The usual tools

So, a quick list (and sample) of the usual stuff I use for my usual sketching exercises.

I have a few more things, but these are the basic ones: all off them easy to get, relatively cheap and great to work with in my opinion.

The basic, cheap, yellow and black Staedtler Noris pencils are a staple of my school days. It is fair to say I have been using these all my life. They are very consistent, so I never get any surprises when I use them and come in handy packs of B, HB, H for about 2€. They are smooth writers and leave a good consistent line. I find the H just perfect for those initial lines and the HB is great for shading. I find the B nice for some deeper shadows and filling the iris'.
Overall I use these all the time - a lot more than I go for the Lumograph tin - so while not the best pencil you can get quality wise, they are the best thing I have when I just want to doodle and sketch without concern for the cost or if the result looks good or bad. If I think about it, that makes them the best!

As for the mechanical pencils:

The Parker 45 Flighter twist pencil is great. Heavy, with the 0.9 lead, it can do very fine lines or heavy shading with the AIN pentel leads.
Note that this is more of a writing tool than a sketching tool, so the lead has some play: it moves a bit up and down when you sketch with it.

The Kuro Toga 0.5 is light and easy to use. The whole "always sharp" feels like a gimmick, considering 0.5 is a very fine line, but it handles well and I think makes the little details really pop out: things like eyelashes and cross hatching look good. The Faber leads glide well and the lines have a nice texture to it.

The 788 is also an old companion. It was my father's clutch pencil and works like a plastic pencil. The Bic leads rival the Staedler B pencil in darkness, although they feel a little greasier than it.
I really feel like I should use it more, but I don't go immediately for it when doodling. I use it mostly for adding some line weight.

The Staedler fineliner... nice and cheap. Black enough, fine enough... I still prefer the Derwent or the Sakura (I'll go through my impressions of those later), but it's serviceable enough and at 4€ per 3 pens it is good value.

So, last, for a comparison of the progression with everyday practice:

In January

Now:

Not a great improvement, but I guess some is better than none.

New Hobbies - Sketching, drawing and comics.

I've been away from the blog for ages and, to be perfectly honest, I've been from most of the usual stuff I do: writing has been hard (to be honest I'm stuck at 21891 words and 37 pages on yet another attempted novel and stalled, can't seem to find a game that catches my attention, etc...), so I tried to find something which catches my interest and gets me going.

Now, let me be honest, I'm the kind of person who picks up hobbies, obsesses over them for a few months and then drops them, so nowadays I try to be careful about the upfront investment needed.

This time I picked up drawing, which is nice for the budget: most of the stuff I have laying around. All around all I bought was a set of Staedtler Lumographs ranging from 6B to 4H, some Sakura microns and Sakura Koi coloring pens on sale.

So, while I probably won't be sharing the sketches - I am REALLY bad at this and all I care is getting to the point where I can draw some passably nice comicbook faces - I'll leave the impressions on the stuff I got and whatever insight I get as I fumble around with this.

So, I'll start with the list of the stuff I'm using:
-Staedtler 788 clutch pencil (it was my dad's and I used it all through college;
-Bic HB 2mm leads;
-Parker 45 flighter 0.9mm mechanical pencil;
-Pentel HB 0.9mm leads;
-old and cracked Maped 2 hole pencil sharpener;
-Staedtler Noris pencils (H, HB, B);
-Sakura Microns Sepia (01, 05, 1, Brush pen);
-Sakura Koi pack of flesh tones;
-Staedtler Lumographs set of 12;
-Platinum #3776 M nib fountain pen - it works and I love it for some stuff;
-Mitsubishi E-Knock pencil rubber;
-a cheap something or other vinyl rubber I had on my desk;

Right now I'm looking around for all sorts of tutorials on the web, and I've caught some interesting things. And just the continuous practice gets improvements, that much is true.

I read somewhere on the web (www.mangatutorials.com - no afilliation whatsoever) that copying work is a good way to improve. So far I'd say it has worked at least to give me ideas on how to draw some stuff. Mostly I've been looking over my comic book favorite artists: Michael Turner, Jim Lee, Joe Madureira, Adam warren, among others.
I also keep looking for any pencil sketches I can find on the web, blatantly stealing what I can.

The result?

Better now, but still awful!

OOC - NaNoWriMo 2014

"When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature." - Ernest Hemingway

Yet again I am going to try it: Write a first draft of a novel in 1 month. By first draft I mean a 50k word draft.

I think I learned some important lessons last year: preparation, dedication and creating a novelling friendly environment, but before I get to that, I'd like to say this upfront: I decided to do my 50k words on part II of what I wrote last year, so the preparation part I did last year is salvageable.

So, lets's start with preparation and what works for me:
1. Know your characters (read the Hemingway quote up there). If you have interesting and fleshed out characters it will be easier to understand how they react to your plot.
2. Know your plot. It can be as simple as "I want to start here and finish there" and figuring the rest as you go along, but have a clear guideline.
3. Pick some ambient music. It's a way to drown out the world and the right music gets the right juices flowing, at least in my case. Currently listenin to everything by Two Steps From Hell.

The dedication part should be self explanatory, but...
1. Write.
2. Find you time to rest, to get away and put things in perspective, or else you are going to get bogged down and frustrated and start losing hope and inspiration
3. About inspiration... Inspiration takes work so after step 2 is done, get back to step one and work, instead of waiting for inspiration to kick you in the butt. It will kick you while writing: for every 1 great page you will write 20 crappy ones. Write the 100 crappy ones, get the 5 great ones. Restart, revise (on December 15, that would be my advice).

