#wolfchild | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

easternmind · 1 year ago

Text

Last year in classic games

For motives I cannot expand on with much glee, I found a little more time than usual this year to reduce my seemingly endless backlog of classics. Despite all the fine new releases 2023 has greeted us with, I was able to finally dive into this eclectic handful of games I gathered over time. It is perhaps no coincidence that I reached out for more direct game experiences than story-driven ones. I find myself increasingly drawn to games designs that are mindful of the player's time as a commodity not to be carelessly squandered.

One note, if I may: I would like to inspire my readers to progressively discard the use of the word retro this year. We are all of advancing years and wisdom, I trust. The introduction of the term retro to the videogame vernacular was a gross mistake furthering the abhorrent notion that games were as ephemeral in their nature as fashion. It is a purely commercial designation by which to profitably repackage old software as a category of its own, originating from the same minds that considered games as mere novelty trinkets of limited marketable lifespan.

It is up to the player to individually decide on an older game's appeal, whether they may be discovering it for the first time or revisiting it for the umpteenth one. This is not only an appeal for those of you who write about games in any capacity, rather to anyone who takes videogames as a serious interest and communicates with others about this the object of their predilection. Thank you.

This loose cart came with a Famicom bundle auction I won in 2009, if memory serves. I turned on the Famicom and tested it merely to verify if it was still in working condition and found myself engrossed in that trademark Pajitnov/Pokhilko elegant approach to game design. As per the cassette's label, Hatris was originally a concept developed in collaboration with ParaGraph, a Russian studio that went on to develop specialized professional software, a year before the Bullet-Proof Software licensing deal. They produced a few games in the turn of the decade that were rather unusual and, some would say, even visionary. I recommend that you look up their story, if you're curious.

The only entry from the group that isn't of Japanese provenance - though it is a Japanese edition - I played it for purely nostalgic motives, perhaps a yearning for a certain pixel, palette and parallax that resoundingly evoke a time I was fortunate enough to experience, first-hand. If I may be honest, I purchased the game for the visual value of its unique cover art, which I deem superior to the US edition's. In saying that, I must highlight that the original Amiga game box art was quite accomplished.

In the Summer of 93 while on holiday at the beach, there was a French Nintendo magazine for sale whose purchase I could not resist. It was very common to find Spanish, English and French publications at the time in Portugal. This edition had a striking four page preview of this Jaleco gem, Ikari no Yōsai, or Operation Logic Bomb as it was named in the West. For years I searched the PAL version in vain, then ultimately decided to import it on account of - you'd never guess! - the superior box art. Playing it this year at long last, I was instantly reminded of an old Game Boy favourite, Fortified Zone, which I now know to be its prequel. Most top-down shooters are best played in co-op. Ikari no Yōsai is strictly and single-player affair and not once did I miss the absence of a friendly companion.

Keio Flying Squadron 2 first came to my attention via an infamous Saturn demo disc, which came into my hands through circumstances I have since forgotten about. I use the word infamous because the entire game code was available in the disc and the level select cheat code enabled me to unscrupulously play the entirety of the game for no additional expense - at only the cost of missing out on the colourful Studio Pierrot anime FMV interludes.

Having played the sequel first, I was somewhat disenchanted to learn the original game did not feature any platforming segments, it being a pure scrolling shooter in the same whimsical vein as Parodius or, say, an AirZonk. Still, a jolly good time with the old three buttons.

For reasons that will not be immediately apparent to younger reading audiences, I pride myself in having completed most Shinobi games, The Revenge Of and GG being my preferred ones. Shin Shinobi Den, or Shinobi X in Europe, was a game not readily available from my usual game dealers. I eventually borrowed the PAL version once, though not nearly long enough to master it. I finally saw it through this year, mere days before SEGA announced a new episode. While the live action clips looked a tad maladroit in the 1990s, they came to acquire that nice patina I now look for in classic games.

