"Are you a potato?" "What?" The god huffed indignantly. "I am not a potato. I am the keeper of knowledge, and forbidden secrets." "You look like a potato. All those eyes. An evil, green potato, with sprouts." Hermaeus Mora gurgled unpleasantly. "I am a Prince of Oblivion. My appearance is of no consequence." "So you could look like anything you wanted, and you just choose to be an evil green potato?" "I AM NOT A POTATO!" the Daedra roared. The bosmer in front of him hardly noticed the outburst. "Well of course you're not. Potatoes can't talk. I just said you looked like one." In a blink, the wood-elf vanished, sent back to his place in Tamriel. Hermaeus gave a burbling sigh. He would find another, less irritating pawn for his work. Why did bosmer have to be damned annoying, anyway?
A little something I posted on the Empyrion forums recently. ════════════════════════════ "You're out of your mind," the pilot declared, less an accusation than the statement of simple fact. Her partner agreed readily. "That's true, but it's still going to work." He swallowed hard, cinching a strap on his armor. If the jetpack came loose - no, best not to think about that. The plan would work. It had to. "Just keep the Ptolemy close. Once that core goes down, I'll need your help mopping up." His palm slapped the release, and the vessel's rear door hissed open obediently. A chill wind gusted through the aperture, howling at him. With Rosa at the helm, their ship the Ptolemy was holding altitude several hundred meters above Akua. Several hundred meters above a location they'd tagged "Epsilon Fortress," an installation that had caused them no end of trouble for weeks. Raids had plagued the two survivors almost from the moment they landed, and only careful planning and constant vigilance had saved them from repeated drone strikes and shock-troopers. There'd been no chance for diplomacy then, only defense, and the last two survivors of the MS Titan were no longer pulling punches. When not mining or rebuilding, they'd scouted carefully, keeping well outside the range of the Fort's turret emplacements. Know your enemy, went the old adage. Everything had a weakness, they merely had to find and exploit it. As the days dragged on however, they grew more desperate and reckless. Perimeter scouting showed them the limits of the base's range, but little else. They needed more intel. Finally, Keph settled on another old saying - no guts, no glory - and conducted a fast low-altitude flyover of Epsilon Fortress. His ship limped back to their outpost that night, scarred and smoking, but when he hopped out he greeted Rosa with a swift hug. "I've got it!" he'd said then. Epsilon had yielded its secret, and he was filled with manic glee at the prospect of exploiting it. When he told Rosa the plan however, she was less than enthused. Now here they were, stationed directly above the base that had caused them so much grief. Keph tightened his helmet and gripped the doorway tight, leaning into the wind. He knew it was insane, but the chance to deal with this thorn in their side banished all thoughts of caution or hesitation. Epsilon Fortress was going to be a smoldering, cratered memory when they were through. "You reading me, Rosa?" "Loud and clear. I'd tell you to be careful, but..." Keph laughed. "I know. I'll radio when it's done." He shifted his weight, feeling the jetpack weigh heavy on his back. He prayed it was enough. "Initiating jump in three... two... one... ready or not, here I come you sons of-" The rush of wind roared over the comm a split second before it shut off. Heart beating in his throat, he dropped like a stone, aimed dead-center at the middle of the complex below. With their superior range, Keph and Rosa found there was little they could do against Epsilon's turrets directly. Every attempt had been met by withering firepower, forcing them to turn back or end up as carbon ash. But those turrets were slow to aim. At close range, a target could dance circles around one without fear of reprisal. Those same turrets were now swiveling ponderously around to face him as he fell towards the Fortress. Slowly, far far too slowly, they tried to track the man streaking down right between them. Blue fire erupted from his pack as he sought to slow his descent to non-lethal speed. Hard metal rushed up to meet him, jarring his spine painfully even as he bent his knees to absorb the impact, rolling across the steel plates to bleed momentum. Tumbling, he slammed his shoulder against the far wall, wrenching it painfully. Dazed and bruised, the man climbed to his feet. He could hear alien troops below, shouting alerts as they mobilized against this new threat. For now, however, he was safe. No turrets could reach him, and his objective was just beneath his feet. That was Epsilon's true weakness - the electronic core that ran the base. The beating heart of the installation, protected only by a few layers of steel and grating, heavily defended from everything but the most direct approach. Straight down through the