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Topics - Sandtrap
301
« on: September 15, 2014, 06:07:20 PM »
Summer days, few weeks ago, average of 480 dollars a day.
Last week. Average plummeted to 98 dollars a day.
Today, at the current moment, we made 60 dollars today.
60 fucking dollars. The bare minimum we need to keep this place going and paid for a day is 200. And I've got all this shit to fucking upkeep and pay. I don't know how I can physically do any more than I already am. I'm on my feet for 16 hours a day. We're doing everything we can that we can support with two people working a restaurant/cafe.
I have no idea how I'm going to fix this mess.
302
« on: September 14, 2014, 11:29:40 AM »
Tell me you remember how bananas the bridge mission on Kasshyyk was. This is the official republic commando nostalgia thread by the way.
303
« on: September 13, 2014, 01:50:00 PM »
100% honesty rule goin' on. No dodging questions with randomness for me. Let's see if you folks can uncover something interesting for the sake of it.
304
« on: September 10, 2014, 07:09:18 PM »
You know what? I need to say something. I need to say it because with all the weight that's sitting on me right now, this right here, is fucking eating me from the inside out. And I know some of you, most of you, don't or won't care. "Oh well it's just a cat, life's not fair." Some of you won't even bother to read this upon realizing that I'm writing for a cat. You'll turn and look the other way, and go about your business elsewhere without a second thought. But I'm writing this now, not just for the cat. Because what happened to that cat is a representation of everything wrong with society and people today. There's a good fucking reason why I live in almost total isolation. So, from here on out, I speak in the hopes that you can see through my eyes what I saw.
Just two days ago, I went driving around with my friend. He stopped by anacquaintances place to see how things were going. I use acquaintance very loosely. And as I walked through the grass, lo and behold, on the ground beneath me was a kitten, with it's back turned to us. When I went over to him, he simply turned his head towards the sound as it approached him, and looked up as I called out at him.
And there, on seeing what was wrong with the cat, along with my friend, we asked if we could take the cat. The loose acquaintance said sure thing. My friend could not take the cat, because he himself has no more room for cats. And, admittedly neither do I. But I wouldn't stand around and wait for something to happen. So I picked up that decrepit bundle of fur, sick from his eyes with green shit that blinded his vision entirely, and snot and mucus and blood constantly running from his nose, and I brought him home.
I cleaned out his eyes, and cleaned his nose, bought some tuna, bought some wet catfood, gave him dry food and water, and did my best to feed him and get him something to drink. None of it worked save for the water. So, I turned the heater on and left the cat in my room with the light on, in that small little cage of his. Every time without fail, when I opened up the door, the first thing the cat did, decripit and sick as he was, was to rush over and try to get out to explore. Now, I had to keep him contained, because I have my own cats too. But for this, I am sorry, and I always will be, because at the time, I didn't recognize it for what it was.
But, in the night, I did recognize one thing. When I turned out the light and tried to sleep, the kitten howled. Clawed at the door and made a fuss. So I turned the light back on. And soon, the fuss stopped. It was the darkness. The dark of the night, the pitch black void of going blind through being sick as your eyes clouded shut and encrusted with bile and toxins. It was terrifying. So I left the light on. And I decided to stay up. I stayed up all night, making noise, poking my fingers through the cage, and letting the cat know that I was there, all night. And in the morning, I stood up, against sleep, and started work in my restuarant. And when the time of day came that business was slow and I could let my mother manage, I set off.
The kitten had ceased activity and remained in the back of the carrier, still as stone. But I checked. And he was indeed alive, and responsive when I called out. But I hurried off to the vets, regardless. And when I arrived at the vets, and they pulled him out, sat him down on a hot pad and wrapped a heated blanket around him, and they cleaned out his eyes from the fresh layer of bile and toxins, something happened. The kitten was neither afraid, nor weary. It wanted to explore, to see and to look. And I stayed with it, rubbed his head and was surprised at how responsive he was. And so I looked down, bringing my eyes up to the damaged remains of his, the kitten moved forwards and climbed my arm, making one final jump onto my shoulders, where it sat there in a bundle until the vet pulled him off for me because I didn't have the heart to.