The "Writing friendly environment" is the hardest part. It is up to you to create it. I prefer to write alone. I am currently abroad and lice with 4 other people, that makes it hard. It also makes it hard that the people you live with make fun of your endeavour. We all know people like that (and some aren't even doing it in a a mean spirited kind of way), but, my 2 cents, just tell people it's your hobby. It works for me and they leave me alone for the most part, even when they call me weird - has if you don't know I am weird already.

Good writing. Let me know of you tips if you have any.

OOC - NaNoWriMo aftermath

I tried to finish the nanowrimo - for those of you who don't know, it's an event in which you try to write a novel (50.000 words) during November.

I failed - finished with a measly 35.413 words - but I learned a few lessons.

1st - Preparation is key. This should be obvious, but realizing it is still amazing and you only realize it once you start writing something. I learned the kind of preparation I need and how it best works for me. Thanagherion in this blog was a fully formed character long before I ever started writing about her. I had a good notion what she was, where she came from and how she would behave. Writing something that big from scratch, I realized a "good notion" is not enough - at least for me. So, know your characters. Flesh them out, give them a voice, a face and a mind. Their behaviour will flow for that.

2nd - Realize that writing 50.000 in a month is not going to net you a perfect novel, ready for publishing (if it does kudos to you and you really should stop reading me and start publishing - no sarcasm here!). What it does give you is a very nice first draft. It will still be an accomplishment, but it will need polishing and honing. Once I realized I wasn't going to get the perfect novel in one go, it became liberating: I could just write down, get the words flowing even when I was sure it didn't sound good or perfect. But I was getting some writing done and that is the main thing.

3rd - Write! This should be obvious, but it sometimes isn't. If you are commited to writing a novel you really should get going. Researching is not writing (see first rule). It saves time, makes things better, but it doesn't get you closer to you goal. If you do your research it will save you time, true, but if you get stuck on the research you won't write. Reading your e-mail, watching TV, playing games... all those things aren't writing. They are nice distractions, they will retemper you strenght, but in the end, if you commited to get it done, you need to get you hands down and do it.

These are some of the lessons. They could be broken down into many pratical tips - I learned a few of those, but I won't bore you with those.

Me, I intend to go back and finish what I started, even if it takes another month or so to get that first draft finished.

Goodbye

I've cancelled my Eve account. Being away from home, in a place with a slow internet connection, I have not been able to play.

I've been away for a year and I was hoping to have a decent connection and some time to spare for the game. Unfortunately for my gaming life (and very fortunately for my professional life) time has been scarce.

 

This means Thanagherion will be retiring, or at least taking a long vacation. Probably so will this blog. Maybe I'll start running another blog for short stories. It will depend on the available time.

 

For those who read this, thank you! For all EVE players: good hunting. Gank some reds for me.

OOC - Trying to get back

I have been away from this blog for too long.
I've been away from Eve for too long.
I'm currently overseas with not much time to spare for videogames, but I really need a hobby that takes my mind off work, so I'll be trying to update the blog with short stories every week... lets see if I can keep to that Schedule and if I manage to scrounge a few readers to give me some input on what I'm doing...

Catch all later.
Good hunting.

R.I.P. Vile Rat

With my most sincere respect and condolences for family, loved ones and those who met him.

Strange Days Pt. III

 “All the best stories are but one story in reality – the story of escape.” – A. C. Benson.

Thanagherion slotted the fake id chip into the implant port on her back, the one that allowed her to scrub her current identity and assume whatever was on the chip. She closed her eyes for a second and reviewed the information. She was quite sure the net was tightening and she needed to get out of that station without raising suspicions.

With her new identity she bought herself a Rifter class frigate. It was fast and hardy enough to make a retreat, if she wasn’t identified. If she was, nothing could really stop the sort of firepower the Imperial Navy would bring to bear. And the Imperial Navy would be hunting her after killing at least one of their subjects.

She knelt by the girl again and got the sweaty blonde bangs away from her eyes.

‘Listen honey, I can get you out of here, but I need you to stay calm a bit longer, ok?’

The girl nodded and wiped her tears away, slowly getting up, but never completely leaving her defensive posture.

‘Ok, so this is how it is going to happen: This implant will wipe whatever identity you have now and set you up with a new one. I don’t think you have a backup of your original one, so know that once this is done, whoever you are will be no more, it will be gone, most likely forever.’

The girl looked defiantly in Thanagherion’s eyes and snatched the chip from her hand and slotted it in with no hesitation, a hint of a defiant smile blossoming on her lips.

‘What’s your name, honey?’

It took her but a few seconds to answer that, but Than could see her trying to come up with something new - ‘From now on? Moira…’

‘Ok, so… Moira… take this neocom. There’s a map there that will guide you through the ducts right to a ship. You’ll have clearance. Get on the passenger seats and lock the door!’

‘What about you?’

‘You run and don’t care about me… I’ll be there. Now go! Take the pistol, just in case… and give it to me when you get on the ship and say “green was always your color” to which I’ll reply “a pity I’ll need to change the grips”: it will be our password, ok? If that doesn’t happen just run and try to find yourself another way out. Sorry… this is all I can do. Now you have to do your part for your freedom’

Moira… That was her new name. She didn’t know where it had come from. It was just on the tip of her tongue. She also didn’t know why she should trust this stranger who, a few hours ago, was just going to help her master keep her in bondage. Maybe she didn’t, maybe this was just another test and her master would be waiting for her and would beat her senseless again, but she would take whatever chance she could get to be free, to get away.

After Thanagherion watched her slipping away into the ducts, she proceeded to rig the door with the explosive. This vanishing act would have to be timed perfectly… just a capsuleer dying while rigging a booby trap. Everything so damaged no one would go to the trouble of looking for a slave girl. The trick was clone jumping at just the right time, without her neocom. Rigging the dead man’s switch was the surest way to do it… still, it wasn’t fool proof.