Omega Force was known to take the sporadic breather from producing some of KOEI's most cherished and profitable series. I distinctly remember enjoying Destrega quite a bit in its day, a game quite unlike any other. What their 1998 Enigma lacks in consistency and originality, it more than amply makes up for with its own bizarre concepts, extravagant characters and unexpected genre fusions. Of all the titles in this post, this was the one whose pace felt the most sluggish, and needlessly so.

Microsoft Game Studio Japan release schedule plans were not at all kind on this, their first production, Magatama. Earlier this year I praised this era for its highly inspired H&S action adventure titles and even spent a few days delighting myself with the likes of Blood Will Tell, Nightshade, Bujingai, or Chaos Legion. This most unusual creation, developed by the aptly-named Team Breakout - a group composed of many talented ex-Square employees - is one among the finest of the era. Sadly, it did not do enough to persuade players at the time that it was a better purchase than Otogi or its sequel. Playing it with my mind and heart set back in time to 2003, I can say that this misguided consideration may not have withstood a second thought.

I've long wanted to write an extensive article on Japanese firefighting games. In fact, I have the structure laid out for a Japanofiles entry gathering moss in my Tumblr drafts for over a decade now. For a brief period this year I convinced myself I could finally fulfil this aspiration and resumed Sakurazaka Shouboutai as research. Developed by Racdym - later Racjin - for Irem, it is every bit as good as Firefighter F.D.18 or Hard Luck, and in many ways more inventive from a conceptual standpoint. While Konami and Spike found a way to have their games released in the west, Sakurazaka's poor regional sales performance clearly accounts for Irem's reluctance to bear the cost of an overseas ticket.

32 notes · View notes

joz-yyh · 1 year ago

Text

Blighted Hearts - Ch. 5 (Preview)

SUMMARY: Damian is taken to the sanitarium to learn more about his condition. Will Bigby conquer his guilt? Time will tell.

PAIRING: Abomination x Flagellant

RATING: T (for preview only!! The rest of the fic is EXPLICIT!)

WORD COUNT: 2,754

A/N: Some references made to Penny Dreadful in this chappie! Also, decided to give names to the nurse NPCs because it just makes things easier.

Consider dropping a like if you enjoyed! <3

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Forthright with poise, Baldwin's stately saunter practically commands the room as he and Bigby enter the sanitarium.

His companion barely reaches half his size, a slumped, frail thing that radiates self-loathing, the two motley heroes duly noted by the resident caregivers.

One of the more experienced nurses addresses them first, a headmistress by the look of it, Gertrude if he remembers her name correctly, the rest of the staff curiously waiting behind her.

“What can we do for you,” she asks, fully aware of the unconscious man draped in the lepers arms, but keeping her trained eye on the uniqueness of the warrior's mask.

“We cannot get him to wake,” Baldwin explains, tactfully vague.

Having gleaned permission, the woman investigates her new patient, looking over what she can of his bloody remnants, formulating a few shallow deductions.

As she does, Bigby can't help noticing how the other women under her supervision stare at him. It's for his freakish appearance surely, probably attributing the flagellant’s current predicament to his own unreputable condition of lycanthropy.

Not that he can begrudge them for it, not today, because in this instance, they would be right.

It kills him a little inside, committing to his own stereotype, nails digging into the threads of his shroud, wanting to disappear inside it's shadow.

“Hmm, there doesn't appear to be any head trauma, but I'll need you to bring him to the exam room to be sure,” the nurse waves, indicating for them to follow, “Come, this way.”

The abomination is all too eager to leave the lobby, needing to flee the conjecture of their gazes, their opinions of none of his concern when Damian was his top priority.

They are led to a series of small rooms, each sectioned off, a reoccurring duplicate of the other, spanning the length of the hall.

Their evangelical guide directs them towards they very first one they come across, the inside outfitted with basic medical supplies, plain cabinets, drawers, and equipment.

“I'll have you set him down on the table, please,” she prompts, allowing Baldwin to pass through.

The leper does as instructed, placing the flagellant center on the leather stretcher, aligning his arms, legs and head to lie properly parallel.