And then, that was it. It was beyond my control. And the vets took him. And, that was the last time I'd see this cat alive. On the first day, things were okay, still in bad shape, the vets had to force feed him and stick an IV to give him water. But the kitten was active. But I decided that they should keep him overnight, just in case. And, this morning, I got the call from the vet as my wake up to the morning and the day in general. The kitten didn't make it.
And then I understood. The attempts to leave the cage. The howling in the dark. The rubbing of his head on my hand and that one, final jump onto my shoulder. His time was over, and that was it. Yet to despite it's misery, it's diarrhea, its damaged and clogged eyes, its plugged nose, its underweight, starving and dehydrated body, and the ulcers that plauged his mouth and the worms that infested his insides and god only knows what other horrible plagues the cat was bestowed with, all this cat wanted to do was what every kitten at six weeks old did. Explore the world around it, look and see all the new things to it, and most of all, it wanted someone, something, anything out there to show that it cared.
And so I buried you today. I buried you on the old farm I grew up on, along with all the other animals that have come and gone through my life, and my families life through the years. I pulled what remained of your disease ridden body from the box you were placed in, as you were stone still, curled up as if you were sleeping, and I put you into a hole into the earth, and I buried you. You were six weeks old, weighed barely a pound, and you never had a name.
And for that, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't find you in time. And I'm sorry that I will never be there to give you a life worth living, days and hours spent with affection and love and somebody who cared.
Most of all, I'm sorry that the world has gone blind, that there are people out there, who not only hold no regard for the life of human beings, but hold no regards for any life form, no matter how far it is beneath them. I'm sorry that they hold no respect, and no common sense. I'm sorry, that a meaningless, material construct that was more important and valuable to one person than your life. I offered what I could. I threw everything I had, every last scrap of money I could scrounge out to the vets who did everything they could were I couldn't. And now I'm broke. Out of money and out of time against the coming hardships of the winter. But I don't care, because money is money. If you seek it, you will find it. And if you have it, you will spend it, because that is the only reason it exists. But you should never forget or allow yourself to get caught in the trap that comes with it, blind you to the things that really matter.
If somebody came to me, and said I could bring you back if I gave them the envelope in the safe containing all the money I've been so desperately trying to save to find myself a home, I would give it, without question or pause. But life doesn't work that way. Life isn't fair. And I'm sorry that through my best efforts I couldn' make it fair.
But I will remember the hours I spent with you. That long night, as I checked on you to make sure you were still alive. The agonizing truck ride for 50 minutes as I drove to bring you somewhere you could get more help. And finally, that last will in your bones that fought against every disease ridden parasite and broken part of your body that allowed you to climb up onto my shoulder one last time.
The world at large, and the person who refused to take care of you may not have cared.
But I did. And I always will. And I'm sorry I couldn't give you a better life.
305
« on: September 07, 2014, 10:57:33 PM »
I was out and about with my friend, and he stopped by somebody's house in the general vicinity. Now, I refrain from describing this guy as a "friend" to either of us. More like an accquaintince. And he's got a lot of cats. But he doesn't spay them. Just feeds them is all. They can get shot by the farmers or hunters out here, ran over by traffic, or freeze in the winter. He doesn't do nothing about it.
So I walk up to this kitten. It's just sitting there in the grass. Looks up to me because it can hear me. But it can't see me. Know why? This kitten is in the middle of an infection. It's eyes were encrusted with green shit, closed shut. A combination of blood and grey shit was coming out of it's nose.
And he didn't haul it off to the vet. The only thing he did do was try to clean its eyes, and he did a piss poor job of that too. So after he went back into his house, I picked up the cat and left. I'll be bringing the little fellow into the vet tomorrow.