She sighed and contemplated how strange was for her to leave it all to fate.

A few days later…

‘You’re free now.’ Thanagherion said, walking down the promenade on the Gallentean Station. ‘I’ll make sure that identity has no flaws and you are good to go, but… You know, you’ll need a job now… I could use an assistant. The pay isn’t bad as long as you can live with my quirks, so if you are up for it I can use someone who’s determined… and knows the weight of power.’

‘Thank you’ Moira replied shyly.

‘Is that a yes?’

Moira just smiled and walked with a light step, contemplating her new future.

Strange days - Part II

“Strange eyes fill strange rooms

Voices will signal their tired end

The hostess is grinning

Her guests sleep from sinning” – Strange Days by “The Doors”.

Two days earlier… 

Celeris was a paranoid banker first and a capsuleer second. She was the middle woman, the fixer: when people needed things done and didn’t want to get their hands dirty or know who got the shit end of the stick, they would call her. She would swoop down, always inconspicuous, always cautious… and always in person. Such attitude, combined with her gauntness, a face full of edges and angles and bleached blond hair, the impeccable long black dresses, filled with lace and feathers, made her look like a schizophrenic bird of prey, although, to be honest, such posture was not uncommon among capsuleers, so, as far as Thanagherion thought, she was only slightly eerie.

After she made contact with a prospective client she would pass on the information to one of the people on her little black address book for a cut of the profit. Unless you had a banking account with her… then she would just hold on to your isk. It was like having a loan shark lending you your own money: a strange arrangement, indeed, but one that worked between them because of the trust which existed between the middle woman and the mercenary. They shared more history than any of them cared to admit.

The capsuleer/banker looked her usual eccentric self. Sitting in the corner of the high class bar, she was clearly in her element, wearing a bright red dress and knee high, stiletto heeled boots. Her pose was that of a queen: back upright, black mascara, hands crossed on the table, dark grey nail polish and a ring with a gleaming red stone. It was all topped off by a glass of red wine, the real deal, not some cheap, space made, imitation.

Thanagherion walked in, sporting a flowing brown and gold dress and high heels, asked for cold sparkling water, with a twist of lemon, which elicited a cocked eyebrow from Celeris.

‘What?’ – Thanagherion asked, as greeting.

‘Won’t you join me?’ – she replied, clicking her nail against the glass.

‘Not really…’ – Thanagherion answered, retrieving a steel cigarette case and a lighter from her purse.

‘You are not going to light that up, are you?’ – Celeris asked, the tone in her voice indicating the remark was more than a simple a request.

Thanagherion simply grinned mischievously, opened the brushed steel case, pulled a cigarette and lit it, in a single fluid motion.

‘So… what’s the deal?’ – she said, sipping on her water.

‘I may have something. This one’s supposed to be easy but I’m not vouching for the man.’

‘That doesn’t really answer my question.’ – she replied.

‘It’s a simple smuggling run. Apparently the client needs cargo moved and he would prefer if it wasn’t scrutinized by customs.’

‘How much?’

‘A few hundred thousand…’ – Celeris replied nonchalantly, while sipping on her wine.

‘Sounds like too much trouble for not enough pay.’

‘I won’t argue with you to take this one. I’m just the messenger.’ – With that she got up, not before sending her a mail with the contacts and details - all in a quite literal wink of an eye - lingering just long enough to smile, steal Thanagherion’s cigarette with a sleight of her hand over the smuggler’s and leave, her heels clicking like the hammer of a revolver on an empty chamber.

The next day, at dock eight, Corween Mosoon appeared, his security man behind him, armed with a heavy battle rifle and 10 women - slaves, every single one of the pretty little things. She felt sick. Slavery was a fact of life in Amarrian space and had a strong tradition, but she still couldn’t understand how someone could do that to a fellow human being. She could kill someone upclose and personal – in fact she had done so a few times – she could destroy property, she had done damage to people’s lives on a scale it was hard for even her to comprehend… but this she couldn’t understand. It wasn’t, however, for her to care. It was business, pure and simple, so she kept her peace. It was perfectly legal for her to take this contract… that was, of course, up to the moment she crossed into Gallente Space… There it became illegal and the simple notion of slavery was frowned upon, but her moral views were as adaptive as a nano membrane and she prided herself on that, so she just ignored her gut and the feeling she would need a long shower after this run.

She also noticed the armed security and the way her client tried to hide the small pistol he kept in a belt holster away from view. The term was “polite carry”: he wasn’t concealing it, just keeping it from view. It was a statement of power: neither of them should be allowed to carry a piece in this particular part of the station, yet authorities overlooked that little infraction. Than hated to admit it, but it worked: the sight of her client armed and unworried made her feel exposed, especially considering the contents of her backpack would get her hard time on some forsaken Amarrian prison.

She studied every girl, the way they moved and how easy it was to simply compare them to robots, moving without volition, their only purpose spoon fed to them by their master. It was a freak show, in a sense, no matter how well groomed and pampered they seemed. One of the girls however blinked fast, trying to keep the tears away, before looking at the pilot who would be flying her away. Corween’s hand was gripping her arm so tight it would probably leave a bruise. She was the tough one of the bunch and Thanagherion could see a fierce hatred burning in the depths of those green eyes, a rage that fueled her and never died. She thought she recognized a piece of herself in that. The pilot could see the resolve in the way she tried to resist through even the simplest of motions.