roof. Smiling grimly, he unslung his shotgun and aimed it at the metal under his feet. The red-painted weapon bucked in his hands as scattershot tore through the weak plating. "I'm in," he radioed back to Rosa. "Told you it would work." The shotgun thundered once more, and Epsilon Fortress went dark and silent... ════════════════════════════ My girlfriend and I play together on a local connection, and alien "Points of interest" (enemy bases, usually with several turrets guarding them) gave us plenty of trouble early on. We tried a lot of things, though tunneling in ended up being our go-to strategy for most of them. After we took out an "Epsilon Fortress Mk I," I noticed how the core was dead-center of the base and had no real defenses from above. "HALO," as you may have realized, is referring to military parachuting, and has nothing to do with power-armored super-soldiers. Although I haven't actually attempted the HALO strategy yet, the idea stuck with me, hence the short tale above. My preferred weapons are explosive packs and shotgun (an "epic" find from the Abandoned Mine), while she favors assault rifles and her minigun - though she's been having a blast (pun intended) with the handheld plasma cannon, lately. And for the curious, this is the Ptolemy: Small efficient Capital Vessel designed to replace our two-seater "Small Vessels" for mining excursions and adventuring. No warp-drive, sadly, which does limit its usefulness, but it works great for the role it was intended to fill.
No way out. There was a lesson here, Hammond was certain, but whatever it might have been was lost to him now. The exits were blocked, the roof was collapsing, and flames were slowly licking the wallpaper off the room. "Teachable" moments were only valid when there was a chance of passing on the knowledge, and his chances had run out. The building trembled, groaning as fire consumed it from inside and out. A crashing roar to his left sent another wave of heat rolling towards him, scorching what was left of his clothing and searing the bared flesh beneath. His bedroom and kitchen were one and the same now, a metal frame and burned-out timbers sitting on his stove, covered in smoldering sheets. The ceiling sagged lower, creaking ominously. Hammond gave a weak, coughing sigh, and turned to his small, bewildered companion. "They said you were housebroken," he said accusingly. The little dragon looked up at him in confusion, and rubbed its cheek adoringly on his shin.
(recommended listening) "It's here," they said. I saw the look in your eyes then, wondering what they meant. Wondering, and too afraid to ask. Or maybe you already knew? Maybe you were just afraid you were right. Afraid that everything up to that moment was just the opening act. A play without resolution, endless struggle, Sisyphus made real. Afraid I knew the truth. You'd have been right about that, at least. The difference, dear heart, is that I faced my fears. I didn't turn and run from them, hiding behind coward's eyes and a coward's lies. I didn't betray my principles, or my friends. I would never have betrayed you. But maybe that's not fair - I've learned to live with my decisions, my mistakes, my regrets. You never had to. They shielded you, let you forget, never forced you to face your own failures and shortcomings. They never laid the hard weight of expectation on your shoulders. Maybe they expected me to do that. Maybe in the end, this was my fault after all. Maybe you knew that too. But it was your hand that held the knife, your hand that stole the child's breath, and then your own. No matter how many times I relive that day, nothing will change that fact. Whatever lead up to that terrible moment, it was your choice. They still blame me, unable to understand why I don't hate you. I could never hate you, even after that. Lord knows I tried. I visited the graves nearly every day. The ones I helped dig for you and your - our - son. Father or not, I would've raised him as my own. Instead I buried him that way. Each shovel full of soil was like scraping out a piece of my soul. Maybe that's why I don't hate you - I let it take all the anger and the sorrow, soaked into the cold damp soil, cold damn soil, let it take the pieces I didn't want to keep. Left me empty, all these long years, but not much longer to wait now. Couldn't take your way out, after all. I've had to live with this hole in my life - my heart, my soul. Soon enough, that'll be over and they'll fill it with dirt. A poor substitute for what you took, but it'll hardly matter then. I don't know if we'll meet again, dear heart, but I hope you're waiting for me. If not, then let this be my goodbye: I forgive you. Trembling, the old man's fingers let the quill slip from his grasp. It slid off the parchment, fluttering slowly to the ground, and was still.
Wow... I read it once and didn't feel like I grasped it, but when starting to skim through it from the top, I decided to stop, I think it's nicer if I read it this way, not quite getting everything. Anyway, thanks for sharing!
