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betterbooktitles · 10 months ago

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I went through a tough breakup one summer. I closed all the curtains in my apartment and played Wii games day and night. I’d like to believe games saved me from a few other self-destructive habits but I was participating in those at the same time. I was using games to escape working through any negative feelings. All I managed to do was delay those feelings. That was the summer I worked on a paint crew and I was fired for not showing up too many days in a row. We can count at least one job lost to gaming (and drinking/sleeping in). Also, the time spent on The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess may or may not have precipitated the end of that relationship. Who’s to say?

When I think of the parties I’ve skipped, the hours of sleep I’ve lost, and the months of not reading or writing a word, video games account for a lot of lost time.

There were several games after that summer that I let eat up time. Fallout 3 shaved 4 hours of sleep a night off my regular schedule. Red Dead Redemption became a second job. By the time Dark Souls arrived, I bought it, decided it was ruining my life, and returned it to the store, only to repurchase it months later when I realized a mistake I had made that could be easily fixed and make the game more fun. It was not fun.

When The Last of Us came out, its main selling point to me was that you could finish it in under 15 hours. That’s a few more hours than the HBO miniseries based on the game! I don't believe this will be a trend in gaming. More likely, we’ll be stuck with all-encompassing games like Grand Theft Auto except worse because you’ll have a Meta Quest on your head. You'll have literal blinders on.

The book Reality is Broken explores the benefits of virtual worlds in the face of a deteriorating social structure and planet. Despite the games being used as a salve, other books like Johann Hari’s Stolen Focus and Adam Alter’s Irresistible, point out that the people making these alternate worlds actively disengage from them. Most especially World of Warcraft, a game tantamount to a slot machine. The people designing these pastimes won’t even get “high on their own supply” to quote Alter’s book. Some social media developers won’t let their kids use Instagram. Some Google employees try their hardest to unplug for long stretches and practice mindfulness. There are game designers who refuse to play certain games because they know people who spend 16 hours a day playing them. The issue with the “Do whatever you enjoy. Who cares??” attitude is that there are plenty of enjoyable habits and substances that will literally kill you if you do them too often. You might not succumb to World of Warcraft’s charms but I know I should not try it.

I know video game addiction is not as punk rock as substance abuse. A former coke addict can feel an intense urge from merely seeing a picture of the substance, like reading the word yawn and needing to yawn. It’s a trigger. If you’ve never played a game in the way I’m describing, my writing about it isn’t all that enticing, but my relationship to a game like Civilization 4, a disc I had to break in half in front of my wife to stop playing, or Dark Souls, which took up so much time when I was on a writing deadline, I took my well-worn copy and gift-wrapped it with a note saying “do not reopen until birthday” is all-encompassing. I can’t read a sentence in a history book that deals with troop movements now without getting the itch to turn on Civilization and kill 10 hours.

I feel like David Foster Wallace as played by Jason Segel in the movie version of the book about the profile of the writer called The End of the Tour.

“I am also aware that some addictions are sexier than others. My primary addiction my entire life has been to television. I told you that. Now television addiction is of far less interest to your readers than something like heroin, that confirms the mythos of the writer.”

I quit a job once after going to see Penn and Teller on Broadway, and reading in the playbill a fact I already knew: that the pair decided at a young age to only make money from entertainment, thus guaranteeing they succeeded or starved. It sounds scary but it worked. And Teller said the words (ironic) that I needed to hear: the true commodity in this life is time. They didn’t want day jobs interfering with their art. I realized an office job that expected me to work a 10-hour day plus commute was digging into my creative waking hours, but what happens when your fun takes anywhere from 4-18 hours a day?

To clarify: I don’t think video games are bad for you. I think they’re bad for me. There is a healthy way to consume games, but that’s like telling an alcoholic that one or two glasses of wine won't hurt. I start a new game the way Ken Erdedy gets stoned in Infinite Jest: I close the blinds and make myself dead to the world for a weekend. When I can’t get away with that, I spend hours away from the games thinking about what I’d like to do when I finally have the time to settle into one again. Every game is a bender.

Read the rest of the essay about video game addiction, Final Fantasy, and growing up in the 90s here.

#lit #reading #writing #gaming #video games #essay #addiction #funny #memoir #long reads #long post #final fantasy #dan wilbur #better book titles

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radskull-69 · 3 months ago

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So what if Lucky were to encounter someone who is an UTTER CLUTZ

Like pretty much opposite of him

just absolutely takes so many losses

A mf who even pulling at the exact number of pulls a slot machine auto gives a jackpot, the machine breaks

Its for oc x canon writing purposes

lowkey finds it funny at fist, also if people lose at his casino, it’s the point! But you seem to lose more then the average person should..

follows you around the casino as you gamble to watch In amusement as you inevitably lose, like his own jester! Though after a while he grows curious about how deep this bad luck can go.

I like to imagine the person had the same kinda ‘bad luck’ as that dog from vivziepop’s video ‘bad luck jack’. And Lucky is astonished by how different he has it from you, watching wide eyed

tries to linger around so he can have some of that bad luck rub off onto him, he wants to know what it’s like to struggle for once.

and if he feels pity for you, he’ll use some of his power to grant you some luck (yeah he can give others good luck for a small amount of time)

you two even eachother out, almost keeping a normal balance of what luck should be instead of too good or too bad. It’s healthy. Surprisingly..