As she was led to the door of the container, Than sensed all that defiance coming to a head and it was like watching two interceptors, microwarpdrives burning, crash head on in slow motion: she jerked her arm away and tried to run, but didn’t quite manage to escape her master’s grasp. The guard snickered, with a contemptuous look, as the young girl spun and screeched propelled by Corween’s back handed slap.

On the back of her mind Thanagherion could only hear herself thinking all this was none of her business and she shouldn’t get involved… she could hear herself clearly, as she stepped between them. She knew then she was in for a world of hurt… and that her moral code wasn’t as flexible as she had always assumed.

The Security guy’s face twitched as he fumbled with the rifle, while the thought which crossed the mercenary’s mind was “Amateur”, as she blocked Corween’s wild punch with her left arm and relieved him of his pistol with her right hand. The Amarrian widened his eyes in surprise as the mercenary’s arm sprung to grab him on the back of his head and pull him against the metal container.

She aimed at the guard and fired her stolen pistol. The uncomfortable grip made it hard to aim and the shots came off too low and to her right as a result: instead of hitting the man square in his forehead, the first bullet shattered his collarbone and the second clipped him on his elbow. Hurt but not dead.

The Amarrian’s head hit the container with a satisfying wet thud and he just crumpled to the ground. The security goon tried to level the battle rifle with his one working arm. He was tough, Than conceded to herself, but with his injuries he only managed to spray wildly until the magazine was empty. The old fashioned slug thrower was perfect for this sort of combat: it wouldn’t damage the equipment, just the unarmored personnel. Thanagherion however wasn’t unarmored and the clip wasn’t loaded with hundreds of caseless slivers of metal, just the standard 30 rounds. Still, the two bullets that did hit her felt like being rammed by a pack of slaver hounds, as she fell under the fierce impact and ragdolled across the floor.

The grunt stumbled over to her, as she groaned under the seemingly endless weight of her bruised ribs. He was a dead man walking, but he still managed to score a glancing blow on her left eye with the butt of the rifle. He hadn’t count on Than rolling her head at the last minute and shooting him in the face, which blossomed in a crimson explosion of gore and pieces of bone.

The blonde girl was crouched by the container, crying and keeping her hands over her head. Two of the other girls were dead, ripped apart by stray bullets, the rest were just running away, scared for their lives. Than just got up, tucked the gun of the small of her back and grabbed the girl by her arm.

-The station guards will be here soon. We need to go. Now! – She said, as she shoved her towards the back alleys of the docks.

In the back of her mind she was scanning maps and paying for a room to hide for a few hours while she planned their escape.

Strange Days Part I

“Ninety percent of the world's woe comes from people not knowing themselves, their abilities, their frailties, and even their real virtues. Most of us go almost all the way through life as complete strangers to ourselves.” – Sydney J. Harris.

YC110.09.19, 22:00

The image on the mirror did not reflect the picture Thanagherion had of herself.  It was strange she felt that disconnection between her mind and her physical self. Her body… her clone… hadn’t changed in a very long time, so it would stand to reason it was the most familiar thing in her life. To be precise, it should be the only familiar thing in her life. However, at that precise moment, she was not familiar with that face, that body or the way she felt. Even her thoughts sounded alien to her, like there were two sets of voices inside her skull: a perfectly calm and rational one, working through all that needed to be done, and a screaming one, amazed at how that strange being worked. She slowly blinked and that motion appeared to stretch to eternity as a drop of sweat mixed with some blood, dropped from one of her eyelashes and crashed on the cheap polycarbonate sink with an almost imperceptible sound.

She was battered, bruised and exhausted. Her left eye was almost swollen shut. The cracked ribs made breathing a chore and her knuckles were bruised and scrapped. The pistol tucked on back of her jeans was still warm from the recent gunfight. She mentally counted how many rounds were left, while moving and examining her hands to make sure she retained a full range of motion, taking note of a slight numbness on her left middle and ring finger. The capsuleer gingerly touched the cut on her scalp and wiped the dried blood away, happy to see it had stopped bleeding.

But it was not the damage that made her feel different or unrecognizable. No, she had been through some bad scrapes and came out in worse shape than this, so it wasn’t the dents and kinks on the chassis, so to speak, that worried her or made her feel like a stranger to herself. What made her feel different was the realization that she had changed in the past two days. Her outlook had changed, her behavior, the way she thought about herself. Or had she suddenly come to some sort of realization about herself and who she really was?

She checked if the door to the dingy room was locked and then proceeded to hardwire the door lock to only open from the inside, no matter what anyone tried. The lock effectively became a standalone mechanism with a physical trigger. 

«Good luck opening that with anything other than a cutting torch» – she thought. The mercenary in her would have even smiled, if that option was out of the realm of the reasonable. Unfortunately, she knew better than that: when they found them, they would bring all they had.

After taking care of the lock, she pushed the metal cupboard against the door, to provide an extra barrier of protection. Only then, did she slid to the floor and sat down. She pulled out the snub nosed pistol and looked at it. Its owner would miss such a piece, with its zydrine laced grip, if he was still alive. The contoured grip sat uneasily in her hand. It has not been made for her so, after a fashion, the gun fought her grip.

Her time in the Gallentean Special Forces would serve her well for the next few hours. If it served well enough, maybe she could do what she had set out to do… if she lived up to the corps finest ideals, she might even survive this day.

The room felt claustrophobic. The air recycling was working poorly in this forgotten corner of the station and so were the environmental controls. It felt like a tropical jungle: warm, damp and sticky. The top clung to her skin and made her feel trapped. She wished she was on her capsule and could simply brush this problem away with that instinctive flick of her fingers which operated the blasters. Unfortunately, she was trapped and her body was meat, not metal, and she was going to have to plan this accordingly.