“I'll have to ask you to wait outside while I check him over. Privacy of course. You understand.”

Baldwin nods, retracing his steps to stand next to Bigby who waits just outside.

The nurse is about to close the linen sheet, separate them, when the glum vagrant speaks up.

“Um ... ,” Bigby drolls, unable to pry the words out from his throat as much as he wants to.

“Yes,” she asks, “is there something else I should know?”

He can't look at her, stealing a glance at the floor, settling for something simple, “ … please, be gentle with him.”

The nurse nods, ”He's in good hands.”

With a harsh clatter, the curtain is drawn, a thin veil erected between the two parties.

The leper turns to his friend, watching as the wolfchilde sighs, wringing at himself in restlessness because all they can do now is wait.

“You're overthinking,” Baldwin supplies in a hushed tone, grasping at his bare shoulder gently, “At least hear what she has to say before you give into despair.”

Baldwin offers him a smirk, Bigby trying and failing to return it, unable to escape the grounding touch, bowing out from under it.

He knows Baldwin is only trying to do what any good friend would in this situation (he’d be even worse off without him here), but the moody werewolf can't handle any more stimulation, much less the physical kind, his emotions far too chaotic.

Sure enough, as he's distracted dodging one human, he bumps into another, one of the young nurses from before.

“Oh, your hand,” the girl exclaims, indicating the studded indentations on his palm.

“This? Oh no, I am fine,” he assures, pulling back, dismissing her away.

Baldwin realizes just how traumatized the young lad is, poor boy is afraid of hurting everyone now, but to shun help and human contact is not among the healthiest paths.

“Best not to let a wound fester and grow,” the wise king advises, “A dubious fall begets a single crack in the ice.”

Bigby can't find it in himself to argue, accepting her aid with a culpable expression of guilt.

Strange that so many people want to help him when the person who needs it most is resting behind the confines of a white sheet.

“There now, I hope you feel better,” the young girl smiles, pulling him out of his thoughts, having finished patching him up with a cloth bandage.

He flexes his fingers, turning his hand over in assessment, but before he can answer her, the harsh clatter of the curtain comes again, startling those present.

Bootheels clack loudly against the accordance of stone, the head nurse looking rather prim at her discovery.

“I'll be brief. Do either if you have any idea of how he got this way,” the mistress asks, forming her suspicions.

Baldwin cuts in before the abomination can make the unfortunate decision to incriminate himself, “we simply found him in this state. We were hoping you could shed some insight on the matter.”

“Well, if that's so, I am afraid his condition is a dubious one. His body seems to be functioning normally, but for cases like this, there's not much we can do.”

“How long will he be like this,” the abomination squeaks, looking wholeheartedly panic-stricken.

Gertrude sighs, the outcome bleak, “There's simply no way of knowing. It could just as easily be tonight or in a few weeks time. You have my condolences.”

Bigby looks utterly ruined, so close to a breakdown the nurse tending to him offers her sympathy as well, “You've done everything you could do. Try not to blame yourself.”

Gertrude turns to Baldwin, the more level-headed of the two men, capable of fulfilling her next words, ”When you're ready, I have to take down some information. His name, allergies, any medical history you may know about him. It could help with treatment and diagnosis in the future.”

“Yes, of course,” the leper affirms, “His name is Damian and he has never been sick a day in his life.”

“Lillian, the paperwork please,” Gertrude prompts, a snap to her tone.

“Right away mistress,” the young girl excuses herself, off to fetch the ensuing documents.

“After you complete the forms, you may go if you wish,” Gertrude explains, hands clasped matronly in her lap, “Rest assured we will give him all the best care. I will send word to both of you should there be any change in his status.”

“I wish to stay,” Bigby speaks up, looking firm, unbudging despite his sorrow, “For as long as he's here.”

Gertrude admits she's not in love with the agency of his demands, but she wasn't about to argue with an emotionally charged beast. It might prove hazardous to her health.