306
« on: September 05, 2014, 03:11:41 AM »
Everybody's got a favorite season. Everybody's got a season they dislike. But I ask, is there any season that affects your mood? Something in the background that makes you feel a certain way when you look at the environment around you, and you know without a doubt that it's this one season for sure?
Mine is Fall. I can appreciate what comes with Fall, but I don't enjoy it. There's something deeply off putting to me when I look outside, and I see the sky, grey as if it were dying, and the colour draining away leaving dead husks. I never knew what it was, but Fall was always tricky for me. My head's a mess, scrambled and lost, and depression creeps from the black corner of it's hole and takes another step, another foothold.
I can always tell when it's fall because I have to fight every morning to get up and do something with my day, and the world around me turns into something unsettling,
At the very least, Fall is short lived. No more than a month at the most before the ice and snow rolls in.
How about you folks? Any seasons with special influences on you?
307
« on: September 01, 2014, 01:58:35 AM »
A strange night it seems, I'm very chatty, and I don't have fuck all for people to talk to. So, gimme some questions.
308
« on: August 31, 2014, 12:55:00 PM »
Gentlemen, show me what you've got.
309
« on: August 27, 2014, 11:48:19 AM »
Fuck SolitaireThis shitty old computer only lasts in short bursts because it's motherboard has some cracked component that's leaking very slowly, and as luck would have it, this is the only one that survived the surges that knocked out half the shit in my fucking restaurant and home. And fuck me sideways the more I get into shit the more problems I find. The surges didn't just knock out our modem, they fried a fuck ton of wires and connections which I'm going to have to filter through and test one by one. And to top all this fucking shit off, the new modem the lovely internet overlords of my province have sent me is fucking defunct. So, all I can do is play fucking solitaire. And I really don't dig fucking luck based games. To be half assed productive, talk about your experiences with the shit computers and tech stuff throws at you, and your experiences treading through the minefield of tech support supplied via your wonderous internet overlords. Update 2:MFW I go downstairs and find out our fucking sandvich board just died. I spent the last two hours scrambling to empty something roughly the size of a freezer into every available fridge we have. Here's the kicker. It's the compressor on the back that's something wrong. Got the price check on how much it would be to replace the whole thing if it's burnt out. 1200 bucks. 
310
« on: August 26, 2014, 04:29:39 PM »
Little dusty old thought that popped up a while back, but first, I'd like to give credit where credit is due. At some point on Bungie.blind, there was a discussion somewhere about something, and Meta Cognition brought up a very interesting point, which surfaced again in the last few days in my thoughts.
Let's say you own a truck, or a car that you're fond of. You want to keep it. You enjoy it, and take care of it, and keep it all through a major portion of your life. But, eventually, like everything, your vehicle will break, and you'll need to replace it.
So here's what I ask. What makes your vehicle, yours? At first glance it might be the vehicle as a whole in it's entirety. But something happens when you fix your vehicle up or tune it. You remove parts of it. So suddenly, as a whole, your vehicle grows a little smaller. While it is replaced with new parts that are largely identical, those parts are undeniably different from the originals.
And now we can take things a step further. What about your body? Every year or so, every last atom that makes up your body is lost, and then replaced. The only part of you that remains intact are your thoughts. Everything else phases out, and phases back in again.
So with this in mind, I ask, what does it mean to really own something? From a traditional standpoint, owning something means that it is yours, and yours alone, to do with as you please. You can fix it, break it, modify it, put love into it, whatever. But this particular thing alone is yours.
But if we look at what I said above, technically you never own anything. You don't even have control over it. Because the original no longer exists, and the present form of what you hold always changes. And if we bring entropy into things, and the fact nothing is ever truly a carbon copy of itself down at the atomic level, then what you "own" will eventually degrade until even the physical form it once held no longer exists. But, at the same time, the individual atoms that made up your special something are never lost, and repurposed into new things.
So either we own nothing, because of the fact that the original copy of what we own is always lost and dispersed forever, or we own everything, because everything has a piece of something else in it that you, at some point in your life interacted with.