The next step in her plan was not pleasant. She rummaged through her backpack until she found the small flask, not much bigger than her hand and placed it on the corner of the sink, before reaching into her right combat boot and pulling her knife out. It was a nice blade, with a serrated edge on one side and a wickedly sharp edge on the other.

Her fingers probed her hip bone looking for the place where she kept a hidden identity chip, just in case. Usually she wouldn’t have to resort to such extreme measures, but considering she had to smuggle someone else out, she was going to need the extra one. A deft cut and the small capsule where the chip was contained popped out. She pressed a bit of cloth on the cut to staunch the bleeding, before applying some healing paste to close the cut.

She picked up the flask from the sink and took a deep swig. The water inside was warm and didn’t do much to quench her thirst. She simply poured what was left into the sink and proceeded to pry the fact bottom open and remove the small hidden explosive pack. It wouldn’t make much damage, but it would be enough for her plans.

‘Honey…’ – she whispered, with an uncharacteristic softness and sweetness, to the little bundle of stubbornness who was the reason she was in this mess to begin with. - ‘I need you to get a hold of yourself, if I am to get you out, can you please do that?’

Then a pair of green eyes looked back at her, filled with pain, fear and despair, she realized she had ever been what she thought.

Rebirth

“We weren’t the nice boys they thought we were. And we weren’t nice boys, we were fucking little bastards… and we still are” – Sid Vicious

Waking up in a new clone left Thanagherion blind, nothing but a helpless child suspended in warm fluid, in the claustrophic embrace of a glass coffin where sound could not reach her. She kept her eyes closed, although it made no difference whatsoever: she couldn't see anything even if she were to open her eyes wide. Besides, when awaking in a new clone the simple fluttering of eyelids took so much effort, she had learned to conserve all her energy.

There was absolutely no light inside that glass womb. The only images that assaulted her in there were those of her most recent demise. A battle, a big one at that and the world appearing to go into slow motion as the first enemies came pouring through the gate. She could still hear the chirping sound of the first few locks and the gentle rocking of her Drake-Class Battlecruiser as a couple of volleys took flight. Next thing she knew, she was floating on a pod. Shortly after that people were locking her… and then a blank, a crimson and white burst that left a psychological afterimage which was vivid enough to make her try to fill her lungs and scream, to no avail.

She felt her muscles tense up as the fluid which suspended her drained and the chamber opened, her world exploding to crescendo of white light and cold air. She tried to stay up, but her knees buckled under her own weight and she just clattered to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The memories of her body weren’t really up to par with the use this clone had. She was a newborn and it would take a few hours until she could break it in and get her normal strength and reflexes back. No matter what everyone told you, walking into a new clone wasn’t exactly seamless. Than cursed hoarsely as her arm hit the metal railing with a loud wet crash. The only sharp, jagged thing in this particular room and she had to hit it. “Typical”, she couldn't help thinking. She eyed the blood trickling down her forearm, pressed her hand to the gash and sighed, enjoying the cold air and the feeling of being alive, all the while trying to staunch the bleeding and ignore the pain. She had better success at the first one, truth be told, but she didn’t allow more than a low groan pass her lips. She heard Moira come into the hall and running to her.

-You know, you could just wait for help. Damn it: that's going to leave a scar and you should have a few stitches.

-Since when you became a medical doctor? It's ok Moira. It's just another dent. Pity, it’s a brand new clone. I’m going to have to live with this one for a while… - she neglected to say she didn’t think “a while” would be that long this time. It was getting serious out there.

-Why do I sometimes get the feeling you do this to yourself on purpose?

-Can you get me my cigarettes? - Than replied, changing the subject and focusing on trying to stand up on shaky legs.

-You should take a shower.

-I know. I just need a bandage and I really need a cigarette and shot of bourbon. Then I'll take a shower to get this gunk off... - She didn't add the "when I'm able to stand" thought which crossed her mind.

Moira sat on the floor beside her boss and brought the Neocom with the appointments for the day. Business as usual was the way to handle Than on moments like this: she did not handle vulnerability well.

-Just cancel everything – she said quietly, stopping Moira before she had time to glance at the information on the blue lit pane.

-What do you mean? – Moira asked, taken aback by the out of character way Than reacted.

-War. War is coming. Now, help me up…

Moira looked at her, eyes widening in amazement.

-Please… Help me, I need to get into an interceptor and try to rejoin the fray. – Thanagherion asked again, a hint of hidden pain in her eyes.

Moira had never seen her boss like that. She was used to the obnoxious, ever joking and an overall infuriating impersonation of a human being… she wasn’t used to seeing her ask for help. She wasn’t used to think of her like a real person.

-How bad? – Moira managed to say, putting the Neocom on the floor, between the two of them.

-Bad. Here, - Than keyed a few commands that gave Moira access to battle reports and comms, while she fumbled with the lighter – see for yourself.

Moira glanced at the data, gently took the lighter from her boss’s hand and lit the cigarette, then proceeded to take one from the pack and light it up herself.

-We can beat this. We will beat this. You guys are survivors, after all – she replied, after a minute of silence.

-Yeah, well… not if I stay here sitting on my ass. By the way, that cigarette is comin’ out of your paycheck.

Now, that was the obnoxious Thanagherion she knew and hated.

Smuggler's run

“Though I fly through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no Evil, for I am at 80,000 feet and climbing.” - At the entrance to the old SR-71 operating base Kadena, Japan*.



Than rolled out of bed, her eyes bleary and unfocused. The ceramic floor felt cold to her naked feet and she upped the heating to a more comfortable 22º. She tried to run her fingers through the tangled mess of her hair to no effect and quickly gave up. The lights were mercifully dim and warm, so she could actually tolerate them without making the headaches worse.

