#Mind mapping for ideas

[ismailfazil1-blog]

Brainstorming Technique: Generate Ideas, Solve Problems, and Spark Creativity

Are you struggling to come up with innovative solutions or fresh perspectives? This comprehensive guide introduces you to the powerful tool of brainstorming. Discover how to unleash your creativity, solve complex problems, and generate a wealth of ideas through effective brainstorming techniques.

Key Topics Covered:

• Understanding Brainstorming: Learn the fundamentals of brainstorming and its various applications.

• Essential Techniques: Explore traditional and modern brainstorming methods, including mind mapping, reverse brainstorming, and rolestorming.

• Facilitating Effective Sessions: Discover strategies to create a conducive environment for brainstorming, encourage participation, and capture valuable ideas.

• Harnessing Technology: Leverage online tools and virtual platforms to enhance your brainstorming sessions.

• Applying Brainstorming in Different Areas: Learn how to apply brainstorming techniques to business, problem-solving, creative endeavors, and personal development.

• Overcoming Challenges: Address common obstacles, such as groupthink and fear of judgment, to ensure successful brainstorming outcomes.

Whether you're a business professional, entrepreneur, student, or simply seeking to boost your creativity, this book provides practical insights and actionable advice to help you master the art of brainstorming.

[yourfatherjustinmcelroy]

Rewatching the first few episodes of fhjy because i guess i have nothing better to do and the way you can see how kibblespilly was supposed to be a counter to riz is so fucking funny. Its all there from the very beginning- the attitude, the tactics, the way she interacts with the party and everything- this is supposed to be riz's counterpart to run against him for student body president and have a terrible battle of wits and barbs

But in a twist that is perhaps THE most befitting to her ideal story of running against the boy she chose to be her antagonist, the intrepid heroes just straight up not taking the bait resulting in her instead having to go toe to toe against her idealized perfect rival's aggressive near-flunkie unsubtle chaotic friend is SO FUNNY.

Like I know some people are disappointed we dont get the riz vs kipperlily presidential whatever, I know it doesnt make tons of sense in that specific narrative way. But the fucking hilarious meta that even this didnt go her way is so funny. Because instead of rogue sneaking and behind the shadows plays and spy vs spy shit, we have just outward schoolyard taunts and shit like kristen exploding and jumping over the school and the exact kind of play that baits kipperlily into rage every single time and its so fucking funny. Kristen runs naked through the school and does party stunts and is STILL BEATING HER. She even clearly constructed her party to mirror the bad kids perfectly and craft each of them their own nemesis/counterpart and for the most part it like kind of worked EXCEPT FOR HER.

It must drive her fucking crazy that her cute little plot of rogue vs rogue didnt pan out at fucking all despite ALL the signs pointing to that making the most sense. This was something she just couldnt predict, couldnt mastermind. She got up onto that metaphorical stage for a debate and instead was met with a clowning act. Its so funny. I love fantasy high. Nothing you could have done would have changed this, fourdogs. You never had any power at all.

[felassan]

The gameplay reveal.... I was so scared Solas was going to kill Varric holy shit

ask messages that haunt me.. 💔

[bed-buge]

silly spearmaster drawing i did a couple weeks ago <3

[charlie-rulerofhell]

Contra Cruciatam

chapter 1: You shall honour your mother and father

The second part of the Holy Mother Church is the secular lords. Their duty is to defend the law of God, to protect the servants of Christ, and to oppress the ministers of the Antichrist, for this is the reason why they bear the sword. This state is dangerous in three ways: Because it is prone to be overcome by pride, by worldly greed, and by the perishable pleasures of the body.

a few words ahead: this is not the full story. in fact, this is only the beginning of the first chapter in six (plus an epilogue), which is also the reason why this won't be posted under the KCD tag yet. i still wanted to share it under 'janosh uher', to let all you other janosh freaks know that this story is coming, because this is, essentially, about him. the story is set both in 1412, and in the past (pre-1403). it follows the events of my previous story, Sed Proditionem (so if you're wondering who Stepan or Mirtl or Magnus or this Jagiello fella are, you can read about that whole adventure here on AO3), but you won't have to know Sed Prod to understand Contra Cruciatam.

also, for the curious nerds among you, the quote above is (just like all the other quotes before the coming chapters will be) loosely translated by me from a latin sermon of jan hus. so yes, we're going there too. but also to so many other places. places that might make you laugh. places that might break your heart.

and now enjoy the read!