From a physical standpoint, we measure what we own based off of physical things. The fact that we crafted it, or used money to buy it, or we defend it, or even take it, or a piece of paper says that something is yours. When in reality we have no true say in things other than the perspective view we exist on.
But I'm curious. If you read through all that, then keep it in your head, and try to answer this. To you, with that knowledge in hand of what I just put up above, what does it really mean to own something?
311
« on: August 25, 2014, 11:00:26 PM »
I drove around to the far off towns for about 3 hours, ripped out and disposed of 40 bus seats, hauled 50 old iron tractor tire weights, set them up, moved them around, and dug the ground under them to make them level. I am tired.
But tonight, there is still some work to be done. So, while I have access to the internet on this shitty old computer for the few minutes the computer remains active, let's talk for a bit shall we? Talk about whatever you want. Ask away, yell and scream, whatever. But keep my mind going.
312
« on: August 20, 2014, 02:43:09 AM »
I don't have much to say other than HHHHNNNNGGGG.
313
« on: August 19, 2014, 01:48:18 PM »
That his man was a supreme golfer.
314
« on: August 19, 2014, 01:26:42 AM »
Gentlemen, tomorrow, or potentially the day after, I'm going to be undertaking an interesting job. A friend of mine has acquired a bus. A tanky, old, medium sized school bus. For starters, a lot of things in the area have to be moved to accomodate it. And then we're going to go inside, and cut apart the 40 seats that consist of the inside to lighten it up. But the real challenge comes with moving the bus.
The bus has no tires, no hubs, or even any parts to latch onto underneath. And that means we get to do things in an interesting manner. Pushing, pulling, or rolling this damn thing off the trailer it rests on, while keeping it stable. For this, we're going to be hauling some handy telephone poles around and seeing what we can do with some good old fashioned manpower and levers, minus the small crane that set the thing down on the trailer in the first place.
Any of you folks wan't pictures of the event?
Assuming we can pull things off, it'll make a nice greenhouse.
315
« on: August 15, 2014, 11:52:02 PM »
Have ever been in absolute darkness? On my way home tonight, I stopped my truck on the roadside, shut everything down, turned off all the lights, and stepped out. There is nothing. You can't see anything. A blackness so deep that you begin to feel dizzy from not being able to register any depth of any kind.
But out there, in the fields, you can hear the wind. You can hear everything in the absolute silence of it all. And then, you look up. And there's the night sky. Stars, everywhere. You can see the band of our own galaxy etched across the sky as millions of points of light reveal themselves to you.
I don't often stop and look at things in the night, but it makes me appreciate where I am. Although my province may be remote, and the collective IQ of the place could barely compete with a rock, in that darkness I realize there is no trouble here. I sit in a corner of the world not worth fighting over, not worth taking over, and not worth anyone's attention.
Meanwhile, in other parts of the world, somebody who tries to go to sleep and wake up tomorrow gets their town shelled by mortar fire. Somewhere out there, are people preparing for a brewing war in their country, or a looming virus, a plague with the promise to kill many.
Many of these things come from the darkness in people's hearts, from conceited actions and wills. But as I stood out there on that lonely old dirt road, on that small patch of nothing in the world I realized the dark I stood in was pure. It does not discriminate, asks of nothing, and is all consuming in it's simple purity.
Anywho, this should hold some value other than my semantic rambling, so here's your challenge. Find one thing in your corner of the world that you wouldn't trade. It seems for most folks, all they want to do is move away from their part of the world. But, surely, there must be one thing you take enjoyment from that you wouldn't throw away.
Let's hear it gentlemen.
316
« on: August 13, 2014, 12:20:30 AM »
 Little while now, I've been learning some artsy stuff beyond writing. And today, I tried something a little different with colour. Since this place is up I may as well post it here anyway. A quick sketch and I made for a friend and I tried out my new stuff with colour. Son't mind the unclean lines, I've started growing a fondness for sketchy messy stuff. Anywho, there you go. Comment or whatever you feel up to.