#Ask #answer #oc #the undermutts #doomsers

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ohbutwheresyourheart · 9 months ago

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next up on fragments from the google docs: my damas and jak mom backstory, featuring: policial machinations, damas's father being a bastard with style, complex damas backstory, enemies to (eventual, not currently pictured) lovers, the tiniest implication of samos hagai being a decent person if you squint

The guttering squeaks in protest as Sia inches along it. The window, however, opens with no more sound than the practised fall of her feet onto the carpet. Thank you once again, Karl’s Auto Oil; good for more than just cars.

Haven is never quite pitch black. Even in the dead zone between ‘far too late’ and ‘far too early’, there is a buzz and glow of neon on the streets below. Closer to home, the palace itself is alight; hard to see an intruder in the dark, after all, and the palace guard are nothing if not conscientious. Sia would take it out of their hides if they weren’t.

Real wisdom, however, is leaving herself a path between the lights for these late night trips that nobody else needs to know about. For that reason, no light shines directly into Sia’s room in the barracks… but the general glow is enough to see by, and she knows the room by touch anyway.

Boots off and jacket over the back of a chair, but that’s all she manages. The blinking lights on her alarm clock say it’s already two; she’ll get maybe four hours sleep if she’s lucky. Sia crawls into bed with a groan, half-asleep before her head hits the pillow. Four hours. She’s had worse nights.

----

As usual, it’s an early start. Emeris is a habitual early riser and likes to slot in a briefing before breakfast is served. For a time (before her time), Sia hears it was during breakfast, until the queen put her foot down and insisted on her husband being mentally as well as physically present for family meals.

True to form, Emeris is already entrenched at his desk when Sia walks in; he glances up and catches her eye with a slight smile before returning his attention to Clement’s run-through of the day’s schedule. Sia takes her place at the back of the study, ears pricked for any mention of new or rescheduled public appearances that will require input from the royal guard on security, but otherwise her energy is going towards looking more awake than she feels. Still, her job description is to stand guard over the royal family regardless of how much or how little sleep she’s had, so she stands to attention and flicks her eyes over the gathering in the room.

Clement, the king’s secretary, is as much a part of the palace as the walls themselves. His age is almost impossible to determine; he doesn’t look any different now than the first time Sia laid eyes on him. Pale blonde hair thinning but not yet balding; crow’s feet and frown lines but no deep wrinkles; pince-nez in place and tasteful clothing pressed to within an inch of its life. He drones through the day’s agenda without ever apparently pausing for breath, and Sia finds her eyelids drooping just listening to him.

Baron Praxis, by contrast, makes for a much more vigorous presence. The young baron (in the context of a broadly middle-aged aristocracy), he has been chafing at the bit to make his mark on Haven ever since his father’s death two years ago, leaving Praxis to inherit both the barony and command of the Krimzon Guard. Even when ostensibly at rest, he exudes an aura of impatience; fingers tapping on his crossed arms and beady eyes moving constantly around the room. Their eyes meet for a moment; Praxis clicks his tongue dismissively and looks away.

Well, fuck him too. He’ll likely have another disappointing day; his manifesto for the past month has been to convince Emeris to authorise a raid of a suspected metal head nest. Which would make sense, except that this supposed nest is still not confirmed to even exist and, even if it does, is miles away from the city; a thing to be wary of, for sure, but nothing to waste good lives on just because some young idiot wants to earn his stripes in a blaze of glory.

The final person in the room is the king’s younger -- only -- son, Prince Damas. A recent addition to the morning briefings, as Emeris has begun grooming him in earnest to inherit. Sia is still uncomfortable seeing him there, standing behind his father’s chair and leaning in periodically to ask a question or offer a comment. Not because Damas himself is so very objectionable (although he’s not entirely unobjectionable, either), but because Sia is increasingly worried about what this means for Emeris. The king seems as healthy as ever…

Still, Sia supposes he’s not getting any younger. While Emeris is still vigorous enough - these pre-dawn meetings are proof enough of that - there’s more grey than black in his hair and beard these days, and the wrinkles are settling deeper into his face. Even if he’s not ill, nobody lives forever (and don't they all know that all too fucking well nowadays)… but for now that’s an aspect of the future Sia would rather not focus on.

Count Veger is notable by his absence. His son is not yet ready to fill the space. Pity for him: there’s another one in the good baron’s mold; a man ready for his father to shake off the mortal coil and start making his own mark, but then even the neatest suicides leave at least a little mess behind. Still, the family’s close ties to the religious institutes in Haven should ensure the stubborn old goat’s spiritual affairs are tidy, even if the earthly ones require more attention.

And how does Sia herself stack up against this masculine hoard?

Young, that’s generally the first thing people notice about her; there’s a steeliness in her blue eyes that challenges anyone to put a definite number to her age, but it’s safe to say she’s past twenty and a ways off forty. Neat and presentable without being vain: green-blonde hair cropped boyishly short to her face (harder to grab in a fight that way), uniform pressed, boots shined. Average height, athletic build, more muscular than most women who aren’t in the military.