This wasn’t the worst hangover in her life, but it was bad enough to rank in the top hundred.

She quickly glanced at the bourbon bottle on the table, trying to piece together the previous evening. She didn't remember bottles being so small. There was no way she had downed that bottle and didn't remember it. No, she wasn’t drinking that much, Moira was simply getting smaller bottles to mess with her head. She quickly rummaged through her jacket pockets, producing the faithful pack of cigarettes and lit own, pulling a long drag that almost made her sigh.

A quick check via link confirmed her pistol was on the vault and hadn’t been fired – not bad. She didn’t feel any bruises or scrapes, so, the evening couldn’t have gone too bad. Nothing on the newsfeed indicated she had done anything wrong – if she did she didn’t get caught or got captured on camera. So far, so good!

Her assistant snored softly on the couch, sleeping wrapped in a yellow wool blanket. She didn't quite remember how Moira ended up there either, but her brain wasn't really working yet, so she decided to chalk everything up to lack of sleep and the terrible hangover. Postponing any complex form of thinking was as good an option as any other, when considering the way she felt.

-Bet this is pretty much what being part of Sansha’s Nation is like – she whispered to herself, her voice coarse and dusty.

She ordered the pot to start brewing some coffee, while establishing a connection back to her home station, trying to get in touch with the Corp brass. Her left hand shot to a bottle of cold water, while her right fiddled with comms volume and cut the visual feed. Everything sounded louder than it should, so she kept dialing it down until the echo inside her head subsided to manageable levels. Impatience was mounting up and the long wait for coffee wasn’t helping.

-It’s a Zombie Than! – greeted Kasumi after hearing her first words, if you could call whatever noises she had made “words”.

Then the discussion about the run – wait, what run?! – started. Eyeing the floating hologram of her active ship, everything clicked into place, just as the coffee pot sent her a warning that her breakfast was ready. If the Strategic Cruiser was out there – and she actually craned her head towards the hangar to make sure it was - waiting for her, then she was running cargo back home. Working as a smuggler again: after all these years, she was back where she started: only the degrees had changed.

It served her right for getting her Typhoon blown up over a communications distraction – she made a mental note (again) never to have an argument with someone while flying in combat, even against rogue drones. The truth was, she needed all the ISK she could get and the easiest way to do so was going back to a job she knew quite well. Also, that Marauder Class skill book hadn’t been cheap, so she definitely wanted to amass ISK fast, considering the hull would be more expensive than her Carrier.

A hint of a smile blossomed on her lips. It was funny how History seems to repeat itself: she had met Moira in one of her smuggling runs and couldn’t really leave the young slave child in the clutches of that Amarrian, so she ended up smuggling her away. She was just a teenager back then and watching her sleeping like that, peacefully, brought those memories back: in a way she still looked like a child to Than.

She was suddenly yanked back to reality by the sound of Ice’s voice calling a status report on the location of all the goods. The slight edge in his voiced hinted that it hadn’t been the first time he’d asked.

-My contacts are finishing the pickup runs and dropping it at the staging point. I’ll be ready to run the pipe in a few hours – she replied, looking down to the

-Do you trust these people? – Ice asked.

-Does she trust anyone? – Wulf jokingly asked.

-I trust these people as much as I trust myself.

-Great! – her CEO replied with not so discreet sarcasm. - Either way, do not get ganked! There’s a lot of money riding on that run.

-Is that supposed to make me relax? – She groaned, while stretching her arms and hearing her shoulders pop.

-No, Kasumi’s threats of a kneecapping by battle-axe should do that.

-Yeah, yeah…

A few hours later, Than was slinking away through low-sec and null-sec, her Strategic Cruiser invisibly heading back home, with a grumpy Moira cursing at her, while trying to ignore her own headache.



*OOC – I couldn’t really verify if this quote was ever there. Granted, I only made a cursory check, but considering I like to use quotes which are as accurate and verifiable as possible – and preferably good literature, but this last piece I sometimes overlook – I’d like to note that I couldn’t really confirm this one. It is still good, so even if it is an urban legend, it’s a good one and I wanted to use it for so long I’ll just snatched it.

OOC - Was that the reaction? Rant, might want to skip this.

Beggining of rant


"I tried to be level headed, but I'm sorry, nothing is addressed on this blog:

MT for advantages? Yes or no?
The WiS is gorgeous? Sorry, I haven't been blown away by it, nor any of the latest expansions.
Smooth? Maybe you haven't noticed keys sticking again. Not being able to abort warps. Anoms not spawning rats... I don't call that smooth.
Hangar? Not addressed.
The bans? Maybe you are not aware of the "kill it with fire" meme. In my corp we usually kid with that, to the point of "kill it with therm/em", whatever. It has become part of the internet lingo...
The fact that you write a few words that amount to PR spin with no real concern for a situation that for the first time in all my years as a player united carebears, gankers, pirates, 0.0 vets in a "HELL NO!" position.

As for the prices - I've deliberately been avoiding that, but if you pull real life examples and use them as valid, maybe you need to look at real life goods. You have stuff there which is not particularly appealing that cost more than most of the clothes I wear (and I'm a lawyer who spends a bit on presentation. 

I'm sorry but this blog entry is insufficient and shows both lack of professionalism, concern and that you have lost touch with the player reality. As far as I'm concerned, "the tail does not wag the dog". Maybe you should think of actually answering question. History - past and present - has many pages written about politicians talking rubbish hoping the problem goes away... it doesn't.
This particular thing made it worse, it made me feel worse and disappointed me further, if that was possible.