317
« on: August 10, 2014, 11:31:15 PM »
Feelin' a tad bit melancholy tonight folks. So I have a question for you all. For starters, this isn't a poll thread because I seem too retarded to figure out how to make one tonight. And second, an answer with words can show more than just yes or no. I'd like to see what all of you would do.
So, here's the big question.
Imagine yourself, roughly two or three years old. And you see your father, whoever he is, in an argument with your mother. And suddenly, he lashes out. He hits her hard enough that he breaks her jaw. You have nightmares of the event for years, and as a child, you're quite afraid of him, even long after he's gone.
So my question is, you see him years later. With all that you know of things now that you're older, what do you do?
318
« on: August 10, 2014, 12:34:35 AM »
Here, have a random story I finished up a little while back. Just because. Since this site can't handle all my wall making skills, I'm gonna have to break shit up. By the way, be warned, it's a wall. Confessions of the Nothing Man Somewhere in England, 1850 Spoiler The door creaked open, as the sound of rainfall outside could be heard as it shuttered to a close. In its wake, stepped a man clad in a large overcoat. The man stepped into an old shop, the air of paper greeting him, as hundreds of books lay stacked about in a haphazard manner. From behind a counter, a middle aged man approached, his face contorting to one of surprise when he gazed on the guest in his humble abode. The man approached the overcoat clad stranger, reaching out a hand.
"My god. It's really you isn't it?"
Obata nodded, reaching out a hand and grasping the man's firmly. He smiled.
"Yes Doctor. I have come to give my last will and testament to you on this day. It has been many years since I've seen you. I am surprised that you still hold residence here."
The middle aged man gestured, trying to pull Obata along to the quiet parts of his shop.
"Come, sit down, please, make yourself comfortable. I'll fetch some paper."
Obata obliged, sitting down at an old table in the back, sighing as he did. The doctor came back in a hurried manner with stacks of paper. Obata held a hand out as the doctor sat down with him.
"Doctor, if you would be so kind, I would wish to write on my own, in my homeland's language."
The doctor quietly nodded.
"Thank you. I will tell you my tale as I write."
The doctor handed Obata what he would need to write. Obata nodded, eyeing up the doctor.
"This has been a long time coming old friend. For your patience with me on my journey, I will share everything with you today before I depart."
The doctor poured himself water from a kettle and handed it to Obata, pouring himself some as well.
"Take it my friend. Surely, you will need it to tell your tale."
Obata nodded.
"Thank you. Where to begin? I am Obata Yoshimoto. My former life, was that of a warrior. A Samurai. A life well lived and fought, until I met my end. I am the Man of a Thousand Swords, more commonly known as the Nothing Man. I will tell you my tale, of how I fought my greatest battle long ago, before I go to fight my greatest battle today. I will tell you of the invisible demon, Mu-Onna, and the terrible wrath I faced so long ago. This is the story of my life, and my death."
—————————————————
Obata looked out to the fog shrouded world around him, clutching his sword at hand in its sheath. He, and other Samurai, along with his Master himself, traveled the fog shrouded roads. Their purpose here today was to slay a demon, of immense power, one who had been terrorizing the land for months now. Obata's Daimyo, normally a calculating man, had been driven so far that he himself would enter the field of battle today, in the hopes of expelling the scourge from his land.
At first, everything began with disappearances. Small village warriors would go missing in the night or the day. And then, their bodies were discovered. Hanging from trees, stripped of their weapons, clothing, and skin. At first, rival lords were the subject of doubt, or wandering bands of vagrants, out to intimidate and frighten. Villages fell under waves of fear, and eventually, what was thought to be the work of vagrants soon gave rise to the Demon, a Mu-Onna. The woods held whispers some said, while all around there was nothing to be seen. Warriors would disappear, and were finally discovered, all of them killed and displayed in the same manner, with no marks of any sort left behind.