More often serious than smiling and more often quiet than outspoken, though most people who work with her for any length of time will say that she is conscientious, fair, and prepared for almost anything. She inspires respect in her subordinates and trust in her betters.

In short, Genessia Sartok is a near perfect example of a royal bodyguard, to the point where some (most notably the new Baron Praxis) have taken to referring to her, in often insufficiently hushed tones, as the king’s prize bitch. If Emeris hears this insult, he gives no indication of it, and so Sia follows his example despite how badly her fists itch to dole out a few sharp blows.

“...and finally, sir, dinner will be served at nine o’clock,” Clement finishes, drawing Sia back to the moment.

“So early?” Emeris quips. “Ah, you keep me working hard, Clement.”

The king stretches, muscles straining under the silk shirt and tailored jacket. Sia hears something in his neck pop from across the room. He sighs, shifts in his seat; his head rests against the back of his chair and his eyes flicked closed. It suddenly occurs to Sia that he does look older lately, in a way that has more to do with a heaviness of his gaze and a palpable weight on his shoulders than lines and grey hairs.

Clement seems to be thinking the same thing. With a slight frown, he flicks through the schedule, humming to himself.

“We could trim down this evening’s reception at the Eco Society?” he offers uncertainly. “It would net us perhaps half an hour back.”

“Half an hour,” Emeris mutters. He opens his eyes again, although the action seems to cost him some effort. “Well, we take what we can get, do we not? Genessia, do you suppose half an hour will sufficiently make or break the plans of any assassins lurking outside the Eco Society?”

It’s a joke, but Sia isn’t offended. She can be aware of how tiring Emeris finds the constant security while also knowing it’s her one goal to keep him alive.

“I don’t foresee a problem.” Sia nods to Clement and he begins annotating the schedule. Even if there were any problems, she’d surmount them to give Emeris the break he clearly needs and would never ask for.

Indeed, true to form, Emeris is already shaking off his momentary - well, Sia isn’t sure what to call it, after finding herself vehemently opposed to the word weakness - and his well-worn, slightly sardonic smile is back in place.

“If your foresight changes before this afternoon rolls around, we’ll proceed as scheduled. Jauniz will only complain that we’re upsetting the kitchen by ordering dinner early anyway.”

“It won’t kill you to take a break now and then, Father,” Damas interjects. “Even if it’s only half an hour.”

“Oh, no, no, don’t start treating me like an old man,” Emeris complains. “Not while I’ve still got some colour in my hair. Poor Clement and I are already becoming outnumbered by you young whippersnappers.”

Damas rolls his eyes, his expression a picture worth a thousand words. He catches Sia looking at him and winks at her. It is a wink that has reduced more than a few individuals at court to weakened knees. Sia makes damn sure she isn’t one of them.

The stately grandfather clock next to Sia chimes seven and Emeris holds his hands up in mock distress.

“And now look at the time! We’re late for breakfast. Your mother will be furious. The entire day is ruined.”

Sia lets out the obligatory hum of laughter at the king’s joke, echoed by Damas. Clement makes a noise that could be a polite chortle or just clearing his throat. Only Baron Praxis is decidedly unamused. As Emeris gets to his feet, clapping Damas on the shoulder and heading out of the study, the baron clears his throat pointedly.

“A word, if you don’t mind, sir.”

Emeris is far too in control of himself to do anything as obvious as sigh, but Sia detects the minute tightening in his posture as he turns to face Praxis.

“I’m sure it can wait until after breakfast.” Emeris’s tone is pleasant as he clasps the recalcitrant Baron on the shoulder in much the same fatherly gesture he’s just given to his son. “Speaking of which, have you eaten yet? No, of course not; join us, please. You can tell me about how your daughter is getting on. Ashelin must be getting ready for the schoolroom by now, eh? They grow up so quickly, you’ll blink once and she’ll be a teenager...”

Praxis is carried along on a wave of smalltalk and, from the look on his face, he is perfectly aware that this is only a distraction from a conversation Emeris does not want to have.

Still, Sia thinks as she watches their retreating backs, you have to give Emeris credit for sheer charisma.

----

While there is a guard presence even at breakfast, Sia delegates that task for today and retreats to her office with a pot of coffee.

For once, she doesn’t have much in the way of paperwork; the rotas for the next fortnight are drawn up, including the delegation for the appointment at the Eco Society that evening. Speaking of which: the file she requested on the star of the show has arrived on her desk. Now here is a decent read over her morning coffee.

The Eco Society was once a cornerstone of Haven’s governance; half-academy, half-barracks for citizens who showed a proficiency for channelling. They were taught how to use their powers and, in return for a roof over their heads and material comforts, were expected to put those skills to use in aid of the city. It was the early scions of the Eco Society, alongside Mar himself, who installed the eco grid that powers the city to this day.

As time went by, however, channellers became rarer and technological advancements rendered many of their contributions moot. Nowadays, the Eco Society boasts few members who can be considered channellers of any notable ability, and has stagnated into something more closely resembling a member’s club. Most of the aristocratic families can trace a lineage to the old eco-rich bloodlines and like to make sure everyone remembers it, but they usually accomplish that by just throwing a dinner every now and then.