* * *

The biting stench of paint and vinegar filled the room, drow­ning out the sweet scent of old but polished oakwood, of dusty tapestries and molten wax. Even the smell of the food was si­lenced under that stench, but it was not quite done yet either. A soup with onion, carrots and cabbage, and a few hard cured sausages inside, served together with roasted bread and strong, aged cheese. The sausage Janosh had made himself from a stag Henry had brought him. It would allow Samuel to eat from the soup as well, and he hadn't minded the work either, the distrac­tion it had offered, as the memories had come back to haunt him. Worse than it had been in a long time. And caused only by the foolishness of that boy.

Janosh turned the spoon around a few more times, before he finally lifted his eyes off the pot. The boy was looking at him with an expression of sadness and regret. Finally. “Are you angry with me?” Speaking so quietly now, after having protes­ted loudly enough before when Katherine had scrubbed his face clean. I'm not a child anymore, he had said, and You're tearing all my hair out! There was not much to tear out to begin with. And a child? Janosh doubted that any child would have been smart enough to think of something so ridiculous.

“You lucky you still alive.”

“It went well enough.”

“For you. Not for others.”

The others in this case were the two unlucky boys who had pulled the cart on which Štěpán had throned. Dressed in old clothes he had been given by Mirtl. His face painted like a common whore, or what a green, inexperienced boy like him imagined a whore to look like. Mirtl had only laughed at him. Laughed, when all she should have done was to scold him! Not for dressing up as a prostitute, the people of Prague had seen far worse than that, but for doing so while handing out mock letters of indulgence to the curious crowd, and while having the two students pulling the cart shout: Beware, good people, here comes the Pope!

At least Štěpán, up on his wagon, had been quick enough to notice the city guard as they had shoved the townsfolk aside to storm at the heretical procession with their weapons raised. The two other boys had not been that lucky.

“You make it sound as if I acted carelessly.”

“Careless too good of word.”

The boy pouted. He pouted. Two years in which Janosh had known him, two years in which he had become a proper bacca­laureus at the Karolinum, in which his voice had become dee­per, firmer, his features a bit sharper, his chin growing at least the shadow of what could one day be a beard. And yet, it could just as well be nothing more than two days, because in the end, Štěpán was still a boy. Nothing but a boy. “It was needed. Pope John is desecrating the holy sacrament with his actions.”

“Don't speak like priest, boy, you make law, not church teachings.”

“And as a student of the law I am well aware of the fault in this indulgence of the cross. Absolution should not be for sale. And even if it were to be sold, it should not come as cheap as support through money or arms in the his crusade against Pope Gregor and King Ladislaus of Naples.”

“A crusade not seem cheap to me.”

“Yes, which is exactly the point!” He spoke louder now, more agitated. The heat in the air of the kitchen was more op­pressive than what the fire of the hearth could have caused. “You cannot tell me that it is just to expect faithful Christians to either offer their hard-earned money or their life for some­thing that should be granted to them by the priests' officium alone.”

“If they not want pay, don't need pay.”

“And face repercussions and threats for it? Pope John's com­missio indulgentiarum is campaigning through Prague as we speak, holding mass to convince the people that their souls were damned if they refrained from supporting the Pope's cause. I heard that Wenzel Thiem, the head collector of said commission, has been given the right to arrest everyone who threatens to get in his way, such as the Knights of Saint John. Clerics fighting other clerics over who gets to rob the people first and harder, it's madness.”

“Speak like Hus.”

“As everyone should. Master Hus knows what he is talking about. Well, in most cases, that is.”

Master Hus, Janosh wanted to answer, has demanded way too much from this little band of ours already, and I doubt he will be done demanding any time soon. Oh no, if anything, things would only become worse. They already did with every passing day. And Janosh had seen too much senseless suffering in his life, had lost too many good people to some fight for jus­tice that had grown too big for a single man to understand, so big it eventually collapsed and crushed everyone underneath. And what good could justice do? When King Jagiełło had gran­ted him a place at his council as compensation for the failures of the former King of Poland, had it eased the pain? “The title perhaps,” Jagiełło had offered, “if not all the properties. It would only be just.” Janosh had declined. No justice could ease the pain, no justice could bring them back.

“And it's not like I'm alone in this either,” Štěpán continued, still in his youthful fury, unaware of what his fight could cause. “Henry was there too, and Hans, and Godwin has helped me get the paint, Žižka has brought that cart.”

“And they all painted too like whore?”