“Seeing as we have the extra space available for now, I'll allow it, but should the need arise, we may have to move you.”

Bigby nods. That sounded reasonable enough.

“Then, I shall stay too,” Baldwin asserts, not wanting to leave his companion alone.

The nurse’s mouth hangs ajar, seemingly overrun. “As delightful as it is to see such moral support, I can't have my whole ward filled with healthy bodies. One of you can stay. If you wish, you may return again tomorrow during visiting hours.”

Baldwin seems keen on using his diplomatic prowess to persuade her otherwise, but Bigby stops him with a gentle hand on his forearm.

“I'll be OK for one night,” the abomination says, fixing him a consoling smile, offering his gratitude.

For all of his years at court, honing his stately composure, it's still hard for the former king to accept this, knowing how disastrous grief could be, that it would be better if the two of them faced it together.

Perhaps, this was an opportunity to show his trust in Bigby. The wolfboy had said it himself, he’d be OK for one night.

The leper stands straight, giving a curt nod. “Very well. The abbey is only a short walk away. Should you need anything, please, come see us.”

It amazes Bigby, that his presence would still be permitted after what wickedness he brought to their sacred home, his dour expression brightening just slightly, “I will, thank you.”

Maybe it's the camaraderie, the aspiration that sparks the abomination's memory, presenting him with an idea.

“Oh, wait!” comes the insurgence of his first exclamation, the momentum trickling off, transforming into a smaller behest, “there might be something.”

The leper regards him with eager eyes, ready to fulfill his every need if given the word.

Bigby leans up, whispering into a cowled ear, the larger man nodding and humming in agreement with every woven participle.

When Lillian returns with the paperwork, Bigby realizes just how much he doesn't know about his boyfriend, the man’s past shrouded in mystery. At least Baldwin is able to jot down a few lines for their records, but there are some probing questions that not even the wise man can answer, leaving these spaces blank.

––

They've since moved the flagellant to the recovery wing, most of the staff having gone home, the day turned into night, marking the start of the graveyard shift.

Bigby sits beside the cot, reading aloud from the collection of books he had Baldwin bring. Gertrude had applauded him for the ambitious theory. A familiar voice might help pull Damian out of his coma, the studies on such things still unproven, but worth exploring.

Ramshackle fingertips flip through the yellowing contents of an aging anthology, the tone ranging from happiness to sadness, then back again, the pieces he embarks on always a meandering journey of surprise.

The concise composition on the next page leaps out at him in particular. It's a poem of rustic roots, written by the estranged John Clare.

‘I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;

My friends forsake me like a memory lost:

I am the self-consumer of my woes—

They rise and vanish in oblivious host,

Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes

And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,

Into the living sea of waking dreams,

Where there is neither sense of life or joys,

But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;

Even the dearest that I loved the best

Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man hath never trod

A place where woman never smiled or wept

There to abide with my Creator, God,

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,

Untroubling and untroubled where I lie

The grass below—above the vaulted sky.’

Such complex feelings of isolation, the yearning to belong, to find peace outside this corporeal realm contained within just a few stanzas.

“Some heavy material to start with,” he jeers, stealing a glance at the flagellant, assessing his face, “but I am tender to it. Don't you agree?”

He swears he sees Damian twitch, Bigby clinging to that thread of hope, seeking to nurture it.

“Damian? Hey, it's Bigby. Can you hear me?”

Fixated on his partner's prone form, searching for any sign of wakefulness, the wolfboy teeters on the edge of his seat.

He’s terrified of attempting the smallest touch, but takes the risk, finding Damian’s hand resting silently beside his hip.

“I am here, right here,” the abomination pleads, clasping his scarred fingers gently, “Please, please wake up.”

Expectant, he watches as black eyelids flutter, the spell vanishing just as quickly as it comes, the readings of life fading, the flagellant reduced to a dormant statuette once more.

“It's alright,” Bigby says, offering encouraging words, “you'll get there.”

