerously.

‘My lord!’ The Layman stammered as he retreated back into the room.

‘Layman Cratchit, my fellow battle-brothers.’ He looked around at his squad who were in the process of being machined into their armour. Timon had several tech-adepts fussing around his bionic limb.

‘You will have heavy weapon support this day!’

The squad blinked, as if their Sergeant had just manifested an extra head.

‘And for every battle from now until the victory of man over the mutant and the xenos.’

Several Serfs pushed into the room behind him sweating under the weight of an ornate lascannon and the squad gave a cheer.

‘Melta-bombs all round!’

The battle-brothers clasped arms in fellowship and renewed oaths of fealty and amongst the celebration Timon raised his voice in praise.

‘Ave Imperator!’ He shouted. ‘And Emperor bless us every one!’

From that day forward Sergeant Ebenezer was as good as his word. His squad had heavy weapon support when they needed it, breaching charges for demolitions and drop-pod insertion for the times when a jump-pack just wouldn’t cut it. The spirit of the Emperor lived in him not just on those days when they went to battle, but every day, all year round, until squad Ebonmar were eaten by Tyranids in the closing days of the forty first millennium.