“Oh, so it is about the paint? Is it also about the paint when Godwin walks up a podium to preach to the masses about the prelates' greed? Do you think the Archbishop or the King will hear him any less because his face is not painted?”

“And because Godwin high on podium, you get high on wagon at square of Old Town, handing out letter of Pope like food to hungry on Green Thursday?”

Štěpán widened his eyes in taunting surprise. At some point in the past two years they had stopped looking like two large plates filled with mushed hazelnuts, and had instead taken a shape that was narrower and perhaps more like what the lasses around him would see as attractive. Janosh missed the plates. “So it is about the wagon now, eh, not about the paint!”

“Is about you,” Janosh responded a little harsher, hissing almost as loud as the splashes of soup on the hot stone did. ”Godwin and Henry and the rest, they can do as want, is not my concern, because they are not you.”

“And you are not my father.”

The soup hissed, the wood in the fire splintered with a crack as loud as a bone breaking. The air smelled of old tapestry and wood and dust and vinegar, and a little bit of carrots and cab­bage too.

Štěpán lowered his eyes to his feet, his slim shoulders dropped so much they formed a crescent around his neck.

“You not child to me,” Janosh said, and his voice sounded distant now, as if lost in the past. “You make me think of Janosh when was young. Make me think of Adder. And Adder is dead.” Adder is dead, Žižka had said, back then at the lake, the last night before they had left for Grünfeld. When they had sat together to fish and talk and make plans for an uncertain future. We need to find our own way. Janosh had wanted to. Had tried. Had failed.

He stirred the soup again, the spoon was trembling between his fingers. “Go to others,” he whispered. “Food is soon ready.”

* * *

The sitting room of Godwin's house alone was bigger than his former accommodations in the university had been, and they had shared that room with all ten of them at times. Winning a war definitely paid well. And having a good relationship with the dean of Theology at the Karolinum, which was just on the other side of the street, and perhaps making said dean annoyed with his long-lasting presence, that too, not to mention the pre­sence of his nine loud, wine-and-blood-reeking friends. But what did it matter how Godwin had acquired this house? It was a good place to stay at, Štěpán found. Or to live in for the past half a year now. Big and warm and homely. An attic filled with beds where the others could sleep when they visited, a sitting room that offered enough tables and chairs for all of them to get together, eat, laugh, talk.

There was no talking this late April evening. Only awkward silence and the hammering of the pouring rain on the windows. But they had all busied themselves to pass both wait and si­lence, and to consider on which side in this conflict they wan­ted to stand. For Hans and Henry at least, it seemed to be the same side. Hans was sitting in front of the fireplace with a book on his lap, Henry was standing close by with crossed arms, face turned towards the cornflower shield on the wall.

For both Samuel and Mirtl as well as Žižka and Katherine, things looked different. Mirtl had not been present at the square today, but she had helped Štěpán with his costume, much to Samuel's dis­content as he had thought the whole endeavour to be entirely foolish. So they sat separated, Mirtl on a table with Kubyenka, Godwin and Žižka, playing a round of farkle in which none of them had rolled a single dice in a long time, while Samuel had joined the company of Katherine and Mag­nus.

Magnus was, other than his name suggested, anything but big. For a one-year-old he was, in fact, rather small, and so weakly built, Žižka had once jested that they “should have named him Štěpán.” Magnus was also a little shit, as Kubyenka rightfully called it. And apt to produce way too much of the same. Furthermore, he was a child that had never heard of nightly sleep, it seemed, because he did not care the slightest for the hour of the day or whether the sun or the moon was shi­ning. Magnus was always awake, always blabbering or wailing or screaming, always shit­ting.

He was also the only one talking. Or trying to, that was. The rest of the room had become unbearably silent. Lost in the events of this very morning. The protest on the Old Town square, the growing uproar amongst the crowd, and then the arrest of Kasper and Derslaw. While Štěpán, for one, was lost in a far more distant past. One that he failed to fully grasp.

He turned his head, regarded his own reflection on the rain-shrouded window pane. Like Janosh, when he was young. Like Adder. The rain dampened the torchlight appearing down on the street, made it flicker in a mismatched rhythm to the song that the men's clattering armour made. The flames were still bright enough to illuminate their coats. A dark cloth, Štěpán did not have to see the colour to know that it was red as wine, be­cause the three white towers were clearly visible. Prague city militia. The protest had made waves, like a boulder tossed into a lake, but as of now, there was nothing to fear. They did not know that they were looking to the wrong side.