Which was why today it was going to end. Obata would fight alongside his Master to vanquish the evil in his land, a tale to be told in legends no doubt. The group had now traveled beyond the small village that was currently being terrorized, and were hoping to draw the demon out by their presence. So far, it only claimed warriors, but it taunted others, whispered to them from nowhere, spoke to them, told them to seek the strongest. The Mu-Onna would have the strongest today.
It was not long before the group of warriors discovered a sign. From up high in the ancient bamboo forest, tied to a rope, hung a body. Obata's master and the rest of the warriors looked on high to the scene. The bamboo was neither bent nor broken, and there wasn't so much as a trace of any tracks or marks. The frightened words of the commoners must be true then. This really was a Mu-Onna. A dark spirit, supposedly made of nothing. But this dark spirit really did act like it was made of nothing.
A still set over the forest, and suddenly a coldness washed over the warriors. A small river gurgled nearby in the silence. The birds were silent. And in the damp, yet unworldly heat, a feeling befell all, as they were being watched. The silence was broken, as Obata's master drew his sword, and looked out into the damp fog. Likewise, 12 other men drew their swords, waiting and ready. The Mu-Onna was here.
——————————————————--
"A Mu-Onna?"
"Yes. I have no reason to lie to you my friend. What I fought was real. More real than you could ever know."
Obata's longtime friend, Doctor Peter Cane, poured more water into Obata's empty tea cup.
"I'm afraid I'm having a little trouble digesting this all my friend. Your culture, has always been... fascinating to me. But unless I was there myself to see with my own eyes, I'm not sure what you say is accurate. You say men were hanged from trees, with no skin to be found?"
"That is correct Doctor. Every word I say is truth. I lay witness to the slaughter of 12 noble men, and eventually, even my own master."
Dr. Peter's face had washed over with a look of confusion, perhaps even doubt at Obata's words. Obata had long since ignored this. His friend, above all others was intrigued by the otherworldly, and although he was for a time, a Doctor, his profession had long since changed hands, to that of a simple record keeper. But even in such a job the old Doctor still found himself drawn to things unknown. And Obata had always been a mystery to him. The Nothing Man, Master of a Thousand Swords.
Obata took a long drink from his tea, before scrolling down the parchment once more. He looked up to his longtime friend.
"Doctor, if you did not believe what I have told you so far, you will have a hard time believing this."
————————————————-
Obata's ears rung like the bells of a great temple, as he shook his head, and stood, unsteady on his feet. He staggered as he clutched his first sword, and at last his vision came back to him completely. Before him lay his Master and 10 other Samurai, all coming back to their feet. But a few feet away from him, sat the remains of one man. There was nothing left but a small crater and smoke, and charred bits of armour. It was like he had been struck by thunder on the spot from some angry god.
From all around them, the forest was filled with whispers, echoes of men, many men, from all over. And then there was laughter. The remaining Samurai stood tall as the forest around them swayed in the wind, as the voices of the fallen taunted them. Obata's Master raised his sword in defiance, showing that he was not afraid. As one, the remaining 11 Samurai raised their swords as well. And then, the laughter ceased. The forest went silent on the wind, as the small river gurgled on by as normal.
Another unease crept over the warriors, as all that remained was the still of the forest, and the ashen crater of the one who had been claimed. The silence was almost deafening, as all sat, waiting, for something. And then, one of the men began shouting. And then, Obata saw it. Three red eyes, glaring at one of the men, right over his chest. And, like another thunder strike, Obata was sent sprawling to the forest floor as a wave of fire washed over him, and Bamboo splintered from the shockwaves. The same ringing filled his ears as he stood once more, to see the dirt spray up earth a few meters from him. As he looked on, trying to get steady on his feet, he saw the charred remains of another warrior, and then heard a scream.