Don't ask too much of my lies, I tell them for my own sake and not yours. They're windows you see, glimpses of another place vastly more desirable than this one. How can you ask me to live with a reality this foul when I can create another, so much better?
Ergh, that was "yes you may," sorry, not "yes I mind." Go right ahead if you want to use it, I don't care. As for getting your thoughts down, just pick one and start writing from there. Eventually they'll organize themselves. Wrong thread?
"You still intend to investigate? May I remind you, this vessel is not equipped with sufficient biological safeguards to deal with potentially... intrusive organisms." Quinn's optical array narrowed to a glowing blue slit, indicating its displeasure. Gabby returned the look, unwilling to humor the over-protective robot. "Research stations like this don't send out distress signals for laughs, Quinn," she informed him tersely. "If they need help, I'm helping. End of story." Quinn's anterior fins sagged in resignation. "Very well. If you return with a face-full of alien ovipositor and eggs in your chest cavity, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so.'" Gabby ignored the jibe, focused instead on the station's guidance lights as she aligned the shuttle's nose for docking. The hull echoed with the dull thump of magnetic clamps locking down, followed by the familiar hiss of pressurization seals. Despite her companion's grim outlook, she took that as a good sign. Whatever issue the station was experiencing, it hadn't initiated a full station-wide alert, and the automatic docking systems were still in operation. She slid free of the command chair's restraints, nudging Quinn aside as she went to the supply locker. "One hour, Commander," the machine said. "Then I will inform the Fleet." "You do what you have to, Quinn," she replied, belting an energy pistol around her waist. As an afterthought, she reached back into the locker and grabbed her beam-rifle as well. "And so will I."
I'm Rachel Baxter, and with me is my co-host, Tom Richards. Today on TNN, we're taking a look at one of the coldest new sports in the southern hemisphere, Penguin Tossing! Tom? -Thank you Rachel! Described by one player as the "hilariously awful combination of Shot-put, Curling, and animal abuse," the objective is to fling a live penguin into one of three target zones, in order to score points. But there's more to this match than throwing the bird! Two teams compete on the ice, with a squad of five members and five penguins each. On the other end of the field, three zones are clearly marked - a Blue zone worth two points, Yellow worth five, and Red worth ten. As you can see, the smaller the zone, the higher the point value. But getting the penguin there is only half the battle. Points are only awarded when time runs out. Throw your penguin too soon, and it's likely to wander out of its zone - or worse, get eaten by an orca! -That's right, Rachel! Remember that match last year between Team Tuxedo and The Beakers? Tuxedo lost big-time when Willy came right up under the Yellow zone and ate half their toss! Haha, indeed I do, Tom. Natural selection loves to throw its curve-balls at these teams, so it never pays to put all your birds in one basket! Of course, due to animal protection rules, players are prohibited from intentionally trying to harm the opposing team's toss. If your thrown penguin collides with another in an attempt to knock it out of a scoring zone, both penguins are removed from play and both their points are awarded to the opposing team immediately. -Of course, that hasn't always stopped a bit of fowl play, has it? Earlier this season, we witnessed a player from the Aqua-Ravens attempt to lure a leopard-seal into the Red Zone by throwing his penguin too close. Referees chased the seal off, but not before it scared every Red Zone penguin out of scoring position. A dirty trick by the Aqua-Ravens, but it netted them a commanding win. Today, we're hoping for a good match-up between Big Bad Birds and Team Tuxedo. While both have a history of great sportsmanship, there's been a bit of a rivalry heating up between these two teams. Now we'll go live to the ice, with our field correspondent Chad Lang... ----- EDIT: Lucky's probably gonna hate me for this one...
Penguins are flightless birds, so maybe for that brief moment they're in the air, someone is fulfilling their lifelong dream of flying. I'd say try to imagine Tom speaking in the voice of John Cleese, but I didn't write him British enough. The correct response is to laugh. Then feel horrible that you laughed. Also, it should be fairly obvious that "penguin tossing" is not a real thing.
What if in some crazy future a man takes over the world and makes this a real thing? You'd cause a global extinction of penguins, or worst... illgeal penguin breeding.
Then I'll demand royalties, buy a remote island with the profits, and retire in style. Also might make it a tiger preserve, if the climate is right.