Until now: now, it seems, they finally have a genuine candidate for a Sage again.

Samos Hagai. Sia can’t help but smile as she reads through the file. The man sounds like a hippie, which she can only imagine is going down splendidly with the old guard. Spends more time in the forests outside the city than in the Society’s hallowed halls, communes with rocks and trees more easily than people… and a fantastically powerful channeler of green eco.

Gods, the things that could do for the city. For the farms that were currently pumped full of pesticides and still straining to generate a sufficient crop for the city; for the hospitals full of doctors who nevertheless got patients they could not treat. If Samos could just find an untapped well of green eco, it would be an enormous boon, even if he never lifted a finger again for the rest of his life.

Sia is not a sentimental woman, but (blame it on lack of sleep) for a moment she lets herself hope - truly, fervently hope - that Samos Hagai is as much of a blessing as he seems.

----

Five o’clock comes around too quickly and Sia makes sure she is at Emeris’s side as the news of Count Veger’s death officially breaks. The city’s journalists are no more known for their sentimentality than Sia herself is, but there is an unspoken agreement on such matters; some consideration is granted for a prominent family to control the narrative.

A sudden illness. Details unspecified, but the late Count was not a young man; unless some particularly intrepid journalist takes it into their head to steal post-mortem reports, there will probably be an assumption of a stroke or heart attack. Too bad, so sad, but life moves on.

Veger’s widow is closeted at home, but the son is here to release a brief statement. The old count was a man built like a brick shithouse; the son must have inherited his knobbly knees and skinny wrists from his mother’s side of the family. According to Sia’s reports, he also inherited his maternal family’s unfashionably robust piety, which should make him a counterbalance to Praxis’s steamrolling towards modernity. No blind fervour evident here and now, though. Despite all the right words about a peaceful passing coming out of his mouth, Sia spies a definite shrewdness in the new Veger’s eyes. Yes, almost certainly a man who will have some fellow-feeling with Praxis, though he is the stiletto knife to the baron’s sledgehammer.

Apropos of nothing, despite the clement spring day, Sia feels a chill.

They have about ten minutes between the press announcement and leaving for the Eco Society. Sia uses five of them tracking down and collaring one of the agents Emeris has given her charge of.

“Count Veger. The new one. I need everything you can get.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “I thought we already did a file on him.”

“Did I stutter?” Sia snaps, which is unlike her. She sighs, counts to three, shakes her head. “Sorry. Long night. But yes. Everything. Any holes, fill them. Any questions, answer them. Associations. Vices. If he kicked a cat when he was eight, I want to know about it.”

The agent shrugs in acquiescence. “Your wish is our command and all of that. I can tell you one thing right away -- the man’s a few monks short of a choir.”

Sia snorts because isn’t everyone in this fucking city? “I’ll bear it in mind. Full docket. As soon as you can.”

----

The joy of having the palace as the central structure of Haven City is that nothing is ever too far of a journey. Nevertheless, the royal family seldom wander around on foot, especially when on official business. The palace garages host a small fleet of hovercrafts of various levels of grandeur, manoeuvrability, and firepower.

Today they’re going low on the firepower, high on the grandeur: Emeris has strong opinions about being as visible to the public as is safe, and Sia can’t really fault his politics even when she wishes he was more inclined to self-preservation.

She also can’t fault him for taking his son and heir with him on official business, but that doesn’t stop her mood immediately souring when she sees Damas tagging along at Emeris’s heels. As commander of the royal guard, Sia is usually the one closest to the king and she takes a particular pleasure in the privilege of being able to talk freely with Emeris during these hovercraft rides.

With Damas in the picture, however, she resolves to keep her eyes forward and her mouth shut.

He’s just so… annoying. Frivolous. Never taking anything too seriously, and always with that hint of a sardonic smirk on his face. Granted, Emeris goes heavy on the sarcastic facial expressions too but that’s different. Emeris is older, more experienced - he’s world-weary enough to have earned that outlook.

What has Damas ever had to deal with? A hangnail? One of his seemingly dozens of crocadogs pissing in his handmade shoes? The man (he’s past thirty now, he’s left boy in the dust and even young man is becoming less applicable) has never even served time in the army! Say what you will about Praxis - and oh, what Sia could say about Praxis - at least the good Baron knows how to hold a fucking gun.

Damas is also a dire politician with a severely lacking ability to cover his feelings, as evidenced by the fact he looks as pleased to see Sia as Sia is to see him - the key difference being that Damas wears his heart on his sleeve and Sia keeps hers under lock and key.

----

“I’m so pleased,” Emeris remarks lightly (and even Sia, who knows him so well, almost misses the sarcasm behind his genial tone), “To see you young people getting along so well.”

Sia glares at Damas. Damas glares at Sia. The king’s crooked smile deepens.

----

“In future, Damas, can you please refrain from making enemies of the security staff?”

The comment is tossed out deceptively casually, in true Emeris style. Damas fights to keep his face clear, knowing that allowing the glare he wants to shoot at his father’s back free rein will only prove his point.