Waiting for a real reaction and real answers.

TL:DR - this answers nothing, waiting for a real, concerned, reaction." - my comment on the forums

I'm sorry. Zulu's answer amounts to a bunch of nothing. We have all seen this kind of thing in politics (look at Greece or Portugal - my home country - at this time of crisis.

Is CCP truly expecting this to simply be deflected by using "non language"?

In my line of work this strategy is usually called (roughly translated) "jamming". Using non sequiturs to wear the other side and the person judging a given cause, down. It's what you use on a losing position to make you loose later instead of now. In legal terms it's sometimes the smart thing to do... here it just showed incompetence and clear lack of respect for everyone.

Granted, there were overeactions. But there were also level headed people voicing valid concerns, not just with the MT, but with the general direction the game is taking and the lack of novelty in EvE. We cannot be expected to wait ad eternum for new gorgeous things. We will not (I hope) sit idly by when someone treats us like moronic idiots.

I felt like an idiot.

I was hoping to see a well thought response, addressing serious issues, with at least a hint of solutions for real problems.

I did not. I saw someone who came off as having the attitude of "Do I really need to speak to the unwashed masses?! They do no understand the grand scheme of things!"

Well, I, for one, don't enjoy feeling like an idiot. I for one don't want this state of affairs. I will give CCP a chance to wake up and actually come up with a reaction. As far as I'm concerned this was not a reaction.

CCP get in touch with reality. Then speak.

OOC - My 5 cents - This is a rant, feel free to skip it

Beggining of rant.

I've been away from EVE for a while. I was slowly coming back and starting to have fun again and then this.

I consider myself a level headed person and I'm sincerely trying not to rage, but some things must be said.

First of all, if any of this money for stuff touches gameplay, I will leave. This is not an idle threat. It's not "emo rage quit" it's the fact that in eve everyone, no matter how incompetent, great, obnoxious or amazing, have clawed and waited their way to their station. For that both carebears, gankers, pirates, CEO's, deserve my respect.

CQ... I was waiting for that. I wanted that RPG element of walking around in stations. I am aware I'm a guinea pig for WoD and don't care. I actually played Vampire: the Masquerade and still love the pen and paper game, so I don't care about that part. What I care is the fact that CCP is constantly falling short. I haven't seen an expansion that blows me away in ages. I feel the game has been neglected, I feel the players aren't being listened to... and I fear this will not get better.

We need decent content. 

We need some respect and attention, other than lip service to "excellence". The mere mention of that word makes me sick.

I'm not saying CCP should catter to our every whim. I am, however, saying that a world like EVE (as any RPG Storyteller learns) is not shaped according to the creator's vision: it is a piece of collaboration art - players and creator compromise and shape the story because they have active roles in the way it unfolds. I feel that CCP lost track of that: they have one vision and they wish to enforce it. Thing is, to be absolutely honest, I don't think anyone knows what that vision is and they have never been forthcoming about it either.

A good sandbox RPG works when people cooperate, not when a bad gamemaster imposes what he thinks is a nice story to the players and right now I just feel the walls closing in on what I consider a nice sandbox.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions... and I don't even see much "good intention here".

End of rant.

Packing the bags

Than looked at the travel plans again, running the schedule for the next few days in her mind. She could hardly wait for the great capsuleer reunion which was fast approaching.

She hadn't been planetside in a while and the weather forecast (what a strange notion it seemed, real, changing, uncontrolled weather) told her it was going to be a cold few days: much more than she had grown used to in her home and much more than it was usual in her quarters. That meant the leather jacket, t-shirt and jeans weren't going to be enough.

Moira, though, had taken care of that and there was a military cut cold weather jacket waiting for her on her desk. She packed her bags for a week, charged her Integrated Personal Organization Device and loaded a few of her favorite old songs there.

She was slightly nervous. She didn't know the place and didn't really know what to expect, with some many capsuleer gathered in a single place and an event designed to cater to their needs.

Moira placed a hand on her shoulder, signaling her it was time to get on the shuttle headed planet side. She still had a trip from her home station the the transport hub planet side, before going to her final destination, on that distant island.

And that made her heart skip a beat with excitement...

P.S. - OOC: short clips of the trip to fanfest through Than's eyes! (I ripped off, I mean, took the inspiration from Roc's - credit where it is due!) I'll try to get them everyday, but no promises.

OOC - Fanfest 2011

A simple blog entry to let you know I'll be attending Fanfest this year.
Anyone there up for a coffee or a pint, let me know, I'd love to meet more capsuleers in person!

And I'll try to post some photos and reports of what happens!

OOC - New Look and other characters

Than's new look.

A lot of thought went into this because we can no longer have that cartoonish look. It may be good, it may be bad, but the old Thanagherion, with the scrawny, girly looks and a gleam of cartoonish evil genius is gone.

She ended up somewhat sweet, somewhat hot and with some striking features and a hint of a smile. Maybe not the Than people envision: somewhat lonely, controlled and bitter, but here's hoping. Tell me what you think of the new, bad-ass witty mercenary with a knack for pessimism!

This is Moira. Hard edged and heavy brow. The best assistant Than could ask and a silent friend, not that she would ever confess.

And this is Ray, the Marine commander. You'll be seeing more of him later!

Tell me what you think.

March

“[…]just as water retains no constant shape, so in warfare there are no constant conditions.” - Sun Tzu

The crackle of static woke Ray up. At first he didn’t really make much of it, assuming it was a simple glitch with his radio, or interference from all the equipment surrounding him. Neither of those were unusual occurrences in the Marines living quarters.

He just turned in his bed, before discerning a voice coming through the static and garble (or was it through his sleepy, addled mind?).