The three watchmen stood under Saint Margaret's bay win­dow chapel for a while, looked up to the impressive Rotlev pa­lace that was the university, then to each other, gestured and spoke words Štěpán could not hear over the sound of the rain. They went for the Karolinum's door, found it locked. One of them pounded against the wood with his iron gauntlet, so roa­ringly loud that Kubyenka and Žižka lifted their eyes from the disregarded dice shaker, and that Magnus started to cry again. Katherine cradled the child against her breasts, held his head, sang a quiet song that reminded Štěpán all too much of the ele­gies the Polish soldiers had sung in Grünfeld. The university's door was opened, the three soldiers stormed inside without as­king any questions. They would turn every stone and book to find the culprits. And would fail. Jan Hus was not living in the Karolinum anymore, neither was the boy whose face they had only seen under a thick layer of paint and who was silently watching them unbeknownst this very moment.

The door was closed, the light of the torches swallowed. Ště­pán blinked a few times, saw his own reflection again, distorted by tilted streaks of rain. The black hair perhaps, but his eyes were brighter, and there was a defiance in them that he had carefully groomed over the past year, a look that he had never seen in Janosh's eyes, which were always filled either with kindness and jest or utter sadness, as if there was no in be­tween. And Adder? “Who was Adder?”

Hans lifted his eyes from the pages of his book. Henry, Sa­muel and Katherine turned to him in surprise. Kubyenka brought his hand down on the table and made the shaker top­ple, dice rolled over the table, one of them fell to the ground. Not a one, and not a five either.

“He was a friend of ours,” Žižka finally started in an unu­sually cold tone. “One of our pack. But you know that.”

“I do, and I know of the others too. Such as that gambler Ranyek, or the one who became a priest. You have told me plenty stories about all of them, about the Devil even. But it's different with Adder. As if none of you wants to share anything about him, even when he seems to have left a hole in this group that not even time could fill.”

“Adder's story is not ours to share, lad,” Kubyenka replied without looking up from the scattered dice. “Janosh was closest to him, closer than you can even imagine. He's the only one who should talk about him.”

“But better not to ask him,” Henry added. “He's in a bad enough mood as it is.”

“Ts.” His brother crossed his arms, leaning against the floral ornaments of a slim, but towering bookshelf. “I wonder why that is.”

“But what happened with him?” Štěpán pressed on, without paying any attention to their quarrel. “Surely you can tell me that much at least.”

The door was opened. The delicious smell of the soup floo­ded the room like the people flooded a church on Sunday mor­ning, creeping closer with every step Janosh took. He placed the pot in the middle of one of the tables, went out to get the second one. No one spoke a word. Henry and Hans and Samuel sat down silently, Katherine placed little Magnus in a cradle, before she came over to sit down with them too. The soup emitted its pleasant scent, but it only managed to make Štěpán feel sick tonight, the ten wooden spoons sticking out of the brazen pots reminded him of the heads of snakes.

Janosh sat down on the other side of the table and began to eat. Silently. The rain fell, the fire crackled. The spoons clanked against the walls of the pots and against each other, the sole of Hans's right boot hammered a swift but monotonous song into the floor boards as he nervously lifted his leg up and down, up and down. The carrots were well-cooked and sea­soned in such a way that they unfolded their full sweet taste, the meat was fat but crisp, roasted before it had been added to the soup, every spoonful was rich of pepper and nutmeg and even saffron. To Štěpán, it could have just as well all been no­thing but the plain rain water.

“They are leaving,” Mirtl said, and when Štěpán raised his head, he saw the torchlight of the Prague soldiers disappear left, down to the now empty Havel's market.

“Without arresting anybody,” Katherine breathed out. “Thank God.”

Godwin shoved the spoon into his mouth with his right hand, wiped his mouth with the left one. “I wonder, however, how long it will take them until they start looking on the other side of the street.”

They continued to eat. In silence. The drumming of the rain, the clanking of the spoons. Janosh's dark eyes were clouded. Lowered onto a piece of carrot on his spoon, averted from the faces of the others, so unlike he would normally do when he would look at them curiously, searching for their pleasure and joy over the food he had made for them. There was no joy to­night.

“Who was Adder?”

Janosh lifted his gaze. The moonlight painted the shape of raindrops to the table, to Janosh's kaftan, to his eyes.

“Who was he really?” Štěpán continued. “What was he like? I would love to know more about him. To know his story, his full story.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity.”