“I don’t trust Sartok,” he replies - quietly, for he has at least that much sense, regardless of what Emeris thinks. “Father, truly, the rumours about her--”

“Genessia,” Emeris interrupts him, ”Is the single most trustworthy person you will ever meet, if you can bring yourself to treat her with respect.”

Damas snorts. “Try telling her the same thing. The woman looks at me like I’m dirt on her boots.”

“No, she doesn’t, she has far too much self-control to let you see that even if she thought it.”

“I see it,” Damas insists, because he does. Oh, Sartok keeps a straight face around him, but that in itself is a giveaway when he sees her so open and engaged with his father only to shut down as soon as she sees Damas.

Emeris sighs. It is a long-suffering sound. Damas wonders which of them suffers longer and harder for this mutually unsatisfactory familial tie.

“Then give her a reason to respect you.”

“That isn’t enough?” Damas asks, gesturing to the crown on his father’s head. He’s being more sarcastic than serious -- Damas himself doesn’t like to rely on his royal blood to get what he wants -- but he’s unprepared for the flash of true fury in his father’s eyes.

“For one thing, Damas, the crown is not yet yours,” Emeris hisses. “For another, unless you learn, and learn quickly, then you may not have long to enjoy it.”

Before Damas can think of a response, Emeris -- quicksilver incarnate -- locks away his anger and smooths his expression back to amiability. Even his tone is smooth as a bolt of silk.

“Take it as a challenge, eh? Your first serious political manoeuvring. Secure Genessia as an ally in your own right, not just as the heir to the throne. Perhaps then,” Emeris adds, “I can trust you with something else.”

Always the woodbee sting following the honey, Damas reflects grimly as he drains his champagne.

“Fine. By the end of the night?”

“Ah, Haven wasn’t built in a day…. But I’d like to see progress by the time this party finishes, if you can manage it.”

----

The prince surveys her more seriously, his head slightly tilted to one side. At this angle, the jewels in his crown catch the light; Genessia is struck by the thought that they don’t look any more impressive than the glass in his hand.

“You don’t respect me at all, do you?”

Genessia stiffens, trying not to show that the bottom has dropped out of her stomach. She’d thought she was keeping within the acceptable boundaries with their banter.

“Of course I respect you, Your Highness.”

Damas rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, you respect the prince, you respect the crown, and gods know you’re as loyal as a dog to my father--” Genessia narrows her eyes and Damas smirks as if she’s proving his point. “--but for myself, if I was just a stranger on the street? Admit it, you wouldn’t respect me at all.”

Doesn’t it make you wonder why? Genessia can’t help but think, though she does her best to shove the sentiment away before it shows on her face. She’s already in a big enough mess without digging her grave any deeper.

Damas sighs, the blatant antagonism easing out of him, replaced by - what? Sia can’t quite tell.

“I suppose what I’m trying to ask is - why do you respect my father and not me? Is it simply because he is the king and I am not?”

Can that possibly be a question he expects her to answer honestly? Sia eyes the prince warily. She thinks she can place the emotion on his face now; exhaustion, bafflement, and something - unexpectedly - very earnest.

Sia isn’t even sure how to answer. It’s difficult to put into words, even in her own thoughts, just why Emeris has her respect and Damas doesn’t.

“If it helps,” he adds, “I… apologise for my earlier behaviour.”

“If it helps?” Sia echoes. “Well, are you sorry or not?”

Damas groans; holds up a hand. “I am sorry! I just meant -- I wasn’t sure if the apology was welcome… Gods be good, Genessia, you have to admit you’re rather prickly.” He grimaces. “Case in point.”

“I’m overcome by your flattery and charisma.”

“Thanks.” Damas lets out a sound that might be a laugh or just another groan. “Precursors. I wish Jakon were here--”

The words drop like a bomb between them, destroying the conversation. It takes Damas a moment to realise what he’s said; when he does, his eyes widen and his lips part, as if he might take it back -- but he doesn’t. He ducks his head, and laughs, very softly.

“I do,” he murmurs. “I do wish he was here. I… was never meant for this, and I fear it shows.”

“I’m sorry.” The words are trite, but Genessia offers them with genuine feeling. “We all miss him. Very much.”

“Did you get along better with him?”

“...Yes. I suppose. We had -- common ground.”

Damas raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“I had a younger brother too. Have,” Sia corrects herself when she sees the blossoming look of shock and sympathy on Damas’s face. She hesitates before plunging onwards. “We’re -- estranged. Still. I knew something of what it’s like. The responsibility, and--”

“And?”

Sia glances away. Says, quietly: “And the love.”

#fragments from the google docs #jak and daxter #damas #jak mom #samos hagai #yes samos did name baby jak after damas's dead older brother #i have so many goddamn half-written bits and pieces for these two #sia is one of those ocs i never talk about but she is dear to my heart and i love her to death #my beautiful daughter with a disorder (or ten)#genessia sartok

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situsslotscatterhitamibet77 · 8 months ago

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Situs Slot Scatter Hitam Ibet77 : Situs Gacor Auto Maxwin dari Fitur Terkini Mahjong Ways2

The newest addition to PG Soft's Mahjong scatter hitam, Ibet77, is a scatter symbol in the Mahjong Ways slot machine. This feature is integrated into Mahjong Mega Ways and serves as a thrilling challenge for players. Due to its success in providing new players with encouragement, the website featuring the gacor link for the Mahjong Ways game, which offers Scatter Hitam, has become viral.