Another warrior charged towards seemingly nothing, and to Obata's astonishment, began sparring with thin air. Steel sung in the air as it clashed, and the warrior was knocked down, and then, as the air blurred ever so slightly, the warrior clutched his chest, as he was gutted by nothing, and then, lay still. Other warriors were coming to their feet now, and saw the spectacle before them. But Obata saw something else. Blood, outlined on something, a wicked curved blade, floating in thin air. Before he could say anything, Obata's master charged head on, which prompted the other Samurai who were standing to charge as well, uttering their cries of war, as they charged head on towards the dark spirit.
—————————————
319
« on: August 06, 2014, 08:12:06 AM »
I'd like to talk to you folks about something I've noticed in Dark Souls as of late, concerning where or what Drangliec is. PLEASE BE AWARE THAT DOWN BELOW EXIST SPOILERS FOR THOSE WHO HAVE YET TO BEAT DARK SOULS II Spoiler Now, the most common, and easiest to piece together theory about Drangliec is that it's simply a new kingdom sitting overtop of the bones of Lordran. And with so many things pointing to cyclical events, why wouldn't it make sense? But as I've looked around, I'm starting to think that Lordran and Drangliec are completely separate landmasses. And here's why.
For starters, let's talk about one of the earliest places you travel to in the game. Heide's Tower of Flame. The architecture is extremely reminiscent of Anor Londo, and Oreinstien, Gywnevere's sworn guard can be found there, even further pushing along the roots that the ruins of Hiede's kingdom had roots in Lordran. Names change over time and are forgotten, so in all likelyhood, Heide was actually Flaan, the God of Flame. But here's the catch. Back in Lordran, when everything began to crumble, a lot of the gods fled, including Flaan and Gwynevere. This is the first key thing to note. THEY FLED. They didn't just pack their bags and set up shop somewhere in Lordran or the area nearby. They flat out fled.
The second important thing to note now comes from the first Dark Souls. In the first Dark Souls, there was always a separation between Men, and Giants, or in some cases, the Lords as they were known. The Lords, as we know now, bear many similarities to Humankind, save for the extent of their power, size, and abilities. But the Giants, we know little about. And in the first Dark Souls, we only ever truly met a stark handful. Hawkeye Gough and the blacksmith in Anor Londo, and the Giants working the contraptions of Sen's Fortress. All are massive in size, sport dark, greyish skin, and have their heads completely covered, obscuring their faces. So what does this mean for Dark Souls II? Frankly, I believe the Giants we encounter are from Lordran descent, albiet somewhat changed over the great millenia. And now I will explain why.
The Vangarians were once known for being terrors of the Sea, until Vendrick put them down a notch and set them to work for him. Most of all, they were noted for traveling far beyond the reaches of Drangliec and bringing "strange, inhuman" creatures back with them from a strange land across the sea. Most notably, the twisted Sentinel that guards the boat in no Man's Wharf, and the strange, black twisted creatures that hide in the shadows. Most noticably, these inhumanly long armed creatures bear a strong resemblance to Humans whose Humanity went wild in Oolacile, and even drop human clothing on rare occasions. Again, these creatures could be the remnents of the Abyss taking it's toll on Lordran. And, clearly, it's been noted that the Abyss is fractured now, and not as powerful as it once was, existing on broken fragments across the globe. Perhaps, after the thousand year stretch of the rekindling of the first flame, the darkness receded in Lordran, and the remaining Giants reclaimed their homeland, albeit, not unscarred and changed by the Abyss, while the reincarnations of the Lords found purchase on a new home, very much like their long dead predaccesors at Heide's ruins.
And, scattered throughout the game are many various items that hint at this, such as the lingering dragon crest ring. It's original owner was Griggs of Vinhiem, coming from the kingdom of Vinhiem. But the ring found a new home in Lordran as Griggs traveled. But regardless the description remains vague. There is one last thing to point out however. Brightstone cove houses a peculiar blacksmith by the name of Ornifex, and she often states that her people were taught long ago by a great pale beast. Many believe that this is Seathe, but as far as things are concerned, Seathe never had dealings with Ornifex's people. But another pale beast, regarded as an abomination, did. And that was Priscilla. Even more so, her exact whereabouts are never truly known. She may have been trapped in a painting, but what if the great Ariamus didn't trap her in a painting, but instead sent her through a portal to a land, far, far away from Lordran, enough that the isolation itself would act as a prison?