Janosh did not reply, did not move a muscle. The answer had not satisfied him.

Štěpán swallowed. “Because he matters so much to you. And I'd like to understand why.”

“Hm.”

“You're the only one who can tell me, aren't you? The only one who properly knew him.”

Rain and the rhythm of Hans's boot, but no clanking of the spoons anymore. Everyone had stopped eating. They only stared. At the moon and at the fire, and at Štěpán and Janosh.

Janosh stood up. Left the table, went over to the door, dis­appeared into the next room. Kubyenka shifted the dice around under the hollow palm of his hand. Katherine regarded Magnus with a worried look, as the child had started mumbling in his sleep. Henry continued to eat. He was the only one.

Štěpán already wanted to leave the table too, walk up to his room, hide under the cover of his bed and just let this horrible night drown in the past, when Janosh returned. He held a piece of parchment in one hand, quill and ink in the other, and placed it all on the table in front of Štěpán.

“Here,” Janosh said. “I will tell story. But only when you write. Write just as I say.”

“Yes.” Štěpán's voice was only a whisper against the noise of the rain. “Yes, I will.”

“And listen good so you leave no thing out. Will only tell once.”

“I will listen carefully. You can trust in me.”

“I do.” Janosh smiled. The faintest smile, before he turned his back to the table and to the others, walked over to the fire­place.

Štěpán took the quill into his hand, which was shaking with excitement, and waited. Waited, while Janosh's shoulders lifted and fell heavily under deep breaths. Waited, while his gaze had got lost somewhere in the embers of the fire.

“We need start before Adder,” Janosh finally said, and it seemed like even the rain was quieter now, was listening. “Much before. We need start with Janosh. Because story about Adder is story about Janosh. We need start in beginning, when Janosh was young. We start with Janosh Gilet.”

* * *

Janosh Gilet was five years old when his whole word fell apart.

[deltastorm101]

i've talked about my feelings of being "bad" at ttrpgs before because i'm usually way less cool and tough than the character i play as. now get ready for: everyone is just plain Amazing At Improv and I Am Not

[bunveh]

After the little vampveh discussion with Rose I’m now thinking extra hard about it all + I realised I think I never really even gave any kavea lore WHOOPS 🥲 now I’ve gone and written a whole except on kavea lore + vampveh x rea lore which is simmering in my drafts hopefully to be posted before his birthday at least (JULY NINTH IVE BEEN WAITING FOREVER FOR THISSS)

[flothunderstorms]

“You know what to say and what I need, but you’re not giving what I want.

I want your touch. Your kiss. Your love.

Seems like everything is mechanical these days. We move like clockwork. We move like office workers in a corporate setting office. You give me your jacket when I’m cold when all I ever want is for you to wrap your arms around me.

It was sweet of you to give me your jacket, yes, that’s what I need.

But what I want is your arms around my shoulder, your heat dissolving the shuddering cold seeping in my veins.

I need your love. Not your care.

Are we just anxious to leave, Al?”

[macbethheadband]

Why IS mash the way that it is btw. Is it just because its a good show

[carlottastudios]

YES FELLOW KAEYA ENJOYER 🙌🙌🙌🙌 I woukd LOVE to hear your thoughts its so hard to find anyone talking about all of kaeyas lore and implications

HI FELLOW KAEYA ENJOYER!!!!

Thank you so much! I have actually started the process of writing down my thoughts and even realized that, because of how much all of Kaeya’s lore and implications and references connect together, a mind map might actually be a better format for listen all of my thoughts than just a text post. But then, ah…I started the VERY rough draft for this mind map and I’m realizing it’s already getting so huge and complicated, I’m actually worried about whether or not I’ll be able to make it cohesive and readable.

I think that might be why it’s so hard to find anyone talking about ALL of Kaeya’s lore & myth connections & implications. THERE’S JUST SO MUCH!!! Kaeya, you have so much going on!!!! And, like, good for you, beloved, but it’s not easy for the theorists!

Anyways, in case anyone is curious, here’s a look at what I’ve got so far for the super-rough draft of a mind map for all my unhinged Kaeya lore thoughts:

Thank you for the nice message, anon!

[maliciousalice]

Hear me out (or don't... it's fine I'm just venting and mean) yeah um I don't believe Chakotay was saved in Prod*gy s2.