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kikoeluademel · 1 year ago

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Dias 11 a 23

Eu sei, já não escrevo aqui há séculos, mas a vontade tem sido pouca e este já é o segundo rascunho que faço - o primeiro já estava longo e perdi-o totalmente por problemas de wifi. Portanto, um disclaimer - este não vai sair tão bem como a sua primeira versão, mais que não seja pela irritação inerente a ter perdido tudo.

Dizia qualquer coisa como aqui vai um esforço à memória a médio prazo para vos descrever as aventuras da 2ª parte da viagem continental no Oeste dos EUA mas agora será um esforço também à memória a curto prazo do que tinha para lá escrito - um esforço inteiramente dedicado aos 4 fiéis leitores que pediram insistentemente mais um post, este é para vocês (vocês sabem quem são).

O Hawaii ficará para um último post, escrito pelo Kiko, que está a dormir e não pode dizer que não concorda.

LAS VEGAS

Vegas, o que dizer deste parque de diversões para adultos no meio do deserto?

É que é mesmo isso, nada faz adivinhar depois de andar quilómetros e quilómetros desde o Zion até Vegas, em que o cenário é uma auto-estrada com uma faixa única em cada sentido e deserto árido à volta, que exista, de repente, uma cidade daquele nível ali.

Assim do nada, começam fileiras de resorts interligados (e por resorts entenda-se hotel-casino-centro comercial-sala de espectáculos tudo do mesmo espaço), néons, luzes, réplicas miniaturas da Estátua da Liberdade, da Torre Eiffel e dos canais de Veneza com a suas gôndolas, fontes dançantes, rodas-gigantes, cartazes a anunciar concertos, espectáculos, promoções, the world's best mind reader (come find out and be amazed), clubes de strip, palmeiras, multidões, enfim, uma verdadeira loucura.

Vegas é verdadeiramente uma cidade de extravagância e opulência que não deixa ninguém indiferente - you either love it or you hate it.

E é incrível como os filmes nos deixam ideias tão exactas do que se passa lá dentro: o gingão com uma babe de cada lado a pedir que lhe soprem os dados para dar sorte, a amizade transitória entre apostadores e com o dealer se o jogo tiver a correr bem, a intensidade do ambiente em mesas de blackjack e poker com high bids, a população maioritariamente feminina, obesa, de meia-idade que habita a zona das slot machines que enquanto seguram o cigarro numa mão, a outra toca insistentemente no botão de forma passiva sem acreditar muito num destino de fortuna, a free-booze enquanto jogas, as massajadoras ambulantes que prolongam o bem-estar de quem está a jogar, winner winner chicken dinner. Enfim um ambiente contagiante que te impulsiona a jogar e a ficar com um saldo negativo de 60 paus (o Kiko muito surpreendido com o azar, eu preocupada cada vez que ele punha outra nota de 20, a conclusão que com tanta sorte ao amor, era impossível termos no jogo também).

Assim em modo highlights de Vegas:

Embarrassed to say it mas ficamos no Trump International, onde conseguimos um upgrade grátis para um quarto num piso mais alto com vista para toda a strip porque o ciganinho conseguiu rejeitar dois quartos prévios alegando um cheiro esquisito.

Jantámos no Hells Kitchen - parte II do meu presente de 32 anos para o Kiko, arranjada à pressão depois da reacção à viagem de helicópetro- e tenho a dizer que belíssimo bife Wellington tava uma verdadeira delícia. No entanto, é capaz de ter sido o restaurante com pior acústica de sempre que já fomos, às tantas desistimos de falar um com o outro tal era o barulho dos outros, para poupar as nossas gargantas - ai ai Gordon isto não passava no Kitchen Nightmares.

Fomos ver o 69º espectáculo da residência da Katy Perry em Las Vegas, não porque somos particularmente fãs mas porque os bilhetes para a Adele eram 500 dólares. E foi um espectáculo muito divertido, ela é super engraçada, meio quirky e interage imenso com o público e sempre que fazia cenas estranhas dizia "think, you could be at Adele's right now"

Na cidade do pecado e do vale-tudo, na qual existe um restaurante que à entrada tem uma balança porque as pessoas com mais de 156 kg comem sem pagar e tem um cartaz que orgulhosamente diz que já morreram pessoas ali de enfarte durante a refeição, não há como não admirar os contrastes de me ter sido pedido o BI quando pedi um sugar free redbull num bar (para combater a falta de cafeína do café americano deslavado, volta Nespressoo).

DEATH VALLEY NATIONAL PARK

Acho que o nome diz tudo, mas assim como pedaços de trívia para essas mentes curiosas tenho a oferecer que foi o sítio do mundo onde se registou a temperatura mais alta de sempre (56.7º) e que é o sítio mais seco da América do Norte.

Uma pesquisa rápida do google sobre o Death Valley sugere: can you survive in Death Valley? for how long can you survive in DV? how many deaths does DV have? and so on.