He's trying to adopt some of his partner's assurance, but regardless of his optimism, some deep-seeded part inside still fears that Damian might never rouse again, condemned to a horrible fate, alive but bedridden.

And it will be all his fault.

No, it's too early to think the worst.

Instead, Bigby gulps down the knot twisting in his throat, thinking of lighter thoughts. There was some altruism here, bantams of proof that Damian was reacting to stimuli, direct questions seeming to yield the best results.

“Do you like poetry?”

Immediately, it seems his hypothesis is discredited, the holy man unmoving.

“Stupid question,” Bigby amends, frustrated with himself for not coming up with something better, “You've told me as much.”

“At least I think you have,” he says in doubt, putting a hand to his head in self reflection, “What am I saying. These books are from your room.”

He wonders if Damian had similar troubles while attempting to talk to him, floundering about like an idiot, hoping to land a foothold.

“I am sorry it seems I am completely inept,” the lycan sighs, his head is even more a mess than he thought. “Have you ever felt like this? I mean, you’re probably feeling it right now.”

Maybe a change of focus was in order, a more personal directive that hovers around the two of them.

“What sort of things would you like to do when you wake up?”

He pauses, giving the flagellant time to ponder the notion, as if he would truly reply.

“Have you ever visited the lake that's near here? The water is mostly gray, but there's a beach. Would like to go? I could take you sometime.”

He feels a light squeeze at hand, beloved by the implicit affirmation, “Alright then, it's a date.”

He soon runs out of things to say or to ask, upholding conversation a difficult task for him to achieve even under the most idealistic conditions, instead retreating to his oratory of books.

Strange how the hours go by, Bigby spurred on by the blunt manifestations of progress from the catatonic priest and it seems they both could do with a break that an intermission provides.

“I should probably let you rest,” the wolfboy echoes the thought aloud, standing up.

He sets the book upon the chair he resides in, turning to his partner, plodding along the outskirts of the mattress.

His palm tied clean with Lillian's bandage, the vagabond runs his hands over the flagellant’s arm, towards the disfigurement of his shoulder, the wound nearly healed.

He shouldn't, but he compares the extent of their injuries, Damian having almost too many lesions to count, while Bigby had maintained just a single one, mostly of a self-inflicted nature, a far cry from a flagellant's level of masochism.

The priest is without his usual attire, cowl and collar stripped in favor of the cleanliness of a thin hospital gown, the absence of his robes all the more noticeable to Bigby, taking in the graffiti of bruises decorating his throat.

The impression of his bite is still there (the same being true for his thigh), fingers tracing over the faded puncture marks, the flagellant’s skin turning to bumps of covetous gooseflesh.

“You like that,” Bigby smiles, bittersweet, borrowing a line from his partner's script.

His dithering touch ambles upwards, over his chin, exploring the uncovered plains of his face, memorizing every feature with his hands. He looks so different like this, a visage of an ordinary human maybe, a husk of someone he used to know that was once a reckless, vivacious blood-letter.

The more he traces over these scars, the more he remembers how this stoic expression would smile, asking Bigby to break free, uncorrupted by convention.

More than anything, he wants to see those eyes open for him now, drown in the spicy clove of his gaze, hear that mouth speaking limericks of love and praise, daring him to do something callow, dicey.

“You're going to wake up soon. I know you are,” the lycan vows, leaning down to tack their foreheads together.

The asylum of his words are thick with the debilitating weight of remorse, the tears coming like an unwieldy, overencumbering prophecy.

His hand drifts toward the brand mark on the priest's chest, searching for a tether to pull his mate from the cosmos of obscurity. He can still make out lines, the slash of eroded skin beneath the fabric.

Bigby pulls away, coddling his recent actions, using them as a poor excuse to resign himself to bed, making a futile play at sleep.

{End Preview}

#my writing #abomination/flagellant #dd #darkest dungeon #dd abomination #dd flagellant #abomination #flagellant #blighted hearts #blight boyfriends #fanfiction #darkest dungeon abomination #darkest dungeon flagellant

3 notes · View notes