[skeletalheartattack]

...am I just losing my mind or did yer icon become evil? I don't remember that BeAst behind Boe

yuuuump always been behind me

[fire-branded]

Continued from here:

The Cursebreaker laughed softly and nodded. "Our little secret," Miles agreed. Any that remained could be given to Kenneth, or held onto by one of the two for the future. Either way, it was certain to be put to good use.

The pat to his back received a subtle reach and squeeze to the other's lower forearm. More akin to a light graze of his hand around Otto's wrist; it was enough to show affection, yet not enough to be overly noticeable to anyone they passed by on their excursion down to the lower level of the Hideaway. The sleeping quarters of the Cursebreakers awaited them, and Miles held no qualms with showing the other to his dormitory.

Upon reaching that oh-so familiar, yet not at all unique door into his living quarters, the bottle was handed to the head steward for safe keeping. Then he eased the wooden barrier open and motioned in a polite half-bow for his friend to enter.

"After you, my lord."

The room was, as one would expect, simple. It contained a bed, a small writing desk and chair, and an equally simple little bedside table. The bed was neatly made, blankets undisturbed -- or untouched, rather. On the writing desk was an array of papers, from half-finished letters to carefully read reports. Each one held a common thread of being disheveled, in stark contrast to the bedding. For the most part, personal effects were scarce; a sheathed sword was resting against the far wall. There were two items tacked up to the walls: a map of Storm, as well as an age-worn Rosarian banner, as tattered and beaten as the Grand Duchy herself, but still holding on just as proudly as her people.

And there were books, a few stacks of books scattered about. An open journal sat upon the desk's surface, though the current pages were still empty.

The door was quietly closed behind Miles, where he hesitated with hand upon the doorknob. "Please, make yourself comfortable," he encouraged. "I thought it best to go somewhere private, that you might feel more at ease in telling me more about yourself. About your life before this, about Deryn and your former family, about... well, you."

When the older man did turn around, there was a gentle, warm smile playfully tugging at the corners of his lips. "If, of course, it is not too painful for you to discuss. Curious though I am, and as much as I desire to get to know the two of you more --" There was a pause. The smile faltered for a split second, then returned anew with even greater sympathy in tow. "-- I also understand that there are some wounds that are far too painful to wish to talk about."

@hideawaysteward

[al-mayriti]

btw. if you had to design some sort of challenge similar to the ones in jet lag the game for any of the places in this board-like version of iberia (places are subject to change so it's all orientative, you could suggest a place in specific and i could work it out if it isn't too complicated i think),, which ideas come up???

[curseofthebloodcountess]

Tonight is the comedy game!!!

Better send the party to the druid's wife's funeral!

Honestly, that's not even funny, it's just that my druid player gave me a reborn dusk elf and told me to fuck her up.

We're also probably going to have a little bit of a Moment in Vallaki proper because our rogue is going to run into both her estranged siblings and her boy toy's wife. I legit just remembered Valeria is still alive a year prior to our serious game.

(Am I ready to introduce Vasili? I should ask my GF before I surprise her with her character's BF and his wife in Vallaki instead of Immol.)

Hmm. Fuck.

[moafleco]

thanks god that our human memory can just forget anything and everything,, look at me now looking at the evil within screens and getting good old happy warm nostalgia feeling (i fucking hated this game when i played it all the way to the end and it didn't quite fullfilled my expectations on the plot that had so much potential (to be in a way more mysterious i guess, i just don't like the sci-fi stuff and would have prefered it to be not that rushed in the plot and scene sequences in the end). the frustration was so HIGH i tried to block any memory of it but.. visually and some other aspects are still appealing to me.. and now the memory is reoccuring and wow!! the first impression of TEW from the first anounncements + trailers when there was a little info about it + half the part of some chapters that i remembered and liked, the ones i felt pretty intense when playing or liked visually what impression it left on me... and as those little facts started to unveil a little from my memory, all the ones that got positive response from, like made me feel something like a thrill or admiration, as it stared to create a certain imagery/impression from memory (for TEW as a concept), that is most appealing to me and had stuck into it ideas that i liked about it the most.......... yeah i love when you can draw the line between the original work and your impression of it and not smudge them together and then be disappointed that much so you discard your own personal impression that actually built upon the original and made it bloom for you and had your vision.. you know, same as impressions and interpretations from poems where you will imagine completely diffrent imagery or reinterpretation based on your understanding (and filling in the gaps in knowledge with age) or perception (based on your current feeling, life situations, focus on a certain things or themes at the moment) or even more wild imagination (taking the imagery even higher))