Nós até tivemos sorte que no dia em que visitámos estavam uns míseros 42º, completamente suportável, ainda que parecia que levávamos como que um estalo de bafo cada vez que saíamos do nosso carro confortavelmente condicionado para visitar.

São quilómetros e quilómetros em que não se vê vivalma e em que não existe qualquer sinal de rede. Ainda assim é duma incontornável beleza natural e ficámos contentes de adicioná-lo ao repertório de parques naturais que vimos em western USA, todos tão diferentes e todos tão incrivelmente bonitos.

Conseguem sentir o calor pelo vídeo?

Como o limite de 30 fotografias e 1 vídeo por publicação atingido e com receio de perder tudo novamente, publico já este e segue no post seguinte a continuação deste.

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yuchune · 1 year ago

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Exploring Pinion, Keyways, and Rack and Pinion Solutions in Singapore

#keyways in Singapore #rack and pinion in Singapore #Auto Slotting Machine #CNC Slotting Machine

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sbknews · 1 year ago

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The 2024 KTM 990 Duke Hits The Bullseye With Sniper-like Accuracy

Heralding a massive leap forward for the KTM Naked range, the all-new KTM 990 DUKE takes aim directly at the coveted 1000 Naked bike segment, pulling no punches! With 2024 marking 30 YEARS OF DUKE, the all-new KTM 990 DUKE slots into the line-up like a well-polished round in the chamber. In its quest to be the most performance-focused NAKED machine possible, the KTM 990 DUKE ticks all the right boxes mechanically, while deploying extreme new styling. The KTM 990 DUKE makes its intentions perfectly clear. Apart from a blisteringly potent engine, an all-new chassis and swingarm design – not to mention updated ergonomics and technology – it now sizes up to larger capacity motorcycles in both displacement and proportions.

Side-on, the new design has been modelled around the concept of an explosion in a freeze-frame, harnessing extreme energy ready to be released. This new design is further enhanced by two colourway options; Black and Electric Orange – the latter being reminiscent of the Naked models of a bygone era, developed specifically to celebrate 30 YEARS OF DUKE. At the face of it, predatory design meets reduced styling with its evolved LED headlight being a stand-out feature of the all-new KTM 990 DUKE. Constructed from a carefully chosen mix of materials, the new design ensures lighting stability in all road conditions. Position and daytime running lights are located on the profile of the headlight, which also auto-adjusts in intensity according to ambient light conditions thanks to a light sensor integrated into the dashboard. Additionally, the KTM 990 DUKE is fitted with a Coming Home light function as standard. Here, the headlight will remain on after the ignition has been switched off, awarding the rider with a few seconds of light to open doors or for better visibility in the garage.

Power is taken care of by a dramatically updated version of the LC8c engine found in the KTM 890 DUKE R. Boasting 947 cc, the roaring heart of the KTM 990 DUKE receives new pistons, crankshaft and conrod, producing a fire-breathing 123 HP and 103 Nm, with a total motorcycle weight of only 179 kg, ready to ride. The KTM 990 DUKE takes its DNA from the long lineage of hard-hitting DUKE models that have come before it, adding more verve and aggression for 2024. It is a performance-oriented machine at its core, designed around a lightweight, flickable chassis that inspires utmost rider confidence. In typical DUKE fashion, a stiff trellis frame and a new closed-lattice swingarm come together to welcome high-quality adjustable WP APEX Suspension components. These, together with track-proven Bridgestone S22 tyres, provide SNIPER-like accuracy when it comes to cornering stability. The WP APEX Suspension fitted to the KTM 990 DUKE features easy-to-adjust settings, encouraging the rider to push the limits comfortably. Upfront, the 43 mm WP APEX Suspension can be easily and accurately dialed in with 5 clicks on both rebound and compression. On the rear, the WP APEX Monotube shock absorber can be adjusted in 5-clicks, with manual preload adjustment also possible.

Once seated, riders are greeted by a 5-inch, anti-scratch bonded glass dashboard providing all the information a KTM 990 DUKE pilot could need. Revised graphics and menu structures are designed for faster, more intuitive access to the various features of the KTM 990 DUKE. This includes a new function that displays Lean Angle data, with an optional TRACK Mode complete with lap timer and telemetry stats. A USB-C connection is also added for device charging duties. In short, the brief was simple; develop the ultimate mid-class NAKED machine. In achieving this, the 2024 KTM 990 DUKE hits the mark dead centre. A full range of specially developed KTM PowerParts and KTM PowerWear are available for riders to personalise their motorcycles and get themselves kitted up in READY TO RACE performance. The 2024 KTM 990 DUKE will be available from Authorised KTM Dealers from February 2024 onwards, for £12,999 OTR. Discover more about 30 YEARS OF DUKE and the all-new 2024 KTM 990 DUKE at HERE. Read the full article

#KTM #KTM990Duke #KTMUK #MotorcycleNews #READYTORACE

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honourablejester · 2 years ago

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Starfinder Character Concept: Aballonian Noir Detective

Continuing our theme of Pact World character concepts. We’re gonna take an odd sidestep and head to Aballon, the heat-blasted metallic machine world closest to the Sun. Because, and I’m not fully sure why, you’d think Absalom Station would be the first choice for a noir detective, but there’s something about a robot noir detective moving through the dark underbelly of a mechanical utopia. Aballon’s undercities and ice wells, the melting-pot mixed-race areas built in the cooler, more sheltered craters while the machine megacities built over top of them, offer some interesting stalking grounds for a noir detective. Aballon’s Insight Array and universal social support (once you accept your assigned role) is also a bit of an interesting backdrop to criminal motivations and investigations. I don’t know. It called to me. So.