So on a final note, all things considered, we know that when Vendrick crossed the sea at the behest of a stranger, a woman from across the sea herself, warning him about the coming giants, now clearly known as a ploy by Nashandra, Vendrick came back with the ability to create golems. And, most noticeably in the past, the Lords were capable of building such constructs, such as the Iron Golem. I propose that when Vendrick crossed the sea, he stole this ability from where it natively came from, Lordran. And the Giants, having resurfaced since the Abyss had faltered and weakened, with wills of steel that they have always had in ages past, to face down the eternal dragons alongside the lords, came across the sea to reclaim what was theirs, and perhaps, face old beings they had once called allies so long ago.
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« on: August 01, 2014, 10:26:49 AM »
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« on: July 30, 2014, 03:32:30 PM »
I'm locked out of it forever now. Can't get back in, and can't make a new account. My time on Bungie.Net is now over folks.
Don't fuck this site up because I have nowhere else to go now.
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« on: July 29, 2014, 10:57:44 AM »
So, a few months back, a really nice cat of ours passed away, and my little niece was quite upset about it. The cat was an old brick, built like a tank and a fighter, but gentle and lovey as could be. Jump on your shoulder, waterworks drooling right away when you gave him some affection kind of deal. And, naturally, she was quite sad about it. Everybody was really. But I was talking to her about things, and I randomly mentioned that she still had all her memories of him. As long as she had those, in some sense, he was always still around. But it got me thinking.
What is a memory? How does it work? From a scientific perspective, a memory comes from your brain, which is a complex web of bioelectric connections and neurons. These networks carry everything to and from our brain. Impulses, feelings and so on. But that's just the scientific aspect of it. I'm asking something a little different.
What, is a memory? At first glance, it's an image. A window to another time. A feeling. All inside your head. But you can't physically touch a memory. You cant, pick a memory out of somebodies head and look at it like you would a book. Every memory we have is uniquely our own, just like our ideas, and everything else inside our heads.
Although we may never be able to physically touch a memory, I propose to you this. Everything around us, at the most basic, fundamental level is a soup. A big soup of atomic structures all interacting amongst one another. Everything in our universe is built off this. So, therefore, it makes sense to say that, in order to have thought, in order to have memory, a physical universe must be present right? And what that means is, memories, and by extension thoughts, are physical. Some part of them must have a physical grounding in reality and the universe around us.
So what does that mean? It means, that in some sense, a memory is a very real thing. A memory is a physical thing, a place, a person, an event, anything your brain has ever witnessed. What gets more interesting, is that due to decay, approximately every year, our body is composed of new atoms, meaning old ones are lost and found again in the structure of the universe. And yet our memories remain intact, grounded in a central place. But who's to say in that decay, that in the long line of particle string theory, your memories don't exist as part of our big vast universe? And perhaps, when you die, what you are, what you've seen, returns to the universe as a whole?
We could even take it one more step further, and say that maybe, in some strange sense, thoughts and memories are like time travel. Memories hold the past, always the past. They contain everything you ever saw or did over the span of your life. And thoughts? Thoughts are the future. Thoughts hold the power to change the world, change the environment, change you and the world around you. Ideas and inventions were eventually made a reailty by those who had the knowledge and perseverance to keep trying, and eventually, that idea, that far off dream, a future, became the present. And we are solely creatures of here and now, acting on instinct and what's happening to us in the present.
So when you die, you return to the fabric of the universe. Like string theory, which continues to ever allude and confuse scientists with supposedly random results, maybe our memories are absorbed into this potential string. And, maybe, those you've lost aren't ever truly gone so long as you keep their memories alive. And one day, you'll return to the dust from which you came. But you won't be gone. For we are eternal.
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