'Ray?' - Than's voice crept into his head, a sweet, silky and yet strangely coarse voice he could recognize anywhere in the universe.

'Aye aye Ma'am.' - the weary marine replied.

'Were you sleeping?'

'Yes Ma'am. I posted Ian's fire team on SMA duty and decided to give a break to the rest of guys.' – he answered, his voice somewhat slurred.

'Alright. I need you to do something for me. Not Ian, not Bern: you.'

Ray crawled out of the bunk and put on his BDU, followed by a quick, but thorough check of his personal handgun. He then tucked it in his pocket before walking out his room, slowly but purposefully.

When he felt the world whirl around him, he understood he was on the brink of exhaustion: everyone was, to be honest. The whole placing was falling apart around them, collapsing under a siege of determined invading forces, which meant everyone was overworked and every post was understaffed. He couldn’t help musing the current situation was like being inside a Quaffe can being slowly but surely crushed. They weren’t on the frontline, but it was approaching at an alarming rate and that was enough to keep everyone on their guard.

The corridors were empty at that late hour, so he didn't even bother trying to be discreet and careful. He just headed straight to the express elevator he took to the top level of the tower, where his intended target was. He breathed deeply as he stepped out of the elevator and looked around, taking in the cramped corridors, riddled by pipes and cables and illuminated by red floodlights: if there was such a thing as Hell it would probably look like this. Still, Ray kept walking to the management quarters with grim determination. He pressed the doorbell and waited.

Moira opened the door, while drying her dripping hair with a towel, and smiled when she saw the burly marine.

‘Hey, what’s up?’ – she asked.

‘Moira, could you please accompany me?’

‘What’s the matter Ray?’

‘Nothing does wrong, just get your kit bag and come with me, please.’

Moira closed the door and put on her clothes, trying to understand what was happening, why Ray was here and what the hurry was. Instinctively, she grabbed her own snub nosed pistol, loaded it and tucked it on the small of her back, in such a way she could pull it fast, if it became necessary. She had heard many horror stories about traitors in corps and alliances. Moira did not intend to become the casualty of one such coup and even though she knew Ray for quite some time, she trusted no one.

She walked two steps ahead of the marine. Her eyes leaped around, out of a sheer sense of fear building deep inside her. Clearly it was unfounded, she kept telling herself. This was nothing and no one was going to hurt her. But all that thinking did no good when they turned into a dead end leading to an airlock, where she could read an ominous “pre-opening check: completed” status message on the screen.

‘What is this about Ray?’ – she asked, pulling the pistol out in single flowing motion, a hint of fear blossoming in her voice.

‘Whoa, hold on lady…’ – he replied – ‘just following orders.’

He kept his hand tight around the pistol in his pocket.

‘Yeah, hold on Moira’ – Than said through comms – ‘Hold on and get your ass in here. We are leaving this place and you are coming along with me, in…’

‘If you say first class, I will punch you in the face when I see you… with spiked brass knuckles this time.’

Past sins, present wounds

“One need not be a chamber to be haunted;

One need not be a house;

The brain has corridors surpassing

Material place.” - Emily Dickinson, "Time and Eternity"

The inside of the control tower was not a place fit to live in: it was a place where some people managed to survive in spite of the conditions they endured. Moira was not unfamiliar with this kind of life, where you survived against all odds, even though it had not been in a Control Tower in space. She had fought hard to forget her past, to, at the very least, come to grips with it, but the memories were still there and they would always be. That probably explained why lately she woke up drenched in sweat and screaming so hard her throat felt sore. Maybe that explained why the stale, recycled air felt even more oppressing and heavy than it really was.

She eyed herself in the mirror. Usually she felt proud, or just lucky, the bad times in her life had not erased her good looks. After a night filled with nightmares, though, she was hard pressed to believe they were still there. Her blonde hair hung in sweat soaked strands; her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. No smile, no sparkling green eyes, no bright skin, just a pale, tired young woman, with aching muscles and a terrible, throbbing, headache which gave her no truces or respite. She rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath, resting her elbows on the side of the sink and cradling her head in her hands. She just wanted the headaches to stop, though she knew they would not abate, not with less than four hours of sleep per day.

The feel of the tiny sweat drops running down her back made her skin crawl and her stomach churn. Beneath the image of a competent assistant and businesswoman she was not a frail person, she was not unfamiliar with hardship, but these conditions had brought about a persona that she kept hidden. She was beginning to wonder her own worth, she felt frail and useless. Out here if you were not on a pod, flying a battleship, you were not worth a lot.

It didn’t matter Than had given her these living quarters and decided to spend most of the time stuck inside her capsule, just floating around. She liked to say it was a relief and it felt like freedom, but Moira saw better on her face when she came over for coffee and drinks: she saw a hint of sheer exhaustion and it hurt her. She knew her boss was doing that for her, to make her feel a bit better.

The icy water from the shower felt like a thousand nails stabbing her skin, sending little shots of pain through her nerves. She winced at first and just tried to relax her mind and enjoy the feeling of all her muscles pulling taut, making her feel, once again fresh and fit. Even the air felt lighter and tastier.

She wasn’t in a gilded cage anymore, serving at someone’s whim. Yes, she was confined and going through a rough patch, but it was a path of her own choosing.

She got out of the shower and hailed Thanagherion on the comms. She had to tell her how Celeris had freaked about the purchase of the Navy Dominix Class Battleship. Actually, about how she had almost lost her voice when Moira told her to transfer about half a billion isk in funds.

Yes, she was the master of her own life and to be honest of a few other lives as well.

So why couldn’t she shake all those memories and the feeling of being trapped?