Dusty Brown. A rumpled android detective with a gentle mien who moves through the mean streets and high speed magnetic rails of Aballon’s undercities.

Character Concept: Dusty Brown, Aballonian Noir Detective

Name: Dusty Brown

Age: 87

Starting Statistics:

Strength 10, Dexterity 16, Constitution 11, Intelligence 14, Wisdom 14, Charisma 8

Starting Skills:

Ranks in: Acrobatics*, Bluff*, Computers*, Diplomacy, Engineering*, Perception*, Mysticism, Piloting*, Sleight of Hand*, Stealth*

Specialisation Skills (Skill Focus plus auto rank per level): Culture*, Sense Motive*

Race: Android

We’re gonna be a synth detective, doll. Yes, Nick Valentine is a significant chunk of the starting inspiration for this character. Will Flat Affect and a charisma flaw have an impact on our success with social skills and Sense Motive particularly? Possibly. But we’re an operative, so we’ve got the skill ranks to compensate, and I want an android noir detective.

And not just an android. We’re going to be an Aballonian android. We’re gonna be a rumpled android detective working the mean streets and high-speed magnetic rail systems of the machine world’s undercities. Even in a logical utopia where food and lodging are (usually) guaranteed, people still have passions, and ideologies, and desires, and hatreds. No matter where you go, someone there will wind up dead, or something there will wind up taken. There’s all the work in the world for a private detective, even on a world with vast near-omniscient AI running the show. So one day the self-named Dusty Brown stepped off the mag-rail and hung up her shingle as a PI in Striving’s Lors Emphyria undercity. She wasn’t exactly assigned that role, the Insight Array didn’t offer it as a suggestion, but she wound up getting a stipend anyway, so maybe the machine overlords think she’s doing some good.

I think I’ll swap out the android’s Upgrade Slot for the alternate Nanite Upgrade and take Rebooting Nanites. Dusty’s a hard girl to keep down.

Description:

On the shorter side for an android, Dusty Brown is a stocky woman of about 5ft, with grey eyes and dark brown skin with circuit-seams that glow a dull silvery-grey. She tends to wear dark, sensible clothes over light armour, but does allow the small affectation of a nice long trench coat. A girl’s gotta dress for the role, after all. She tends to favour non-lethal weapons, usually keeping a trusty pulsecaster in its holster under her coat.

Theme: Street Rat

I did look at Paranormal Investigator, just to double down on the detective idea, but Dusty’s not really a paranormal sort of girl. Street Rat, with its urban underworld vibes, is more her style. She didn’t start out with a nice stipend from the Insight Array. She’s made her way without a safety net for a long time. So she knows how things roll down here. She’s a noir detective, not a paranormal one. Mean streets are where she lives.

Class: Operative (Detective)

I mean it had to be. Operative has a whole specialisation ready-made for our concept. And I’m not going to say no to a whole bunch of skills, either.

And we are going to be aiming more in a skill-monkey, explorer, truth-seeker sort of direction, more than combat. Dusty prefers to be non-confrontational, non-lethal. The fact that she has the charisma of a brick (or, well, a robot) doesn’t necessarily help in this regard, but she tries. Her streets might be mean, but she doesn’t want to emulate them. She wants to help piece together what’s gone wrong, so that people can start helping fix it. There’s probably a reason the Insight Array was happy enough with the role she picked for herself. She jumped the gun, but it might well have arrived at a similar conclusion itself.

For that reason, I think I might pick up Scoundrel’s Finesse for her first feat. A noir PI should be able to throw a punch, and she’ll try that well before she graduates to more lethal options. I might also give her a Restraining Spinneret augmentation, give her options to tie people down and try to negotiate where she can. Is she good at negotiating? Not necessarily. But she’s gonna try.

Summary:

Mostly, I just wanted an android noir detective? And then I was noodling around worlds with large android populations, and Aballon caught on things in my brain. Honestly, Aballon would be a fascinating world to run an urban mystery campaign on. I mean, lots of Pact World worlds would be great for that, Verces, Absalom Station, the Sun, but Aballon has an interesting ‘rugged flawed utopia’ sort of angle to it. Machine logic, mining rights, synthetic liberation, organic enclaves, high-speed mag-rail networks (I know I keep mentioning these, but they do a lot for the cyberpunk imagery on Aballon, and that doesn’t hurt the noir vibes at all) … There’s a lot to work with.

So. Dusty Brown. A tired, rumpled, uncharismatic android noir detective who’s just doing her best to help. Heh.

#starfinder #ttrpgs #character concepts #noir detective #synth detective #machine world noir #aballon #androids #operatives

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